I came into this life with a major chip on my shoulder toward the supernatural. And by ‘supernatural,’ I meant all things unseen, from ghosts and angels to demons and faeries, to chakras, auras, the devil and God. I was blindly terrified by all of it. Wanted nothing whatsoever to do with any of it.
Yet it all felt so alarmingly, threateningly close by. So I slammed and locked all possible doors of entry, fingers plugged securely in ears, eyes squeezed shut, my quavering solo rendition of La-La-La-La-La echoing tunelessly throughout the black, malicious universe.
But then a spiritual life started following me around. Licking my hand, gazing at me imploringly with those irresistible puppydog eyes. What’s a body to do? I brought it home to live with me. And with it came a gradual acceptance of unseen guides and helpers, and maybe (grudgingly) an angel or two. I even began to consider revising my opinion of God.
Old fears started to heal. I found I wasn’t afraid of the dark anymore. But I knew there was still a deep, untouched core of terror at the heart of this supernatural issue. And that was more or less ok with me. It could stay there if it wanted, down in the horrifying icy depths, as long as it promised never to come out and do its unimaginably evil thang in my presence.
• • •
But then I started regularly visiting England a couple of years ago. Home, seemingly, to a disproportionate number of the entities on that original supernatural shit list. Between the ghosts, faeries and ley line whatnots, ‘supernatural’ is the UK’s Middle Earth-middle name.
One day in April of 2012, on a drizzly park bench at the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, I was suddenly shown an inspiration by my higher self that caused me to take a spontaneous vow: I agreed to stop hiding. To take my fingers out of my ears, open my eyes and stop blocking my own gifts of awareness. It was a vow to fully let in the supernatural, as well as my own true relationship with it—whatever that might be. (For the complete story of this event, see That ‘Ol Black Magic, written in May of that year.)
The vow itself scared the bejeezus out of me. But I knew it was the right thing. Even if I wasn’t ready to actually do what it suggested at that time, at least the intention for wholeness had been set.
• • •
These days I live on a farm in the Southwest of England. The farm property dates back to Georgian times, as does nearly every other building within a 10-mile radius. (That’s ‘Georgian’ as in King George, by the way. You know, the one who reigned during the American Revolution. 250-odd years of inhabitants between then and now, is what I’m saying.)
Uh oh.
Luckily, a lot has changed for me over the past two years, and one of those changes is that the supernatural core of terror has begun to melt of its own accord. So much so, that I’ve developed a sort of an unexpectedly fond relationship with a rather playful entity that seems to intermittently share the place with us.
Which doesn’t freak me out. Its antics amuse me (usually), and it, in turn, seems to enjoy my responses.
And in those times when it isn’t funny—when, for instance, the sat nav disappears from the table where Steve put it just moments before rushing out the door to an appointment, I chide the unseen entity as I would an 8-year-old. And the next time I turn and look, the GPS unit has been put back where Steve left it.
It means us no harm, this thing. I think it’s probably just bored.
But I wasn’t congratulating myself on the healing of the supernatural issue. Not quite yet.
Because even though I’ve been forming peculiar little relationships with, um, invisible friends, I knew full well that there was still an entire universe of unseen stuff that I was resisting.
And somewhere in there, the terror was alive and well.
• • •
A few nights ago I couldn’t sleep. I was physically uncomfortable, funny little electrical impulses running through my legs. I felt like I couldn’t get enough oxygen, like my body was compulsively demanding deep, rhythmic breathwork. (But I didn’t want to do breathwork in the middle of the night. I wanted to sleep.)
My mind felt like it does whenever the veil is too thin for comfort—scratchy, swirly, trance-y, with a feeling of old, stuck emotions coming up in the far distance. I watched as grief and terror showed themselves faintly before being squashed again, scolded like wayward children and sent back to their prison cells without supper.
I knew something big was coming up, asking for healing and release. I strongly suspected it was the supernatural thing. I got out of bed, not wanting to disturb Steve, and went to sit by myself in the darkened living room.
Uneasily, I reviewed my options. I could keep the whole thing bottled up for the rest of this lifetime; I could go on holding back the terror avalanche that pressed against the door of my conscious awareness. It had sort of worked thus far, and would probably keep doing the job for another several decades. Damn, except for one thing: That vow I made back in 2012…I promised. I swore I’d heal this issue.
Besides, much more recently than 2012, I signed an agreement with my higher self, to live a year without fear. There were no exclusionary clauses in that contract. I’m either all in, or I’m not.
But the supernatural is a special category.
No it isn’t. There are no special categories.
It was time to get at that silent-screaming core of horror. Time to see it, feel it and let it go, once and for all. (Assuming I did not drop dead of fright first, of course.)
So I went into negotiation mode.
Ok if I have to do it now, I’m the one who gets to choose how it goes down. I refuse to do it the hard way. The hellishly heart-attack-making, agonizing way. It’s either gentle and easy, or I don’t wanna play.
I must have dozed off after that. Groggy, I roused myself and shuffled back toward the bedroom. As I groped my way toward the door, I suddenly stopped, stepping back with a gasp.
A dark figure stood between me and the bedroom door. I could see no features, no gender, no clothing. Just a bald-headed shape of a slender human body, slightly taller than me. Standing there. Waiting.
At first I thought it must be Steve, passing me in the hallway on his way to the bathroom. But it did not move.
Was it a trick of the eyes? A shadow? I couldn’t be certain, but it didn’t seem like either one. This thing had…gravitas, for lack of a better word. A sort of weight, or presence.
I wasn’t afraid, exactly, but let’s just say I was very alert. Very.
I surveyed it as closely as I could in the dark. Its essence seemed neutral, empty of ambition or intent. I didn’t know what it wanted, but apart from its slightly forbidding appearance it didn’t seem to mean me any harm.
As we stood facing each other (less than 2 feet apart), I reached up to tighten the belt on my bathrobe. To my amazement, it reached up simultaneously and made the identical gesture at its own waist. Even though it wore no bathrobe.
In a flash I understood.
“OMG! It’s me!” I laughed out loud and walked right through it without a thought, opened the door and went back to bed.
• • •
I lay in the dark, thinking about that non-accidental proclamation, OMG! It’s me!
I knew it was a teaching. This was the easy, gentle lesson I’d asked to learn.
A couple of blog posts ago, in I Am $600,000 (and so are you) I had learned to accept responsibility for the creation of the whole 3-D world. I recognized not only that I had created it, but that I was it, for better and worse. And that felt like plenty to digest and accept at that time.
But let’s be honest, the 3-D portion of the cosmos is only a tiny fraction of all the vast stuff we creators create. The whole unseen world has to be accepted as my own creation—and my own responsibility—as well.
Through that slender, naked shadow-man, I had been gently shown the mind-boggling truth: Everything that seems to exist, whether seen or unseen, is part of myself. The good, the bad, the ugly. The supernatural. They are all my creations, and I’m responsible for them.
And if I remain in terror of them, then I remain terrified of myself.
This was a lot to take in. I started to call on Archangel Michael and various assorted guides of divine light and love, asking them to lead and protect me as I processed this alarming new information. (I also didn’t want to encounter any more shadow-men without beefing up my security detail first.) But halfway through the call for help I realized…oh shit…they’re all me, too.
They’re happy to assist for as long as I believe I need it, but they want me to recognize this: They don’t have anything I haven’t already got myself, because they’re not separate from me in any way. Their power is my own.
There’s only me, apparently. Only one of us in truth.
It sounds great as spiritual theory, this business of being all one.
But in practice, it’s a hell of a thing to stand still for, let alone embrace.
I decided not to resist the new information. And with this decision, I was shown a vision of myself, teeth gritted, grimacing with the supreme effort of holding back the wall made of self: The wall of unseen supernatural knowing and dread, which is actually nothing more than a part of me that’s begging to come home and be loved. I watched as I sagged, collapsing against the wall, exhausted.
To my great surprise, this act of surrender did not release the hounds of hell. It brought peace. The weight of eons, lifted.
• • •
I’m still afraid. I still don’t want to encounter things of evil intent (or even things of spooky demeanor), if I can possibly help it. I know I still have work to do.
But this was a biggie, this acceptance of responsibility for the supernatural. I have undergone the DNA testing to determine its parentage, and OMG, it’s me.
So there you go. It turns out that in the clear light of oneness, I am both the ghostbuster and the ghost. And the same, my dear, is true of you. Which makes that old question a surprisingly interesting one:
Who, indeed, are ya gonna call?
JUST BREATHE
[pinit]
Ever been spanked by an ancient Chinese Entity?
Yeah, me neither…until last week, that is.
Last Tuesday, Ken Bok [of http://acimexplained.com] came down to the farm for a visit. Although he’s interviewed me many times online, we’d only met once in person at last year’s UK ACIM conference. Now that I’m staying in Dorset — a mere trainride away from London — we thought it an excellent opportunity for hanging out, so Ken came down and spent a couple of days with us.
And with him, it turned out, came this ancient Chinese Being. And the Being wanted to talk to me.
• • •
Ken has only recently poked his head out of the closet to announce that he’s psychic. (I’m told his readings are quite good. Contact him at https://www.facebook.com/kennethbokpsychic if it interests you.)
What I didn’t realize is that he’s also a psychic medium. And the guide he channels is actually a whole group of ancient Chinese intelligences that go by the collective name of Yong. Sort of like Abraham, I guess, except not nearly as cuddly.
As it turned out, Yong had plenty to say to me. I’ll share just a few of the highlights here:
Apparently I ought to be a lot more prolific than I have been thus far. It seems I’m supposed to leave a ‘legacy,’ a comprehensive body of work that will continue to help others after I’m gone. But apparently I’m being a bit of a slowpoke, output-wise.
So I’m ‘strongly urged’ to get off the stick and get to work in earnest. I’m told to write more, and speak more, and give more workshops.
And speaking of workshops, we (the Undoing the Ego team http://undoing-the-ego.org) also are told to hold a lot more Power of Power workshop retreats. It seems we haven’t even scratched the surface with those. As mindblowing as they already are, they will apparently evolve way beyond this current level and make a huge contribution to the collective Self.
Or something.
So we need to leave a legacy of work from those retreats, in addition to our own personal legacies.
And there’s more: The breathwork that I’ve been developing – it seems I haven’t yet begun to tap its true power and immense value. It hasn’t yet become even a fraction of what it will be. (I thought it was pretty unbelievable before. But what do I know.)
I’m supposed to do a lot more hands-on experiential breathwork. I need to experience it as often as possible myself, and also facilitate it for others.
A lot. Like, really a lot.
Each time I do it, I’ll learn more, and new avenues of exploration will open. I should also start to talk publicly about the breathwork. Like in my blog, for instance. And I should maybe start some breathwork groups on the internet. (Yes, apparently ancient Entities do keep up with modern technology.)
• • •
Honestly? I’m exhausted just thinking about all this. Partly because most of my seeming to-do list doesn’t even exist yet, and I have no clear direction or idea of which way to head, to get there from here.
And yet, I’m actually not worried about any of that.
This is where trust and surrender play such a big role. It means setting the bone-deep prayer and intention that I want to be truly helpful…whatever form that takes. And being absolutely unattached to what the result of that prayer looks like.
And then wandering out into the world at large, eyes peeled for signposts. Trusting that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, even when no signposts are yet visible. Or maybe they’re visible, but they look too weird at first glance to be right. (Tricky, but I’m getting much better at that part.)
And the inspirations have indeed been coming. A whole new exciting avenue for breathwork exploration has revealed itself just in the last few days. (I’ll get into the details of that another time.)
And a group of beautiful, courageous friends-in-Spirit have shown up and agreed to be my beta testers – yes, on the internet! – as I work to fine tune these powerful new breathwork processes.
So it’s all good.
And the spanking? That came after all this glorious hoo-hah about legacies and such.
It seems I needed, er, an attitude adjustment. A big chunk of this very long message was spent sternly admonishing me for my childishly foolish/cavalier behavior towards this breathing business. Breathwork is not a toy, and I need to use a hell of a lot more wisdom and discernment, going forward, because its power must always be wielded consciously and with clear Spiritual intent.
…Ok, then. Um, thanks.
I responded to this fairly overwhelming and moderately disturbing 40 minute communiqué (which had lots more juicy bits than I’ve described here) by promptly catching a cold and going to bed for a few days. Sometimes a girl just needs some blocked nasal passages and a cup of hot tea.
But now I’m back, and the ‘legacy’ is still waiting patiently right where I left it.
So here we go. Trust and surrender.
Excuse me while I go someplace quiet and just… breathe.
Double vision
What do you do when you and somebody in another part of the country have the exact same vision at the exact same time? Well, if you’re me, you sit up and pay attention.
I’d been praying recently for guidance on what’s next. And rather than trying to figure it out with my thinking mind – which, experience has taught me, pretty much always comes up with the wrong answer – I just say to Spirit:
Show me.
Point it out to me in a way I’ll understand, and I swear I’ll head in that direction. But I’m flying blind, here. I need to be told which way to go.
So I’d been praying that way for a week or so. Then on Thursday morning, out of nowhere, I woke up that day knowing clearly what sort of book Fran (of InnerVision fame) and I should write together. I understood wordlessly the book’s format, what it would be about, and how I would write it.
And then I clearly saw the book’s cover. Or, more accurately, I saw the bottom third of the book’s cover. The title and cover artwork were hazy, but I could read the bottom part, plain as day. The background was a dark chocolate brown, and I could even describe the typeface for you, although I’m not going to.
It said: By Fran Duda, with Carrie Triffet.
Fran was flying that day (in an airplane, I mean, from one city to another), so I made no attempt to reach her to tell her of my vision. I wasn’t sure how she’d respond, anyway. She’s always known she’s supposed to write a book, but the idea has seemed far too daunting for a variety of reasons.
I’ve always been pretty sure I’m supposed to help her write that book (since I’m the translator she trusts to put her ‘beyond words’ experience into language). But I also always suspected the project was likely to be a hugely frustrating pain in the ass.
Fran is a brilliantly gifted intuitive; so gifted that it’s always been hard for her to blend into society and ‘pass’ as normal. (For more about Fran, if you haven’t already read about her in my book, see any of the previous blog posts under the topic heading of ‘Sedona’s spiritual connection.’)
She’s always been terrified of going public. And especially afraid of going public through the written word.
She’s fine when speaking one on one or to groups of people, but when it comes to writing things down and letting those statements be set in stone and seen by the world, she freezes. When I first knew her, she would spend weeks obsessing over the wording of a single sentence. These days, she’s far more trusting, much more surrendered and willing to let the connection flow as it does, from Spirit through her and through me simultaneously, so that I can put the essential meaning behind her ethereal experiences into words for her.
So the collaborative writing process would be far less torturous now than ever before, but I also knew it could still have its very sticky moments because she would be writing down her deeply personal stories. The desire to endlessly edit might still rear its head if the information in the stories got too close to home.
Yet Spirit’s message had been perfectly clear, so I knew I needed to put aside all my own doubts and just agree to do it.
But Jeez Louise, I already have one book in the works and another in the hopper. And little time to work on either one. So although I accepted this vision as an answer to my request for Divine guidance, let’s say I wasn’t altogether on board with it.
The next morning, Fran called out of the blue, apologizing for the short notice and asking if she could come here for a visit the following day? We sometimes go months without talking, so I knew this request was purposeful. And she’s a delightful houseguest, I always love having her here. So of course I said yes.
After she settled in, our first activity together was a walk on our favorite beach. While walking on that beach I told her of my vision that we would write a book. She stopped walking and turned to stare at me; I could tell she was having one of those time-stop moments of recognition.
I told her the book would be a series of recorded conversations between us, in which she verbally tells me the story of her extremely fascinating life, as well as a full description (language limits permitting) of her gifts and the nature of her InnerVision work. And that I would then fashion those audio conversations into a written book.
And then I reported what the bottom third of the book jacket would say, reading the words off to her.
And she told me then that she had had the identical vision of the book cover on Thursday morning, and I had spoken the exact wording that she saw on that bottom third.
So that’s it, then. I guess I’m writing a book. It’ll be by Fran Duda, with Carrie Triffet, and it’s bound to be a barn burner.
No idea when it’ll come out, I just know that it will. And I’m good with that.
Learning to communicate with Spirit
I’m pretty sure we all have spiritual abilities we’re not tapping into; I’m also pretty sure we can all develop those skills if we work at it. The unused 90% of our brains, and all that.
But then there are those few individuals who are born with those talents, and they seemingly don’t have to work at it at all. Those are the ones we call psychic or clairvoyant or whatever.
I’m not one of those. (Or at least it doesn’t feel like it from the inside. On the other hand, I’ve been described as ‘an open window between worlds,’ so what do I know.)
I guess what I’m saying is, when it came to communication skills, I definitely had to work at it. I’m still working at it.
In 2005 I was studying Barbara Brennan’s book, Hands of Light, and found in it a workbook exercise designed to strengthen communication with one’s Guide:
Ask a question in your mind, write the question down and then be still to meditate. Write down all images, words, feelings, smells, sounds, whatever, as they come to you. Don’t judge any of it, just write it all down.
So I did. I’m a visual person, so at first I got only pictures. Then I started getting pop tunes of the 60’s-90’s to go with the images. (I left that part out of the book – some of those music stories were amazing, but it’s a book, not a 10-part miniseries. Not everything can make the cut.)
The pop tunes were forever sending me to the computer to google the lyrics, because I often only knew the title or chorus. Every time I read the full lyrics in light of my question asked, it was a revelation – who knew Nights in White Satin could be so deep?
Or that Landslide would play a role in causing me to leave behind my 20-year practice of Buddhism forever? (And I never even liked Fleetwood Mac, really.)
The musical interlude was short lived; I think its function was probably just to get me more accustomed to listening. Within a month or two, the music faded and the Voice began to speak more frequently in those meditations.
Up until then, it hadn’t occurred to me that the Voice and the Guide and the pictures and the music could all perhaps be coming from the same place. Or could even be the same thing.
We were still a year or so away from long, free-flowing conversations. Those began in July of 2006, on the same day that the Voice (which by then I called Spirit) delivered this little shocker:
WHEN YOU’RE READY, YOU’LL WRITE BOOKS.
My immediate reaction was more or less unprintable; sort of a peacefully surrendered WTF, if you will. But I was highly motivated to learn how to communicate back, after that. And motivation is really all it takes.
For you, me or anybody.