Energy happens.

We are made up of energy and surrounded by energy, so it would seem reasonable that we would be affected by changes in energy patterns. Energy patterns change all around us for a variety of reasons and they in turn affect our energy on different levels.

Those who are naturally very sensitive may pick up on this phenomenon but may not know what it is they are experiencing, especially if they are very young. Most who do not consciously pay attention to energy around them and who do not work at developing their senses consciously, even those who are naturally sensitive, will let opportunities, warnings, and even intuitive guidance pass them by as they ignore the signals being put out in the energy surrounding them.

Many will relate to the terms “bad vibes” or “negative energy” but these terms are usually dismissed as slang to describe a situation where one feels uncomfortable. But why do they feel uncomfortable? When we dismiss an opportunity to become consciously aware of a phenomenon that may inform us, we are dismissing our own intuitive response and energetic pattern as it relates to our environment. This is a dismissal of something very fundamental in our being that is a connection to the most authentic and highest part of ourselves.

Those who teach awareness of one’s surroundings in self-defense and during times of danger, are teaching the skill of listening to one’s energy as it relates to their present circumstances and environment, and of listening to the intuitive response to this relationship. Many who have reported surviving dangerous circumstances will describe the physical sensations that accompany the energetic shift that occurs within: tingling sensations, skin crawling, a sensation of the hair standing on end, feeling sick to their stomach, etc.

These are the physical sensations and then it is the conscious choice to follow the intuitive response to the physical sensation that saves these potential victims. Make no mistake; the choice to pay attention to the physical sensation and then the intuitive response was a conscious one. This is what sets those who become victimized apart from those who do not.

This type of conscious decision making is something that an individual develops by paying attention to the energy in their environment, how their physical energy is reacting through physical sensation, and listening to the intuitive response and following through on this information.

If you would like to read more about energy shifts and our interconnectedness with the energy around us and between us as individuals and collectively, I am running a series on the subject at my blog The Evolving Spirit .

This Place Looks Like A Tornado Went Through It

May 3rd, 1999 started out just like any other ordinary day. My husband Bob, our children and I had risen early to prepare for school and work. There were breakfasts and lunches to make, backpacks to fill and faces to kiss goodbye. Once everyone was safely out the door I began my work day on our farm. We had two steers and six hogs going to market that morning so I headed out to the barn to prepare things and to feed our horses and goats. As I walked towards the barn I looked up at the sky noticing it had that eerie green shade so common during spring storms. I continued towards the barn not giving the weather another thought.

As I entered the barn, I did what I had done since the day we purchased the farm. I thanked God for giving me my dream. How I loved that barn. It was almost 100 years old and boasted almost 4000 square feet to its two story wood frame. Every time I entered it, I felt my entire body relax with the sights, sounds and smells of the past and present sweetly coming together.

The morning went by with the market animals picked up on time and the chores done quickly and easily. I settled in my favorite chair in our comfortable living room for a relaxing cup of coffee. As I sat there sipping my coffee, I looked around the room thinking about how much I loved the farm. It was truly the place I had dreamed of all my life. Some of my happiest moments since moving from California five years earlier to Oklahoma had been spent on this farm.

 

Suddenly, my calm was shaken by the blaring of our weather radio. Since weather warnings were not an uncommon thing for the Oklahoma plains, I went into the bedroom fully expecting it to be the typical wind or storm warning. This time was different. There was something ominous in these warnings. I switched the radio off and went to the television knowing our local news would be giving the needed details. Yes, there were chances of multiple tornados but nothing solid yet. I shut the television off and called my husband. He assured me everything was fine and so we both continued our day as though it was.

I went about my housework feeling a growing uneasiness. The weather seemed more brooding outside and the air in the house felt thicker by the moment. Within hours Bob called to say all schools were closing and he was leaving work to go get the kids and head home. Even though there were no sightings in our area, the schools were taking the necessary precautions. I felt sick but Bob assured me he and the children would be home soon.

My oldest daughter Rachel and her husband Joel had purchased a new home just a few miles east of us. Today was to be their moving day. I decided to help pass the time, I would drive over and see if I could help them unpack. I called Bob to let him know where I would be and asked him to call me as soon as he and the kids got home. He assured me he would.

At my daughters I busied myself with the things associated with moving. She and I cleaned and unpacked boxes while Joel transported their belongings from the old house to the new one. Soon we received a phone call from Bob. He and the children had started the nine mile journey home when a tornado touched down in town. They quickly took shelter at the first house they came to. This would happen twice more before they were able to make it home safely. The kindness of strangers would prove to be immeasurable throughout that day and the days to follow.

We decided it was best for me to stay where I was until we knew for sure it was safe to travel home. As I felt the knots in my stomach getting larger and harder, I cleaned and unpacked with a vengeance. Shortly after the last phone call from Bob, the power went out. The cell phones would no longer work. The tornado sirens in town began to wail. I yelled for my daughter to get into the bathtub and cover herself with blankets as I ran to the sliding glass door in the dining room. As I stood there peering out into what should have been the blue sky of early dusk, I lost my breath. All I could see was the blackest, thickest, widest tornado even my own vivid imagination could not have dared to dream. I ran to the bathroom and told Rae, “I think we’re in trouble honey.” We both ran to the hall closet and closed ourselves in while praying that this would be the safest place. My chest began to hurt from the pressure of the tornado passing. We continued to pray.

After what seemed like hours the sirens stopped. Rae and I left the closet upon hearing a knock at the front door. A neighbor had come to see if we were okay. As we talked Joel drove up. Jumping from the truck he came running into the house crying. He had been on his way back to us with another load of belongings when a tornado had stopped him. He had taken shelter in the home of strangers. His greatest fear was that of losing his wife as he saw the huge monster heading our way.

Suddenly it occurred to me that I had not heard from Bob. The phones were not working and all I could think of was getting home. Joel wouldn’t let me go alone so the three of us got into his truck and headed west to the farm. We had only gone two blocks when the siren began its horrible wail once again. The police flagged us into a safe house refusing to allow us to continue on. As we took shelter with strangers I prayed for the safety of my husband and children.

Hours would pass before we were allowed to continue our journey back home. Joel refused to take the dirt back roads that would quickly lead us to our farm. He felt it best to stay on the paved roads as much as possible. I was frustrated with that decision. Later I would learn of two more tornados passing through those back roads at the very moments we would have been on them.

When we finally came to our road I saw the first images of the destruction. It was now after 10 pm. The sky was black and the lights that normally dotted the county roads were all gone, destroyed by the tornadoes. There were police and fire trucks everywhere. The eerie lights from those vehicles along with our truck headlights illuminated more than I wanted to see. We would have to drive one mile down the dirt road before getting to our house but I already knew. I could see pieces of our barn and home along the road. I began to hyperventilate.

Pulling in front of what was once our home, now crawling with emergency workers and neighbors; I jumped from the truck and ran to the edge of the front lawn. Even in the darkness I could see the barn was gone. The house looked like something from a Halloween horror movie. It was battered beyond recognition with doors and windows gone and lace curtains blowing from the inside to the outside. The wind howled through the empty shell. I looked across the driveway to see my husband’s car crumpled and destroyed. I dropped to the grass screaming thinking I would never see Bob or our children again. As neighbors tried to comfort me, I sank deeper into darkness, my mind swirling with the sight before me. Just when I thought I couldn’t take another breath, a familiar pair of arms enveloped me. Bob held me close as I sobbed with relief. One by one our children joined him by wrapping themselves into the family embrace. They had arrived home minutes before the tornado hit giving them just enough time to take shelter in our basement.

 

Sixty-six tornadoes would pass through Oklahoma on May 3rd, 1999 killing forty-eight people. It would be recorded as the most prolific tornado outbreak in Oklahoma history.

And Then There Were Two...

photograph by Kathryn's Creations

Cowboy went back to work today after two months away with a broken wrist.
What a two months it has been!
Aside from having a broken wrist and not being able to play football or work, I do believe something magic took place.
I didn't have to go and pick up nappies or milk, AND he mopped the floor.
Monte and Cowboy bonded.
I am not saying they hadn't bonded before, but the hours Cowboy takes doing his Cowboy duties (with sheep) meant he used to literally see Monte for about one hour a day.
Most of that hour, bless him, was spent trying to get our boy to GODDAMN SLEEP!
So two months away from work, away from football and just hanging at home was a great gift in some ways.
Monte has had a chance to really get to know his  Dad.
Please read rest of the story here

An Hour of Writing on a Saturday Afternoon

My hour of writing starts now and I have no clue as to what I should be writing about except at the back of my mind I am entertaining the idea of writing some fiction. I am intrigued by the idea that you don’t have to know where your novel is going or what your characters are all about or even what your characters are going to do. Where does the inspiration come from if it is not your mind telling your fingers what to write? My hunch is that it is about your brain networks linking things together to make sense of your thoughts. This is how it weaves a tale.

What else can I write about? Well I would like to write about how happy I feel at the moment. I think it shows as well. Today as I walked up the hill towards the back of our yard I felt happy. I noticed it and I said to myself- This is what happy feels like. My happiness is not attached to anything in particular but everything. I am positive I am happy. It is about physical balance. It is staying in the moment. It is not thinking or wishing or dreading the next thing. It is about my hair which is looking great at the moment. I’m healthy. It is in the using of what I have now to do the work I need to do. It is in the belief that the universe will provide. It is in not having to put effort in to making things happen. It is the letting go. It is the being. It is fantastic. I have gratitude for this moment I am in right now. My fingers are tapping my keyboard. My mind generates thoughts and tells my hands to tap and what to tap. It is amazing that my hands can touch the right keys without too much effort at all. I appreciate that. When I write that I smile. When I read that last sentence my smile grows wider. When I think about what I have written I chuckle and my eyes begin to water and I think I’m going to cry. That sobers me up and I pull away from my fingers and start to wonder what just happened. It’s writing and thinking. It’s the kind of writing that I would rather do than anything else on a Saturday afternoon.

I have 35 minutes left of my writing hour and although I feel satisfied with what I have written and a little surprised by what came out (that usually happens) I will keep going. On that point it reminds me of how I started this hour fascinated with the idea of starting a novel with characters but not really knowing where they will go- my writing just took me to a place that I was not prepared for. So in this next 30 minutes I might invent a character. She is female and youngish and smart and she has long beautiful hair. She is witty and quirky and has a sense of herself as marvellous just the way she is- she doesn’t want to be older or younger, fatter or thinner, or anywhere else besides where she is now. That’s not to say that she has no dreams. Well that is a problem because how do you reconcile dreams with being happy just where you are, or aspirations for that matter, or ambition? Well you don’t. So she can’t have them- but doesn’t everyone have dreams? So already my character is an abomination- great word that. Spell check reveals it to mean outrage or scandalous. So it is not the right word.

Do you ever have trouble finding the right word? It is frustrating. Well it feels frustrating until you find the word that accurately describes what you had in your mind. The word unusual is closer to what I mean when I say my character is not like everyone else in that she has no dreams. It’s also curious that she does not. Why does she not? I could limit this writing to a finite period of time where she was in that state. What happened? How did it help or hinder her- how did she arrive n that state and how did she leave it? As Seth Godin says we all have a dip. It is important. So I then have to write about how she manages the dip- or not. What else can my character do? The possibilities are endless. The question is- what does she do? And here I have come to the end of my thoughts although I think that this is what scares me about writing fiction- it’s that I have to come up with things for her to do and there are lots of problems to solve along the way- like the one I just wrote about and that requires a lot of thinking. Well I’m thinking as I write this and it is quite enjoyable. I am back to my fingers tapping away in tune with my thoughts. How do I do that? The thought makes me smile again. The house is quiet and I seem to have oodles of time as I tap away. The clock on the lower right corner of my screen hardly seems to change- well I have 20 minutes left now and wow I just wrote for 15 minutes without realising it. To do that my mind went off with my character and I left my tapping fingers, or rather the awareness of the tapping of my fingers and they just kept on tapping. Time went fast when I was out of the moment and looking forward into possibilities for my new character and time slowed down when I came back to the moment. 18 minutes now and 987 words on the page- well pages because I have spilled over onto page 2 now.

I can feel a summary coming on- Wow! I have a lot to say. I can just keep writing it seems, but I have nutted out a few things here this afternoon. The first is that I am happy and I know it and appreciate it. The second is that I know that this is transient and problematic. Well perhaps I don’t know but I suspect because it would be a problem for my character. I am also in wonder of the idea that my writing takes me to places that I have not planned. It leads me there. So it is worth pursuing.
The other thing is that this too shall pass and I know it. There will be a time when my writing times will not be about happiness. I will get stressed and I stop exercising and stop feeling good about myself and take hold of things rather than letting them go. I’m pretty sure.

I know this about me but it doesn’t faze me because I also know that I’m learning every day.

Propagating Waves of Light

     I, like a lot of people, have always avoided the phenomenon of a propagating wave of light being thrown back from a surface. Lovers see the beauty in the other while the beholder always sees their faults when they see their reflection in a mirror. The indissoluble core of any reflection is a wave of light (or sound) thrown back from a surface. The interpretation of that wave cannot take place until it bounces back. Which leads my little brain to ponder, as the sun prepares to go to bed, not my reflection, but the surface against which the wave of light boomerangs.
     My mother thought if she made me read Amy Vanderbilt’s Book of Etiquette that somehow I would absorb the gene of refinement that was missing in my DNA. A voracious reader and student, surely this would be the medium which would reach me. Alas, that level of refinement was not me. It was a book of rules. It was the wrong surface. More Teflon than iron skillet, it simply did not stick.
     Thursday and Friday I was in a lock down with the finance department – corporate and my division. I work with numbers ten to eleven hours a day. The reality is every cell in my body recoils from numbers and math. I never cared what time the train would arrive, I was taking a sail boat or writing about the moon. Numbers are simply finance’s granite surface from which I peck away until I find the story reflected in the block of cold stone. I chip and sometimes blast away until I understand the why, the how and the impact upon the people. I tell stories. I sculpt the surface of squiggled and straight lined numbers to reflect the faces of people and obstacles vanquished or fortified. For sixteen hours our very different surfaces clashed with brandished shields trying to find the real reflection.
     At some point during day two, trying to suppress the desire to physically destroy every clicking ball point pen in the world, I thought of Wednesday’s walks through the plant. I wandered in and out of racks containing hundreds of thousands of square feet of glass. For some reason, I stopped in front of a rack and saw my reflection. I could see my reflection but I could also see through my reflection. It was faithfully sending the light wave back while simultaneously allowing my light to go through and bounce off what was beyond the original reflecting surface. A different surface created multiple reflections from the same light. Reflection squared.
     The interpretation of that reflection is, I confess, still a journey, and sometimes my steps may not be so sure. Sometimes it feels like running downhill upon an uneven, rocky path that threatens to twist your ankles or send you sprawling forward until you land face down in the dirt. Other times that interpretation is the phone booth from which I, like Clark Kent, emerge like superman. I can leap tall buildings with my red cape flapping like butterfly wings around and behind me. But that reflection is, quintessentially a propagating wave of light being thrown back from a surface. Choose a different surface and the waves that crash back for me to interpret gifts so many more alternatives.
     The sun went to bed last night. It has now awakened with intense rays of light like lasers between the curtains. I squint as I try to read what was written the night before. I put my headphones on intentionally selecting the music I wish to hear. I choose my surface.

{also posted on my blog]

Night of the Raining Stars

Today in the village I hear discussion among teachers about a star that’s falling on Thailand tonight. I envision a giant meteor racing toward the earth, headed straight for--by coincidence--this tiny village. It can’t be true. No star is going to slam into Boonsong tonight. I’m sure I’ll still be here, trying to teach English, tomorrow.
“Oh, yes, it’s true!” Khruu Aria insists. “It’s coming tonight. Everyone is going to stay up and watch for it. It happened last year, too. We saw it with our own eyes.”
Wait a minute. You mean this meteor has crashed into Boonsong before?
“Yes,” Khruu Aria replies. “Stay up tonight and watch for it with the rest of us.”

It’s midnight, and I’m ready to rise and join the rest of the village. They have made a believer out of me once again. Ghosts, dragon fire, hurtling stars—the villagers are usually right about all of it. The problem almost always lies in my incomprehension. In this case, it’s my incomprehension of Thai grammar—in particular, the lack of plural nouns. Fon tok means rain. Daw means star. Khruu Aria wasn’t telling me about a single falling star. She was telling me about a night of raining stars. She meant the Leonid Meteor Showers. It really is Khyyn Fon Daw Tok, or the Night of the Raining Stars.
I shuffle across the wat grounds like a ghost. It’s completely dark and silent. The entire village is supposed to get up and watch this, but I don’t see signs of anybody else up but me. I step onto the dirt road, and a single dog in the nearest house barks. I walk past the next house, and that dog barks, too. Soon my steps are accompanied by a chorus of frenzied barks. I have awakened every single dog in the village, but where are all the people? I feel a strange tingle on the back of my neck. Why have all the people—though, oddly, not the dogs—disappeared? Or maybe I’ve disappeared and I don’t know it yet. Maybe the dogs are barking at me, and I can’t see a living soul, because I am now a ghost, ala The Sixth Sense. What a fate that would be, to join the throng of ghosts that haunts Thailand—underwear ghosts, banana tree ghosts, dead lovers, dead snakes--and hang around the village, in spirit, forever.
I arrive at my friend Yooping’s house and knock lightly on her door. She opens the door, carrying a flashlight. No one anywhere seems to be stirring for the impending firestorm. We climb down the ladder of her house together and walk to her sister’s house. I’m tiptoeing and trying to whisper, already feeling sheepish about having agitated the dogs, but Yooping begins to bellow: “We’re here to watch the raining stars!” She thunders repeatedly, at the top of her lungs, “We’ve come to watch the raining stars! We’re here! Come down! We’re here to see the stars fall!”

Gradually, lights flicker on and we hear voices. A small crowd filters down, armed with pillows and blankets. They turn on the outside fluorescent light and settle down beneath blankets to socialize. The glare from the fluorescent light makes it difficult to see any stars falling from the sky. I follow everyone else’s lead and kick off my shoes before stretching out with blankets on the raised wooden platform beneath the house. We wait patiently, chatting, but nobody sees a single falling star. All I can see is the humming fluorescent light. After two hours of this, I give up. My ears are tired of trying to track the conversation, and I’m cold. I reach under the platform for my shoes, but they’re not there.
“My shoes are gone,” I complain. This news leads to a flurry of exclamations and an excited search. Did my hosts move my disgusting sandals—which are rotting here at the end of the rainy season and which stink to high heaven--to a more suitable place for shoes? Maybe I still don’t understand everything about shoe protocol. But the other star-watchers search dutifully and discover their shoes are missing, too. We’re all confounded. Finally, one lone shoe—mine—is recovered, half-gnawed, from a dog’s mouth. While we gossiped and stargazed, industrious dogs carried away our shoes. Why they would do that, I have no idea. I stand to leave, too tired and cold to care. Strangely, in the distance, other dogs begin to howl. Everyone chuckles and says to me, “When the dogs howl, the ghosts come out.”
I limp home wearing only one shoe. I’m unafraid of ghosts, but glad to be living in a village that dispenses warnings about them. We will all live to see another day without being crushed by a meteor, and I’m glad about that, too. And at last, as I reach home, I see one bright shining star streak across the sky. Also posted on my blog Strange Islands

4am Truth

The Truth @ 4am

Morning All or at least to any of the silly people who are up at 4am in the morning on Saturday like me !

I guess this is more a reflection than a statement .... Why are the best moments of clarity and reflection at 4am in the morning ?

Oh well, while I am up and talking to you all I may as well share a poem that I wrote not too long ago. I'd love to hear what everyone thinks about it.

Cheers & Remember ...

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" Bad Things Happen When Good People Do Nothing "

Make It Go Away
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I turned on the TV to watch the evening news
It was all about the evil things that we say and do
Wars in foreign lands, assults next door
And all about political greed
I just couldn't take it anymore.
.
I couldn't take it
Oh No
It had to go away,
So I turned off my TV and went about my day.
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I turned on my radio to hear some happy tunes.
To lift my spirit and free the mind
It seemed a smart thing to do.
But all the tunes were about disrespect
They were about racism, sex and doom
They brought me down with a hard brutal thud
And I just couldn't take it anymore.
.
I couldn't take it
Oh No
It had to go away,
So I turned of the radio and went about my day
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I decided to take a walk
Under the bright southern stars
To feel a breeze against my cheeks
And to breath in deep the freshness of the night air.
I decided to forget the horrors of the TV news,
I decided to forget the disrespecting radio tunes
I decided I couldn't take it anymore.
.
I couldn't take it
Oh No
It had to go away
So I turned off and went about my day.
.
But the wars were still fought in the foreign lands
And the assults still happened next door
The radio still spread the word of disrespect and doom
I had had enough
I had made it go away.
I had turned my back on humanity
And gone about my day.
.
Rwanda, Bosnia, Timor, Zimbabwe
It didn't go away.
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Andrew Swansson
Copyright 2008

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This Article is also posted on my home site " The Soap Box Truth "

Thank You for taking the time to read my poem.