I have been terrified to blog. I’ve wanted to do it for some time, but when I would think about it my guts would tighten up and I would feel like vomiting. I would feel electric, sheer terror, which is an overreaction in my opinion, to simply jotting a few thoughts down on a website.
About a year ago I signed up for a session with Ainslie McLeod. (www.soul-world.com) I’m not normally one to call a psychic. I read his book and quite liked his take on the world, so I signed up for a session on a whim. He has quite a long wait. He’s been on Oprah as well as published books, so he’s pretty AND he’s popular. My turn came up a couple months ago.
In our first session, he told me I am a Level 10 soul, 70 percent finished with my lifetimes.
This was my first thought: “Oh, thank God I have more lifetimes left. I have so much more to give.” Don’t hate me. I’m kind of a Spiritual Giant.
My second thought: “Yeeehaw! I’m a higher soul than Oprah.” (She’s at the end of her Level 9s, for what it’s worth…) I’m sure Ainslie would have some words for me about this response. I know, I know, evolution of the soul is not a competition, just like a yoga class is no competition. Whatever.
Also, I got a lot of mileage out of that first session. I told my husband about my soul status. I was suddenly able to win every argument with the following sentence: “Level 10. 70 percent done. I’m just sayin’.” I could toss my hands in the air and walk away.
Claudio replied with, “You talk too much. Go blog.” He knew I was terrified to blog. He made me a blog over a year ago, but I made only a couple of entries and I gave the address to no one.
So I signed up for another session which would focus on past lives. Ainslie told me to think about questions I may have.
The only question I could think of was, “Why can’t I blog?”
We got right into it and he called his guides. Ainslie told me he would ask his guides to do a hierarchical read, meaning to go to the lifetime most affecting this issue. I was actually excited about this. Maybe I was Lady Godiva in a past life and had bared too much. My writing teacher was told by two or three different people that he was Jack London. Maybe I was a writer before…Dorothy Parker? Walt Whitman? I sat back to enjoy the show.
I could hear Ainslie talking with his guides, kind of muttering as they told him the story. “You’re bored,” he said. “You are a young boy in Sweden, and I see hard benches. Churches. Your family is a mystical religious type and you are bored.” He went round for a while with his guides and finally said, “This usually doesn’t take this long. Oh, the guides just told me it takes what it takes.” I had put my feet up on my desk and I was listening to him and his guides go back and forth about how bored I had been.
This went on a while. Then after about 15 or 20 minutes it came out that the young boy’s father gave him a really bad beating for challenging him on the concepts of the religion the family practiced. His father was a ruthless authority and the mother was just passive and allowed for it. So the young boy left home at 16 and headed for New York City on a boat. Once in the city, he was attacked and beat up pretty badly and was living in a kind of flop house or something like that. And then he was asked to leave because he was incontinent and very ill and making messes all over the house. So he went out in the snowy night and got drunk and died of exposure and alcohol.
“I guess that’s it,” Ainslie said, finishing up. “Did you have any sensations?”
Jesus, I thought. I just wanted to know why I can’t blog.
“It just feels so sad. It was such a sad life for that guy,” I told him.
“Great, that’s great you feel that way. It means you’re connecting with him.” Ainslie told me to write about anything that was similar between my life and this young boy. And then he said something about me being a “fearless communicator” and that I should not be surprised to be blogging away, making up for lost time any day now.
It didn’t feel like anything happened. I went about my day of homeschooling, cooking dinner, and got the kids to bed early. And then, lying in bed I started thinking about that boy. And I started to weep. This is crazy, I thought. I’m crying over some kid who died in the 1800’s in New York City that may or may not have been me?
I got out a journal and started writing about our similarities. There were quite a few: I had a father who I clashed with, though he was verbally brutal, not physical. I loved to argue religion from a young age. I left home at 16 and went across the world to Japan to get away from my mean-ass father. And all during my 20’s I struggled with addiction and suicidal tendencies. I used to call the suicide hotline weekly to have the guy talk me out of getting in the tub with a toaster.
I don’t feel this way at all now. Through hard work, grace, luck and many loving people who helped me along the way, I now really do want to live as long and as many lifetimes as I can to serve and help and love. I now feel like I live in heaven-on-earth. But I remember feeling just like that kid–alone, messed up, shitty. And like dying.
Writing about the similarities I started thinking about all the people who have served me and how colorful my life has been this time. When I thought about the Swedish boy, it just felt so black and white, bleak, and lonely. When I think about mine, it’s so much color and fun, even though parts were very sad and hard. As I was thinking about our lives I was overcome with an urge to do something. He has been dead for a long time. It’s done. What on earth could I do, I thought.
I sat in meditation and I found myself instantly with him, beside him. I found him on that cold Manhattan street and I sat next to him and held his cold hand. I told him who I was, I told him he wasn’t alone, and I wiped his forehead and his mouth. I got closer and wrapped my body around his. I held him while he died. I told him everything was all right and that he shouldn’t worry and that he did good. I told him to rest and find the Light. I told him I loved him.
And now I’m blogging like a mother.