I read this writing quote the other day “Your story only has a happy ending, depending upon where you end it!”
This really struck a chord for me, because the quote perfectly suits how we perceive our own lives too. People talk about their lives as though they were a book, with this and that ending, new chapters opening, and old ones closing, doors opening and closing.
But in fact isn’t our life just the one continuous journey, or perhaps it is not?
Via yoga, I have been taught that each time we close our eyes to sleep we enter the mini death, that each time we awaken, we are given the opportunity to be reborn into a new life. I rather like this view, and it has in “most cases”, worked quite well for me.
In this scenario life would be more like an old fashioned (pre digital) movie roll, with each individual snap shot, separate, but also joined to the next one.
One of the greatest difficulties I find working with my clients, is the tendency for people to ideate on the unhappy points in their lives rather than the happy or ecstatic times. Self flagellation seems to be far easier for most, then actual self appreciation.
Then there also is the alternate tendency to ruminate upon the happy times as though they were the ultimate pinnacle, never to be achieved again.
The new lover can never compare to the lost love.
Granny’s cooking, can never be surpassed in taste.
In reverso’ world mountains turn into mole hills.
Life is all down hill from there.
Happiness equates with endings.
Maybe is time to reframe happiness?
Happiness can be a flowing journey, just as inner peace is an internal eternal state, so is happiness.
One must redefine happiness, to a peaceful state of the acceptance of life, and that one’s joy is not reliant upon others, situations, or the acquiring of things.
Happiness begins and ends with our attitude to our own story.
We are both the Author and the reader.
In their language it is known as the dance that is danced but once, and it is the single most defining factor of a young woman’s life. The dance movements are as ingrained into the girl-child, as actual walking is to a toddler. Once perfected the individual steps are as akin to dance, as the letters of the alphabet are to language, and form the basis of every dance composition thereafter.
In the most complex of dances the same steps are to be found, only with time they will have become more intricately refined. The dance is customarily held seven days after the girl-child’s first moon bleed, if by any circumstance an event prevents the dance occurring at this time, it signifies terrible misfortune. The young woman becomes shrouded in a dark, dark cloud of bad luck, the whole village is wary of her presence and word of her disability (for that is what is known as) spreads far and wide. Suitors will give her a wide birth, her once friends teeter behind her back, and some may take it to the extreme and treat her as an Untouchable, no matter how high her caste.
It is a sad state of affairs.
At her one year birthing celebration, a girl child is bequeathed an elaborate costume in preparation for her first dance. The finest brilliantly coloured fabrics often of woven silk, entwined with gold and silver thread are used, always accompanied by a pressed metal head dress, golden anklets and bracelets. Even the poorest villagers endlessly strive to give this to their girl-child so she will possess the finest of costumes. Oft’ times the costume is handed down generation to generation until it is thread bare. Many families if they befall on hard times would rather sell their girl-child, than for her to be with out her costume. These costumes are so precious and highly treasured, that over time elaborate boxes with the most abstruse of locks have evolved to contain them, some families have gone to the effort of carving cave like vaults into the earth to hide away their precious costumes from marauding thieves.
Some of these boxes are now almost as precious as the costumes they house and are known as treasured antiquities too.
The incredible importance of the costume and the dance being it is the only insurance that your girl-child will marry well, and that they, her parents, will be taken care of into their old age.
Much rides upon “The Dance that is Danced but Once!”
Is a dream a stream of consciousness, or confusion mixed with a tad of delusion?
Zhuangzi said, “Is it the Man dreaming of the Butterfly or the Butterfly dreaming of the Man?”
I like to believe that all of life is naught but a dream.. there is no beginning, there is no end.
All is a learning or a warning, remember the message when you awaken in the morning.
And so to the dream..a sequence or perhaps a parallel.
My friend/business acquaintance has become quickly and inordinately successful in her career, I am happy for her, but her life is not what I would choose. But then she is in a different quadrant of life to me and only a third of my age. I go to her amazing home which is on an acreage in the bush, I am greeted by her four year old son, one of my sons who is now thirty seven is with me, in the dream he has regressed back to age four, they can play together, they appear to get along. Her son shows me has a rash, he’s not happy. I show him an old trick of my childhood Doctor, who coincidentally was my present husbands grandfather. The doctor used this method to determine if one had a severe allergy.
Quite a vicious test, but it worked, he would scratch across your belly using a sharp finger nail, quite strongly, a red inflamed trail would be left in its wake. If it persisted after twelve hours he would treat me for an allergy.
I was constantly plagued with severe allergies, severe enough at that time to be kept isolated in a darkened room wearing sunglasses. Little did they know the cause was, that I was being sexually abused. Another story. The Princess locked in an ivory tower, the treatment kept me safe for the interim.
My friend invited me into her sprawling home, it was full of baroque over the top, elaborate furnishings and fabrics, rather wonderful, although not my thing. She was in a hurry packing to travel as she frequently does, to exotic locations for a training. Her husband was to look after their son, she went outside where an argument commenced between he and she. The yelling got out of control, it wouldn’t have mattered how loudly they yelled, because neither of them could hear the other. She came inside and changed her clothes, when she reappeared she was composed, transformed in elegant designer clothes and groomed to a tee, but her sadness pervaded.
Its aroma filled their home.
I had to move my car it was blocking his in; outside I spoke to him, his anger had dissipated to despair.
They had everything, they had nothing.
No it’s not where I would want to be.
SEAGULLS,WOLVES AND LAMAS’.
Seeing this quote about “Johnston Livingston Seagull” by Richard Bach bought back a flood of memories. I was so taken by that book when it was first issued, what an inspiration. He sold over a million copies and made it to the top of New York Times list. Not sure if it was late sixties or early seventies, but it was when we still had book stores. Remember them?
There are very few around now days.
I had a big poster of Johnathon Livingston, flying to great heights on my bedroom wall, I used to fall asleep gazing at it. Richard Bach then wrote and bought out “Illusions” which assisted me to accept that perhaps I was not really an alien transplanted into a human body. I had always questioned what was ‘REALITY’ and what was ‘ILLUSION’, my family didn’t quite get it.
As a child I devoured “Lobsang Rampa” books, written in the fifties about the paranormal and the occult, they say he was a fake. How ridiculous, his information came from somewhere, they just did not understand how.
When I was young there was a travelling greengrocer, milk and bread was delivered to your door, I even recall the clip clop of a horse and cart delivering milk, but the very best of all was the travelling library. A big black truck with canvas sides, chok a’ block with shelves of books. And the Librarians.... well they were so amazing, they dressed only in black and they wore ‘TROUSERS’. No women wore trousers then, except bus conductors. I liked these two women, they were so very ,very different. I heard someone snigger that they were dykes’. But how could they be Dutch waterways? I knew about the boy putting his finger in the Dyke, my father was Dutch. My mother liked them, they were communists, and so was she. They talked a lot with her and had cups of tea, while I burrowed through the endless piles of books in glee.
My grandmother taught me to read when I was three, I don’t know if she actually taught me, or it was some sort of organic submersion. She read to me, not just at night, but whenever I entered her hallowed room, the portal to my imagination.
It wasn’t always children’s books, she read to me whatever book she was reading at the time. When I went to school, it was so damn boring, I was in a class of “children,” seriously they were babies.
What was with that ..Dick and Dora, Nip Sat on the Mat, give me strength.
Fortunately the headmaster rescued me, I sat each day for reading on the floor of his office, on the prickly green west minister carpet tiles, and read his magnificent books, I was in my own little world. If that were to happen now, he would probably be struck off the register for child abuse.
I loved him, with a passion. Then came my grade three teacher, he bought me special books from home, and picked me up when he drove past me walking on the way to school, he often gave me a lift home too. Which saved me getting bullied and bashed up by the girl, and her very rough brothers who called me ‘teachers pet.’ They waited most every day on the corner to get me.
So many books and they were all so instrumental. In the early nineties there was ......
“Women Who Run with the Wolves,” by Clarissa Pinkola Estes, she blew me away, I was enthralled. That book topped all the lists and stayed on the New York Times List 145 weeks.
I do believe she was knocked back by no less than sixty publishers, that’s enough to give any writer hope. Please don’t even get me started on Maya Angelou, what a woman!
Strangely enough when I began writing this piece I was going to tell you about my many varied seagull experiences, you know, digress back to the seagull connection.
You see I swim every morning, so I meet many charming sea gulls. Mind you my fondness of them of late is rapidly diminishing, breaking through the ILLUSION perhaps? It’s been so wild and rough in the ocean, I have had to swim at old people’s beach, it’s protected and calm, only problem is the fish like it there better too. Seriously, they jump out of the water you could catch them with your bare hands, needless to say the gulls who know this secret are very protective of the bay. Or it could be, as my husband says, describing my extra large head, with my hair piled on top whilst swimming, it appears to be an extremely large floating bird’s nest. Sea gulls squawking, and viciously dive bombing at my head are not particularly conducive to a meditative swim, and are not in the least endearing. They’ve almost wiped out all the positive aspects of Jonathon Livingston teachings. Which I see has a new revised edition, with extra chapters, I am going to purchase it and take a walk (not a swim) down memory lane.
“We are being breathed”....I say this to my students all the time, it brings far greater perspective to the scheme of things. The great yogi’s it is said, consciously chose their moment of death, and will their breath to cease.
Maybe the time will come and I will find out if I have this gift?
The other evening I thought I was downloading the new Tim Winton movie ‘Breath’, but it was not, I downloaded ‘Breathe’, a remarkable story about a polio victim, victims..except this man was no SURVIVOR but a THRIVER. A brilliantly inspiring emotive story, produced by the actual mans son. I suggest you watch it.
We are all being BREATHED, so many people breathe poorly, completely in reverse to the true yogic breath. I myself had Tuberculosis scarring on my lungs, when I was young most of my family had been in sanatoriums for TB. A few died there. This led to asthma , which I have never treated conventionally, only with Pranayama herbs and oils.
William Shakespeare, wrote 'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.’ We are all actors, being breathed, and some are merely puppets. I like to think we do have choice, we have free will. Maybe the choices we have are a limited, like a set buffet of life, from which we believe we are freely choosing.
I have participated in yoga or taught yoga, I realise longer than most of my students have lived.
Quite shocking to write this fact, to see it here in black and white. I can thank good old Lobsang Rampa’ for the fact that I even knew of the existence of yoga, and much much later of course Paramahansa Yogananda, ‘Autobiography of a Yogi’, he died the year I was born.
I have felt his presence move through me, decades before I even consciously knew of him.
I could say... I came to yoga because of an accident, which is true, but I do not believe in accidents.
I was young only eighteen, my family, were poor, I wanted to be an artist, that is all, an artist pure and simple. They made me leave school at 15, get a sensible career (for a woman), study art at night if I must, and I did! I was an A grade student, I got the highest distinction 98:5 for Art, but NO. Art is not a career choice. Indeed at that time they were right, but then, that’s become a core belief ingrained in my brain. DELETE DELETE!
So I became a hairdresser, quite a creative choice, commercial art just didn’t ring my bell. Drawing chairs and washing machines for advertising gurus, no way. My hairdressing tales, are boundless, funny, tender, horrific, it had it all.
It was creative, I flew to the top of my game, it was fun too, plus there is nothing quite like having your hands on peoples heads all day to hone one’s psychic abilities. Hairdressing is definitely about TRANSFORMATION, I know now with hindsight I just took the round about path to following my soul purpose. The experiential path.
I was being BREATHED!
So to the NOT an ACCIDENT, accident.. I was 18 it was my first Ball at a fancy Yacht Club. I was glam’ed up, full of exuberant teenage ego. I was excited, and had spent weeks of my minimal wages on the most fabulous dress, and a ridiculous pair of over the top almost unwearable platform shoes (at least for me who wore 6 days a week white lace up nurses shoes.) This was no ordinary dress, it was borrowed from Pocahontas, soft dirty pink artificial suede, lets just call it a chamois (used to clean cars) slit to the waist, laced up with wooden beads hanging at the end of the lacing, long sleeves fringed the whole arm in true Native American style. It would be right in fashion today. My honey coloured waist length curly hair had been ironed—- YES ironed, with a steam iron for hours, it hung as a sleek and dead straight curtain.
False eyelashes, tanned, immaculate makeup; do remember I was caught in the web of the glamour illusion for my profession. In my mind I was “crash hot”, shame about those huge cork ankle strap contraptions on my feet. Oh’ and the rain, my hair ironing efforts were quickly fleeing as the misting rain, teased the frizz and curls back into their constant battle for existence. Phew, I made it albeit wobbly, to the top of the 30 slippery wet steps, but who is counting, it was a most strenuous effort.
Seriously my minds illusion and the truth didn’t match up, crash hot, don’t think so! Wobbling on stilts up the cement stairs, in the rain, with by now a wildly frizzing Jimmy Hendrix cascade of hair.
Clunk, the inevitable happened, my ankle twisted and caved in, boom boom down each wet step I bounced, on my back, ascending couples politely parted so as not to divert my most ungracious descent.
I don't remember much after that, my imagination can only fill in the missing pieces, drowned rat comes to mind. Long dripping wet chamois’, flying beads, eyelashes mascara, running down my face, shocked date, ambulance blaring. Some Cinderella ball, I certainly beat her exit, just no glass slipper, cork is not half as exotic, is it? I woke up don’t know how many days later, in intensive care, laying immobilised, harnessed in a Traction contraption. This was to be my lot for perhaps another six months, it’s all a blur.
I was being BREATHED, I was humbled, my ego at least momentarily had been put most efficiently to rest.
I definitely was CRASHED, but not crash hot!
I had heard of an Osteopath, I knew about yoga, as soon as the pain subsided I got myself out of that hospital. I found the osteopath, he tugged and clicked, he wrenched, poked, and prodded it worked it was a miracle. After that my beauty accessory was the hot water bottle I wore stuffed in my jeans, I would have had a J Low, padded butt and been in fashion now. I used Asian lineaments, and essential oils, my butt was constantly red from the hot water bottle, I possibly smelt/ stunk of tiger balm. I stood all day at work, just as well, because I could not sit, my tail bone had disintegrated, several vertebrae were smashed. I could only stand or lay, flat on my back.
I researched yoga, I found one teacher, only the one in all of the city! In Nedlands, she was ever so old, she wore her hair in a Dusty Springfield bouffant French roll. Omg’ how out of date, she taught in black stretchy leotards, how flexible she was, for someone so very, very old. Maybe thirty, what a laugh.
I went to every class, each one hurt like hell. Gradually they hurt less and less, meditation was amazing, it explained so much.
Really, others saw things too!
I was being BREATHED.
Yeah 108 WORDS
“Three year olds poetry”
Is it wrong
To sing a song
If it very long
Bong bong bong
Tickle my tummy
Where is mummy
Eating bread and honey
Where is my dummy
That’s not funny
Have you got money
Is tomorrow sunny
My nose is runny
I want my bunny
Do you want a kiss
Or a lick
Or to be sick
Repeat endlessly for an hour while rubbing their back until asleep
Nothing is, as it seems.
I am not saying anything you do not already know.
Everything you think is real solid and concrete, is but an illusion.
I remember the first time I witnessed water under a microscope, it completely freaked me out, it appeared like an ocean of hideous jelly fish, intriguingly swirling and multiplying right before my eyes. For a little while it was difficult for me to even have a sip of water, now I swig litres down each day, with out a blink.
When I was only a young girl, my father had an accident with a lawnmower, (no not a haircut) it went up his leg, baring it to his bone, along with copious flesh, spurting ruby red blood. I must have been quite a ghoul of a child, for I wasn't particularly frightened, or in hindsight sympathetic either.
I called for an ambulance, tended to him, and washed the wound, bandaged his leg all in awe, of the wonders his leg had revealed. There was bone, we have layers, how did we not fall apart, how did this covering called skin hold us all together? I still don’t know, it’s remarkable, from then I dreamed of being a surgeon. Until I went into hospital for a prolonged stay, that quickly changed my mind.
Only a few weeks ago another organ was discovered in the human body. So much is known about the human form and yet so very little. It’s not like a jig saw puzzle or Lego set, one can’t chop it into, a trillion pieces and put it back together, yet, they can clone a sheep, and now a pair of monkeys.
We take ourselves and our plights of woe so seriously, our homes are decorated, and designed by fabulous architects, yet we trash and brutally destroy the planet on which they are placed. Our love, the divine energy that flows to and through us, is the most powerful force in the universe, yet we withhold it, and pervert its flow, selectively choosing whom is a deserving recipient and who is not, by colour, race and creed. Yet it has been proven that even a simple jar of cooked rice, miraculously remains fresh through the grace and power of our love, or alternatively moulds and decays when anger and hatred is projected towards it. Plants equally respond to our loving words and to beautiful music, we can even record the music they create to communicate with. Every animal is equally deserving of our love, yet dogs cats and horses are most commonly singled out, to be the recipients, whilst sheep, cows, pigs are denied, and herded off to the abattoirs to be consumed.
We are not singular, all-mighty living organisms, we are a part of the whole, one streaming mass of life. Our pain our love is integral to all, yes, we are incredible, uniquely amazing, but we are NOT, for we are not what we seem. We are an illusion, we are conjurers with a thousand masks dancing with the joker of life, waiting to awaken.
We are Oppositional?
Newton’s law states for every force there is an equal and opposing force. Many of us chose to be the opposing force or oppositional, it takes a lot of energy to be oppositional, angry, judgemental and self righteous.
I am not saying this take is wrong, just often completely exhausting and totally futile. There is no need to prove you are right, or be inflamed when someone holds opposing views to yours. The truth is you are rarely going to change another’s point of view, and don’t we all know that?
The tactics that are used on the greater world stage are just not working. If you always do, what you always did, you will always get, what you always got! I’d say it was time for radical transformational change, wouldn’t you? And that means all of us, we must admit we are part of the problem. We all need to become more aware, and self exploratory of why another’s views trigger or anger us. Why we need to be ‘RIGHT’ over being happy, we can be equal rather than opposing.
Is another’s view or opinion really capable of hurting us, or others?
Our planet has enough wars and battles already, it is magnificent and beautifully brutal, do we actually need to add further to the brutality?
We are all bought up with a battle mentality, often its so ingrained into us that at a cellular level lodged deeply into our DNA we believe our whole survival is dependant on battling, and so we act it out accordingly. To do well at school we must strive and battle, compete, compete, compete! All sporting endeavours are dependant upon the battle... just look at the warriors on the football or rugby grounds, and the crowds almost roaring for blood spill. To me it does not seem that different to the gladiators of yore’ fighting until the death.
To get well paid employment or to be “successful” you must continue to compete and battle, it’s all revolves around ferocious forms of doing, rather than being. Our entertainment movies TV etc, at least 75% of their storylines are inclusively focused upon modified battles.
Getting fit, losing weight is made into a battle against oneself, as are all addictions.
In one breath we denounce nations that promote and indulge in warfare, but all of us are at war within ourselves, or caught in some hidden battle, no matter how trivial it is. The equal force is rarely part of our own equation.
Many decades ago I was diagnosed with a stage four cancer and given a prognosis of six months to live. I was told to battle this insidious disease, to put up a good fight, thankfully something clicked in me, and woke up a truth.
This protagonist cancer was not separate to me, but of me, my own creation, so then how could I do battle against myself?
Why would I go to war with ME, wasn’t one war already raging in me, for this to have been created?
I realised I could only love myself, WELL, and thus I did.
Working as a therapist, I repeatedly find clients wanting to kill off parts of themselves, divorce from aspects of their personalities that hold EQUAL but OPPOSING views, you cannot do that, it is impossible. As in war these aspects will only retreat, go underground into the shadow realms, where they may participate in guerrilla warfare.
Or flit between denial and virulent sabotaging attacks.
One must embrace love and understand all aspects of their own nature for transformation to take place. Stop the battles and the warring, if you must go to fight, chose the fight consciously and wisely, and most importantly do not fuel it with your anger. It is our mass warring inner subconscious, that is creating our world as it is today. We can not divorce our energy from the mass earth energy, we are all upholding the problems, and challengers as much as we are responsible for creating the SOULutions’.
Our anger directed no matter our passively, aids and abets all violence. The universe does not discern this violence is ok, or this is not, a battle is a battle. Battles do not get won, everyone involved is indeed a victim, and this holds stead for all conflict, internal and external.
I am not advocating that you lay down and let everyone walk over you, but that when you do chose an oppositional stance you do it in equanimity, devoid of anger, and violence, wherever possible of judgement. Or at least acknowledge when you are being a ‘bloody minded judgemental ass,’ STOP , reset and re-frame your thinking, most importantly forgive yourself and others, then fall back into love.
Mother Teresa once said .... “I don't participate in anti-war demonstrations. I will never do that, but as soon as you have a pro-peace rally, I'll be there!”
Let’s all drop ‘arms’ and actively and internally to promote peace, we really have no other valid choice but to be the equal force, to be the PEACE
Last night we had a wonderful class, a moving release meditation powered by this wonderful eclipse energy.
We embraced what we eclipse from our own view. That which we feel would burn our retinas if bought to the light of day.
Most people hide their murkiness from others, fearing judgement. In reality we can have no worse judge then our own inner critic.
The only reprieve a strong inner critic allows is when it has become so internally crippling, that it flips over to Judge mode projecting its vitriol to damn and judge others externally. This way you get a breather.
We are the ones wielding the weapons of our destruction.
We use our vision to view the world through the mirror of our beliefs, or even borrow a lens to believe what others would have us believe. Whatever, it is still our choosing!
We all hold the same capacity for inner peace: yet we continue to stoke our internal conflicts and smokescreen our denial.
We blame happenstance for our circumstances and others for our bad behaviour, as we covet the very peace that's always been in our possession. While we eclipse our own hearts that very peace will elude you.
SHAMANIC JOURNEYING WITH VETIVER!
There are times when we all just need to curl up into a ball and retreat from the world.
If and when you feel like this please do give yourself permission to do so; the world will go on perfectly OK' without your participation.
It OK to allow sad and depressive feelings to move through you. Hang on to them though in an looping replay cycle and they become stuck energy, inhibiting any further momentum until they are acknowledged and accepted. When you learn to navigate your own abyss, you do no longer have to fear your dark emotions overtaking all your joy.
So if you need to wallow a while in the muddy recesses of your shadow; just do it! But do it consciously, acknowledging that you are allowing yourself a really good mucky wallow!
Actually you may even enjoy it like – -A PIG IN MUD does!
Your wallowing can be likened to an inner adventure; like taking an exploration through previously uncharted territory. You can invent an alter ego like Xena, the Warrior Woman, or Tarzan to accompany you, as imagining this alter ego brings a different perspective to your wallowing.
So instead of being entrenched in painful past experiences you can watch the emotions without completely collapsing into them; similarly to watching a sad movie. Using an alter ego thus enables you to be an impartial observer. Which is incredibly freeing!
You may feel that you already intimately know this shadow side of your ego; but do remember energy is constantly changing and shape shifting. So you never visit the same same inner state of being twice.
Shinning your compassionate light inward heralds a new level of consciousness, a great shift in your awareness. Remember you are not trying to fix anything, you are accepting what is; but you are finally giving your complexity it’s due respect.
Don’t be afraid to dig deep, when one delves into their dark void it is never as horrifying as they expect it to be.
You are the miner of your own soul!
Muster the courage to travel consciously into your dark abyss, it will be extremely freeing.
Contrary to popular belief it’s rarely the bottomless pit you once may have suspected. Down there you will find reservoirs of energy previously classified as untouchable. Hidden away and labelled as shame, guilt, grief, anger, disrespect, when observed these labels peel off from your wounding and you can embrace the beauty of their vulnerable contents.
When they are bought forth to the light their energy becomes a benevolent resource to support you and others upon their journey. Your possess your very own sparkly hidden treasure chest and you have always held the treasure map.
The Dark and light have always played off each other, indeed they modulate the colour of our world. Your Darkness and Solitude are much needed to reflect your light and passion. Delve deep and enjoy the journey!
My favourite oil to Shamanic Journey the abyss with is Vetiver!
The Humble Vetiver root -
The Oil of Centring and Descent
For me this is one of the most Shamanistic of our Oily Plant Medicine. It is truly humbling to explore with this oil emotionally and spiritually in a meditative way or via our sleep time revelations.
Vetiver can take you into the dark recesses of your psyche', but in a courageous and supportive manner. Your psyche will never reveal to you what your consciousness is not ready to handle. Fear is if the ego.
Some misconstrue the gifts of this powerful oil by saying it can bring on nightmares, but this is not true! The fear one has of a night mare, is the fear of what they hold within the vault of their very own psyche'. We all are a balance of light and dark, yin and yang and there are 50 shades of grey in-between.
Why be frightened of the depth of your own being?
If you hold this fear, then you are not able to embrace the awe and magnificence of your radiant light either!
The roots of the vetiver are tough, they clump together to support the soil, they hold mighty river banks together in the times of flood and storms. It's in this same manner that this powerful base note oil supports and holds us together in the tough times, even when we are flooding with tears of grief.
If you are in need of a little extra courage, or are feeling unsupported turn to vetiver she will wrap you in her roots and hold you tightly, keeping you grounded and firm whilst shinning a light into your soul.
Aromatically she holds perfume together and gives the lasting quality to your home made Pure-fumes as patchouli does.
She mixes well with herbaceous, citrus and floral oils.
On a physical level she supports low mood and holds you together with gentle courage, as she supports your immune system and aids in deeper relaxation, meditation and sleep.
Vetiver is like a really strong supportive bestie', enjoy her warm arms and soft bosom.
Other oils I enjoy to journey with are Petitgrain: Frankincense: Patchouli: Thyme: Cardamom: Myrrh: Cypress: Bergamot : Cedar wood: Arborvitae:
I am a seer and a grandmother/elder in my wisdom years, with over 45 years’ experience in the spiritual and healing arts. As a child my gifts remained intact, mostly as a source of protection for my life's intense soul choices. My work remains my passion and will continue to do so. The work I do is guided and channelled by spirit. As an Aroma’Vybe Hypno Therapist/ Soul Coach, Healer/Shaman /Energy Aligner/Dream Decoder/Spirit Based Counsellor Psychotherapist/ Life Coach Mentor/Voice Dialogue Practitioner/ Visionary Artist/ Psychic-Medium/ Clear Channel/Sound Healer/Master Yoga Teacher. How can one put into words the energy of the divine that streams through us when we are living and doing what we love.
I combine all the above skills with my love of people, creativity, beauty and nature to be a Mentor of Souls. We as HUMAN BEINGS can no longer live by the demands of the ego it is time to sit in the truth and knowingness of our divine souls.