Freeing the voices in my head

Posts tagged ‘Danger’

Quantum Energy Quips

Before I get into what may be a rambling, confusing blog for some, let me define a few things:  I hate labels, but others find labels comforting.  A label lets them pop me into a definite spot in their relations with me.  So, I call myself an energy-worker or a spiritualist.  Others call me a witch.  No matter, it’s all good as far as I’m concerned, and none of it really fits.

I’m a catalyst.  The definition of catalyst is: 1. a substance that causes or speeds a chemical reaction without itself being affected.  2. anything that precipitates an event.

I’m definition number two.  An odd pattern became noticeable as I traveled the journey of energy-work.  The first time I would do a spell, ritual, meditation, drum walk, etc. it would be great.  I’d get wonderful results.  If I tried it again, it would fail.  Within a week or a month, I’d meet someone or someone in my energy circle (we called it a circle instead of a coven, since a few of my darlings didn’t want to be labeled witches) would ask about the particular working I’d just done.  And, ping! – the light would go on.  I’d pass the info along or do the working with my friend and there you go, they’d have it, it was learned.  And working with me, made it easier for them.

Once the torch (so to speak) was passed, I could again do the working with positive results.  Those were small changes, though, and fun.  Learning, discovering, sharing, is always fun.  To me, all energy work is fun, and when it benefited others; ah, that was the best!

I also learned a bit about quantum physics, quantum mechanics, and how quantum energy worked with metaphysics and regular energy-work.  The definition of quantum is: 1. quantity or amount.  2.  Physics. a very small, indivisible quantity of energy.  3.  sudden and significant : a quantum increase in productivity.

I always knew I was highly empathic, able to feel or sense the emotions and pain of others.  Maybe it became honed on its own because of my childhood – when you live with cross-addicted and abusive people, it helps to sense their mood immediately.  Those few seconds of extra sensing would allow me to decide if I needed to run, hide, or silently obey.  It was a useful gift, and also a curse.  Sitting in the Emergency Room to pick up my mom after work was a confusing trip inside me – I could “feel” everyone’s aches and pains.  The woman in labor on the chair opposite me – yep, I’d get cramps.  The guy with the broken foot, indeed, my own foot would flare into an ache.

I had no mentor or teacher then, no idea how to control or shield, and, again, I think that household inadvertently trained me.  It’s a fact that when people live or work together, they “mesh” to a degree.  Female co-workers suddenly realize their menses have synchronized; if one person in a house is broadcasting high emotion, everyone else will begin to feel the same way.  Humans are all empaths, in varying degrees.  We can put ourselves in the other person’s shoes; empathy allows us to feel compassion and mercy toward others.

But the gift of metaphysical empathy, talented empathy, takes it to the quantum level.  Meta-empaths go beyond just feeling the normal range from others.  A meta-empath can reach through anyone’s natural mental and metaphysical shield to sense exactly what the other person is feeling or touch a person exactly where they are hurting.  A trained meta-path can take that negative energy into her hand, without absorbing it into herself, and flick it away, making her subject feel better.  She can manifest a sudden and significant change in her subject.

And yes, even so-called normal humans, untrained humans, have a natural shield.  If you don’t want someone – even a trained psychic or meta-physician – scanning you, if you don’t want them in, sharing your energy or “reading your mind,” they can’t get in.  Everyone is psychic in some way, and Nature gave us natural barriers against unwanted intrusion – probably to keep us from going crazy.

But if you want help, if you are broadcasting a need, a meta can help you and you will let them in.  Again, we all do it, in small, untrained, ways.  The lady who gives everyone, including strangers, hugs – yep, she’s sharing her happy or soothing or motherly energy with you.  It’s a surface thing; it rarely goes deeper into your psyche, but, admit it, it does make you feel better.

Now take that small normal human touch and train it.  Strengthen it, focus it.  Now you’re sending quantum energy out, and in.

My younger untrained self needed a defense against all that and against the negative emotion in my childhood home, so my natural shield became stronger.  Once I started studying, and especially when I found a mentor, I learned control and focus and how to assist others without invading their energy.  I’m a diagnostic meta-path – I can sense something’s wrong inside you.  I can touch you and find old injuries, dark spots, stopped energy.  I won’t give a definite diagnosis; in fact, I just say, “Go to a doctor and get a check up.”  I’m not a healer, even though my gentle surface tissue massage will make you feel better.  All I do with that is help your body re-learn how to heal itself, unblock a minor flow, so your body can remember it can heal anything on its own.  It’s not really a massage; it’s a stroking along your energy flow, boosting it a little, so you’ll feel better (and stop making my hands tingle!).

Now, throw the energy catalyst into that mix and, wham!  When I’m “on,” I plunge right through shields, even a trained psychic’s shields.  My spirit-brother described it this way, shortly after we met:  “I have a very strong shield, no one gets in, but you just dove through it and found my soul.  How?”

I was so embarrassed; it’s such a no-no to invade someone like that!  I apologized and tried to explain.  He assured me it was all right, saying, “It felt good.  It was like a burst of Light.”  Oh, geeze, more blushing on my part.  Then he asked, “What is it like?  What did you see?”

Now, I don’t “see” auras (aurae?); I leave that to my son.  No, to me, everyone is energy, and, sometimes, I’ll see colors.  So, I told him he had a lot of blue with some orange and red in his energy, that he had a “good” soul, a long soul (I said “old” back then, but Time is an Illusion, so old isn’t the proper definition – long fits better.).

A few days later, he asked me, “What did you do?”

Do?  I hadn’t done anything, just peeked at his soul.  Brad told me he felt lighter and his psychic sense was stronger.  Curious, he let me check his energy.  Sure enough, the catalyst gift had kicked in and his molecular vibrational frequency had gone up a couple of levels.

Yes, Magic and/or psychic work is a science (and so is prayer).  It’s the science of manipulating energy with focused intent to bring about desired results.  Just because our technology isn’t advanced enough to consistently measure and record it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.  Hey, no one believed in quantum physics until a few years ago!

We are all just energy in different densities and different forms.  Our molecules vibrate at different frequencies, holding us together, shaping us, and the physical aspects of everything in the world.  When a catalyst comes along (and they’re rare, so don’t expect your local psychic or medium to be able to do this), she can go in, mesh her energy with yours, and bring you up – increase your vibration – to another level.  What does this do?  Well, it increases your ability to use your psychic gifts, and it opens psychic gifts in some.

And, it can be used and exploited.  I had a friend who was already a trained meta-physician.  Unknown to me (and, yes, I’m too naive and trusting as an energy-worker), she was interested in power, controlling others, doing workings to benefit her at the cost of others (all of which I found out later, and only because my kids warned me – I’ve learned to listen and obey when my kids and pets don’t like someone – they are very good “readers” of people!).  She insisted I “turn on” and raise her frequency very high in one session.  I thought I was helping her, and I did, but it was wrong.  She had found an easy way to level up, instead of doing the work herself.  She was a psychic energy-vampire and almost sucked us both up to a level the human body needs decades to reach.

I knew it was wrong and brought us out of it.  I felt awful, sick, dizzy, shaking.  And the visions, woof, that level, that Dimension was not a good place for human energy to visit without an invitation.  Now, that’s how I knew it was wrong.  Energy-work, catalyst work, even channeling (yep, I’m a Voice Vessel, too, a medium, a channel, whatever, ‘cept I don’t get dead humans speaking through me, oh no, I get Higher Level Energy Entities…oh, joy.) – after any meta working, I usually feel upbeat, jazzed, energetic myself.  Not this time.  She had pulled me beyond where we should have gone without decades of frequency work.  I wouldn’t touch her after that and made sure to control any catalyst urges around her, but I still hadn’t learned my lesson.  I still hadn’t kicked her out of our circle.

Fortunately, the next time she tried something, a Great One stepped in.  I was doing a Tarot Card reading for her.  She wanted clarification, she wanted more.  She looked me in the eye and demanded, “Channel my patron goddess.  I command Isis to speak to me.”   Oh no, no, no, human!

First of all, while I’m a mostly conscious channel, I have no control over Who comes through me to visit.  Usually, it’s my sweet She-Who-Laughs (I suspect She is Bast, but She won’t give a Name.  She said, “What need of a Name when One is Energy?”), and, usually, I need to take my two or three cleansing breaths to sink into alpha trance and let one of Them through.

Secondly, you do NOT command any of these higher level entities, great ones, gods, whatevers.  Human arrogance; we have it in spades and it’s our downfall.  No human is a high enough level to command or demand or manipulate these higher beings.  We can pray, ask, hope, yes, but order Them about like lackies, um, no, not gonna happen.

So, one second I’m sitting there aghast at her order, the next second, I’m cowering down deep in my body as an enraged Great Female took over.  I don’t remember exactly what She said to my ex-friend.  I do remember She stood up, threw the Tarot Cards in the woman’s face and shouted something like, “You Dare?!  This, none of this matters.  YOU do not matter.  Never again.”  BOOM!  Like a thunderclap of Power surging through me, my house, that ex-friend.  My throat was sore for days.  And that friend?  She never called me or anyone in our circle again.  We later found out her life and her psychic gifts went downhill from there.

Yep, Karma (or perhaps, Isis) is a bitch when you fuck with Her.

Whoa, okay, this ran much longer than I meant.  I just wanted to answer a friend’s question about my personal energy-workings.  I haven’t even touched on another friend’s question about my “group” soul.  I’ll save that for later.

I hope you enjoyed these snippets, and aren’t too confused!  Feel free to post questions and your own stories.  Let’s Explore this Journey further!  🙂

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Red Car, Blue Car

I did it again today.  I have a legitimate excuse because I’m running about on two hours of sleep, a middling-to-high fever, not much solid food in the past two days, but I HAD to get some Christmas shopping done.  I’m using the mind over matter method of healing – I do NOT have bronchitis, there is no money for doctors (After the fiasco last year, I’ve vowed to go to a doctor or hospital again only if I’m DEAD!), it’s Christmas, stupid Body, so, behave!  Except excuses don’t wash; I done this before when healthy, rested and normal.

I tried to get into the wrong car.

I love cars.  So does hubby.  Our respective Love affairs began in our teens.  Randy (hubby) lucked into the Pink Lady, a 1964 pastel pink Thunderbird with white vinyl roof.  Sweet car for a 1970s high school kid and bought with money he earned working two jobs while still making Honor Roll every semester in school.  My dad worked at a car dealership and got me my first car.  It was a 1971 LTD Ford station wagon, seven feet long, a lumbering hunk of metal, and, important for Dad, rated a safe family car.  In 1976, the Black Beast got me and my best friend cross-country and back, was our shelter when the tent we brought turned out to be rotted through from the previous year’s banana food fight, but I gladly traded it for the first car I fell in love with – a 1969 Buick Skylark Sport Coupe, gold with a rag top, 350 horsepower V-8 engine, and automatic stick.  Lark could do 120 mph down the Thruway, her engine singing a solid middle C the whole time, but we only tried that once, honest!  She had over 200,000 miles on her and ran great when we gave her to my mechanically-challenged mother.  Lark died the next month, never to run again.

We grew up, married, went through more cars, and knew we had “made it” when we bought a Lexus.  Very nice, dependable car and at 99,000 miles the only thing wrong with Beauty was the power control or computer thing died for the driver’s window.  (Yes, I named all our cars.)  The kids enjoyed our largesse and their dad’s quirk of getting a different car every three years.  Brian received a 1965 emerald green Mustang.  “Needs work, runs good!”  Ripped upholstery, a steering wheel that might (and did!) come off while you were driving, cracked windshield, manual steering, manual brakes – Yikes!  But, ah, when you hit the gas, the Green Bitch GROWLED her way out into the world.  Me and a ton of steel roaring down I-10 at 75 mph; you betcha nobody got in our way!

This past year, we traded in two cars (yeah, bonus checks helped).  Hubby got a silver Dodge Challenger, loaded, powerful, great car.  A bit intimidating to me – it was a lot bigger than my sweet little Baby – a blue G37 Infiniti.  I loved my car, I knew how everything worked and could program the GPS.  And then, he saw IT online and said, “You like Audis, right?”  Oh no!  I hurried into the office.  “Yes, I like Audis.  No, you cannot trade my Infiniti for one!”  (He got our younger son an older Audi A8, black, of course – Jim rarely acknowledges any other color – 200,000 miles, running great, full of luxury; I like that car, too, but…)  I stamped my foot, I pouted, I got in the passenger seat of my baby and allowed hubby to take us to the Audi dealership.  We (Baby and I) were doomed.

Hubby liked a white four-door Audi A6.  We test drove it and, eh, blah…mind you, I was still pouting, determined to hold tightly to my sporty blue darling.  And I loathe white cars.  The silver two-door A2 was almost identical to my G37, so why trade into the same kind of car?  We stood outside, me caressing Baby’s hood while the salesman tried to tempt us (me) into buying something.  Key in hand, other hand on driver door, casual and relaxed, hubby said, “Where’s the red A4 that was online?”  He grinned at me.

Yep, truly screwed.  The bastar-er-sweet man knows me well.  Hit my visual buttons – colors, jewel tones, dark, luscious blues, greens, reds…I sighed in relief when the salesman answered, “That’s out on a test drive.  Would you like to wait?  We have coffee and cookies – oh, here it comes!”

She purred into the lot with a tight turn and flirty swing, bold, sassy, gorgeous.  Her grill was a saucy grin, her slanted headlights sporting tiny under-liner lights.  Baby was adorable, SHE was sensual, glam-rock haughty, and I clenched my fists, knowing I was beyond tempted by this bright red siren with her flash and class.  “It’s a four-door, it might be too big for me, I don’t need a big car, I don’t want–”

“Let’s test drive it,” the traitor insisted.

The dealer drove us to a park with a long road that looped back around to the main highway.  It reminded me of a racetrack – perfect to prove a big four-door couldn’t maneuver as well as Baby.  I sat in the back when hubby drove, pretending I wasn’t impressed with the comfy seats, the smooth ride, the fact that I wasn’t getting sick (I usually get motion-sick in the back seat of cars).  When my turn came, I drove her like the men did – hit fifty-five and owned that curving loop.

I giggled.  And tried to stop giggling.  Giggled some more.  She was fun!  She was so much fun to drive that I knew I had screwed us out of getting any kind of discount.  No one giggles on a test drive, and the daughter of a MANAGER of a CAR DEALERSHIP should know better!  But…I giggled.

Parting with Baby was difficult; I had to sit in her for awhile, but my eyes kept straying to Ms. Luxury-Plus-Muscle-Plus-Prestige sitting next my little Infiniti.  I wouldn’t have to worry about a Texas Edition Dually pick up driven by some ignorant drunk trying to run my placid blue sweetie off the road anymore – how can you ignore a bright red bitch of a car that screams MONEY and CLASS?

We bought her.  We got her home and discovered a few things.  The new Audi came with THREE books, a CD and a DVD.  Another book and CD were sent to us in the mail a few days later.  Two of the books explain the Navigation System (GPS).  We still haven’t figured it out six months later.  None of the manuals, CDs, DVDs, whatever – nothing contains any info on how to set the clock!  I hate Daylight Savings Time; now I have a moment of fear as I think I’m an hour late until I remember the Red Queen won’t tell me how to change her clock over!

Love is never perfect.

Today’s Christmas shopping went well and as my body floated out of the store on a puddle of fever-sweat, I was happy to be done.  I took a deep breath and focused.  Shopping was easy, getting out of the parking lot, through the traffic and home was gonna be Hell.  The parking lot was mayhem and I hurried across it, eyes darting about because here in Texas, parking lots are as dangerous as the roads.  Folk out here climb in their pick-em-ups, vans, or Stupid Useless Vehicles, jam their phones to their ears and race off – all without looking to see where they’re going or who might be in their way.  Two said vehicles were in jousting positions, revving their engines, their supah-mom drivers waiting to do battle over my parking space.

I grabbed the door handle, juggling my bags, cursing the fact that the remote key in my purse wasn’t unlocking the door…oh.  I lifted my gaze from the blue Infiniti’s door and sheepishly trotted over to my big red bitchin’ Audi.  Horns honked in frustration behind me.  I ignored them and slammed my door shut.  Silence.  Push the start button and with a muted purr and silken whisper – as if she knew I wasn’t at my best yet forgave me for still loving small blue Infinitis – Queenie got me safely home.

Still, you were right, Body.  Today, we should have stayed in bed.

Rip That Bandage Off?

It’s dangerous for me to write at night.  I don’t follow a set routine and am not a disciplined writer, but I do my best to plop myself in front of the computer first thing in the morning.  It’s a wonderful time to write, as long as I do nothing but: Shuffle to the back door to let the dogs out, make my tea or reheat yesterday’s coffee, ignore my phone and hope it’s dead, let the dogs in, feed them, grab my cigarettes and thump, park my butt.

That’s right, no shower, no brushing of hair or teeth, no food.  If all goes well, I’m still half-asleep, still floating along in a dream-daze, alpha waves to the fore.  In that state, I quickly fall into my manuscript, my world and the people in it come alive for me because I’m not fully steeped in this supposedly Real World.  If I’m lucky, it’s hours before something – usually a dog desperate to pee – jolts me loose and demands I wake up.

At night, a different kind of drifting takes place.  Too tired to play or visit my characters, but wanting some release, I’m easy prey.  The sludge inside stirs and the voices of the Past mutter, the pitch rising from a moan to a wailing scream.  I muffle them by reading other blogs, playing mindless games on Face book (yes, I know it’s one word, but I don’t want to inadvertently link it in the text of my blog), answering emails, and failing at it all as they wriggle out from under whichever bandage I’ve chosen.  I add more adhesive, another bandage, find a joke page to read, concentrate on a word puzzle…nope, sorry, bitch, they’ll have their say and you get to reveal it.

So, to you few who have peeked in here, I’m asking, “Should I rip the bandage off?”  Do I write of the Dark, the Past, and, yes, the Present?

Let’s face it, we all get a thrill seeing and reading about the terrible stuff other people live through.  Roses and sunshine and romance, joy, laughter, love, yeah, yeah, all well and good, but most of the time, we humans want the meat, the terror, the violence – why do you think we slow down and stare at the scene of an accident?  If we’re honest with ourselves, it isn’t for safety’s sake – hell, that slowing traffic is a menace – no, we slow down hoping to see blood, guts, a body, a fight.

Well, shall I rip the bandage off and bleed it all out?  It might be a relief, at least for me.  You might have nightmares, but, hey, I warned ya.  No promises; I know I’m a coward and may not have the courage to bleed all over these pages.  I might ignore this blog and write something funny or fictional tomorrow.  Or I might wait until the dead of night and let the darker voices out of the Pit to crawl around and expose you to my slime.  Yep, it’s really dangerous for me to write at night.