A Fire in Georgia

“What do you do for work?” asked Georgia - the petite Latin teacher who would this time next year be my mother-in-law.

She gets right to the chase like I do, I thought. I was dating her eldest - a doctor, after all. It felt like I was on an interview.

I chuckled to myself, She totally thinks she is in control here. Then, mental images started showing me she was a Virgo. Oh, Lord, is all I could think. She’s got a lot of work to do. Becoming an ex-perfectionist is no easy feat. I’m still working in it…

I took a deep breath and prayed to say the perfect words so she would understand my work, “I wish I could tell you I was a doctor, too. I so admire Michael for that coveted piece of paper he has proving he is a gifted teacher and healer. The truth is, I never finished my bachelor’s degree. Now, I understand if you deem me unworthy to date your son…”

I had a feeling that might make her squirm and is why I said it. Sure enough, she looked down at her hands, then pivoted, “Smells like the coffee’s ready. Would you like a cup?”

I used to ask for a "sign" to help combat my anxiety. Whenever a panic attack started brewing in me, I would beg God to send me a "sign" to distract me from feeling my building terror. Nothing happened at first, but I stuck with it because I felt so helpless about having horrible intrusive thoughts that the worst possible scenario was going to happen at any minute. Solving this, in a nutshell, is my job. I do for others what was done for me – and it’s not easy to explain.

Now a days, I only ask for a "sign" whenever I am asked to make someone uncomfortable. On purpose. And the sign today was in Georgia’s refrigerator.

As she poured our coffees, I wondered how I was going drink it without grimacing. Because I love coffee, I just don't love it without Serena Farms Vanilla Oat Milk Creamer. Now, I am no mathematician, but the odds of her sitting this obscure creamer down in front of me has got to be a million to one…

There was a time I would have been shocked by this, but no more. This is the joy life becomes when you walk your path. When you treat these things as “normal” - your days soon become filled with divine, little synchronicities.

I must have stared too long at the creamer because she said, “I hope you like it. I am trying to reduce dairy in my diet, saw that on the shelf, and decided to give it a try.”

“It’s actually my favorite! I’m beyond happy you bought it and are cutting back on the dairy.” Then, I stirred in the creamer and took a delightful sip, “You asked about my work...”

“About that…” she stopped me mid-sentence. “I am sorry if I was rude…”

“Please…” Now, it was I who interrupted her. “I so respect you, and your son. I only want you to respect me in return. There was a time I wouldn’t dare utter aloud I was a college dropout because I was so ashamed. Now I don’t care what people think.”

That interaction inspired me to name rule #1 in my book, “Don’t Change Your Song for Anyone.”

Before continuing, I smiled deviously thinking about how good it felt to separate myself from the ego and kick its ass to the curb.

Hence, rule #2 is - “Evict the Ego.”

I explained to her, “I am in the business of healing, though I am not a doctor. A man named Darryl, whom I know nothing else about, nor have ever met again - healed me. I didn’t ask for it because I didn’t know I was ill. I also didn’t deserve the gift of mercy he gave me because I was mean. And because I was scared. Scared of being in a world I could not control.”

That led to rule #3 – “Forgive Yourself.” 

Georgia just looked at me blankly, like I spoke in an accent she couldn’t quite understand. I remember that look. It’s the look I gave Darryl when he chose me from the class to demonstrate craniosacral therapy on. He chose me by sniffing the air. When he got up next to me, he said, “It’s you. The smell of fear is wafting off of you!”

I’m not proud I was a bully. Looking back, I knew I was being mean, but I wasn’t deliberately choosing to be that way. It was just a habit. I was first and foremost cruel to myself. I flogged myself daily with an invisible, yet cutting whip. My inner voice tormented my ugly, dumb, fat self a hundred times a day. I constantly compared myself to geniuses and air brushed models, and gagged with disgust at my reflection. I hated myself for being such a worthless loser!

These days, whenever I remember being a bully, I’m usually being called to help someone with control issues. Just to test my theory, even though my gut already told me the answer, I asked, “By the way, when is your birthday?”

Since the question was a bit random, I added, “I like to send cards!”

She lit up, “Oh, me too. I can spend a whole day at Hallmark’s! My birthday is September 5.”

I knew it! Full Virgo, I thought. God was using me to teach, and I never know how it’s going to go...

I took a deep breath, as this helps me back out so God can take over, “I cannot tell you what I do for work, I have to show you. May I touch your feet?”

“My feet?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. I am also a licensed massage therapist. Would you like a foot rub while we chat?”

She looked down sadly at her feet, “I always wanted to go get pedicures, but my feet are so ugly.”

Self-hate. Ding. Ding. Ding. Sounds like OCD with a side order of perfectionism, I thought. However, I answered, “Ugly compared to what?”

“You know,” she lamented. “Pretty feet.”

I was then shown images of her being called ugly by someone. That is how God works. By trusting Him - and asking to rub her feet - despite this not being the typical thing people do when they first meet, I was shown exactly where her work lay.

I laughed, and said, “Pretty feet? Well, you want to know what my granddaddy always told me, whenever I complained about having to drive his old, ugly beater truck to school, “Be grateful you ain’t walking, Hun! Pretty don’t make it run!”

We both laughed at that. “Can you make me promise?” I asked seriously - as I motioned for her to hand me a foot. “Can you promise me that will be the last time you say anything about yourself is ugly?”

I could tell she wanted to, but was still too reluctant to hand me a foot. She wouldn’t look at me either. So, I moved my neck down in an awkward position until I made her look into my eyes. What I was being asked to say, she would either take well - or be offended. I took a deep breath and said a prayer, “Whatever he said to you is not true!”

Her eyes started blinking uncontrollably and filling up with tears.

“Listen,” I said. “I don’t want to make you cry. You wanted to know what I do for a living and I am showing you. I am a healer because I was healed first. With all due respect to Michael’s education, universities don’t make energy healers - the Universe does.”

I went on, “You have to believe you are beautiful. Each and every part of you is perfect, inside and out. And it has nothing to do with how your feet look, but because you have the capacity to learn and grow - and become stronger and smarter every single day! No one can take the greatness of your potential away from you. After all, a cello is not beautiful because of the way it looks. It’s beautiful because of the way it’s played.”

With tears streaming down her face, she gave me a halfhearted smile and lifted her right foot into my hands.

The minute I touched her foot, images of her life hit me with so much clarity it nearly knocked me over. If I had to name the skill I use most in my work, I’d call it extreme empathy. It’s like I step into your shoes when I touch you, and observe your life from my perspective instead of yours. It is quite invasive - as I am often shown highly sensitive things. I somehow gain access to the place everyone shoves their unprocessed stuff. Because of this reason, I never touch anyone without asking for permission.

As I was rubbing her feet, she looked off, lost in thought. I could tell she had a lot to say, but it wasn’t going to be to me. Then the Universe prompted me to tell her about the Earth. So, I told her, “I’d like to share a trick I use that really helps people like us. If you’re like me, you probably have a lot of sad memories you carry around inside you…”

She was getting drowsy from the rhythmic work I was doing, so I stopped talking. I knew what was happening. In fact, I call myself Morpheus because people typically fall asleep on me - sometimes in mid-sentence! About five minutes later, she put her left cheek on the sofa and started snoring softly.

This happened to me during my healing, too. So, I knew she wasn’t asleep. More like in a trance. This happens when people are comfortable, relaxed, and ready to change. I am not doing magic. Craniosacral therapy has the ability to knock people out of their body. She was exploring deep inside herself, and I knew from experience she could hear me, but couldn’t respond until the lesson was over. 

“Georgia,” I said, as she dozed. “I want you to know you are safe and loved. I am about to ask you to do something difficult. Maybe even be scary - but know I am right here beside you. I am not going to leave you. We are going to walk through this together.”

After I said this, she shifted her position and spontaneously took a huge breath and exhaled. She was already starting to release…

“Georgia,” I continued, “I want you to make a list of all the things - now to your earliest memory - of every rejection, loss, insult, and regret you have stored inside you. For these are not just thoughts, they are physically heavy things that are weighing you down. The Universe wants you to let go of everything that does not serve your highest good.”

Then, I reached out and took her lifeless hand, “I want you to inventory every single thought that brings you pain. Now, I want you to imagine those memories leaving your head and heart, and pouring down through your body, down your lap, down both legs, and out your feet. I want you to picture a pipe coming out of your feet connecting them to the ground...

Now, I want you to picture every last speck of that internal manure going deep into the Earth. Tell Her all about it. Because you know what She is going to do with all your trash? She is going to grow beautiful flowers and delicious produce with it. She is going to use your shit to feed the world!”

As I finished her other foot, she started showing the tell-tale signs she was coming back into her body: her arm and leg muscles began to reflexively jerk. And about ten minutes later, her eyes fluttered and opened up.

While she was gone, I was shown she kept a collection of hurtful things in her house. I saw her purposely looking at them to make herself sad. This is where my work gets tricky. I used to think being psychic would be fun - but it’s not. Not that I am, but I am certainly shown things I should not know.

Georgia came to with a wild-eyed look like she had just seen a ghost. I knew that look well. She most likely left her body behind and found out she still existed. It definitely freaked me out when I realized we are not our body. That we are the energy that animates our body!

I reached out and held her shoulder, “Are you OK?”

“What just happened?” she asked.

“I am not exactly sure. The Universe doesn’t show me many details about what you experience. But I’d love to hear about it if you can remember! I was; however, shown a collection of hurtful items you keep in this house you need to part with. If you are ready?”

“I was flying!” She squealed like a little girl.

“Really?” I asked. I acted surprised, but that is what happened to me, too. And other clients have come back with that same report.

“I was so light and free. I saw my parents. They were together and looked so happy!”

“That is wonderful!”

“I feel so good!” she said, as she twisted from side to side. “And my back doesn’t hurt anymore!”

 “I am so happy for you!”

“Thank you so much. I see now you have a very important job!”

“I don’t do it though. It’s all you and God!”

“I need to show you my collection. I am ready to let it go.”

We got up and I followed her into the study. She paused a moment before turning the handle on the small, closet door inside. On hangers were a bunch of men’s clothing, and on the ground were stacks of meticulously organized boxes with dates on them.”

“This is all the stuff he left here,“ she said bluntly. “He ran off with another woman and I never heard from him again. He was a horrible alcoholic and hit me a lot. That didn’t hurt as much as him calling me stupid all the time. And how he didn’t even know why he was with me. He made me feel crazy when I confronted him with proof about the other women. He told me I was jealous. Finally, he told me he cheated because I was so ugly, had big feet, and looked like a man." She collapsed in my arms from all the memories rushing in. I sat us down, and she sobbed into my chest, “He told me it made him sick to look at me!”

I just held her tight in my arms and we cried together. Men have zero idea the damage they can do to us with their words, I thought to myself.

We remained a pile on the floor embracing, and she cried her heart out for several minutes more until she got it all out. I just held her and rocked her like her mother would if she scraped her knee. I just kept repeating, “It is all going to be OK.”

“I don’t know why I torment myself with all this crap!” She finally said as she pulled away from me and wiped her tear-streaked face.

“You want to do a baptism by fire?” I asked.

“Do you mean?…” She trailed off.

“Yes. You ready?” I replied. “Don’t you have a fire pit in the back yard?”

“I do.”

“You take the clothes and I’ll take the boxes,” I directed.

As she piled everything on the back porch, I went around the yard picking up twigs and dry grass. Soon I had a raging inferno going, “Do you want to do the honors?”

Without replying, she opened the first well-organized box. One by one, she dropped every scrap into the fire. At first it was slow. She would look at the item and remember, weep, and be unable to part with it. I would just put a comforting hand on her arm, “I’m here. Do it when you’re ready.”

When she started, she wouldn’t drop anything in until the first item was completely gone. Then she got the hang of it. Before I knew it, she was giggling and dropping things in left and right. On the last couple boxes, she just picked them up and dumped it in without looking at any of it.

Then it was time for the clothes. The first couple shirts started putting the fire out. “Do you have any lighter fluid?” I asked.

“In the garage. Middle cabinet. Second shelf,” she replied.

When I returned, the fire was nearly out. So, I handed her the bottle. She took a step back and squeezed it hard. The fluid arched onto the pile of clothes and soon a blaze engulfed the pit. When it was raging again, she fed it the clothes until everything was up in smoke.

Tired, but empowered, we watched in silence until the fire went out. Then we returned to the living room and finished our coffee.

Before long, Michael returned. He walked in and saw us chatting happily, and said, “It looks like you girls are getting along well!”

“We sure are,” I said.

He walked over and gave his Momma a big hug. He pulled back and looked into her eyes, “Mom, you look different. You look younger!”

“I have lost some weight," she replied coyly.

“Well, you look great. You are just glowing. I can’t get over it!”

Then, he changed the subject, “Do you guys smell the fire outside? I wonder what the hell someone’s burning?”

“Probably trash,” I said.

“Probably some old, useless trash,” Georgia added with a wink.