Holiday Meditation

Meditating Santa from tonykuhn.com
Meditating Santa from tonykuhn.com

The hustle and bustle leave my mind and body as I sink into this chair, reserved for this time and this way. My heart opens. It knows what it needs to do.

I take in a deep breath of pine, cinnamon and family. I breathe out obligations, worry and shipping charges. I close my eyes and let the energy run.

Today I welcome abundant Santa, warm menorah candles and the unconditional love of a boy born in a manger. I choose the sparkly silver that fills the car as my son and I sing about cows and sleigh rides on the drive to school. I clean off the jaggedy chartreuse of world events and bizarre violence becoming too frequent to be shocking.

Seeing where it came from is worthy. Playing a role in where we’re headed is imperative. But right now is nothing more than space. And the space I occupy is loosely wrapped in tinsel.

Today my heart is bright red and green and tinged with laughter. My holiday table is overflowing with love and abundance. There is plenty to share. It flows out peacefully, covering the earth. It soaks through the dense cities and rolling countrysides, through fault lines and tree lines, all the way to the fire in the belly. It rises up and out in a jubilant rush that fills every molecule, every dark place, every light place and all the spaces in between, and it doesn’t stop until it gently touches the edges of the universe.

One last deep breath. Eyes open. A long, slow stretch. A smile. A soft jingle of a bell.

Happy holidays, world.

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How many spirits does it take to change a lightbulb?

I am fortunate to be surrounded by writers and souls who continuously illuminate, enlighten, amuse and offer great wisdom. Jennifer Mathews is one of these beautiful souls. Please enjoy this most recent post from her regular blog, Seeing Death in a Different Light, and be sure to sign up to get a free copy of her upcoming e-book. Until next time, many holiday season blessings to you all.

–Rebecca

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idea concept

Up high above the staircase to our bedroom, there was a light bulb in a parchment paper globe hanging from the ceiling. To change it required a ladder precariously placed on boards, or one of those special extended light bulb poles you can buy at Home Depot. So when the bulb finally went out, we didn’t bother to replace it.

This meant that my partner Kate and I walked upstairs in the dark every night, step by step, touching the wall for balance. I tended to push my toes into the base of each stair to feel stable. Sometimes, I closed my eyes because sensing each step felt easier that way. Once my toes no longer felt another step, I knew I arrived at the top. Then I’d reach my left hand into the bedroom, and turn on the light by pressing in the round dimmer switch knob before walking into the room. This became our routine.

Then after a number of months had gone by, my walk up the dark staircase became a solo journey.

Experiencing Kate’s spirit

Kate had been diagnosed with advanced stages of cancer in the fall, and would return to spirit soon thereafter. Before she died the evening of December 3rd 2011, I had gone upstairs for a minute. Afterward, I sat in the dark on the top carpeted step, candlelight glowing in the living room below, music playing softly in the background. I watched her body rise and fall as she breathed.

In that moment, I felt her spirit so strongly that I physically had to move over and make room for her ethereal body to sit next to me.

Silently, I asked her if she was witnessing what I was, looking down at herself, laying in the hospital bed. In my mind, I heard her answer that it was exactly what she was experiencing since much of her spirit was already out of her body. I could barely believe what was happening, and yet at the same time, I was certain it was completely real.

Months later . . .

The following spring, months after Kate’s death, I carefully made my way to the top of the stairs on another pitch black night. I reached into my bedroom, pressed the knob to turn on the light and POP!, the quick flash and electrical sound of a blown bulb.

“Bummer!” I said out loud to myself, because it was totally dark in my room. I clicked the knob many times and turned the dimmer dial right and left, hoping it would come back on so I didn’t have to add this to my “to do” list. Yes, a simple thing – to change a light bulb right over my bed – but it’s another thing to procrastinate on doing.

A few weeks had gone by, and I often forgot the bulb was out. I’d press in the knob, or spin it, and no luck. No light. Then on one particular morning, I woke up early. I’m not really sure why I opened my eyes since I knew it was much earlier than I need to get up. I looked at the clock – 7:28am – and I thought, “Great. I can still get two more hours of sleep.” I’m a night owl, not a morning person.

Laying on my back, I looked up at the ceiling.

The light above my bed was on.

In my sleepiness, I followed my mind attempting to figure it all out: Did I fall asleep with that on last night? But I can’t fall asleep with lights on, so that’s strange. Hmmmm, was the electricity out when I went to bed, and then came back on? Then I remembered. No, Jen, that bulb is dead.

And then it dawned on me . . . WHOA! The light is ON!!

Experiencing Kate’s spirit yet again

I could feel Kate’s presence in the room.

I immediately said “Hello, Kate,” and shook my head, smiling. My mind drifted from disbelief to thanking Kate for repairing the blown-out bulb. I realized she may even have changed it, as I heard her say it’s a “simple” thing to do. Then I remember her voice in my head, offering me this joke:

Q. – How many spirits does it take to change a light bulb?

A. – One.

At first, I laughed because it is – of course – a classic joke. But I thought maybe I heard the punch line wrong because it seemed too boring. Like a child telling a joke that wasn’t really funny, but you laugh anyway because they’re trying. But a split second later, with her voice and gentle chuckle in my mind, I heard her add the true Kate flavor:

Because we are ALL ONE!

Ha ha ha! I laughed out loud. A spiritual light bulb joke. Good one, Kate.

“Can you change the lightbulb in the hallway above the stairs, too?” I joked with her. I felt her smile.

I wanted to call her family right away, email my friends, let people know about this incredible connection. But then I wondered if they would even believe me, or if they would rationalize all the reasons this miracle hadn’t actually happened.

What I realized that morning was not that it’s possible to communicate with those in the spirit world. I already knew that. What I realized was that it didn’t matter if anyone believed me. I knew what happened. I was clear. Yes, I can indeed communicate with those who have died, and now, I trusted this more fully, rather than being skeptical of my own first hand experience. Whether others believe me or not doesn’t diminish what I know I experienced, what I know deep down to be true.

The light bulb lesson I learned is that I don’t need to convince anyone of anything! I just need to tell my stories, to tell the truth. So here I am, telling you.

And here’s the rest of the story . . . A few days later, my landlord arrived at the house out of the blue. He said he just bought one of those long poles needed to change the light bulb above the stairs! I hadn’t talked to him about this for many months. I thanked Kate for giving him a nudge to take care of it. What service!
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Jennifer Mathews, M.A., is a writer, speaker and consultant who lives in Mt. Shasta, CA. Based on her own exploration of death, grief, joy and optimism, she offers fresh perspectives and practical tools to support others on their journeys. You can find more of her blogs and sign up to receive a free copy of her upcoming e-book by going to jennifermathews.com.

What’s your soul doing?

silhouette-jumped-boy-sunset-background-41488310Our family woke up this morning talking about death and taxes. It sounds depressing and stressful, and I’m not going to lie and tell you our exploration was all purple pansies and smiley faces. But it wasn’t sad.

My husband Larry and I had been up a few minutes talking about some financial planning we needed to do for next year. We both are self-employed and have to plan ahead a bit when it comes to reporting and paying taxes, and we were thinking ahead to adjustments we needed to make to prepare for 2015. Scintillating morning bed conversation, I know, but it was sweet and intimate in its own way—filled with hope and excitement for what’s to come and shared responsibilities for helping it happen in the most graceful and connected way possible. But as we continue this relatively new exploration into being completely self-employed, talking about money is never without some level of pressure.

Soon our sleepy-eyed five-year-old son Henry climbed onto our warm, messy bed and we happily suspended our discussion. As Henry gave us both morning “boops,” or bumped noses as the rest of the world would call it, Larry asked him how he slept and what he dreamt about.

“I died,” he said. “So did you and you. In water. Ahhhhh!” He mimicked the sounds of a person drowning, though I know he’s never seen that on television or in a movie.

Larry and I smiled to each other. I know this sounds extreme and scary, but this wasn’t the first time he’s told us of vivid dreams and memories of some sort of death. Often he remembers us, or at least a mother and father, being there too. He rarely feels afraid after experiencing them—more a neutral memory than a premonition—and he always describes them very matter-of-factly.

“What happened after you died?” Larry asked. “Did you go somewhere?”

Death has been more present for our family lately, as it has been for so many of us. Only a few weeks ago, Larry attended the funeral of a good friend who was diagnosed with terminal cancer earlier in the year. She was only a year older than us. The funeral was a meaningful celebration of her life, as well as an opportunity to check in on our priorities, experience the universal cycle of life in a profound way, and reconnect with some good friends who had drifted.

Henry contemplated Larry’s question quietly, like there was something he was considering saying but couldn’t find the words. “I don’t know. Don’t ‘member. I’m hungry.”

Henry ate his breakfast quietly at his favorite spot along the kitchen counter while Larry and I continued our financial planning conversation. We talked of tasks to be done before the end of the year and new and potential client work. We both admitted we were worrying about it all a little more than was helpful.

Twenty minutes later, I was still in get-it-done mode.

“Wash your face, please. Shoes. Jacket. Backpack. Time to go to school,” I said as we finished our 14th car race along the step to the dining room. I made a quick note to myself about starting the computer with our account records on it as soon as I got home, and we walked out into the wind and rain.

“Mommy’s car! Mommy’s car!” Henry said excitedly. It is the much older car of our two and we usually don’t drive it unless we have to, but there was no reason not to, so we got in.

“Mommy, Bubbles!” Permanently inserted into this car’s CD player is the first disk of the What Color is Your Bubble? series for kids. His friend Alison talks him through some simple energetic and meditative exercises. We hadn’t listened in weeks. I turned it on and Alison began the second exercise all about setting and changing your grounding cord.

We pulled up to the stop sign at the end of our street, lists of numbers dancing in my head, as Alison asked, “What does your grounding cord look like today?” I chose not to look, instead imagining the spreadsheet I had in mind. Then I heard a voice from the back seat.

“What’s your soul doing?”

I turned Alison down, not sure I’d heard correctly, and I looked at Henry in the mirror as he asked it again the exact same way. He looked directly at my reflection with clear, calm eyes.

“What do you mean, Sweetie? You want to know what my soul is doing?”

“Yes.”

It was a simple question. A profound one. One I have an answer for. An answer I’ve heard over and over and know to my core and beyond. As I thought of what words to say, a calm came over me. In an instant I was in my body, connected, confident, clear. The top of my head tingled and suddenly the driver’s seat of the “old car” was the most comfortable place in the world. All thoughts of money were gone.

The answer that quickly and easily popped into my head and heart also was the simplest and most accurate. “Henry, I believe my soul is in this body right now so I can learn what I’m supposed to learn.”

He was silent at first, but his gaze never wavered and his ears and heart were wide open. Then he started to talk and explore the notion in his own way. As we continued the conversation over the next couple of minutes, concepts and energies flowed between us like an easy stream of water. Love, peace, growth, clairvoyance, healing, sharing, family. Most of it never made it into words, but we did talk about how we all chose to be together in this lifetime. He spoke quietly about how when he was a baby he wasn’t in our family yet, but then he was.

“How do you feel about that, Henry?”

“Happy.”

And then it was done. Less than three minutes from start to finish.

It didn’t take an hour of meditation and energetic cleaning. It didn’t require any practice or body position and wasn’t specific to any belief system. It didn’t even take the whole second track on the CD.

With one question asked by my greatest teacher, together we refocused, shifted perspectives and got to where we needed to be for the day: What’s the big picture? What’s the “why” behind what you’re doing right now? Behind it all? Why are you worrying about these practical things when the greater good, the longer path, the lessons, the love is all that really matters?

Perhaps Henry had tried to get us there first thing in the morning as he remembered his dreams and previous lessons. Death and the afterlife are bigger than taxes, despite their mutual inevitability. But today the cycle-of-life, universal-plan reminders that came with our friend’s funeral weren’t enough to bring us home. Given a second chance, Henry intuitively knew what to do. It was so simple. So clean and perfect. And it worked.

By the way, Henry wanted me to ask you something.

What’s your soul doing?

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To find out more about Rebecca’s writing and coaching services, go to rebeccagifford.com or contact her at giffordrebecca@gmail.com.