Our journeys are filled with unexpected moments of profound grace, mesmerizing beauty, and innocent wonder. Moments when the Universe says, “Yes, now!” As it did yesterday.
Actually, it was a shared moment on a shared journey I am taking with a student. The Universe connected us six months ago. When we started our work, he had no memory of his childhood. In the moments since, I've held space as he follows the Lakota tradition of unbraiding and rebraiding lives. and moment's…lived. Some fully, some not.
As we began yesterday’s session, the student talked about some writing he had done the night before. He had sketched out a number of new characters and mentioned that a few of them almost felt channeled. He showed me what he had written. A headwind of energy vibrated off the page, especially around one character. "Be careful with channeling," I told him. "It's not always clean energy and it always has an agenda." I explained that, though I knew how, I hadn't really channeled in a long time. "The spirits and I chat all of the time, but that's 'with' me, not 'through' me," I went on. "It's just not my thing." (To which a spirit on that page chuckled and whispered,"Oh really?")
I went on to check my student's chakras, do a bit of balancing, and open his heart. Inside he was calm, but all around swirled a rapidly intensifying energy. I started getting flashes of battle, of galloping horses, of suns beating down and winds rising up.
"Are you ok?" I asked. "Yeah, really," he replied in the most relaxed of ways. "I just feel peaceful."
And with that, the battle, the horses, the suns, and the winds all turned and swirled into me, manifesting into a 19th century captain who had once travelled the plains of a very young—and very unsettled—land. The Captain looked at my student with fierce, pleading eyes. Touching the hair on my student's arm and, as he did, we were transported to those plains. The Captain and my student were riding side-by-side. Galloping. Behind was a sea of blind followers. Galloping.
The captain explained that, once upon a time, my student had turned right when he had wanted the followers to turn left. “Release them so they can turn left,” he said. “They weren’t supposed to go right. They weren’t, they’re not, ready.” Moving across the field at lightening speed, my student turned left. As the blind followed suit, the field warped, the winds shifted, my student disappeared and the Captain left my body.
“Well, ok then,” I said as we suddenly were back in the present (swearing that I could taste particles of dust between my teeth!). Removing my hand from his arm, I shared with my student what I had experienced. Not just the battle scene, but also the sense that, in that past life, my student had grown weary of trying to lead. He had questioned the battle and, so, had turned right to ride the winds into the sun. First, disappearing. Then, merging completely. The followers, of course, had followed. But that wasn't their path, their journey. So their minds just held them. Stuck. Until, by illuminating a different direction, my student freed them.
“I also had the most beautiful image of you leaving your home that final morning. Surveying the rooms, the wife, the daughter, the steps up. And the one out,” I told him. “And, then, wearing a uniform, but carrying nothing, you went. Out. Never to return.”
With that, I gave him a hug. And, with that, I became that wife. Years and lives of healing, of love, of closure flooded me. Released me.
I looked down and the wife was holding the daughter’s hand. “Bend down and kiss the top of my head,” I said. As my student did, I experienced the calm, the sensation of knowing that everything’s going to be ok, that only a father’s touch can give. And the daughter faded away, leaving me to gently fall back into my body. My chair.
“What happened?” the student asked.
“You left without giving your wife and daughter a chance to say good-bye,” I responded. “Which means you left unfinished business. Incomplete circles. There was no grief, no anger, no wondering even. Just incomplete. The incomplete, the unfinished, came to you through your writing last night. Because it was time.”
My student looked at me.
I went on. “Now, they’ve said good-bye. You’ve released an enormous piece of karma. And they’ve released themselves. To continue their journey as you continue yours.”
My student looked at me. At peace.
Actually, it was a shared moment on a shared journey I am taking with a student. The Universe connected us six months ago. When we started our work, he had no memory of his childhood. In the moments since, I've held space as he follows the Lakota tradition of unbraiding and rebraiding lives. and moment's…lived. Some fully, some not.
As we began yesterday’s session, the student talked about some writing he had done the night before. He had sketched out a number of new characters and mentioned that a few of them almost felt channeled. He showed me what he had written. A headwind of energy vibrated off the page, especially around one character. "Be careful with channeling," I told him. "It's not always clean energy and it always has an agenda." I explained that, though I knew how, I hadn't really channeled in a long time. "The spirits and I chat all of the time, but that's 'with' me, not 'through' me," I went on. "It's just not my thing." (To which a spirit on that page chuckled and whispered,"Oh really?")
I went on to check my student's chakras, do a bit of balancing, and open his heart. Inside he was calm, but all around swirled a rapidly intensifying energy. I started getting flashes of battle, of galloping horses, of suns beating down and winds rising up.
"Are you ok?" I asked. "Yeah, really," he replied in the most relaxed of ways. "I just feel peaceful."
And with that, the battle, the horses, the suns, and the winds all turned and swirled into me, manifesting into a 19th century captain who had once travelled the plains of a very young—and very unsettled—land. The Captain looked at my student with fierce, pleading eyes. Touching the hair on my student's arm and, as he did, we were transported to those plains. The Captain and my student were riding side-by-side. Galloping. Behind was a sea of blind followers. Galloping.
The captain explained that, once upon a time, my student had turned right when he had wanted the followers to turn left. “Release them so they can turn left,” he said. “They weren’t supposed to go right. They weren’t, they’re not, ready.” Moving across the field at lightening speed, my student turned left. As the blind followed suit, the field warped, the winds shifted, my student disappeared and the Captain left my body.
“Well, ok then,” I said as we suddenly were back in the present (swearing that I could taste particles of dust between my teeth!). Removing my hand from his arm, I shared with my student what I had experienced. Not just the battle scene, but also the sense that, in that past life, my student had grown weary of trying to lead. He had questioned the battle and, so, had turned right to ride the winds into the sun. First, disappearing. Then, merging completely. The followers, of course, had followed. But that wasn't their path, their journey. So their minds just held them. Stuck. Until, by illuminating a different direction, my student freed them.
“I also had the most beautiful image of you leaving your home that final morning. Surveying the rooms, the wife, the daughter, the steps up. And the one out,” I told him. “And, then, wearing a uniform, but carrying nothing, you went. Out. Never to return.”
With that, I gave him a hug. And, with that, I became that wife. Years and lives of healing, of love, of closure flooded me. Released me.
I looked down and the wife was holding the daughter’s hand. “Bend down and kiss the top of my head,” I said. As my student did, I experienced the calm, the sensation of knowing that everything’s going to be ok, that only a father’s touch can give. And the daughter faded away, leaving me to gently fall back into my body. My chair.
“What happened?” the student asked.
“You left without giving your wife and daughter a chance to say good-bye,” I responded. “Which means you left unfinished business. Incomplete circles. There was no grief, no anger, no wondering even. Just incomplete. The incomplete, the unfinished, came to you through your writing last night. Because it was time.”
My student looked at me.
I went on. “Now, they’ve said good-bye. You’ve released an enormous piece of karma. And they’ve released themselves. To continue their journey as you continue yours.”
My student looked at me. At peace.
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