Intuition Medicine® Articles



 
 


On September 6th, 2006, I was thrown through a worm hole and launched into another Universe.  With one phone call.

 

I had returned the night before from spending two all consuming and fulfilling weeks with my beloved, Keith, at his San Diego family beach house.  Since we lived 2500 miles apart, he in New Orleans, and me in the Bay Area, our time together was always precious. And we had sustained our 8 year long relationship in a way that was an inspiration to others, by staying in deep communication and connection regardless of how far apart the miles were.  We were the type of pairing that warmed any room we entered with the love and light of our collective partnership, and we bathed in it constantly, ourselves.




It was there,  at the pastoral beach house that September, that I experienced disturbing images, feelings, and knowings; things I had experienced before, but never of such intensity.  And it was there, at the beach house that September, that began my journey of vowing to find out what such things were all about.

 

On September 3rd, two days before we left, I had decided to read our astrological forecast for the month of September.  I hadn’t done this in over a year, but I went immediately to my favorite online astrological writer, Susan Miller, and read the reports for Keith’s Scorpio and my Cancer:  There was to be a lunar eclipse on September 7th, and it was a particularly strong one.  The report for both Scorpio and Cancer specifically was that this eclipse was  to have profound impact on our personal lives.  We would move, break up a personal relationship, or have some large havoc tearing our lives apart. As I read it, The Voice, the one that seemingly comes from over my right shoulder, through the back of my head, a female voice, always very calm, very wise, and warmly honey-toned, said:  “I hope that Keith doesn’t die”.

 

My frontal lobes reacted strongly, with their usual harsh-tone:  “That is so dramatic!  Just stop that right now. “  But, my heart lurched.

 

All I mentioned to Keith was that September 7th was a lunar eclipse, and a day to watch out for, for dramatic personal issues may arise.  That people may get torn apart.  He said:  “That won’t happen to us.”

 

The next afternoon, we lay wrapped together in our mid-day bliss in the warmth of the sun coming through the blinds of the windows facing the Pacific.  The air was quiet and sweet, and I looked up at my beloved.  In one moment, one flash, one instant, I downloaded an awareness, a vision, a knowing that once again lurched my viscera:  His warm and smiling being was bathed in a sparkling, golden light, and a knowingness that transcended The Voice flooded my cognitive awareness:  “He is done.  His journey is complete for this lifetime.  And you have aided in the completing by giving him what he had come to experience: The full acceptance and love of a woman.”

 

My stomach dropped as I received this knowledge.  I was in so much awe, that fear had no room to flower.   I just lay in reverence and silence.

 

I did not mention it to Keith.


The following day came for us to depart, and we acknowledged the always sad affair.  But this morning for me had an extraordinarily deep and sorrowful tinge to it, that, even in the wake of these two warnings, I still couldn’t quite grasp.  I felt an infinite hollowness in the depth of my being; a true feeling of doom.  I was aware of it in real time and took notice of it, as well as my colleague, who spoke to me on the phone, asking “What is wrong with you today?”  I quickly explained it away that I must be feeling wistful about the summer coming to an end, and pushed it aside.

(Listen below to my interview about this work and my own healing on Healing the Grieving Heart Radio,  Airdate May 7, 2007.  www.thegriefblog.com.)





Before the taxi came to take us to the airport, we cleaned and straightened and packed and  cleared.  I volunteered to jump on the bike and ride the recycling to the dumpster two blocks away, so I gathered up all the bags of wine and water bottles we had emptied, and rode off.

 

As I rounded the curve onto the pier with the recycling bins, The Voice spoke again, this time with more insistence and authority “You will never be here

again.”


In that moment, I was aware of myself looking  to any passer-by like a woman calmly emptying my recycling into the bins marked “Glass” and “Plastic”.  But inside, I could feel my stomach dropping again, as I instantly relived the two previous warnings with even greater terror.  I climbed back onto the bike and rode home, at this point begging for some guidance; something, anything.  So, The Voice spoke “You’ll be here again.”

 

I calmed down, relaxed, and breathed a few times.  “OK”, I thought, “these were all just my paranoia rising up out of control.  It’s going to be OK.”

 

It never crossed my mind in that beautiful, sunny moment on September 5th to question the semantics of “you” singular and “you” plural. 

 

When the call came in the late afternoon of the following September 6th, after a full day spent fretting in wretched fear and anguish over Keith not returning my long distance phone calls from California to Louisiana, I had forgotten all about the insights I had just had.  The words over the earpiece “Eric went into Keith’s house and found him dead” were so specific and clear, and my reality shifted at such a quantum level in that instant, that all I could feel was being wrenched out of my body, picked up and swirled around like Dorothy’s house in the Wizard of Oz, and plopped down in another Universe.  The real journey had begun.

 

Three months later on December 22nd of 2006,  I had spent the entire afternoon struggling through packing for a three day trip north to stay with some friends who were kind enough to babysit me through my first holiday season without Keith.  I nearly canceled. I couldn’t figure out how to pair pants with a top and put it in a bag, or how to strategize on which toiletries to bring with me. Both activities were too far beyond my cognitive grasp, which had shriveled down to a wisp. I hadn’t cooked since September 6th, or gone to a grocery store by myself.  I had stopped eating, and lost 15 pounds.  I was having anxiety attacks and feeling claustrophobic within my own skin, literally panicking to escape being stuck within my own physical body.  I begged to be released over to the other side, and learned to finish an entire bottle of wine myself each night.  Each day I spent sitting at my table by the window, overlooking the canopy of California Bay trees, watching the winter rains trickling down the branches, in perfect harmony with the incessant tears rolling down my cheek.



 

And that evening, December 22nd, 2006, I lay on the couch and wept uncontrollably for a half an hour, an activity that was now my daily closest companion, and had replaced Keith as my realm of solace.  So, when the phone rang, and I saw that it was Keith’s best friend Captain Brian, I actually picked it up.  He would be my surrogate for Keith and my surrogate to abject misery, for now.  We spoke for four hours.

 

Even though I was unable to cook or grocery shop or pack well for a trip, I had known enough somewhere around November to contact a mentor of mine with whom I had studied meditation and intuition a few years back.  I had also known enough to ask her with whom she had studied, as I wanted to get right to the source of this information that I knew would save my life.  I knew enough, as well, that this was what I needed to heal my broken soul.

 

And so I entered the Academy of Intuition Medicine® in January of 2007.



 

 


Copyright 2009, Intuitive Perspectives