Deeply Awake — Shared Reality 6-8-13 By Kathy Vik
This is an aside, an addendum, if you will.
If you read my post from yesterday, it is clear that something big came upon my son and I last night.
We have been very peaceful and loving ever since. He is no longer snapping at me. He is no longer incessantly apologizing for every little thing on the one hand, and then baiting an argument with meanness.
Oh, it’s been a wild ride around here, since the beginning, with him, but this is something new, just because it is what we feel when there is peace in the house, but this peace has been eerily sustained. Groovily sustained, creatively so, I might add.
And it came to me today, on my bed, waking up into another nap, that this boy did something for me that no one really could have done, this lifetime, because he is the only one on this earth who is hard-wired to love me unconditionally. Quite a set-up.
There he was, witnessing one of my events, more out of my body than in, more dead than alive.
It’s funny, I reflected today, up until this time, even though I have journaled all about it, and some people read me, but no one in my immediate circle, or even my periphery show any interest in the least, and many of them are quite resistive and mean about what I have written. Not very nice, and certainly not encouraging.
So long ago I decided, this is too much to verbally process with my son. It is not fair to him to involve him in these minutiae. So, although we made an agreement long ago that I was not going to edit much of this, he has always turned his head in disgust when I mention the word, “God,” and if I “go spiritual,” as he calls it. And so I wrote. I committed to this journal so that I would not be burdening my little boy.
Everyone but my dad has long ago sort of closed their doors, some more impolitely than others, really. I see now I have traveled through this old reality wanting different responses from people who are either unwilling or uninterested in anything but the obvious. I grieve it and imagine the whole world is just like this. I expand my world and find some relief, but not the deep permission I have only felt in the presence of God.
And so here is Sam, someone who by genetics alone is from me, part of me, allied with me, for me, and I all those things for him. We share a bond that is important and formative to the both of us. I recognize his potential and his worth and his kind heart, even when all he did was push people away, bully them, frighten and threaten them and himself. Quite a ride.
And now he has sit and listened to me as I was talking to him about the 12 layers of DNA, deep in trance.
We shared memories of this event today, and he has made fun of me ever since the thing happened.
Today he elaborated on why it was all so ridiculous and scary. He said (I’m giggling as I write this) that I grabbed my boob real hard, and then blinked my eyes a whole lot and just sort of had a boob-eye spasm, (“are you having another seizure again?!” he called out to me this morning, laughing…) and then he said I opened my eyes and just stared at him for a really really long time. I remember that, a panicked voice calling it Stop it! You are looking into my soul! He said that several times. But it really was out of my conscious control, obviously. As I stared, I guess I didn’t talk, and when he moved, I kept the eye contact. Weird. My eyes were closed the whole time. I’m prepared to swear on something holy.
And then he said I did some mumbling, and then I talked about DNA, and then I explained about the important spiritual moments of the childhood.
“And then you sort of sat up and ran into the bathroom,” he said, and I did, as he ran away screaming.
Oh my God.
And now we are making fun of it. I told him, well, hell, if all I do when I channel unconsciously is grab my boob and mumble, who’d want to come see that?
Ha Ha Ha.
So I’m thinking on all this, trying to understand the significance of it all.
I listened to Kryon along the way, and then, at 11:29 am, my phone rang. It was my dad (he called at an 11:11 fractal).
He called to tell me that he had done some reflection, as is always his way, and he recognizes now that all that I do is done in compassion and that I did a lot more for him than he immediately appreciated. He felt bad about being mean, and not appreciating it. And that he had just sent a check in the mail for me.
Do you understand the significance of this?
Do you see?
I live in love with my life, swooning at its multiplicity of meaning and significance and beauty.
The only thing I could say in reply was to ask his forgiveness for having held resentment. I reiterated that I had never helped in order to make money, only because I love the two of them, but being given this gift eases my way in ways he will never ever know.
Oh my God.
It is done.
All this energetic work.
I have kept it high in my mind that this is the way, this is the only way.
I know it sounds odd, and not a lot of people are going to like this. To the more jaded, it can place my father’s gift in a tainted light, but there it is, holy, glinting in the sun of its own magnificence and glory and divinity.
I have been told since this started, over a year ago, but really, to be honest, my entire life, here is the truth.
I know certain things.
They are as real and strong as my bones, their greater manifestation the very rock of this earth.
I have always known a couple of things about my life, and this has been at such great variance to what I have seen around me, it drove me to psych nursing, to therapy, to channeled help.
And here it is.
I have always known what my role is, my way, my preferences, and that people will one day go out of their way to ensure I, and they, cooperatively, but with much respect, have our desires met. Not our needs, our heart’s desire, our highest goods. In concert.
And I always saw me writing, just a fait accompli. A writer. Like I am now. Doing what I do now. Always. The holy stuff, the deep stuff, the meaningful stuff.
But then, I walked as a nurse for nearly 30 years. Shut down, my finer nature ridiculed, boxed in, barely tolerated, and sometimes out and out rejected.
I did not allow myself to write until I was ready for the Ego, the Personality’s Last Stand, and ascension.
I waited. I bided my time, made what I have considered grievous errors, and have pretty much coasted, usually just barely recognizing the life I lived as my own. Someone else’s goals, someone else’s drives, ambitions, needs, compulsions, but there I was, in the middle of it, and until just very recently, still wrestling with the only devil left standing:
This is not real, my heart, my knowing, my knowledge of myself and my path. It is not a consensus reality. Yes, I have replies on my blog. Yes, there’s Aisha North and John Smallman, and, God Bless Him, Lee Carroll. And there are lesser delights, real and beautiful and cherished, time with family, with friends, but never that deep soul connection, the one which could allow me to speak my truth without fear, without shame, without the need to defend or attack.
Oh, how I longed for this.
And that’s what gets me sometimes, moving through my life, all the confusion, and I remember that at the time it certainly did NOT feel voluntary, no, not at all, and anyone who dared interrupt my dream with words of truth, like, reality is all about choice, and there is only love, oh I would get angry and upset. How dare you tell me that! I am in pain!
I held a lot of pain. Topped the scales at 300#, and now I see a skinny woman in the mirror. Someone at peace.
And the peace comes, dear friend, from the inkling of a notion that this reality of love, of divinity, of things being finally set right, this was never and is no longer a singular one.
Not internally, no, never again to act as a singular, fractured self, unwilling to ask for help, cowering instead of laughing, hating instead of thinking.
So I understand the pain, and now, without that bitch Shame riding along all the time, it is easier for me to lighten up, even if you are bummed out. My friends pulled me through that weird energetic funk which led to all these miracles, so it is the least I can do.
I think I know that this is the good part, and I need to close this by making an honest, earnest declaration to you, dear one.
My life is a walking testament to it, but this truth must be stated aloud here, now, for the both of us.
This blog has not been about vanity, and any toying with the thoughts of fame and glory, well, that is because the rules here are that anything at all is allowed to be said, to be explored, without fear, without shame, without repercussion. Nothing is profane, everything has a purpose, and if we are recognizing there is more to this than we know, then taking umbrage at any of it seems a little small, a little unenlightened, a little too serious anymore.
I think we are still reeling from the days when truth itself was perverted, and it will take some time to get our bearings after all that time in the crazy tent, but sense is easily seen once the lights came up, and it feels like about 10 am anymore, not like the deep velvety hours of November, the first dawn in February.
So some will read this, and see any resultant attention as a cry for attention, or worse, an egoic trick to make money.
And to them I say, my work can be read, free of charge, in full, at any time, on the web. I have lived my conviction, my truth, that this is not information to be ransomed, and that there truly is an unending supply of creativity, and that this voice cannot be replicated. Those were the three things I was told at the beginning.
I have stuck to the things I was told. I obeyed myself. And I am very happy that I did.
I have been told since I was a child that everything will come to me. That people will be compelled, they will need to make sure that my way is smooth. And I never understood this. Why? I am a crude, short, fat nurse with a gruff exterior, filthy jokes, who is too into the counterculture for her own good. I have no interest in the things people judge me so very harshly for, in my life. I am an aberration, an anomaly, someone who, I am training them, to just leave me alone if they can’t be nice to me. But this has evolved, has it not, into something else.
Something completely counter-intuitive.
I need to give, what else makes sense? And when I fail it is because I have not listened to the whispers, thinking my intellect alone can slay this dragon, when it has only and always been about riding the dragon, until you become the dragon, and then you realize the idea of a dragon was a really good one, and now, how about something else, another multiverse, another creation in mercy and grace and love.
My reality is now a shared one. Sam allowed me to share myself. I felt such relief, I remember, as I told him all the things he never let me, about growing up, about knowing my path, about always knowing it was in the bag, but still, the suffering, and now it’s done.
So tonight is a good night, as they all are now. I don’t have words for all that I am feeling. So I leave you in love and bliss, in conviction and determined trust in myself and in you, my dear friend, in you.