Updated: Jun 18, 2019
7/26/18 10:17 am. Typing in my red wooden chair outside
My kids think I’m crazy. I need to shut my mouth and stop looking like a homeless lady with my shawls--at least maybe make them match my outfit. Pink and teal elephant pj bottoms with an olive green cami under a tasseled purple, yellow,and pink paisley scarf was not a sane look to inform my daughter yesterday that her dead potential future father-in-law came to me that morning saying he’d help his son clean his house that some firemen deemed “uninhabitable”. I read her my journal entry with messages from the transitioned Mike R. Sr. and her big beautiful brown eyes whispered “Oh my. You’ve truly f-ing lost it”.
I snuck and read her new journal yesterday. She left it on the island. No mother would not take advantage of that. She just wrote a few questions to ask the psychic she was going to see that day. (That’s my girl!) Number 3 was “ask about the path my mom’s on”. I felt so honored. She’s so impressed with everything I was doing and accomplishing in my life--my travels, writing, retreats, journeys, dreams and visions. Later I asked her if the psychic had said anything about me. She told me he said not to worry --”let her do what she’s doing. She’ll be OK.”
Shit. She thinks I’m losing it. I think I told Michael about my third eye opening and alien stuff. Grace, I told I had a twin flame and about the snake and bobcat spirit animals that helped me in Sedona and she questioned, “I thought it was a goose?” I told one of my sister-in-laws about St. Germain thanking me for the purple hearts I put in a Facebook post. Shit shit shit. I have to shut my big Gemini airhead mouth. St. Germain and his violet amethyst healing slime will have to remain a secret for a while.
Now I am reading Act 5 Scene 1 of Angels in America where Prior is wrestling with an angel. His boyfriend’s lover’s Mormon mother, Hannna, sits in horror in the hospital bed watching this scene. Rene sent me the book a few weeks ago but I only opened it Tuesday. I thought it was another journal (just had to again rescue a snake from being chewed up by Chewy. He--snake-- was headed southeast when I freed him through the fence. I’ll have to look that up later - the direction and the fact that one of my spirit animals keeps returning to his/her potential doom). I skim back over my past few entries and conclude I need to lock up my journals. I’ve amassed 8+ of them that I carry room to room with iPad, phone, headphones, keyboard, purple pens and a glass of water with 5+ lemon slices (one from each of the past 5 mornings). I’m laughing hysterically to myself thinking of the sight of me now in my daughter’s yoga pants, starfish ankle bracelet, Norm's Orvis t-shirt, plaid winter shawl, barefoot, braless, weird bun with a pink scrunchy from the 80’s. First I’m screaming at Chewy in the backyard to DROP the SNAKE then I’m foraging for my lost purple pen slapping biting flies off my feet. Then I’m laughing out loud to myself. If my son is peeking out the back window I am done. D. O. N. E. No more vacations--only virtual ones--shamanic journeys maybe to middle and lower earth.
11:35 am Typing in the red "Gaga chair" in the great room
It just started raining. As I was bringing my journals, IPad, keyboard, lemon water, etc collection in (I need a big basket), my son asked me what bread I used to dip in the amogio sauce. I told him the gluten free bread. “You’re gluten free now, too?”
I almost blurted out, “Well, my intuitive healer said it’s not only good for my gastrointestinal health but that I will be more open and clear to receiving messages from spirit if I choose to channel.” Good. I caught myself. Instead I laughed so hard I cried.
“What?" he responded with a confused expression. "I just asked if you were gluten-free. A lot of people are these days.”
I don’t think I convinced him of my sanity today.
When my kids were all teenagers I’d occasionally snap. One child used to threaten me with calling the police if I even gestured to spank him. I'd deny a request or suggest he'd start homework. He’d tell me “no”, “I hate you” or to “shut up” (he knows who he is). I’d rationally respond, “Do it! Report me. I won’t have to ever cart you around from game to game, cook or clean up after your spoiled little ass again. And as an added bonus I’ll get to read and write all day!”
So now, similarly, if they commit me to a mental health facility, I’ll even get to do crafts.
10 things I should do or stop doing so my family doesn’t think I’m a crazy lady:
1. Stop listening to a 20 hour loop of YouTube meditation, angel and horoscope videos or just get a pair of those hidden headphones.
2. Stop wearing shawls. (Bella asked me if all shamen wore shawls.)
3. Stop calling Paddington Bear a little fucker.
4. Stop telling people I talk to angels, birds, spirits and St. Germain.
5. Use only one or two journals and bags at a time.
6. Stop going to psychics, shamans, tarot classes, intuitive healers, drum circles or at least stop telling people about them.
7. When I’m going to a workshop or meetup tell family I’m out on a date.
8. Stop buying bird houses, crystals, flower of life items, spirit animal ornaments, fairies, power stone necklaces, sage, purple pens, journals, wooden mallets . . .
9. Don’t ask son to help you trim a 5 ½ foot branch needed for your ancestors and descendants class power walking stick.
10. Stop laughing while I’m writing.