khf
  
It was an astonishing, unexpected breakthrough. A blazing explosion through the blockade guarding the inferno of trauma. A ZONK! they call it, as I would later learn. Sexual abuse trauma is more penetrating, more psychologically damaging than you can possibly imagine. Or can be accurately expressed, so vast is the internalized brutality of the victim’s sexual body, mind and spirit.
 
We’d been meeting periodically for over a year in the spirit of growth and evolution. The most receptive client we’d ever had…fearless in exploration. But never did I expect this thrust into the light. I manage my expectations. I’m the presenter. The organizer of impressions. The medium. Skilled and knowledgeable, yes, or I wouldn’t be following this path. But I am a messenger. Not the creator of the message. Nor am I a predictor of outcomes. I’m a facilitator of the process.
 
* * *
 
Meditation ushers in yesterday. Instantly. As if it is today…time and space collapse into now. Immediately, at the second of the ZONK!—the breakthrough--they, the unseen, are here. There is no weeping or calling for intervention. No lag time. No challenge of distance. No drag through turbulence. They—unseen protectors—are present. A gathering of protecting guides arrive at the exact second of agony. At the moment of brokenness that feels utterly unrepairable, a fronting line of radiant silver entities appear like a great breath of life-giving oxygen.
 
High level spirit guides. Celestial. Divine. But profoundly connected to the shores of the physical earth. In attendance for the exact moment that the defense shatters. And the barricade fails. And the sexually brutalized child—condemned to the darkness so very long ago—rushes into the waiting light. Into safety. Bathed in spa energy. In healing, cleansing spiritual waters. Embraced with benevolence. Wrapped in comfort. Enfolded in the radiance of truth. Surrounded by the powerful mothering energy of soft and soothing colors…taupe and creamy white.
 
A stout, burdened entity approaches. Her clothes are drab and dowdy as the leaden energy she drags with her. The protectors quickly shoo her away. They will not permit the dense, muddy phobia of fear to intrude on this sacred event.
 
The hues are otherworldly, described perhaps only by way of babies’ dreams. I don’t know. But ethereal colors unfold in whispers of undulating waves. Burnished rose. Buttery green. Spirit entities swathed in diaphanous pink multiply into countless numbers of young ballet dancers—children dancing with pure and perfect joy—with sheer exhilaration. Forming an infinite, expansive, soaring mountainous pattern of feathery magnificence.
 
Leading this chorus of poetic blush and movement is a little Black girl, maybe ten years old. Upswept hair laced with creamy pearls. The most joyful child. The most exhilarated child: The Prima Ballerina. Once so brutalized. Once so broken. Now healed. Bathed in magnificent golden light. Now leading the way.
 
I realize I have been invited to witness a ceremonial celebration of liberation. Of illumination. It is not lost on me that I am surrounded by children. Young flowers once lost to the darkness of sexual abuse. Once barricaded inside trauma. Children once living inside traumatized adults, now free.
 
As I have been invited to celebrate, I, in turn, invite you to celebrate. And to know that you are not alone.
 
Namaste. khf  

Paranormal Voices?
khf
  
Grandma Foley read tea leaves. Told fortunes. Predicted futures. And the parish priest had something to say about that—no chance in hell would any kitchen-table psychic be permitted to darken the minds of the faithful while he was in charge. More recently my brother was possessed by an evil spirit. This according to a California psychic who knows about such things. The source of the malevolent spirit? An antique, of course. Right in his house. A doll, to be specific. And that hellspawn was the cause all his physical pain.
 
Cue the eye roll. Summon the inner skeptic. Really? Aren’t we talking about the uneducated? The gullible? About pagan ignorance? Delusions created by the great unwashed? Superstitions passed down through generations, peasant to peasant? Or are we? What if our assumption of peasant ignorance is in actuality our own lack of knowledge? The buffoonery of the brain refusing to venture into strange borderlands? Borderlands consisting of illuminated pathways of which we have no understanding?
 
In a world of grave instability, Grandma Foley peered into the vestiges of Earl Grey at the bottom of a teacup. A seer in extraordinary times—Wars. Depression. Serious rationing. Her efforts became a running Foley family joke. Dismissed as endearing, as laughable. But what if she was a true medium, a channel of soul light, offering tender care to those who found her kitchen table? What if she was a true gift in dark times to women saddled with more kids than they could possibly cope with? And burdened with husbands drowning in alcohol. Women cursed with intelligence, relegated to peeling potatoes and scrubbing floors.
 
What if the remnants of Earl Grey were not a mere distraction, but authentic communication from the illuminated borderland? Sacred light that could lead them back into their own light, into their own power. Allow them to see beyond their present circumstances. What if Grandma’s purpose was to affirm the beauty and goodness in the person sitting across from her? What if the message of the seer brought radiance, if only for a little while?
 
You would never know it from his constant smile, but my brother was very troubled. Hogtied by traumas never spoken of—traumas I witnessed being inflicted upon him when we were children. So…what if the California psychic was not a fraud, but a spiritual guide charged with making the first crack in the fierce armor surrounding the trauma lodged inside my brother’s heart? What if the malevolent doll was actually a safe, protective symbol of his child self—an outside entity that he could approach, study, and control with psychic rituals until he was ready to confront the real demon living inside him: an evil that had nothing to do with a spooky toy. And had everything to do with trauma buried since childhood.
 
If we can come to understand—then embrace—that paranormal voices are really the normal voices of the natural world of which we all inhabit. The natural world, the unseen world, seeks balance with powerful force. That volcanic force does not recoil from our resistance. It pushes and pushes toward light, toward resolution. It is healing in motion. It is love in its most potent form: rugged, enduring, tenacious, nurturing, supportive, instructive.
 
We are all here on this physical plane for a profound purpose. That purpose is difficult enough to accomplish under the best of circumstances. It is impossible to achieve if you are possessed by an evil spirit that is really your own dark shadow.
 
When we can see the light and purpose in ourselves, we can begin to see the light and purpose in others. Even in a grandmother sitting at her kitchen table in Brooklyn divining messages from wet tea leaves. And even in a psychic with a seemingly dubious message that just so happens to have the power to sneak light in through the back door of a broken heart.