By Raym Richards
I arrive at my inner city shop on my pushbike, totally windswept and disheveled. It seems like any other day as I prepare for work in my practice. The shop is bright and fresh. I visit my upstairs session room which is clear, the crystals in my mandala are clean and sparkling, and unusually, when I return, both my assistants are present. They look particularly resplendent in their matching bleached blonde dreads and as always they look ready to party. The perennial thought drifts through my subconscious as I greet them, how do they always manage to look so cool?
I sense an unusual air of excitement in their demeanour this morning. Something is out of the ordinary – they do not normally show up as a matching pair and rarely wearing so much extra glitter. I am bemused and intrigued. I am not sure what could be causing this double flurry of excitement – it certainly is not my flushed and scruffy appearance.
“Why don’t you make more of an effort to look like a shaman?” Bryony, the sharper of the two, asks as Briana smiles behind her. She should know by now that I like to be inconspicuous, one of the reasons I left my dreads on the barbershop floor a few years ago. I sense some irony in her question as she already knows the answer.
“Shamans come in all shapes and sizes and I don’t like clichés”, I respond starting towards the stairs to my session room and inner temple.
“Aw c’mon, you could a least wear a fancy hat!”
“With a feather!” Briana laughs.
“Yeah, sure. Who is my first client?”
“Her name is Mo – no one special”. They giggle like two school girls and I know something is up, but can’t be bothered to give it any energy.
“Well, send her straight up, I’ll be waiting for her.”
Mo is ushered into my room with both my assistants elbowing each other to open the door for her. She is an athletic looking middle aged woman, fit and lean, and she would have been an absolute stunner a few years ago. I sit down with her for a brief chat before our session as my two assistants fall over each other leaving my small sacred space.
Mo’s story is an unusual one. In recent years she has become interested in the occult arts, particularly astrology. Her studies led her into a deeper understanding of Chiron the wounded healer, a being she felt a great affinity with. She tells me that while meditating on Chiron he appeared before her in the room and proceeded to seduce her, making passionate love to her, bringing her to several intense full body orgasms.
This happened twice over a period weeks and she enjoyed it enormously. Her challenge is that since that time, several months ago she has been feeling drained and tired. She confides that she has also had a compulsion to masturbate – something she mimics on stage, but rarely found the need to do for real.
“What are you, an exotic dancer?”, I ask.
“More cabaret”, she smiles, “song and dance.”
“Okay we will look into it, but with any first Crystal Dreaming session we need to let the process take its course. There may be other things we need to deal with first.’’
“That’s fine by me – let’s do it!”
We lie in the crystal mandala together and I make the appropriate affirmations. We close our eyes, the crystals do their work and immediately we find ourselves in another time and place.
This is cool. Mo telepaths as we stand together in a busy market square. There is an air of excitement, prior to some special event.
We are time travelling. They cannot see us. Let’s wait and see what happens – we are here for a reason. For now just soak up the vibe. I telepath Mo.
I am! Her eyes are popping as she looks around, absorbing the sights, sounds and strange smells that surround us. We breathe in mixture of animal and human faeces, stale sweat and unwashed clothes aromas.
We are somewhere in Europe, in a cobbled town square hundreds of years in the past. A woman is being dragged across the square in front of a jeering crowd, by men wearing steel hats. Mo realises it is herself in a past incarnation.
This is all new for Mo, but for me it is almost a cliché. I have witnessed similar scenes with many other clients. Human beings can be very cruel to one another and many healers rediscovering their path now remember experiences like this.
The woman being dragged across the town square is in bad shape; she is bruised, battered and bleeding. She has obviously been tortured, probably raped. There are bloody gaps in her mouth where teeth used to be, she is missing fingernails and she has been branded. Her clothes are in tatters and she looks totally exhausted, but there is defiance in her eyes.
The soldiers are pulling her towards a high stake with chains surrounded by faggots of wood, with more bundles off to one side.
“Confess!”, the crowd yells at her.
“Witch… enchanter… heretic!”, they are whipping themselves into a frenzy.
A podgy, pious and grubby looking priest bends over her, his loose flaccid skin hanging of his anaemic face.
“Accept the Christ and the Catholic Church as your one true saviour or face the fire of eternal damnation.” His foul breath suffocates her as she stares back up at him.
“Never!” She spits blood as they drag her and chain her high on the post, which will be her last resting place.
The crowd cheers as they set light to the bundles of wood around her feet and her death is agonizing. I know Mo will be feeling the hot smoke scorching her airways and lungs as her skin blisters and she tries in vain to stifle her final screams. She coughs and chokes – it is not a good death.
I am ready for her as she leaves her body.
I hate the Catholic Church! I hate it! I did no wrong, I was a healer, herbalist, and midwife. I helped others. The priests were scared of my light. That was it, scared of my light…
Okay it’s over now, it’s over.
It takes me some time to help her realise that if she wants to be pain and trauma free then forgiving the Catholic Church is her only option. We also dissolve any affirmations she made at the moment of her death, regarding never using her power as a healer, ever again.
I always wondered why I never trusted Catholics, and I come from a Catholic family! She’s regaining her composure.
I take her into no-time-space and ask her to be still. I sense there is more.
I lead her in the following affirmation: “I challenge any being that is under the illusion that it has power over me – show yourself to me now or forever hold your peace!”
I feel a surreptitious and furtive male presence in the shadows around us. Don’t be afraid – we promise not to hurt you.
He steps forward into the light that Mo and I are generating.
I see a young man in his prime. He is dressed in the kind of work gear worn by tradesmen on building sites, although his shorts are very short, by modern standards. He looks very sheepish. I wonder how he appears to Mo.
Okay mate, what are you doing here?
Just hangin…, he telepaths, looking even more uncomfortable.
What year is it? I ask, knowing he will be stuck in the year he died.
1973, he responds.
You realise you’re dead?
Yeah I guess so. Some idiot sparky left the power on and I copped it, big time.
Who are you and where are you from?
My name’s Ron. I’m a plumber from Bondi.
And what are you doing here Ron?
No harm mate, just hangin’.
Confused dead people are always looking for a comfortable place to hang out. They need permission, a contract or agreement given by the host, for this the most common form of spirit attachment, to take place.
I want to help Mo understand what has happened but I suspect the knowledge will not be very palatable for her.
Who is this dude? And how did he get here? Mo is not impressed.
You are about to find out. Repeat after me out loud. “Body I command you show me the moment I gave permission for this man to be here. Show me now!”
As I suspected we find ourselves back at Mo’s well appointed pad, some time in the recent past. It is late at night and she has been studying. Astrological charts and books surround her on her soft leather settee. She is obviously tired and lies back closing her eyes. A naturally relaxed and sensual woman, she runs her tongue across her open lips as she thinks to herself… Chiron, what kind of man were you?
Our friend the plumber drifts into the room through the open window and stands before her; he appears naked.
You called me and I am here, he telepaths. Do you want me?
In her half waking trance state she sees him clearly, not only is he in great shape, he is a big man in every sense of the word. His long sun-bleached hair falls in loose curls onto his broad, muscular, suntanned shoulders. To me he looks every inch the Bondi surfer.
I thought you were a centaur?, she telepaths vaguely.
I am Chiron. The centaur thing is just a myth. You can see why. He responds looking down, with a cheeky grin.
I certainly can… Mo’s eyes widen.
Not sure whether she is dreaming or waking, she allows him to kiss and caress her, before long she too is aroused. They make intense and passionate love. Mo’s orgasms build one on top of another into a noisy and explosive crescendo.
Mind if I stick around?, he telepaths as she drifts into a deep and timeless sleep.
She responds, vaguely, barely aware of her thoughts. Sure, why not, that was great.
So the contract is issued and their relationship begins. I can see by scanning the time-space around us that he visited her a few more times than she mentioned. What Mo doesn’t yet understand is that, through this earthbound spirit’s attachment to her, he can experience everything that she does, hence his creation of her impulse to masturbate, by influencing her emotions. He is fascinated by the female experience of something he had only experienced as a male. However, his parasitic nature is also draining her of energy, hence her tiredness.
Mo is realising this almost as quickly as I am, although for her it is a complete and utter surprise. She is very annoyed.
You arsehole! Lying bastard. The abuse that follows pours out in a mixture of Italian and French, but we get the drift.
Our plumber looks crestfallen. He is genuinely embarrassed and remorseful.
Okay Mo, calm down. You’re not helping matters. This guy is an idiot but he did not mean to hurt anyone.
We need to release him so he can go home to unity consciousness. You can dissolve the contract by forgiving him and giving him permission to leave.
She takes some persuading but sees the sense in it. I ensure that he returns home to light and we wrap up the session by checking and cleansing her energy bodies, verifying she is clear and free from all attachments.
We return to the physical. She is refreshed and relaxed. “Was all that for real?”, she asks.
“Did it feel real?”
“How do you feel now?”
“Really good, thanks.”
“See how you go. I expect you will be having lots more energy after this session and the compulsion you mentioned earlier will disappear.”
“No kidding”, she responds with just a hint of sarcasm.
“Let me know, if this is not the case.”
“Sure.” She thanks me and I show her the door asking her to pay my assistants, downstairs.
I cleanse the crystals she has touched, open a window and break the pattern of my crystal mandala before following her downstairs.
Both assistants are waving and staring goggle-eyed at a long white limo as it pulls away, presumably with Mo in it.
“Did you find the plumber?” They both giggle conspiratorially as they turn towards me.
“You know it’s bad practice to probe too deeply into a client before a session”, I reprimand.
“It was so..oo obvious. You got him?”
“Hey, there must be a bob or two in song and dance”, I muse looking after the disappearing limo.
“You really have no idea who that was, do you?” They are both now looking at each other in disbelief.
“A singer?”, I respond lamely.
“Don’t tell us…”, they laugh, “in your world there are only two kinds of music, country and western. Right?”
“Wrong! There is only one kind of music – classic rock”, I grin, giving my best Jimi Hendrix air guitar demonstration.
My two assistants think I have just cracked the funniest joke in the known universe, when in fact, I was being quite serious. The hysterical laughter, tears and runny mascara that ensue are somewhat of a mystery to me.
Raym is a practising shaman and teaches his Crystal Dreaming technique to practitioners worldwide. His stories are based on real life experiences over a 15-year period.
Copyright© This column may not reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, either in whole or in part, without prior written permission of the author Raym Richards.
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