A Gift of Wisdom: Journey of an Awakening Soul

A child's first Christmas tree is most often remembered by the parents who took the pictures; pictures that went in a photo album no one ever sees. But, that bright moment stands out in the memories of children around the world. A happy memory. A memory filled with tassel, strung-pop-corn, shiny ornaments, and if we were good little girls and boys, a gift from Santa on Christmas morning. It's a memory filled with magic and wonder. Eyes bright and shining, reflecting the winking lights embedded in the prickly pine, hips jiving to and fro with the beat of the holiday music jamming on the radio. For the child, it is probably one of the brightest and oldest memories she has as her mother or father, grandmother or grandfather, brother or sister, or any other numerous combination of family members handed out the hot coco topped with marshmallow or whipped cream, take your pick; maybe even both!

Most often, this is this case. But sometimes, there's tragedy instead.

When I was four years old, I experienced one of the most devastating experiences of my life. It was my very first, normal sized Christmas tree. I couldn't tell you how excited I was to finally be like all of my other friends and have a real Christmas tree.

It rolled in on the top of a family friend's vehicle. Strapped to the top, choked by twine, its sharp needles scraped the metal resenting the intrusion of the foreign straps. It was emerald green and smelled so sweetly I couldn't wait to bring it up into my home. Problem was, I was only four and notorious for wanting to help so much I'd get under-foot. Bouncing, I allowed myself to be led from the car to the bottom of my stair case outside my apartment door.

"Stay here," the friend of the family said, firmly but kindly. He had always been kind. Little did he know that he would be considered the responsible party for what came next. He jogged back across the street from which we'd walked, a hop in his step, and without further ado began to undo the strangling coil from my precious gift. My mother stood with him on the other side of the vehicle, doing what she could to release the evergreen from her unnatural position.

She was a beautiful young woman. She stood tall and thin, golden hair puffed up by a perm, which was the style of the time, with bright green eyes and a runner's legs. Her attention was focused on the task at hand, but like any good mother, she kept her eye out for me.

I had decided that they seemed to be struggling too much and my new friend was being ruined, smashed against the top of the car that way. I wandered from my perch to the edge of the road. Looking around me, I noticed there were two very large cars blocking my view of the street. My mother had done her duty in teaching me to look both ways before crossing a street. So as I took small steps forward to see around them, my mother and I locked eyes for a moment. I looked left then right. On my right, a white sedan was coming down the street and I was fearful that my mom would be struck as I watched her move to cross toward me.

"Mom, don't get hit by the car!" I yelled. In hindsight, it seems rather ironic. As soon as the sedan passed, I thought it was safe to cross, not remembering that I needed to look left once more. That one mistake resulted in a horror no one but my mother expected. She told me later that she had a dream for 3 days in a row prior to this fateful day, where something bad happened in a way that took me away from her. Unfortunately, I was about to make her nightmares come too close to true for comfort.

A 1990's model, green and white, GMC pickup came over the blind hill close to where I stood. I didn't see it as my eyes were glued to the big green, magical tree, hypnotizing me to take a step forward.

I don't remember what it felt like. I don't remember the actual impact. If no-one had told me, I would not have known that I was ever hit by a truck. I would have wondered at the scar lining my forehead and the slight dent just above my temple my whole life if I'd never been told.

However, I would be able to tell you, without a shadow of a doubt, that I came close to death that day.

My family tells me that one more step and I would have passed into the heavens on impact. Instead, I was nicked by the passenger side blinker light. I flew up over the truck, making impact with the black-topped ground in the road south of where I'd stepped out from behind the parked cars. The man who had very accidentally collided with me was said to have been crying as he stopped immediately and ran to my still frame in the road. I wish I knew who he was so I could thank him for stopping; so he could know I'm okay, at least.

The heroic actions of family, friends, total strangers, neighbors, and the helicopter ambulance personnel saved my life that day. People tried to move me, but it was my mother who stopped them. I don't know where she ever learned it, be it from someone or if she knew on basic instinct not to move me. But she guarded me like a Mother Wolf guards her cub, calling out to people to fetch this or that for my comfort; keeping shock at bay by putting a blanket over me. She ran the scene of the incident like a drill sergeant, relaying orders and ensuring I stayed on this plane of existence with her. My grandfather, living across the street from our apartment at the time, cleared the 4 ft wall separating his mobile home from the street like an Olympic hurdler. Navy medic trained, I've never been told what he did to assist with my trauma that day, only that he was there "lickety split" and backed up my mother in every way.

I, on the other hand, to anyone seeing my limp and bleeding form, appeared to be unconscious. My mother says I didn't die that day, but I say otherwise because of what I remember.

All I can recall, even now as an adult, was entering a misty-blue atmosphere. There were no distinct lines for me to ascertain where I was, but for some reason I didn't care. Out of the mist came a woman. Her face is still shadowed to me, but she wore shimmering blue-silver robes and her voice was as soft as a sighing wind. Yet, I could hear her clear as could be.

I looked around me and realized I felt like I was home. I glanced at her questioningly. She said, "You aren't supposed to be here yet, little one."

"Here?" I replied.

"There are too many things you are meant for, little one. Too many things you have to do in this life. You have to go back," she said. This confused me. As far as I was concerned, I was happy there. I wasn't cold or hot, hungry or hurting. I wasn't being made fun of or yelled at.

"But, I don't want to go back," I said with all of the conviction my four year old little self could come up with, "There's no pain here. I want to stay."

She seemed to chuckle. The kind of chuckle a patient adult gives to young children who say silly things, "I know. But, you can't stay today. Here..." She came towards me, gliding through the mistiness and pressed her hand against my forehead and another against my heart. A warmth emanated from her palms as my eyes closed of their own volition. Then, I felt her gently grab my wrists and raise my hands, palms facing upward. She took my tiny hands in hers and pressed her thumbs into the center of my palms. A heat began to radiate from them, too. I opened my eyes to look at her face one last time and before I could actually glimpse it, I awoke to blinding white madness.

I won't go into the details of my hospitalization, the surgeries and strange experiences I had in the following weeks. I won't go into detail about seeing myself in a mirror and believing, forever more, how ugly I felt I was. I won't tell you how I refused to go back to school for weeks because of it. I won't even tell you about the time my mom took me to a toy store, fulfilling a promise she made me in the hospital to get me a special stuffed horse, my favorite. However, I will say that what should have been a happy experience ended up with my mother harassed by a social worker convinced she needed to separate me from her. She'd assumed I was abused, which is understandable, but it hurt my mom no less for it. Ah, the way she stood straight and tall that day, facing down the enemy like the hero she is despite this woman's screeching opinions.

What I do want to note is this. That moment ... that one "near death experience" as they say, changed my path forever.

And so begins this story about a young woman, raised with Catholic values, who walked away from Spirit, to her peril. A young woman who later came out as a lesbian and endured all that comes with coming out in the early 2000's, before we had rights; before we were seen as human, same as anyone else. A young woman who faced pains, betrayals, joys, and brilliant moments. A woman who much later realized through a great awakening, post a traumatizing divorce, that what the mother-like-spirit had gifted her with were the tools she was meant to use to accomplish all she was "meant to do" - Both a natural and unnatural affinity for the arts of energy work and healing.

I tell you the following stories not to brag or boast; not to gain sympathy or fame through pity, either. I tell you these stories so that those that are out there who have endured or experienced similar things know they are not alone. Allow me tell you about my life, and in doing so, perhaps you'll see that there still is magic in the world even in the direst of circumstances.

Welcome to A Gift of Wisdom: Journey of an Awakening Soul

P.S. To all readers who enjoyed the prologue above, come back bi-weekly for new additions as the story unfolds...