Descending and merging with my body at 3:45 a.m. EDLST, on this day many, many moons ago, I chose my parents and began a sacred agreement made with The Old Ones.

At the age of one I remember looking out from my crib into the kitchen; the sun brilliantly glinting a reflection of light from the stove oven handle.

At the age of five having the flu and trying to watch Saturday morning cartoons all the while feeling like my brain was melting.  I would say to myself, remember this feeling, because you need to remember what it feels like to be a child.

Having my teddy bear fall out of bed and saying ouch because I could physically feel it.

Being eight and given a shield symbol from Spirit to carry with me throughout this journey on Earth.

One evening, a few minutes after being put to bed and seeing a tall dark form materialize at the foot of my bed.  Being so terrified with paralysis that I truly thought my heart would burst from my chest.

As a child, while my family slept, being woken up by whispering voices, then light forms descending from the ceiling to stand next to my bed.

Laying awake on my mother’s bed, with my sister beside me on a hot and stifling summer night after my Grandmother’s funeral; hearing screams of agony and asking my sister what was that? Her answer:  nothing go to sleep.

Having a full year of experiencing a loud constant noise inside of my head, like a jet engine, with images of death and a barrage of negative thoughts.  It was only when I planned to slit my wrists at 17 to make it stop and laid out the razor blade on my dressing table on a Friday night that the sound completely stopped Saturday morning when I opened my eyes.

Walking my beloved beaches of Cape Cod with a guitar slung over my back, Janis Joplin hair and smoking a cheroot.

Picketing the local supermarkets for selling non-union produce and marching for Civil Rights.

Seeing Bob Dylan in a little coffee house in Boston before anyone knew who he was.

Promising to become a great actor in junior high; I’ve since won an imaginary Oscar by portraying a wife in all my marriages and relationships.

Remembering more than most on how to get Home, turn invisible and conjure.

Letting people lie to my heart and playing the game anyway.

Valuing solitude as a prized treasure.

Learning how to fish and cast a proper line.

Blowing a kiss to my Sensei after performing a kata and watching him put his face in his hands in disbelief.

Refusing to dumb down in any situation.

Remembering a perfect afternoon on the North Shore of walking along a riverway and sitting on a stone wall listening to two men play their guitars.

Feeling my brain being operated on and re-wired to diminish fear.

Countless memories of sitting around family holiday gatherings and my best friends’ homes and joyously thinking I will never forget this time.

Knowing that large boulders and rocks held Spirits within them and honouring the Stone People.

Having it rain on my face, without a cloud in the clear blue sky, upon discovering a medicine wheel in the woods.

Watching the Light appear in my childrens eyes when their true Spirits took residence in their bodies.

Observing all the intricacies of growing grandchildren and remembering what it was like to be a child.

Knowing my website posts only scratch the surface of my experiences.

Tags: birthday, Bob Dylan, Cape Cod, cheroot, Civil Rights, Janis Joplin, medicine wheel, memories of childhood, North Shore, remembering what it's like to be a child, screams of agony, Sensei, shield symbol, Stone People, thoughts of suicide

I have this friend who epitomizes the title Earth Mother.  She is sweet, an awesome mother to her sons, and will recognize herself in this post.   I will refer to her as EMF, as in Earth Mother Friend.  Recently EMF treated herself to a little trip to a local feel good location that specializes in uplifting books, energy work and yummy healthy food.

While she was there a massage therapist approached her and started to massage her hands, and then briefly moved to the back of her neck and shoulders, all the while explaining that this is where tension and stress is held.

Well, EMF emailed me and wanted to know if the quickie massage could have touched off any emotional triggers because she cannot help but think of loved ones who have passed away and now keeps crying and feeling sad.  AND she experienced a SPLITTING headache the next day.

After sending a couple of emails back and forth to each other I’ve concluded that my very knowledgeable EMF had quickly been taken advantage of, because her initial gut feeling  was to NOT have this stranger touch her.

I have seen this before.  So before dashing off emails informing me that the therapist must have released some toxins built up in her, and that her sadness and headache was a good sign – I’m here to ring the bell of nonsense.  A body worker, while working on you, will most definitely set off triggers held deep within the body.  That’s what you compensate a therapist for – the work; the follow-up call or visit; the assurance your healing process is being monitored by someone who cares and demonstrates compassion.

This is my stance on unsolicited people wanting to “help you” out of your stress without being asked to.  Say no.

There are incredible masseuses out there, along with Reiki Masters, energy workers, Chi Gong practitioners, acupressurists, Tu Nai…and on and on the list goes.  New Age (for lack of a better word) stores and establishments are filled with people who want to “help you”.   Don’t assume a body worker is a clear channel or the right person to perform this work on you.

When someone touches you they are making a connection, it needs to be a relationship of trust.  The message your intuition is delivering when you do not want an encroaching energy worker to lay their lands on you is your innate defense mechanism.  As women, we don’t want to hurt someones feelings, but what does it say about the person who does not respect professional boundaries?  Take your power back ladies and gentlemen – speak up!

Massage, energy work, etc. must be completed from start to finish.  There are no quickies in energy and healing work.  Would a medical doctor approach you in a bookstore and start examining you?  Would a dentist approach you in a yoga class and say, open wide, I think I detect TMJ and can help you.  I think not.

Take responsibility for your own well-being.

Know who is touching you.  Is this a stranger or someone who is recommended?

Ask for their credentials.

What school did they graduate from and are they licensed in the state where you live?

How long have they been doing this work?

How can you contact their references?

Listen to your instincts, your gut feelings.

Never, ever apologize if you do not resonate with a body worker; simply say no thank you.

Were triggers released for EMF? – Yes.

Was the massage therapist being less than professional in imposing themselves in an effort to impress? – Yes.

Was this a lesson for all of us to be more discriminate in who we entrust our energy to?  Absolutely.

Why do we allow a stranger to violation our personal space just because they are labeled “healer”?

Reflect.

Tags: body worker, credible body workers, dentist, massage, massage therapist, medical doctor, new age store, Reiki Master, relationship of trust, taking responsibility

At times I receive a flash of insight on the most insignificant and smallest of gestures.

This past Friday, at the drumming circle led by the coolest guy ever, Ed Runeigh asks everyone to go around the room and introduce themselves.  When it comes to my turn I always proudly say my full name:  JONE VICTORIA.   Not Jone, always Jone Victoria.

I cannot imagine half of my name just hanging out there in the ether; “Hi, I’m Jone.”  It just sounds incomplete to me.  My name is a mantle of what my legacy will be.

I’ve waged war on demons and fought for the underdog.  I’ve raised two incredible children almost single-handedly, survived cancer and poverty.  Had an incredible career, without benefit of a college education and broke the glass ceiling.  Traveled overseas and met teachers on varying dimensions of existence.  I enjoy excellent health and have the finest of friends.  I have been blessed with intelligence and the ability to see deep within the soul of my fellow man.

All of you have a life, filled with experiences, natural born gifts of artistry and legacies that could take their rightful place on the  New York Times bestseller list.  You are a composite of all your experiences, and thoughts.  You’re a force to be reckoned with – a survivor of life’s firestorms.

Your name is a crown of glory; wear and say it proudly.

Tags: be proud of your name, drumfish, drumming circle, Ed Runeigh, name as a crown, smallest of gestures

Ok, for any of you who have heard me sing you know I cannot carry a tune.  This has always been a mystery to me, because as a child I sang my dang head off.  There was no stopping me.  Relatives over for a Sunday afternoon visit?  Let me entertain you! Elvis Presley’s version of Aura Lee was a favourite in my repertoire.  In reflection, I wonder if the word ‘aura’ caught my attention, but hey!  I was receiving some much needed praise, not to mention a dollar or two from my Uncles who appreciated raw talent.

In Sunday School, which was held on Saturday’s (?????), I was studying my blue Baltimore Catechism faithfully in order to receive the Sacrament of the Holy Eucharist for my First Communion.  In preparation to please God, Father Flynn and our parents, in that order, our little group was learning to sing Ave Maria.  I have to stop the story here and share my love for all components of ritual ceremony.  I was raised as a Roman Catholic.  The Church held deep mysteries for me as I listened to the Mass being given in Latin at the altar, inhaled the frankincense burning, and perked up hearing the little holy brass bells tinkling, commanding us to stand, kneel and make the sign of the cross.  All that said, I was into the Church hook, line and soul-sinker.

One day at rehearsal, one of the Sisters waved her hand in the air stopping everyone from singing and walked over to where I was sitting in the front pew.  She held my chin in her skin-scrubbed-raw hand and stared at me.  Panic-stricken I thought I had done something wrong, misspoken the Latin words of Ave Maria, or was going to be chastised because I never could master rolling my r’s.  She asked the other Sister to go and get Father Flynn.  This was not good.

Upon Father Flynn’s arrival, the Sister announced that “We have the voice of an Angel in our midst, Father!” It was decreed that I would sing a solo for Holy Communion.  I must have had the voice of an Angel, because I felt lighter than air.  My feet never touched the stairs as I left the church and dove into the back of my father’s waiting car.  I was talking so fast that it seemed within seconds and I was home telling my mother of the incredible news – “I’m singing a SOLO!”

My mother burst out laughing.  “You?  There must be a mistake. Sister was teasing you; you can’t even carry a tune!”

As my power was being bitterly stolen from a woman who had little joy of her own in childhood, something shifted inside my little heart.  I doubted myself.  I did not yet have the tools to combat the authority of my mother.  I returned to Church the following week and told the Sisters that my parents had asked that someone else be chosen to sing the solo, citing an excuse that I was unable to make the extra rehearsals to practice the solo.

Stuffing down hurt and sadness does not a joyful sound make.

Being of tenacious Spirit, when I was in my late teens I tried out to be part of a local all girl band.  We were called The Four Country Girls. I was fairly competent playing my acoustic guitar, but when it came to singing back-up, the lead singer asked that I just strum and mouth the words as the other three carried the song.

(Opens mouth, tries to look sexy playing guitar.)

For years I did not sing at all.  In my late twenties I would sing for my little girl, Wendie, because what the heck – she was too young to be a music critic.  As both my children grew older and reached their teen years I heard plenty of, pleassseee don’t sing! or watched them reach past me, turning the car radio volume dial to drown out my pathetic comeback as a wannabe singer.

Through journeying, it was relayed to me, by Guides, that by not throwing my voice to Spirit I was allowing others to steal my power.

Now I unabashedly sing to Spirit, to Grandfather Tunkashila, to the Universe.  I just open my mouth and out it flies with an unbridled fervor of positive intentions.  It doesn’t matter if I’m off tune, or in the wrong key, or sing my own words.  Spirit cares not for perfection, as true perfection is only attainable in non-physical dimensions.

Spirit resonates with sounds of joy and the feelings in our heart.  It is the intent in which we give forth these sounds that matters.  There is power in words, whether we speak, chant or sing them.

Spirit’s ear is attuned to all keys, all levels of melody, and harmony.  Grandfather hears your unique voice, meek or bold and holds it, with honour, in his heart.

Tags: all girl band, Baltimore Catechism, can't sing, chant, Grandfather Spirit, harmonious singing, Holy Communion, sacraments, stealing power, throwing your voice to Spirit, toning, Tunkashila