Money is Love; A Father's Dying Gift


Death is such a great teacher. And so is life . . . when we allow it.

When they meet one another

everything changes.


What my channel keeps reiterating to me is that death is a fear/tension based construct of simply reallocating energy into a new creation, vibration, form or experience all of which are love and all of which are part of one huge love story. That doesn't mean that what is being felt is to be ignored because it doesn't feel like what we perceive to be 'love'. Love takes many forms.


Sometimes it is anger.

Sometimes grief.

Sometimes it is hiding in the quiet.

Sometimes in fear and pain.

Sometimes in ecstacy and pleasure.


What I am learning is that love is in everything and every moment.

That everything is trying to inspire us to live a full life and to journey and play into new lands and depths of what is and what is possible. What that looks like I never know until I get there because I've never been there. It's what we call the dark. It is different for everyone. For some it is knitting all day on their front porch for others an adventure that takes them around this world

or even into other worlds.


It is such a gift and an honor to peer into and experience the depths of people's hearts and the beautiful stories that have laid quietly inside of them - often for lifetimes covered in pain, loss, fear, desire, regret, love and inspiration. Stories waiting to be seen, felt, unraveled and even lived as the heart expands exponentially into the ecstatic and limitless potential of who and what we really are.


Last night, I had a wonderful session with a woman who was wanting to shift her relationship with abundance, receptivity and allowance. Recently she had been surrounded by an incredible amount of energy that was showering her in abundance, sexuality, inspiration, opportunities and money. It was exciting yet activating something in her that was causing her to judge others, the situation and, to an extent, keep herself hidden and fighting the abundance and opportunities that were wanting to come to her. Underneath that, a fear of being seen came up. A fear of her deepest dreams and passions - being accepted or unaccepted as it were. A fear of acknowledging, creating and sharing her most authentic voice and inspired creations, desires and gifts. Those seen and yet to be seen.

Though her soul knows and is playfully, skillfully, modestly leading her into and through her love story.


About 10 years ago, in our clinic, we found that the root of all disease and tension filled patterns of addiction and repression were emotional and directly connected to the DNA. What I have discovered since then, through channeling and bodywork, is that stories from past lives - the unexpressed parts of the heart - get trapped in the human physiology. Stories waiting to be felt, heard and shared that are designed to inspire others because they resonate most with the deepest parts of us - an open heart. The parts that we are all longing to feel and connect to again.

And again.


These story-points hidden in the body are simply compressed love. Energy held in the physical anatomy. Pain and pleasure are the same energy. They are both love. One is simply compressed emotional energy (love/pain) and the other is flowing emotional energy (love/pleasure). That is why pain is so intense. It is connected to a part of us that we thought was too much to be expressed. A part that felt like we would die if we did or expressed it. A part of an old story that we feared to feel again and have since forgotten yet.

Though, we are magnets resonate with those unexpressed parts of us vibrationally pulling those stories to us. Often different versions and degrees of the same story. Different times, faces and places. Beckoning us to express those parts of us aching to be heard because the heart doesn't question. It just knows and feeling is what we are designed to do. To repress our feelings is to repress life. To repress our potential. To repress our story and the stories inside of us that have for so long been waiting to be honored, heard and shared. Each one, energy in the form of an unexpressed story about love and loss waiting to be discovered, felt and created into something else. Something new. Those are the books you read and the films you watch. They are the stories that have secretly laid dormant inside of all of us. That is what pain is. It is emotional energy, parts of the heart, that we haven't shred or created anything with it out of fear. Because on some level a part of us believes it will l die. They are also parts of us that have been building up and in the process of allowing it writing another love story. It is why we protect them so much. What we are truly scared of is feeling the old story meanwhile it pulls similar experiences or opportunities in again in an effort to allow it to be expressed and heard. What we are truly fighting for is our own hearts. For permission to be our most authentic selves and express our hearts fully and unapologetically.


In an effort to fully feel that much. To allow that much. To love that much. Our truth, our bodies, one another, and life as our truths continue to inspire others and give us permission to be who we are and share our most authentic selves with the world. If this energy isn't expressed outside of the body these energies create something inside of the body. Compressing to eventually become physical. It is these stories that cause us to live a linear existence in the 3D realm with a future, past and present because parts of our hearts are still trapped in other spaces waiting patiently to be felt, played with, created with and shared. Through time, we consciously and unconsciously, pull in experiences in an effort to have them expressed, to give them a voice and share them with the world. In relationships, work, art, sports. Expressions connected to beautiful ancient stories of loss and love.

When it comes down to it ... we are all writing love stories.


I work with technology that is able to scan the body and determine the resonate root of any imbalance in the body thus getting to the root of the tree. In this life time even back to the moment of conception. This woman's scan showed that the root of her concerns were hidden in what we call heart layers. Each layer is a different emotion that is in imbalance or tension causing someone to protect from feeling it or an addiction to feeling it. The 7 emotions in this instance are shame, guilt, apathy, grief/worry, fear, anger and desires. This creates protective/compressed walls of energy around the heart that numbs an individual from feeling something or more appropriately. It is essentially a fear of feeling something because it is connected to a past trauma (in German trauma translates as dream) - in this instance guilt and shame specifically related to her father. Feelings create discord when they are tethered to a story. Because the trauma was so intense people often unconsciously chose to repress their truth. Thus unnecessarily protecting the most powerful part of us - our heart. A story that is often hidden in our physiology from this and past lives.


In addition to the heart layers, there was an imbalanced emotional vibration of 'expressiveness' that was tethered to 17 different people around her ability to freely express her passion. A resistance to expressing herself and allowing or receiving the expressions of others people's passions all connected to past stories of fear, loss and love.


The session was beautiful and profound for both of us. I don't know much though what I have discovered is that one of the things I am a vessel for is this and that our experiences are here for all of us as we continue to be inspired and inspire others to write and our greatest love stories. The session was originally set to shift a heart layer of unresolved anger though it become clear that there was an energy and story of unresolved, unheard and unfelt guilt that was more prominent. What unfolded was a beautiful story for both of us.




A FATHER'S DYING GIFT

When she was six her father died. Before that her father had only visited his daughter, my client, 2-3 times a month. Her mother recently expressed that her father wasn't there as much as her mother had given her the impression that he was.


Her father was diagnosed with lung cancer, yet he never smoked and ran every day through the streets and parks of NYC. He worked in a bar when it was legal to smoke in public places giving an ear to those that had come to share their secrets, griefs, joys and frustrations with life and their hearts. They said he had lungs equivalent to a 20-year chain smoker. His condition gave him status to be a part of a mass action lawsuit filed against the cigarette industry in an effort to ban smoking in public places.


The last time she saw her father was in her father's apartment. She arrived with her mother and was escorted to the living room by a caretaker who was living with him. Her father was lying on the couch in his living room. When she walked in she saw him and hugged him feeling the scratch of the stubble of his unshaven face against her skin.


"When you walked in the room and looked at your father's eyes that day do you remember what you saw?" I asked her.


"I saw his fear, his sadness, his love and smelled death. It made me uncomfortable. Perhaps scared."


Not wanting to be around that energy she slowly backed out of the room into the kitchen where the nurse played with her while her mother spoke to her father for the remainder of their stay. She didn't want to see her father like that and left the apartment not realizing it would be the last time she would see him alive. I asked what he was like and she spoke of him being congenial, fun, playful, creative, funny and a wonderful teacher with an open and sensitive heart that cared more then he showed. She just wished he was there more often.


After he got diagnosed his friends raised money to help him pay for treatments. When he passed he still had about $30,000 leftover. It was all the money he had. She would soon discover that the remaining funds and all of his world possessions were all left to his only child. To her. She and her mother weren't aware that his brother, her uncle, had gone into his apartment, taken everything out, sold it and kept the sales. He would then take them to court in an effort to get his brother's money claiming that she wasn't his daughter. The lawsuit took ten years to close. Her uncle lost the case and they received his inheritance though would never see any of his belongings again.


As wonderful a gift as it was, it wasn't her father.

This would reflect in her relationship to money and the masculine for to this day.

"I always wanted him in my life instead of his money."


When she processed his death she realized she really wanted his things. At least something of his. Something that she could hold and have that would remind her of him.

"Like a scarf."

Something that she could wrap around herself.

Wrap him around her.

The sentimental and emotional relationship to the object defining its value as priceless. A value directly connected to the heart instead of survival.






PARALLELS

My parents divorced when I was three. After that, I saw my father about 4 times a year. He was an amazing man. As much as I love my mother, she still damned him to her dying day. I'm not sure I'll ever completely understand that. There is still a lot I don't know about my family. What I do know is that my mother fought our half-sister in court for years before getting our inheritance. I was too young to really understand. All I knew was that money was what everyone was fighting over. Money was the reason I wasn't allowed to talk to my half sister. Money was the reason my mother left to go to court, often for days at a time, 3.5 hours away in Boston. Money was what would determine our choices of what we could or could not do or buy. Where we lived. Why we moved. Why we fought. Why my mother cried. Sometimes why she drank. It had everything to do with money and nothing to do with money.


After my father passed and the court hearings were finished we ended up with money for our education that lasted through high school and monthly checks for the three of us. My sister and I until we were 18 and my mother until she passed. It was modest though enough to live on. Consequently my mother stayed home most of the time. It seemed like she had forgotten her dreams and buried herself in her unexpressed rage, anger and grief. Covering it up with alcohol, cigarettes and lies. Lies to us and, more painfully, to herself. They divorced when I was 3 and we lived with my mother. I know there are things I don't know from both perspectives. I just saw my father as a light. A loving man that was fun, thoughtful, playful, caring and always took us on adventures. My father cheated on my mother. He fell in love with another woman and didn't know how to communicate his heart. Before or after. She never forgave him.


The last time I saw my father he was in the hospital. The people's court was on the television. I believe it was an episode where they were fighting over the custody of a huge red parrot meanwhile my half-sister and sister spoke to my dad. I chatted with my father too though mostly watched TV and in hindsight I can also see that I was distracted; uncomfortable with death. I remember when we got there he leaned over in his hospital bed and playfully showed us the medical bandage on his head in the shape of an X. He said that it was because he was an alien. That it was where the doctors took out his antennas followed by a funny noise. That was dad. I loved his humor. That day we also went to Chucky Cheese for the first time and had the BEST time. He asked my half-sister to take us there for him. It was so much fun. I'll never forget it. In hindsight it was so interesting to see a day with such extremes of joy and unexpressed grief. I was unconsciously numb. We went on to stay in Gloucester the rest of the week though we never went back to Chucky Cheese and I never saw my father again. That was in September or October of 1983.

He died February 20th, 1984 at the age of 67. I was 8.


I didn't go to the funeral. I remember my mother telling me he had passed. I responded like she had told me that lunch was ready. She asked me if I wanted to go to the funeral. I always hated the long drives to Boston from Vermont. I said no with my reasoning being that I it was such a long drive. I don't think she wanted to go either. That was one of those moments when I wish my mother would have been a different parent and seen beyond her stories and mine. I wish she would have told us to get in the car and that we were going. That said, I know she also did the best that she could. It would be 13 years before I would visit his grave. I was a senior in college. On that trip I would meet two of my cousins, see my uncle and aunt for the first time in 14 years and my grandmother the first time in 11. I was so used to not having family it didn't feel like a big deal. My grandmother just cried when I saw her. After that a scavenger hunt ensued to find my mother's lawyers office where my father had left me something I had to sign for. Something I would only receive after the age of 18. I was 21. It didn't mean much to me until I got there. To date, the only thing I had received from my father was money from his inheritance that my mother had to fight for in court for years. I was hoping it would be a personal letter, some words of wisdom, a journal more about him and his heart. Something personal. Something that would give me more clues as to who he was and his heart.


The lawyer was a wonderful man who I had met when I was 6 or 7. As much as my mother would reference him in our house one would have thought he was part of the family. We shook hands and, after a brief conversation, he pulled a drawer from his filing cabinet and grabbed a single 8.5"x 11" white envelope with my name on it. Inside was a single piece of paper that formally stated that the contents were for me and that his hope was that I would not sell it. Out of the envelope slid a single gold diamond ring that, I would later learn, had a very old and unique smoky cut. That was it. I tried to put it on. It only fit my thumb. Inside I was crushed. I thanked him and then, from there, the scavenger hunt would continue as my girlfriend at the time, Laura, and I left the office to look for my father's grave.


There were two graveyards in the Danvers area. I didn't know which one my father was buried at. We would end up exploring both thoroughly before finally finding his gravestone. I discovered it was a family plot. In it was my grandfather Charles, my father Richard "Dick" and my half-sister's daughter on my father's side who I hadn't realized had passed away. She was 26. Upon seeing the grave I just fell apart as out of me wailed 13 years of repressed grief and love into the air and on to his stone covering it with tears while I spoke to my father for the first time since that day in the hospital in 1983. How could I have unknowingly kept this inside of myself for 16 years. Or was it even older than that?




A GIFT OF LOVE MONEY

The process that channeled through for shifting these stories/frequencies/energies is a combination of New German Medicine, bioenergetics, a four part progression and occasionally mediumship. Mediumship is starting to happen more and more frequently outside of my channel (Andromedus). This time in particular, though, I can not be certain as I didn't stop the process to confirm it, it felt like her father had come in to speak through me with his daughter. Specifically with people's relatives who have passed on. Two of the four key questions that are asked in this process are:


1) What have you never said to this person - the deepest of the dark and the light?


and


2) What did you want instead?


She had felt guilty about leaving and undeserving of the money. When you are 6 and your father hasn't been showing up we can often subconsciously think that we did something wrong. After all why wouldn't a parent show up for their child. For love. More often than not because it reminds people of their failings, regrets, fears or where they feel less then. In the process of the shift questions like: "What did you see in his eyes when you came into the room?" and "Why did you leave the room?" came up and "Imagine that you were gifted 5 more minutes with your father - what would you say to him?"


It was so beautiful to experience her words as tears ran down her face.

Then the energy went on to ask, "So what did you do with the money?"

"I took gymnastics, acting classes and got a theatre degree in college."

"What did you get from those experiences?"

"I got confidence, training in what I love and have done for most of my life. I had an amazing time."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"I did. It was incredible. I loved it."


When her father wasn't there himself he left enough money to empower others to do what he wasn't able to. And my father did the same thing for my mother, sister and I until the day my mother died. It was how they loved us. They paid for our journeys leaving one of the most powerful co-creative expressions of love on the planet - money. Creating a masculine fatherly structure framed in the form of a college education in theatre, training in athletics, and a life filled with teachers and mentors that were fun, creative, playful, funny and inspiring. Teachers who gave her confidence, support and love. Everything her father was. The money was an expression of his love so he could be there for her when he wasn't.


The question that brought the most tears to my face. Tears that felt as much his as my own.


"Did you enjoy yourself?"


He just wanted to know if she was happy.

He just wanted her to be happy.



I love you Dad.

Thanks for taking care of us all along.

I wish I knew you better. What I do know is that you were amazing. The little I have heard about you is beautiful and I would have to type for a week to name all the incredible things that your gift of money provided for us.

And for much of it I was happy.

And for all of it I grew.


I've been reflecting on the question that came through. If I had five minutes with my father. . .

I'd hug you and love the shit out of you and remind you that you were an amazing father. I'd take you in and feel your warm heart against mine and wrap my arms around you. I'd toss a baseball back and forth with you while I reflect as fast as I could on all the incredible trips, the camping, the fishing, the skiing, the snowmobiling, the adventure, your humor, your playfulness, your heart, the coins for the video games, the holidays, the support, the Kenny Rogers, the van rides to the cottage in Maine, how you changed out the toilet because it was so loud it scared me, and I'd tell you that it's because of the money you left us that I was able to do all the things that I did growing up and Mom was able to rest - especially when she needed it most. I'd let you know that you did your best and I know it.

And that was enough.

That you were enough.

And that I hope I've made you proud to be my father.

I'd want to know if you were happy and if you were with Mom again.

That I've missed you and want to discover your story, our story, and share it with the world

because you were a great man.


I wish Mom could have seen that too. Remembered it. For her, for you, for all of us.

Though, I know she did her best.

That's all we can do, right?

And I know you did your best too.


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