Willard

You know, every once in a while, someone comes along—and you have a hard time forgetting them. Maybe it’s a lover? A teacher? A bestie from school? Willard was none of those things, but an unforgettable pillar of strength, courage and love.

I had picked up (another) Cathy in Denver. We knew each other from the Pineal Tones choirs, and she offered to join me on the last leg of my journey home. I wanted to camp,  and being by myself in the woods—didn’t seem like such an astute idea. There was always safety in numbers, right?

So, at her suggestion, we had landed at the Loft Mountain Campground, which is part of the Shenandoah National Park in Virginia, also known as The Blue Ridge Mountains. The forecast called for rain, this particular Wednesday, our first day in the park, so we ventured off to Mt. Vernon—beloved home of George Washington, and a figure near and dear to my heart. The next day, we agreed to hike down to what was called

Lower Doyles River Falls, weather cooperating. And, so it was that we set off down the trail to the falls. We were just getting started when we came upon an older gentleman standing off the path dressed appropriately in hiking boots, and wearing long hiking style khaki pants, buttoned shirt, army green fishing vest, cap and glasses on a cord hanging around his neck. We stopped to say hello, and he showed us a small acorn under his magnifying glass. He confided that he was an artist—but seemed somewhat shaken after our conversation—as we parted ways—-asking if it was alright if we gave him a hug good-bye.

I had seen him at his campsite when we slowly drove the asphalt drive into the campground, looking for the spot to we would call home for the next three days. However—somehow his apparent circumstances stood out from the “normal” RV,  family, couple or weekend hiker; he was sorting things at his picnic table, as we passed by.

After our “chance” encounter, we visited him several more times, and invited him to our campsite two nights later to enjoy the campfire. He shared his artwork, which was neatly contained in a folder. His story seems unremarkable—just a guy traveling by himself—camping—until you realize that he was 86 years old and had gotten wind that “they” were getting ready to place him in a nursing home. What, I thought? There was nothing about this man that warranted placing him in a facility for the aged or ill. He

 shared that he had lived in Vermont for 40+ years—built his home there. His wife of many years had passed several years before and he had a daughter who lived in the LA area. He had a sister that wanted him to live with her in Virginia.

Getting wind of obviously someone’s else’s plans for him, he told us that he bought a copy of Consumer Reports—found the most reliable and economical car they advised and traded in his old one. He found a close-out tent for $24.00 and collected the rest of the miscellaneous camping supplies he would need—and off he went. Arizona was where he spent last winter and felt he would be heading back that way when the weather began to turn. He knew he didn’t want to be around the inclement winters because as he said, he didn’t want to slip on the ice and break a hip.

My mind since, has reflected back to my own Mother and her circumstances and her desire to live her remaining days in her home; a wish my brother-in-law refused to honor. Things are not always as they seem. But, Willard’s story brings up many ideas about parking people in nursing homes—when they are in fact vibrant, and “not ready” to be housed in group homes. Where is the freedom to choose? And, where does that truth lie?

As we were parting good-bye, we wished him well on his journey. He wished us well too. There was a soul connection and something profound and unspoken, we all knew; we could feel it. We also knew that there would be no way to remain in contact; this was it. No email. A sister’s address for legal purposes. A flip phone with limited airtime. No text. I had the knowing it was just the way it was meant to be. As we said our good-byes, he stopped. “You know, on the trail, that first day, I was a bit shaken,” he confided. I had witnessed his welling-up but had said nothing. I saw your light, he said, and it startled me. I smiled and so did Cathy. “I am keeping this as a reminder, he softly noted looked us in the eyes and then slid the tiny acorn into his shirt pocket. I smiled again and gave him another hug. We walked away.

Ironically, the acorn, is a symbol of strength and power. That was who he was—and that was what he held in his hand. It is the same for us. No matter where our life starts—or from our own humble beginnings, we All have the ability, just like the Willard and the tiny acorn. We have the strength like the mighty oak; it’s not inside some of us. It’s inside All of us! We need only to believe. Namasté

 

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About Cathrine Silver

Cathrine Silver, HC, AADP, is a Certified Holistic Health Coach in private practice in Lauderdale by the Sea, Florida. She works collaboratively with clients on their desires regarding disease, relationships, spirituality, and loss. Suffering through her own loss in 2005, Cathrine motivates and empowers others to be the heroes in their own lives, becoming fully responsible for their own happiness, joy and well-being.

Cathrine holds a degree in Speech Communication from the University of Washington, is a graduate of the Institute for Integrative Nutrition and holds certifications in Reiki, Matrix Energetics, Hypnosis, Biological Decoding and Grief Counseling. She is the author of the book, Riding the Light Beam: How Any Woman Can Find the Hero

www.Cathrinesilver.com (Website)

www.cathysilver.me (Blog)

cathysilverhealth@gmail.com (email)

Cathy Silver Holistic Healing (Facebook)

“Time Machine”

They say time is a circle—not a straight line.  It’s just that we don’t live long enough life cycles to remember from one life to another and to tie our expressions to our bigger, grander purpose; or who we really are. My Mother used to say, if you wait long enough it will be back in style.  Everything that is old becomes new again—and when I see things that are “new” it reminds me of my Grandmothers era or another place “in time.”  We know styles come and go in cycles.  What about the illusion of “time and space”?

This past summer I returned to Texas to pick up my car—a 1970 MGB that I bought in college—on a 5,000 mile road trip that took me through Washington, Oregon, California, New Mexico, into Texas and through El Paso, Austin and on east to Nacdogches and then back west through Utah to my childhood stomping grounds.  Our voyage across the country was a circle.  But if we had kept going?  Is the road in back of me the same one as the road in front of me or us? A huge cosmic circle?

Later, while cleaning the car I came across all sorts of little reminders which transported me back in time.  (Familiarity or déjà vu?) I found several U of W parking gate tickets, non-digital and an old map.  I found a rusted can of WD-40.  I found a favorite ceramic coffee mug—and a few pens.  All the little trinkets which propelled me back almost four decades when the car was first placed in storage. Time Machine . . . I thought.  The past had come back, into the NOW. It was the past. It was about the present too.  And, was it about the future as well?  A metaphor for our lives?

Our minds are vast and complicated with little understanding of the bigger system in which we live.  Sure, our 3D world was acknowledged and important, but like memories and feelings and consciousness—what lay outside of our physical world that could transport us to places unknown—likes dreams—and visions—and psychic knowing—or even astral travel?  Were we connected like the computer to an invisible human wifi?  What lays outside our physical world today, that is unaccepted—or not yet understood?  And, if we really are interdimensional beings, what insights and potentials do we create for ourselves based on our choices or our thoughts?  Unlike our paper geographical maps like I found in the car, was ours more of a personal individual energy map guided by our intuition and light language magnetic codes and intentions?

If we listen to our invisible guidance, are we able to jump timelines?  And, based on our choices, can our future be rewritten?  What about our past? I know when I stand at the center of my life in stillness, I realize that I create everything.  I can and do create “what’s next.”  But, just like the car—I must clean out and rid my being of unresolved things, and beliefs and be willing to move the needle from the old groove to make room for what is coming. Just like the location of the car—towed to its new locale which I was able to move physically creating new options—I choose the same for my life.  I believe that we are multidimensional with one foot in this dimension and another bigger part in a world I cannot see, but influences me everyday. If in fact, we have multidimensional DNA—then at some point, we have all been down this road before.  Influenced by this unknown, but “remembered past” called wisdom stored in our akashic lineage, living today in the now—and moving forward like the road circled before us.

I, for one, move forward with excitement with this unlimited possibility as I co-create and manifest my personal world and help with the global unfolding— which I choose to live in joy and happiness, without fear.

With the holiday season upon us—I extend this wish for you to.  To drop and heal what doesn’t serve you or me anymore—creating the road ahead of us and allowing the unfolding with integrity, and truth and love, full of compassion for everyone.  It is the time machine in us all—ready to be written or re-written and given as a starting point to shine our light of what is to come.

Happy Holidays—and Happy Travels!

“Realize that there are many things in the world for which no cause shall be found; not because it does not exist, but because we know too little to find it.”                                     ~Diana Gabaldon, Voyager

 

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“More Stars in the Sky Than Grains of Sand on Earth.”

I have read that there are more stars in the sky than grains of sand on the Earth, and it certainly seemed to be true the night Brad and I camped at Whiskeytown Shasta – Trinity National Recreation Area in northern California. The vastness of the Universe has held humanity’s attention for eons—and tonight was no exception for me. It was a rather spontaneous stop garnered by a quick internet search earlier that afternoon.  Yes, we were able to reserve a camp spot—and even pay the nominal fee over the phone with a credit card.  That was the easy part. As was our greeting by the National Park security who checked our name off the list and gave us verbal instructions and a cryptic map which designated our “C-16” spot that would be our “home” and rest spot for the night. However, by the time we reached the parking lot—complete darkness had set in—and in spite to producing two small flashlights—the layout—the paths—the markings and the darkness made the discovery of our campsite a bit of a challenge.  Was this a metaphor for us, for humanity as well?

Our persistence paid off and after about 45 minutes, our 3-4 minute walk downhill to the water and our camp site numerous times had us somewhat settled in—tent, sleeping bags and even two folding chairs—which provided the scenic views to the heavens.  We literally tailgated on the back of the pickup truck on the asphalt parking lot finishing cold chicken and fruit and by 11:00 P.M. found ourselves back down sitting in our observation chairs—sipping a glass of wine and relaxing in the fairly quiet wilderness.  (The “neighbors” kids finally began to get quiet and the dog was at last peaceful—lol—woof-woof.) So much as a break from suburbia!

As I stared out into the heavens, I wondered, what lay beyond the boundaries of our human existence?  Who were we really, behind the cloaked veil that our daily lives consumed?  And, where did we come from?  There are many who believe that we are seeded from the stars—that philosophy, when I thought about it, felt right.  Were we seeded from the Pleadians two hundred thousand years ago?  Were these light beings our divine parents from a lineage billions of years old?   Were we the “new kids” on the block? There were many indigenous and ancient peoples whose creation story linked us to the stars—and each story to each other, even though there was no means of communication between them.  These stories were etched and painted upon the caves and artifacts over the millennium.  There were sightings of lights where no electricity existed—Mt. Shasta was certainly one—Hawaii and Uluru were other places of magic. Our knowledge so limited, and our technology still primitive—gave us little understanding of the vastness and infinite makings of the multiverses and galaxies beyond our closest frontiers.

And, so it was, as I drifted off to sleep—thinking about my adventure to east Texas to reclaim my old MGB with my friend Brad and the stars that filled my imagination and my fascination.  It had been a long hot day and we had already crossed many miles when my tired body laid upon the air mattress. What did we really know?

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