I was in a hall of gold, the shelves covered in books of unknown origin. I sat at an oblong, golden table, regarding a tablet placed in front of me.
“Why am I here?” I asked Djehuti and Set, hovering behind me with comforting presence and purpose.
“You are going to read the book of your life,” said Djehuti.
I had tried before, in a pathworking vision, to read the “Akashic Records” of my life– to some progress eventually, but not in the way I had intended– I hadn’t understood the words.
With the book in front of me, open in my hands, I had read only my name. I had cried in frustration over this book, which I had thought would hold all the answers I sought for my troubles. I had felt ashamed of myself that I wasn’t as “advanced” as I thought I should be in my spiritual journey. Why else would the book’s contents elude me?
My spiritual family, sitting at the table around me, had smiled and comforted me. They told me it was all right. I didn’t have to force myself to grow in the ways I expected to…
Now, with that shame of perceived failure fresh in my mind, I glanced at the tablet in front of me. To my surprise, words appeared in my mind, through pure cognition, rather than reading or hearing…
“Robin was a child who grew up very lonely… and to adulthood, ze learned ze could not count on anyone…”
I put the tablet down.
“Do you understand what we are trying to say?” Set’s voice was low and gentle.
I was silent for a moment, taking in the emotions that fluctuated through my subtle body, holding them, releasing them, considering each of them in turn as they flowed through me…
The vision ended. I was sitting on my couch, in my physical body at home, slumping a little now in frustration, and resignation… I stared at the ceiling for several minutes, then stood to make myself some tea or a glass of water.
My father was a very angry, very frightened man. One of my first memories is being afraid of him coming home and finding my mother and me playing pretend. I thought he would judge me for it– say my imagination was ugly or stupid, or otherwise imperfect.
From an early age, all games had to stop when my father was home. When he came home, everything became about his feelings– whether he’d had a bad day at work and whether he was irritable– ready to project his stress at us without warning.
To a child, his moods were alarming and unpredictable. My brother, my mother, and I, were often berated or punished for something we ultimately had not done or had no control over.
He used to joke that there was to be, “No fun in this house!” He said it to make my brother and me laugh– but I think in a way, it was true of a deep fear and shame he carried– a fear of joy and vulnerability, which he passed on to us.
Anubis. Key. Djed Pillar.
I glared at the cards the Egyptian Lenormand had brought forth for me, testing alternate meanings in my mind, knowing already what they meant but not wanting to accept it.
“Grieving after a dream of love, long dead, eats the heart, needlessly, and is not in ma’at. Why do you choose to hold burdens you could release? The situations in life that show you were your trauma is are keys to allow you to release the pain if you face it… It is a gift of truth and love to honor yourself by laying down your sadness and regret, and carrying on with your life, lighter for it. Lightness of heart is what we achieve through sincerity with ourselves of our stories of pain and fear and what they have brought us– freedom, courage, wisdom, openness, and love…”
Maybe it was Brene Brown, in The Gifts of Imperfection, Susan Forward, in Toxic Parents, or Kelly-Ann Maddox in one of her YouTube videos— but someone introduced me to the idea that forgiveness is not about saying that what someone did was okay… but the decision and energetic shift to move forward from the pain of everything that stands in the way of living a full and joyous life.
This is something I want for myself– to move on from the pain and bitterness.
I sat again, on the couch in the living room while my roommates slept, or had already left for their midnight shifts. The fan overhead stirring the air, the electric hum of the fridge, and the soft scuff of my crossed legs settling in the couch cushion were the only sounds.
I took a few deep breaths, and closed my eyes to sink into another vision.
My father sat before me, wedged in a corner of a dark room.
“I’m so afraid I hurt you… I’m so afraid…”
“I know. Dad…. I know…”
“I’m not lovable. I’m bad. I’m BAD. My father hated me…”
I sensed his emotions– fear, shame, but they were a reflection. I was calm.
“We aren’t taught to hold our emotions and honor them inside of ourselves. Patriarchy teaches us not to cry or be vulnerable, and that to do so is weakness… Without being taught the skills of emotional maturity, pain teaches our trauma-centers that pain is the way of the world– and the only way to avoid pain is to close your heart even more, and hurt them before they hurt you… So hurt children become adults who hurt others, and the cycle continues on… It’s bigger than you or me, Dad. But it still plays out in our choices… I know that now. I understand it wasn’t about me. Your actions were yours, and about you. Not me.”
I sat on the floor of the room, facing him, legs loose, arms open.
“I wanted you to love me,” he said sadly.
“I did love you, Dad…. Or I tried, as much as a kid can… And now that I’ve learned what love really is… I do love you. But it doesn’t hurt anymore… You wanted me to love you, and to prove that you were worthy of love and compassion– that your life and the choices you made that hurt yourself were worthwhile– to heal your heart– but, Dad, that is not something a child can do… That was not something I could do… I know that now. That was never something I could have done. We can only do it for ourselves.”
I leaned forward, close, and held his shaking shoulders.
“And yes, I hurt from your actions. I hurt from your behavior…. I’m sorry that, in my pain, I lost sight of myself, too. I love you. Dad… Thank you for showing me toward the path of self-love through the example of its lack…
“I am moving on now.”
And the story writes itself forward, anew…
Robin was a child who grew up very lonely… and to adulthood, ze learned ze could not count on anyone. Ze feared life– feared the deep betrayal that sank into hir bones and hir heart…
The memories of hir father, who did not love hir, led hir to make choices that filled hir with shame, fear, and regret. Ze thought that ze needed someone to love hir, to be worthy of a free and full life.
One day, ze awakened to the power inside hir.
Ze forgave hirself for hir choices. Ze forgave hir father for his. Ze decided hir imperfections helped to create the story that was hirs– a beautiful story of love deserved, and found in hir own heart… One of the struggle of stretching, pushing, breaking through the ground– and then a gentle opening to face the sun.
Setting down hir anger, pain, and fear– vestiges of hir old life– and thanking them for the lessons and growth they provided hir, ze decided to love hirself fully, wholly, and unconditionally.
Ze opened hir heart and found a universe of support, and then… ze leaned into the excitement of the creative unknown…
Ze realized ze is never alone.
In the days after this release, I feel as if my opportunities are opening. I don’t have to be afraid of other people’s opinions of me… My whole energy feels lighter and more flexible.
I’m thinking about all the things in life that feel joyous, and feel like moving toward them. I laugh with my friends, draw, write, paint, make love to my god, create beauty with my hands, foster life with my actions, and dance until my muscles hurt and my heart sings!
of The Heart Road