creating community — Page 3 — Intuitive and Spiritual Consulting, Past Life Regression

When a Ghost Isn’t a Ghost: Meeting Time Travelers, Part 1

December 8, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

: Copyright (c) 2011 by Danny L. McMillin

Ghosts aren’t always ghosts.

Sometimes they are time travelers. Or we are because we’re talking with them. Or something.

Let me explain.

What I don’t know about ghosts could fill volumes.

What other people think they know about ghosts could fill even more.

So here’s what I know.

Working Between Dimensions and the Crystal Fallon

I clear houses and businesses for people. I cooperatively clear houses and businesses and land systems by creating a conversation between the space being cleared and the humans currently occupying it. Sometimes I clear out things that we call ghosts. Sometimes they’re not willing, but I talk to them about what’s going on and then it’s done. Respectfully. Honestly. As thoroughly as possible.

This process has taken on new dimensions (literally) since Fallon has come back into my life. A citrine Lemurian quartz sphere, Fallon is not a tool. He is my partner. We do intuitive consultations and clearings. A rare planetary and dimensional energy, Fallon has helped me deepen my work, so we’ve been places I didn’t know existed. (Those stories another time.) Point is, Fallon and I work together, and very often it’s the seat-of-my-pants intuitive-logical leap that gets things done. What I call “living outside the box,” or carving my own path instead of adhering to dogmatic lines.

So.

The Haunted House in California

My friend, Jody, lives in a tiny, old, uninsulated house, about 400 square feet, in a small town in northern California. She’s lived in that same house twice. The first time for about 11 months, from late 2006 to 2007. This time she’s been there since April 2010. For years this house was located near Walker Mine in Plumas County, but has been on the current land since sometime after 1948, when the mine was closed.

Jody is one of the best clairaudients I know. That means she can talk to things we wouldn’t ordinarily think to talk with, like animals (and snowflakes). After hanging around with me for awhile and being encouraged to ‘branch out,’ she’s also started talking with many of the same beings I talk with: the land, crystals, and so on. Like most of us she lacks self-confidence, but she has one big thing going for her: she’s willing to listen.

We talk almost every day, but I was slow to pick up on the story about the noises Jody was hearing in the house. She says now that the first time she lived there she heard a few noises, which she dismissed as the creakings of an old house. The second time the noises became louder and more frequent.

Then she saw the ghost. A woman. Over time, Jody saw her more clearly. She was wearing a dress that reminded Jody of pictures she’d seen of relatives back in the ‘30s or ‘40s. One time she even showed up with a man standing beside her.

Now Jody isn’t fond of this ability, but she sees dead people. Sometimes she sees them at other homes, and sometimes they show up at hers. She knows who they are because they make it clear. They have messages. Or sometimes they just hang out. (Yes, she’s seen them all her life but usually ignores them.)

I tell Jody, “So you see dead people, it could be worse, you could see dead murdered people and have to work with the police.”

Somehow that wasn’t comforting. When she insisted she didn’t want to see these things, and didn’t want to talk with dead people, I taught her how to shield herself and tell them “No.”

So that’s what she told the ghost in her house. “Go away and leave me alone.”

Didn’t work. The pounding on the wall continued. Crinkling like cellophane being crumpled. Footsteps across the floor, the sound changing as the ghost moved from carpet to linoleum. Things dropping. Thumping.

Jody would tell me about this and I’d tell her to tell the ghost to stop it. Learning to work with whatever shows up is part of developing your intuitive skills. Being a no-nonsense butt kicker can work, too.

Neither worked.

Being lazy as well as practical, I told Jody, “Well, just tell her to go away.”

Jody would get mad at me. “I’ve tried that! It doesn’t work. I don’t know how to do that.”

“Experiment,” I told her.

So when the ghost thumped and dropped things in the night, Jody would yell out, “Okay, that’s enough, I’m trying to sleep, stop it.” Usually that would work, for that particular night. Honest to goodness, the ghost was generally polite: looking for attention, satisfied to get it.

But still not happy about Jody. Because the ghost never said much, unlike Jody’s other spectral visitors. Didn’t have a message for a loved one. Just said, more than once, “Get out of my house.”

Hmm.

Then things changed. The ghost touched Jody. One night, Jody was lying in bed, and she felt a hand lightly brush down her arm.

Now, that’s just plain creepy.

What If a Ghost Isn’t a Ghost?

When I heard that the ghost had touched Jody something cold and dreaded hit my gut. I stayed calm and thought about it.

I’m happy to say many things show up around me but I’ve only been scared once (and then because I was being silly). I talk to a lot of things, from animals to homes and businesses and weather systems to things we don’t even know realio trulio exist, like dragons (thank you Ogden Nash and The Tale of Custard the Dragon). We talk about fun goofy cocktail party stuff and we talk about how to live together as equal beings on a conscious, evolving planet.

We talk about consequences.

It’s serious business. I take it seriously. And now I was wondering. Seriously.

If a ghost could actually touch Jody, what does that mean? Something awful occurred to me.

“Okay,” I said to Jody. “I’m not liking this. Why haven’t you put a stop to this ghost?”

Jody insisted she didn’t really mind the ghost. But she sounded more defensive than certain. Hmm again.

“I’d mind,” I said. “It’s creepy that there’s a ghost disrupting your house.”

Jody got mad at me. “There’s nothing I can do about it. So quit bringing it up.”

Okay, sometimes you have to let things go, especially when you’re training people to use their intuition, because they have to learn to be self-reliant and self-confident. However, there was the whole matter of touching Jody.

“Thing is, I’m not thinking that’s a good idea. You said the ghost touched you. You actually felt her hand running down your arm.”

“Yes,” Jody said. “That was weird.”

“And potentially dangerous,” I said. “We don’t know everything about the world. But think about it. She wants you out of her house, and keeps saying that. She’s now touching you and she’s a ghost. How far is that from losing her temper … and stabbing you with a knife?”

Jody freaked. Couldn’t blame her. I also couldn’t let it go. “Why do you think she could stab me?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Jody. But if she can touch you with her hand, why couldn’t she pick a knife up and stab you? It’s not like there’s a definitive guidebook on what ghosts can and can’t do. I’d hate to find out that was possible after it happened.”

Jody snorted. She gets impatient with my analytical, skeptical mind. My mom used to complain that I think too much. I’m pretty sure Jody would agree with her.

I said. “Really, what if she isn’t a ghost?”

“What?”

“Honestly, who knows what ghosts really are? All we know is that we can see some vague outline, or in this case, you see a woman. Now you’ve seen dead people before, relatives of people you knew who had messages for them. But this is different. What if she’s not a ghost?”

“Like what would she be?”

“Well, the connection is the house. Clearly you’re living there now and she thinks it’s her house. What if she’s seeing you and thinking you’re a ghost?”

Oh, now I was on a roll.

“We don’t know where she is actually living now. Back years ago the house was in a small rural area. What if she’s intuitive like us? What if she’s practicing some kind of magic and is trying to clear her house of you, thinking you’re a ghost? What if she’s really powerful, which she’d have to be to touch you because she’s not here in a living body? What if she’s hired somebody to clear out the ghost in her house, but that ghost is you? This could be extremely dangerous.”

Jody got quiet. Well, who wouldn’t?

“Here’s another thing,” I said. “You know Fallon and I astral travel, whatever, that we go between dimensions and visit other places. I’m sure we’re not the only ones who do that, we’re just probably the only ones who make up procedures as we go. Not always a good idea, but you know me.”

Jody chuckled.

“So, what if she isn’t a ghost but a time traveler?”

“What?”

“Jody, what if she is alive in another time period and she’s trying to get rid of the ghost she keeps seeing in her house?”

“Is that even possible?”

“Who really knows what’s possible?” I said. “But here’s another thing that bothers me. People who are energy workers and psychics and so on are always talking about ‘energy,’ but not really defining it. From working with other beings I’d say there is a different vibration to every being, which is why my guides explain why I don’t feel the vibrations of things like Mount St. Helens any more, because a volcano is just too big for a human to feel on that level.”

“Yes, we’ve talked about that,” Jody said.

“So here’s the thing. You’re living here in this time period and she’s thinking you’re a ghost in her house, so the connection is the house. So we know from my weird experiences that different dimensions exist, so why not different time periods? What if you’re both living in the house but in different times? And the house is vibrating in both time periods? That worries me. How long could anything hold up like that, especially an old house?”

“What am I supposed to do about it?” Jody asked.

“Clear your house and get her out of there.”

“I don’t know how!” Jody yelled. “And I’m tired! The noises in the house are getting worse. And my guides aren’t helping. I asked them to keep her out and they don’t do it. And I tell her she’s dead and it’s time to move on and she won’t!”

Now, Jody had cleared her house twice following my directions, with sea salt and smudging and calling her guides to help. Both times were temporary fixes. Her guides were no help, well, that is just guides for you. Sometimes they’re not practical. Sometimes they’re waiting for us to take charge. Sometimes they just give up on you and quit, like mine did for awhile. So no telling what Jody’s guides were up to.

It didn’t matter too much, because I’d just deliberately backed her into a solution, spurred on by my crystal partner, Fallon.

“So Fallon and I will clear the house for you on the phone. You can work with us on your end.”

Jody agreed, sounding relieved.

“Good,” I said. “We’ll call you at six tomorrow night. Now go out and get sea salt, more sage, and be ready when I call.”

In Part 2: What happened next. Did we clear the house? Was it a ghost? What lessons do we carry forward?

How A Simple Thanks Will Pop Your Business

December 7, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

I just bought dishes from Crate & Barrel. It’s not the first time I’ve purchased from them. It sure has heck won’t be the last.

I like the value of their products. You can buy inexpensive home products or go nuts for their higher end stuff. I love their Classic Century Dinnerware, designed by a woman in 1952 (hey, it was a great year and still looks great). I regretfully settled for a cheaper design that fit my budget and my clumsiness factor.

I like their service. In the store, they are as attentive to an $8 purchase (listening to what I needed, and offering suggestions) as they were to my online order.

But there’s nothing like a really pleasant surprise to seal the deal.

They delivered the dishes to my door. Essential when you’re handicapped and can’t lift and carry. Sure, everyone will do that, and some of them for free (this was).

It was what was inside the box that surprised me. You couldn’t miss it. Sitting right in the middle of the box, so it was the first thing you spotted: a thank you card.

A thank you card. “Big thanks” it said.

As I stared at it, I felt a big grin take over my face.

I opened the card. It included a thanks for buying and simple directions on what to do if I needed anything else. And, of course, my shipping bill.

Wow, think of that. A few quick lines. A follow-up thank you email.

A customer for life.

I thank my clients, too. Not as elegantly, I discovered. But I will.

After all, when a huge company can personalize a transaction with a mass-produced thank you card, then one person in business can do it, too. This company has it down: distinctive graphics, good products, a personal touch.

I thank people in person who come to see me and my crystal partner, Fallon. I thank everyone for everything. But this little touch reminded me that we happily do business with people who pay attention to us. It’s the little things that build community.

Like thanking customers for their business with a simple yet elegant thank you card clearly tied to the brand.

Thanks for the lesson, Crate & Barrel.

I will be definitely be back.

So, when was the last time a business thanked you for shopping with them? And when did you last thank someone for shopping with you? Did it matter?

No Jobs Are Menial: America Get to Work Already

November 30, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

Occupy this and protest that, but get to work already.

Now, are you going to scream at me or read this article?

It’s true, many people are unemployed, can’t get employed, and are suffering. Their children are suffering. Their animals.

Many people want to work. They find what they can and are proud to have a job, whatever it is.

I salute those people.

Many others are chronic complainers. They have no work ethic and don’t want one. They want to work, but stop when they make a buck or two. They live off unemployment because they can. They retire donkey years earlier than anyone else because they have a government pension (or worse, are proud that they are ‘double-dippers’).

You, fellow Americans, need to get back to work. Now.

I know very well about working, about wanting to work, about not being able to. I’ve been handicapped for 22 years. I couldn’t work for more than 15 of them, because of illness and physical limitations. So I worked on what I could: I polished my writing, I worked to get healthy, I created a healthy balanced life with animals, I lived community with my family and friends. I took care of my aging, ill parents.

I worked at health.

I wanted to go to a regular job and couldn’t. I also knew that no employer would have someone who’s handicapped like I am, because chronic illness is unpredictable.

So I created my own company. I quietly nurtured a loyal client base, helping people develop and publish their books. I taught writing. As I developed my intuitive abilities, I launched an intuitive consulting business. Now that’s what I do: I write true stories and I help people learn to tap their intuition. My partner is a crystal. His name is Fallon.

I’m working as best as I can.

I don’t quit. I won’t. I can’t. Why?

Because good work is part of life. It creates and nurtures life. It balances us.

The problem is, we Americans have forgotten what that means.

So I was intrigued by an article at msnbc.com contributed by Elizabeth Dwoskin at Bloomberg Businessweek. Crops are rotting in the fields, essential services are not getting done, because Americans call it ‘menial labor.’ They won’t work in the fields. They won’t clean homes and businesses. Well, look beyond your noses at this quote from Dwoskin’s article:

‘Massey says Americans didn’t turn away from the work merely because it was hard or because of the pay but because they had come to think of it as beneath them. “It doesn’t have anything to do with the job itself,” he says. In other countries, citizens refuse to take jobs that Americans compete for. In Europe, Massey says, “auto manufacturing is an immigrant job category. Whereas in the States, it’s a native category.”‘

Americans want to be managers. To them that means they tell other people what to do. They are inspired by personal coaches (I’ve not quite figured out what they are, but they are busy) who write golden futures for them that somehow lead them to classify work. No one wants to do the basics.

Well, I see it differently.

I grew up in a small Oregon town where the kids got up at the crack of dawn in the summer, climbed on buses, and went to pick crops so farmers could get that food to the cannery or grocer. Today, crops rot in the fields because no one will pick them.

Yes, my parents wouldn’t let us pick crops. Instead, my dad put me to work in his pharmacy/gift shop in the seventh grade. My dad had a habit of choosing shy, industrious teens to work in his store. He helped them become hardworking, honest citizens with a strong work ethic and the know-how to follow through.

I have an MBA from the University of Michigan, one of the top business schools in the country, but what I learned about good solid work came from my dad.

We need more dads like that right now. We need more people who are willing to work, and work hard, and do good work.

I’ve met some of them. Two of them clean my house for me, necessary because my body isn’t strong enough to do it myself. These two women are excellent examples of work ethic: they come in, they clean expertly, and they take pride in their work. They are also hilarious: they keep wanting to do more, because my standard of housekeeping isn’t up to theirs. Not once have they ever said anything I asked them to do was menial. They chose a business. They do a fabulous job. I admire them.

I do not get computers. I was simply too sick in the early years and now too busy to go back and figure them out. I have had a hard time finding people to work for me, to do computer work. One small business offered a simple website in two weeks, and three months later still had done nothing. Another badmouthed me to my face, not to mention other people, and refused to follow directions while complaining about ‘menial work.’ Fortunately, I now have a terrific website guy who keeps things running, never complains about his work, and is deservedly swamped. I continue to seek an able, supportive, genial assistant: asking around, I find many other people experiencing the same problem I have—people won’t work amd simply don’t know how to.

I have had other people ask to work for me, and when I call back to book their services, turns out they’ve just made a few bucks and they “don’t do that work.”

Menial labor again.

Well I talk with things. With homes, businesses, animals, chairs, cars, weather systems, whatever. I see the world from what I call an earth paradigm. I know we’re all in it together. All of us, no matter what it looks like. All life believes that. Except some humans.

I know that no work is menial. That word has no real meaning. Unless you’re mistakenly arrogant.

I have never in my life looked down on any work as beneath me. As not important or crucial for society. I am in awe of construction workers, and grocers, and farmers, and sometimes even physicists (for making livings making things up, and with math no less!).

I am grateful for the good honest work that so many people do.

And I am telling you, and everyone out there, that we don’t build an economy with people who won’t work. Who look down on doing whatever honest work there is to keep going. Who choose honest work and do it well.

Just quit complaining. Be glad you have a healthy body that can work. You can make any work mean something. And you can put food on America’s tables by picking those crops, keeping things clean, building things that work, and taking pride in making a contribution.

Because if you won’t, other people will. They aren’t Americans now. But they will be. Because they live what Americans should be living: productive lives.

They do the work. All work matters.

So?

(Not) Meowing for Mizuna: Exploring Greens with Dogs (and a Cat)

November 18, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

Cooking is a skill I apparently lost with menopause—and only miss when I’m hungry.

I used to be a great cook. When I say this to friends they always pause, clearly deciding between laughing at what they presumed to be a joke or at what I’d cook, which wouldn’t be. It doesn’t stop me from offering to cook for them. I watch their eyes widen in surprise, and I’m thoroughly delighted when they say something like they just want to spend time with me.

And show up with Thai food. This is called ‘everybody scores.’

I do cook. Just ask my dogs, Murphy and Alki. They think I’m a great cook and take food cues from me: as a team we have wide-ranging tastes and low standards. If it comes out of the fridge if must be good, or else why would it be in there? The cookie jar is a given. We’ll eat our veggies, but never stop hoping for brownies. Or anything with peanut butter.

That’s how I know the dogs and I are related.

Grace the Cat, I’m not so sure about. She’s so smug about being right about everything that she takes convincing. Plus she’s fastidious and skeptical. As it turns out, these are all qualities that I need to rely on, since my cooking skills headed south with my boobs.

I learned this accidentally at the weekly Farmers’ Market in West Seattle. Almost every week I load up on great foods, all the vegetables and fruits you could want, and then some. Problem is, I’ve discovered things I didn’t know existed, and most often can’t figure out how to cook. The farmers are kind and patient, but it’s clear they think I’m an idiot and are just too polite to say so.

Take, for example, pea shoots. I love pea shoots. I have no idea what they are, except pea shoots, but we love them at our house, all of us, even the cat. We’re even doing a video starring pea shoots. Now, the dogs always come running when I come through the door with food, but if I say, “Pea shoots!” then Grace the Cat leaps up from her normal out cold snooze and races to hold down the kitchen counter while supervising grocery unloading.

You hold up a pea shoot and she perks up, meowing. No obstacle is too great as she promptly hunts it down: grocery bags, stuff on the counter, nothing stops her. If I offer pea shoots to the dogs (who are politely waiting on the floor only because they can’t reach the counter), Grace the Cat backflips onto the floor and bulldozes right through them. You’d think that for her, a pea shoot is, well, the fashionable cat’s mouse.

So you can imagine my surprise the day I decided to cook that week’s bounty of pea shoots.

I yanked them out of the fridge with a dramatic flourish and waved them at Grace the Cat. “Pea shoots for dinner,” I announced, grinning at her.

She stared right through them at me. Unrelenting disapproval. Stern outright disbelief.

“What’s your problem?” I asked. “You love pea shoots!”

She didn’t move. Just glared. I stuck them under her nose. She continued to glare at me as she strategically moved her head back.

I looked at the pea shoots. “Well, they do look different this week.” Yes, kind of like an entire species different, but I wasn’t going to say that.

Grace the Cat looked at me like I was an idiot. She is no fool. She knows when something is a pea shoot. And when it is not. Still they had to be eaten.

I tried the dogs next. They examined the suspect pea shoots with long, strained faces and then looked at me like I’d done something embarrassing and disappointing to their tummies.

“Lot you know,” I sniffed. “I admit they look a little weird.” I hesitated, but I’m thrifty and I’d bought them so I’d eat them.

Unless I could pawn them off on the cat. I waved them at her again. Nope.

I cooked those suckers for two dinners. Both were miserable: the suspect pea shoots were lank, bitter, limp, and tough, like spinach gone off the deep end. I sighed and ate it. Both nights the dogs and cat completely avoided me. I thought about how they just didn’t like pea shoots anymore, and about how right they were. They’d known something about that batch that I didn’t.

That weekend at the Farmers’ Market I stopped at my favorite greens vendor. Spring, you know, time for good things.

I stared down at duplicates of the pea shoots I’d suffered through. “What is that stuff?” I asked. “I thought it was pea shoots.”

“Mizuna,” she said, patiently. I think she flinches when she see me coming, but she’s always nice, and I always buy. Not sure what, apparently.

“Mi what ah?” I asked.

“Mizuna. It’s a green.”

“Well, I know that,” I said. It was green. Now, how to ‘fess up with the least embarrassment. “Should you cook it?” I asked innocently.

Shocked, she said in a strained voice, “Oh, don’t do that. Cooking makes it limp. And bitter.”

I giggled. For once the bad food wasn’t my cooking. It was mi what ah. I knew I shouldn’t have cooked it, but I’m not much of a predator, and I just didn’t know if it would fight back harder if I tried to eat it raw.

“I noticed that,” I said. “I sort of accidentally cooked it.”

She was shocked, like nobody could be that dumb. She was also disappointed in me. Like Grace the Cat in her stoic cat way.

“Oh, you shouldn’t do that,” the farmer said.

Good words to hear before I’d suffered through two miserable dinners.

Thing is, I wouldn’t have had to hear them if I’d just paid attention to my kids. The dogs, that goofy cat, they knew.

So now I’m a reformed shopper at the West Seattle Farmers’ Market. The vendors tend to explain things to me as they’re putting them in my bag: this is pea shoots, this is spinach, whatever. People in line shake their heads and sigh. But at least I get home safely. With food we kind of know how to eat.

Food that gets vetted by Grace the Cat.

Which is why I’m sticking to things the cat likes. Pea sprouts (certified by the farmer). Meat. Blueberry muffins. Cheese doodles. Salad. Corn bread, even though mine is more skanky than home on the range.

Because I guess I hit menopause and I’m not so home on the range. But there’s this cool grass I grow on the deck for the kids. They love it, so it must be good. Don’t have to cook it. Cool.

The Alchemy of Grief: 50 Years Later

November 1, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

In Memoriam: Randall Ray Fritz, July 26, 1947 – November 1, 1961.

Years ago, I couldn’t imagine that today would ever occur.

Today, it’s been 50 years. What to make of them?

In October 1961 my grandparents came out from Montana to visit. My oldest brother, Randy, was sick, in and out of the hospital, and in those days, it was a long drive to Salem from our small Oregon home town. So far, in fact, that in September Randy moved to Salem to live with our grandparents during the week, so he could attend Catholic high school.

Just like that, Randy got sick.

I remember the last time I saw him. He was in the hospital, pale and thin beneath the covers. Alert.

I was just a kid. Naïve. Trusting. Sheltered. Optimistic. Like all kids and many adults I was uncomfortable visiting the hospital. And I didn’t know why Randy was there and couldn’t come home.

All I knew was that I had always adored my older brother, which is not the same thing as always liking him. But the sun rose and set on Randy. Even when we talked about death in school—because Catholics, at least, only talk about dying, from getting ready to die to actually doing it—I used to think that everyone could die, even my parents.

But not Randy. No, Randy would never die.

All those years ago, I didn’t know what it meant to be intuitive. I just remember what hit me in those last few moments, before we left that day. The last day I saw my brother alive.

Surrounded by family, Randy looked over at me, held out his hand, and as I reached out and held his, our eyes met. In that moment, I knew.

Randy was dying. And he knew it. In that shared moment he said goodbye.

I was too stunned to do anything but stare at him in shock.

I don’t remember when that last day was. Sometime in late October the doctors told my parents that Randy had leukemia and would die in six weeks to six months. He was gone in less than a week.

Sometime in those last days the doctors also asked my parents to allow them to use Randy as a guinea pig. Literally. They need drug trials on a promising drug that wouldn’t help Randy, but might help others in the future.

My dad was a pharmacist. He knew from drugs. My parents agreed.

That last morning my Grandma Fritz sobbed at the kitchen table while my younger brother and I played. When asked, over and over, why she was crying, she simply said she felt sorry for Randy. It didn’t make any sense to me. Nothing did.

I had no context. Why would it make sense?

Later, we were called in from playing. I was taking off my shoes when my mom walked over to me and blurted it out.

“Your brother went to heaven an hour ago.”

I stared at her in confused, stunned silence until it sunk in. I burst into tears. In some ways I have not stopped crying all these years later.

My brother’s death destroyed my family. There’s no other way to put it. My parents … when I think of them I think of impossible grief. Of two people who’d survived a world war, created a good business in a small rural community, raised their kids to be honest citizens, anticipated a future bright with promise, and lost their oldest child in a matter of days to a disease they’d never really heard of.

On November 1, 1961.

My parents never recovered. Sure, they laughed again, they raised us, they staggered on. To a degree. With pain like that you have two choices: to grieve and move on, or to block yourself emotionally. I’m not sure which is the easiest, but they chose to be blocked. Because of that, two little kids didn’t just lose a brother that day.

I think now everyone must have known that Randy was dying except the children. Everyone had time to prepare, except for my younger brother and me. I think even Randy had time to prepare. They never told him he was dying. But I know he knew. I knew that day.

The community rallied around us. Food arrived. Friends and family and strangers flocked to the funeral home. To the funeral. There were so many flowers that the smell overwhelmed me, and, after being forced to touch Randy’s cold, stiff hand as we stared at him in his coffin, the flowers choked me and I turned and raced away as fast as I could, with my uncle running behind me trying to help. He did. But I re-live that nightmare every time I walk into a florist shop. I can’t stand the smell of carnations.

So here’s another story. For several years the community had been raising money to buy land to build a Catholic high school. That school was dedicated two years later, in 1963. My brother and I graduated from it, as did my nephews.

In their shock and grief my parents sought comfort. They decided to scrimp and save and donate $5,000 to the building fund for the school chapel, built in Randy’s memory. It was still there several years ago, at my nephews’ graduation. Once I learned the truth of that chapel, I never cared about it again. My parents had given the money they thought they would spend on Randy’s college education to build that chapel—to somehow make his death mean something, to ease their sorrow, I don’t know. Some people respected them for it. Others decided that if we had that kind of money to give away, then we didn’t need their business.

I know this sounds bitter. Really, it’s ironic. It’s all part of community, isn’t it? The not so nice part that you can sometimes understand because community isn’t perfect. It’s a whole lot of work. Even when it doesn’t work.

I didn’t get to say goodbye to my brother. I carried that pain and grief for years, the fear, that many kids have, that petty jealousies somehow cause our stricken sibling to die. That took years to get over. It makes me really useful to kids who are dealing with that now, because I know exactly what they’re feeling, even if they won’t say it. But I can tell them. And their parents. I can tell them to talk to each other. To hold on.

But for me, truly, it took a dog, and a dog’s well-lived life, to let the grief go. It took creating a family of my own, and seeing family beyond humans, to heal that grief.

It took expanding community to include all life, and working to build it. It took the ongoing work of creating a community with all life—that’s what I do, however I can, in fits and starts.

And healing took a goddess, but that’s another story.

Here’s the thing about grief.

Grief teaches us about all things. From grief we learn hatred. I learned to hate god. On the day we buried Randy I decided that a god who would allow my brother to die was not a god I could respect, or love, or acknowledge. Despite years of being a devout Catholic, and finally being brave enough to leave, I’ve held on to that. Call me stubborn. And consistent. And … whatever works for you.

Grief teaches us fear. If we can lose someone we love, then why risk it? Close the door and hide.

Grief teaches us compassion. Again, you can choose to block life, like my parents did, or you can choose to move on, which is what I did, eventually. Compassion helps our hearts to cry while allowing others to cry with us. Compassion gives us the freedom to reach beyond the hurt to build community. Like my parents did with that chapel.

Grief teaches us love. If I had not been hardened by grief I would not have melted with love. If I had not defied my old community, the one of faith and religion and limitations and petty jealousies and extraordinary generosity and everyday comradeship, I would not have my new community. It means everything to me.

Without grief I would not now be a citizen of the world. I would not now be an intuitive who can talk with all beings, from animals to businesses to homes, to the land and waters and weather around us. I would not now be able to offer compassion to all life.

I would not now have the crystal Fallon as my partner.

There were many things I had to re-learn in the lives that led us back to each other: Fallon, the citrine Lemurian quartz who was rejected around the world, and the lonely lost girl whose invincible adored brother died.

I had to learn the alchemy of grief.

Alchemy is magic. Transformation. The changing of one thing to another.

Given a chance, grief becomes love.

That’s what I finally learned today. The day I realized that it’s been 50 years since my brother died.

Today I learned the alchemy of grief.

So here, 50 years later, I can finally say the tears have stopped. I have moved on. It’s done now. It has been. It’s just time to say it.

Yes, today I finally get to say goodbye to my brother.

Randy, thank you for taking a drug that couldn’t save you, but is now saving so many lives. Thank you for making methotrexate possible. They use it for rheumatoid arthritis now, and at one time it helped our dad as it is now helping a dear friend; it also helped a college student I knew years ago recover from the leukemia that killed you.

Randy, thank you for being my brother.

Randy, thank you for whatever it was we learned together.

Randy, thank you for saying goodbye to me.

Goodbye, Randy.

Phoning Home: What Women Should Do About Obscene Phone Callers

October 28, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

Unfortunately, I think what most women have in common is an obscene phone caller. We’ve either had it happen to us or to someone we know.

But I have a new way of dealing with it. Won’t you help?

An Obscene Phone Caller Strikes

My most recent experience with an obscene phone caller was shocking and unsettling in a way I never anticipated. Comcast had just installed wireless internet for me, and activated telephone functions I had never bothered with: one was Caller ID.

The call came one evening. I answered, and the man on the other end literally went off on me. Gross.

I hung up on him.

He called back several times over the next few days. I know because I learned what Caller ID was all about. One time, he left a beyond pornographic grunting message that was so appalling I had to cover my ears (not being smart enough to simply turn off the answering machine). Worse, I felt exposed and vulnerable.

My friends insisted I call the police.

Well, years ago I’d had a similar, less pornographic experience. The police came out and sympathized while not commenting on how people should protect themselves if the caller showed up in person. The phone company advised me to shout, “I’ve got your number and I’ll see you in court.” I tried that: it worked.

This time, years of technology intervened.

The Victim Strikes Back

I called the phone company. They taught me how to find phone messages (no wonder people had been complaining about unreturned phone calls) and to how to block a caller. They also urged me to call the police.

So I did. From the nonemergency number I was directed to 911. The 911 dispatcher asked if I’d saved the message left on my recorder.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “I was not going to bed with that message on my machine. But I do have his phone number.” (At last, technology works for me!)

The dispatcher wanted to know what I wanted to do. He wanted to send a police officer to file an official complaint.

What did I want to do about this man? Honest, I thought about it. The answer came quickly, unexpectedly, and was totally right.

“I want you to call his mother,” I said.

“Ma’am, we can’t do that,” the dispatcher responded.

“You asked me what I wanted, and I want you to call his mother. I bet a lot of this stuff would stop if these creeps’ mothers knew what they were doing.”

“We can’t do that.”

“Well, you should,” I said reasonably and calmly. I was so right. “Besides, I’ve got his number, you should trace that back to him and find his mother.”

“Ma’am, I’m sending an officer to talk with you.”

The Police (Sort of) Step In … and On Themselves

And he did. Less than ten minutes later one of the tallest men I’d ever seen showed up at my door, in full uniform, including a gun. Honestly, he was so big I was intimidated. And his gun—what if it accidentally fired and hit one of my kids?

We talked. I gave him the obscene phone caller’s number.

He stared at it, shaking his head. “These guys are idiots.”

“No kidding,” I said. “But tell me, since everybody but me knows about Caller ID, did he do it on purpose, so I could find him, or is he just an idiot?”

“Hmm,” the officer said. “How do you think he found you?”

“The phone book?” I said. “How do I know? I do have websites, it could be the Internet.”

And here came the second shocker. The officer’s face twitched knowingly and a brief smirk flitted across it. “Oh, you’re on the Internet,” he said.

Granted, I’m an intuitive and hear things I shouldn’t, but you didn’t need to be a psychic to know what he was thinking. I don’t jump to conclusions, but his were written all over his face.

I was furious, but went deadly quiet. “I am a respectable businesswoman. I do not run a pornographic site.”

He had the grace to flinch and flush. But he didn’t apologize.

He filed a police report. Gave me a case number. Said the police in Oklahoma, where the phone was registered, would check it out. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

How Women Can Take Charge of Obscenity: Call Their Mothers!

Technology has such a large reach now that they can police anything. Find anyone. Anywhere. Sobering. But not real comforting. It isn’t solving our problems, like obscene phone callers. And it wasn’t what I wanted.

“What do you want us to do?” the officer asked. Again.

“I want you to call his mother. I want her to know what a creep she raised. I want her to stop him.”

He assured me that the police couldn’t do that.

Too too bad.

Really, wouldn’t respectability solve a lot of things? At least good manners?

Would wars end because women stood up and refused to send their children to fight?

Would thieves and bad bankers and bad mortgage lenders and bad businesses think twice about whatever crap they were pulling?

Would obscene phone callers be forever silenced if their mothers knew what they were doing?

Sure, some mothers don’t care. Some mothers aren’t really mothers, or citizens of the planet. But a lot of them are.

And more women are like me: sisters, aunts, cousins, friends.

So here you go. All you women out there, talk to your kids, to all the kids you know, about manners. Weirdness. Obsessions.

Telephone abuse.

Granted, our kids don’t always grow up to be good guys. But every woman out there has to try to teach them what it means to be good citizens and neighbors. Set an example of community, compassion, integrity, and simple politeness.

It isn’t that hard. Won’t you help?

Call their mothers. Embarrass all of them.

Stand up for your planet. Your country. Your neighbors.

Do right by your kids.

Make the rest of us proud.

Choosing Our Way in the New Economy

October 15, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

He didn’t mean to make me smile.

He had been loitering by my shopping cart.

We were both stocking up on office supplies. I was, as usual, simply exhausted by the choices. Wouldn’t life be easier if we didn’t have so much to choose from?

Think about it. I do. A lot. Even choosing a donut is fraught with anxiety: should it be raspberry filled, triple chocolate peanut butter, lemon glazed, or pistachio cream cheese?

With so many options, is it a really a donut, or a lifestyle choice?

Okay, maybe donuts are a lifestyle choice, but, really, isn’t it less stressful, less complicated, and equally satisfying to order coffee and a cruller than a caramel macchiato and a blueberry coconut cake donut? While we’re standing there, weighing our choice as if it really mattered, have we done one thing to connect with the people around us, made one step towards building community?

Yesterday in the office supply store the choices weren’t nearly as delectable as donuts. From the store’s towering shelves to the competing bins of goods it was confusing, tiring, and boring. I needed supplies to keep my business running and I’d had a traumatic few weeks. Which is to say I had a lot on my mind and it wasn’t just donuts and office supplies.

I was headed back to my chock full shopping cart when I saw him.

Mid-thirties, clean cut, he stepped away from my cart as he caught my eye and shyly waved at my cart. “I was leaving you something.”

He shrugged sheepishly, then walked back to my cart, picked something up off my stack, and handed it to me. “I thought you could use this.”

It was a coupon for $30 off a $150 purchase.

I laughed and thanked him. We smiled at each other and he left.

Just like that, the day got a whole lot better.

This is the thing I like about the new economy. Yes, it seems like people are a whole lot meaner and greedier. Fear seems to have stripped many of us down to some desperate level where we run right over anyone, or anything, we even suspect might be in our way.

But even more people are paying attention and reaching out to connect, even as simply as handing a shy smile and a $30 coupon to a frazzled stranger.

Those are the things that keep me going. I’m still overwhelmed by the choices in things we can buy. Fewer choices would be simpler, but it might not be better. Don’t know.

What I do know is that sometimes the choices are simple. As easy as handing a stranger a coupon and getting a smile back.

These are the choices I’m liking in the new economy: how we’re finding simpler ways to connect.

What are you choosing?

Living on the Planet of Awesome and Forever

October 6, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

I live on the Planet of Awesome and Forever.

I have proof.

Sometimes my planet is real and physical: I revel in the sun and rain, the dark and stormy, the people and the beings who make me laugh and think while challenging me to be my best, no matter what.

Always my planet is a state of mind, clear in the choice of love over fear.

Love drives the Planet of Awesome and Forever. There are a lot of us here. It’s time for everyone else to join us. Here’s why.

I keep hearing how bad things are out there, how desperate people are, how survival means anything goes.

Well, anything does not go. Not on the Planet of Awesome and Forever. Here’s what that means for me.

In many ways 2011 has been a wonderful year for me: I won a prestigious national award for my book, I launched a new kind of intuitive consultation practice—a partnership with my crystal, Fallon—and I’ve met fascinating new people on their own amazing journeys. It’s been both humbling and exciting.

I’ve also faced stunning difficulties:

a virulent flu that derailed most of my year
a crisis that both complicates and enlightens my future
people who learned from me and then stole my work
people who expected me to work for free while they paid themselves (welcome to the new feudalism)
negligent and uneducated vets who endangered my dogs

So here’s what I did:

I took time to get well.
I looked for alternatives that make life easier for me and for my family.
I turned some matters over to an attorney.
I strengthened my resolve to model compassionate, thoughtful interactions.
I continued to quietly build a business that enriches my life as it serves an enlightened community.
I’m bringing the vets up on charges. Oh, you better believe that one!

And here’s what happened, just in the last few weeks.

I am finding answers that are healthy and make sense.
I discovered attorneys can be a good thing, and that controversy can both enlighten and strengthen.
I decided that if I’d had a choice 20 years ago, I’d still choose the pain and limitations of being disabled and having to reinvent a life over being an asshole and a thief and never finding my path.
If you open yourself up to love, fear just bounces the hell off:
- I’ve made wonderful new friends who think my intuitive practice with a partner who’s a crystal is intriguing, fun, and worthwhile.
- Neighbors came running to help my recovering dog.
- A close friend whose mother is dying raced to the vet ER and massaged a painful kink out of my shoulder.
- A dear friend who is undergoing her own family crisis cheerfully bathed my stinking dogs in exchange for a home-cooked meal.
- Two wonderful vets who love my dogs expertly cared for them.
- I finally met my eldest dog’s ‘grandma,’ and we’ll be celebrating life, love, and Cavaliers with her and her family next week, on what will be my multi-species family’s 13^th anniversary together.

Life is awesome!

Choosing Love Over Fear in a Practical World

Here’s what I know. Choosing love over fear doesn’t solve all our problems, because we won’t always agree. But choosing love does model our choices.

My experiences this year have sobered and intrigued me. What I and so many people see out there is troubling and encouraging. Troubling, because serious problems exist. Encouraging because many people are choosing healthy, compassionate ways to explore and resolve them.

We urgently need to define community, whether it’s our work or our social life. How do we want to live together, and how will we?

Make no mistake: living on the Planet of Awesome and Forever is not naïve. It is not turning a blind eye to the problems. It recognizes the increasing hostility in our society, the strange personal and business meltdowns that are justified in the name of survival. The disquiet is everywhere. I’m not the only one who’s noticed.

Make note: it is not only humans who are concerned. Remember, I work as a professional intuitive, I talk with all manner of beings, and they, too, are advocating change.

It’s time for change.

The first change is a truth check:

Anything goes does not work.
None of us will survive if ‘survival’ defines our lives.

So here’s a plan:

Quit counting the desperation.
Start counting the awesome.

Here are my awesomes.

I have the world’s greatest family: a woman, two dogs, and a cat are proving that we’ll always be a family, in body or not, because on the Planet of Awesome and Forever love endures.

If we have to have bad days to get to the good ones, then we will. And we’ll make them count. Because there’s no other real, practical, inspiring choice than love. It’s awesome. And forever.

We live on the Planet of Awesome and Forever:

Where nothing is too hard or too much work or too painful
Where all beings are held responsible for their choices: firmly, compassionately, clearly
Because love and truth are always, always awesome and forever

It’s time to take back love, and community. It’s time to stand up for what’s right, to dig deep into conflict with patience and respect and compassion.

It’s time.

Come join us on the Planet of Awesome and Forever.

It’s your planet, too.

How an Eagle Kachina Accidentally Helped Build a Community

September 29, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

My mom loved Southwest art. My dad loved my mom. I loved them. When the eagle kachina dropped into our lives, I was greedily snatching as much time with them as I could, building memories.

One day my dad called and said he’d found an art piece for mom. “Not like yours,” he said wryly.

“Oh, bummer,” I said.

We both giggled, remembering the day years before when I’d announced that I’d bought my first art piece. “Does it have horses?” he’d asked. Of course it did.

“So what is it, Indian stuff?” I asked now, referring to mom’s penchant for all things Southwest, right down to their interior décor.

“Of course,” he said. “But it’s big, so when you come down for Christmas will you take me to get it?”

“Absolutely.” I was touched, my parents never asked for much.

A Family’s Last Holiday

So at Christmas that year, I drove dad downtown to pick up his gift for mom. We got it safely home and unwrapped it together, while Dad told me the story of how they found it. Dad was crippled with rheumatoid arthritis, so it fell to me to giftwrap it, ironic, since he had taught me the art of giftwrapping when I worked for him in his business.

We didn’t quite know what to make of this art piece: about two feet wide and tall, it was a copper sculpture, partly painted turquoise, with a curious mixture of human and really big bird. We knew it was the artist’s representation of native American art and spirituality, but that was it: we were appreciative, but ignorant, barbarians.

Eagle Kachina, the tag said. Expensive and hard to wrap, I thought, and not my taste.

But it was clearly my mom’s. Christmas Eve she ripped off my lumpy wrapping and spent the next week dragging Mr. Eagle Guy, as we called it, around the house, trying to decide where to hang it.

I reveled in that Christmas. I got to help my dad give a gift to my mom. I got to listen to my mom babble about it. And I got to share a small family moment with my parents, a moment where we celebrated and had fun together, glorying in the family bond. In community.

As it turned out, it was also the last Christmas I shared with my parents. My dad died in June, and my mom 10 months later.

The Eagle Kachina Comes Home … Sort Of

When we closed up their home, my brother and I sorted out who got what. I insisted on taking Mr. Eagle Man, not because I really liked it, but because it was a concrete reminder of a wonderful last holiday with my parents, at a time when illness and disability dulled all three of us.

No question the piece came home to live with me.

Years went by. Years when I moved the piece around the house. It was beautiful, yes, but not my taste.

It also didn’t belong in my home.

Things like this happen. However they end up with us, the objects in our life don’t always fit. Sometimes we change, or they do, and it’s time for them to move on. The trick is to recognize that and to figure out what happens next.

Truth is, the eagle kachina never fit in my home. These days I work as a professional intuitive, which means I talk with things, from animals to businesses, homes, nature, and, yes, objects, including this piece. Back then I only knew that the piece was sentimental but just plain felt odd to me. It didn’t belong with me. Finally acknowledging that, I thanked it for its service to my family, and asked it to start looking for a new home, while also promising that I would not simply discard it. It was beautiful, full of family memories, and also represented an artist’s vision of a sacred object. It needed to call, and be called, home. Wherever home was.

It stayed with me for a long time, because no matter what I did, I couldn’t find out anything about the piece or the artist, or how to properly, well, rehome it. Not surprising, I guess, because it had been years, and the artist might have moved on, literally and artistically.

The Search for Home

Years went by.

One day, my new friend Tara came by. I was showing her my small condo, and she took one look at the eagle kachina and said, “When you’re ready to sell that, let me know.”

Hmm.

She told me that she collects Southwest art, and she thought my piece would fit well with a large metal sculpture that she’d purchased several years before. She’s a real estate agent and a Reiki master with an easy strong intuition, so when she said she wanted the piece, I just smiled.

She suggested that the store she’d bought her large piece from would know how to value it. So I emailed Hogan Trading Company with a picture and a question.

They promptly emailed back: not only could they put a value on it, they represented the artist, Dale J. Anderson. I spent a few minutes exploring his art at their website. Intriguing. After years wondering, all it took to find the artist was a new, visiting friend.

Strange small world. Awesome universe.

More time went by, because truth is, even when special pieces have to go, a part of you still clings to them. The kachina had to go. Talking with the piece, I knew that it belonged with Tara. The kachina and I both needed time to separate from each other: it was as if we’d both been waiting for its new home to show up before we could really say goodbye to each other. There had to be a new community before the old one could end.

Finally, I told Tara to come get it. Even though she’d only seen it once, briefly, months before, she promptly agreed.

I carefully wrapped it and Tara took it home.

Not long after, she called. The eagle kachina fit perfectly in her home: its beauty and its energy felt great. She was thrilled because it went so well with the treasured, large sculpture she’d invested so much in.

The odd extra touch: when she unwrapped it, she discovered the two pieces were by the same artist.

The eagle kachina really was home.

Treasures of Community

Truth is, I could have kept the piece in the family, or put it up for auction, or done any number of things with it. But the only thing I felt right about was honoring my parents’ love and family bond by finding another family that would fit this piece. It needed a community, and I couldn’t let it go without that.

Its home now is with Tara. For me, the circle is complete. I’ve been lucky enough to meet new people in a new community, and the eagle kachina has bridged both of them. It’s home now. And so am I.

Why MY Dogs Aren’t Spoiled–MY Cat Ain’t, Either

August 3, 2011 by Robyn Fritz

Amazing the number of people who scowl and tell me I’m spoiling my animal family.

It flummoxes me. These people, ‘the complainers,’ don’t just turn up their noses at me and my kids. They’re rude about disapproving of people (like me) who treat our animal family as something more than discardable toys, and in public no less.

I’m spoiling my family? Huh. Actually, I’m taking care of them. Like equals.

My eldest dog is cold a lot, so she wears a fleece jacket, indoors and out, during the cool months (a lot of those in Seattle). My younger dog prefers to be cool. The dogs and cat are safely constrained on car trips. They all get quality food and pure water. Cool toys and treats. Clean groomed bodies and comfy beds (often mine). Love and attention. An interesting, stimulating environment. Consideration for their bodies, their minds, their souls.

‘The complainers’ act like ‘spoiling’ is a dirty word. Like the ‘spoilers’ are guilty of some horrible offense.

Like it’s any of their business. Like they have a clue about how to really behave in the world.

So let me tell you. And them.

Treating everyone, human or animal, respectfully as equals is how the world goes from okay to fabulous. It’s how we create a happy balanced planet.

Starting by really getting it that everyone, and everything, has feelings. We can make others, including animals, happy or fearful by how we treat them.

My animal family gets treated as family, as beings who deserve to be respected, made comfortable and pleased. As equals. So what that they’re not human? What matters is that compassion, consideration, attention, and just plain fun aren’t reserved for humans. That we all have space to be animals, and humans, together. Without judgment.

What matters is that we’ve created a family that works for us, that together we’re safe, nurtured, and loved. That we give each other the best chance to be our best, whatever that is. That we pay attention to each other’s needs and interests. Isn’t that common courtesy? Compassion in action? Respect?

If that’s ‘spoiling,’ then let there be spoiling in a world that badly needs it! Starting with the people who don’t get it!

So you frowners and complainers, I hope you don’t have animals in your household. Or, maybe, other humans. Because when I hear you say ‘spoiled’ it sounds like you’re caught in that loop of wearing hair shirts with your perpetual frowns, of suffering through life instead of enjoying it, of making life miserable because it’s somehow supposed to be. Of disrespecting yourselves while you’re disrespecting others. Of not really caring about anything, or anyone, around you as much as you care about your narrow-minded viewpoint. It’s sad, and pointless.

Does minding my business for me make yours that much easier? I hope not!

At our house, everybody’s equal. We learn new things about each other every day. It isn’t always fun, but it’s always worth it. We try to model our respect and compassion in the world. Even for ‘the complainers.’

My dogs, my cat, they ain’t spoiled. They’re respected.

‘Spoiling’ is a dirty word, the way the complainers use it. So don’t. Try a little respect on yourself. You just might find that ‘spoiling’ is word, and a mindset, you’re better off without. The rest of us sure are.