Psychic Reading

"Yin - Yang"

Yin – Yang – Mystery and Knowledge

One of my best friends gave me a psychic reading with Courtney Walsh as a gift.
That’s how I met her.
In my estimation she is a gifted and inspiring psychic. I am grateful to my friend for the gift.
As you’ll see from her piece below, Courtney is also a feisty thing. I like her.
It looks like we might join forces in some of our suicide prevention work, stay tuned.

And now I leave you with Courtney, enjoy.

TALKING STICK

I try not to die now. Every day there is some small effort involved. So now I have this invisible talking stick, a platform, a microphone, a megaphone, this voice and these words. But I didn’t always. I did always have big feelings. I did always have those. So now I SAY it. I don’t swallow it. I got a lot of sore throats as a kid and it felt like swallowing broken glass and I cried a lot. Crocodile tears…”Don’t be so sensitive”. “Stop that pouting.” We are a generation of people for whom sadness or anger were punishable offenses. We talk about compassion and ‘unconditional love’ and kindness like they are the holy friggin’ grail. Because for us? They are. So I have this talking stick and it gives me the permission I could never give myself. To find this rebelyell, whisperlullaby voice and USE it. Words…writing and speaking became my early salvation, my liberation, navigation, my magic carpet of freedom. So I wrote them down and I swallowed them down and shut it all down. Until I woke it all up…by trying to die. To go home. To check out. To be? DONE. But me and this body, see…we’re clearly not done yet. We have things to do, places to be, people to see. And I mean really? SEE. I don’t hate it now anymore. Life. My body. My own brain. Do I wish it were thinner…smaller….that it took up less room, that my gray matter swirled and twirled a bit less? Sometimes. Still sometimes, yes. “Stand up, shoulders back, chin up, lipstick on……smile.” “Don’t think so much…just be: pretty, nice, obedient.” A good girl. A good person. A good sister. A good daughter. A good student. Good. Forget good. Give me great. Our mother was a model, a beauty queen, a drill sergeant of posture and pink foam curlers. My mom and me. We’d fight like feral animals in the night. Fanged and fierce. Like giants in the sky, Titans throwing thunderbolts, demons burning each other with the pitchforks of words we left unsaid. Clawing. Thrashing. Crashing. Freezing each other out. Turf wars of love and hate and control and guilt and blame and disapproval and competition and jealousy. And so many years were lost in translation, hormones, religious fear conditioning, trying and failing… of hiding and drifting apart like continents and I often do still wonder how I ever managed 9 months in that particular zip code. But this is a not a “blame the mama” game or a Freudian kinda thing. Cuz I am one of those New Ager ragers who believes, nay, KNOWS that I picked my parents. Out of a celestial lineup. Off a cosmic genetic menu. I chose them and really I chose so well. I chose the ones who would make me? ME. Who gave me this body that for so many years I wanted to shrink or wished would just…disappear into dust again. Flesh seemed so…heavy. Bones seemed so dense. But these middle-class, middle-aged teenagers who always seemed 19 or 20 to me, (even when I was 19 myself), gave me this gorgeous-scary mind that twists and turns and seeks the light…always… even though it has known the kind of darkness that makes it want to die. They gave me this body where every hair and fingernail always knows exactly what to do. Grow. So really if I am honest…with myself and you…I guess a really good day is now when I think more about living and thriving and helping others remember that divine shine and honor fully their humanity and I slide less into thoughts about dying or surviving. Scratching out a living is no way to live. It’s just not. And I have far more of them, good days, than ever before. And I don’t get sore throats anymore. When I talk, the words don’t stick in my throat. And I don’t actually need a talking stick or anyone’s permission to be? ME. And neither do you. But give it to yourself anyway. Claim it. Walk it. Breathe it. Stay. You’re not done yet either. Whoever you are. You got stuff to do. People to see. Life to embody. Love to give and receive and BE. No…WE are not done yet. Far from it. We have many miles before that great sleep of total forgetting, or the lift of all amnesia. But the will to live? No I don’t have core strength in that arena. Not like you’d think. I have a will to thrive. A will to love. A will to be great and whole and to ignite that wholeness and full spectrum juicy shadowshine in as many hearts as I can before I go to that great pink foam curler factory in the…sky…or wherever it is. You know what keeps me fueled and feeling fully and passionate and present now? That. That dream of connecting with people. I don’t want to just “be” or to “not think so much” or feel too much. I want to think and feel it ALL and for that to all be: OK. I want to touch people way deep in that hidden away cobwebby dusty place where their inner thriver awaits that knowing to come back, to wake and shake and quake and speak and trust and lust and love and be their fullwild happyraw authenticyummy batshitawesome selves. Beyond their fear, past their pain, underneath their story. I want to hand along the talking stick. To everyone I meet. And I want us all to remember. To remember most of all? That we never really needed it.

Courtney A. Walsh

Dear Courtney,
Thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts.
Love
Esmeralda

http://www.facebook.com/loonybus,
http://www.squeezingthestars.com,
http://www.facebook.com/dearhumancaw

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