Ancestral energy lives in the stars above us, the stones beneath us. Their memory gathers in oceans, rivers and seas. It hums its silent wisdom within the body of every tree.

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

The Graceful Birch

This time last year, a small accident derailed my day-to-day routine. Sometimes, we’re thick, and we don’t/can’t see the full path we’re heading on for what it really is. Sometimes, the universe has to kick us in the face before we can see it and alter our course. Growth, transformation, and evolution are at the heart of my spiritual practice, and I comforted myself with the knowledge that growth comes, even after a painful transition, if we can stay open to accepting it.
I spent the day after the accident going through old family mementos with my dad. In the box, among the cache of old camping photos, taken by my Great-Grandma Minnie, we found a piece of white birch bark, a lone keepsake among photos, pamphlets, brochures, recipes and news articles.
That find meant a great deal to me. Birch is my favorite tree. In my parent’s kitchen, I held a piece of the past, a pale piece of birch placed among collected bits, treasured enough to keep forever. Did my Great-Grandma Minnie pick it up? Was it a gift to her from one of her children on a family adventure? Was it something she loved instinctively, too?
That bark now sits among my treasures. Birch is a tree that we have attributed symbols of growth to over history. The Norse rune Beorc, named for the tree, means growth, and is one of my personal talismans. I have been meditating this last year on birch, pushing forward for my own healing and renewal, moving towards wellness.
Against the dark grey of seasonal winter, the white birch stands out in the forest like bones jutting from the earth. As they age, their bark splits and peels and curls away in beautiful rippling edges. If you have never seen an elderly birch tree, you haven’t experienced the full truth of their wisdom; that what is no longer needed gets sloughed away. I have seen birch trees bowed down by ice after storms. They bend but they bend under great weight. They bend but they do not break. Many old folktales say the birch was cut by an angry old man because it refused his command to break and fall.
I have leaned against a young sapling, and rested my weight against it. After a time, I could feel the slightest shudder of vibration, as if the tree beneath me were breathing. And I knew that ripple was the wind swaying the tree top, resonating down the trunk and against my chest. The tree folk have a rhythm of breath all their own and a stillness that I try to carry with me.
Peace, gratitude, growth, adaptation, evolution… these are the qualities I learn from the birch tree, a deciduous member of the Betulaceae family, native to temperate and boreal climates in the Northern Hemisphere. As one of the first trees to seed and spread after the receding ice glaciers, botanists refer to it as a pioneer species. It is often one of the first trees to seed and grow after disastrous fires, creating essentially pure stands of birch. After a generation, they are usually replaced by more shade-tolerant conifers or stronger hardwoods, and when they die, their bodies and fallen leaves will further nourish the recovering soil. There are so many birches in Umea, Sweden that it is called “The City of the Birches.” A devastating fire swept the city in June of 1888, and left 2,300 of the 3,000 inhabitants homeless. When the city was rebuilt, the buildings were placed further apart and silver birches were planted widely between buildings, so they might halt the spread of fire in the future.
There are sixty species of birch and they can grow up to 80 feet tall. Properly cultivated, they can live up to 140 years, though silver birches in the wild rarely live past 80 years. Currently, the oldest birch tree in the world is 101 years old in Wageningen, Netherlands. Each birch tree is male and female, carrying both the slender, male, drooping catkins, and the short, conical, wooly clusters of female flowers.
Birch bark is marked with long horizontal lenticels, making it quite distinctive and easily identified. The lightweight, chalky white outer bark is easily separated into thin strips. The bark is strong and flexible, as well as water-resistant, and can be bent, cut, and sewn, like cardboard. Full of resinous oil, birch bark is slow to decay, lending to it an air of indestructibility. Removing bark from a living tree leaves a permanent black band on the trunk, which will not harm the tree as long as this band is undamaged. Still, bark should always be removed from fallen trees first.
Birch bark was used as material for canoes, wigwams and other shelters, scrolls and writing paper, instruments, boxes and baskets, and even shoes and clothing by the indigenous peoples of North America, Northern Europe, Scandinavia, Russia, and Siberia. The water-resistant properties of it made it a valuable material in roofing. It is a good source of firewood, for whether it is frozen or freshly cut, it burns without spitting or popping. It even burns well when wet, because of the kind of and amount of oil it contains. In March, cuts can be made to the birch tree, from which thin sugary sap is collected, half as sweet as maple syrup. Moderate tapping will not harm the tree. Birch wine and other cordials are made from this syrup.

The word birch is said to derive from the Sanskrit word bhurga, meaning “tree whose bark is used to write upon.” It is also said to come from the Germanic birka with the Proto-Indo-European root bhereg, meaning “white, bright; to shine.” Where these language roads may overlap, I cannot say. The Germanic rune berkanan, or beorc, is named for the birch tree, which is known by many folk-names: Beithe, Bereza, Berke, Beth, and Bouleau. The tree has a prominent position in the history of Anglo-Saxon place names, like Birkenhead, Birkhall, and Berkhamstead, showing most commonly in Northern England and Scotland. The Gaelic word for birch, beithe, pronounced “bey”, is seen in Highland place names like Glen an Beithe in Argyll, Beith in Sutherland, and Loch a Bhealaich Bheithe in Inverness-shire.
            The birch is one of the earliest trees to bloom in the spring and as such, it embodies the energies of growth in general, but especially regrowth after destruction. To the Celtic people, birch represented inception and new beginnings. Twigs were used in May, at Beltane celebrations, to light bonfires marking the beginning of the new season. In October, at the festivals of Samhain, bundles of twigs were used to drive out the spirits of the old year. At Winter Solstice in December, birch brooms were used to sweep the house the morning after the longest night of the year, clearing the way for renewal. Birch was often used as a Yule log.
            Beltane bonfires in Scotland were made of a combination of birch and oak. Birch was often chosen as the maypole tree for the festivities, and was sometimes used as a living maypole. Scottish Highland folklore says that a barren cow driven with a birch stick will become fertile; a pregnant cow will birth a healthy calf.
            Birch was the Germanic tree of wisdom, and the holy tree of Frigga, the Mother goddess and wife of Odin. Frigga is associated with the Welsh owl goddess Blodeuwedd, and the barn owl is a familiar of hers. Birch, used in rune divination, known as beorc or bfarkan, is associated with Freya, the lady of the forest and goddess of fecundity. It is associated with the planet Venus, and all goddesses of love, like Freya and Frigga.
Birches were used to ward off evil spirits. Birch twigs were used to beat the energy left behind by witches out of the house. Twigs can also be used to gently strike a person or animal possessed by an evil spirit and drive it from them in exorcism. In its association with the dead and the Underworld a folk ballad from the 17th century, “The Wife of Usher’s Well,” tells of a woman’s sons returning from the Underworld in clothing made of birch: “It fell about the Martinmas,/ When nights are lang and mirk,/ The carline wife’s three sons came hame,/ And their hats were o’ the birk./ It neither grew in skye nor ditch,/ Nor yet in ony sheugh;/ But at the gates o’ Paradise/ That birk grew fair enough.”
            In Siberia, the Birch tree was considered to be the axis of the world. Siberian shamans hung other dead shamans in birch trees. They left the dead to the elements. The dead spirit would use the birch as a doorway to spirit world, and as a means of return when he was petitioned for guidance. Among the Eskimo of the Gold Coast, shamanic teachers climb birch trees, circling the trunk nine times to represent his ascent into Upper World. His students will each do so in turn.
In some Ojibwe communities, birch bark was a sacred gift from Wenabozho, a cultural hero and they buried their dead in bark wrappings. Birch bark rolls depict the symbols of the Grand Medicine Society of the Ojibwa and are a treasured possession According to other Ojibwe folklore, lightning won’t strike birch trees.

Birch is used in furniture making. The wood is heavy, tough and contains a straight grain that makes it perfect for handles and toys. It was used to manufacture anything that required turning, like hardwearing bobbins, spools, reels, and herring-barrel staves. In the country, lighter birch twigs were used as thatching, to make brooms, and for wattle-fencing. Baby cradles were traditionally made from birch, as a means of protection from fey folk.
J.C. Loudon wrote in his Encyclopedia of Trees and Shrubs, in 1842, that the Highlanders of Scotland used birch for much of their household and farming production, and general building materials. They used the branches as fuel in distilling whiskey. The Scottish used the spray to smoke ham and herring, which was preferred against any other kind of wood. The bark was used to tan leather, and was sometimes twisted in rope to be used in the place of candles. The spray was used for thatching and dried in the summer with the leaves to be used as a bed when heath was scarce.

The leaves of the birch are both an antiseptic and a diuretic. The infusion, having a bitter taste, has been used to treat gout, rheumatism, dropsy, and mild arthritic pain, as well as urinary tract infections, specifically cystitis. Taken over a few weeks, birch leaf tea will detoxify and stimulate the gall bladder, kidneys, and liver. Cooled, it can be massaged into the scalp to accelerate hair growth.
Native Americans used bark tea for fevers, stomachache, and lung ailments. Birch bark and twigs have similar properties to Wintergreen and can be drunk to aid purification of the blood. It’s a good body tonic, helping the bowels with conditions of diarrhea, dysentery, and cholera infantum. In history, it was used to expel worms from the body. Taken internally, the tea can be just as helpful for skin ailments like warts, boils, and sores, as well as when it is used as an external wash for skin eruptions. Cover the bark in water, boil until it softens and mash it with a hammer or pestle into a paste. This can be used to apply to sores, abrasions, and inflammations on a daily basis until healed.
            The salicylates in the bark and the essential oil ease sore muscles and joint pain when applied externally. The oil soothes irritated joints and actively decreases the inflammation. Massage it in to relieve stiffness and reduce pain. The oil has a high concentration of acid that repels mosquitoes and gnats. Mix 25 drops with 4 ounces of water in a spray bottle for a natural bug repellent. The inner bark is bitter and astringent and has been used as a remedy for intermittent fevers.
            Birch trees have intentionally been planted in waste areas, like old mines and toxic ground. The birch is believed to purify the ground in the same way it can purify the body, paving the way for nature to return. When the birch dies, it’s own body will nourish and cleanse the soil beneath it. I don’t know if that is true or not, that the birch can cleanse a soil so quickly, but I do believe the birch to be a great Way-Maker. In my own life, it has seen me through new growth and challenges. In meditation with birch, I have learned to bend with change instead of breaking beneath it.

  • It takes 25 years for a silver birch to bear fruit.
  • The name Macbeth is derived from the word birch.
  • Beithe is first in the Ogham, an Irish tree alphabet.
  • The tree was dedicated to Brigit, the goddess of inspiration, healing, and blacksmithing.
  • Gardeners used birch brooms to purify their space.
  • Birch was the personal sacred tree of the Norse god Thor.
  • In Germany, young men would place decorated birch trees in front of the houses of their beloveds on May 1, to reveal their feelings.
  • In some Scandinavian countries, the leafing of the birch tree marked the start of the agricultural year.
  • In Sweden and Lapland, birch sap is used in place of sugar.
  • The Anglo-Saxon goddess of spring, Eostre, was celebrated from Spring Equinox to Beltane with birch trees.
  • In Wales, wreaths of birch were given as love tokens.
  • Birch boughs were placed over cradles and carriages to protect infants from the glamour of the Little People.
  • On St. Stephen’s Day, December 26/27, Robin Red Breast used a birch rod to slay the wren in a gorse bush.
  • Many countries make birch wine and beer.
  • Cattle and deer do not like the taste of birch bark, so they leave birch trees alone.
  • In folklore, tying a red ribbon around the stem or branch of a birch tree would ward off the evil eye. 
  • Birch was used for protection against lightning. 
  • The Paper White Birch is the New Hampshire state tree.
  • The Lieschi, or Lesovik, a Slavic Spirit of the Forest, lives in the top of birch trees. He wears a long green beard and casts no shadow, changing his size at will. He hibernates from October until the spring.
  • In Russia, the birch was worshipped as a goddess during Green Week in early June.
  • Russians plant birches outside the home to bring protection.
  • Modern Siberian shamans use birch for the center pole of their yurt, with nine notches carved on it.
  • The thin bark was widely used as writing paper in Northern India. The first written version of the Vedas, ancient Indian wisdom, were written on birch bark.
  • The sap is fermented to make birch wine.
  • Birch bark can be ground down and fermented in sea water to season the sails of Norwegian boats, made of wool, hemp or linen.
  • Baltic birch is sought-after for making speaker cabinets, due to the peaks of high and low resonances.
  • It is sometimes used for acoustic guitars and mallets in keyboard percussion.
  • Books bound in Russian leather, tanned with Oil of Birch Tar, are unlikely to mold. Asphyxiating gases have been sourced from birch wood.
  • Charcoal of birch is used for gunpowder.
  • Many indigenous people linked the birch with the fly agaric mushroom, amanita muscaria, a hallucinogenic mushroom used for spirit journeys, because it seemed to prefer growing beneath birch trees.
  • In saunas, birch twigs are used to ‘beat’ the body to stimulate circulation.
  • A tea of the twigs and bark aids in ridding the mouth of canker sores.
  • Softened birch has been used to form casts for broken arms.
  • The inner bark of the birch can be dried and ground into flour for bread or cut into strips and boiled like noodles in stews. 

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Winter Solstice Wonder: Snow Falling

“They say that every snowflake is different. If that were true, how could 
the world go on? How could we ever get up off our knees? How could we 
ever recover from the wonder of it?”
~ Jeanette Winterson, The Passion

The world we live in is a vibrant kaleidoscope of magic and science, for science is magic that has been placed in boxes; a deconstruction of wonder. It is this place of wonder my spirituality has found me, breaking down those walls of distinction to simply be moved by the beauty of… everything. There are days when I feel like I see the whole world for what it is for perhaps the first time.
Winter is coming to the land that I live on, to the city that I live in. In America, Solstice marks the beginning of our coldest days, which for those of us in the Northeast, usually means snow. It’s an excuse to snuggle down with loved ones and nest in blankets in the shelter of our homes. It’s a reason to pull into ourselves and reflect on what we have gratitude for, and what is important to us.
I also find snow to be quite beautiful.
There is breathtaking wonder in falling snowflakes, in the filigree of crystalline symmetry, as the little frozen worlds slide in to meet each other and catch on edges; each snowflake a delicate crystal. How amazing it is that they fall into each other, hugging and holding on to create something solid and larger than itself. Under a blanket of white, the sleeping earth becomes encased in diamonds of ice.
The sunbeams fall on snow, momentarily blinding our vision and we must reach into other senses. The dancing light flits across the surface of earth, refracting and sharpening in the cold chill of breath. And we smell winter, freezing against our mucus membranes. And we taste winter in the icy cold within our lungs. And every bare particle of flesh feels itself retracting against the frosted air. That is what it means to be alive in snow-drenched winter time. When the sun shines it’s brilliance we forget the cold, if just for a moment, and bask like lizards in the reflective gaze.
On Solstice night, we sit through the longest dark of the year. We’ve watched the days get shorter and we’ve been turning our porch lights on before making dinner. We’ve stood in bursts of sunshine and soaked up the solar vitamins in preparation. Winter may just be beginning, but with its start comes the promise of lengthening days. The air is cold but the sun is warm, a hope that shines through the intruding chill.
            Yet even as I anxiously await the first flurry of snowfall, I see the pattern of the worlds and know that as the darkness retreats, snowmelt will warm with the early spring breezes. It will sink into and feed the ground below us which, in turn, will nourish seedlings so that they might flourish in our gardens. Then plants and flowers will grow in warmer sunlight, to nourish our hearts and bodies.
            All this is wonder, beheld in the beauty of a single snowflake.
            On the longest night, we greet this turning. We greet this movement forward, into a new spring, a breath of freshness in an age-old pattern. What appears to be a never ending circle when viewed from above, is an ever-winding spiral, a journey circling around and moving upward with each turn when seen sideways. It’s a pattern we know, which is how I know that on winter nights, when the moonlight is strong, the fallen snow will shimmer with the reflection of the sky above us. The earth we trod will be awash with fields of glittering stars.
            That starlight lives within us, a spark of ancestral matter. And it is this gift I reflect on most. All the light I need lives within me. All the hope I need is in me. Every day, I hold fast to this truth and let it illuminate my darkness, and hope that someday, others will see their own source-light, too.

            “Your first parent was a star.”
             ~ Jeanette Winterson, Weight: The Myth of Atlas and Heracles

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Experiencing Death VIII: Choosing the Moment

We have an ornament that we hang on our colorfully-decorated tree, in memory of our cat Luna. This is our third holiday season without her. The ornament is a little cream-colored cat with wings and dangling legs. At this time of year, I still find myself looking for her sleeping form beneath the tree. But already the grief has ebbed to longing. That ornament reminds me of the joy Luna brought to our house and that’s what I remember.
The night before she died it was obvious that she wasn’t all right. We had kept an eye on her all day and besides seeming overly tired, the main concern was that she seemed to have difficulty breathing. When I got ready for bed, she was on the couch and she barely responded to me, which was abnormal. Every night before, she would follow me in, and climb on top of me. That particular night she didn’t even twitch as I passed. I didn’t even hesitate. Moved by something greater than me, I lifted her gently and eased her into my lap, noting her whimper when I lifted her. No, she was not all right, and though we would try to convince ourselves she would be okay, I think in that moment, I knew something I couldn’t put words to. I knew our time was precious.
I didn’t sleep. I didn’t even nod off for a second. The spirit world was so ripe to me it was viscous and I was scared to leave Luna unattended. I remember every minute, every labored breath in, every whimpering exhalation and every second-too-long between them, when my heart caught in my throat. I remember the hot heat that emanated from her, like the last coal burning out in the fireplace. The entire night she never tried to move from where I had propped her on my lap. She never shifted her position, and neither did I. Not even for a moment.
I could feel how important each second was, in a bordering-on-obsession way. But as a highly-sensitive person, I have always stopped my world for these moments- the ones I know we can’t do over. Only that night could I feel the full force of how much weight she had so recently lost. I was still awake when my partner woke for work and we agreed we should take Luna to the vet as soon as we could. I fed her a bit of water with a pipette which she seemed thirsty for but soon wouldn’t take more of. I tried to offer her some wet food and she wanted it, crying at me, but she seemed to know better than to eat it. We took her to the walk-in vet.
We weren’t prepared to be forced with a final decision less than three hours later. I wasn’t prepared for the answer to my question of “How long before she’s in pain and it’s too cruel to wait?” to be “Oh, honey.” She only had hours left and her pain wasn’t going to stop.
In that moment, there is no decision to be made. It won’t stop you from second guessing later on, but in the moment it is the only choice available- end the pain. Luna seemed far readier than we were, perched like a rabbit on the floor of the exam room, content and unafraid (totally unusual for her) while we waited for lab results. But after forcing an x-ray on her next, she couldn’t breathe and was in apparent agony.
The reality still stands that we chose for her to be ready to die. And that is not an easy thing to swallow. We women, who can gift life into the world whether we choose to or not, we women who bleed every month for that right and that chance, we women are capable of gifting that kind of mercy death and carrying the burden of that choice. I cannot speak for men because I am not one, and I do not know where the strength for such mercy comes from in them.
I held Luna’s face in my hands and I didn’t look away from her eyes. I told her what a good girl she was and how much we loved her. She was the best girl ever. When the poison was injected, her eyes widened with… fear, pain, fire? Who knows. She had lost so much weight that it barely took a second. I barely had time to breathe in. And then she went limp. Her eyes dulled with the sparkle life gives them. She was gone.
I don’t care what anyone thinks. I ripped her out of the plastic bag they put her in and carried her home in her blanket, the weight of her suddenly so heavy in my arms. She was lighter than a feather in life and heavy as bricks in death. Is it our soul, our spirit that lightens our time upon the earth?
I would not take back sharing her death with her, even though the memory of it causes me pain. It was pain she experienced so that she could finally be at peace and I believe it was important that I share in that truth. In our society, we have trouble letting go, and as long as that is an issue we face, our cultural relationship with death will not change.
I think that one of the hardest life lessons we can make is that sometimes, we have to tell death it’s okay. No one should have to live in pain that’s caused by their body either slowly or quickly shutting down in a way that makes it impossible for them to have any quality of life- unless they want to and choose to ride it out. I could have made the choice to watch Luna slowly die in agony, unable to drink or eat, because I wasn’t ready. That would have been horrifically unfair.
It’s something I think about, watching people with terminal illness in the news, trying to fight for the right to choose their own moment of death, rather than spend their last days unconscious on medication because otherwise they could not tolerate the pain. We are so willing to put down our four-legged friends because it’s the humane thing to do, whether they can consent or not, but we don’t give consenting adults who have been given a death sentence the right to die in peace.
I can’t imagine it would be easy to accept that choice from a loved one. But I think I could come to terms with respecting it. Personally, it still doesn’t feel easy to say, “I opened the door for death to enter.” I still miss Luna terribly, but even looking back, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Relevant Posts:
The Beginning I Saw in the End (published March 23, 2011)
Eulogy I Wish I’d Given (published March 14, 2012)
Experiencing Death: The Unborn Baby (published May 16, 2012)
Experiencing Death II: My Father’s Father (published June 13, 2012)
Experiencing Death III: Squirrel in the Road (published July 11, 2012)
Experiencing Death IV: The Body at Daggett Lake (published August 15, 2012)
Experiencing Death V: Suicide (published September 9, 2012)
Experiencing Death VI: Alone with the Dead (published October 17, 2012)
Experiencing Death VII: There in the Room (published November 14, 2012)

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

What the Dead Know

The same music box.

My last year of college, I lived in a rambling old farmhouse, situated just after the sidewalk ended at the edge of campus. There were anywhere from five to eight other people living in the house, depending on the month. Strange things happened frequently, but we always chalked it up to forgetful college students or the more-easily-blamed creaky old house.
One night, we all went out to dinner together, and when we left, the house was pitch dark. When we returned, also together, three bedroom lights were on upstairs. The doors were still locked and uninjured and nothing was touched. When I was alone in the house I would hear footsteps walking around, loud enough that I would get up to make sure no one else had come home. It was spooky enough that I mostly stayed to my room in the back of the house.
In December, we decorated for the holidays, which is when the most obvious instance of haunting occurred. My friend and I were sitting on a small couch together in the living room, reading and doing homework. The only other person there was one of my housemates, in his bedroom off the kitchen. It was a lovely, quiet morning. The living room opened up to what was probably once a dining room. We had placed our Christmas tree and other decorations in that adjoining space.
 Suddenly, in the quiet, a small music box began to play in the other room. The music box was a ceramic Christmas tree, which fit tightly onto a base of presents and toys. We assumed it had gotten jostled or come askew and my friend went over to right it. When she paused I looked up, and saw that the top was lifted cleanly off the base and placed on the other end of the table. We shared a look with raised eyebrows and were appropriately weirded out, because the music starts playing as soon as you lift the lid a quarter inch off the base, much less move the top of it, and we had been alone in the room. My friend put the tree top back on the base and the music stopped.
We went back to our reading and moments later it started again. This time, we both got up and found the tree top once more sitting on the other end of the table. We assumed it was my housemate. Were we so engrossed in our homework that we didn’t notice him coming in to play tricks on us? We put the tree back on the stand and went to his room to poke him for spooking us.
My housemate was on the phone in his room and had been the whole time. He didn’t even know what we were talking about. He got off the phone and listened to our story and got spooked as well. He thought we were trying to creep him out. And then it happened a third time, and we all three witnessed it. Despite our attentiveness, we still did not see it move but there it was, off the base. This time I heard an unmistakable giggle and felt the presence of a young girl. We asked her out loud to stop creeping us out, told her that we heard her, and that we’d pay attention.
During the semester break, my housemates shifted, with only four of us from the first semester remaining. More of us began to hear and sense her around the house. Lights were turned on and off and objects were moved. When you live with so many people, it’s easy to blame it on someone else’s idea of a bad joke. We couldn’t understand yet, what she was trying to communicate with us. She was trying to warn us that we were living with a bad man.
One night, one of my housemates, and someone we thought of as a friend, attacked another housemate when he thought she was passed out. Everything changed. In the aftermath of removing him from our lives we began to uncover a lot of truths about his real personality; his lying, thieving, manipulation, peeping, and trouble with the local police. The random lights that would turn on and off were lights in rooms where things often went missing, specifically mine and one other housemate. The third room that always lit up, and the one constant, was his. Our spirit friend was literally trying to illuminate the person who was lifting a couple dollars here and a pack of cigarettes there, over the course of months. She tried to leave us bread crumbs.
Once he was removed from the house, the haunting ceased. Lights came on when they were turned on and they stayed off when they were turned off. My housemates and I took care of each other and worked through recovering from the strange and violent betrayal of a friend. And once the truth was known, the spirit world around us was again at peace. When I encounter spirit so strong it manifests, I don’t just look at it as a haunting, but I try to stay open to where it collects, and what else it might be trying to tell me. Our intuitive body is strongly linked to the spirit world, and when you can open to that energy, it allows you to see with extra senses. It allows us to see more fully.
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