I walked on sacred land, prayed, and experienced deep, mystical meditations. My friends and I shared in ceremony, experienced the supernatural, practiced the gratitude principle, walked the beauty way and explored many paths to enlightenment. Although I had little in the way of material things, I was content, happy and at peace. I was weaving the dream.
During this time while living in the house on the farm in Bells Bend, I was given a task by The Creator; it came to me multiple times in ceremony. How simple it sounded, “Heal the Earth and help the People”. But what exactly did it mean? Unsure how to proceed, yet guided by the principle, “Honour the Earth as our mother,” I founded GoodWorks, Inc. in 1992, the task was cited as my mission statement. In 1993, I received my 501(c) 3 tax exempt status from the IRS. I did not have a plan but felt the need to start somewhere, so I hosted Sunday dinners and gatherings, started a newsletter and prayed for guidance. Spirit spoke to me again: “The land will reveal itself and the people will come when the time is right and you are ready.” I was to create a sacred place for the People to come - the design was made known.
My inner work included the process of recapitulation. Achieved in a meditative state over a period of months, I called up past events, immersing myself in the accompanying sensory perceptions, I re-examined their meanings, the feelings they evoked and their effects on my life which I could then choose to accept or to alter.
As part of this process, I re-lived the times spent on my grandparents’ farm in Kentucky and I felt, once more, the spirit which permeated our lives in those days. That early developmental phase shaped the core of my being and then lay dormant for many years until my interests in nature and spirituality were rekindled to give new meaning and purpose to my life. They converged into a passionate desire and powerful motivation to make those same kinds of experiences and opportunities available to others knowing that if my life was changed, their lives will change and together, we can change the lives of many. The tapestry was taking shape.
As much as I wanted to separate myself from materiality, money was running low and with no prospects on the horizon, I was feeling unsure of myself. The dream had evolved into an homestead retreat and environmental centre which I wanted to manifest in my own timeframe and according to my own personal needs despite not having a plan or fully understanding what I was supposed to do or how to do it. Spirit had a way of intervening in the coming years to let me know there was more to do and more to learn before the time was right and I was ready.
Through my metaphysical study group I met an attorney who defended death row inmates and so, believing this to be an opportunity to temper the steel of my convictions; I began to visit one of his clients, a man called “Cajun.” My decision was not made lightly, during meditation Spirit spoke to me: “Okay, you’ve done the work and believe unconditional love and non-judgment are a part of your being. You allow God’s Healing Love to shine through you. It’s time now, to shine that Light into the darkest corner of society - death row.” Remembering God’s gift of free-will, it wasn’t my intention to change this man, only to be his friend.
I began weekly visits to the prison and continued to pray and meditate on the retreat and environmental centre. I researched the possibilities and gained many insights, but did not know how to fund the project and periodically, it would stall out. When I reached my lowest points and wanted to give up, Spirit would show me a sign, offer something to hold on to, send someone, or open a door. I kept going. Two years into my prison visits, I came to a crossroads; out of money, I didn’t know which way to turn so I did the only thing I knew to do. Standing on sacred ground with palms upraised, I spoke aloud, “I have to have a job, how can I best serve?”
Three weeks later I was sitting in front of the newly appointed Tennessee Post-Conviction Defender. With no legal background other than my experience as a visitor to death row and armed only with letters of recommendation from the attorney and the prison warden, I was hired as an investigator. Another lesson learned – never underestimate the power of Spirit when you have something to give and something to learn through service to humankind.
The year was 1996, and I had recently read Neale Donald Walsch’s “Conversations with God.” Quite taken by these writings from a perspective so similar to my own; I was particularly drawn to Walsch’s concept of “Highest Thought.”
Through Walsch, God tells us to “... imagine the You that you would be if you lived that thought every day ...” and if “you are not living your highest vision of yourself having seen the differences between where you are and where you want to be, change – consciously change your thoughts, words, and actions to match your grandest vision.” God goes on to say, “This whole process is a massive move to consciousness.”
What an inspired challenge ...to know my highest thought and to live it in my everyday life! Moved to action but unsure where to begin, I asked myself these questions: What is the grandest idea of my Self that I can imagine? How do I, as my ordinary self, fit into God’s Grand Plan and how can I, as a spiritual being, exist in the physical world? How far beyond the limits of my own small mind can I stretch and how far into the realm of higher consciousness can I reach? What is My Highest Thought?
In the asking of those questions came the realization that to know My Highest Thought was to remember who I am and why I am here.
For the next three years without fail, I awoke every morning at four AM. The automatic coffee pot gently stirred my senses, first of sound then of smell. With head bowed, eyes closed and mug in hand, I sat in my bed in the dark, letting the day come to me. Robins were the first birds to stir. Listening to their lilting voices, I was grateful to them for reminding me of my connection to and relationship with the natural world.
I allowed thoughts to flow freely through my mind. I paid little attention to content, rather, making a conscious effort to become aware of the end of one thought and the beginning of the next. I focused my attention on the space between thoughts – until it was the silence that held my attention and my mind ran clear. I prayed for guidance and asked that I might reach beyond the limits of my human mind so as to enter into the realm of my knowing mind. And each day, as morning became lighter, so did I.
As My Highest Thought came into being, the writing assumed a life of its own seeming to edit itself to the level of my understanding so I could ‘get it’. The energy pulled me along spiralling downward into the deepest levels of my knowing mind before recoiling and catapulting me far beyond the rim of everything I ever thought I knew. Words and phrases came to me throughout the day, every day; I awakened in the night to some part of it running through my mind – it was constantly in motion, folding in upon itself, blending and smoothing; I felt the words stir my conscious and cellular memories, I felt great peace and security. I slept well.
Now I could feel, identify and isolate emotions brought up by particular words and phrases – I became aware of hidden meanings that evoked unconscious responses within me – unknown forces that defined, not just my language but my life!
Startled by this realization, I systematically called up these emotional memories and began to examine them. I intentionally released all unwanted attachments to my carefully chosen words, leaving a pristine vocabulary to which I consciously, with clarity of purpose and intent, assigned my own personal values.
Attuned to a higher vibration, I was opened to God’s Healing Love and felt It emanate from me. I was lighter, less dense and could feel energy move through me. Once known in the modelling business for what shined without, I was now seen for the Light which shined from within.
This opening to Higher Thought not only served me well with Cajun, it opened the hearts of all my clients and their families. I earned a reputation for gaining their trust and bringing their deepest, darkest secrets into the light. I could advise the attorneys who to put on the stand to testify as a witness, how to work with them, what to ask them and how they would respond. I also knew who not to put on the stand and why. The work was physically, mentally and emotionally demanding and as our case load increased so did the travel. In addition to the Three Grand Divisions of Tennessee, I worked in all its contiguous states as well as West Virginia, Virginia, Ohio, Texas, California, Minnesota and Washington State.
Underpaid and understaffed, for the first six years the three investigators did much of the work now done by paralegals. Completely out of my natural element and with so much to learn and to do, the job weighed heavy upon me, yet I never doubted I could do it. I was confident in my gift for working with people and felt such a responsibility to my clients that I threw myself completely into the work. The tapestry took on a darker colour and the dream began to fade.
Four years into the job, Cajun passed away in the same month as my friend and spiritual mentor who led the study group and my farmer friend from whom I rented the house in Bells Bend. The next month my mother and only sibling were diagnosed with cancer, she died six months later, he, a year after her passing. Three months after their diagnoses my father was admitted to the hospital and my nephew, who had convinced my parents to change the power of attorney to him, tried to put my dad in a nursing home and take their small estate. He raided their bank account, stole my mother’s life insurance and absconded with antiques from the house as we engaged in a two year court struggle to protect my father.
Eventually, my children and I prevailed. My daughter, my parent’s primary care-giver since I moved to Nashville, continued in that role throughout their illnesses. My son and his wife, a nurse who had just given birth to their first child, moved into my parents’ home paving the way to bring dad home after a fifteen month stay in the hospital.
Years before I had promised my dad I would do everything in my power to make certain he died at home in his own bed but on a ventilator for nearly nine months and fed through a tube, he was too ill to come home. I would lie next to him in his hospital bed and tell him over and over he had to get better; he had to get better to come home to die. Dad rallied but still gravely ill, he was expected to live only a few weeks. Reluctantly, the hospital released him to the family’s care and hospice became part of our lives.
Dad surprised the doctors and hospice but not the family. Responding to the love and care he received, he learned to breathe on his own and to eat again. Unable to speak because of the tracheotomy while hospitalized, he learned to talk again expressing over and over his gratitude and appreciation for all we had done and continued to do. He laughed and enjoyed his great grandson who, although only two years old, participated in his care under the direction of his mother who now assumed the day to day responsibility.
Dad gained strength and, although frail, lived another fifteen months after leaving the hospital. He began to lose ground and told me he didn’t know if he had another rally left in him. I assured him that was alright and when he was ready, he could join my mother and see his family again. And so it was that he was home in his own bed, eyes closed, listening as I re-told stories of his youth when he smiled and slipped away.
During the illnesses and deaths of my family, I was still on the road investigating, often a week at a time. Returning home, I would unpack, repack and drive three hours to Kentucky where I would attend to my parents, then make the hour drive to Frankfort for doctor appointments with my brother. I used all my vacation, sick leave and two months unpaid family emergency leave; I ran through my savings and went thousands of dollars in debt. It was worth it.
After taking the job with the Post-Conviction Defender, I left the farm in Bells Bend and moved into the upstairs apartment of a house in Green Hills, a desirable residential section of Nashville. My landlady was wonderful, the area safe and the neighbourhood populated by families and thoughtful neighbours; it was perfect for me and suited my travel schedule.
The long-distance care of my family and increasing demands of my investigative work exacted a heavy toll. Mentally, physically, emotionally and financially spent from three years of unwavering stress, I had a weekend off to relax and recharge. Looking forward to an uneventful few days, my ease was short-lived when my landlady broke the news she was moving back to California to care for her elderly mother, she was putting the house on the market and giving me notice – I must move.
The thought was too much to bear. Believing it would be several months before the property sold, I would not let the news ruin my weekend, I fixed a glass of iced tea, picked up a book and curled up on the sofa.
Fate stepped in, there would be no rest for the weary. The house sold after only three days on the market to a family from California, the father had accepted a teaching position at Vanderbilt University for the fall term, I had three weeks to be out, there would be no extension.
Before work, during lunch, after work and weekends, I was on the phone and scouting out places. The movers were scheduled for the 4th of July weekend and on the Monday before; I had no place to go. I looked online and found a listing of rental properties, it cost a hundred dollars and I bought it.
A listing in Leiper’s Fork caught my eye. I had never been there but had followed developments in the newspaper when local residents fought a highway coming through the peaceful little village southwest of Nashville in Williamson County. I’d heard it was a special place and many of the residents involved in the dispute with the highway department were artists, musicians, producers, songwriters and others of the country music persuasion.
I called the number and was told the place had just been rented. My heart sank. “... but I do have an old house that’s just become available,” the voice on the phone said, “do you like hundred year old historic houses?” My heart sang. He gave directions and we agreed to meet at the house that afternoon, I breathed a sigh of relief. He was asking more than I could afford but at that point, if it had a roof and walls, I was taking it.
A small white frame house with a green tin roof, it had porches on three sides and flower gardens, I liked it. According to the owner, it had been built by the local blacksmith, a new storage building stood where the smithy shop had once been alive with fire and anvil. The man bought the house from the estate of two elderly sisters who had lived there all their lives, and he had just moved out himself after living ten years there.
We made a quick tour. Downstairs was a funky kitchen whose floor took a few dips before falling away at a slant toward the rear of the house and cupboards whose doors wouldn’t stay closed, a bathroom with floor to ceiling windows and claw foot bathtub, a small bedroom, den and living room with a fireplace. Much of the house had the original bead board walls and ceilings. Upstairs was one large room which ran the length of the house. I said I would take it, he said it would be ready the first of August. “No, no,” I said, “You don’t understand, I told you on the phone I have to move in this Friday.” He hesitated at first then said if I would agree to move in as it is, we had a deal. The old house was filthy, and while some improvements had been made, it was not in great shape. What it did have was character which I loved.
I took the rest of the week off from work to pack; a few friends came to help. The movers were scheduled to be there at nine o’clock Friday morning.
Friday came and the movers were late, really late. Arriving around four in the afternoon, the three-man crew consisted of one who had been pulled in after finishing another move, he was tired and had expected to go home; one about eighteen years old - his first move for the company although he claimed to have experience with his family’s moving company in Florida; it was the first job ever for the third man who appeared to be Middle Eastern and spoke no English. The move was not looking good.
The truck was finally packed at ten o’clock that evening, I was nervous about how it was done, but it was done and we started the thirty mile trek, most of it on a narrow, hilly, curvy two lane country road I had been on only once in daylight.
When we arrived, I had no idea where the light switches were or where the furniture should go. The men were tired and cranky and so was I. Working alongside them we finally got everything unloaded at four-thirty in the morning. A leg was broken on the cedar chest as were spokes in the armrest of my antique wicker, and there was other damage done as well.
The last thing to do was to put my iron bed together. The side rails slipped into place except on one end. I told the crew to wait while I found my rubber mallet but the man who spoke no English saw a hammer and before I could say, “No-o-o-o!” hit the rail with a smashing blow, the bed broke and I did, too. We found a crate to prop the rail on, the men put my box springs and mattress on the bed and headed for the door. I cried myself to sleep, “Why am I here? What have I done? Why have you brought me to this place?”
These were dark and difficult times. The stress of the job, coupled with the illnesses and deaths of my friends, parents and sibling had taken a toll. I could no longer meditate, concentrate or read. I lost touch with my spiritual friends and was disconnected from the Divine. Everything I valued now resided in the recesses of my conscious mind, replaced by the concerns and cares associated with living and working in the material world. I wrote about my experiences in my journal, in letters to friends and in notepads kept by the side of my bed to keep them fresh in my mind as I was determined to never forget my task, my vow or my life I had known.
Nevertheless, one bright spot appeared on the horizon, I signed up for the Master Gardener classes. In all the years I had worked for The Post Conviction Defender’s Office (PCDO), I had never planned any activity apart from work because my life was controlled by the courts, the cases and the attorneys, if something had to be done, it had to be done then, but now I made a commitment to myself that I would be at every class and I was.
The classes were held on Tuesday nights for ten weeks. The very first night I noticed an elderly woman with silver hair sitting at the next table, she seemed familiar. Each succeeding week, I felt the same thing and noticed she always wore turquoise jewellery with a Native American flair. About the forth week, she made her way toward me and sat at the same table. “Do I know you?” she asked, “You seem so familiar to me.” She said she had noticed me the first night and had racked her brain trying to figure it out, so decided to just ask. We compared notes, but were unable to come up with a single acquaintance in common or any instance where we had been in the same place at the same time.
to be continued...
Copyright © Jolita Kelias, January 2012
All Rights Reserved
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