#9 Harvest Time

Jackie meets in meditation some Great Masters and mystical animals. She takes from these encounters tips to make her heart less sensitive and she discovers also a way to express her creativity. She works on the Five Elements, and fire is comforting the loss of her younger brother.
Music by Rahul Popawala

Transcript

Yoni,

My Sacred Space,

Chapter 9,

Harvest Time.

Warning,

The following reading deals with sensitive subjects linked to deep-seated trauma.

Dear listeners,

Please be aware that this story may trigger emotional reactions,

So listen carefully to yourself and don't hesitate to ask for the help you need.

Yannick Villeneuve,

Author and Story Healer.

October 4,

2021 Meet the Masters.

This morning,

In my class,

I was called upon to meet some very great souls.

I sat down very early on my cushion,

Knowing that my schedule was full.

The first to meet me was Buddha.

The setting suggested by my inner vision was a superb Japanese garden.

He arrived barefoot,

Bald,

And wearing a sari.

He successively took on the features of the Dalai Lama and those of Mathieu Ricard to end up looking strangely like my aunt.

He taught me that I no longer had to feel guilty about living,

And together we gazed at the carpet of moss that covered the garden floor.

It came in all colors,

All textures,

So many ancient organisms growing on rocks.

He grabbed a handful of lichen and rubbed my back with it right there in the place that vibrates at the level of my heart.

After this treatment,

We separated and I continued on my way to a cave.

As I passed through the opening,

I transformed into a baby bear and snuggled up into Mama Bear's fur.

I felt warm and safe.

And then,

Jesus entered with a unicorn.

I felt that a part of me was judging this animal,

Telling me that unicorns don't exist.

I had to intervene to tamp down this criticism so that I could access the energy of these visitors.

The unicorn's energy was transposed into a pony,

A more acceptable representation.

We arrived through the tamarack forest.

Like a dream I had as little Jackie,

I brushed him and braided his blonde mane.

His horn grew back,

And a pony unicorn took me on a silky ride over the forest.

As if I were in Rudolph's sleigh,

We left a trail of light behind us.

We came back down,

And I understood its magic.

The unicorn pony transformed again,

But this time into a deer,

Which took off,

Frolicking in the forest.

Jesus just stood there,

Waiting for me,

Watching us fly through the sky.

Coming to meet me,

All I could see was his light.

He told me I was like him,

A magician.

That I didn't have to suffer so much,

That he had done it for me.

He told me that men are generally stupid,

But that I had to love them anyway.

He gave me the right to withdraw from the human world,

And we went to meditate and fast together in the desert.

I continued this mystical journey,

Emerging from the dunes to find myself floating on my paddleboard on my favorite lake.

I could see the trout jumping,

The loon singing,

And the bald eagles flying overhead.

And then came Saint Michael,

The one depicted in a majestic fresco in the church of my childhood,

Slaying the dragon with his spear to defend the angels sitting on the cloud on either side of him.

I invited him to sit on my board.

We had to talk.

I asked him why he didn't do anything.

Why despite my prayers,

He hadn't killed the beast that was eating away my mother.

He gave me his spear and told me it was up to me to kill the beast.

I used it as an oar to row us back to the shore.

On dry land,

We made our peace.

I asked them all how they can help me in this life.

They told me to strive to greater calm,

Remove the emotional charge,

Become an observer,

Make circles,

Eat my terroir,

Drink water from the spring,

Make love,

Be inspired by nature and its rhythms,

And enjoy everything I do.

Back from this trip,

I glued a jewel bead to my third eye.

I contemplate the symbolism of this choice among eleven others available.

I could feel its softness with my fingers.

The pearl hides in its shell and shows itself very rarely.

It's a gift,

A jewel that comes from a single grit of sand.

In its shell,

The pearl feels safe,

Peaceful and solitary.

In the dark,

It's waiting to be revealed.

The shell,

The oyster,

Is rough and hard.

Its exterior is off-putting.

For me,

The oyster represents tenderness.

From the wound induced by the grain of sand comes the pearl,

A mean of defense against everything external,

Coating what hurts to defend against it and at the same time create beauty.

Nature offers us so many gifts.

October 7,

2021.

The harvest is over.

It's the morning of the first snow on the ground.

In a month,

The real snow will arrive,

And in six weeks,

I think I'll be able to ski just like last year.

My harvests were abundant.

I have a lot of material to transform on many levels,

But I think my most important crop is spiritual.

I've reconnected with my whole family.

I feel the plants,

The animals.

I felt them all before too,

But I was too imbued to let them all exist to hear them advise me.

Today,

In sobriety,

They have found their place in me.

Through my writing,

I weave links between the generations before me,

Those of the present and those to come.

Because I dare to show myself as I am,

I harvest more harmonious family ties.

I return to my work in the forest below,

To my encounters with the masters.

I think back to Buddha and his lichen rob on my back.

The must was moist,

Cool,

Soft,

Protective,

Nourishing,

Green,

Brown,

Earthy,

Fibrous,

Like a carpet that dampens the sound of footsteps,

A filter.

I realize that perhaps I should let a layer of moss grow around my tender heart.

Instead of putting it in a cage,

I should put my heart in a Zen garden covered with moss.

It's an image I'm cultivating,

One that will serve to dampen my emotions,

Which are so raw most of the time.

I practice gratitude and humility.

I've also collected comments about my book that I've shared with a few friends and family members.

They're all very positive and encouraging.

As Diane taught me,

This book is my arrowhead.

I have the ability to hit people right in the heart by sharing my story,

Having the book in their hand.

My words belong to them,

And I try not to have any expectations.

October 8,

2021.

My tears water my heart to make moss grow around it.

I install a filter,

An insulator,

So that the wild woman receives her emotion gently cushioned.

She prefers calm to lull herself to sleep,

So her response will be less untimely,

But just as appropriate,

If not more so.

This morning,

While meditating,

I felt the moss take shape.

I felt a tickle and a gentle pressure under my arms,

All around my heart.

It felt like a chocolate hen from the trappist father's,

Delicately placed on the paper straw in its Easter wrapping.

My heart is fragile,

Everyone knows that.

For a long time,

I tried the fat cage,

Which insulates,

But too much.

Now that the excess is gone,

I have to find a better medium.

As I weep,

I console myself by telling myself that I'm cultivating a humid environment to stimulate the growth of my sacred Zen garden.

I don't want a dry heart,

A dark,

Sterile cave.

I want my Anahata to be joyful,

Fresh,

Free,

Simple but complex,

Surrounded,

Alive,

Welcoming,

Sweet and fragrant.

I want my heart to ring at the center of my being.

October 12,

2021.

Posted Thanksgiving.

My joys of the weekend,

And of the obligatory family dinner,

Are linked to the appeasement of the waitress in me.

I manage not to take up all the space,

As if I were working in a restaurant,

Which left room for Phil to help me assemble the plates and serve dinner.

He even took the traditional group photo.

Another source of joy was working outside,

With Phil as lumberjack,

To clean up our forest around the house.

This morning,

There are more sunlight,

Because of the trees and branches we remove.

However,

The huge Douglas fir growing in front of the house remained standing.

It spoke to Phil through my mouth on Saturday,

Asking for the lower branches to be pruned,

And for the old Christmas lights that were strangling it to be removed.

In exchange,

He promises to protect the house like an umbrella.

When formulating these words,

My partner confided in me that this was he had in mind.

He also told me something wonderful,

Something I hadn't yet realized.

Everything around me,

The landscaping,

The animals and their care,

The upkeep and transformation of the house,

It's me.

They're all manifestations of my ideas and my work.

Since moving here,

I've taken it into my own hands to see what the land and the house could become,

And it has transformed into a home.

I also realize that I communicate differently.

I notice details that go unnoticed by others.

I listen,

And now,

Sober,

I hear better.

I chat with teachers on IT.

I chat with spirits,

And now I understand their messages.

In Whitfield,

As we went around the property with the wood chipper,

We found some bolet mushrooms.

They were oversized,

Similar to porcinis,

But like marls,

They're almost impossible to grow in culture.

I think it was my meditation sessions that woke them up.

I like to think that my root chakra,

With its work with the mycelium,

Has energetically awakened these beauties to emerge for us from the forest floor.

October 13.

Meditation on the five elements.

Space,

Air,

Fire,

Water,

Earth.

When I opened my eyes after 15 minutes of silent meditation on space,

I saw a grandiose show given to me.

Outside,

The snow was falling in huge flakes,

With no wind,

Straight from space.

Each with its own pattern,

Each different,

Each with its own message.

During my silence,

The wild woman came out of her house,

Inspecting the moss blanket that is slowly settling around her home.

There are different varieties,

Different colors,

From green to gray.

The textures are just as different,

Some resembling velvet,

Other sponges,

Or even a razor rug.

Satisfied,

She stepped out of my heart and into my inner forest.

She felt her exhale changing the structure of the air around her,

As well as that of all the plants and trees in her environment.

As an air purifier,

Working tirelessly,

Together,

Breathing in and breathing out,

The wild woman took a tour along the path of my breath,

Penetrating every cell,

Every organ.

She went to check on my liver,

Which is healing from its lesion.

She inspected my stomach,

My intestines,

Finally empty,

Thanks to the good bacteria.

She took the time to go around each my organs and beat the path.

She was happy to see space,

Water,

And little mineral buildup.

She went out through my root chakra and into my sacral chakra.

It was very dark there.

She made little like to see around and find what to do with it.

She palpated the tunnel,

Revealing points of tension,

Relaxation,

And others directly linked to pleasure.

She found that everything was in working order.

Still,

She wondered why it had never been used.

She continued her exploration,

And as she walked through the cave,

Ideas came to her.

A way of doing,

Using that powerhouse emerged.

She suddenly understood that my sacral chakra had to give birth,

Not of a flesh baby,

But to something new.

To birth,

I have to pass on my creation through my writing and my voice.

The Wild Woman makes me understand this morning that I have to manifest into the world using my throat,

But I have to prepare myself.

Before I grab the microphone,

I have to do some exercises.

I have to add to my morning meditation and writing session a segment of vocal work.

I have to speak,

Sing,

Shout.

I have to inhabit my throat to find the right tone.

I can't believe it,

A story healer is in gestation.

October 15,

2021.

A meditation on fire,

The fire of the sun and the fire of digestion.

This morning,

Looking through the window,

I saw spot fires burning in the mountain on the other side of the valley.

Those fires were lit yesterday to clear away the waste from this summer's lugging.

It's a common practice the luggers call here,

Venting.

The soil was damp and the fires smoked and there was no one left to feed them.

I knew they would burn slowly all day and smoke out my world.

I went to my meditation practice a bit frustrated.

I quickly connected to the wild woman who came out of her house,

Dressed in her lugger outfit.

As there was venting too in my forest below,

She chose a safe spot to burn garbage.

She set up in the woods,

Well protected by a rock wall,

In the hollow of a slope,

An ideal place to bring down the fuel.

Once she had cleared her fire space of anything that might be dangerous,

She gathered some small branches to start her fire.

She cut dry material into small pieces and assembled them with twigs.

Her man came to give her a hand to get her fire off to a good start.

He had his torch.

His fire burns so brightly that he is the one who lights others.

They sat together for a short while,

Attending to the fire.

Then he left to ignite more fires in the surroundings.

She had found some large pieces of dead wood and cut some with her chainsaw.

But suddenly she felt a presence near her.

Mama Bear was there.

She had a gift for the wild women,

A bear skin with paws and claws.

When the woman put on the skin,

She felt as strong as the grisly bear.

She set off into the forest in search of bigger fuel.

Mama Bear was happy.

Sitting together,

They watched the blaze grow so intense that it gave off no smoke,

Leaving only fertilizing ashes.

They took it in turns to bring the sticks back to the center of the fire,

So as not to leave any debris.

At the peak of the burn,

My mother's ghost took the bear's place,

And I took the one of the wild women.

We found ourselves on the rocks of the beach in my small hometown.

My brother's body had washed up on the rocks,

And we took him in our arms to lay him in the white flames.

There was little smoke,

Due to his wet clothes,

But the intensity of the flames and a few dry branches managed to reach the intensity needed for cremation.

My mother and I threw a dancing robe and an astrakhan fur coat into the flames.

Then the bell rang.

End of meditation.

A thirty-minute session without interruption.

A record.

Returning from this experience,

I feel the wisps of smoke enveloping me in their comfort.