Life After Death

I know what miracles are. I know because I see them happen every day—and because some of them happen to me. I guess you could say that I’m proof, or my life is proof, or, for that matter, my very existence, is proof. There have been so many miracles in my life that choosing just one to write about and calling it the “biggest” would be like loving one of my children more than the other.

I loved my husband, Randy Michael Connolly, until death did us part. So much so that it felt as if I’d died with him. By the time December 2013 rolled around, I’d been praying for my own death for a little over a year, although I still hadn’t conjured the nerve to take my own life, and realized I might never find that nerve, no matter how devastated I was. The only thing that could possibly keep me going, I determined, was a miracle.

I wanted, I needed, some kind of concrete, measurable evidence that he was still with me, just as he’d promised he’d be as he was dying.

Night after night of crying myself to sleep had mitigated neither my desperation nor my depression. Nor had knowing that there were people around me who were hearing Randy, in spirit form, clearly and irrefutably. Sure, I appreciated their loving messages, as indirect as they were. But what about me? I was his wife, dammit. Didn’t I deserve to hear those messages straight from the source?

Then, one night, a night like all the rest where I’d passed out after hours of tossing and turning and abject anguish (I don’t profess to be one of the stoic ones), I was awakened at 3 am by a loud—booming—voice that said, “Get out your pen and get writing. We’re going to write a book.”

I can’t tell you why and I can’t tell you how, but I knew in every cell of my being that this disembodied vocalization belonged to my husband (and not only because I was alone in the house). What I did not realize was that the result of this mandate, and the ensuing half hour of notebook scribblings, would be the basis for our first “ghostwritten” book together, Crossing the Rubicon: Love Poems Past the Point of No Return.

You might think I’m going to say the miracle was that Randy, in spirit form, woke me up and downloaded a book of poems, along with an almost instant comprehension and precisely worded description about how to form a new relationship with your loved one after death, and how to write about it so others would understand and benefit.

You might think it was that since that night I’ve been able to communicate with Randy, and the dead brother of manicurist, and the dead wife of my father’s best friend, and many other spirit beings who so much want to communicate with their own loved ones.

Either way, you’d be right.

But, honestly? The most profound and shocking miracle is that without the gift of Randy’s dying, I would never have discovered, or perhaps I should say uncovered, the brilliant conscious creation practice that has become my way of life.

A celestial life.

Is it possible to recognize a miracle—a blessing, even—while you feel you’re being ripped to shreds? When your soul can’t see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel even if it were wrapped in the glow of every star in the sky? When your heart is gasping for breath in order to survive one more minute, one more hour, one more day?

My answer?

• BRD–Before Randy’s Death: Absolutely not.
• ARD–After Randy’s Death: Absolutely. Even if you’re in the throes of agony. Because once your anguish has been imbued with conscious awareness, the frequency of unconditional love, the vibration of truth, and the resonance of wisdom, nothing is ever the same again.

For me, on that night, even as I wrote in the dark, sobbing over the pages of an old lined notebook, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, fear, grief, and the sense that I had been abandoned to fend for myself in a world I could no longer make sense of, I was concomitantly aware that I was feeling something I’d never felt before.

Even in that state of complete overwhelm, I knew I was experiencing something so enormous, so rock-me-to-the-core powerful, that while I couldn’t name it at the time, I could feel it blooming inside me, as evidential as the scar on the inside of my thigh, the one I’d gotten in a motorcycle mishap in high school. It seemed as if I’d always had this thing that was burgeoning—always known it, always felt it—but would never again fail to recognize it and cherish it.

The wave of unconditional love that flowed through me arrived in the form of complete phrases and rhymes and prose: an unabridged conversation. It arose in the vibration of truth, through the voice of my dead husband. It emerged in the resonance of wisdom, as a new kind of knowledge I was being invited to believe in, accept, and share. It emanated with the awareness that, even as I wept and the lead in my pencil dwindled to a stub, I would never be the same again.

Turns out, it’s true.

Because nothing has been the same since that night.

I no longer have any need to pretend that I have it all under control, or that life makes sense. I don’t and it doesn’t. Which is precisely what makes miracles so…miraculous.

I now understand that all our attempts to control, fix, cajole, maneuver, manipulate, push, and pray are nothing more than miracle-blockers. When viewed through the lens of retrospection, miracles are the fruit of faith, not force.

When I met Randy after my first 40 years on the planet, I knew that was a miracle. The circumstances were too bizarre, too completely without precedent. We agreed that we were two of the truly fortunate ones. We’d prayed for a miracle. We’d gotten it. End of story.

Then he died.

Which compelled to ask, What does that say about our supposed miracle? Was I wrong? Were we wrong? Was this some kind of a joke, a faux miracle? Had I been deceived? If God wanted me to be happy, why take away the one person who made me happy?

Could something that once looked like a miracle of light and love turn into something so sinister and dark, something so obviously not miraculous?

I did not know the answer then. But these questions are what goaded me on, deep into realms that I’d never previously tapped. I explored karma, life after “death,” past lives, meditation, and conscious creation. I acquiesced into what has been so aptly called the dark night of the soul. I allowed myself to be held by those who’d had similar experiences and encouraged me to believe that I would come out the other side…whole again.

I eventually learned that my sensitivity was simply code for being an HSP, a Highly Sensitive Person, and medium for the spirit world, and that tapping into that ability would prepare me for becoming a facilitator for other HSPs.

Finally, ultimately, I learned that miracles are in the eye of the beholder, like these:

1. I contracted with Randy and agreed to be his partner in this lifetime to help him learn that someone (me) could and would love him unconditionally—a lesson that allowed him to cross over knowing he’d achieved his spiritual goal.
2. Randy is now helping me learn, from across the veil, that having trust and faith in what you can’t see is the means by which we can influence the energetic force that determines our ongoing lives.
3. Questioning every core belief you once held deepens your understanding that the spirit world is always communicating with us, and that it’s simply up to us to learn how to listen. For me, this has meant having the ability to share such insights with others.

The biggest miracle of all, you ask?

That’s easy.

There is life after death. On both sides of the veil.

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The post Death and Grief and the Highly Sensitive Person first appeared on Elevate Your HSP-ness!.

Just because someone is high-functioning doesn’t mean they’re not highly sensitive. All it really means, at least if they’re in a healthy state of mind, body, and soul, is that they’ve somehow learned to direct their sensitivities and kick them up a notch or two.

Anderson Cooper is a journalist, and a great one. But he’s also, apparently, an emotional and loving father. You have to imagine he’s pretty adept at organizing his life, and was probably a darn good student as well. All great qualities, but nothing to do with the qualities of being an HSP.

Could Anderson Cooper be one of US? Could he be an HSP?

I think he might be. How do I know? Because—though I’m the first to admit that I’m no Anderson Cooper in a zillion different ways!—I am, and have been, high-functioning for a large percentage of my life.

But the real point I’m trying to make is that being an HSP does not preclude being deliberately, determinedly, and successfully high-functioning.

On the other hand, just because you’re high-functioning does not necessarily mean you’re happy or even content. It certainly doesn’t mean self-satisfied, self-reliant, or full of self-worth.

All it means is that you have the skills to do whatever it is you want or have chosen or sometimes have been coerced to do well enough to get the job done. You could be a dishwasher or you could be a museum curator. It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re convinced you’re good at it or feel good doing it. It’s even possible you suffer from Imposter Syndrome, where, no matter how good you are at what you do, you still feel inadequate.

Ever wonder why actors tend toward screwed up personal lives?

We usually attribute their “problems” to too much fame and fortune. And, certainly, without those things they wouldn’t be in the situation they’re in.

But there’s more to it than that. There’s also the obvious fact that so many of them are highly sensitive people.

Can you imagine being an HSP who knows you take on other people’s energy, but don’t know what to do about it? Can you imagine being on a movie set with hundreds of movie people all milling about doing their jobs—many of them interacting with you—for hours and hours every single day? Can you imagine what it’s like to feel the feelings of the character you’re acting without feeling some kind of aftermath of leftover energy trails?

I can’t.

Sure, I’ve worked as a musician in orchestras; a human resource trainer in corporate America; a counselor for teenagers. But at no point did I recognize that the tremendous weight I carried around was due to all the energy of others flooding my being.

Sadly, even once I had an inkling that was what was going on, I still had no idea what to do about it.

Sometimes people seem to figure it out on their own.

Anderson Cooper seems to have figured it out on his own. Not that we have any idea what it’s like being Gloria Vanderbilt’s son, born and bred in his unusually eccentric circumstances. Maybe he’s had years of therapy, right? I mean, who can say? We surely don’t know how much of what we see is an act, being that he’s a TV personality and all.

But when I heard him talk about the loss of his brother to suicide and the recent death of his mother and how he wants nothing more than to pass on to his children who these people were to him “without it being cloaked in sadness,” I felt his willingness to dip into the pain of the loss and rise out again through love for his children.

We are not all Anderson Coopers.

We are not all super smart or super rich or super talented.

Yet, as HSPs, we are ALL fully capable of bringing out the best in ourselves by elevating the sensitivities we have so they serve us and all of humanity.

The post High-Functioning versus High-Sensitive: Are they mutually exclusive? first appeared on Elevate Your HSP-ness!.

It’s no wonder that being a person with heightened sensitivities carries with it an extra charge around the experience of loss. I mean, think about it. Put a person that experiences your deeper than average feelings and sensations and add the death of someone beloved? It’s a recipe for combustion.

But it’s also a recipe for freedom.

It’s really not enough to say, “I’m more sensitive, so of course I’m going to be more affected.” The fact is that we are constantly looking for ways to express how we feel—the freedom to express how we feel—because so much of our time is spent trying not to express how we feel. You  know, all the sticky stuff. The things for other people that may seem all in a day’s work, but for us mean trepidation or panic or pain or exhaustion.

What happens when death is involved

In our society, when you lose someone to death, suddenly an opening occurs. You are offered a sort of reprieve from the “buck up and deal with it” way of life. People are more willing to let you cry openly, talk about your feelings, reveal your emotional state through what you say, do, eat, or undertake. Even if it still makes them miserably uncomfortable.

In other words, grieving becomes a logical reason for your emotional state, which somehow makes it easier and more acceptable for others to handle.

Is grieving a good thing?

The thing about grief is that being in that state also makes it okay for us. You know, the ones who are doing the grieving. It opens the door for our more authentic selves to peek through the curtains behind which we are constantly, dedicatedly, hiding. We get more leeway to be who we are, act the way we might act, and respond the way we might respond when we can point to loss as the reason behind it all.

I’m not saying that we are using death as an excuse! All I’m saying is that it takes an inordinate amount of energy to plug the valve of your state of being on a constant basis. Energy to control, mitigate, calm, or annihilate through whatever means you decide works for you. Is it food? Or drugs? Or isolation? Whatever it is, it takes a powerfully high level of energy to deflect attention from the state of your being. It’s as if we’re storing it up like a bunch of nuts in a squirrel’s hideaway that we never get to use unless something “acceptable” comes along. Something like death.

Death sucks

I’m also not saying that death of someone you love (or have any kind of relationship with) isn’t a big deal. In fact, there’s pretty much nothing like it on the scale of what sucks. Still, I know that if I hadn’t been so weighed down, so burdened by my own need to hide what I felt about everything under the sun, I might not have collapsed so completely upon the death of my husband. The plug in the value came off and out came years of repressed, suppressed freak-out.

The first step in not feeling you have to hide is accepting your HSP-ness for what it is: A true blessing. In order to do that, we need to dedicate ourselves to knowing there is another answer beyond “coping.” A much easier, user-friendly approach that is committed to opening, heightening, and exemplifying.

We all admit that loss and death are part of life, but that doesn’t usually help us when the time comes to deal with it. As a Highly Sensitive Person, though, death does not have to crush us like a bolder on an ant.

Know yourself. Express yourself. Be yourself. Love yourself. That’s where it all starts.

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Check out my posts on the Psychic Octopus (globbing onto other people’s energy); your UES (how to identify and stay in your Unique Energetic Signature); and your IGS (how to confidently and consistently tap into your Intuitive Guidance System.

Thank you for shining your light into the world!

The post Death, Loss, & The HSP first appeared on Elevate Your HSP-ness!.