Anna Rawlings - Mindfulness Emotions Health Psychology
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Fifteen Years On

19/4/2016

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​Just this evening whilst cooking dinner I decided to add cloves to the spaghetti bolognaise because I didn’t have bay leaves. The smell of the cloves reminded me of my mother’s cooking and that took me back to my childhood and seeing our family eating dinner at the kitchen table. I started crying.

There are pockets of sadness still within me.  Sometimes they bubble to the surface unexpectedly.

Maybe I could have revisited that memory with fondness and connection. But the truth is sometimes I am still sad. If I judge myself, for not being further along than I think I should be, then that just makes me feel worse. When I think, being intelligent, educated and spiritual, I should be doing better, I feel worse.

After all these years, fifteen years to be exact, there is still grief and sadness inside me. And sooner or later it all must come out.

I know my brother is no longer in physical form. I know he died. I accept that reality. But at times I miss him. I miss his physical presence in my life. I miss our relationship. I miss our conversations.  I miss all the things we used to do together.

I understand my wish for us to have been in each other’s lives and that his sudden death has cut that time short. I know that nothing can bring him back. I cannot change nor control that reality.

I can either choose to want things to be different, which causes me pain and reinforces my hurts. Or I can acknowledge how I feel when sadness overwhelms me and release the emotion so it is not trapped in my body.
 
Unprocessed emotions can cause actual body symptoms. This particular morning  the muscles around my mid thoracic, at the back of my heart, were excruciatingly painful. I couldn’t move my arms or even breathe deeply without pain. I had a treatment with my osteopath during the day which eased my muscle tension. The trigger that allowed the emotional release and tears, came while I cooked dinner. I had to deal with both the physical and emotional aspects of the situation, otherwise my emotions would have continued to impact on my physical condition.

Crying is a release. Writing and journalling is a release and an attempt to make sense of it all. Sometimes I just need to sleep because crying releases endorphins that make me relaxed and tired. And these are not weaknesses, they help me heal. They release the grief in a safe way from my body.

My commitment to me is this:
  1. to heal through honesty and with acceptance of where I’m at,
  2. to recognise and acknowledge any pockets of sadness by listening to my body without judgement,
  3. to surrender and allow the release of emotion, so that my body is free from the tension of holding, hiding or burying sadness and grief,
  4. to seek understanding of what I am struggling with, and
  5. to comfort myself so that I can be light and flow with life again.

Everyone’s journey through grief is unique. I wish everyone to come to peace and heal their loss in as gentle a way as possible, with a minimum of suffering. I try to remember to be kind to my heart. Be kind to my inner sensitive self, and be kind to my body that has carried the burden for me. I try to listen to the wisdom inside my body, for my body is honest and shows me what needs my attention.

Offered with love and compassion
Anna Rawlings

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Small Miracles from Beyond

15/11/2014

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I am holding this beautiful book in my hand. Inside the covers are four of my stories about how my brother and I keep the connection since he died and how he shows his presence in my life in profound and meaningful ways.

Three of my stories relate to phones and the other is about my 2nd pregnancy.

This book is filled with beautiful stories of people sharing their experiences of how their deceased loved ones communicate in inexplicable ways, from beyond our earthly realm. 

Wayne Dyer, renowned author and spiritual teacher, also has a chapter in the book about his late father.

I am thrilled that my stories are published in this book. I wish that everyone who reads it will find comfort and validation that their loved ones are close by and that as we all know, love never dies. We shall meet again, but in the meantime, may we live our lives well while we are here.

Text Messages and Phone Calls from Heaven...
excerpt from the book

It appears that a cell phone is the tool that my deceased brother Dean finds useful for communicating with us—his loved ones whom he had left behind. During his lifetime, Dean was always into the latest gadgets. He had to have the newest smart phone as soon as the updated version hit the market. So it should have been no surprise to me that he continued using “advanced technology” as his medium of communication after he passed on. 

His first message came only a few days after his funeral. Our family was at the cemetery tending to his grave. My parents and Dean’s children were all there with me as we went about lighting his epitaph candle, burning incense, and saying prayers. At the gravesite, my mother’s cell phone suddenly beeped, letting her know that a message had been received.

My mother was a little technologically challenged, as older people tend to be. She knew very little about her phone, and used it only to make and receive calls, nothing more advanced than that. The one and only time she had ever received a message before had been from Dean, just prior to his death. She didn’t even know how to retrieve a text, so she handed her phone to me, asking me to access the message and read it to her. I saw the message, shivered, and read out loud “I love you.” It was unsigned. Dean was dead. How could he be sending us a message now? We looked at each other in shock, utterly bewildered yet undeniably sensing both Dean’s presence and his love.

We are rational people, and after we recovered from the shock, it was clear to all of us that somehow someone we did not know had punched in a wrong number, and sent that message to us precisely at the moment when we sought to connect with Dean at his grave. Despite the fact that we knew it was a mistake, we still believed that the message was meant for us. It made us feel Dean’s love and his presence. That short message gave us a great feeling of comfort that Dean was still near. It was a wrong number but it came at the right time.

Thank you for taking the time to read my post. Please leave a comment below.
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The Number 38

12/11/2014

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Excerpt from Small Miracles from Beyond

My brother Dean’s favorite number was 38. It appeared in his life a lot. Coincidentally, when he died, he was exactly 38 years old. After his death, I also started seeing this number everywhere.

For example, whenever I looked at my watch or the clock on the wall, inevitably the time would be 38 minutes past the hour; or the number 38 would be displayed as part of car registrations, be the designated table where I was placed in restaurants, appear on ticket numbers, and so on. It seemed to continuously pop up in my life, and it would constantly remind me of my brother, keeping the connection between us alive.

When I felt that my son was old enough to spend a day in childcare, I decided that it was time to do something for myself. I chose to build on my interest in art, and signed up for a course in visual arts. As I progressed through the course, I felt the need to exhibit my work. One of the other students brought in leaflets about an exhibition called Nowa Nowa Nudes, a well-established art competition.

I struggled for ideas as to what to paint for the exhibition. My husband and I wanted to have a second baby and one afternoon when we were lying in bed, inspiration struck. I quickly drew some outlines of my idea, which then developed into the final artwork.

My work was entitled Trying to Conceive—as that was the basis for my inspiration—and it got into the show, along with several hundred works by other artists. Since this was the first time that my artwork was being publically exhibited, my husband and I decided to travel the two-hour distance to the event to view the art on display—mine among them. As we entered the exhibition hall and were given a catalogue, my eyes scanned the titles, looking for my entry. To my amazement and thrill I had been allocated number 38! We wandered around the various rooms searching for my piece, until finally we found it. There it was . . . sitting proudly on the wall, bearing a sticker with the number 38.

Of course I saw this as very auspicious, and it crossed my mind that perhaps Dean’s signature imprint might mean that I was to win the competition, or that something else of import would occur related to the event. But that was not to be. However, I still felt a deep connection to my brother and believed that he was showing support for what I was doing and he was letting me know he was here again.

My husband and I had been trying to conceive a baby for some time and each month I had to deal with the disappointment when I didn’t become pregnant. Shortly after the art exhibit, I was showering one night when a thought crossed my mind “wouldn’t it be a beautiful thing if I were pregnant this month, the month I saw the number 38.” Once again I would feel that Dean was around and happy for me. However, I didn’t want to get my hopes up.

For that cycle my menstrual period was due to start on November 11, which is commemorated as Remembrance Day in Australia. So on Remembrance Day, a day when we remember all those who lost their lives in wars, I took a pregnancy test and found out that yes, indeed, I was pregnant.

I felt then that both the inspiration for my artwork and the title were Dean’s way of telling me that the pregnancy was going to happen. The number 38 randomly being chosen as the number for my exhibit clearly told me that Dean was giving me a message. It was not Dean making my art win. It was Dean sharing in the joy of our special news that our baby was on its way.

The coincidence of my artwork creation, the entry number, and my pregnancy seemed to lead to only one conclusion: my brother knew I was pregnant before I did. And he just couldn’t wait to share the news.

Thank you for reading my excerpt from the published book, Small Miracles from Beyond. 
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The Line in the Sand

6/11/2014

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People talk about the line in the sand when someone you love dies. When you think about a memory, there’s a metaphorical line that divides what occurred before the person died and after the person died. This becomes your reference point to relating to the world.  

I would remember things and refer to them as that was when Dean was still alive, and there was peace in my world and everything was right.

Then sometimes I’d think back and refer to it as that was after Dean died, and the world seems so different, unfamiliar and strange.
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I remember a guitarist showed me to how play the Green Day song, Time of Your Life.   I played it to Dean one day and he was so impressed that I could play it on the guitar. And so, I taught him how to play that song. That’s such a happy memory.

A year after Dean died, I left Sydney to teach out west. One evening I had this profound experience whilst looking at a photograph of him. The photo was taken on new years day, 2001, we were in the backyard at our parent’s house, with family all around and having a lovely time. It was a really cool photo of him sitting back relaxed, in a comfortable chair,  his sunnies on and his warm smile. Looking at this photo I felt so much love and connection to him. I became immersed in feelings of euphoria and love. The feeling surrounded and filled me throughout. I was so happy and elated. It was like the most loving embrace.  I felt bliss. A moment later I felt the same intensity of sadness and grief overwhelm me and I wept.

I sat on the sofa with my guitar, with a bourbon and coke, like we used to, and wrote this song, to the tune of the Green Day song, my lyrics just poured out and here it is.

See you in a photograph our arms blend and embrace
You are still alive and there is peace on earth.
It’s in the moment before I realise
These arms are shattered, broken undefined.

Heaven knows I want you here
I want you here with me
I don’t buy it was your time
to leave

You’ve got to stop feeling sorry for yourself
You’ve got to drop the bullshit, there’s nothing you could’ve done
Holy Shrine, I carry you with me
I tell myself you’d want me happy

Heaven knows I want you here
I want you here with me
I don’t buy it was your time
to leave

Another year has passed, another verse
A little more distance from that day
At times I feel you, at times I hear your voice
It reminds me, we are still close

Heaven knows I want you here
I want to understand
Your exit point, was it part
of the plan

It’s been many years since Dean died. And a little while back, I thought of that Green Day song, Time of  Your Life, and played it on my brother’s guitar. I thought for a moment about the person who showed me how to play it. Wait a minute, I met that person after Dean died. I was teaching at a different school in the Snow Mountain region of NSW. That person did not show me how to play that Green Day song. And I could not remember who taught me to play it.

I wonder if the line in the sand becomes indistinct with time, or just some minor details fade from our memories, whilst the important ones remain. Someone taught me that song and I shared it with Dean. I know I will never forget Dean, but I do feel the distance grow each year and I miss him. And the moments I indulge in missing him cause me pain. “So, don’t miss me,” I hear him say, “You know I love you.”  

Offered with Love,
Anna


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Paris Gets the Go Ahead

12/10/2013

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When I fed the dog this morning and filled her water bowl, I noticed paper in our backyard.  I went to collect it thinking the kids had left it outside. I looked at the paper and noticed it was a printed document from a website that was for accommodation in France with a Paris address. Of course I didn’t recognise the document and realised it must have blown into our backyard during the night because of the strong winds we had. Then I noticed the date and it struck me: 19th April 2012. That was over a year ago, and 11th anniversary of my brother’s death. 

I got that it was a message but what was the message? I turned to find a bird’s feather on the grass and I picked that up too. I went inside and tuned in a bit. I felt my brother wants me to go to Paris. And I cried tears of joy. I thought or maybe I need to listen to the webinar I received yesterday about a woman working in Paris. And just now as I write this, I feel my brother is just acknowledging that he knows I loved my travels in France and I have a strong desire to take the kids to Paris.

Such an amazing occurrence especially since only a day or two ago I was talking to Dean in my head and asked him to appear to me as I feel I haven’t seen or heard from him in a while. And I don’t just mean the number 38. I see that a lot. I mean hit me! I guess I asked for it.

Later that morning when I was down town in a boutique trying on shoes, the sales person said she’d get me a chair from the back. She came out with an exact replica of the chair I had as a little girl that my parents still have at their house along with my brother’s chair. I love that chair. It is something from my childhood that I like and makes me smile. I think the chair message is about Dean and I as kids, siblings,our chairs and what we still have.

On the drive home, I followed a white car with 38 on the number plate. 

There were three things that occurred this morning that felt like messages for me. I felt heard and loved. It wasn’t just a feather, or just the number 38 that I seem to take for granted these days. It was a document with Paris accommodation dated the anniversary of Dean’s death that appeared in my backyard.

When I talked to my 7 year old son about it, because he saw me cry. He said he had a thought about finding a feather in the backyard this morning. He’s so tuned in. God love him.  

I explained the anniversary of Dean’s death as the day he left planet earth and went to live in heaven. He asked me later in the car as we drove to school if we were still the same in heaven and I said yes but we have a different form, kind of like Angels. He was satisfied with that.
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    Dean's sister Anna

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