On Conception, Miscarriage & Abortion (From What I Can Tell, A Healer’s Observations)

FROM WHAT I CAN TELL, women (potential mothers) and souls (who want to be born) must come to agreement- they both have the free will to create a baby or not to create a baby, or to continue creating the baby until birth or to stop creating the baby at any point. Both the woman and the soul must agree completely or the baby will not be created and carried to a successful birth. The soul holds no negative emotion about being refused the womb; it fully respects the woman’s free will and will simply search for another appropriate body.

HOW I KNOW THIS: During healings I have seen and communicated with souls who were looking for a womb. One client had aborted 3 times, 2 of them recently. She was shocked by the 3rd pregnancy so close on the heels of the second, although, for many reasons, she wasn’t ready to be a mom. She asked me if her future children needed to be born now for some reason.

The little girl floating around the client during the healing was a giggly sweet thing wearing ladybug pajamas, about a year old in the vision I had of her. She said she loved the client from another life, but if she wasn’t ready for parenthood, then she would choose another mother close by.

The client’s sister became pregnant within months and a year later, a healthy girl was born. She has red hair. The client swears that, far more often than is normal, she will see ladybugs while caring for her niece. One on the windowsill of the hospital room, several in her sister’s house, cartoons, clothes, toys and books. She calls her niece My Little Ladybug.

A client who wanted children dearly but could not conceive after 2 years of effort, had a little boy baby appear at her healing with me. This soul told me that he didn’t see how he could fit into these prospective parents’ lives. They both worked fulltime; she was taking an evening course. Most days, they went to the gym before work, and he was starting a part time photography business on the weekends. I told the client to speak the baby’s soul throughout the days, telling him what would be different if he were there in body, welcoming him. He was born 11 months later: a stubborn boy who loves attention.

I was working on another client for childhood rape. She was raised without a father in South America where unprotected girls like her were considered fair game by the men in her village. She had been raped many times. I had removed some of the old emotion and dysfunctional energy in previous sessions, but more kept rising to the surface. At this session, a little girl appeared to me, ragged and dirty.

“Who are you?” I asked, and learned she was a baby miscarried by the client at age 13. The client remembered the event with profound shame. The visiting baby soul wanted me to tell the client that she had terminated the pregnancy herself because the life would have just been too hard. The baby had simply changed her mind.

An infertile client who was desperate for a child, had a soul hanging around her that looked almost like a little monkey. Mischievous as hell. Darting around, playing tricks on me to the point that I checked every time I saw him that he was, in fact, a soul from God and not some negative energy or being.

This soul would appear and disappear during healings, sometimes he’d be gone for weeks. I advised the client to talk to him, invite him to be her son, but the soul came less and less often. In the end, the client never did conceive. I don’t know why that soul didn’t embody, and I wonder why another one didn’t come along. She would have been such a great mother- you know the type- but there are many reasons that our lives take the turns they do. (fate, karma and other energetic laws, hey- maybe the father was wrong, or maybe there will be issues later in their lives that make it clear why a child wouldn’t really have worked for them or …)

A client who always felt guilty about an abortion had the soul visit during a healing session and tell her that there was nothing to forgive, only love; there was no sin, only free will.

My own daughter was stillborn in 1991, a term I dislike because her heart beat for an hour, and she felt alive in my arms before she felt dead. I visit her energetically, usually on her birthday. She’s in another body now; she was 12 in 2019. She lives on the west coast; she isn’t clear on states or provinces.

What she wants to show me is skiing. She is learning to ski, and she is absolutely ecstatic when she skis. Red suit and red skis with a white stripe. Her family is together and happy- she answers those questions distractedly. She seems like a child when I communicate with her now that she’s in a body, but years ago, her communication was more peaceful, with soft edges and tons of love. She always said that our experience as mother and daughter in this lifetime was perfect for both of us- I had other things that I needed to do in this life and so that was as much motherhood as I would have time for. As well, we both experienced exquisite love & loss during those moments of birth & death… and it is one of life’s pleasures and purposes to experience love in many forms.

A shorter version of this article appears in Tone magazine Nov. 2019. This is an excerpt from a book that I am currently writing: From What I Can Tell- A Healer’s Observations (C)

Laurie Fraser’s Answer to Steve Forbert’s Toast to a Midsummer Evening.

DSC00875

 

Laurie Fraser’s Answer to Steve Forbert’s Toast to a Midsummer Evening.

Here’s to fat women eating large ice cream cones

nattering past my bedroom window.

Here’s to vicious baseball games,

a drive to nowhere,

hot bars,

sweaty women.

Here’s to Mr. Alcoholic dead at 2 a.m.

bang

bang

banging his wife.

Here’s to two litters of kittens in the kitchen.

Here’s to bags of charcoal and pot and Cheezies,

butterflies over the tiny uncut lawn,

old songs on the radio.

Here’s to noisy, bossy kids,

heat in my days

love in my ways

D.Q. on my waist.

 

Living in Mechanicsville in the 80s

Honour Killings and the Story of Banaz Mahmod.

 

Related image

The most shocking thing about Banaz’s death is that she had been in the UK with her family for 10 years when her uncle and father decided that she should die for shaming the family. They were Kurdish, originally from Iraq, and one would think that once an oppressed girl-child had reached the UK, had attended high school in London, that she would have reached a place of safety.

Banaz contacted the police 5 times during the years that her husband, a much older man in an arranged marriage, raped and beat her, and during the years afterward when her family had her followed and attempted to kill her twice in order to bring honour back to the family. As shocking, dozens (perhaps more) people in the ex-pat Kurdish community in London knew of the violence coming to Banaz, and did nothing to help her, In fact, they colluded to obstruct the police investigation into her death and protect the murderers. The police themselves are also clearly at fault for not helping her- a video of one of her police interviews is in the film. (See the photo above.) I don’t understand why she wasn’t taken to a shelter that very day.

For me, this film pounded home the truth that although women have reached a country of safety, they may not be safe at all. I recall a student in our ESL school who admitted to me that her father beat her, locked her in her room and took away her cell phone. This was happening in Ottawa, Canada, although he’d been in Canada for many years. She was new to our country and when I informed her of her rights as an adult here, her jaw dropped and she cried. It was hard for her to comprehend the many choices she had to remedy the situation. I put her in counselling with a professional woman from her own culture, in her language (no, not Kurdish).

I thought she was safe- the counselling occurred during class-time once a week. Her father escorted her to and from school, and there was no way she’d have been able to get counselling any other way. In the end, a member of her community, another student in the school, informed her father, and we never saw her again.

There was nothing more I could do. I consoled myself that in the year she’d been with us, her English had improved and she’d been schooled in her options as an abused woman… she had every phone number she needed for the day she was ready to make her move.

Deeyah Khan, the director of Banaz: A Love Story, was careful to include members of the London Kurdish community protesting at the trial of Banaz’s father and uncle who ended up in prison for their crime. The protesters, holding pictures of the 20-year-old, were verbally attacked by the father as he was escorted past them in handcuffs: “You betray the Kurdish community,” he accused them. A courageous woman answers that he is the one without honour.

Banaz was considered by many to have shamed her family by divorcing the man who raped and beat her from the age of 17 when she was forced to marry him. She later fell in love with a man her age and the family learned of this by following her and having her watched by many in the ex-pat community. She kissed this man in a public place. I won’t reveal too many details here as you may decide to view the documentary yourself. (I will say that it starts with an account of her circumcision at the age of 8 in Iraq- no anesthesia or pain killers, just a knife and her father.)

I was told of honour killings when I was in North Kurdistan in 1996- my husband was trying to impress upon me how very traditional the area was in order to get me to modify my behaviour and appearance. The account is in The Word Not Spoken. Leigh has come to Ahmet’s home village to be married. Jess, a South African already married to a Turk, has come along. She is pregnant, but it is Ramadan and no smoking, eating or drinking is allowed during daylight hours.

“What do you want to do?” Leigh asked Jess.

“If we sit here more than half an hour, guests will come, guaranteed,” said Jess.

“I wouldn’t mind if I could understand them.”

“Hey Leigh, maybe I should warn you.” Jess was pawing through her bag, looking for smokes. “Aha!” she pulled out the soft package.

“You can’t smoke!” Leigh braced herself. “Warn me about what?”

“You have to shave everywhere for your wedding night.”

“What do you mean, ‘everywhere’?”

“Men and women shave their underarms and their pubes on their wedding day. It’s a rite of passage for virgins,” said Jess, taking out a sigara and running it through her fingers.

Leigh tightened her mouth and considered this news.

“I really want a sigara. I don’t have to fast because I’m pregnant, but I shouldn’t smoke for the same reason. A quandary.” Jess paused and looked around. “The answer is to hide and smoke.”

The rain had slowed. They decided to go for a walk to find a corner somewhere. The two women slipped out the front door and turned toward the main street. The village was indeed tiny and remote; it had been only five years since the electrical and phone lines had arrived.

The main street, lined with flat-roofed buildings, was mud. Smaller streets branched off it haphazardly. Leigh and Jess headed down one of these, but it seemed to lead out into an open field—nowhere, to Leigh’s way of thinking. They walked back and across an empty village square. Leigh wondered if a pazaar came there once a week. Somehow she doubted it. Life looked simple. Many people had a garden in their yard. Ahmet had told her that most families had farm land in the area and travelled out by horse and wagon to work on it, but today, few people were working in the rain. A couple of children ran through puddles on the mud street.

A few people waited at the door of a small bakery for the unleavened bread to be ready. No baguettes here. Two old men in line shared a broken but functioning umbrella. Their shoes sunk into the mud, and they seemed stuck there, waiting silently for the next batch. When the steaming bread came to the window, there was sudden activity. The old men were served first, and they shuffled away.

A young boy triumphantly drove by on a bike. He steered with one hand and held bread wrapped in newspaper out with the other. The rain plopped loudly on the newspaper as he peddled by, and Leigh caught a warm whiff.

Chickens wandered in and out of yards and roosters crowed. Women were nowhere in sight, but men shadowed the doorways and street corners. Without exception, they wore takkes, white religious skullcaps. The men returned the women’s stares.

“I don’t think they see tourists here,” remarked Jess.

Leigh felt the men’s stares and shivered. “Don’t they look lost without their sigaras and tea?”

The main street was lined with dark men in baggy clothes. Many wore traditional Kurdish pants, the crotch hanging to their knees. A wide band of material was wrapped at the waist. Mud clung to pant hems.

Some men sat at tables in front of the teahouse; others stood in the street and stared. More men came to see what had quieted the others. No one pretended to be doing anything but staring at the white women: a tall blonde, the other with long loose hair.

Kunda,” said one man.

The women smiled politely and increased their pace. A few children were following them. Every eye in the street watched their progress.

“I don’t think we’re going to get away with a sigara,” Jess deadpanned.

“The baby is happy about it anyway,” said Leigh.

They headed back to the little house, having seen almost every edgeless brown building in the village on their twenty-minute walk. As they approached, Ahmet rushed out to meet them.

“Where have you been? Everyone is worried about you!”

“Really? Where do they think we’re going to go?” asked Jess.

“Jess needs a sigara,” said Leigh.

“You can’t break the fast here, front everyone,” said Ahmet.

“Where can I go then?” asked Jess.

“Here.” He gave her the car keys. “You and Ismail go for a ride.”

“Good idea.” She was immediately cheered and went to find Ismail.

“Ahmet,” asked Leigh, “how do people know which chickens belong to them, when the chickens wander all over the streets like this?”

He laughed. “The chickens know.”

“Oh…the chickens know. What’s kunda?

His eyes opened very wide. “Where did you hear that word?”

“On the street. A man said ‘kunda’ to me.”

Ahmet shook his head, perturbed. “It means prostitute.”

“No!”

He frowned. “I don’t want you to walk alone on the street again.”

“But I was with Jess. What could happen?”

“My Angel. Nothing will happen. But they see a woman who is uncovered, and they think you are a prostitute. Good women cover. That’s what they believe. You can’t change it.” He took a breath, “Will you cover while you’re here?”

“But I’m not Muslim!” Jess said her refusal to wear a headscarf was a fight against becoming invisible.

“Leigh, it is very hard for people here to understand. They don’t see Western ways like they do in Istanbul. They spend their whole lives here, and they are proud of the old ways.”

“But I can’t change myself for them. They will learn from me that some people are different. A good Muslim will not think ill of me if I am Christian. It says in the Quran they must accept all the children of Abraham.” Leigh was tired and her mouth was dry.

Gel.” (Come.) He brought her into the house. They settled by the heater on orange and yellow striped cushions. “Listen me. It is difficult for people in Nevsehir to accept Jess, and she has lived there one year. You will be here only a few days. What will you teach them? My family is here all the time, and you must not shame them. Do you understand?”

“Sort of.” Leigh avoided his eyes.

“Would you walk down the streets of London with no clothes?” asked Ahmet.

“Of course not.”

“Why not?”

“That’s a ridiculous question. It’s against the law first of all.”

“It’s against Islamic law to reveal your legs, arms and hair.”

“But Turkey doesn’t have Islamic law.”

“We are very close to the borders of Iran and Iraq here. The law does not matter. The only important thing is what people believe. You know what Kurds think of the government and polis.”

“Yes, many people in Turkey like to take the law into their own hands, you included.” She was referring to his ex-partners. She traced the cushion stripes with her finger: orange then yellow. The fabric was thick as a kilim.

Ahmet raised a finger. “In this village, last year, a teenage girl had sex. She was not married. Our tradition is Islam. She must be killed by a man in her family to give the family honour again.”

“That’s awful!”

“Her brother sat her in a chair, and he sat in a chair across from her. Then he shot her in the heart.”

“Oh my God!” The bit of pink in Leigh’s cheeks faded. “Did she know what he was doing? Why?”

“Of course! He must do it to her face. There are a few of these murders in Kurdistan every year.” He had her full attention.

“But they are subject to Turkey’s laws!”

Hah. The brother went to jail for seventeen years. He was sacrificed on the family honour.”

“Brother and sister were sacrificed.” She swallowed and wanted water.

“And most people here believe it was right thing.” Ahmet clasped and unclasped his hands, missing his sigara. Leigh watched his hands.

Hey- and I’m not being sarcastic- happy International Women’s Day.

Anniversary gift

Today is my wedding anniversary. I married my Kurdish husband on Valentine’s Day which would be too corny for my taste except that in Turkey the day is not celebrated, and I had lost track of the date.

Benim Bey died many years ago, but he always brings me a gift on this day. I am clairvoyant and those gifts are often energetic- bouquets of roses usually, sometimes a song on the radio. He always visits. I smell him first- cigarettes and body odour. Then I feel him giving me hug from behind, a kiss on my neck. More often now as the years go by, I am able to see him- usually pacing, sometimes dancing with his arms out from his sides, fingers snapping, wrists turning. Such joy pours out of him that it is easy for me to share. I can only laugh. Sometimes I dance with him, and it is as real to me as if he were physically in front of me.

This year my gift arrived a day early. My nephew and I found each other yesterday. “Halil” in my book is an adult now. What a thrill to connect with him! He was just a boy, but he remembers me. I had lost touch with the family, and I always regretted not maintaining contact during my travelling years.

From The Word Not Spoken- this short excerpt is from the end of the book when Leigh visits the family years later. Although names have been changed, the experience is true:

Later, in the front room drinking tea, Leigh understood that although she’d been quickly accepted by this family, she represented more now. She was someone Ahmet had loved, and so she became cherished. She knew how they felt because she felt the same way. Shana’s high cheekbones were Ahmet’s; Berna’s curly smile was Ahmet’s. Anne’s love, Azize’s toughness… Ahmet was in all of them.

Halil was ten and had thinned out. His way of laughing hard while clapping his hands was Ahmet’s; the way he squatted next to his cousin and the evil eye he gave her later–it was all Ahmet. Sometimes Leigh couldn’t keep her eyes off Halil, and she wished (that she had borne Ahmet’s child).

She couldn’t have felt more welcome or more loved. Turkey had always felt like home. She was satisfied down to her bones that it was still so. She had considered Turkey might have been impossible without Ahmet, but now she knew her relationship with the country was a separate enduring thing. She missed him intensely though. She yearned for his face, his voice, his “everything”…laugh, fingernails, carelessness, optimism. She knew he wasn’t coming; she knew she wasn’t waiting for him as she so often had. There was no anxiety, no phone that would ring or not ring, no Ahmet who would bounce through the door laughing at her worry, because the worst had happened, and he was under the ground.

Choose love

Choose love

Healing Sexual Abuse

Recently, I used energy healing to help a woman who was sexually abused by her father ages 2 – 9.

Mary Magdalen stood across from me, and we worked on “Annie” together. I saw her lying under deep water. I unplugged the bottom like a tub and it drained tears and sadness. When the water was gone, I saw a little girl – pale, tiny, naked except for dirty panties. Mary Magdalen told me to cover her. “Not a dress,” I said. Annie did not want to be pretty or accessible. Mary Magdalen said, “Any clothes you want.”

So, I put a thick shirt on her and buttoned it up to her chin. Next- a big bulky sweater, a hood, and then new underwear with yellow ducks, thick jeans, big red wool socks and red kids’ sneakers. (Red for grounding.)

After the procedure, I told her it was not just to cover her, but I felt the clothes protected her somehow.

Annie said she used clothes as protection from her father. She used to wear four pairs of pajamas to bed.

I almost lost it then, thinking of that tiny body and child logic and 8 years.

I did more healing work on her that session. (I generally remove old emotions and stuck energy from organs and chakras.) Her email the following week said that she felt better than she had ever felt in her life. She was euphoric. In the following weeks, she started a new job and a new romantic relationship, feeling safe with a man “for the first time ever.”

A month later, “Danielle” showed up at my door with a wrist that still hurt 9 months after breaking it, with aches that travelled up her arm. The doctor had dismissed her pain as imaginary, insisting the wrist was properly healed.

Muscle testing led me to this equation: Root chakra + father + sore arm / wrist = resisting sexual attack (putting out her hand to stop him and failing to do so).

I balanced the root chakra by removing a metal rod (penis) and a steel box (of secrets).

When I shared this information, Danielle told me that her father had abused her.

Mother Mary came in with blue and white light. She flooded us with intense love. I feel her love as a gentle hand on my left cheek, my heart bursting and goosebumps from head to toes. Mother Mary held Danielle and rocked her as she sobbed. This was a secret she had carried many many years, and just speaking it was a great release.

Next, Mother Mary and I worked on Danielle together. I saw Danielle covered in deep water – overwhelmed. I pulled the plug, and it drained slowly. Then I saw a naked little girl, about 8 years old. She thought she was ugly and worthless. I played with her long blond hair. “Such pretty hair,” I told her. I put a pink bow on one side.

“Such a pretty girl,” I said. I touched her face with love. Mother Mary was doing similar things- washing her, erasing the hurts. This deprived little girl wanted pretty clothes: a lavender dress with pockets and a necklace with a heart charm. I gave her frilly white socks and shiny red shoes.

The above 2 procedures on Danielle took about 15 minutes, but I worked on her for 50 minutes in total. Danielle said that memories had flooded her during this session- things she had forgotten- a rape in the woods, molestation by a teacher. This beautiful woman said that she had felt ugly all her life and had often wondered why men pursued her at all.

Her wrist and arm stopped aching within a day.

_____________________________________________

Shorter version first published in Tone Magazine, Jan. 2017. Email me at thewordnotspoken@gmail.com for a healing session- long distance or in-person (Ottawa) $65.00

Taurus

art

 

 

 

The king’s anger quakes the earth,

buries men alive, splits women open.

Soil-scented pleasures

inflicted by him, mud-wet

treasures and swords belong to him.

He figured it all out as a boy

on a pile of dirt

in his friend’s driveway.

-Laurie Fraser

Strawberry moon and summer solstice

 photo credit

The sky was lightening at 5 am as I hurried to the river’s edge, worried I’d miss the special moment: sunrise on summer solstice. I was warm in shorts and t-shirt as I came to the Ottawa River and stopped short.

There it was! A strawberry moon! Perhaps a little more peach than pink, but oh…. huge, close to the horizon, bright in the morning sky and reflecting on the grey water.

We haven’t had a full moon on the same day as summer solstice since 1967. Today sunrise was at 5:14 am and sunset will be 8:50 pm. It’s a long day for those who are observing Ramadan- 15 1/2 hours without food, water or cigarettes. “Strawberry” refers to June- time to start picking- but also to the colour of the moon, caused by the great distance between the earth and the moon today.

I enjoy exploring the extreme edges of this day. Usually I stay awake all night, awed by how short it is. Tonight as the sun sets, that great pink moon will flood us with light. If it is cloudless, the sky may not darken at all.

I revel in the light, loll about in the warmth, leave sunglasses in the car. My sunrise appreciation was simple- throwing out thanks to the sky listing the many blessings in my life. Then just doing Qigong in the peace – you might think it was quiet, but oh, the quacking ducks, the chorus of birds and my exploding heart…. it was a noisy celebration.

Happy solstice! Light be upon you.