Childhood Dreams
Children must be taught how to
think not what to think. ~ Margaret Mead
9/11 was a special day for me for 33 years before it
became a significant date to the world. I was born into this incarnation on
September 11th 1968. My family comes from a long line of Mormons
that extends back to the very beginning of the Mormon Church. My great
grandfather, my mother’s paternal grandfather, knew the prophet Joseph Smith.
That fact was a big deal to our family. (Joseph Smith Jr. was the founding prophet
of the Mormon Church.) This was possible because my great-grandfather was 69
years old when my grandfather was conceived. That paints an interesting picture
in your mind, doesn’t it? He was also a polygamist. He married his second wife,
my great-grandmother, when she was 21, and he was 53. She would have 10
children with him over the next 21 years, having a baby almost every other
year. He had other children with his first wife too. Regardless of the disturbing situation
in which it came about, (polygamy), we had ties back to the foundation of the Mormon
Church through our family tree, and that made our family unique.
Both
my mother’s side, and my father’s side, of the family had ancestors who were
pioneers that came west with the church to help settle Utah in those early
years of the religion. I was told many horrendous accounts growing up about
their trials while traveling west; and, how they sacrificed everything to live
this religion so they could ‘faithfully endure to the end’ by following their prophet’s every word. One example of the
terrifying tales I was told as a child was about the Parker family in our ancestry
who lost their young son somewhere along the westward trail. As soon as they
discovered the boy was missing, the father went back and searched for him for several
days. Their young son had spent a few frightening nights with a pack of wolves continuously
encircling him before he was found. Thankfully, he was found alive and was reunited with his family. Of course,
my family believed it was due to the pioneers faith, and prayers, that the boy
was protected, eventually found, and returned. What stuck in my young mind, however, was
not the story of endearing devotion, and faith in the church; it was the tale
of terror, and suffering, that they endured by being obedient to Brigham Young.
I thought the pioneers were extremely crazy and had lost all their common sense for coming west without wagons
because many of those who came with only handcarts died tragic, heartbreaking
deaths while trekking for the Lord on their way to ‘Zion’. My mother was in D.U.P,
Daughters of the Utah Pioneers. It’s an exclusive group of Mormon women who
have ancestors that came across the plains for the church, hence the title,
‘Daughters of the UTAH Pioneers’. My paternal
grandmother, Sylvia, was also in D.U.P. My
family was tremendously proud of the fact that we came from authentic pioneer heritage.
My parents deeply honored and respected our relatives for leaving us this
legacy of faith.
When I was born my only
brother was nineteen years old, and he was serving a mission for the church in
New York State. He didn’t get to meet me until he was home from that mission
two years later. I have three older sisters as well. The two oldest girls were seventeen
and sixteen years old, and in high school, when I entered the family. My
closest sister was eleven and a half years old at my birth. My parents had
tried for many years to have another baby after her. Several miscarriages
later, I finally materialized into this body and into this incredibly zealous, religious
family. My parents were both
very devout Mormons who put the fear of God, and the fear of the church’s
authority, in me at an early age. Church was not to be missed for any reason. Only
severe illness, or injury, would get me out of it. Honestly, I hated being at church
while I was growing up. From the very start, it all felt wrong to me. I felt
like an outsider. I didn’t belong there. My biggest issues with the church were that I absolutely didn’t
fit in with the mind set of patriarchal authority, I feared the God I was taught
about, Jesus was only slightly less scary to me, and I felt like I wasn’t ever
going to be good enough with all the rules I had to follow. Stories of God's judgments were preached more often
than tales of their compassion. The lesson I was repeatedly taught while in my
youth was to repent of my sins not to extend forgiveness, and love, to others.
I was really young when
I remembered why I chose to come back to earth. I knew what my purpose was for
this life time. I was going to be a mother of many children, which is probably
why I was born into a Mormon family. Mormon girls are educated to believe it is
important to get married and to have a lot of children. When I was a youth, marrying
young and producing as many babies as you can was highly encouraged by the church for
the young women out of high school. That part of me fit into that teaching of
the church perfectly. It was the only part of me that fit in that religion because I had memories of being
an adult on this earth. I remembered being a mother in a past life. I had very
vivid dreams most nights growing up, either happy ones of being a wife and a mother,
or terrifying ones of dying a horrific death. Sleep was either my worst
nightmare, or my greatest comfort, depending on which way my dreams, or
memories, would go. I had many excessive fears as a child, and I still deal
with these fears as an adult. Yes, it is possible that these phobias came from
this life; but, I believe my greatest, irrational fears are from past lives. The most persistent
anxieties that I have dealt with for my entire life are the fear of drowning in
the ocean, not a big problem in Utah, the fear of airplanes, on the ground or in the air, and most especially, the fear of being torn
apart by a grizzly bear. That last one is my #1 fear that I still, once in a
while, have nightmares regarding. I believe these fears are not 'rational' fears for a young child, or
for an adult for that matter. Even though I still deal with all of these fears today, losing my
religion helped me immensely in surmounting my fears of the ocean and of
airplanes.
Because dreams of death
were relived many, many nights growing up, I would beg to sleep with my closest
sister; particularly, when it was only her and I left at home. My oldest sister
had always let me sleep with her whenever I needed. She had left me to go serve
a mission for the church in Arizona, and New Mexico, when I was around four
years old. That broke my tender tiny heart when she headed off to go serve God.
I didn’t understand how God could possibly need her more than I did. My other
sister and brother were both out of the house and married by then. Usually my
closest sister’s answer was a harsh, “No!
You cannot sleep with me!” Then, I would plead with my parents to sleep in
their king size bed. They too usually said no. I would be left alone crying in
my room, until I couldn’t stay awake any longer. I would relive petrifying
events, which I couldn’t quite recall while I was awake, but which became
crystal clear to me at night. The good memories/dreams
were what I would try to concentrate on as I attempted to fall asleep. I vividly
remembered being a mother. I would try to focus on those thoughts as I waited
for sleep to overtake me. I couldn’t wait to grow up again. I was
excited to one day find my husband, and to have our beautiful babies. I learned
very quickly that this wasn’t information I could candidly share with my
family. They didn’t believe in past lives, they thought my relentless fears
were childish, and they had very little tolerance towards them.
One night when I was
three years old, before my oldest sister left on her mission, I was going to
sleep with her in her bed. Before we fell asleep, I started speaking softly to
my belly. That is how I would to talk to my future children. She saw me whispering
to myself, and asked me, “What are you doing?”
I answered, “I am telling my babies good
night.” Surprised, she asked, “What
babies?” I told her, “The babies in
my tummy. I’m going to be their mommy. They are waiting to be born to me!”
Now, that part was okay to say, because in Mormonism, they believe in a preexistence. They believe there are Souls up in heaven waiting to be born specifically
into Mormon families to get a body, and be tested here on earth, to see if they
are worthy to live again with our Heavenly Father. (That’s Mormonism in a
nutshell.) Hence the having as many babies as a woman can, giving all those
Souls a chance to be born into good Mormon families. Saying I had babies waiting to
come down into my future family wasn’t strange, oddly enough. But stating I was
terrified of bears, because I unmistakably remembered being dismembered by one
was forbidden; or that, I remembered running away in terror from airplanes
dropping bombs; or that, I had definitely drowned in the ocean. Those were unquestionably
not okay to say. I was left to deal with all of that baggage on my own.
Growing up was particularly
hard for me. I felt very isolated and alone in my family. By the age of eight,
my closest sister was married and out of the house as well. I was the only
child left at home. It seemed like my childhood days would never end. I wanted
to be an adult and on my own. I even thought about running away a few times.
Yet, I knew if I wanted the life I could clearly see within my mind’s eye, I
had to stay with my family. My sweet grandma Ruby, my mother’s mother, was my savior.
I don’t know what I would have done without her. After my grandpa died, when
I was four years old, my parents started sending me to my grandma Ruby’s house on
the weekends to give her some company, and them a break. I distinctly remember
the first evening I was dropped off to stay with her. I was very scared that
night, as usual, because I had never slept away from my home. I always worried
about falling asleep. Grandma immediately made me feel safe and loved. She had
a large, fluffy feather bed that we shared. It was like sleeping on a giant puffy
cloud. She made a hot water bottle for our feet and put it at the foot of the
bed under the covers to warm our toes as we lay in her big bed watching TV with
special treats to eat, until I fell entirely asleep. It was amazing! I had
never had it so good! We had a wonderful time together that weekend. After that
experience, I lived for Friday’s!
I couldn’t wait to go
to her house each week. I would be dropped off on a Friday afternoon, and then
picked up late on Saturday evening. I wanted to stay Saturday night with her
too. But, Grandma Ruby didn’t attend church anymore. Therefore, I had to be
picked up on Saturday night in order to be ready for church on Sunday morning.
I thought my grandma Ruby was the luckiest person in the whole world to be able
to miss church every single week! My parents told me it was because she was too
old and frail to attend, which also might have been true. However, she was strong
enough to care for me every weekend. Something didn’t add up with that excuse. Whatever the
reason was that she no longer attended church it didn’t really matter to me.
She was my hero! I loved staying with my grandma Ruby! Grandma
Ruby was the only person in my life that I could say anything to and not be
judged for it. She knew all my secrets, and still loved me! She knew how to
genuinely listen. She was the perfect example of loving others enormously and unconditionally
like Jesus would do. She actually loved her neighbor as herself, and it showed in
her daily actions. Being at her home was truly Heaven to me.
She was an
enchanting and magical grandmother. She was my salvation, my savior, and my
sage. This quote, from Caroline de Lisser, perfectly describes the lovely Soul of my charismatic grandma Ruby,
“She is an
alchemist; she knows how to transform hardship into a constructive power. She
is not broken by challenging circumstances, she is strengthened by them. She is
adaptable and flexible. She can shape shift to suit her environment; she is not
demanding that life conforms to her desires, nor is she attached to any
particular identity, but she will break rules to be true to herself. She is
like the moon; she shines her own light in the dark.” Grandma
was truly an empowered woman who was attuned to
her wild Soul and lived from her untamed heart. She valued her intuition and
knew her mystical medicine well. She was a powerful force to be reckoned with; and,
she lovingly shared her sacred medicine openly and freely with others. Grandma
taught me to discover for myself my conscious connection to the Divine. She transformed my darkness into a light of hope. and helped inspire other women to be both creative
and spiritual as well. She lived in her uniqueness as a modern day Goddess Warrior.
That is how I remember her. I wish everyone could be so fortunate as to
have a grandma like her in their life. It is the kind of ‘nana’ I hope to be
for my grandchildren.
Even
as I grew, I continued to I stayed with grandma Ruby every weekend that I could
from age four ‘til age sixteen. Age sixteen is when Mormon girls can start
dating. Then, grandma had a little competition from the boys I started to date.
My time at her home was definitely lessened because of my rendezvous, but not
the enduring love and beautiful bond that had grown up so adoringly between us. It was in October of my senior year that she got sick. She had been living with us after her surgery. I was immature.
I was busy with things I thought were very important. I refused to believe that this was
the beginning of the end of her life. I thought she would get better, go back to
her home, and everything would be back to ‘normal’. I thought we had time. If I
had known that those eight weeks at our home would be her last weeks in this
physical plane, I would have spent every minute that I could with her. I did
spend time with her. I just wish I could have had more of it. We talked, laughed, and
shared like we always had, while she lay in bed, as if she would be around
forever. Although, on a cold December day, she told me not to worry about her;
we would see each other again. She said she would come to me one day, when I
really needed her. I thought that was a curious thing to tell me. A few days
later, she passed away. It was on Saturday, December 21, 1985. Fortunately, I
was able to be with her when she crossed over. I had never witnessed death
before in my young life. Hers was graceful, peaceful, and beautiful. She died quickly
at our home in my old bedroom on the pullout bed we had shared many special nights
together when she had stayed at our house. I was kneeling by her side, holding
her hand, when she gently stopped breathing and released her Soul. She was now an
angel watching over me. We buried her on Christmas Eve. I missed her profoundly
after her death.
I would have
to wait twenty seven years and one month for the amazing experience of re-connecting
with my grandma Ruby once more, and it wouldn't be in a Mormon temple!
Namaste!
www.iamsacredlight.com
www.sacredlights.net
www.secretsfromtheuniverse.blogspot.com
Namaste!
www.iamsacredlight.com
www.sacredlights.net
www.secretsfromtheuniverse.blogspot.com
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