Trading the red dress for purple

Naturally, now, I wish I had pulled through the fog of sleep when I first woke, and wrote the scene of events when they were still painted in vivid hues. Here, though, is what I remember:

There was a dress, a brilliant red frilly affair, not unlike the Red Riding hood flock my daughter wore for Halloween, the color of blood when first spilled and trimmed in lace. I had it on backwards, at first. There was conflict, the replay of the past in different form. People I love, but have caused heartache, still lingering in the shadows of the mind. They had come out of the shadows last night, in the eve of the new moon, to remind me of what I still must shed.

It didn’t take long for me to notice the dress I was wearing  was backwards, so I righted it without taking it off. I wore if for awhile, through that play of scenes, before I traded it in for another. But let me tell you what else occurred last night, as I try to put the disperate pieces together.

There was another scene, entirely new from the other, and seemingly unrelated as dreams have that way of changing course suddenly. But, one knows really that nothing is unrelated.

I stood in water under a bridge. To my right, the river went upstream, to my left, down. The bridge above providing the option of two more directions, one a path into the past and the option of returning to the scene I had just left.

The water was a beautiful blue, full and strong, and I stood solid in the middle of the crossroads. To my right I watched with longing the tempting play of laughter as boaters paddled the current together. The sun shone high above. The only darkness was over the bridge, hidden through the tunnel of trees.

Here the dream became lucid in form. I knew the bird was coming before it appeared, quick and sure, from an unknown location. I knew I needed to remember her, as she was a messenger from Spirit. She was white, with the hint of brown and gray edging her feathers. A tiny (snowy) owl still in the early stages of her life where energy abounds but wisdom has yet to truly ripen.

My silent messenger of magic stopped her rapid flight in mid-air to balance at the point of my third eye. Our eyes locked, and she lingered long enough for me to remember. I had a choice, which path would I take?

Now, let me take you back out of the water, to that woman in the red dress. Through the course of those night travels she shed that red dress. She took it off, even after she righted it, and traded it in for another, and when she did everything shifted. The troubled scene she traveled through earlier became a place of joy as she twirled into her light in a lavender gown, sure, oh so sure, of who she was. Nothing, it seemed, could hold her back from living the true magic of her soul.




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A friend of mine just wrote a post that moved me into that place of contemplation. In the quiet space of self, she had allowed herself to explore and love who she is in the moment of Now. Perceived flaws broke open beauty as she found the true light within through touch and acceptance. How many of us, I wonder, hold onto a false sense of self? How many of us want to be beautiful in a way that doesn’t truly define us?

I rarely take selfies. I can count the number of times I’ve tried to on one hand. My face, I have always believed, is not loved by the camera. It is small in size, with a set of teeth that I’ve always thought too large and pronounced for the thin lips and narrow frame. When I smile too wide, I see wrinkles. When I don’t, I see a glaring over-bite.


Sometimes, though, in the private reflection of a mirror, I can find beauty and the parts of me I love. The blue, blue eyes that look like a kaleidoscope of truth. The eyebrows I’ve never plucked and the frame of hair that tends toward unruly. There is a wild me that I love, but what about the rest?


How do we find acceptance in those places where beauty hides from us? Can we love the body of self we have chosen for this life, knowing that this is the only perfect vessel for the journey we are on? We must, I believe, to travel light and in the light.

How often have I pushed against my front teeth with my hand out of rote habit, and wondered how my appearance would have changed with braces? How many times have I longed for full lips and lashes? There have been so many parts of me that I have imagined changed, but for what purpose? To me loved more? By me? By others?


So, today I took the phone resting beside me, and took a look at this self that I have always seen as imperfect. I shot from the angles I could reach and then loaded the results. It all came out on the screen. The camera mirrors our beliefs. There was the over-bite spreading the lips too thin, the wrinkles in the brow and under the eyes, the face trying to find a smile. But, there was also the light, shining in the blue, blue eyes. There was the truth of who I am and that body of love that also shines. There was me. The unaltered me. I’ll take it as a gift. It is what I asked for in this life.





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Dreaming the Sweetest Pair of Uggs


My earliest recalled dream last night found me hosting a group of sort-of friends from long ago. We appeared to be having a book club, and my friends were hungry and asking for something to nibble on. Suddenly, I found myself sorting through clutter, old newspapers and collected material that needed to be cleared and disposed of, as I attempted to work around it to make the snacks.

Chocolate cookies were going into ovens, bagels were being toasted. Each heated treat waiting to be topped with ice cream or cream cheese. Sounds delicious, right? But, I was feeling over-whelmed with the task. There was too much clutter, and the cookies were starting to burn before I could get to them. Forget the ice cream intended as stuffing, my hungry “friends” were waiting.


Fast-forward to the next remembered dream. Here I was in high school, although not the high school I had once attended in waking life. This high school appeared to be a private school for grooming elite students. Again, I found myself among my friends, only this time I was comfortable and happy. The head-master (or the equivalent of one) pulled me aside as my friends and I chatted, and for a moment I thought I had done something wrong.

“You are a phenomenal student,” she told me when  we were alone in the hallway, our heads huddled together in the corner. “We’ve chosen you for the competition.”

My task, if I decided to accept, was to design a new pair of UGG shoes.

But I can’t draw, I told myself. And then I stopped. Yes I can. I can do anything I want to. It just might take more time, more practice and dedication.

Suddenly, I was dreaming up amazing ideas. There was no limit to my imagination and ability to create something new. I was putting zippers down the backs of boots that looked like they might rip every time someone pulled them on. I was applying new adornments, colors and textures. Finally, I settled on the design I would sure would win. A white pair of wedding UGGs to be worn by a bride in northern climates. They would have a thin lining of fur, soft and delicate as UGGs could be made, with a slight heel to lift. I was over the moon, this was going to be so much fun!

Although I never finished the dream to see if I had in fact won the competition, it didn’t matter. I had won, after all. I woke feeling light and lifted and full of joy. The full potential of creation was stirring inside of me. I knew the limitlessness of my being and how wonderful it feels when one stirs that put into being.

I often analyze my dreams for their messages, and here is what I took from these two dreams. The moon, right now, is just starting to wane. It has waxed into its fullness and is now starting to shed its weight. When the moon waxes, my dreams are often troubled and filled with scenes that play out the ego’s fears. They peak at the full moon, and then they begin to transform and shed their weight.

Last night, in my first dream, I was reminded of the weight the ego carries in the form of fear. There was clutter all around me. It was frustrating, it was getting in the way of the tasks I wanted to accomplish. But, these tasks were also of the ego and its fears. I was striving to please people who really didn’t deserve it. As a result, I was placing myself in a lower position to them (I actually went down a hill in the dream to prepare their food, which is also where I encountered all the clutter). The food I was preparing was sweet and rich. It was food that adds weight to the body. The foods we crave to feed our fears, which quite literally add to the emotional weight we carry in our bodies.

Then spirit gifted me with the second dream. A full transformation from the first. Here I was amid peers again, but a true leader and not someone who tries to please others at the sacrifice of her true self. I was admired and recognized for who I was, and my true potential was allowed and encouraged to shine. There was that moment of self-doubt that likes to creep in for most of us, but look what happened! I over-came it! I went beyond it to stir that pot of limitless creative potential. It was glorious, it was fun, it lifted my heart. It filled me with light. This is is the stuff inside all of us, we just need to shed the weight of the ego, stop feeding its fears, enter the womb of creation inside and birth. Again and again! We are all limitless beings.


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Radio Interview with Brad Simkins – Life Is Just Another Class

Alethea Kehas:

Tune in tonight to hear my friend Karen Kubicko talk about her healing experiences with past life regression.

Originally posted on Karen Kubicko:

Tonight, I have the honor of being interviewed by Brad Simkins via the online radio, Awakening Zone. He is always a wonderful host!

The times for the airing on November 4, 2014 are 5pm PDT, 6pm MDT, 7pm CDT, 8EDT.  (Please note that there will be a limited time to listen to this broadcast on Awakening Zone as this online radio will close the site later in December this year.)

Karen Kubicko

As we journey through this class we call life, we encounter many obstacles. These obstacles can be fears, relationships, unfounded phobias,health, and more. It is how we overcome that brings us healing while strengthening our soul. There are many ways on the path to healing. Karen chose past life regression which awakened her to so much more.

Karen believes that life is just another class. Upon remembering several past lives through regressions, she learned that we chose if and when…

View original 44 more words

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The roof is coming down as I write, and I can’t help thinking about how easily the creative mind can be pulled away from its work. At least for me. I am a bit restless by nature, and sitting for any length of time for the soul purpose of writing is a bit of a challenge. I hop up to let the dogs in and out, to steal a snack from the fridge, or make one if I’m unsatisfied with the contents. I grab at the pauses between inspiration to check my emails and Facebook and reply to messages. This is how the minutes slip by before I can reign them in again and use them for the purpose I set out to.

Now, the roof is coming down outside of the window where I usually sit to write. I could move, but I don’t. Instead, my eyes pull toward the sounds of shingles sliding on plastic tarps and the shadows they make in their reckless descent toward the ground. My mind pauses between my character’s thoughts to worry about the cloths hanging on the line precariously within reach of the avalanche of shingles that once adorned the peak of my home.

Suddenly, it’s nearly time for the school bus to groan around the corner of my street to deliver my son home and I realize the 70 page mark may not be met today, or at least not during me kid-free hours. Oh well, there’s alway another moment to grab.

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I am listening to the gurgle of rain as it slips into crevices in the earth and the eaves of my porch roof. The sound is gentle and soothing, fitting for a cold fall day with weather that makes you want to nestle under covers and dream of light.

I can hear the wind too, along with the blue jay, who both on occasion break through the steady pattern of rain so their voices can be heard. Inside my house, the furnace hums in the basement, reminding me of warmth, while the clock ticks away time. Just now, a flock of geese is harkening winter through the gray sky, but it soon passes.

Sound. Its vibrations bare the spectrum of extremes. I am trying to understand how our bodies learn to love and hate the music of sounds. How some sounds fill us with light, while others make us recoil in fear or loathing.

Over the past several weeks, I have born witness to the impact of sound on my 9 yr. old son. We are, it seems, living on the edge of extremes, any sudden variation in tone tipping the emotional weight of endurance inside of him. We are living in the breath of rain before it falls, wondering when each sound will shatter the surface of his body.

Because I understand what my son is going through, doesn’t make it easier. I don’t have the answer to peace for him. I cannot step inside his moment of intensity and turn on the silence he craves. Sound cannot always be stopped. Life must go on. Pets need to bathe themselves, meals need to be eaten.

When I was a child, my sensitive body would often recoil from unavoidable sounds. At night I would toss restlessly in my bed, stuffing pillows over ear plugs in an effort to block out the song of crickets outside my window and the chaotic symphony of my sister snoring in the bunk below me. During the daytime, it was usually my stepfather’s habitual sounds that would trigger me, tying my stomach into knots of swallowed rage. The piercing dissonance of his whistling, the near-constant clearing of phlegm from his throat…it was nearly insufferable for my young body.

Now, I watch my sensory sensitivity mirrored in my son, whose tolerance is even more fragile and volatile than his mother’s. I understand his suffering, but the magic cure to help him is eluding me. I learned early to suffer through sound by silencing my own voice. I see the irony in this as I write. Perhaps this is why I welcome, in some ways, my son’s outbursts of frustration with his noisy environment, knowing too well the consequence of swallowing voice.

I want to show my son that sound can be a balm. I want to show him how to push aside the barrier of resistance and open the door to joy, which is always waiting. Yet, this door is not always easy to open, I know. Sometimes, when I listen to someone chewing food, I can reach his or her place of inner joy, and my body will fill with the soft prickles of shared light. Other times, though, like my son, my skin recoils in irritation, and I find myself clenching my muscles in frustration. I am still learning that there is always light to be found within sounds. That we can reach that space between rain, or that space between the chewing of food and hold onto the silent music of peace.



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Who would you like to share a meal with?

At 9:15 this morning I made myself a second breakfast for no other reason than that I was hungry. The smoothie I had blended two hours earlier had already left my stomach, and it didn’t matter that there was no one else in the house to cook for (unless you count the always eager dogs). Actually, it made the idea somehow more appealing. I had the freedom to make whatever I desired. Denise and Meadow Linn’s cookbook was already sitting on the counter, and instead of grabbing the fast-fix of an apple or hummus and multigrain chips, I flipped through the pages of the Mystic Cookbook.

I stopped at “Super Hero Pancakes,” and began gathering ingredients. Instead of melting coconut oil in the microwave, I scooped it into the cast iron pan (as they suggested) and watched it infuse the air with the energy of the tropics. I squeezed fresh lemon into the almond milk and stirred the egg in a ramekin before I whisked the liquids together. For a brief moment I rued my lack of spice grinder to mill fresh wild rice flour, but told myself an equal amount of brown rice flour would do just fine. And, it did.

The alchemy of food

The alchemy of food

Again I relished the alchemy of mixing, whisking this time the dry with the wet, until I was satisfied with the results. No need to worry about over doing it, everything was gluten-free. The cast iron sang when I poured circles of batter into its well-oiled surface. The creamy fluid spread, and I layered more on top, then watched as tiny bubbles surfaced from my pancakes. The second side always cooks faster, and I gathered my fork, one of my daughter’s fancy plates, maple syrup, and poured a mug of chamomile tea.

My Second Breakfast

My Second Breakfast

I dined in perfect peace, savoring the meal I had created for myself, while thinking about who I would choose to share my meal with if presented with the choice. I thought about how most of the more conventionally popular choices didn’t interest me. I wanted to dine with Denise and Meadow Linn. Especially Denise. Don’t get me wrong, I think both mother and daughter are fabulous, and both share that unique energy of pure, humbled, yet strong spirit, but my soul craves the sacred mother-energy that Denise embodies.

So, as I ate, I imagined the warmth of Denise’s beautiful soul filling the space of my home and blessing the food she had helped me to create with purpose, love and intention. I imagined the conversation we would share over our meal, and the joy that would infuse the space inside my home. And I smiled and ate my second breakfast.

An emptied plate beside a full heart

An emptied plate beside a full heart


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