I found myself downstairs in the area that is now used as the nightclub and where my event will be. There is a sound check going on in the background in preparation for a gig that evening. Chairs and tables are being clanged about and the staff are laughing and joking with one another. The room is impressive; a mix of ornate traditional stonework that you would associate with a place of worship mixed in with red velvet couches and furnishings you would expect to see at an intimate club venue. As I stand and take it all in my vision starts to blur and I can feel my attention being pulled by the dead. In wisps and strands the stories and people reveal themselves. There is a little girl whose Mum was a cleaner at the church who is playing in an alcove. As I look over at her the building seems to shift in front of my eyes and I see it as it was then and feel the stillness that existed then. I can smell her mum’s polish as she cleans. A clatter of chairs brings me back to the now again.

I am then pulled in a different direction. I move to stand in the corner where the cloakroom is now located. I can’t see any coats here. Instead I see bodies laid out; they look like they are on narrow tables and are covered over with white sheeting. One in particular draws my attention. There is a young woman laid out in preparation for her funeral. There is a man at her side and he is crying as he holds her hand. He starts to speak to me… His name is Donald. He is here for Julie. He tells me simply that she was his love… It was a forbidden love… Her father didn’t approve. She was too young. He was older, from a different background… Julie knew she was going to die. She knew she would be separated from her love, from Donald. Her greatest fear was to be alone in Death before the burial. Donald made her a promise that he wouldn’t leave her… He tells me that he stayed with her that night. He held her hand and wept. And he waited. He waited until the dawn broke and he knew she would no longer be scared. Then Donald, who couldn’t bear to live without his beloved Julie, took his own life by hanging himself alongside her body. Hoping to join her in the afterlife…

And then he is gone and the connection with him is broken. He leaves his grief and the yearning for his beloved and it feels like a physical weight in my chest. As I come back to ‘reality’ I find myself leaning against the wall next to the hatch for the cloakroom. I wonder how many couples or hopeful singles have stood there at the end of the night waiting for their belongings to be returned after engaging with a different kind of spirit… I wonder if they felt a chill on the back of their neck as they waited, if they felt the yearning for a pure and true love that echoes through the hollows of that basement…

In the article the focus was on exploring the cases where the pets were representing a missing twin, where the individuals concerned experienced guilt at surviving and ‘leaving’ their twin behind often developing difficulties themselves with fertility and their own ability to carry a child until full term within pregnancy. Other effects appeared to be a disruption in the closeness experienced in intimate relationships.  I have also observed occasions during constellation where a pet is representing a missing family member from several generations back who was excluded, a child who was stillborn as well as miscarried or aborted children. In these cases the surviving children in the family develop a strong attachment to the pet as their missing family member and so the patterns flow on.  Pets can also develop health issues that mirror those of a specific individual within the family that they are entangled with.

I found this topic fascinating especially as I have always had a pet cat from quite a young age and hated the period when I was in a relationship with a partner who couldn’t tolerate cat hair due to an allergy! Looking back the cat came into the family at the point of a miscarriage and their presence has been very important for all immediate family members. It is interesting to observe the reactions of the family pet after a constellation as they feel themselves as themselves again… Currently having quite a serious chat with Noot Noot Von Mewler about it being ok for him to just be a cat…

I stand at the bridge. Waiting. Listening. Then I feel him again. Angrier this time. Angry with the injustice of it all.

‘See it’ he whispers. ‘This is a river of blood’.

I am cold. My attention is drawn to the Church across the other side of the river.

‘She went there for help.’

‘Ophelia…’

The whisper becomes louder ‘THEY SENT HER AWAY.’

Quieter again he says ‘They were on the other side. They ran the other side.’

The church he was talking about was St.Andrews Cathedral which was the first Catholic church to be built in Glasgow and was completed in 1816. Bad feeling surrounded the building of the church and the division between the Irish immigrants and ‘locals’. The energy of the bridge and of Pat himself is different this time. He is still there but in the background faded. He has stepped back to allow the others to come forward. The others… The women. I begin to see them. To hear their stories. To feel their pain.

I’m being dragged under…feel as if i’m wading through water… and then Marjorie begins to tell her story too…

Similar to Ophelia, a prostitute killed and dumped in the river, her body pulled out by the police several days later. She talks about a confusion with the Police, how the man who killed her had done it to others and gotten away. She is bitter. Understandably so…

Reluctantly we leave her and walk on… further down the River Clyde we come to what is colloquially know as ‘The Heilan man’s umbrella’ so named as it is the area covered by the railway bridge leading south out of Central Station in the city and it was a popular meeting point for Highlanders fresh off the train or those living in the city to convene together as it offered a bit of shelter on a rainy day. From the whispers and wisps of folk lingering there from other realms it offered slightly more than shelter from the rain…  As I allow myself to drift with them we are bumped and jostled by city workers hurrying to purchase their lunchtime sustenance. It seems incongruous with the desperation of the layers of humanity that remain trapped underneath the great pillars of the bridge. The shadows themselves seem to talk and I catch glimpses from a past long gone…with women out for the evening to find money to pay for the children’s shoes…this image then slips in to a more recent scene of an attack, perhaps a rape, I feel her fear in my chest and hear her scream as if it is ripped from my own throat. Was she a prostitute too? Does it matter if she was? She was still a person and this should not have happened to her. I hear her weeping as I feel my way back to reality. Standing underneath the railway bridge amidst the concrete pillars and detritus, the smell of the city feels like its inside of me and I realise again that this was perhaps not the smartest idea I have ever had. Human suffering remains like a stain on the fabric of the city that cannot be cleaned or covered over no matter how much time passes by. If you go looking for it you will find it. There must be an easier way to connect with the women Pat was talking about, to hear their story…but what? Disheartened by it all and horrified at witnessing what one human being can do to another we decide to head back. The thought of walking back through the dead makes my heart sink so we flag down a taxi to take us back to our cars. As the black hackney cab pulls over and the driver opens the door I feel the black light rush in, all around me fades into black as she enters my head…

The effects of war & religion

Derrick’s family are Swiss and he is currently working and traveling in Europe with no real base. Derrick had asked for a session because he felt like he didn’t belong anywhere, he was constantly searching for “home”; he also had trouble establishing a financial base for himself as well as difficulty maintaining personal relationships. I spent some time working with Derrick and the energetic imprint of the family field and felt drawn to explore the Mother’s family line in particular as it felt very disjointed and unsettled. We decided to set up a constellation to view the patterns. Derrick set up a constellation including his Mother, Father, himself and his two brothers.

image_9_war_religion_derrick

Immediately we could see that the Father was very detached and removed from the family. The first brother was very angry and directing a lot of that anger towards the Mother and Derrick. The second brother was more curious about Derrick and the Mother but couldn’t see anyone else. The mother had difficulty seeing any of her children or her husband and was clearly drawn towards the realm of the dead. Derrick was very unsteady and weak in his place. As the Mother’s line in particular had called to me at the start of the session I brought in representatives of the Mother’s parents, Derrick’s Grandparents. The Grandmother had little effect but introducing the Grandfather had an immediate and obvious effect on both Derrick and the Mother. It transpired that the Mother’s Father’s lines were Jewish and the Grandfather had been adopted in to a non-Jewish family during World War II in an attempt to save his life. This did save his life however his natural birth family perished in the holocaust. The Grandfather survived with his adopted family but went on to live a very bitter, violent and angry life. Both Derrick and his Mother were drawn to the victims surrounding the Grandfather in the realm of the dead whereas the eldest brother was drawn to the Grandfather himself. It seemed very clear that the Grandfather had been unable or had chosen not to show gratitude or honour the sacrifice his Mother and adoptive family had made in keeping him alive.

image_10_war_religion_derrick2

I brought in the representatives for the Grandfather’s parents and adoptive family and again this brought some relief to Derrick and his Mother, the Grandfather’s parents still looked to the dead. I brought in representatives for the victims of the holocaust to stand beside them. It still remained impossible for the Grandfather to give thanks for his life and the sacrifices made. Derrick, during a very moving ceremony, was able to thank and honour the family members and victims, each in turn. He thanked them for their sacrifice and gave them a place of love in his heart. The grandfather was moved to stand with his Mother and the victims of the holocaust.

image_11_war_religion_derrick3

In doing so this freed Derrick’s Mother and the balance within the family shifted to allow for a point of resolution to be reached. The three brothers were able to take their place in front of their parents who could also now see and be with one another.

This is an excerpt from my book ‘The Science of Family’ published by O-Books 2009.

Mr Hacker if you are reading this…bugger off.

Now I am in a car, a black car. It is dark. I can see the lights of the city. I am sitting in the back. Looking out of the window I recognise some of the streets we pass. The botanical gardens. The large windows of the West End flats. People walking along the pavement, making their way home from work, oblivious to the girl in the taxi. For now I am her, that girl, Tatiana Povac. The engine stops and the driver gets out. He has a package to deliver. Me…

The view shifts again. It is harder to link in and my vision is swimming in front of me. My limbs feel heavy. More drugs, they have given me more drugs. The room I am in is dark. There are no windows. There is a thick carpet beneath my feet and the room is filled with large black leather sofas. Chrome and glass tables. Champagne. The men are all wearing suits. Talking business, football, politics… Money is everywhere, the smell of it is in the air. There is another girl. I am not alone in this nightmare… We are the entertainment. A little light relief. My heart sinks as I am pulled by my arm through a doorway. I am in a smaller, darker room now. The walls and door are padded. I feel another part of me die inside as hands reach out to touch me.

As I pull my energy back I feel her turn to look at me. I am a further intruder upon her energy and her space. I feel her brush against my cheek, softly like a lover’s kiss. “I wanted to die…” she whispers those words in my ear. I feel the resignation within her, all hope destroyed like shards of glass splintered on the ground that only hurt you further should you dare to pick them up. “There are more” she whispered and then she was gone.

I am me again, sitting weeping at the side of the river. I had seen her in it you see. Tatiana Povac. Her name is important to her because she wasn’t allowed to use it. ‘They’ changed it to Leanne. Erased her life. Erased her. I knew nothing of human trafficking, prostitution or ‘specialist’ clubs for ‘gentleman’ before this. Quite naive I suppose. I saw Tatiana’s death, her murder, the disposal of her body in the murky depths of the river. Pat Jones led me here and I fear the next step. They haunt me these women. What stays with me, what will always stay with me is the absolute and complete absence of hope. The resignation of fate and the sweet release of death. I sit at the side of the river and weep.

N.B. Some names were changed in this ‘story’ to protect the living from the living whilst still honouring the dead. The relevant authorities were notified through irrelevant channels.

My breath comes in ragged bursts and my feet start to drag through the sand. It becomes harder and harder to move forward and I am reduced to a crawl. My hands claw at the sand trying in vain to find a place of safety. The sobs come next with the knowing that there is no safe place. This is it, the end. Death is haunting me. I know its scent, its very breath.  It teases the skin on the back of my neck. I feel a sharp crack at the base of my skull and then the darkness comes. As I slip in to the darkness I feel the icy water begin to lap against my toes but the darkness is insistent and I can resist no longer.  I slip under.

I wake and sit up in bed, horrified at what I have just seen. The dreams are becoming more vivid and insistent in their intensity. I eventually realise that the female I am seeing is not me. She feels like me, she looks like me but she is NOT me. This knowledge helps somewhat but the dream keeps rolling just the same. After a while it doesn’t wait for sleep, it comes in the day and there is no escape from it. I call it the ‘black light’. The feeling that comes when the ‘other world’ is speaking to you. The tugging at my vision to look beyond, to listen to their words, to feel what they feel. I spent years blocking it out. As a teenager it floored me. I spent 18 months off school practically comatose at the height of the nightmares and the black light. Until I listened. Until I learned how to flow from one world to the other, attempting to ‘fit in’ with both.

It was a number of years later that I became properly acquainted with the woman from my dream. Her name was Catherine and she was my great-grandmother. She ‘drowned’ when my Mother was pregnant with me. In fact my Mother was on her way to see Catherine, to tell her the news of the pregnancy, when her body was found. Her body was found washed up on the beach. The story goes that she went for a walk on the beach, fell asleep in a cave and got caught by the tide. A tragic accidental drowning… This is not the story that Catherine tells. Hers is quite different.  It comes to me in pieces.

My family is from a string of fishing villages in the Scottish Highlands. I am tied to that land. When I am there I can breathe, I am home. When I go ‘home’ another piece of the story comes to me. Sometimes I block it, I don’t want to hear. After the birth of my Son the dreams began again. This time she had my attention. I listened. I made a promise to tell her tale. The story twists and turns away from me at times. So many secrets swept under the carpet.

I went back home last September and I went to find her cave… As I stand on the beach in the fading light the cold wind whips at my face. I have walked for a couple of miles away from the village and I have reached the first of three sea caves on this stretch of beach. Tentatively I peer inside, I recognise nothing and feel hollow. I turn and walk on clambering over rocks as I go. Then I see it. This is the one, this is the cave.  I feel my bare feet sink in to the cold wet sand and burrow my toes in deeper and close my eyes. Home, I am home. As I slip in to the comforting thought I feel the cold hand of fear creep up my spine as the familiar call of the black light slips into my awareness. I try to push it aside but it seems to gain in strength and pull at the edges of my vision. I can hear the voices on the wind come closer, the familiarity overwhelming.  My legs start to buckle underneath me and as I sink down in to the chill damp sand my last thought is of the sea in front of me as the black light takes over and blurred my sight and senses to this world. Then I see it…

She ran. The panic rose in her throat, her lungs bursting with effort as her breath came in ragged gasps. It was difficult to run on the cloying sand, her limbs felt heavier with each step and she stumbled, twisting her ankle as she fell. As she dragged herself back up she risked a glance behind her, he was still coming, and he wasn’t going to give up. The rage in his eyes stilled her heart and the knowledge that there was no chance of escape dawned upon her. The realisation of her fate brought with it a sudden fatigue and a sense of inevitability. It was almost a feeling of relief when at last he finally caught up to her on the lonely stretch of beach. The feeling of resignation was complete when he pulled her roughly to the ground and dragged her by her hair in to the cave.

And then I am me again. Sitting on the cold, damp sand. Crying for this woman that I never knew. My Mother named me for her when I was born. Catherine is my middle name, for her. I made her a promise and I will honour it. She told me more of her story that night as I sat with her in the cave. In time, when I find the words, I will tell the tale…

I feel the blade in my back and my ribs feel bruised as if they have been chipped. The words start to flow in incoherent snippets. I hear the name ‘Pat Jones’… Irish…potato famine…real name ‘O’Malley’ changed to ‘Jones’ in order to get work… it is 1852. As he speaks the room I am in changes from the Crowne Plaza’s conference suite to a dank, grey basement. There is water running down the walls and the air has a metallic taste. I see men fighting. Blood. Bare knuckles. Money changing in hands. Sharply the image shifts and I am on a bridge. “George” is whispered in my ear. A harsh gasp. I feel the knife at my throat now. “SEE ME!” he says. Snap. My attention is pulled back to the room as a uniformed waiter bustles past me. We continue the tour and I brush it off. He doesn’t leave. He is insistent. I block him… I don’t want to hear his story, his sorrow.

I live in the sticks and drive in to Glasgow maybe once a week.  About 10 miles from the city the words begin again, boring through my defences. Relentless. “HEAR ME!” he shouts in my head “SEE HER!” I have no choice. I pull over to the side of the road and watch the story unfold.

I am on a bridge now. Watching. My breath comes in ragged bursts. The cold blade pushes into the skin of my throat. There is a woman. I see her. I see the two men beside her. The panic rises in my chest. One man is speaking to me, I cannot hear the words, but I see the sneer on his face. He takes a knife and looks to me as he pulls it across her pale throat. Her hands behind her back, she has no chance.
“No!” in my head I scream. I see the blood. A crimson wave. It is only when his hands push her over that I see she is not alone. The child. The child is bound to her. Still alive. I see them sink into the depths of the river as the blade is pulled across my own throat and the fists beat me into submission. I am falling. My lasts thoughts are of her. In my head I am screaming “Ophelia! Catherine!”.

I come to clutching the steering wheel. He has my attention now this Pat Jones, now I am listening. The story comes to me in waves.  He told me that he’d got involved with ‘dirty money’, bare knuckle fighting, a bad underbelly of gangs. He hadn’t wanted to, but he had needed to for money, he delivered ‘messages’, packages for certain men. Men of power. Men of standing. Ophelia was a Prostitute ‘owned’ by the gang he worked for. Pat jones loved her and was trying to get her out so that they could be together. “See her!” he whispered in my ear before he left again. I felt cold, my heart still.

That evening, comfortably ensconced in my own home, I did a little digging online. Looking at pictures of the bridges of Glasgow my first thought is of the George V but it doesn’t look right. Then I see an in image of the South Portland Street Bridge, this is the one, this is what Pat showed me.  The South Portland Bridge suspension bridge was engineered by a man called George Martin. I did some research and discovered that the bridge was begun in 1851, but suffered a setback during its construction where the south tower fell in on itself and was replaced later by the Greek archways that stand there now. It wasn’t completed until 1853, which meant for sometime the bottom part of the south tower would have been ‘open’… I also checked the 1851 census, and that produced two ‘Pat Jones’, one in Edinburgh, and the other living in the Barony district of Glasgow, which included Calton, popular with Irish Catholic immigrants at that time and considered a red light district ruled by gangs. He was 21 and listed as a porter or errand boy. Interestingly, he does not appear on the 1861 census, 10 years later. I decided at that point to go to the bridge…

I went down to the South Portland street bridge myself the following week. Pat Jones came back through to me. Insistent.  He stayed with me on my journey there. He was speaking of a woman Ophelia Dunn and a girl Catherine Dunn. “My love” he whispered to me “Ophelia was my love”. The gang ‘owned’ her “she didn’t want to do it. She didn’t like it”. Pat was trying to get her out. The only way he knew was to try through a rival gang from the North of the city, the other side of the bridge. His plan backfired. Quite dramatically. As I stood on the South of the bridge I see it all unfold before me. I feel the excitement within Pat as he sees Ophelia waiting for him, they’ve done it! They are free! And then I see the men in the shadows and my heart sinks. You can’t trust anyone in the gangs of Glasgow. “George Malcolm…he did it” I hear the words rasped out in Pat’s now familiar voice, thick with rage this time. George was his friend in the gang that he ran errands for. He somehow discovered Pat’s plan and betrayed his friend in order to secure a higher rank within the gang… I see the murders play out again. I feel the emotion of it fill me this time and I taste the blood in my mouth as George Malcolm holds me down, forcing me to watch. They killed her. Slitting her throat in front of me, throwing her and Catherine in the river. I feel the blade plunge into my flesh and then I am falling, falling down into the depths of the bridge. I am defeated, all hope is lost. She is dead, they are dead. All hope died with them. I am left with the bitterness and the rage. My head clears and I am standing in Carlton Place in Glasgow and I am looking at the bridge in front of me. I can ‘see’ him in the pillar base in the right hand side.  His agitation is still palpable. There is more to this story. As I turn to leave I feel his grip on me once more “a river of blood!” he says “This is happening now! Give them a voice!”…”HEAR THEM!”. I turn and stumble back to my car. I don’t want to see anymore…

Back to the safety of home and a look online I find a death certificate for a Catherine Dunn. It is recorded in 19/01/1854, I can’t read the cause of death, she was aged 10. I couldn’t find Ophelia… George Malcolm appears in the 1851 Glasgow census in the Gorbals, near the bridge, aged 23. George, his friend, his Judas.

Pat Jones still speaks to me. He is very agitated and insistent that this is still happening now. How ‘they’ think the prostitute’s lives don’t matter, they are worthless. “Give them a voice!” he says “prove them wrong”.

In the end I cancelled the event at the Crowne Plaza, the only voice I would have heard would have been Pat’s. I have been back to the river. I don’t see it as Glasgow’s river anymore, for me it is a river of blood and I see the souls within it. They call to me. I have walked down that river with people who want to hear what Pat Jones have to say, people who fight for the rights of prostitutes in the city. Who see them and hear their voices. Together we looked to see those that need to be seen, to tell their story and give them peace. Pat came with us, bearing witness. He is still with me, there is more to tell…

Any imbalance in the mind or body will impact the chakras, as they contain an imprint of every emotionally or physically significant event you have been through as well as the connection to the family and ancestral lineage. Energy blocks from one chakra to another can manifest themselves in internal conflicts, such as the classic war between the head and the heart as well as physical and emotional issues.

Root Chakra
The root chakra is positioned at the base of the spine and pubic bone; it is traditionally red in colour.

This chakra represents our roots encompassing our family values, our ancestral line and fundamental beliefs. How we relate to our parents and our ancestors and in turn how we relate to our basic material needs along with our sense of “belonging” and our place within our family. Our ability to survive and prosper in the world is “rooted” within this chakra as the relationship with our parents defines our ability to achieve on all levels.

Sacral Chakra

The sacral chakra is positioned in the lower abdomen and is traditionally associated with the colour of orange. Our sense of belonging, desires, drive and ambition have strong connections with this energy centre. The roots of addictive behaviour and self destructive patterns can also be found here as this is a link to the Father’s ancestral lineage. When the Father (or other strong male from the masculine line) is missing, detached or rejected then this energy centre is weakened. Our issues and burdens about ourselves and others are potentially carried here. Also can affect how we relate and communicate our needs to others.

Solar Plexus Chakra

The solar plexus chakra is to be found between the navel and the base of the sternum. This is the storage point for the judgements, opinions and beliefs that we have about the world and ourselves and is also the storage place for our will and willpower. Energy associated with our Mother’s lineage and the burdens from that line are carried here. A rejection of the Mother or that line will result in a weakening of this energy centre affecting our ability to drive forward our life successfully.

Heart Chakra

The heart chakra is positioned at the centre of the chest and is associated with the colour green in many traditions. This chakra is seen as the centre of the human body and the connecting point between the higher and lower chakras – the co-existence of body and spirit. It is also the point at which the masculine and feminine ancestral lines find a point of balance and harmony. If however there is an imbalance or heavy entanglement in either or both of the ancestral lines then this energy centre will be impacted by that. This will in turn impact on our emotional, physical, mental and spiritual wellbeing. Thus affecting our feelings of unconditional love, forgiveness, compassion and our ability or inability to relate to those around us. It is also the emotional centre where we unconsciously store the experiences of our ancestors.

Throat Chakra

The throat chakra is quite naturally to be found at the throat at the base of the neck and is traditionally linked with the colour blue.

This chakra is known as our “seat of responsibility” and through our throat chakra we say “yes” or “no” to life’s options. It is also seen as a vehicle for the soul’s expression of its desires and our ability to define ourselves in the world. As such it is linked strongly to the energy of our siblings both born and unborn. If a sibling has been excluded from the family (examples of this would be through abortion, miscarriage, adoption etc) and continues to be excluded and unacknowledged then this impacts how the remaining siblings feel about their “place” within the family system.

Third Eye Chakra

The third eye chakra is traditionally associated with the colour purple or indigo and is positioned in the middle of the forehead.

This chakra is our inner and outer visual centre. Through it we obtain symbols, colours and pictures that represent our reality, our feelings about ourselves, our place and our goals. This can become clouded with the feelings or goals of those that have gone before us. This chakra has strong links with the ancestors in the realm of the dead, the realm where our ancestors cross to be at peace. This can either be a positive or negative connection, if there is an ancestor or strong entanglement that has not been resolved or acknowledged then the ancestor(s) and any victims will still be influent upon us as if they were still alive. Through this chakra they will link in with our reality and we will be drawn to them, especially if we do not have a strong rooting through our parental lines. At the opposite end of the spectrum positive guidance and love can come through the connection to the ancestors at peace in the realm of the dead through this particular energy centre.

Crown Chakra

The crown chakra, as the name suggests, is positioned at the crown of the head and is associated with white light.

The crown chakra is seen as the centre of our divinity and our connection with the divine source and is the receptive means for us understanding our path and our purpose. This is also our point of connection with our children or unborn children.

By scanning the body and taking particular note of the areas that stand out or feel different we can begin to assemble an energetic picture of how an individual’s ancestral and family experiences, patterns and burdens have been integrated in to who they are. There are some fairly obvious correlations from the chakra system to the effects of family systems. An individual who is not in a place of strength within their family, not fully themselves, will very often when scanned feel as if they have no root or energy around their feet. Information on why this is can be gleaned from the Masculine and Feminine aspects of the energetic bodies as well as any other blockages or anomalies that are present within their field.