The Path

By Cathryn Mora

There are no rules when it comes to spirituality, no restrictions on what constitutes an authentic spiritual experience - people can find spiritual meaning in anything from a car accident to hearing the voices of angels. Someone might be a spiritual person in their ordinary life, practising the power of r

• Language: English
• Publisher: Change Empire Books
• Release date: Jun 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9780645178050

Cathryn Mora

I Fly is a collection of 20 authors from around the world. Chapter 1 - Roslyn Donaldson And still I rise Chapter 2 - Mary Wong Breaking the silence Chapter 3 - Bonnie Jo Guidry I changed my mind: A story of overcoming OCD Chapter 4 - Peta Cashion Healing my inner child Chapter 5 - Marta Madeira-Mulungo Nothing can stop a soul with a mission Chapter 6 - Kenneth Nathan From rage to redemption Chapter 7 - Lisa Boorer Onward and upward Chapter 8 - Camilla Constance Awakening woman - from shame to freedom Chapter 9 - Annette Densham The monster in the room Chapter 10 - Ivan Brewer Un-broken Chapter 11 - Bisi Osundeko Why me, why not me? Chapter 12 - Charlene Kay Fouts Breaking the chains Chapter 13 - Gabrielle Conescu My catalyst for joy Chapter 14 - Charleen Siteine Me and the man behind the mask Chapter 15 - Brett D. Scott The best time to change is now Chapter 16 - Marsha Schults Healing autoimmune - naturally. Taking control of my health and debunking the 'no cure' myth Chapter 17 - Dr. Sherine Price On the wings of grace, the Universe and I Chapter 18 - Juliette Mullen Finding me again Chapter 19 - Jo Jacobs A journey to rise Chapter 20 - Taryn Claire I once had cancer for two weeks

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Legal disclaimer:

This book is designed to provide information and motivation to our readers. It is sold with the understanding that the publisher is not engaged to render any type of psychological, legal, or any other kind of professional advice. The content of each article is the sole expression and opinion of its author, and not necessarily that of the publisher. No warranties or guarantees are expressed or implied by the publisher’s choice to include any of the content in this volume. Neither the publisher nor the individual author(s) shall be liable for any physical, psychological, emotional, financial, or commercial damages, including, but not limited to, special, incidental, consequential or other damages. Our views and rights are the same: You are responsible for your own choices, actions, and results.

Authors have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from their memories of them. In order to maintain their anonymity in some instances, authors have changed the names of individuals and places, and may have changed some identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations and places of residence.

LETTER FROM THE PUBLISHER

After our first anthology, I Fly, I declared, Never again! Accustomed to years of working one-on-one with clients to write their books, it was a huge adjustment the first time I pulled together 20 authors. Five countries, five time zones, one book – and a book in which every chapter not only followed a central theme but also required writing of a similar standard. I found myself juggling time differences and work schedules, fielding multiple calls and answering author questions at 2am on a Sunday or midnight on a Monday. And that was nothing compared to deal with a range of different personalities and work ethics. By the end of the five-month process, I was exhausted, and the idea of doing it all over again? Not remotely appealing.

But then.

When the book was released, we received support and positive feedback far beyond what we’d ever envisioned; it was overwhelming, to say the least, but in the best possible way. People were moved to tears or to action (or both!) by the vulnerability offered by our authors, and while I Fly may have become a bestseller in multiple categories, won several awards for Book of the Year, and been chosen for the winners’ gift bag at the 2021 Oscars, all of that was nothing compared to the fact that our book had moved people.

That kind of personal connection is the whole reason I became a book coach and publisher in the first place. To help people write and publish books that not only allow the authors to achieve their dream but also inspire, educate, and change the lives of every reader who picks up a copy.

A few co-authored books later, one of my earlier authors came to me and asked, Hey Cat, do you think you could publish an anthology of spiritual growth stories? Like tracing people’s spiritual path?

The idea proved to be a fruitful one. Our author roster filled up within an amazingly short amount of time, with a number of authors who’d contributed to previous anthologies coming back to participate again. Most of them had had major spiritual growth during the course of their lives, and while some of them had worked with us before, this was their first opportunity to share their spiritual journeys.

There are no rules when it comes to spirituality, no restrictions on what constitutes an authentic spiritual experience – people can find spiritual meaning in anything from a car accident to hearing the voices of angels. Someone might be a spiritual person in their ordinary life, practising the power of reiki or theta healing; they might be called to be spiritual through their work, helping others to find peace and closure; or their spirituality might be guided by the faith of an organised religion. A spiritual path might emerge with the sparkling clarity of the sun reflecting off still water, or it might be far more subtle, gently guiding someone towards the journey they need to take. Every journey, by its very nature, is highly individual – and all the more precious as a result.

Spirituality means many different things to many different people. In this book, we trace the spiritual journeys of twenty men and women from around the world, revealing in their own words their experience, how they found their way, and what their spiritual journey has meant to them.

It has inspired me to think about my own spiritual journey, and how I am moving forward towards the second half of my own life.

My hope for you is that this book shows you the beauty of spiritual meaning within even the smallest details and most modest moments – that you don’t have to do, be, or follow anything or anyone in particular to be spiritual and find your own sacred path towards happiness, joy, and enlightenment.

Please sit back and relax with a cup of tea and enjoy your journey down The Path.

Cathryn Mora

Founder, Head Coach and Publishing Director

Change Empire Books

Instagram @change.empire.book.coaching

LinkedIn linkedin.com/in/cathryn-mora/

Email [e-mail]

CONTENTS

Plumbing the Depths

Andrea Broadfoot

And so, it is

Taryn Claire Le Nu

The Calm in the Storm

Michelle Popp

From Brokenness to Grace

Kenneth Nathan

The Baba Yaga Saga

Shawna Barber

Out of the Mouths of Babes

Danina Scrivenor

Surrendering to my Worthiness

Philamae Gray

Letter to my Missionary Son

Jon Naseath

Spirituality through Adventure

Steve McGrath

Dying to Live

Marco Della Valle

Medium in Training

Katy-K

Pain into Power

Juliette Mullen

My Letter to Andrew

Michael Fox

Finding Strength in Faith

April Weygand

Africa, You Changed My Life

Kylie Madge

Great Palette of Colour and Possibilities

Kati Britton

Journey Through the Light

Rebecca Lang

Metanoia

Tricia Sharkey

Wake-up Call

Pam Hird

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star

Charlene Fouts

Authors

Write Your Own Book

CHAPTER 1

Plumbing the Depths

Andrea Broadfoot

The road to our summer holiday spot each year stretched out in front of our family wagon, sparkling with mirages of water, tricks of inferno heat that melted tar, and shortened tempers. The boat was hooked onto the back of the car, along for the ride, ready to launch at the ramp every calm day we got. It slowed us down and heated the car up, using fuel like it was going out of fashion.

Bloody boat! I seethed in the stormy silence of teenage angst.

There was the time we did have a series of breakdowns. Mum stayed calm and gave us ice to suck, while Nana took the opportunity to chain smoke Craven A Special Milds by the side of the road. Dad was buried under the bonnet as he packed our dwindling stockpile of ice around the fuel pump vapor lock, gifting us a few more kilometres closer to the beach. Nana didn’t make a bushfire and we had enough water to survive the hottest day of summer as we watched our bush mechanic dad avert disaster, coaxing the old car all the way.

My two younger brothers took turns to torment me – and each other – as we sweated our way to the top of that hill, where the annual announcement chorused from the front seat.

Not sure we have enough petrol to make it to the shack this year! Dad called as the line on the fuel gauge got dangerously close to empty, our destination nowhere in sight.

When I was younger, that trick sent me into spirals of anxiety. I gripped the front seat from behind my parents, willing the car to make the distance and avoid another side-of-the-road high summer adventure.

Somehow, we always got there and fell out of the car, scrambling straight across the road from our rented shack to the beach, diving into the cold waves with squeals of delight. Turns out there was fuel in the boat Dad never mentioned.

Anxiety and never feeling good enough were my constant companions growing up. To compensate, I overshared and created fantasy stories of true love forever that sated my imagination and diminished the loneliness I felt in my school days. Every sparkle on the road was a diamond waiting to be discovered. Every time I looked in the mailbox, I imagined the love letter from life that would make me feel at home.

The years passed, and every summer we made the journey to the shack by the beach. White stretches of sand, sparkling clear water all the way to the blue line, the jetty with boards long stained by dying squid, and the island out by the point.

I spent countless hours in that bloody boat. When I was really little I would scream in terror, as each bang of the hull on waves convinced me we were hitting rocks. There was sea sickness and sharks, catching, scaling and filleting thousands of fish, and swimming with the seals.

You know what to do if the seals rush the beach, kids? Dad cautioned, ever safety aware. You come straight back to the boat, because if there’s a hungry white pointer about, you will DEFINITELY be the slowest seal!

My brothers rolled their eyes and swam with slightly less splash. I stayed close to the boat, feeling less than comforted as I kept my eyes peeled for the Great White predators of the deep.

Fishing at the Group was our summer holiday rite of passage. Packed with eskies, ice, and sandwiches, the boat rode the waves, past the stick that kept us off the rocks at the island, and across open water to the group of islands all named after white Englishmen, shipmates of Sir Joseph Banks and explorer Matthew Flinders, and places in Lincolnshire.

Dad was full of stories and lessons, providing constant banter about the wind, the tide, the next spot, the last spot, the fish we caught, the fish we lost, the fish we knew, and the fish we didn’t know the names of.

Is your line on the bottom?

If we had gotten here 15 minutes earlier, we’d have our quota by now!

Got a bite?

Got a bite?

Got a bite?

There were days when it was all I could do not to lose my breakfast as a gift to the Gods of the sea. There were times I did lose my lunch and heave into the depths. I always felt better afterwards. There is nothing like a good vomit after hours of holding it down, to find the joy of release.

I loved the trip home at the end of the day. Sitting on an esky, facing the rear of the boat, I saw cloud sculptures and dolphins jump across our wake. Mesmerised by Mother Nature, who shared signs, and with a strange feeling of satisfied presence in my own body, fishing slowly shifted from a chore to a gift.

Every summer at the beach collected stories like sand in the hourglass of time. That sweet beach mission first kiss with a farmer’s blond son. The sunset on the jetty where we assiduously chewed a huge pink ball of bubble-gum and placed it deftly on the hook at dusk. Shocked, we landed a mammoth catfish that took three kids working together to drag it up to the surface. The huge fish swung precariously through the air as we took turns reeling it in. Our poisonous catch was promptly dispatched by a local with a large overhead swing that ended in a sickening thump on the jetty boards, just as Mum and Dad came to gather us in before dark.

There were the friendships we nurtured each year with the families in the little caravan park next to the shack. Farmers of the district towed in huge, ancient caravans, leaving wives and tribes of blond, tousled-haired children to bask at the beach while they harvested their crops. Dad fed the sea eagle that floated over us every trip in its search for free fish thrown upwards.

The Group was our sanctuary. Family and friends immersed in nature, gazed at horizons, and explored fishing spots, with a taut through line of humour. Laughter was the colourful thread that wove it all together, stitched into deep lessons my folks prayed would stand the tests of time as they released us to swim in the bigger oceans of life.

*

I met Clayton at youth group. He had moved to our home town to be close to his brothers, who attended our church, and during my last year at school we became close. At the end of high school, I relocated straight to the city for university. I loved Clayton deeply. He opened up my world to new experiences, including my first taste of THC and the rhythmic throb of sixties music accompanying mind-blowing conversations about the good days of the past. A past so long ago he wasn’t alive to live.

Clayton immediately quit his full-time job and followed me to the city. I was 17 and he was 21. I committed to true love forever, despite the fact my folks were not happy with my first love choice. That summer, I joined the family at the shack for the annual summer sojourn.

Mum worked on me every day, in her own gentle way.

We trust YOU darling, it’s just we don’t think Clayton is right for you, sweetheart. Mum kept her voice light as she imparted her prescient impression.

I love him, Mum, I said simply.

Clayton wrote me a song. He serenaded me on the harmonica in the melancholy key of A. He took me to lunch at the Central Hotel in my hometown and made me a card with the song written out, accompanied by pictures of James Bond and the numbered ticket from our counter meal. Clayton was the first and only love of my life. My love lasts forever.

Just give it a break for a bit, Mum pleaded. You’re young, and have plenty of time. There is no need for it to be so serious.

I called Clayton.

I want to have a break for a while, Clayton, I said, in a voice not mine. I heard his heart break as his tearful voice streamed down the line.

But why, Andrea? he cried. I LOVE YOU.

Just because… My eyes leaking, I hung up the phone in distress.

The next day, on return from fishing, there was a familiar HT Holden wagon parked across from the shack. Clayton was sitting in the front seat, cool in his wraparound black sunglasses. He watched me intently as I ran over to greet him and his lingering scent of hash.

Mum bowed her head as she helped Dad carry the catch inside to start the scaling and filleting process on the Formica kitchen table.

What are you doing here? I asked, my stomach churning at the conflict between what my body wanted and my parents opposed.

I love you, Andrea, Clayton said, and can’t live without you. In fact, I have been having dark thoughts… He trailed off, leaving the unspeakable unsaid. He held out his hand.

I reached into the car window and ran my fingers through his thick golden hair.

It was true love.

Mum, for the first time ever, was wrong.

I married Clayton three weeks after my 19th birthday. Dad and Mum stumped up for the church wedding on a stinking hot summer day. I nearly passed out three times during the service. I couldn’t focus as we stood at the front of Clayton’s father’s Uniting Church. My mind swam with the stories Clayton’s mother had told me about the horrific abuse she suffered in their marriage. I was confused because his dad was a preacher, and isn’t God supposed to be all about love? I pictured Clayton’s Mum and Dad behind us, on separate sides of the church, lips pursed in tight, unforgiving lines. My dad got me a piano stool, and I remained conscious long enough to make my vows despite the searing heat.

After the wedding, we moved straight to Queensland and stayed in Hope Street in a tiny town, where I did skills courses for the unemployed, determined to win an elusive job despite the recession on the horizon. Clayton listened to sixties tunes and tried his hand at various jobs that never lasted more than a week. Discouraged, he learned to brew beer and got very skilled at rolling cigarettes. I worked part time and did work experience at the Daily Mail, intent on achieving my dream of becoming a journalist.

When we received a diagnosis of fertility challenges, we relocated interstate to a little community near my home town. My parents were overjoyed to have us close to them again. There was a range of medical procedures and tests to assess what assistance we might need to conceive when the time came. I got my first full-time job as a copywriter at the local paper. After losing the job as the recession bit, we started treatment. Overjoyed to discover I was pregnant in the second cycle, I glowed. Clayton started to turn away from me in bed.

*

The twins were six months old, gurgling next to me. I cocooned the twins between my husband and I to ensure they were safe from falling off our big brass bed. I curled myself around their warm, still sleepy bodies as they stretched and giggled, holding each other’s hands and grabbing my hair and fingers.

We looked deep into each other’s eyes. Pure joy lived there.

I looked over the twins to my husband, lying beside us.

I reached out tenderly to touch Clayton’s shoulder.

Can you bring me a nappy please, hon? I asked quietly. I turned my attention back to our babies.

There was a sudden unexpected movement in my peripheral vision. In a flash, my beloved husband was now above me, and with a closed fist he smashed my head into the pillow.

I saw stars.

There was no time to register the shock.

I went into immediate protection mode for the children, curling myself around them, holding them closely to protect them in case more violence rained down from above.

I flopped about on the bed, intermittently losing consciousness.

As I came to, I pleaded with him.

Take the children out of the bed, please, in case I squash them.

The father of my children gathered up our twins and took them out of the room.

I was alone as I vomited.

My body pulsed in and out of awareness as I lost sense of time.

Eventually, I inched my way down from our bed, out of our bedroom, and crawled along the floor of the hall, pulling my body along like a caterpillar in need of a cocoon. I worked across the lounge carpet and, with difficulty, pulled myself up into a lounge chair.

My husband watched my slow progress with mild interest.

Struggling up into the large genoa lounge chair, I sat back, my head flopping to the side.

I strained to see my children.

I couldn’t focus or hold my head up straight. Drool leaked from the corner of my mouth.

The babies were gurgling happily on bunny rugs in the middle of the lounge room floor.

I think I should see the doctor, I slurred.

He will know that I hit you, he replied.

I think I am concussed, I said, drooling, my eyes closing of their own accord.

I was suddenly very tired.

Have a rest, he said. Go back to bed.

My mind made no sense of the situation. How have I gotten here?

My loyal love was big enough to overtake the niggling feelings of doubt about Clayton that I had shoved deep down over time. There was no warning apart from that almost silent inner voice, and my Mum’s early intervention long ignored. A brief glimpse of our wedding day flashed into my mind. On that day, my body said no, but by then I had stopped listening. Here I was, gone from a blissful baby wake-up call, to being bruised and battered before breakfast.

I peered at the children and at my husband. Through one eye I assessed the safety of my darling oblivious babies.

It was like nothing of note had happened.

A series of nothings of note ensued. I sheltered my sensibility with my sense of responsibility for my children and was back at work shortly after that unexpected violent outburst, to provide for the family. Clayton did some support work with people with disabilities and grew dope plants in a secret part of the shed. He started spending a lot of time with the mother of one of the twins’ childcare friends.

Clayton and Stephanie took sultry photos and processed them in the darkroom together. People started to talk, and eventually the affair became so obvious I confronted Clayton under the clothesline where our underwear coupled in the breeze.

Are you fucking her? I spat the words to avoid their poison as they exploded from my mouth.

He looked down at the grass, not ashamed – more like thinking about what to say next.

Clayton moved out with his garbage bags of pot and Stephanie left her family to join him. In those early days post-family implosion, Stephanie’s husband visited me to express his disappointment and rage. I turned him away, as it felt like too much responsibility to bear when dealing with my own excruciating loss and grief.

It was an innocuous Sunday when Clayton failed to bring the twins to our meeting place after his regular access visits, as agreed. I waited for six hours and made a desultory hour-long drive home to a message on my answering machine.

The twins live with me now. As my stomach dropped, Clayton’s threatening tone continued to fill my kitchen. I have moved house. You will never see the children again.

I screamed and, at a loss of what else to do, I called my parents for help. The next day, Mum, Dad, and my brother made the long drive to the city. With a little homegrown detective work and a timely tip off from a girlfriend, my dad and brother located Clayton’s new residence and whisked the children into the car with threats of police waiting outside. Clayton commenced family court proceedings for a battle that only concluded after 12 long years.

There was another short marriage, to a man from work, who was loving and kind. He held a full-time job, and wore a suit every day to work. He made choices that on discovery I reported. He was sentenced to 14 years in jail.

My trust in myself shattered, and my search for love took an inward turn.

Every summer there was the shack at the beach, sharing beautiful time with my children and family, the group of islands we fished at, and a school of interesting men I explored in the frantic search for myself. I was in various stages of lost for a very long time, trudging along what seemed an arduous path towards home.

A phone call from a friend, intended to help me to release my grief and misery, initiated a journey of renewal, as she invited me to a healing and pampering weekend retreat with ten girlfriends. We shared campfires, deep secrets, tears of hope, and the joy of laughter on the beach.

The girls drank wine, propped on couches of seaweed, while I fished from the beach at sunset. One more cast, ever in hope for the good things I was sure I somehow deserved. On the final day, one by one, we were treated to a healing session. My friend emerged from her session and grabbed me in a hug.

She told me to hug a tree, she said as she held me tight. I felt roots grow from my feet and run deep into the earth. Shocked, I pulled away.

You were told to hug a TREE! Not ME! I exclaimed. Our eyes met and tears ran down our faces in surprise that quickly shifted to wonder and knowing as we saw ourselves in each other.

At last, it was my turn to enter the golden-lit living room, just as the sun made its way into the sea. The healer placed her hands on me. She paused, with her eyes closed, and then explained there was a huge golden light in my soul. She said that I was a lightworker.

A lightworker? I burst out at the revelation. What IS a lightworker?

A lightworker is one who works with healing light. You are an amazing healer, she said gently.

All that you have experienced is in perfect alignment. You and your children will be okay.

A tingling feeling washed through me, and I felt the urge to place my hands on my friend. It was an ancient feeling of recognition that blew my heart wide open.

I dove deep into my journey of spiritual discovery. I did avid research, studied reiki, theta healing, journey work, and meditation. There were cruises on the high seas with totemic gurus, and I travelled Hawaii with my shadow side. As I soothed my inner child, I alternately tamed and unleashed the wild free woman within. There were tears and blissful moments as I learned to listen to my own voice of wisdom and put