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Angel WorksSoaring From Abuse To Love, Forgiveness and Enlightenment
By Barbara Anne Rose
BALBOA PRESSCopyright © 2012 Barbara Anne Rose
All right reserved.
Chapter OneBefore My Birth
I remember being born. I remember feelings, sensations, and movements I made within my mother's womb. I remember feeling her love, the love she had for me, her child—the small, intricate baby girl growing bigger and bigger every day inside the jellylike fluid of the amniotic sac. Oh what a feeling to be able to stretch and swim and move all over within my mother's womb with no worries.
I will never forget the day in late September of 2008 when I felt the love my mother had for me, her unborn child. It all started one night with the moon almost full and a slight breeze in the air. It was a mild fall day, one of those days you just aren't sure what to do: eat, love, pray, or—heck—even all three. Besides, it was just me alone in my house. I could do what I wanted. I loved my freedom.
So there I was, deciding to walk upstairs to my bedroom for my evening meditation. As I walked up the steps, I felt good. I felt a sense of accomplishment, a sense of tranquility, peace, and contentment. I loved my life. I had painted my room, splashing green everywhere. The way the color lay on the walls took me away to other places. It was a soothing color.
That darn crack in the wall. How did that get there? I thought to myself. I need to call maintenance. They take forever sometimes. Oh well, I do what I have to do. I was in my bedroom now, which was not much bigger than a twelve-by-fifteen box. At least I had a full bathroom to shower in and a cute, small walk-in closet. My cathedral ceiling was twelve feet high. A good selling point, I thought—the successful, professional business woman that I was—even though the townhouse I was in at the time was only a rental. Love knows no end.
I sat cross-legged on my bed, looking into the dresser mirror I had held onto from my marriage. I focused on my lit white candle, readying myself for my daily meditation. I use no music—just me, myself, and I with my candle. The candle had come from a friend of mine. It was a blessed candle. She had it blessed in the church she was a part of, and she had also given it her own personal blessing. I had thanked her for that. It was special to me, and I always felt good when lighting it and meditating with it.
This night felt like a special night. I just knew it. I felt it. I could see it. My eyes gazed upon the lit white candle, watching the flame moving from side to side, getting bigger and smaller. I noticed all the ways the flame expanded and grew, gently swaying to the right and then ever so lovingly to the left. There were constant, beautiful changes of this loving energy, this force of light and power that I loved and embraced. I took it all inside me.
My hands lay on my knees, palms up, and I closed my eyes softly, gently, and with care. I breathed in and out, in and out, in and out, going down inside of myself. I first noticed my own quietness and then the quietness around me and my home. Everything felt and was so still. I took another nice breath down within. I saw beautiful colors—purple, yellow, blue, green, violet, red, pink, and orange. The colors of the rainbow, I noticed. Ah, I felt as I soaked them all inside me. I always started in my heart and then progressed down to my root chakra. Then I directed my energy all the way back up and into my head and heart again. I loved my mom. I loved how she read bedtime stories to me and my little sister. It was lovely and comfortable. I enjoyed listening to my mom's voice. It felt good and reminded me of the times when I was in her womb. Yes, I remember the times inside of her, me as a baby growing and being nourished, loved, and cared for. I remember the feeling of the fluid surrounding me like an ocean of waves. I even remember hearing other voices coming from outside of her. Pleasant voices, raised voices, laughter, tears, strength, and anger. Sometimes I heard my mother and a man arguing. I wondered, Is this my dad? I hoped not, but if it was, then it was, and I would be okay. I would know what to do and how to handle myself. I would know how to be and not be.
Suddenly I felt myself going back in time as a small, wee child—a baby. I was inside my mother! I felt me! I saw and realized all of this consciously in my adult body, but at the same time I was also consciously aware of me, the infant child inside of my mother's womb. I felt me, the tiny baby growing. I felt the love my mother had for me. I felt her fluid. I felt the fluid around me, floating around, and I felt safe. I felt comforted. I felt beautiful. I felt good. It was so beautiful to feel all of this as an infant, but it was also beautiful because there I was, an adult, experiencing it and having this memory. I am here. I am free. I love you, Mommy. Thank you for loving me.
As I was in this state of knowing of life, I felt that there was so much going on all of the time all around me, all around us, all around the world. I anxiously awaited my own birth into the physical world. And so I waited with love in my heart, with love I carried in my eyes, my ears, my hands, and all of me for all of you. I lay in peace.
It was a hot day in August 1964. The heat outside intensified as the stifling temperatures rose, burning the hairs in my mother nostrils. Blades of the thick green grass were scorched from lack of rain. The air was thick with humidity. I sensed and felt the outside. What intensity of senses I had while I lay inside my mother's womb. It was good and well inside her flesh. The fluid surrounding me protected me, enveloping my body. What comfort I felt, a sense of peace and tranquility.
I was so tiny inside of her then, yet I felt, saw, and knew things that can't be explained in human scientific terms. It was okay that no one would believe me, as I already knew there would be so many happenings in the life I was about to be born into. So many life lessons to embrace and learn, so many trials to work through, overcome, and experience. I already knew it would all be for the good and benefit of my soul and of so many other souls yet unknown and unheard, but they are there. They would know when the time was right, when the time was near to seek truth for themselves. We were all there to seek and know truth. I was glad for my spirit to enter into this body, growing and being nourished inside this mother of mine.
My mother was a beautiful woman with jet-black hair. Her personality shined through her eyes, her face, her body, and her smile. She had such great eyes of a lovely spirit. She told me I had older brothers and sisters, that I was her eighth child. The two she carried inside her before me lasted for a short period of time, one boy and one girl. She had miscarried. "It is okay," she informed me. "Everything happens for a reason."
I loved my mother, and I knew she loved me. She talked so sweetly and so gently and with much care. A beautiful woman my mother was. As I lay inside her, listening to her talk to me, feeling her steps walk us forward around the yard filled with sweet flowers, I smelled roses. All the colors of the rainbow were there. The grass blade tips might have been scorched from the lack of rain that summer brought, but I knew and saw lots of green. The tall trees around the house where we lived were connected to us. I saw a swing set that my older brothers and sisters played on.
My mom told me one of my sisters, the one born before me, was slow to speech. She told me that doctors were doing tests on her to find out what might be wrong, why she didn't function at the normal rate of a four-year-old child. I am sorry, Mommy, that you don't know what is wrong with my sister. The doctors will find out. At least she's healthy. She is so pretty too. I love her, Mommy. Don't worry. I will help you when I am old enough. I promise I will. Daddy will help you too, won't he, Mommy? I thought my daddy loved my mommy. I heard them sometimes when they didn't speak nicely to each other. They didn't know what was wrong with my older sister, but they thought it was Rett syndrome.
Daddy was excited for the birth yet to come. I hoped that he would like me. Will I be a good enough daughter for him? I could already feel and tell that he got really angry at Mommy sometimes. Daddy, don't hurt Mommy. She loves you and is doing all she can to make dinner the way you want. Why do you have to be so mean to her? You're not the only one who loves her and lives here, I thought as I lay within my mother's womb.
I saw my brothers and sisters. She had to take care of them too. Stop yelling at her. Please stop, Daddy. Don't you know what you are doing? Can't you see? Why do you never listen? You are not listening with your heart. You're just hearing her. Well, now I know I'm going to have to work hard just to prove myself to you. Oh, why do I have to have a daddy like this? At least I know my new mommy loves me. Not like my past life. Well, I am glad I am done with that one. Hey, it was fun when I got older and gave no care. So why am I in this one? Yes, that's right, to do good in this life. How is it going to be with a daddy who doesn't even really like Mommy that much? All he seems to do is hurt her emotionally. How does Mommy put up with it? Well, Mommy, I'll love you enough for all of us. I won't let you down. I will do everything in my power to do good and be good. I'll be a perfect little girl and love you back. I'll snuggle with you and kiss your forehead. I'll run my hands through your hair. You're so pretty, Mommy. Doesn't Daddy think you're pretty?
As time passed and I grew, I got bigger inside my mother. It felt like I was almost ready to be born. There was not as much room in there for me to move. The only direction I felt the need to go was down. It was kind of hard, but I could feel an opening, so I moved myself closer. I thought I was hurting my mother, that it didn't feel very good for her, but she was anxious for me to come out. I knew she was! And I was anxious to see my mother face-to-face.
A new life to begin. I didn't remember much about all other lives I'd lived. It was all just a blur. It didn't matter too much now anyway, for I was there in this life for a reason. I will make good and do good for myself and others. Yes, it does feel good. Here we go. I moved down closer to the entrance of the outside world. I could push out to stretch myself more. I am coming, Mommy! Here I come, brothers and sisters! Can you not wait for me to arrive? I can't wait to see all of you. Hi, Daddy! Hi, Mommy! Wow, I am out. It feels cold. Someone's holding me, carrying me over to somewhere, laying me down on a cold physical thing. Okay, you can take me off now and give me to my mom. Now this feels better. I'm wrapped up nice and cozy and warm in a blanket. Thank you.
I felt them lay me down in my mother's arms. She was nurturing me, kissing me, and touching me. Touch felt good. The love felt good. As I nursed on my mother's breast, the warm, sweet milk tasted divine. She didn't do this for long, as I remember later being bottle-fed. Mommy's breast was better, sweeter and more real. Like angel medicine. I liked the connection.
Going home, my daddy drove us in a big blue Buick. He was happy then, but he was not always happy. Something was different about him. I wasn't sure what to think. It just felt off. We arrived home, and all my brothers and sisters were there. My aunt Fran was there, helping my mom out with the other children. She was kind of goofy. One by one my siblings came around to see me, their baby sister, Barbara Anne. That was what they named me—Barbara Anne. I thought it was a pretty name. A very pretty name. I was tired. It was time for me to sleep.
Chapter TwoBeginning Years
1968—Three Years of Age
At three years of age in 1968 my family lived in a house in Baltimore, Maryland. We were going to be moving to a brand-new house. Everyone was excited and eager to see it. I wondered which room would be the one me and my younger sister would share.
I remember being sick. I was three years old, up late, worried about my swing set. We were going to be moving, and I wanted to make sure my swing set was coming with us. I was not going to go to bed until I saw with my own eyes proof that my swing set was coming too. I sat on my mommy's lap in the kitchen with my dad and my older brother, Jim. I hadn't felt well that day. I didn't know how the process would go, how my swing set was going to be transported from the house I lived in to the one we were moving to. I ended up getting sick all over my mom. When I got off of her lap to walk over to the kitchen sink, I stepped on a tack, and I cried. As my dad held me up by my arms, my brother held me by my feet and pulled the tack out of my left foot. What a relief. My brother, he knows how to pull a tack out of a foot really well. Thank you, Jim! I exclaimed in my mind. Then Mommy held me again, and I snuggled myself next to her bosom. Soon afterward, I saw the shadow of a moving truck on the kitchen wall, followed by the truck itself. Yea, it was there! Once I saw this, I relaxed, feeling happy and relieved. Now I would be able to sleep restfully. Interesting, some of the things we remember.
In 1968 when we reached our new home in Delaware, one of my older sisters bolted out of the car, sprinting forward in the hopes of claiming her room. With bubbly glee of eagerness and joy, she suddenly found that the front door was locked. Seeing an open window, she slyly squeezed herself through. She was silly on this warm day in her short shorts.
It was in this house at the age of four that I would ask my mom about getting my ears pierced. I wanted it badly, and I was not about to give up. I asked my mommy several times, imploring her to let me get my ears pierced. I knew I wanted this. Two months later, she obliged to my request and made an appointment with the doctor. Yes, back then that's what we did. Can you imagine doing that now, calling a doctor to put a hole in your ears for earrings? My mom picked out a set of her gold-plated hoop earrings that I would wear for the next few years. I may have been shy and reserved, but I was determined. Once my mind was made up about something, there was no stopping me.
The day of my appointment, I wore shorts and a short-sleeved top, looking as cute and adorable as ever with eyes of dark blue, a nose shaped like my mother's, a shy smile, and curls like my dad. I couldn't wait. My mommy warned me ahead of time that the doctor would be using a needle to puncture my earlobes. I heard and understood, but I did not know what it would feel like until the day arrived.
I remember the doctor wanting me to lie down on his table so he could perform the piercing. The first thing he needed to do was mark a dot on each ear with a felt-tip pen where the needle would enter. But every time he got close to me, attempting to mark my ears with the pen, I screamed. Over and over and over again, I fought him off, shaking my head from side to side. I didn't know why I felt the need to scream, and I didn't know it was only a felt-tip pen he had in his hand. He told me to shut up, stop moving, and stop crying. I didn't want to stop. I wanted to fight him off and get him away from me. But my mom wasn't about to leave the doctor's office until it was done, especially after I had told her how badly I wanted my ears pierced. Both he and my mom held me down, and my mom did her best to comfort me while the doctor marked the spots on my ears. From then on, I don't remember much. I must have decided to just lie there and take it when he made the holes with the needle. I was glad when it was over.
Many years later, in 2011, the day before Christmas, my oldest son, his wife, my mom, and I got together for breakfast. My mom and I sat side-by-side while my son and his wife sat side-by-side. During our conversations, the memory of getting my ears pierced came to mind. We weren't even talking about ear piercings, but my mom was expressing to me how she kept losing one of her earrings. She looked at me. I turned my head toward her, looking at her face-to-face, and I saw the small green earring in her left ear—an earring she'd had for as long as I could remember. It brought back the memory of me wanting my ears pierced as a child.
I proceeded to tell her the story about me wanting my ears pierced when I was four. That's all I said. My mom continued to talk of a memory she had of me losing an earring of hers that I had worn back then. She told me that one day when I went to school, I had come home with one of the earrings missing from my ear. Apparently, it had fallen off at some point during the day. I didn't know when or where it had fallen off. She had thought it was lost for good at school.
She went on with the story, telling us how she had found it outside on the sidewalk by our front door. Listening to her talk, I remembered more. I remembered why I had fought so hard that day at the doctor's office, screaming and crying. I had fought back because my father had threatened me, taken advantage of me. At that time, the abuse had still been happening, so no wonder I felt such a threat from a male hovering over me. At least at the doctor's office I could cry and scream. At home I couldn't.
Excerpted from Angel Works by Barbara Anne Rose Copyright © 2012 by Barbara Anne Rose. Excerpted by permission of BALBOA PRESS. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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