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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781452527369 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Balboa Press Australia |
| Publication date: | 02/06/2015 |
| Pages: | 98 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.20(d) |
Read an Excerpt
Labyrinth of Love
Moving Closer
By Andrea Maude
Balboa Press
Copyright © 2015 Andrea MaudeAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4525-2736-9
CHAPTER 1
August 1, 1975, was a good day for my entrance. I was the second-born child of parents Cindy and Phil Maude; my sister Julie had been born three years earlier. In every sense, I had picked a family that would provide me with solid boundaries and a comfortable upbringing. My first name was nearly Louise, but with the family dog named Louie, Louise got relegated to a middle name, and Andrea it was to be. As a child, I was described as unknowingly funny yet publicly shy. It's amazing for me now to think back and review some of the spiritual signs that occurred when I was so young. These insights have undoubtedly led me to keep searching and sharing the possibilities of being fully connected to the all that is.
My mum, Cindy, an attractive lady, has always been a planner. She is always looking five years ahead, and she thrives on being the in-control caretaker. Mum grew up in a pink house on Auckland's North Shore. The house colour was chosen by her father, who had a fondness for the local sugar refinery, which was painted pink. Being the youngest in her family, she became very close to her mum, my nana Oli. I have only recently found out that my grandfather Bill, who passed away when I was a toddler, was a spiritualist who helped perform healings and regularly assisted in negative-energy-clearing sessions. Mum had not been interested in these things while growing up; however, we are now both curious to know what Granddad really knew about life and the hereafter.
Phil, my dad, who is no longer with us, was a rebel in an Australian Catholic family in his youth. As a family man, he was generally happy to come along for the ride. Living with three strong-willed women, he was definitely outnumbered. This may be why we always had a token male pet; unfortunately for Dad, this was often a neutered poodle. We tried to offset the breed's feminine stereotype with the last dog we acquired by giving him a masculine name: Jake. Dad had a passion for listening to music; he could completely tune out the world around him when he popped his headphones on and relaxed with his selected sounds. In more spiritual discussions with Mum, she advised he did have a connection with his spirit guide. I have an inkling Dad and I shared previous life experiences, as we felt comfortable in our silence together.
Julie, my sister and a great friend, has assisted my learning process in this lifetime. She has come to my rescue on so many occasions from childhood dramas and travelling mishaps to failed relationships and life-changing moments. Back when we were going through puberty, she was a great sense-check when I needed to make sure things were "normal" with my physical body. This was obviously prior to the Internet. Over the years, we explored many places of the world together. One of Julie's gifts is a heavenly singing voice. On our worldly travels, I fondly remember the angelic sound of her voice when she broke into song whilst sitting in an acoustic marble-and-stone Turkish steam room, prior to us receiving our scrub-down.
Growing up, I recall some memorable family tales. One that is imprinted firmly in my mind is a visit from some of our Australian relatives. Dad was one of the six children in his Catholic-raised family, so I have cousins galore, as most of his brothers and sisters had reproduced well. Some of these relatives were heavily involved with the entertainment industry. It wasn't the cool musician kind with concerts and fame. No, it was more like the off-the-wall, creative, circus kind: trampolining, water-stunt events, and fire blowing were all part of the act. One year, they tried to teach us some of their tricks of the trade. However, Julie and I never could quite master the unicycle, and Dad tried his hand at fire blowing with disastrous results. Simple instructions were given for him to hold a fire accelerant in his mouth while dipping his arm in a protective liquid. Then he was to blow some flames up his drenched limb, all to create the illusion that he was a fire-breathing hero. Events often go quite pear-shaped when one has consumed a few too many beers before attempting feats like this. With a dramatic change in wind, his dragon breath got out of control and singed off his silver comb-over that he had cultivated over many years. Our trampolining lessons also went into a shock situation when our two-metre-square yellow trampoline was being used for stunts. When everyone was trying to do tricks simultaneously, I decided it was way too intense, so I took action to get off. Unfortunately, I was bounced headfirst straight into the unprotected springs. Blood started gushing from my highly vascular head. Julie rushed me to Mum, who took me into the bathroom to assess the damage. Looking at myself in the full-size wall mirror, all I could focus on was my favourite dress with beautiful yellow flowers, which was now covered in blood. The pain was put on hold while I assessed the damage to the dress. As Mum couldn't stop the bleeding, I was taken to accident and emergency, while Christmas dinner turned to mush. As much as these little episodes make life what it is, these tales are not really what I want to describe in detail. The accounts I wish to impart are my acquired experiences with energetic entities that are closer to us in this physical reality than we may choose to believe.
Our family home on Carlisle Road in Auckland's North Shore was a red-and-white, brick two-storey house with a pottery business in the basement. It was perched at the top of a generous sloping quarter-acre section. The kitchen was at the back of the house. It was a functional space with a door that had the standard etchings of children's growth rates—ours and local friends'. The cream-and-green linoleum flooring was a fashion statement for the times, and I used to sit on the U-shaped bench top and watch Mum peel, chop, and cook. On the baking days, I would sit waiting patiently for the sugar-and-egg-white-laden beater heads to be handed to me so I could lick them clean of the meringue mixture. The kitchen was semi-open to a large dining room that had varnished wooden floors and a dark, wood, oval table. This room was also home to a day couch, a dog bed, and the family piano. I can't neglect the radio-cassette player that sat on top of the piano surrounded by various music tapes. This room was north facing, so it was bright and lively, and the orange net curtains just added to the seventies charm. It was a great situation, having both parents at home to spend time to nurture and teach two girls the ins and outs of growing up. Most of the daytime, while Dad was downstairs glazing various dishes and painting shapely cups with gold rims, the girls hung out, often with Nana Oli.
Nana Oli was a retired seamstress, and with her passion for sewing, Julie and I were lucky enough to have wardrobes full of the most gorgeous handmade dresses. Nana's life was full of amazing events that encompassed the developing times. Being born on 12/12/1912, she lived through periods of scarcity and struggle. This must have given her immense emotional strength, as the Nana I knew and loved so much had an amazing calm and giving approach to life. It was fantastic that she was always close at hand while I was growing up.
My childhood days seemed so long, like time could just be put on hold while my imagination seemed to pave the way ahead. The biggest decision of the day was choosing a location for the sheeted fort to be built. It was under the dining room table, in the jungle gym outside, or between the two single beds in my room. Once the bed-linen hut was set up, my orange plastic furniture and pink tea set were laid out for entertaining my various guests. Julie, Panda, and my doll Crystal would regularly partake in the festivities.
Mum also planned weekly shopping trips into town; this was before every suburb had its own mall. The Farmers Trading Company department store was the main destination. At Christmastime, the excursions were even more of an event, as for all of December, the store had a large Santa erected on the outside of the very tall building. He was fully equipped with a winking eye and a large finger that moved in a manner to entice us closer. Julie and I had the tiresome task of tagging along with Mum and Nana, shopping each floor yet knowing the rooftop playground would be our reward.
One particular year, we were in the clothing department where Mum and Nana were rummaging the discount baskets looking for bargains. I was extremely bored, so I decided to get onto a plinth, where some nicely dressed mannequins were showcasing their attire. I struck a pose and practiced my stillness. Two shoppers proceeded to walk past. When one of them grabbed the skirt of my homemade dress, she fanned it out to admire the detail my nana had put into the trim. My plastic persona dissolved when I flinched, and one of the ladies started screaming as her mannequin came to life. When many people gathered to see what the commotion was, I quickly ran back to hide behind Mum. After the woman had restored her regular heart rhythm, she came over to where I was cowering and started chatting with Mum and Nana. On finding out Nana had made the dress I was modelling, she congratulated her on some beautiful sewing. This small token of admiration of Nana's work made her day, and luckily, the lady saw the funny side of my antics.
After that debacle, we finally made it to the rooftop playground. However, Mum always made us have some sustenance before play, so we made our way to the adjacent tearooms. My usual lunch was a mince pie that had to be drowned in tomato sauce. This was the good old days where there was no fear of unhealthy fats or undesirable preservatives. After the pie was dissected and Mum was satisfied I had eaten enough, we were allowed to go to the massive toy-laden arena. As eager as I was to get there, I wasn't really an automatic joiner. As a true little sister, I would follow Julie's cue on what to play on. I will never forget the feeling of immense electricity in the air produced by so many high-pitch voices, and I now wonder how many other children there had "imaginary" friends.
I can't quite recall my first encounter with Jennifer. I think Julie had started school so my playmate was gone. Sitting in the kitchen, our green pullout table was up and I was seated in a high, plastic-coated, cane-woven stool, and I asked Mum to set another place as I had someone joining me for lunch. Her hair was really long and her tastes were the same as mine. We chatted for a while as we ate rolled luncheon sausage and sauce, quite content with my new friend; physically visible or not, the connection was real. There were play dates where we made feijoa stew with hundreds and thousands, which was compulsory for Mum to sample. Some days I was just pleased to know that she was with me. Over thirty-five years ago, it seems as real today as it was then, when I take my memories and feelings back to those moments. When it was my turn to start school, interaction with Jennifer faded, as I had solid friends to make.
Sherwood Primary School gave me a few spiritual clues that I unwittingly collected in my childhood. In my first year, I was quite nervous to be landed with so many strangers, yet I always managed to make a few core friends. I was perceived as quiet; however, I had one teacher that really brought out the best in me. She taught me the art of visualisation, which is often a key to discovering some hidden insights. The time a fundamental piece of my puzzle was found was an overcast and bleak day. One of the teachers had requested I take a note over to another teacher who was working in the library. I had to walk through A-block courtyard and around to an area that was often a wind trap. I recall seeing tiny whirlwinds swirling up the dust and debris across the concrete like nature's self-cleaning device. The airy feeling of the powerful skies above and the deserted playground made me tense; nonetheless, I reluctantly proceeded to complete my task. On nearly reaching the library door, I looked down, and just as it seemed to be placed in my path on purpose, this labyrinth stencil made from a brass kind of metal drew me closer. I picked it up and was fascinated with the trinket's circular perimeter. Its quadrant-patterned path detailed on its interior just seemed so familiar. At the age of five, I had things in my subconscious that would eventually drive me to search for more truth.
One year this school tried to introduce religious instruction classes. I had an awareness of what religion was, even though my family were not regular churchgoers. We did say grace when we ate dinner. The only two prayers my family used were "For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen." My addition to this was "Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub, yeah, God." I felt rather proud reciting grace each night. Mum had told me some Bible stories as I was often asking questions and trying to work out how this heaven thing worked. One afternoon our family was having a ceremony in the garden for our recently deceased pet and I casually asked, "Why are we burying Mitzy down there when heaven is up there?" while pointing skyward. My parents didn't really have any answers I was satisfied with, so my next question was directed at Nana Oli. "When we bury you in the garden, what tree will we plant on top?" Silence ensued and a change of conversation quickly occurred.
When the religious instruction classes started at school, all of the children were gathered in an open-plan classroom. The three instructors were on a raised area looking down upon us in a somewhat dictatorial manner. I think their intentions were good—to give us a level of biblical understanding—except there was no openness to explore our questions for alternative meanings that could be gained from some of these tales. When I asked if pets go to heaven, there was an outright no. I thought something was a bit off and I wasn't quite willing to settle for that response. That night I went home and asked Mum if I could have a note to excuse me from these lessons. She was comfortable with this, as she could feel my distress. I was one of a few children who went to the library to read when these classes were on. The other kids that were exempt from these lessons had opposing family religious beliefs. I was really the only child that was sitting on the fence, so to speak, hoping to work it out for myself. Over the weeks, the group going to the library started to get bigger. I am unsure if this was due to the fact that others found a way to skip this class or that the teachings became more negative in approach for which they didn't want to be a part of.
Years later I actually asked Mum if I could go to Sunday school with a friend's family who was heavily into the church. They too had some limited views, but I took on board some of the aspects of the written texts they shared. I mainly enjoyed watching how their community interacted with each other. Most of their congregation supported each other in their tough times and genuinely cared for those in need. I had a hunger to learn more, which sadly faded when boys and acting cool became more important. However, this didn't matter, as these early symbolic experiences started the path of my colourful voyage that lay ahead in my quest for finding spiritual wisdom.
Invisible Friendship
New beginnings
And wanting to share,
Longing to include her
In the big world fair.
Internal play
Using slow time,
I thought I had lost
Those memories of mine.
Not from here, no;
A magical place,
Touching my heart
And filling that space.
Joining me
At my table for two,
Having some lunch
Is what we would do.
Not seen by eye
But felt by me,
Jennifer was
My gift energy.
I didn't stop
The belief in my friend
Until time sped up
To hasten its end.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Labyrinth of Love by Andrea Maude. Copyright © 2015 Andrea Maude. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
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