Mother Angel - Art

Alberto Agraso - Art of the Spirit
"Mother Angel"

When Alberto told me the dream that he had with his mother a few nights ago, I asked him to please draw it so that I could have that image of her in my mind, and not of her in the residence where she now lives.

His mom has been like a second mother to me, an angel in her own way, bringing love and kindness into our lives... and I know she is doing so where she is right now.

I'm grateful for this...
~Mony

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#albertoagraso #monydojeiji #consciousness #artofthespirit #angels #angelsamongus #mother #motherangel #art

Angels Among Us

Today, we celebrated the arrival of our latest tri-language children's book "MY FAMILY AND I - MA FAMILLE ET MOI - MI FAMILIA Y YO", with a touching experience.

From the moment we were writing this book, we knew we had something special, that we were somehow bringing a piece of the eternal into our everyday.

This morning, I had a dream. I am standing in our kitchen beside my husband Alberto, who was washing some dishes in the sink. Above the sink is a large window overlooking our back yard. As we speak, I see reflected in the window (beside Alberto) the image of an older man, with a round face receding hairline. He's dressed in a grey suit with light checks, and is looking down at a pair of dark-rimmed glasses that he's holding in his hands, and wiping with a cloth. He looks at me and smiles with such tenderness and kindness.

I know it's Alberto's dad, Rafael, even though I never met him. He passed a few days after Alberto and I began walking together to Jerusalem. I'm in tears as I share the dream with Alberto, who confirms that his father had a grey, checked suit that he wore for special occasions and that he wore dark-rimmed glasses.

He's also one of the main characters in the book that we received today; perhaps in his own way letting us know that he is near, as are all our loved ones, and that we are never alone.

~Mony

To learn more about the book, please visit the Amazon site in your country.

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#familia #family #famille #cuentos #livres #books #infantiles #infantil #children #kids #enfants #multilanguage #EnglishFrenchSpanish #booksthattransform #inspirational #love #angelsallaroundme #monydojeiji #albertoagraso #ninos #Canadian #Canada #Spanish #Francais #espanol #lightworkers #consciousness #angels 

Pilgrim Story Hour w/Mony Dojeiji - Touched by an Angel

"Touched by an Angel" is the story I share with you on this episode of Pilgrim Story Hour.

More than once during our Rome-to-Jerusalem walk, Alberto would say that we were angels, because we were bringing a touch of light and love wherever we walked.

His definition made me uncomfortable because it sounded so arrogant. After all, I thought, who are we, in our imperfection, to consider ourselves in such a light? ...Until an experience in Italy made me truly reflect on what it means to be an angel in the world.

This VIDEO, and the entire series, is on Facebook and  YouTube.

This AUDIO podcast, and the entire series, is on SoundCloud and iTunes. 

Enjoy, and please feel free to like and share :-) 

#pilgrimage #CaminodeSantiago #angels #faith #RometoJerusalem #walkingforpeace #innerjourney #peace #love #hope #light #angels #travel #adventure #adventuretravel +Martha Williamson

An Angelic Reflection

“Those who do what they love are in tune with their purpose on earth.”

This was the message that Alberto received yesterday when asking the Universe for guidance. He had randomly chosen a book from the shelf and opened to this page, the full details of which are at the end of this entry.

We had been debriefing from our latest event, and looking at the ways in which we can do things better.

We also admitted that it was, at times, difficult to maintain our positive energy and vision, and to not allow the fears of others to influence who we are.

Because of low attendance figures at the show, we witnessed around us all manner of techniques to get the few customers who were there to make a purchase…and not all of them felt very good. The fear of not making enough money to even cover costs was palpable.

At the same time, several authors and artists were expressing their frustration at having to create crowd-pleasing work to attract customers because those same customers were not buying their unique creations. The fear of not being able to make a living being your authentic self and selling your own unique creations was also there.

It’s funny….the more you think you’ve healed something, the more it reveals itself in subtle manners to really see if you have indeed healed.

Of course, Alberto and I can have illustrations and material that cater to fans of these events. It’s not a question of ability. It’s always come down to one question for us: is what you are doing an expression of who you are?

We know that our work is an expression of who we are, and that our greater purpose – not only at events, but anywhere – is to stand confidently in that knowing. No need to defend. No need to convince. Simply to express.

The doubt appears merely to remind us that we are not standing in that place of knowing.

So, I went around to those artists who shared their frustrations with me, and reminded them of the beauty of their creations, that they are here to express that and honour the sacred gift that only they possess to bring that beauty into the world. And as I spoke those words, I could feel the fog lifting, and a calm knowing settling.

The message from the angels was a powerful confirmation of the path that we choose to continue walking, even when we sometimes stumble and forget.

One step at a time…

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Full text

“Too many of us have been brought up to believe that work is not meant to be enjoyed, let alone loved. Work is meant to give us a paycheck , not excite, energize or fulfill us.

The angels, however, know that the opposite is true.

Not only can we earn a living doing what we love; we owe it to ourselves to pursue that end.

When we find ourselves in jobs we dislike, that frustrate, sadden or otherwise enervate us, our souls are telling us that that we just aren’t in the right place.

When we are doing what we love, by contrast, we feel and radiate joy and enthusiasm, improving not only our own lives but also our environments.

The angels want us to know that our LOVING can be our living, and they will instantly answer our requests for help and guidance in aligning our souls with our sources of income.

Do you believe that you can make a living doing what you love?

If you would like to believe this, make a list of the jobs you have enjoyed and the ones you haven’t. Try to find the distinguishing features within each category. When you have discovered what jobs made you happy and why, fashion the perfect job for yourself, using all the positive elements you’ve listed.

Now, visualize yourself in this job, believe that you will have it, and ask the angels to send you the energy and opportunities you need to create it.

An Angelic Reflection: When I do what I love, I create the kind of environment in which abundance flourishes.”

From the book “Angel Wisdom” by Terry Lynn Taylor and Mary Beth Crain

 

A Heavenly Encounter

A few days ago, one of my aunts called to tell me about an unusual experience that has still left her shaken. She had decided to go on a weekend spiritual retreat at a centre north of her home, a place she had not visited for over 10 years. She opted to stay in a cabin secluded from everyone and participated in a few workshops, keeping mostly to herself. On Sunday, she decided to attend that morning's service.

Only a handful of people were in attendance. At the moment when the priest asks attendees to say "peace be with you" to the person nearest them, my aunt does so with a woman sitting beside her. My aunt introduces herself. The woman does the same.

"Your name sounds Lebanese," says this woman named Lise.

"I am Lebanese," my aunt responds.

"I knew a Lebanese woman a long time ago," Lise continues. "We did a business and secretary course about fifty years ago. Her name was Najet."

"Oh really?" My aunt answers. "What's her last name?"

"Garzouzi."

My aunt said she froze in shock, as did I when she told me the story. That was my mother's maiden name. This woman named Lise had met my mother when my mom had just arrived in Canada, at the age of seventeen, before she got married, and before her life changed as she progressively lost her vision to Behçet's syndrome. She remembered my grandparents, and even more curiously, lives in the same neighbourhood where my aunt and uncle owned a restaurant. It's even possible that she dined there over the years. She had lost contact with my mother as she (Lise) travelled with her work, and so was deeply saddened to hear of her struggles and untimely death.

Lise painted a picture of my mom as a vital, intelligent and deeply spiritual young woman with an easy laugh and keen wit. Someone who wasn't afraid to face life, a woman of great courage and conviction. As someone who grew up caring for an ailing parent, this vision of my mother was a marvelous revelation and a grand gift. It shifted something inside of me that I still can't quite define.

Of course the biggest question in all of this is: what is the meaning of this encounter? My aunt and I went to visit my mom at the cemetary, still asking those same questions: How did Lise remember my mother's full name - fifty years later? It's not exactly a common name. And my aunt deciding to go that very same weekend after so many years of not doing so?  And the woman sitting next to her just happening to know my mother?  This was no mere coincidence. I have no doubt that my mom orchestrated this beautiful reunion... but for what grand purpose?

The winds that day were silent, but the sun shone brilliantly. Perhpas one day, all will come to light.

Guardian Angels

I have always loved this image. During our walk to Jerusalem, we saw it often; and every time we did, I couldn't help but feel as if angels were with us, physically and non-physically, safe-guarding our journey.

I spent this past weekend in Santa Barbara, attending the Global Ebook Awards, where our book was a winner. It was an exciting event, where I met plenty of authors and people of like mind and soul. I was scheduled to fly out of Santa Barbara to San Francisco at 8:39pm Sunday evening, then onwards to Chicago at 11:01pm, and then finally a 6:00am flight Monday morning to Ottawa. My only concern with my shcedule was that I only had one hour to make my Ottawa connection, but I was sure I would make it.

I arrived early at Santa Barbara airport, and was perusing their (only) gift store when a friend mentions that he found some fellow authors in the terminal. As I mention that I'm waiting on my 8:39pm to San Francsico, they tell me they're about to board a 4:45pm flight to San Francisco. "Why don't you try to get on to that flight instead?"

I couldn't see why not, and immediately went to the counter to ask if I could change my ticket. "It would normally cost you $75 to make the change, but because your flight is now cancelled, I can move you to this flight at no charge."

I couldn't believe it! I had not even bothered to check the Departures board, thinking that I have already checked in and all was well. Had my friend not called me to speak with those other authors, and had they not suggested that I take their flight, I would have been in Santa Barbara overnight for sure.

I also got the last seat on that flight.

I arrived in Chicago feeling buoyant, and checked the board to make sure my 11:01 flight to Chicago was leaving on time. At 7:00pm, it was. At 9:00pm, my flight was cancelled.

After waiting over an hour to see a customer service rep (and all the while practicing Ho'oponopono!), I am told there is nothing available until the next evening. Of course, I'm dejected and waiting as she prepares my hotel voucher. Suddenly, she starts banging on the keyboard of her computer because, for some reason, it was hanging. Her face then suddenly lights up.

"I have no idea how, but one seat just opened up on the 10:50pm flight to Chicago. I'm booking it for you."

I floated away from her, feeling that angels were indeed watching over me, and boarded my flight, happy with the extra cushion I now had to make my flight to Ottawa. The gate closes on time. The captain announces we'll be leaving on time. I settle in my centre seat near the back of the plane and close my eyes.

I dozed off and when I opened my eyes, it was 11:30pm... and we had not left the gate.

I closed my eyes again, and drifted back to sleep, too tired to contemplate whether or not I would make my 6:00am connection.

The flight began its descent at around 5:15am. I began to feel hopeful. By the time it landed, taxied and then got to the gate, it was 5:40am. Other passengers were complaining about missing their flights, and when I told them my time, they just shook their heads and said, "you'll never make it."

"I always arrive on time," had become a recent mantra of mine, as I try to break the cycle of rushing and feeling that I'm going to be late for a meeting, an event, etc. I kept repeating it to myself as I finally got off the plane and checked the board, hoping that THIS flight would be cancelled or delayed too; only to find it boarding. I was in terminal B, gate 2... and I needed to get to terminal C, gate 6. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, dragging along my little carry-on suitcase, repeating that mantra and asking all the invisible forces of the universe to hold that plane! I didn't even look at my watch. I ran across the tunnel, up the stairs, down another long alleyway until I arrived at my gate, beyond breathless. The flight was leaving momentarily.

I collapsed into my seat. The captain announces that we'll wait a few more minutes for the 14 passengers who are delayed from other flights. Only one man appeared, looking as frazzled as I'm sure I did. The doors closed, and we took off, delayed by only a few minutes, and arrived pretty much as scheduled in Ottawa.

I've known for a long time now that I don't walk alone; that a great Love accompanies my every step. Perhaps in the mundane, day-to-day routine of my life, I may not feel that as strongly. But when I most needed them, and when I paid attention to the unusual sequence of events they were orchestrating, they made their Love manifest. And for that, I feel ever grateful.

No one walks alone.

The Garden

This past week I found myself spending more time than usual in our garden.  I actually know nothing about gardening, but the house we’re now living in has a large property which has been neglected for too many years.  The electric chainsaw, in the capable hands of my husband Alberto, has gotten quite the workout in cutting down branches and trimming trees. 

While there’s still a lot of work to be done, the thorn in my side has been the “garden” in front of the house – a crawling vine that has taken over the entire space, allowing only weeds and dandelions to peek through, and the dead trunk of some bush that was cut down but whose roots were never removed.  In the winter, under the cover of snow, it was easy to ignore.  But now in the full bloom of spring, and having to look at it every time I walked into and out of my home, I had to do something.

With the best intentions, my father came over one day and mowed down the vine. It looked better but I knew the roots were still there.  Same for the bush.  He hacked away at it and made it smaller but the job wasn’t done.  It was then that my personality came through.  I spent the day turning over the soil and pulling out the weeds from their roots.  The deeper the root system, the more satisfying was its removal.  

The bush was more challenging. I couldn’t go under it. I needed to dig around it and remove the soil to expose the root.  Brute force didn’t work.  So as I contemplated the bush during a break, I realized that I needed help.  I was tempted to call Alberto and the chain saw, but then decided to ask for the help of the invisible friends that I felt populated our garden. I guess you could call them nature spirits, fairies, elves. The name didn’t matter so much as the realization that they played a part in the growth and maintenance of all plant life, and so can help in their removal.

I stood in front of the bush, my back to the street so the neighbours wouldn’t think I was crazy.  I thanked the bush for providing shelter, nutrients and beauty to this space year after year without fail.  I actually felt appreciation for its many qualities.  I then asked its permission to remove it, with the help of the nature spirits, so that new life may grow there.  I’m not sure where the idea came from, most likely from the books on native teachings I’ve read.  When I returned to dig, I seemed to get under the root with more ease.  With a little more effort, I removed the bush.

I learned two things that day.  First, getting to the root of any negative experiences or emotions in my life is important to me.  There are teachings that favour not thinking about the negative, and focusing attention instead on the positive aspects or the desired outcome.  I wish I could do that.  My mind can’t overcome my emotions.  I need to understand why I feel the way I feel and make peace with it.  Once I’ve gotten to the root of the problem, then I can clean it up and plant new seeds that I wish to see grow.

Second, in this age of the Law of Attraction, where we are taught that we are 100% responsible for all that occurs in our lives, it reassures me to know that I’m not alone in my spiritual journey. I know I am surrounded by angels, guides who are there to nudge me in the direction of my highest choices. And what are those highest choices? The ones that bring me joy and peace, the ones that come from the heart.  I often forget that, and so in my times of confusion, I try to be still and will pull out an angel card from a deck that I own, or randomly grab any book and open it to a page.  What I most receive is clarity, and from there I am able to make a decision.     

Just before sending you this message, I pulled an angel card because I wasn’t sure about the gardening theme.  I pulled out the Archangel Gabriel who, among many things, is the Archangel of resurrection, the one who brings life to that which appears dead, just as nature does each spring. 

Much light to all,

Mony

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At the Cemetery

This past Saturday, as I was driving around running errands, Sylvana, my 7-year-old daughter in the back seat, calls out that she wants to go visit the tomb of my mother - NOW. 

Many of you know that my Mom died shortly before Sylvana was born.  I’ve spoken to Sylvana often about my mother, her taita in Lebanese, about how she was in person, the things she liked to do, casually adding that she was now a star in the sky.  That explanation always seemed to satisfy her, so I never offered any more.

“Why now?” I asked.

“Because I just saw some tombs and I want to see where she is,” she answered.

I looked out my rearview mirror, and saw the old church she was referring to, and the cemetery alongside it filled with ancient-looking stones.  I had never taken her to a cemetery and so didn’t know she had made that association with death.  “She’s not buried there,” I said.  “Besides, I have so many things to do today.  We’ll do it another day.”

“No, now!” Was the immediate response.  No matter how I tried to reason with her, she wouldn’t budge. “We’ll see,” I finally said, the parent code for no. 

We arrived at the store and as soon we stepped out, Sylvana rushed to the pots of flowers lining one of the entrance walls.  She picked out a small pot with unusual peach-colored baby roses.  “Your mom will like these,” she declared, handing me the pot, and heading towards the entrance.

At this point, I stopped.  One of my Mom’s favourite flowers was baby roses.  Maybe there was something for me there after all.  I also thought it would be a good opportunity to speak about death, to remove the fear surrounding it.  In recent months, Sylvana has been asking a lot about death, where we go when we die, wondering if we will die one day, wailing that she doesn’t want us to die.  My husband and I explained that we believed that the body may die but that our Spirit goes back to the stars, to always shine.  She pressed us, asking why we had to die.  All I could think to say at that moment was that we come here to have fun, to grow, to learn; but then it’s time to go back home, no matter how much fun we’ve had.  Just like vacation.  That seemed to somehow appease her, but I was certain this conversation wasn’t over. 

We returned home because Sylvana wanted to draw something for my Mom.  By the time she was done, we had seven, small black pieces of paper exploding with vibrant colour, mostly drawings of happy faces and hearts, and one mandala (a drawing inside a circle, typically Tibetan) - “because your Mom doesn’t know what they are.” 

We packed our colorful bundle and drove out to the cemetery.  It was a lovely afternoon, one of those bright spring days with a hot sun and refreshing breeze.  I had the windows down and was listening to Sylvana singing with the radio, marveling at her improved English. 

I turned into the cemetery grounds and told her we were here. With the radio off, and the row upon row of tombstones, the mood became decidedly more somber.  “There are a lot of tombstones here, mommy.  Did all these people die?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered.  We drove in silence, weaving through beautifully landscaped gardens and tree canopies.

“Look, mommy,” Sylvana exclaimed. “Angels!”

Every hair on my body stood on end.  “Where?” I asked, trying to hide my sudden trepidation with enthusiasm.

“They’re flying everywhere!” she went on. “Can’t you see them?”

I followed her gaze, and understood.  The rag weeds, the ones with the fluffy head, were floating all around us. In Spain, they represented angels, and whenever you saw them, it meant that angels were nearby.  “I do see them,” I said. “They’re beautiful.”

We followed the angels to my Mom’s tomb.  Sylvana ran her little fingers over the stone, reading aloud the words written there.  I cleared out dried bits of flowers, making space for the new flowers. Sylvana placed them where she wanted, and then proceeded to explain the order in which her drawings should go. I fastened them with some sticky putty, and then we stood back to admire the final product.

“I’m sorry your Mom is gone,” Sylvana said.

“Me too, honey,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, placing my arm around her shoulders.

“I know her Spirit is not here,” she went on, amazing me, unnerving me, with her clarity. “But do you think she’ll like what we brought her?”

“Oh, I think she will love them,” I said, “and that’s she’s smiling at both of us right now and sending us all her love.”

Sylvana smiled, then started skipping around the nearby fields. She picked some wildflowers and placed them on the tomb, humming a little tune to herself.  She walked around the other tombs, admiring the drawings or some aspect that fascinated her.  I followed her around, feeling such a sense of peace and calm, as if the angels themselves, or at least one in particular, were surrounding us in their embrace.

 I’m sure our conversations about death are far from over, but for now, at least some of the fear is gone, and there is room for an expanded, more beautiful, vision of death to enter.