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59 pages

English

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The wounds of the past will continue to bleed until you chose the path of healing. Allow yourself the gift of releasing all that has caused you harm.
The Healing is a compelling story about a women’s journey of forgiveness to rectify her past using mindful reflections of her dysfunctional upbringing. Through storytelling and compassionate dissection of an eccentric cast of characters overwhelmed with their own demons, she guides us through her transformation to heal mind, body and spirit.

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Self-help

Informations

Publié par	Balboa Press
Date de parution	03 mai 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9798765239834
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Healing

A Journey of Forgiveness

Haven Pearce

Copyright © 2023 Haven Pearce.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press
A Division of Hay House
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.balboapress.com
844-682-1282

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

ISBN: 979-8-7652-3982-7 (sc)
ISBN: 979-8-7652-3984-1 (hc)
ISBN: 979-8-7652-3983-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023904084

Balboa Press rev. date: 07/24/2023

For
My Father
Shine On
Contents
Preface
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Act 1: My Circus, My Monkeys
Flamed Out
Dysfunction Junction
Rescue Interrupted
Act 2: Down the Rabbit Hole
Running for My Life
The Abyss
Dorothy Dearest
Into the Mystic
Act 3: The Healing
The Calling
The Awakening
Inner Alchemy
References
Preface
The Healing is a story about courage, self-reflection, and perseverance of the spirit. It is an unravelling of my old skin set aflame to purge my past and set it free. This is a journey of releasing the anger, resentment, pain, fear, expectation, disappointment, and desperation that tested my self-worth, self-respect, and judgment. I felt an unparalleled need to make amends with the demons that haunted my subconscious mind. The deep dive into myself has allowed me to rework painful memories into life lessons. My shadow work has guided me to resee the events of the past through the eyes of a woman versus the grief of a child, requiring me to forgive those who have done me harm, including myself. My story is dedicated to those who believe in themselves enough to about-face and challenge their looming shadows.
Acknowledgments
My sincerest gratitude to the family, friends, coaches, mentors, therapists, mystics, and guardian angels who have supported and guided me along the path to recall the purpose of my soul.
Introduction
We have remarkable stories to tell that are colorfully illustrated by our experiences. It can be an excruciating yet life-changing process to pull apart the intricacies of our lives to reveal the sweet nougat of our soul. The triumphant feast is divine.

ACT 1
My Circus, My Monkeys

Flamed Out
For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.
—Khalil Gibran
He died on a winter’s morning in December. Signs of illness began to present in the summer of 2003. By Father’s Day 2005, he spent most days in bed, rising only to eat. His abdomen expanded from excess fluid put off from the liver while his muscles atrophied. My father was convinced that he had colon cancer and inquired if the doctor would just “let him go” if his diagnosis was confirmed during surgery. His grandfather had died of the same affliction.
My father had always played by his own rules, and I knew if it were determined that his condition was terminal, he would want to leave this world on his terms. Surgery confirmed the omentum tissue cushioning his internal organs was fully beaded with cancer. The doctor removed a sizable portion of his colon and as much of the diseased pelvic tissue as he could and sewed him back up. That was all that could be done. He was given six months to live.
Ten days postsurgery, I brought my father to stay with me in my new small two-bedroom home in an alleyway while he got his bearings. Although he was weak and in pain, he could not wait to get back to his rustic hand-hewn log home on his ranch in the woods where he could watch the geese and blue heron land on the pond from the living room windows. His health steadily spiraled downward over the following eighteen months. He did not have much of an appetite and grew pale, becoming weaker by the day. Being stoic creatures, my father and I discussed his death at length. He felt very strongly that he came into this world of his own accord and would leave with his dignity intact. We agreed to pursue the avenue of the Oregon’s Death with Dignity Act, which allows terminally ill patients with a prognosis of six months or less to live to end their lives through the voluntary self-administration of lethal medications prescribed by a designated physician for that purpose. We reached out to the Compassion in Dying of Oregon Organization in Portland and coordinated with a representative who sent us the necessary documentation: “Attending Physician’s Compliance” form, “Consulting Physician’s Compliance” form, “Request for Medication to Hasten my Death in a Humane and Dignified Manner” form, and a complete “Physician Guide” with checklist to assure compliance with the provisions of the act. It was also required that the death certificate reflect that he died naturally of his underlying illness, colon cancer.
My father lived his life as a nomad—literally as a merchant seaman and figuratively as a member of the Hessians Motorcycle Club in Southern California. He was a kindhearted yet hopelessly selfish man coveting his beloved motorcycle above all else. My father had always been enamored with motorcycles and bought his first one when he was sixteen. As he saw “outlaws” ride by through the years, he thought they looked cool. His adolescence had left him feeling self-conscious about being shorter than most boys his age. His five-foot, eight-inch stature did not allow much opportunity to play sports in high school, so he found other ways to make up for his perceived deficiency through drugs, alcohol, and women. Although he was the life of the party, he carried a deep feeling of being less than and spent his life trying to be someone of importance. My father joined the navy at seventeen to escape an alcoholic father and absentee mother. He was almost thrown out of the service a few times for insubordination, but he eventually straightened himself out with the help of a father figure who was his captain. Upon honorable discharge, my father finished two years of junior college with aspirations to be a journalist, but he was seduced by another kind of life and joined the Hessians in 1968. He found brotherhood in the company of a group of men who, like himself, joined the club in search of a family to call their own.
While in a seedy bar one afternoon, a Hessian club member stopped in and called out in the direction of my father, “Are you going to the meeting?” My father replied, “What meeting?” The guy pointed and said, “Down the road.” He thought a moment and decided to check it out. That day he was wearing white denim bell bottoms, a green brocade Nehru shirt, and leather sandals from India. He looked like a hippie, not an outlaw. The more time my father spent around the club members, the more captivated he became, and he desired to be a part of it. He was denied membership twice but was finally initiated on his third attempt. The first rejection was due to the peace symbol on the sissy bar of his motorcycle and the second was because of the “McCarthy for President” sticker on his motorcycle gas tank. My father was not the stereotypical Harley man of the 1960s, but he felt solace in the company of his brothers. It was where he could “be somebody,” he would joyfully jest as he bounced out the door for a weekend of mayhem; he was a respected member among the bad boys of America. In return for his “thinking cap” and mischievous tendencies, they gave him a blank canvas on which he could paint his life from moment to moment, and it was a colorful masterpiece of excitement and substance abuse. On shore leave, he blazed down the highway, atop thunderous metal. At the time, the Hessians were known as the partiers of the motorcycle community and each weekend was the same: a club meeting on Friday night followed by bar hopping all night long. Members snorted so much crank that they stayed up for days on end.
My father was not weakened by the disapproval of his family, especially his mother, Dorothy. He was a free spirit living to the beat of his own drum, which was the only way he would live even if it meant sacrificing a more meaningful relationship with his biological family, which he did. My father had married and failed. He drank, womanized, and spread venereal disease. He was a unique and lonely creature, even in the company of others. In his twenties and thirties, my father was a sharp-dressed man with a promising future. He was well-read and taught dance at the Arthur Murray Dance Studio. Moreover, he was one of the few white “cool cats” to frequent the black jazz clubs in Los Angeles, California, back in the day. He had a keen ear for Miles Davis, John