What is reality?
Is it the stories we tell ourselves?
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Sometimes you just have to call in the big guns. You know, the familiar, friendly souls from other lives.
It was pouring rain but a new set of plumbers came over to correct an ongoing issue with the laundry room pipes. As much as I dislike interruptions to business hours and strangers in my personal space, it needed to get done. Any broken thing in a house indicates the emotional state of the dweller — so of course, it was time to fix it up for good. My ongoing lesson is to step aside and allow others with more expertise do the job — and trust that they will do it efficiently and correctly.
Some do. Some don’t. Always a lesson in patience — and a reminder to hold myself to the same standards.
Before anyone enters my home, I check who they are and if I’ve known them before. I make sure my mirrors are up — both physical and psychic. I rely on my incredible spiritual protection that has surrounded me since birth — or always, who knows? — and do my best to relax. I refuse to let men intimidate me but as a woman, I’m naturally on guard to some extent.
The first plumber arrived — one of those old, crusty guys with a worn tool belt but I had no defensive reaction. He came in, looked at the pipes and left without a word 10 minutes later. I’m like, WTH? but just settled on my porch. The ways of men. I figured he needed supplies and would be back.
Then he returned with the big guns — the “power” — a.k.a. my daughter from a past life in the disguise of an attractive 6’4” alpha dude.
I opened the door, noticed this enormous guy and felt a jolt of recognition. I joked and said, Ah, you’ve come with the power and he gave a shy smile and followed the head plumber. Like most people do, I immediately went to my pendulum and ran through the three workers. NO to the two and YES to the huge guy. I assumed he and I fought in wars and were brothers/soldiers. No — fooled again by the present costume of strength. I asked another round and nailed down the connection within a few questions.
Me: mother. Him: daughter. Close. I didn’t bother with time/era — I just sighed and said, Family.
I miss my family(ies). My children.
If you are aware, listen closely, lean in — you will learn to recognize the stories that run under the surface of this life.
A deep voice boomed. Ma’am — where is the main valve? and I jumped again when I looked into his eyes. If I was heterosexual, you’d assume this was attraction and yes, he was a very attractive alpha male. I felt compelled but not attracted. Familiar, but not friendship. No, this was deeper and plus, I’m gay. It was a strong recognition and it happens so little that when it does arrive, it’s very clear for someone like me.
The job was done quickly and effectively with two hours. Brand new pipes. The leak is fixed. He said goodbye, climbed into his 250 and that was that. I wished my daughter well.
So, what was up with the cast iron wrench he left?
Every contractor leaves behind a piece of themselves. A tool. Nail. Valve. Clamp. It’s their personal jest — they’ve admitted as such — a metal calling card of some sort. Rarely do they request it back.
My plumber left behind a huge T bar cast iron/heavy steel that looks made for big valves like fire hydrants. A little rusty and used but super solid. I’ll assume it’s a write off for him unless I hear otherwise. The irony is that I’ve wanted a tool that would break my car windows in an emergency. Call me crazy but I’ve heard too many stories about vehicles sinking into water with trapped passengers and I’m the type to have on hand what I hope is never needed.
Plus, it’s a great weapon.
So thank you, my daughter — for taking care of your mom.