Self-mentoring is learning to tell yourself and hear yourself say the things you have always wanted to hear.
If you want to learn more, go here.
I made this little story board about how self-mentoring is impacting me.
Remember those old public service campaign of “Your brain on drugs” and the fried egg? Well, this is my heart story on self-mentoring.
A HEART JOURNEY
This was my heart when I landed in therapy for posttraumatic stress a few years ago, and had a ton of resistance to trying art therapy because “I can’t make art.”
This was inside the black quarter of my heart: A tiny person in a large stormy sea drawn without a paddle until my therapist suggested I give her one.
WORDS on the page: Turbulent seas, unpredictable, unsteady, fear, alone, without a life jacket, swirling, sad, stormy, teardrop grief, blue, black, purple.
After therapy and an amazing connection with my grandmother’s spirit in which I saw an elaborate calligraphied word LOVE on a local beach (story below).
My heart on Kindnessville daily reminders and self-mentoring:
I believe in the potential of everyone to get from there to here and stay through the self-mentoring process I am learning.
Grandmother message story
She died when I was 18. This event happened when I was 44. I “talked” to her (closed my eyes and focused on her energy) when I was feeling at the end of my rope, asking her guidance.
Within 5 minutes of “contacting” my grandmother:
I was on a beach and turned to walk (from where I had been sitting crying) and there was a huge, fancy, calligraphy lettered word in the sand – LOVE. There was no one on that beach the entire hour I had been sitting there, and I have never in all my years of beach walking seen any lettering like it when people write in sand – it almost looked European (my grandmother was German). I walked a few feet more, and found a heart-shaped green piece of beach glass. Again, I have never found a heart-shaped piece of glass in all my years of picking up beach glass. I walked a bit more, and a German-speaking couple passed me holding hands going toward me, not from the direction of the calligraphy in sand. They were the only people who passed me during my time at this beach.
On my way home from the beach, I stopped by my sister’s house and noticed a potted rose bush that she had held for me during an emergency that I had completely forgotten about for 2 years. It appeared almost dead for the season. I said, “I think I’ll take this back now.” When I got it home, it suddenly dawned on me the rose was a cutting from my grandmother’s rose bush. Within a week it was in full bloom, and guess what? The out of season rose petals were in exact shapes of small pink hearts. They carpeted my front doorstep in a windstorm.
Interestingly, the Rose as a symbol goes way back in my family with a family crest from the 1400′s depicting 3 roses.
Call it synchronicity, call it what you will. I choose to believe in something more.