Intuition is as right as rain. When it comes to intuition, I’d like it to rain cats and dogs every day. I’d think the sky was falling if I couldn’t sense it.
Intuition brought jobs sprinkled with fairy dust. Intuition brought health cloaked in wizardry. Intuition brought loves crusted with sugar crystals.
Here’s the deal. Intuition is no small thing. It’s not airy-fairy. It’s not woo-woo. You can poke holes in what I say till the cows come home and I won’t budge.
Intuition, our certain sixth sense, guides us through tough times. A Master Key, it moves us, adept and poised, through transformation.
Dewy fresh eyes, hearts that burn and exuberant libidos are the Divine inheritance of those who wear intuition on their sleeves. They are rebel adventurers.
When the wild azure iris that rings the black dot of knowing sparkles with unleashed vision, nothing dodges furtive behind grey clouds or veiled separation.
I end every day with a heaven of request for direct leads. I stumble into dawn poised to see how I’ve been answered.
Be undisturbed by mockingbirds when listening for the voice within. Copied, false songs can be loud and brilliant, but they lack the subtle Truth.
Even as a small girl, I searched for an unbroken flow of authentic truth and wisdom. It made no sense to that God darted like a tse tse fly.
Some do not wish to do the work required to follow intuition. Discernment, discipline, and bravery are required to find breadcrumbs in the half moonlight.
“Move to West Virginia to begin doctoral school,” Intuition said. The kitchen of my town-home in flatland Ohio felt like Merlin’s cave. “Ok,” I said and gulped.
I signed and folded the acceptance letter. Spring sunlight lazed behind the brown and gold drapes in the dining room. I licked the envelope and cut my tongue.
I stamped the envelope. I stamped fear. I stamped the not enough. I ran headlong into a new chapter, headlong into adventure, and headlong into scholarship.
The day we drove into Morgantown, mists frosted the tops of the hills and danced like whirled evanescent garments trailed through spindled, leafless trees.
“We’re here, can you believe it,” I said to my partner. As our toddler daughter looked on, we pinched each other. “It feels right,” he said and choked tears.
The decision to pack up a life and move it into the mountains threw every single card in our hands into the air. We financed the choice on faith and trust.
We followed our hearts not one protective arrow in our quiver. We tracked, scented, and were rewarded.
To flow with intuition has required the sacrifice of innocence, a push beyond the blush of fear and awakened responsibility. It has required big girl pants.
I thirst for more of Intuition’s quirky flashes. I thirst to awaken others to her gifts. I thirst. I clear the spring and slake my thirst.
© 2021, Linda Sandel Pettit, Ed.D.
Photo Courtesy of Unsplash.com
Linda Sandel Pettit, Ed.D. inspires intuitive-creative women healers to use their healing modalities, speaking voices, and written words to unfold and share the wisdom of the Sacred Feminine. The Sacred Feminine embraces intuition, curiosity, connection, authenticity, humility, vulnerability, oneness, and the natural beauty of the body and the earth. Linda’s understanding of the Sacred Feminine is formed from a nonreligious spiritual understanding known worldwide as the 3 Principles. [for more information, see www.sydbanks.com.]
Linda offers sanctuaries, intimate small-group programs, to women healers who want to bring the 3 Principles into their work, and to women writers who are ready to share, get feedback, revise, and publish.
Through her Apprentice’s Way individual all-in-one mentorship program, Linda encourages her clients’ spiritual evolution, psychological health, effective writing, messaging, marketing, and content creation.
Visit www.lindasandelpettit.com to learn more about these programs and her array of masterclasses and courses.
Get notified of new posts by Linda
You may also enjoy these...
In this time of schism, rent as it is with bitterness, sorrow, and grief, what I want to write about often seems irrelevant. I’m a dinosaur. An anachronism.
Bonus Chapter, Linda’s forthcoming book: LISTEN! Love is BEING A Bookbag Named God “Hey, Sandy-Beach-Del, you must be po-or. Your bookbag is trashed, man,” said the skinny fifth grader with a brush cut and rounded glasses. The spin on my last name, Sandel, was typical of his taunts. My bookbag was a sorry sight, frayed…