What I See When I Look In The Mirror

Of Emotions — With My Soul Mate

My Twin Flame and Mad Soul Mate: January 16, 2017. The year of John’s diagnosis. At Bronwyn and Harry’s dam getting a feed of yabbies — thirsty work. On the cusp of them relocating interstate.

You know what is in Room 101, Winston. Everyone knows what is in Room 101.

George Orwell, 1984.

I studied Orwell’s, 1984, and Huxley’s, Brave New World, in 1982, during senior high school. I was horrified and it took a couple of decades before I was ready to open Atwood’s, The Handmaid’s Tale, (1985). Adolescent – emerging adult self was simply not emotionally equipped for dystopian literature. So, when I started Teacher’s College in 1984, majoring in English, I was relieved to sight a first year reading list more attuned to my sensitivities. Even if it meant reading Austen, again.

I had developed a strong learner disposition by senior school; initially motivated by a middle school English teacher who had the emotional insight and foresight to foster self-belief in my own writing capabilities. I had been diagnosed with absence seizure epilepsy when I was eight, after my grade 3 teacher drew the day dreaming to the attention of my parents. This condition continued until mid-way through the second year of junior high school, when aged 14, the specialist deemed I had outgrown it — the amount of time it took to wean me from the initial over dose of 49 pills a week, to none. It was the 1970s.

Nonetheless, and despite being a strong reader, the school placed me in a remedial English class when I started high school because the day dreaming meant I had not completed a diagnostic test in the allocated time.

This was for a year, enough time for the shit to stick — in my mind.

During what was to be my last visit to the Collins St Specialist, after having me hyperventilate to see if it would induce a seizure, he promptly took a call and inattentively missed it. So, I took his absent, conclusion that I had outgrown it, and kept it to myself. I eagerly hopped off the couch; partook in the customary, annual, post-specialist-visit Pancake Parlour lunch with Dad, and headed home. Whether or not I ever had another seizure, I wouldn’t know — I would have been absent.

And there, by the age of 15, was introduced a scepticism of western medicine, to couple with my apprehension of mainstream education — and its affiliates. Clearly, these formative experiences shaped my stance and approach as an educator and choices in further studies. In particular, my work as a second language teacher with NESB refugee students in mainstream secondary classrooms — and further advocating for mainstream to better meet the needs of marginalised students, in my other roles for both the tertiary education sector and an independent education consultancy.

And of scientific evidence? That too, might be explored re its status among the echelons — of knowledge. Acceptance, through feeling into listening all of our emotions grants access to knowing — that which transcends scientific understanding.

The power of beliefs — the creator of our realities.

Back to 1984. I was excited to venture into new territory, and chose Introduction to Philosophy, Geography and Psychology 101, to complete first year course selection. Neither P subjects were High School options, thus Psychology 101edged out History in my list of elective preferences.

The initial workshop-introduction had us all jammed into a seminar room; the lecturer needed to concertina the doors to double the space. We dropped to the floor as one, cross or splay legged on the industrial carpeted floor. We resembled backpackers at an overcrowded airport lounge, directionally covering every point of the compass.

Choose your own adventure.

Shuffling into uniform lines once the lecturer called for attention, a student inquired, is it OK if we smoke? With an affirming nod, most of the room paused to rustle through their bags for cigarettes. To my right side, at approximately 4 o’clock, I spied an open pack of cigarettes at the end of an extended arm. Would you like a smoke, was directed my way. Yes, thanks — and so the Universe conspired for Bronwyn and I to meet — soul mates. We still laugh about it.

I have mentioned Bron in a previous post, We All Get A Welcome Home Death Party; recounting a weekend we spent with Bron and H, in March 2017. We were attending a mediumship demonstration and weekend workshop run by Moira and her colleague-friend.

My mad-mate Bronwyn had invited me along. She and Harry lived in another small country town approximately 100km from ours ... Bronwyn had been attending Moira’s local Women’s Circle for some months. You would — looo-ve it, this pitch-perfect music teacher would trill over the phone. I wish — yoo-ou — lived closer — so yoo-ou could come, the chorus. Me too — ooo, my failed wail of a harmony. We would click-off laughing.

This snippet captures the tenor of our friendship and primary mode of communication over the decades. Relatively speaking, we have spent more time living miles apart and therefore our friendship has evolved on the phone. Physical distance meant that we have had separate friendship groups; we are the, Oh you really do exist friend that is welcomed by those others, on the occasions that we do get to sit across a table.

Even at College, we circulated in other groups; a result of being in different subject method based departments. Psychology 101 was our only shared class; so in second and third year we consequently drifted apart — reuniting in fourth year when I moved out of my family home to the inner north, a couple of suburbs away from where Bron had moved sometime the previous year. We picked up where we left off — at the College pub; just like it was yesterday, as the adage goes. And our yesterdays since then have been literally just that, give or take a day or two — before yesterday.

Just like when we used to, let’s fuck off from Psychology 101 on a Thursday morning. After the initial tutorial hour, of a four hour Psychology marathon, we would head across the road to the College pub for 10am opening. Helping staff get the bar stools down for the resident bar flies, we would then head to the windowless, College allocated Griffin Room. There we could talk uninterrupted for the remaining hours of class we missed — until the psychology and other student crew poured in for the long lunch time session of cheers.

For fuck’s sake, when’s the surgeon coming, John would mostly joke, an hour or so into Bron and my phone conversations. We have spoken on average, three times per week for the most part of 40 years. And more so when John was ill. Bron and H had relocated to Queensland, chasing their retirement dream — just before John’s diagnosis. Bron rang me every day, was always available when I rang — I cannot really find the words to express the deep gratitude I have for her love.

There has always been something about our connection of friendship. We felt it from the beginning — a knowing. We were not able to articulate it; nor did we fully understand it until 2019, when in the wake of John’s death — there came mother’s worst nightmare.

The second day after John died, Bron flew down. She was still with me on February 9^th, the shared birthdays of her first and third born sons. The eldest, William was celebrating his 25^th. In a call with Bron, he expressed his sadness about the death of, old mate, John. William, a keen agriculturalist, was working on a farm in a small town about 70km from our home.

About a week after Bron returned to Queensland she rang to inform me — in a voice that had a peculiar calm quality about it, that she was on her way back down. William had been involved in a road trauma and was being air lifted to a Melbourne hospital. One week later, on February 24^th, William’s life support was switched off. Bron had additional layers of complex past and concurrent familial trauma to negotiate that week; she stalwartly maintains that she could feel John’s hand on her shoulder, whispering — grace, with each step of challenge.

In my last post, I wrote about my twin flame connection with John and the nature of it being the impetus for spiritual growth. Poke — the blind swings as I write this: the twin flame sparks the ignition to go inward; to resolve the individual and shared aspect of the twin shadow. Adding further clarity to what he dropped in last week:

From the cavernous wounds came unconditional love; in the midst of the greatest challenges for our human experience came surrender and acceptance — a conscious decision of, and for love. For ways of being.

The soul doesn’t make mistakes, the human does.

And it is in the human mistakes, that I find clarification re the soul mate aspect of my relationship with Bron. While the events and choices which shape the experiences of our personal narratives have been — in the realm of contrasts — quite the opposite; the essence of our be-ing-ness, the emotional journey is a resonating reflection of self.

With the soul mate comes reciprocal support of each other’s inward journey.

Throughout the tumultuous evolution of our emotional being, in every aspect of the human expression; from elation to self-loathing — we have offered each other compassion, understanding and acceptance. With an open honesty and trust to challenge. And while, not always in gentle grace and patience — we are still learning, our connection is always grounded in love.

Often, the compassion afforded by the soul mate encourages an acceptance of self. While one can project from a fear base, the soul mate responds from a platform of love. That is not a choice or decision, it is the only way. There lies the gift; feeling into listening. In other, is self.

Psychology 101 became our euphemism for the toxic positivity surrounding mainstream notions of grief’s expression and the mirroring spiritual bypassing of those experts who negate full emotional expression. Grief, gratitude, love and laugher really has underpinned a way of being; the shovel to dig us out of the shit show. Thanks John.

Bron and I now understand our soul-sister bond. Our conversations are ripe with sharing the communication we have with our teams across the veil. We share a deep respect for each other, tempered with the same sense of humour. My ego wants to speak first, we joke before we confide with soul. We catch each other and fully accept the madness — that has been part of the magnetism. We are a mirror.

We often sense an energy about our teams when we are chatting on the phone, and this means they are usually together. William and John of course — and our mothers.

William is a frequent manipulator of Bron’s house lights, and our telephone connection — it seems. He has become John’s, phone surgeon — there can be conversations when the line drops out again, and again. You feel the energetic presence, you feel the laughter. There’s the discernment — feeling into listening.

Clarification from John will often drop in to me while Bron and I are chatting.

Thursday was a busy day with John. I woke up at 12.12am, with this message re the previous post. Switching on the lamp, I noted:

The gift of memory is understanding the emotion from another, past life experience — for this life.

When I woke Friday morning, I received further clarity re the fluidity of energetic patterns, how shifting energy vibrates across all lives and all timelines — for the team:

You can tap into the emotional lives of the women you have been in the past because the energy of those women is present and has contributed to the Simone of today; she is the same aspect that returns to soul — to come again.

Late that afternoon Bron and I were talking Psychology 101, and in came John with further clarification re the statement-question I posed in the previous post: some of the people who have known me the longest in this life know me the least because they view me from a past time perspective — one that best suits their construct of ... the other ... in self?

The secondary losses are not about rejection. Your realities are not the same. You are located, emotionally — on their timeline, as to how they choose to understand life’s events and the role that you played in, and for them.

That night as I readied for sleep, John dropped in the first three lines of the accompanying poem. I had been back in the surf on Wednesday, with my beach and brunch buddy Di — John had obviously been listening while I was in the water. There was no escaping it; Friday morning the poem had to be born before the post.

It is about friendships; those lost and those gained. And those enduring.

For Bronwyn and William xx

An Absurdity

I sighed an absurdity of anguish

into the wild — wind.

And she blew my sorrow a kiss.

A solemn wisp — it slipped

into the weathered pocket

of a fleeting updraft.

Jiggling on a peak of turbulence,

It glanced over the sea ...

Beyond ...

the breaking horizon of thought —

conceptualisation.

Into a feeling realisation — of soul’s sovereignty.

So came witness

the sun’s radiant gaze,

a saturating illumination ...

of ocean’s pulse.

A reoccurring, reassuring set of waves,

in a reciprocity — of acceptance

and love.

POST SCRIPT

Friday was the first sitting for this post. I finished the second sitting and draft late Sunday afternoon, which accounts for the backdrop of screeching cockatoos. I recorded the poem outside, in the first day of the setting Winter of sun.

About an hour later, I spoke with Bron. As her want, I read her every post. I also needed to give her opportunity to vet this one. Approximately half an hour into the conversation, the phone connection cut.

Bron rang back immediately, we laughed, thanks Will, and the line cut again. Another return call, Yes, thanks Will, can you please behave, I laughed. We then finished our phone call uninterrupted.

Around half an hour after we signed off, I noticed John’s hat. The barn owl feather had been relocated from its position on the crown, flipped upside down and placed where you see it in the photo. I have shared photos of his antics with the feather in other posts.

An owl with a book is the token Bron purchased for her charm bracelet after John died.

Confirmation John and Will were present in the call.

And John gets the final word, a message for all — Are you paying attention, to the messages from above?

Are you paying attention. Moving the feather from his cap, post conversation with Bron. Sunday, June 1, 2025

With love and gratitude, my learning continues.

John and team, thank you for the guidance. I love you.

Thank you Bron, and bless you William.

And so it is.