Blazing Trails of Miracles E-Book

Müller Annette

• Herausgeber: San Esprit Ltd.
• Kategorie: Fachliteratur
• Sprache: Deutsch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Seitenzahl: 258

Beschreibung

Annette Müller describes her path after a tragic car accident. She finds a cure in the field of energy healing. She walks this path and becomes a renowned healer.

Leseprobe

BLAZING TRAILS OF MIRACLES

SAN ESPRIT EDITION

BLAZING TRAILS OF MIRACLES

Annette Müller

with Cornelia von Schelling

SAN ESPRIT EDITION

Picture Credits

All the photos used in this book are from the personal collection of Annette Müller and

are accorded all rights with the exception of the title photo and portrait of Annette Müller

and Rev. Jürgen Fliege

Orhidea Briegel, photo coach, www.orhideal-image.com

Group picture DO UT DES 2009 on page 95: Christian Fohmann

Group picture DO UT DES 2010 on page 96: alphafoto Gunter Schön

Please visit our sites at www.ecole-san-esprit.de and www.amazinGRACE.de

® 2012 SAN ESPRIT All rights reserved

Cover design: Anja Kathrin Klein www.anjakathrinklein.de

Cover photo: Orhidea Briegel, photo coach, www.orhideal-image.com

Translation from German by: John Michael Stretton Taborn

ISBN 9783943099041

eBook-Herstellung und Auslieferung: readbox publishing, Dortmundwww.readbox.net

Do not fail!

An egg can get feathers

and fly aloft from its tight shell

into the heavens.

Friedrich Rückert

CONTENTS

Preface

But the Light was Green!

Death and Genesis

Where on earth is Frabertsham?

A New Dimension in Healing

Taking a Tumble

Mission Impossible

Inside the Heart of God

Moments of Glory

Dear Annette

Preface

Spiritual healing has today become an accepted form of healthcare. Even alternative practitioners and other healing professions have completely lost their fear of coming into contact with energy work, with shamanic rituals and other kinds of spiritual healing. This doesn’t simply involve a booming segment in the health market but rather reflects a living spirituality that is to be placed at the service of something positive. Underlying it can often be found a sound training in energy work. Even more frequently, though, one can identify an additional far-reaching experience of life, of having to start out from nothing once more, and it is this that makes the life history and work of many healers credible.

Since the 1950s legal opinion had maintained that spiritual healing was nothing more than charlatanism unless the healer was able to prove the contrary in individual instances. Now this picture had undergone a radical change. The German Federal Constitutional Court’s well-known ruling on spiritual healers established them as an independent group of professionals. It was of the opinion that the client who sought spiritual healing was primarily interested in spiritual support accompanied by an alteration to his or her world view; it did not therefore place the healer on the same level as the traditional doctors and other healthcare professionals. From the outset the client did not expect to be undergoing treatment in a medical or psychotherapeutic sense, and for this reason the legal system too should regard healers as a completely independent group within the healing professions.

In the seven years of its existence this famous decision, reviewed by other courts, has become widely known and has thereby contributed significantly to establishing the profession of healer. This has brought consequences with it, including limitations on advertising being imposed by the Law on the Advertising of Medicinal Products (equally applicable to healers) and the question of whether all healers should be obliged to provide clients with guidance. The point at which a healer has to produce a non-medical practitioner’s certificate has of course been newly defined, as has the point at which spiritual healing overlaps with medical or psychotherapeutic treatment.

With this background in mind one must welcome with open arms the fact that books such as this have become so successful. Because in the final analysis we need to be grateful to each individual element for the fact that spiritual healing has been dragged out of its niche as an esoteric field and been seen for what it really is: a possibility for clients to find their personal healing path, to lay it out, and in so doing to become aware of their own creative abilities.

Anette Oberhauser, Doctor of Law

Solicitor

But the Light was Green!

Darkness is a dawn just waiting to be born. Khalil Gibran

It all began with an accident. An automobile accident which demolished my little yellow Twingo. A complete write-off. I myself seemed to be unhurt. The police nevertheless called for an ambulance to take me to the nearest hospital.

On this disastrous day – the 17th May, 2004 – I was especially cheerful. A friend from America was paying me a visit and we had deliberately chosen an Indian pub to remind us of the time we’d spent together in an Indian ashram. Several years earlier my enthusiasm for the learning of the Far East, for its yoga and meditation, had spurred me to spend some months in an ashram, a kind of monastery. And that’s where my friend and I met.

After a first-class meal in the Indian eatery, I decided to show her the beauties of Munich on that lovely May day. A short and interesting sightseeing tour.

I was the first at the Oscar-von-Miller-Ring crossroads, travelling in the direction of Obelisk. The traffic lights jumped to green and I accelerated.

That’s when it happened. A silver Mercedes comes speeding from the left, the driver is missing the red light. I step on the brake like a shot, but it is too late. I hit the limousine, which is catapulting ahead. A brief, ear-shattering bang, my car is dragged along by the Mercedes. Totally stunned, my friend and I climb out of the battered car through the passenger door.

The police, fire brigade and ambulance arrived soon after. Although I thought myself to be quite uninjured the ambulance driver insisted on talking me to the hospital. After several x-rays I was allowed to leave. It was only later that the noted diagnosis contained something that turned out to have particularly fatal consequences for my future life.

A friend picked me up. I hobbled on one leg to his car and dropped onto the seat beside him. The nurses had bandaged my very swollen foot, along with my thumb, which I’d caught in the steering wheel. My husband Günter was unable to attend to me because at that time he was seriously ill himself. My fifteen-year old daughter was at boarding school. I felt alone – and I was. One of the following days I had a bad headache, which, however, I didn’t connect with the accident.

At that time I was working in the management for our publishing company and ran a mail order business for books and exclusive gifts. I had also learnt how to paint miniatures, had dedicated myself to art and photography and had already taught yoga and meditation for several years. I’ve always lived an unconventional life and had wanted to be self-reliant and work independently right from the beginning. Günter felt and thought in a similar way to myself. We both adored travelling and loved to explore the world. We never married in a registry office; instead, we concluded our marriage in a magical wedding ceremony in India.

Our daughter was born in New York in 1989, though by the time of my accident my travelling days were far behind me. Günter had cancer, which gave us so much heartache, and that brought those beautiful long journeys to an end.

After my accident I awoke with raging headaches more and more frequently. I tried to get to grips with them through homeopathy and acupuncture, but, with few exceptions, to no avail. Every morning the same unbearable headaches, which only started to let up around noon. But worse was to come. Several months after the crash I woke up one night with such an awful headache that I felt that a grenade was about to go off in my head at any moment. I sat up, gasped for air and vomited.

An icy cold came over every limb. I was all pins and needles, as if an army of ants was marching over my body. The emergency doctor was called. He said I had migraine. I myself thought it was a serious gastrointestinal infection. After an intravenous jab I felt somewhat better and believed the nightmare to be finally over.

Eight days later, in the middle of the night, came the next attack. The same headache, the same vomiting, the same shivering fit, the same ant army scuttling and jabbing so that even my sphincter muscle caved in.

Barely conscious with pain I huddled in an embryo position in my bed. I was afraid. It wasn’t only the throbbing and burning in my head – I thought I would burst at any second – but also the juddering spasms, the cramps in the neck and shoulder muscles, the weird numbness in my hands and feet. I also had the uncanny feeling that my whole body was being assailed by some horrible poison flowing through all my veins. I wasn’t even able to groan, because every sound I uttered made the pain worse. On top of all this came the waves of coldness that flowed over me, as if someone had poured ice-cold water over my back, arms, legs and bottom. I was frozen in a glacier. And after the shock of the cold came burning heat, one wave of it after the other. It was hell, absolute hell.

The emergency doctor was called once more. He bent over me, examining me as if attempting to grasp just why I was huddled in bed bathed in sweat. My pulse was racing. The same injection, followed by a slow improvement. When I was able to think again I knew intuitively that something terrible had happened to me. But what? It was as if I had been tortured. Not by an enemy though, for it was my own body that had become an instrument of torture. I was indescribably afraid, overwhelmed by a fear of death.

In reality I’m a happy person, someone who loves life. The first serious blow in my life was Günter’s illness. He fought it, I supported him as well as I could, standing by him with all my strength and confidence. It wasn’t until the onset of my own attacks that I began to have doubts. At that time I still didn’t realise that they had anything to do with my accident.

My former positive attitude to life had flipped upside down. The world had become bleak, monochrome. Nothing added up any longer. What was more, what had happened to me had turned me into an old woman. I experienced an ever-increasing weight loss, and when I glimpsed my face in the mirror I shrank back. An old woman of at least 96 was staring back at me. “You look like one of those horrid orcs from ‘Lord of the Rings’” my daughter said, looking at me with a very anxious expression on her face. But this was no fantasy film: it was reality.

The periods of recovery between attacks become ever shorter. Periods of recovery? As far as I was concerned the phrase was a fairy tale, a cock-and-bull story. Certainly, when an attack had passed and my body relaxed during the day I endeavoured to get back to my routine. After all, what else could I do but live as if I still had before me another life as a woman, a life with my family, with friends and the usual everyday affairs? At least I attempted to lead a normal life even if I was forced finally to admit that it was impossible. The catalogue of disruptions that had wrenched control from me is so long that I scarcely feel like listing them: speech disorders, the struggle to find words, failure to maintain my balance, disturbances that affected my concentration and writing. Perhaps there were even more. When I wrote I mixed up the letters in virtually every word, while I frequently omitted several letters in every second word. Regardless of whether I wrote by longhand or typed on the computer not a single word came out perfect. Sometimes even whole words went missing. However hard I concentrated there was no sentence that was free of errors. I felt like an illiterate.

The simple attempt to concentrate failed. For the most part I was erratic and miles away in my mind. The world around me was a fathomless black hole. I didn’t know from one moment to the next what I was supposed to be doing, where I’d put my things. When I tried to concentrate on something definite, on a movement of the hand, a single task, my thoughts simply vanished into thin air and disappeared into an interminable sea of mist. I had to write down everything I wanted to do point by point. Even the slightest demand was too much for me: cooking, having a shower or getting dressed – all efforts I found nearly insurmountable.

At that time we lived in a pretty apartment in Rosenheim. I didn’t have to go far to shop and I knew a lot of people in our area. Yet suddenly I was unable to recognise faces. I crept through the neighbourhood with a kind of tunnel vision. It was only when someone I knew spoke to me that I recognised them. But now, suddenly I couldn’t think of their name - for even my memory for names had let me down. In my usual wanderings through the streets I felt like a visitor from outside that repeatedly lost her way. It was awful. My head was like a coarse mesh through which everything fell.

On one occasion I even forgot my daughter. We were at the optician’s along with our dog looking for new glasses for Anya. While she was trying on various models I went over briefly to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription. And then I went straight back home. When my daughter turned up with the dog much later she was speechless. “Why didn’t you pick us up? I waited and waited! Why didn’t you come back?” I couldn’t believe it myself. How was it possible just to wipe from my mind that which I most loved? Inconceivable.

Because the attacks were determined not to let up and because I was scared to go to bed in the evening for fear that I should be awoken in the middle of the night by a new attack, only to be really relieved in the morning to find that I had awoken with “only” a raging headache, I once more embarked on my odyssey through the world of conventional medicine. Another doctor, this time a neurologist, a specialist in migraine. After several visits and comprehensive examinations he explained to me that I wasn’t suffering from migraine. He sent me to another specialist. After an examination of the cervical vertebrae and a movement MRI I received the diagnosis: dislocated atlas, dens fracture, crushed spinal cord, ruptured bands holding the uppermost cervical. These were the reasons for the pains in the night: because the muscles relaxed during sleep the bands could no longer hold the head in position, so that the dens became pressed against the spinal cord. And the reason for all these injuries? According to the doctors: the car accident, now just one year behind me. Had the collision been just a little more violent the consequence would probably have been paraplegia from the cervical spine down. And if it had been more violent still I could also have suffered a broken neck.

After the MRI imaging the doctor accompanied me to the stairs and bade me goodbye. “From now on please hold the banister firmly and make sure you find a ground-floor flat.” This sentence struck me like a bolt from the blue. My condition was going to get even worse! I didn’t dare imagine what that might mean. How was I going to get on with my life? I was already unable to meet friends, couldn’t work, because I could never know when my complaints would once more blow me off course. But one thing I did know: I was deeply traumatised. I still refused to give up, nevertheless. I underwent one physiotherapy treatment after another until, after some time, my physical condition did indeed improve and the pains abated.

For a time I became hopeful. But this proved, alas, to be illusionary. The attacks didn’t let up, the doctors appeared to have given up on me. I felt like a stranger, dogged by misfortune and robbed of her place in the world.

As if stalked by bad luck I was struck a further blow: the doctor who had examined me immediately after the accident had written that I was only partially unable to work. I tried to claim damages from the other party’s accident insurance, but every attempt failed. I found myself confronted with a sophisticated system, a covey of cronies made up of lawyers, physicians, insurances, shareholders and many others. These people had one interest, and one interest only: to make a profit. Countless people and institutions made money from my accident and its consequences. My private health insurance alone earned a lump sum for damages on the costs resulting from “my injuries” – an enormous amount. So my health insurance reaped rewards from my accident while I came away with nothing. I had also still to pay huge sums myself for essential physiotherapeutic treatment since my insurance – precisely the insurance which had made money from me – refused to assume the costs involved, reasoning that therapy was medically unnecessary. As a result of these circumstances I was forced to battle with financial worries on top of everything else.

I was not surprised that my condition was noticeably deteriorating. The nightly headaches persisted until two or three o’clock in the afternoon. I swallowed tablet after tablet, but with very little to show for it. I stopped driving, rarely left the house. Now for the first time in my life I could understand people who chose suicide rather than continue bearing intolerable pain.

Then came the change. It was very slow, but it came. My mother had urged me more than once to visit a spiritual healer. I didn’t believe in such a wishy-washy thing as spiritual healing: the whole business was a nice fad, nothing more. Just imagination, superstition, some kind of hocus-pocus. Should I, if possible, make a trip to the Brazilian jungle or to the Himalayas? Apart from that I couldn’t believe that anyone could help me. But my mother continued to insist. She recommended a healer, one I absolutely had to pay a visit to.

Death and Genesis

Amazing Grace: how sweet the sound! I once was lost but now am found. Gospel song

My mother can no longer bear to see to see how the attacks are rapidly grinding me down. She comes into my flat in the mornings, looks at me and knows immediately: yet another nightly attack. Vomiting, diarrhoea, a fainting fit. I can only just about breathe, the pains are so excruciating that nothing else exists. In this state I can’t speak, drink, eat. Walking is nearly impossible, even turning over in bed is an abominable effort. Eventually the pain lets up somewhat, but days pass before I can get anything down me – and nothing, nothing gives me any pleasure to consume any more. Nothing else counts. I don’t want to see anyone, not even my closest friends. Everything is meaningless.

For my mother, who cared for me intensively, my condition was torture. Since for some time she had been involved in various possibilities for spiritual healing she put increasingly frequent pressure on me to go to the healer of her acquaintance.

“Conventional medicine can do nothing more for you, Annette. So please listen to me, will you!”

I finally gave myself a kick and went to the healer my mother had recommended. Maybe it was just a question of a belief in miracles and a bit of hocus-pocus which, although it would probably achieve nothing, might at least help a little.

A slim man dressed entirely in white greeted me with a smile at the door to his apartment. He fulfilled all the classical pictures of a spiritual esoteric who is somewhat removed from reality.

“Not really part of this world,” I think. “How is he going to help me?”

I lie down on a massage table. The gentle man has a calming effect and I close my eyes and relax. I know that he places both his hands on me but I can remember no more than that. When I took my leave and went out of the door I already felt better. It was as if someone had opened the curtains a crack in a darkened room and a tiny light had penetrated my life through this gap.

Although I wasn’t healed I had the feeling that a spell was broken – not entirely, perhaps, but at least a beginning had been made. It no longer exercised all-powerful sovereignty over me. I scarcely dared to believe it, and for the first time in ages I felt a whiff of hope. I felt lighter and just a little free of a heavy and sinister load.

But the attacks return. It is night, the usual medication and doctors’ telephone numbers on the bedside table – the numbers to call if I need a jab. I’m awoken by the accustomed pain, reach out for the medicine and am just about to phone the emergency service number. But I wait a few moments and realise I do not need a doctor. The attack is milder, in no way as unbearable as the previous bouts of pain. Eventually I close my eyes and fall asleep. The attacks don’t stay away but they decline in intensity. And that was a blessing, balsam for my soul, refreshment for my body.

I went to the healer a second time. Then a third and fourth time.

I began to get interested in other types of healing and thought, why not look for other healers? Why not get to know different methods and try them out?

A time came when I was fit enough to travel. I criss-crossed Germany, visiting numerous healers and attending courses, for my interest was growing more and more. I became acquainted with many different healing methods and discovered that some training sessions brought me a great deal while others brought little. The ones I tended to find ineffective were those that were either airy-fairy or those primarily based on theory where there was a lot of talking and theorising.

In several European countries, especially in Austria and Switzerland, I met both famous and relatively little-known healers. What counted in the end was not the healer’s degree of fame or number of TV appearances but rather his ability and humanity. The healers who brought me the most were precisely those who were very engaged, lacked vanity and were largely unknown to the general public.

I am often asked how I found my way to spiritual healing. The accident, obviously, its unbearable consequences, the frequently helpless uming and ahing of the doctors, the inability of conventional medicine to help me, and finally the beneficial successes of the spiritual healers – all these experiences contributed to the fact that I found my path to spiritual healing. But that is only one aspect, the consistent and rationally comprehensible decision after all my negative experiences with classical orthodox medicine. The other aspect has to do with a fundamental change in consciousness. Because spiritual healing not only freed me from my physical pain but also opened the door to the world of spiritual energy for me, the door to a completely different dimension. If anyone had asked me before the accident whether I believed in the effect of spiritual healing I would probably have shrugged and replied, “I haven’t really had much to do with it, but I’d imagine it’s nothing more than wishful thinking.” Although I was convinced that a selected few were capable of it I didn’t consider they might include every “Tom, Dick and Harry”!

I had meditated for several months in India under the guidance of a spiritual master. According to his teachings I had taught yoga and meditation myself in Germany. Although that had nothing to do with spiritual healing, at the same time I well remember a small and seemingly insignificant experience. During my stay I once caught a typically Indian infection: high fever, a head cold, diarrhoea, vomiting. Anyone who has been to India knows what I mean. I dragged myself feebly to the clinic in which the teachers doctor also examined the residents of the ashram. She looked at me, immediately understood my predicament and said that she would see what she could do for me. Then she took my left hand in her right and felt my pulse. She stood very still and concentrated on her watch.

I suddenly felt how my whole affliction flowed in like a wave at just the spot where she touched my pulse, only to leave my body afterwards. It was as if there was a leak at that point in my arm out of which the illness could flow. After thirty seconds I was completely healthy – no more fever, the aches in my limbs gone, the sickness blown away, my bowels relaxed and free of their rumbling. I stared at the doctor speechless, at which she just smiled and bade me farewell with a knowing but modest wink.

Was it possible that some healer in Germany might achieve a healing effect like that? Probably not. For that reason I called on the healer my mother had recommended after my accident only against my will. I finally went to him solely because she put so much pressure on me and because my pain was so unbearable and was showing no improvement. And when I felt the first signs of success I grabbed for the last straw, as it were. Just like a drowning person I clutched at the thinnest of threads, a tiny grain of hope. Although I did not really believe in an improvement, to my amazement the straw did not snap. On the contrary, it turned out to be a tree trunk. With the help of this prop I was at last able to drag myself out of the stormy waters of my disintegrating life. That tree trunk literally saved me from destruction. It was not long before it even metamorphosed into a firm and stable raft that gave me, against all expectations, a new and dependable feeling of security. As time passed the raft changed into a massive jetty that allowed me to step onto dry land with complete confidence. Then, when I finally had firm ground under my feet, I realised that the little, thin straw had become my personal earth. Since that time I have felt the revelation of divine grace in every single step I take. When I see what spiritual healing can do I understand that it can only be God’s grace that is at work here.

I became ever stronger and derived joy from my progressive recovery. But in that same year that I began my training as a spiritual healer, Günter died. Deep, indescribable grief. My intensive involvement with spiritual healing helped me to accept the sadness, but Anya and I were granted the most powerful and all-embracing consolation as a result of an occurrence that for us was something of a miracle. To describe this event and its effect on us I have to go back first to the year 1998. At that time Anya was just seven years old and we were visiting a remarkable auction in New York. Some years previously I had attended seminars held by my spiritual teachers here, and it was here that I had experienced something that had expanded my consciousness in the most profound way imaginable.

It was here that the auction now took place, one in which both small and highly valuable donations were being put up. The proceeds were to be handed over to an organisation that preserved Indian culture.

I really didn’t want to be involved in the auction, but my daughter had fallen in love with a statue of the elephant god Ganesha modelled in marzipan and begged me to please, please bid for it. According to the Hindu legend Ganesha - a figure with a human body and the head of an elephant - stands for profound wisdom and vouchsafes people blessings and protection.

“You want me to bid? But we’d never stand a chance,” I said to Anya. “How do you picture it? We really can’t afford it. There are only so many wealthy and famous people here, we can’t dream of getting this Ganesha, not in a million years!”

Anya remained stubborn. “Try it at least.”

“OK,” I agreed in the end. “Just for you. But I’ll say it again: we don’t have the remotest chance.” But Anya wasn’t going to be put off. “Come on, place a bid. Anything. What’s the most you could pay for Ganesha?”

After some serious thought, and in order not to just come up with some fictitious figure, I replied, “The absolute maximum would be 350 dollars.” And stressed once more, “Don’t raise your hopes. I don’t want you to be terribly disappointed afterwards.”

Two days before the auction Anya was so excited she could hardly sleep. This Ganesha had really done something for my seven-year old daughter. She prayed to heaven for a miracle that we might get it after all.

Before the auction started we sat down next to each other in the crowded room. The auctioneer started off. Beautiful necklaces made with Rudraksha beads went under the hammer, a huge number of valuable statues and shockingly expensive Kashmir shawls. Going once, going twice, sold! Then at last came Lot 84, our Ganesha. I held my breath, my daughter stared ahead, clinging tightly to the edge of the chair. The auctioneer paused, eyed his papers, and after glancing at them briefly announced, “Item number 84 is deleted, next item…” Lot 84 had been withdrawn from the auction! Then he passed on to the remaining items.

Anya sat there as if paralysed, grasping my hand and turning to me with wide open eyes. I myself was overcome with foreboding and had goose bumps, but pulled myself together and said, “Go to the manager quickly, Anya, and ask what’s happened.”

She bravely ran to the front and spoke to the woman running the auction.

“It melted,” my daughter called out breathlessly to me. The woman had told her that Ganesha had been kept in a glass container and the heat of the jar had melted the marzipan elephant, making it impossible to auction it.

“Look,” I said, “let’s buy it even if it has melted! Never mind what it looks like – we’ll take it.”

Anya ran forward once more and told the woman that we still wanted to buy the melted Ganesha.

“OK, if that’s what you want,” the woman said. “Then have a look at it first.”

We were taken into a kitchen where there was a large refrigerator. The woman opened it for us and asked my daughter to approach it. Anya bent anxiously down to take a look and was shocked at the sad sight: every part of the Ganesha was dripping, the trunk, the head, the ears – even the marzipan umbrella over it had melted all over the poor elephant. It wasn’t the heat of the container that had caused this mishap but rather the dampness and cold of the fridge that had dissolved the marzipan.

“We’ll take it as it is,” I said firmly, because I was sure that I could lick Ganesha back into shape by drying it thoroughly with a hair-dryer.