Sticks and Stones…
Articles Inspirational articles from Hay House authors
Sticks and Stones…Choosing words that heal you.
“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.” It’s a familiar childhood taunt that we once thought was true. But as we learned from Dr. Masaru Emoto’s work, words have an energy frequency that affects the molecular structure of water. Because the body is 75 to 90 percent water, we are affected by words. Not only can words hurt us emotionally, but the ones that we choose to use represent the flow of our subconscious mind.
One of my patients, Jennifer, was 13 in 1967 and excited about being invited to her first “teenage” party. When she told her friend about the invitation, her companion responded, “No boy will ever want to dance with you.” At the time of those remarks, Jennifer and her friend were eating tuna salad. When Jennifer began dressing for the party hours after the conversation, her nose and lips started to swell. Her parents took Jennifer to the emergency clinic, and the doctor declared that she was allergic to fish. From that point forward—over the next 35 years—Jennifer never ate fish, and if she was around while it was being cooked, she had an allergic reaction.
Using the words and intention of Infinite Love & Gratitude, I harmonized the internalized thoughts, feelings, and beliefs associated with Jennifer’s memory. She no longer has any allergic reaction to fish and enjoys eating it on a regular basis.
Words can have a profound, life-altering positive impact—or they can create intensely negative, devastating effects. Think about the words used when you have a disagreement with your spouse or significant other, or when you receive criticism from your parents or praise from your boss. How do words affect you when your siblings, friends, or co-workers tease you? If you don’t respond to them right away, what energy frequencies are rumbling around your body as a result?
Some words that you use every day have a similar impact. Close your eyes and say the words: my, try, can’t. What feelings do they evoke in you?
Let’s start with the word my. It means “belonging to or done by me.” So what happens when you use my to describe a symptom or disease? “My migraine headache is killing me.” My allergies are making me sneeze like crazy.” “My arthritis won’t let me stand up for long periods.” “My diabetes is acting up.”
When you use the word my when speaking of a symptom or a disease, you create an identity as if the condition defines you. That’s dangerous! Adding the word my means that the symptom belongs to you. The truth is that the ache or other dysfunction is a sign that there’s an imbalance in your system, and your body is attempting to get your attention. When you qualify the headache by calling it “my headache,” it sends a negative message to your body, and the cycle of breakdown continues. In addition, when you participate in verbal patterns of communication that are pessimistic or limiting in any way, the body has to take on another opponent—you. It’s hard to defend against yourself. It’s like shadowboxing: The opponent ducks every time you do.
This is what I recommend: When you talk about a symptom, make it the pain instead of my pain—the pain in my head, the pain in my stomach, or the pain in my back. At the same time, you should own your body parts—that is—my head, my stomach, or my back. But don’t say my arthritis, my multiple sclerosis, or my Parkinson’s disease. When you do, you’re just solidifying dysfunction as being a part of you.
During a recent service, our rabbi gave a wonderful sermon. He talked about a little boy who showed his teacher a picture of the earth. As an experiment, the teacher tore it into little pieces and instructed the boy to put them back together again. In a short amount of time, the child came back with the picture taped together.
“How did you do it so fast?” the teacher asked.
“On the other side of the earth was the picture of one person,” the child responded. “Putting that one person back together helped me put the earth back together.”
In order to heal the earth you must first put yourself back together—you must heal your own life. The words my, can’t and try are representative of the state of imbalance and dis-ease in your subconscious mind. My, can’t, and try are symptoms of the subconscious mind’s perpetration of harm against the body. Own your power by doing your best: Unconditionally respect, honor, and love yourself by choosing to take responsibility for the words you use. The impact of your choice will send a ripple outward to heal the earth, one person at a time.|23|positive thinking,healing,dr. masaru emoto,darren r. weissman|_none|1|dr_darren_r_weissman| When Hope Walks a Tightrope|How to prevent the collapse of today’s families.|11/15/2009 17:00||0||
“You can’t lead the people if you don’t love the people. You can’t save the people if you don’t serve the people.”
We are now in one of the most truly prophetic moments in the history of America. We have witnessed the breakdown of the social systems that nurture our children. Our rootless children—the one-out-of-five children in America who live in poverty. We are talking about the state of young souls: culturally naked, with no safe moorings, these children have no cultural armor to protect them while navigating the terrors and traumas of daily life. Culture, in part, provides people with the tools and resources to steel themselves against adversity.
Family is a major vehicle through which history and memory can be preserved in the face of a culture that defaces history and erases memory. Real family signifies a high level of compassion and intimacy between people. A compassionate family affirms the best of who you are even in the worst of circumstances. Even when you go to jail, your mama, sister, brother, or loved one will still believe in you because they know you can be better than whatever crime you committed. They don’t give up on you and keep giving you another chance.
Intimacy and compassion are important too because they allow people to open themselves, take risks in relationships, and thereby allow the worst and the best to be seen. It’s knowing that when people see the worst, they’ll still be accepting. When people see the best, they’ll still be embracing.
Part of our problem these days is not just the indifference that displaces compassion but the cold manipulation that’s displacing intimacy. The relative collapse of families in America, especially in black America, means that the very act of intimacy is being destroyed. Young people need a community to sustain them.
When I was growing up, we were targeted for love and people cared for us. They were concerned about us. Folk in the church would give you generous portions of wisdom, most often unsolicited. Folk in the Little League or in the beauty salon just kept dropping all these different pearls that you didn’t even realize were wisdom until you strung them together in a moment of crisis.
Young brothers and sisters today have no sense of the signs, signals, clues and cues needed to negotiate and navigate the treacherous terrain of American society.
It’s not just how you dress. It’s in language, nuance, tone, judgment, and timing, all those things you learn in your family. You don’t learn them in a book. You have to learn them by spending time around other folk who’ve had to negotiate and navigate on that same terrain for a long time. That’s partly what I mean by the young folk not being loved right and not getting enough care and attention.
Historically for so many, but especially for black people, the church has been an extended family. The church gave you a sense of history, memory, and the need for struggle. The church at its best was the upholder of truth, love, and justice.
We live in a society that suffers from historical amnesia. We find it very difficult to preserve the memory of those who have resisted and struggled for the ideals of freedom, democracy and equality.
That’s why young people need to read their history closely. To prepare themselves spiritually for struggle. To be self-critical and open to counsel from elders who have been engaged in purposeful struggle their entire lives.
Young people need hope. They need to hold on to the notion that the future can be different—if they sacrifice, if they fight, if they struggle.
I try to uplift young people by introducing them to historic individuals who have displayed courage in its highest form—people like Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, Michael Harrington, Ida B. Wells-Barnett, and other freedom fighters. Then I ask them how many of their parents and brothers and sisters in some way extend this kind of tradition. I ask them: What’s going to happen to this tradition? Are you going to be part of this tradition? How can we keep it vital, vibrant, and alive?|1|hope,justice,parenting,family,cornel west|_none|1|cornel_west| What Do Spirits Know about Veggies?|An unsavory warning from the dead.|11/16/2009 17:00|public://imports/954.jpg|0|public://imports/954.jpg|
I was three years old when I saw dead people for the very first time.
We were living in a flat in Birmingham, in Central England, our family’s first real home, and I soon discovered that we weren’t alone. Strange faces, balloonlike and oddly translucent, came floating in and out of the walls of my room, and because they were slightly blown up, as if filled with air, they seemed a little clownish. But there was nothing funny about them.
I went to tell my parents. “There are people in the walls of my room,” I said.
“I don’t know. All sorts of people.”
Mom took me by the hand and walked me back. “Where?” she said.
“Well, they’re gone now, but there were here a minute ago.”
“You’re making this up.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Who are they, then?”
“I don’t know. Just people, some of them look like clowns.”
“Clowns? It’s just your imagination! Go to bed.”
The next night, the faces were back. I went into the lounge and refused to return to my room. My parents were just about to go to bed, and unhappy at the prospect of another sleepless night, my father gave me an angry look and marched off. “If you want to stay on the sofa all night, that’s fine, but I’m going to sleep.”
I stared at him, even as he switched off the lights and left me in the dark, but feeling guilty, he returned a few minutes later and found me sitting there, still staring. I hadn’t moved.
Exasperated, my parents finally moved me into the spare bedroom, but the faces were back that very night. Bony old men. Angelic boys. Old ladies. Thin girls with pinched cheeks. I went to get my mother to show her, but by the time we returned, they had disappeared.
“There is nothing there,” she said. “It’s just your imagination. Go to sleep.” After tucking me in, she curled up in bed with me and stayed until I fell asleep.
In 1976, two years after we moved into our own home, my brother Christian came along. I still remember watching my mother carry this bundled little creature into the house for the first time. I hoped his constant screaming would scare off the spirits, but they didn’t seem to be troubled by the crying; in fact, they weren’t even vaguely interested in him.
Eventually, tiring of hearing me complain about the visitors, my parents had me switch rooms with Christian, and my mother’s mother, Frances Glazebrook, paid to have the room redone. She and my parents chose Holly Hobbie wallpaper. Holly Hobbie was a little girl in a blue chintz bonnet, and she was supposed to personify childhood innocence. She was cute but she had these eyes that freaked me out at night. Now I had to deal with the spirits and with Holly Hobbie, staring at me.
Soon I’d gotten used to the visitors, but I still huddled under the covers from time to time, trying to ignore them. One evening, just as Mom called me to dinner, a distinguished-looking gentleman, nicely dressed in a brown jacket and matching trousers, appeared in the hallway and followed me to the dining room. It was a whole gentleman, not just a face or an arm.
“Don’t eat your peas,” he said.
“Huh?” I said.
“Don’t eat your peas or you’ll die.”
My dad looked at me, perplexed. “Are you talking to one of your imaginary friends?” he asked.
“He’s not imaginary,” I said, pointing in his direction. “Can’t you see him?”
He looked toward the spot I’d indicated, but saw nothing. “Who?”
“There! He’s standing right there!”
“Don’t eat your peas,” the man repeated.
“Okay,” I answered.
“I don’t see anyone.” Dad said.
“He’s telling me not to eat my peas or I’ll die.”
My parents thought I was making it up because I didn’t like peas, which I didn’t, but the man was standing there, clear as day. “Okay,” Mom said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t eat your peas.”
I recently found out that my dad’s great uncle always had pie, chips, and peas for lunch, and one day—a few years before I was born—he choked on a pea and died. To this day I have a terrible phobia of peas.
My favorite food at the time—the only food I cared for, really—was a cheese sandwich. Not even grilled, mind you; just two slices of bread with cheese and salad cream, which is like mayonnaise with horseradish.
One night, there was a tomato on my plate and the man was back. “Don’t eat the tomato, either. You could choke.”
“Okay,” I said.
“What?” Mom said.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” I said.
“There’s nobody there,” she said.
“He’s right there, Mom. He told me not to eat the tomato.”
“No, he’s not. It’s just a ploy to avoid eating your vegetables!