On the first day of the Irish spring, Brigit's Day, Imbolc, february 1st, everything changed. The next weekend I attended a four day sound therapy workshop. The evening before the workshop began I arrived at the hotel in Dublin,got my things settled in my room and went to meet the instructors who were setting up the instruments in workshop room. I had fallen the previous weekend at a ceremony for the Mother Source of the Shannon River and now I limped with the aid of a crutch. I made my entrance into the room with a halting gait and an embarrassed smile. Two people were there. A tall, thin, white man with a curly head of hair and an large black woman. When I entered and introduced myself, the woman began to laugh, a welcoming, warm laugh,the kind you'd greet a long absent friend with. The man's name was Tony and he was the director of the institute. The woman's name was Cathy but her spirit name was Mamma Shake and this was the name Tony introduced her as. She one the facilitator and held the space while Tony did the majority of the teaching. I explained how I came by the injury. Mamma Shake asked if she could come to room later and give the troubled knee a massage. Of course I agreed. Two hours laters she knocked on my door. Again she laughed the laughter of an old friend while she pointed out that the books that I had brought along with me were the very books that she was told she didn't have to bring from her library for they would already be here. She massaged my right knee with Moon Oil that she purchased in Glastonbury. As she rubbed my leg her face and breathing change and she began to channel. A very deep voice erupted from her, two octaves lower than her own voice. The voice said that I had much grief but that my time had come. He said throat was blocked but soon it would be unblocked. That much work would be done with me. Afterwards Cathy said very quickly that we should go to the workshop room that she had permission to be there and that I should be taken to the gongs right away. This weekend's work consisted of an introduction the metal singing bowls and to the gong. Neither of these instruments were familiar to me. She spoke so lovingly of the gongs, like it was a living thing, a breathing organism, a lover and sacred friend. So I followed Cathy down to the darkened room. We found the lights and she rearranged a most beautiful gong away from the wall and placed a chair with its back towards the instrument. she told me to sit in it. After a moment of silence she played the gong. I have never felt such a thing before. A tidal wave of sound, blossoming, threatening, releasing all over me. It sent me deep into my heart through the abyss, further away than I had before or remembered being where then I found myself at the cross roads. I had been here before, last year in fact. And two years previous. The mad thing about these roads is that it has such a familiarity to it that am I incredibly happy and pleased to be there. I realise that I am in another time. The more that I am able to find myself there, the less jarring it is to my consciousness and the longer I can stay present. To my right hand side I saw myself. Another me. And as the gong shimmered through every fiber of my plasma I saw myself reach out to me. We linked, hand to elbow and with a twirl we swung ourselves around. The gong faded, the way a summer sunset fades, with the light lingering in places, gold dust thickening, dramatic shadows falling. Everything changed. Everything Changed.