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  • Writer's picturematilde tomat

the brave from the meadow

I have always been intrigued by the process of manifestation, how this is supported by certain philosophies and religions, backed by sciences and linked to part of my psychotherapeutic work. For the ones who know me and read my books, you know. For the other ones, I am not going to tell you the whole story and reason behind it, but know that I have been consciously, meticulously and academically studying all of the above, in one way or another, since 1989. There is not much that I haven't read, studied, and tested. Along my journey, I have picked up, left, tried, discarded, gone back... the usual. Most of the time when the inner pain is so difficult to manage, we forget. We forget what works and what doesn't. So, we go through a never-ending loop until something takes us back on track.

Lately, I have been revisiting the Celestine Prophecy which has been vital on my journey and I added the little book of Neville. I often had this vision of me travelling around the world, writing, being a journalist, on the move. As Elizabeth Gilbert, I have been collecting maps and travel magazines and there is a section in my living room just of books about travelling, moving, adventures... I can always see myself hopping on planes, and boats; eating exotic food, visiting museums in faraway countries, and being a globetrotter. I used to be one before everything fell apart. Coming from a tiny town in the middle of the Italian Alps, by the age of 14 I visited countries on other continents, I tasted incredible food sitting on a tarmac in the middle of nowhere, dancing to a drum that wasn't mine by birth. And then everything stopped. So, now, when I go to bed, I still dream of this girl-now-woman, who conquers her fears and lies alone on a beach somewhere in the Pacific, typing away at her heart's content.

This past week felt different. There have been incredible planetary shifts, a very powerful Full Moon followed by this beautiful New Moon and I even burned some little notes I scribbled and left on my altar which I totally forgot about. Anyway, this Tuesday just gone I go to bed and decide to experience the full Neville visualisation programme: I put a long video in the background of gentle waves crashing on a white sandy beach, I close my eyes and I see myself lying on a beach lounger, under some palm trees, just outside my 5-star adults-only hotel room, everything paid for by my publisher. And I am writing. Oh boy, I am writing!

Wednesday night, I do the same. I can see myself opening the door to my bedroom, and feeling ecstatic, happy, proud of myself. I am smiling. I am elated. I know that from here I will move somewhere else and then somewhere else. I am travelling and I write.

And then on Thursday afternoon, in tears and exhausted there I am walking along the canal, in the greyness of the weather under a fake sun. I walk to a bench, I sit there. And I receive an email: could I please go the following Friday to deliver a lecture at my old college, inspiring new students? And, by the way, we are giving you a room to sleep in and we are paying your travelling expenses...

You cannot imagine the excitement, gratitude, and convincement in synchronicities I felt... I am going to drive for about 5 hours, to my old college - which saw the beginning of the end so many years ago - sleep in a new place, being paid to deliver a lecture inspiring a new generation. And I am now writing about it...

This morning, when I woke up, I remember something else, something I totally forgot: in 1981 - I think - I was 13 - 14 and I remember my father lending me his tape recorder. It was an old Philips, with tiny holes, I remember, and a fake leather case with a strap and a microphone. I took that thing with me everywhere and I interviewed people. I interview actors when a theatre company showed up, I interview singers when they came to play some music over the summer; I interview politicians (!) when they came to inaugurate the opening of new buildings... I interviewed anyone AND... I remember creating a sort of a zine - and believe me no such a word existed at the time! - and left it at the local COOP. I recognise now that I was "another person" living in the body of a 13 - 14-year-old girl who lived up in the mountains in the early 80's. And I gave a name to that identity: her name was Andrea Angermann.

It sounded international, it sounded exotic, it sounded different, it sounded a crossover of male and female so that I could be taken more seriously [the awareness I had at that time...] and only now, with the insight of psychotherapy and Jungian approaches, I am focusing on the choice of the surname: Angermann... Anger?! Where did I learn that word? English is not my first language! But then, of course, Anger in old Germanic [closer to my origins] means actually "meadow": one of the most beautiful places to dwell, full of daisies and buttercups, field poppies and trefoils, and with that sweet smell when you lie there in the sun! So, I was Andrea Angermann, or "The Brave from the Meadow".

What courage and cheekiness must have I displayed at that age! But, especially, what insight - again: AT THAT AGE - in choosing such a name, following simply my instinct?

What does this mean? Well, nothing and everything. Openness to further hints, suggestions, and conversations is part of the plan. Adding some fine-tuning to my instincts.

While I am packing my bag.

onwards + upwards,

andrea x

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