Here’s a witchy post from me for this Solstice portal…

So, over the past few years I’ve come to understand that a great deal of the energy that moves through me doesn’t actually belong to me at all; and that instead, I’m simply tuned into the field (as are we all, of course, it’s just a matter of how conscious/willing/open we are to it).

But, dead people?? This is a very recent new one for me.

The possibility I might just be tapping into those who are no longer living on this plane came grabbing my attention on my recent trip to my UK homeland.

Here, then, and on one of my first days back in London, I hop into a cab to go to the hairdressers – except, all I keep seeing and feeling is the train station. The vision is so clear I would have mentioned it straight away as an opener in conversation (I’ve always loved the banters I share with London cabbies), if I hadn’t already been totally floored as soon as I stepped inside – by this incredibly weird emotional attachment that’s is now engulfing and possessing me completely – for the driver himself: this man in maybe his mid-to-late sixties, whom I oddly feel I know from the inside out.

I can feel this excited, teary, protective energy surge up out of nowhere.

My instinct is to tell him to pull right over so I can sit right next to him (something I also recognize is coming from a place that is not entirely myself, and so I manage to pull myself together instead. I’ve learned these days to not completely lose myself in these kind of processes …and you can’t ride shotgun in black cabs, anyway. To be fair I prob would have totally issued the command if it had been an Uber):)

Anyway. Instead, I make do with perching and leaning forward so far on the edge of the seat in the back that I’m all but pressed up against the glass partition window… so electrifyingly planted in the present moment, that it feels like I can even sense my atoms vibrating.

Eventually, I tell him I seemed to have kept wanting to tell him to take me to the station. I say it’s probably because I’m heading there tomorrow, to go visit Wales, and my (very magical) mother, (who, since 2020, has been having the kind of nightly 3d visual experiences in her bungalow that people usually pay for when they drink ayahuasca).

‘Oh yes?’ says the driver (who by now has morphed fully and inexplicably into a human being I appear to love very deeply indeed). ‘And where are you heading?’

So I tell him. ‘South Wales. Port Talbot’.

And then something shifts immediately in his energy.

‘My own mother was from Port Talbot’, he exclaims.

‘Wow!’ I say, as it all starts to land. ‘Well, what a coincidence!’

And so we spend the rest of the journey in this beautiful space of reminiscence. Stories and memories pour out from his lips, including the fact that they had left to come to London when he was still a young child, and the only memory he has of the place is – yep, you’ve guessed it – the train station. Meanwhile, I continue to hover, holding on to the partition glass; joyful and entranced – and also fidgeting and nodding… basically, high as a kite.

I feel slightly unhinged.

‘Lively, wasn’t she?!’ I mutter at one point, to which he responded by giving a roar of laughter.

‘You know’, he tells me. ‘I used to call her my little meth goblin’.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Well, she was just so tiny… and just so full of energy and this huge sense of adventure, I used to say she reminded me of methylated spirits’, he chortles back. And then, as we start approaching Eccleston Yards, he is quiet for a moment or two, and he looks at me intently through the rear-view mirror.

‘It’s been a real pleasure to meet you today; it’s taken me on such a trip down memory lane’, he tells me as he starts pulling up. ‘And it’s such a coincidence it was today, of all days.’

It’s the turn for the part of me – that is still connected to my centre, operating as Karen, and not completely high like methylated spirits – to look at the driver, and this time quizzically.

‘25th November’, he proclaims, as he points at the date on his phone. ‘Today, it would have been her birthday’.

Well, I think to myself, well, whaddya know about that?

I press my visa card onto the reader in the car, and give him one last look of heartfelt fondness. ‘I feel she was very, very proud of you’, I tell him, as I open the door and wave him goodbye.

Within moments of stepping down onto the pavement, the energy start to take leave of my system.