I wonder what the fox said - Journaling December 20th, 2024

I wonder what the foxes were telling me?

It’s quite a good way to work through things, writing them twice: first in my own language, then reviewing them in translation. I might even share the first version with a Danish audience in the long run. Why not? It is there.

It takes a long time to write. And to share. And it feels empty. Rarely does anything vibrate back from it. It’s like sending something into the void, vulnerable and raw, energy flowing away, with no real resonance, except that I know I must do it.
So, I do. Now. I carry on.

Sometimes, of course, it explodes the other way. A single person writes me an email, sharing how huge the impact my blog has had on his or (usually) her life, how it was amazing, changed everything, made her feel normal and on track or put her on track, how thankful she is and please don't stop.

This kind of feedback helps a lot.

The blog is taking a new, more organized shape: a blend of spiritual journaling, a lifestyle element of unschooling and radical parenting, and nomadic stories from our travels, which might even get supplemented with a whole foodie section. That’s mostly what I share. It seems I could get more organized, allowing for the blog to be sectioned and for me to take ownership: Deciding what element I am writing about.

From here on, it is mostly about returning to the habit of writing and sharing regularly. I have been working on a book this year, taking up most of my writing space, but somehow I need to balance both.

When the children were small, with a baby Fjord and a teenage daughter Liv and the two others in between, dealing with their trauma from cancer, I could write 300 posts for the first Danish blog. I wonder what it will take for me to keep going now.

I’m trying with all my heart, just like with the fitness program and all the other things. Well, perhaps all of this is just fluff that doesn’t belong on the blog, is just for me, just me, just vulnerable me on my bed in my van all alone with my blood sugar ridiculously low because I don’t feel like eating, and my heart so full it might burst because all the kids are here, hanging out, and also because I’m shattered by all the changes and scared of the future in a way, that ignites uncertainty and feels impossible.

I’m walking on a mountain rig and wobblingly balancing on a rooftop. On one side, you could slip into fear and worry, doubt, and confusion; on the other, there’s a kind of mad joy where nothing makes sense. Right there, at the top, where the plug’s been installed correctly, and there’s an open line to The Big Connection in an effortless and present way, right there where the senses dance, the face relaxes, the heart beats gently, and you feel your cheeks, I take ONE single step at a time, and I don’t need anything more.

The abyss is deep on both sides.

I could have stayed metaphorically down on a street level, chosen the safe, stable, easy path with a thousand mirrors in all the other people, and just followed along. Then there’d be no sharp edge to balance on, no pointy rooftop like Gaudí’s house in that little fjord town between Sitges and Barcelona, infinitely beautiful, sharp and high, with a view over the Mediterranean’s incredible beauty, and its epic energy, and the mountains’ endless calming vibe behind, supporting like a warm hand in the back between the shoulder blades.

When I was fifteen, my spiritual visions started appearing regularly, and one of the first was a volcano. Being on the edge of a volcano. Having climbed up, long and rough, and now standing up there in the heat and light, with the risk of falling and burning up on one side, or slipping down the outer side and having to start all over again after a long and painful fall down the rough edge.

Right there, in the tension between failing or dissolving, was Reality with a capital R.

If I work too forcefully into it and try too hard, it becomes too strange. Many of the spiritual leaders and masters I’ve met have advanced practices, fine meditations, and special mantras or rituals that keep them on track, clear, and spiritually connected. For me, the way is different. It’s only about the present. It’s only about aligning the head, heart, and body so that the soul can have enough space, and then everything makes sense, and you can find balance.

Sometimes, it only makes sense in the same way a Van Gogh makes sense—precise and imprecise, impossible to put into words, yet clear. Sometimes, it’s more of a state than an insight. Sometimes, I just have to wait for the answers for clarity.

Sometimes unclear is clarity, just the vibe, the feel, the wonder.

Always. Every single time, it’s vulnerable.

It’s so much easier to give up.

Right until it’s not.

Yesterday, I drove out of London, down to East Sussex, in the middle of the night with four happy young people in the car. Two had been to an epic Paul McCartney concert, and two had been to the theatre to see The Lion King. In the front of the car sat two people with greying hair and half a century behind us, smiling with overflowing hearts, wounded and vulnerable, happy and alive.

The rooftop was very sharp right there. The volcano was erupting. All I could do was to breathe.

Then something happened.

It was a fox.

Light, graceful. Slowly and quietly, it danced across the street. With its calm. With its bushy tail. And I knew it was a spirit animal; I knew the fox was speaking to me.

Or rather, I knew the Universe was speaking to me through this silent, floating, miracle-fox, gliding, blowing, floating across my view through the windscreen in the middle of the night.

I normally talk to birds and usually understand them quite clearly. I’m not crazy; I don’t hear voices from birds in my head, but when there are birds in my world, around me, there’s usually something spiritual going on and some sort of spiritual message coming with them, which I understand intuitively. I stop, feel it, thank them, think about it, know what it means, and then I move on.

Yesterday, it was the fox, and it was clear to me it had something to say. I just didn’t understand it. I don’t know what the fox’s message was.

And then another one came. Ten kilometers later. Mysterious. It’s rare to see a fox, even in London. By now, we were almost out of the city, and we’d seen two. Beautiful. Silent.

What does the fox have in its heart? What message is carried by this spirit presenting itself to me on this night?

The story could get long if I don’t just cut it short. So i will:

It happened an overwhelming FIVE times in total.

Five foxes, by the way, all in the same direction, the reading direction, in my field of vision on a one-hour drive.

Five times this angelic energy and a clear spiritual experience of the fox speaking to me. Yet I don’t know what it said.

One badger and some fallow deer, a fine stag with a big antler, underscored the image of silence and spiritual presence.

Right now, writing this, a bird was on a fence outside the van window. It said: “Stay in the light”. Easy.

The foxes are still a mystery, although I meditated on understanding their message before I slept and again when I woke at night, with the moon shining through my rooftop window.

I accept it. Mysteries are allowed to be mysterious.

There are many moving parts right now, and the foxes’ overwhelming clarity yesterday quietly calls to me, clearly stating something is at stake and spiritual balance is necessary.

The only thing I understand is that the fox is an angel.

I don’t know what it’s saying, only that it is speaking.

So, I must get better at listening.

Do I need to learn a new language, or do I need just to be patient yet alert?

Ten points for those who have read this far. Two extra for a comment. It means a lot. And Merry Christmas. 
Cecilia

FOTO: Cecilia Conrad 11.12.24, Chapel in Tower of London, London (obviously)
TEXT: Cecilia Conrad 20.12.24, Withyham, East Sussex