I Am Experiencing a Ho’oponopono Miracle
Hoʻoponopono uses four simple phrases:
I'm sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you.
Title: I am experiencing a Ho’oponopono Miracle
Object: Bottle
12 associations
- The Russel
- Pauline
- Bottom of the stairs
- Ambulance
- I’ve had enough
- Moss Side Youth Club
- Ivan in the doorway on Oldham St
- Torrential rain
- Ivan in the doorway the day before he dies
- My black coat
- My dad loves me
- I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you.
Last week I stand in front of my bathroom mirror late at night, after midnight, and say to Pauline and Ivan, ‘I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you.’ I repeat it. It becomes a mantra. I kinda go into a trance. Incidents flood my mind. It isn’t an innocent occurrence. I have funny feelings in my teeth again. Like pain threatening. It’s been happening since 1976 when Pauline hits me in the back of the head with a beer bottle and I fall down the Russel stairs. I land on my front teeth. My knee so dislocated, an ambulance backs up to the concrete stairs to take me to hospital.
Covered in blood, on our sofa, my brother staring at me with love and kindness and fear and what the fuck is happening, I promise myself it is over. It is over. I’ve had enough. I do cold turkey. My dad gets back to loving me. I have forgotten that he forgives me. Until I remember this, I have been believing he never loved me again until the day he died.
I do cold turkey; it takes about 6 weeks. Then I find my first job. It is on Oldham Rd. My dad passes every night on the 76-bus on his way from work around 4pm on his way home from Thorpe Rd. I wave at him. He smiles at me. Every night. On this one day, Ivan must have been missing me. He is standing in a doorway further up the street in his bobby hat. My dad must see him too. When I get home my dad is furious. He won’t talk to me. He won’t listen. I am wearing the black coat I have bought with the money he has lent me. He has just let me off with the last week’s repayment, to prove that he trusts me again — that he loves me — the final payment is the evidence. And now here I am betraying him. I keep repeating, ‘I did speak to him, to tell him it is over.’ My dad won’t speak to me. Furious, I leave my wet coat on, go back out into the torrential rain. It rains. It rains. It rains. Biblical.
Ivan has to be at Pauline’s. So, I go. Drenched through to my knickers. She opens the door. She lets me in. There is no conversation. I stay. Ivan in the middle. Me and Pauline on each side. I leave the next morning. I go back to the hostel. Because of my age, my mum is awarded my compensation for Pauline cracking my front teeth. £1900. I use it to furnish my council flat exactly the same as Pauline’s.
As I repeat, I’m sorry. I remember this isn’t the only bedroom of Ivan and Pauline’s I have been in. It probably isn’t an innocent look across a pool table. I first see him dance in Moss Side Youth Club. The crowd part to watch him. In his bobby hat. I date his best friend. His best friend takes me to Ivan and Pauline’s bedsit. I sit on the foot of a bed that he is sat on sorting out records, his favourite thing. I already know him. The glance across the pool table is the next step.
‘Pauline, I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you.’ I love you feels weird. But it’s not weird. Me and her know. When he is dead it is her, I want to tell. Her I want to spend time with. He knows he is gonna die that day. Not with the front of his mind. With his subconscious. With his intuition. The universe has changed him: prepared him already. Prison has changed him. He is still wearing his bobby hat. That hasn’t changed. He is kinder. And gentler. He is always kind and gentle. Ivan in the doorway the day he leaves prison. The morning of the day he dies. Before the blue light of his ambulance will back up to the bottom of the concrete stairs. His shape is defined. I can see it is him clearly. I open the door willingly. My belly is big in my orange t-shirt nightie. I already have the 2 front crowns. Over 40 years the left one becomes infected. Over 10 years it infects the rest of my mouth. 2016, overnight all my gums recede. Punishment. The scar. The evidence.
Scared that I am getting toothache again — afraid to lose another tooth — afraid to look like a skull to myself — I put my hands over my dis-eased mouth (it has to be last Sunday) Pauline, Ivan, please forgive me; I’m sorry; thank you; I love you.’ Over and over. Different reasons flood the mirror like a screen before my eyes.
When I wake, between my bottom lip and my gum-line is loose flesh. I nearly die of fright. I pull it away, and baby pink flesh is there. All week at a phenomenal rate, gaps have been closing in my gums. More peace is in my heart.
I recommend you read Zero Limits by Dr Joe Vitale and Ken Len if you want to practise Ho’oponopono.
I write my newsletters by 8-station mind-mapping what is prevalent in my conscious mind. This takes me to my subconscious. My subconscious gives me my title. My title gives me the tangible object. I list 12 personal associations with that object. They are the stepping stones across my narrative. I have 20 mins to write. I must use my title, my object, and all 12 associations. I always discover things that are healing for me.
How lucky am I! Top terrace is gonna look fantastic as it grows in and does its thing. Looking for smelly white daisy-like flowers now. Different heights. To give it some drama.