Tag: Family

Finding – And Sharing – My Sixth Sense

Intuition: When you don’t know how you know… but you know you know… and you know you knew, and that’s all you needed to know.

Spoiler Alert: This is one heck of a crazy story that not everyone is going to believe, which is totally okay because sometimes I don’t believe it either.

For as long as I can remember, I have felt a presence in my life — some form of intuition. Nothing huge, just a moment where I would know the phone was about to ring, or I would anticipate running into someone I knew right before our paths would cross. During that period, raising my young family was all I had time to think about. Then, life got quiet. And when it did, I decided the time had come to explore a side of myself that had always intrigued me.

In September of 2018, I began actively looking for something to fill my palpable void. Cut to a class popping up in my search that seemed like a perfect match. A beginner’s workshop on clairvoyance and intuition. A somewhat scary endeavor, but I went with my gut and signed up.

Three years later, it would be impossible to sum up the spiritual twists and turns that have changed the course of my life. Many have dropped my jaw to the floor. As I learned early on, intuition can teach a person to expect the unexpected. Add to that the warning given by my teacher: If you choose to open this side of yourself, be prepared that your abilities will grow stronger — and you will never be able to go back.

I remained undaunted thanks to the incredible women in my class. They would become my soul sisters as we bonded and supported each other through a journey that often seemed unbelievable. Our gatherings became immeasurable spiritual therapy as we delved into our different abilities and used them to learn and grow with each other.

For me, things took a noticeable turn in March of 2020 when the coronavirus sent us into lockdown. With normal life at a standstill, I began to notice a cosmic silence that somehow created an opening for a loud and clear level of chatter. I had always thought that my own voice had been guiding me, but in a quieter setting, I could distinctly hear voices that were no longer my own.

My intuition level had reached an all-time high, still nothing surprised me more than when I started to hear messages in the middle of the night. I lost a lot of sleep during that time, including the night I had a “visit” from one of my father’s best friends who was in the end stage of his life. Their friendship had become strained in later years, so he wanted both of my parents to know that he loved them and that he was sorry. I grabbed a pen and paper and wrote down every word, not even remembering what he had said until the next day when I read the message to my mother. His words were so beautiful that I couldn’t help but cry, all the while wondering if I had made the whole thing up.

The 3 a.m. wake-up calls became so frequent that I kept a journal next to my bed in order to write things down before they vanished by morning. While pandemic-related fear crept into all of our lives, I began investing in the late-night distractions that came in the form of hopeful fortune-telling or cryptic riddles. These were the learning stages, when I would feel like a crazy person, until more tangible events started to take place. One of the most memorable was when I had the ability to pass along a message to a friend that it was time to say a final goodbye to his father. This important heads-up helped bring closure to a complicated relationship before it officially ended just a few days later. After that, my gift began to feel purposeful at a time when many of us felt like we had no purpose at all.

Intuition can also bring something special into your life when you least expect it.

Even though good things seemed to be emerging from my self-diagnosed “crazy,” my doubts often trumped my abilities, as I constantly questioned the reality of what was happening to me. As the experiences continued, I began to notice an additional spark of personality in the messages I was hearing. The prankster brother-in-law boasting about his trickery in causing a cell phone alarm to go off. The golfing buddy cheering on his friend for hitting the ball a little straighter (for the record, I know very little about golf). And my favorite being the wise aunt who convinced her nephew to give up a longtime grudge because the source of his anger was no longer alive.

Moving forward, I still had a great sense of caution when it came to sharing what I was hearing. First, I didn’t want to be carted away to the looney bin, but more importantly, I never wanted to hurt someone I cared about. When I got a message for a good friend who lost her son, I wanted her to feel like she could trust that I was saying his words and not my own. If I’m with a friend who I know will cry if I share that we are not alone, I hesitate until I know they will gain comfort from what I have to tell them. And, for the people who need closure, I am very careful to repeat the exact words that their loved one wants them to hear. The results are truly indescribable and often blow me away just as much as the person I am sharing my gift with.

In my 30s, I felt a strong sense that I had been put on this Earth to help people. Two decades later, I am starting to believe that I am also being guided toward the people who need me. A few weeks ago, I began running into a neighbor who had recently lost her husband. We had only crossed paths a handful of times prior, but suddenly she and I were constantly outside at the same time. As we began to talk about our shared spirituality, I realized that her husband wanted us to be friends. He had been trying so hard to get messages to her, and he knew I could be the person to validate them. And as I did, he provided me with an invaluable lesson to trust what I’m hearing, even when I continue to be so afraid to be wrong.

Intuition can also bring something special into your life when you least expect it. Just as my beloved Maltese started to experience a difficult decline in his health, one of my closest friends took on the challenging role as president of his local animal shelter. He became so devoted to walking dogs and running board meetings that I figured the least I could do was follow the shelter on Instagram. Early on, I had a feeling that I would eventually adopt one of their dogs, but Nicky’s difficult passing left me feeling reluctant to consider repeating such a heartbreaking experience. Four years went by, and even though my daughter had a dream about a black-and-white dog joining our family, no dog tempted me until I saw Piper — the pitbull mix with the irresistible cuteness who had charmed almost everyone working at the shelter, including my friend. I had the immediate sense that she belonged with us, and for once, the signs were too clear to question. Piper was the name of my daughter’s college a cappella group and the airplanes that my son was working on in aviation school.

I think it’s highly likely that we all possess some form of intuition. Messages are all around us in dreams and songs. Even repeating words can take us outside the boundaries of our normal daily experiences. It took me many years to shake off the skepticism, even with my growing ability to help people with their pain and loss. As I witnessed the greater good playing out time and time again, I realized that my focus should turn to feeling grateful for this gift in my life. It’s not for me to convince anyone as much as it is for me to appreciate and share.

Posted on by Shari Brauner 3

Getting (And Losing) A Taste of COVID

“You can’t have COVID, Mom. Your drenching night sweat must have been a hot flash.” 

Those were my daughter’s words, spoken simultaneously as my in-home antigen test instantly turned positive. COVID-19, after we thought we had dodged a bullet when my husband tested positive a week and a half before. COVID-19, restarting the captivity clock after we were right about to be freed from quarantine. And worst of all, COVID-19, in my body and in my house — two days before Thanksgiving.

Like most people, contracting COVID had been something I proactively tried to avoid. Disinfectant wipes and a mask had become my trusty companions every time I left the house. In late September, I took a quantitative antibody test that showed a high level of protection, even four months after being fully vaccinated. As my husband suffered through a breakthrough case that mimicked the flu, my daughter and I locked him in a bedroom and did our best to stay away from the infection. On day 10, we declared premature victory, not knowing that one day later my nose would start to run a few hours before bedtime. It couldn’t be… or could it?

The worst of my symptoms hit quickly: chills, a runny nose, and sinus pressure that required medication to get rid of the throbbing headache. Heading down to the kitchen in the middle of the night gave me my lightbulb moment that Thanksgiving was about to be canceled. As I took a sip of orange juice and a handful of cereal to wash down the pills, I realized that I couldn’t taste anything — the telltale sign that I had COVID.

Eighteen hours later, my daughter’s symptoms began to appear. As per our usual, we tried to find the humor in what we were dealing with, joking that we could finally enjoy a bowl of canned soup because the high level of sodium was undetectable. Her senses of smell and taste would return quickly, but Thanksgiving was a tough day for me when I had no ability to take in any of the delicious scents in my house or to savor the turkey that looked so moist and juicy. We also had to settle for a FaceTime call with the family members who were supposed to be sharing our 15-pound turkey with us. It wasn’t ideal, but I felt grateful that technology allowed us to spend the holiday together in some form.

My husband posted to the masses on social media about his diagnosis, but my reaction was just the opposite. After almost two years of dealing with this virus as a country, I had a clear sense of who I wanted to share my news with. Those who had clocked in hours talking to me on the phone late into the night and the many who kept me company by texting during the days when we couldn’t safely venture out. For the first time in my life, I felt like I had a defined circle of close friends who would check on me because we were bonded and they genuinely cared.

I have written numerous articles about how important it is for me to help people. Reaching out has always come naturally to me, just as accepting help has not. Any time in the spotlight makes me uncomfortable, but under these circumstances, I had no choice but to engage with my friends and family who were consistently calling to see how we were. And, on those days when I felt particularly low, a friend delivering a meal, a thoughtful card, or a funny cartoon would come my way, and I would appreciate it so much I would get choked up by the authentic level of kindness. Having COVID gave me such an important gift in that it finally taught me how to receive. Who knew I could find an unexpected life lesson in the middle of a mild case of such a dreaded virus?

The days moved in a slow-motion time warp until we were finally deemed safe to re-enter society. Twenty straight days of staying home definitely depleted my stamina, but overall, I walked into the outside world feeling very lucky. We had all recovered without the need to see a doctor, and we were still on civil terms after an overkill of constant togetherness. I also remained grateful for the good people in my life who at times were more worried about my health than I was. Even as my worst symptoms improved, they were still checking in on the most important part of my recovery — my ability to enjoy a good piece of chocolate. However, I am sad to report that as I share the unforeseen benefits of getting a taste of COVID, I am still waiting for a taste of just about anything else.

Posted on by Shari Brauner 0

How My Grandmother’s Legacy Lives On In Her Chicken Soup

August 13, 2005. The night of my 39th birthday. Instead of a happy celebration, that day became consumed with fear that my birthday would forever be known as the anniversary of my grandmother’s death. At 88 she had been in failing health, with many a scare that her last breath was fast approaching. On that Saturday night, I could hear the collision course in my head. My beloved grandmother was going to die on my birthday. 

Hours after a family Hibachi dinner, my parents would head to the assisted living facility that had become Mama’s happy home. The pact became “No matter what the clock says, Mama is not going to die on August 13th.”Thankfully, it never came to that. She died at 3 a.m. on August 14th, which in my world was still too close for comfort.

To have a grandmother in your life for 39 years is a blessing most people can’t relate to. As I tried to cope with my grief, the words of consolation to just feel lucky that I had her for so long fell on deaf ears. What people failed to understand was the meaning behind having her for so long. Everything I did going forward held a memory or connection to her. I would stand in the kitchen cutting up a cantaloupe and remember how the first course of every dinner at her house was a wedge of melon. An escalator ride in Macy’s launched me into a flashback of being a little girl and going shopping with her. Driving past a car moving at a snail’s pace would remind me of the time she got a ticket for driving too slow. The memories surrounded me constantly, some bringing comfort and some fueling outbursts of sadness and tears.

One month after Mama’s passing, we were facing the first Jewish holidays without her. It had been years since she was at the helm of the celebration, but she didn’t need to be in the kitchen for us to enjoy her food. As a child who lost her mother at age 7, Mama had taught herself to cook some of the most delicious food I have ever tasted. Her brisket recipe was a must during the holidays, always accompanied by her famous green Jello with pineapple. But her one true signature dish would forever be her chicken soup, homemade for every holiday in a special pot that we all decided added an unknown magical ingredient to make it taste so good.

“The miracle of that first holiday and every single one that followed was the fact that Mama could still celebrate with us. The food made any house smell like her house. She could be there even when she wasn’t.”

The miracle of that first holiday and every single one that followed was the fact that Mama could still celebrate with us. The food made any house smell like her house. She could be there even when she wasn’t. And whenever it was my turn to make the soup, my dog would bark at her pot as if to say that she was proud of me for continuing our special family tradition.

Mama’s chicken soup became much more than what some people refer to as Jewish penicillin. For our family, it was now a bonding thread. There is something about that soup that instills excitement in every generation of our family. It’s a given that before every holiday someone in the family will ask,“Are we having Mama’s soup?”One cousin makes it a competition to have as many bowls as possible when we get together for Yom Kippur to break the fast. This year, he will proudly tell you that he downed five bowls, matzoh balls included. And during the first few months of the pandemic, my son refused to leave New York City until I lured him home with Mama’s soup. During those trying days, I was especially thankful for the power of that soup.

Mama’s soup also made its way onto the pages of my son’s college application. He was asked to write about a family legacy and he didn’t have to think twice about what subject matter to use. He went into great detail about the fresh ingredients, the amazing taste, and the immeasurable value of a fresh pot of soup. I’m sure there were many reasons that he received an acceptance letter, but deep in my heart I know that Mama’s soup had something to do with it.

Mama left behind a legacy that includes kindness, generosity, and overflowing amounts of unconditional love. As time naturally fades the recollections of our special moments together, I am so grateful that we have a way to consistently bring her back to life. Mortality is inevitable for all of us, but in our family, we have one way around the unavoidable ending: chicken soup never dies. 

Photo by Henrique Félix on Unsplash

Posted on by Shari Brauner 0