Night Flying - Part Two

On meditation, mystery, and the love that binds us – by Nicole Cody

Hello, friends.

Every night, before bed, I lower myself to the bedroom floor for my evening meditation. My cushions are there, waiting, in a practice I’ve nurtured for over 45 years now. This is where I end my day. Tomorrow, when I awaken, this is also where my day will begin. In meditation.

My morning practice is outward facing. In the pre-dawn gloom my breath quietens, my body softens, and my meditation begins. Some days nothing happens except that I find a deeper peace, after which I send love, light and healing into the world, to the others in the world who quietly pray or meditate for the world just as I do, to my loved ones, my clients and students, and those on my healing list.

When my meditation is concluded, I sit in stillness and allow myself to absorb energy for the day ahead. Sometimes guidance or insight comes too. Usually for others. A client to contact. A person to encourage. A message or a practical step for someone else. That’s okay. That’s my path in life, and I’m grateful for that.

I always finish with gratitude and magnifying three blessings from the day before in my heart. The way my husband held my hand when we went to buy sourdough, the small red dragonfly that hovered above me as I sat in the garden, the taste of my vanilla rooibos tea - a small and delicious luxury in my current limited diet. Then I rise from the floor and start my day. Or if I’m unwell, or it’s cold, I might go back to bed for a little while.

My evening meditation still holds its acts of service, but I have the time and opportunity to go deeper, to go inward. For my own healing, and my own soulwork - and sometimes to more mystical spaces.

Each night, I meet myself on the floor. I choose a meditation method, settle my breath, close my eyes and go within.

Most nights nothing dramatic happens. I send healing to others, I do work on myself, I find a deeper peace, and then I go to bed.

Some nights though, my practice deepens to a point that I lift out of my body. In meditation, or later in sleep. And then I fly.

I call this night-flying. I literally travel through the sky at night, and I can visit people and places across the world. I know how to control it now, but it wasn’t always like that. I’m grateful to my Aboriginal Aunty and her other Elder friends for guiding me all those years ago.

Let me take you with me now, and we’ll night-fly together.

I start, as always, on my meditation cushions. The night is quiet and dark. Stars twinkle in the sky, and the palm trees below my bedroom window rustle softly in an occasional light sea breeze. I’ve already been meditating for an hour when I feel it - that old familiar sense of heat that rushes through me. With a gentle whoosh I am out of my body, and my head and shoulders bump at the ceiling before I pass through and into the night.

Below me, the roof of the Treehouse looks transparent. I can see my husband sleeping, the dog curled up in his own little bed on the floor beside him. Content to see them so peaceful, I rise higher.

Out in front of me now is the curve of the bay, white sand gleaming in the moonlight and the ocean all frills of foam near shore, dark and glassy further out to sea. I hover for a moment, until something pulls at my heart and off I go, south, gliding through the air.

As the land falls away beneath me, the air is soft and cool. It smells of coming rain and the sighs of the earth. On I soar. A student sleeps in her own bed, far below. Down I fly. I watch her dreaming, connected heart to heart. I hear her thoughts and feel the throb of her blood pulsing gently beneath her skin. I breathe love into her, and move on.

At the next house, far far away, another student. I enter her dream.

‘Nicole,’ she says, laughing. ‘You’re here.’

‘Yes, I am. You’ll remember this tomorrow,’ I say. And I know she will.

House to house, heart to heart, on I fly. Some of you, whose light burns too dim, I work on. Some of you, whose light shines so bright, give me reason to rejoice. One of you has an extra tiny light in your aura. A baby for you soon.

Some of you I don’t know. But your hearts are open, and your need is great. This is the work Aunty showed me. I send you love, and do what I can to bring calm, or comfort, or clarity. Sometimes I whisper encouragement to you, or an idea.

I pass a bedside where an anxious and troubled sleeper is already surrounded. Here are loved ones who’ve crossed over - grandparents and a father from this lifetime, friends and family from previous lifetimes, a beloved cat in spirit form, guides and mentors. I am lifted by the enormous love in that room, and I fly on.

I pass the Hill - a place of no physical location, where souls still in human form come to gather, free of their bodies. Often they are the overlooked ones: in a coma, or locked behind injury or illness back in the world, their awareness invisible to the rest of us. Here they connect freely, and there is so much love and wisdom among them. But the Hill is a whole story of its own, and I’ll save it for another day.

This work swells my heart so. We are all frail and strong and beautiful. So ageless and so temporary. How grateful I am to Aunty, who showed me that my strangeness has its own place in the world. What a privilege it is to work the night skies.

Aunty and her friends still meet me in the sky from time to time. They are in Spirit form now, long lost from this world. But in the Dreaming, as Aunty called it - the Field, as I think of it, or whatever else this space is that I find myself in - they are still here, alive and well.

I know that sometimes it is easy to think that we are alone in the world, but if you could see the world as I do you would be filled with awe and wonder. We are all so very deeply loved. I hope that tomorrow morning, or one morning soon, you wake with a deeper connection to that love.

And anyway, perhaps I’ll see you in your dreams.

Much love, Nicole xx

If you enjoyed this article you may also like:

Night Flying - Part One

My Medicine Bag - Part One

My Medicine Bag - Part Two

The Baby Who Needed To Speak