billywheeling

As a child I always felt different, as though I didn’t "fit in", but I fit in "God’s" hand. By the time I hit my mid-twenties I realized that self-healing was more than a necessary requirement for my survival, yet off and on throughout my life I resisted this idea. During these times of pushing the river, my life became a battlefield.  I suffered deeply until I finally heeded the call of my inner knowing to surrender and embrace my natural process through the path of the mystic.
Here's where my development took off in new and surprising directions. But despite my heightened intuition, I remained highly sceptical of anything unproven by empirical evidence.  My inner sceptic was finally assuaged by my own transformation; by my own experiences of healing energy running through my body; of receiving confirmation of many astounded recipients of healings I'd performed; by my disembodied forays into altered states of consciousness. Once I overcame my paranoid, fearful thoughts (that I was completely losing my marbles!) a deep knowing ensued. I studied philosophy which helped me to develop a strong capacity to critically analyze events, proofs, and arguments. And as in Plato’s Seventh Letter, my teachers successfully lobbed their spark into my heart.
Now, after many years of stoking and fanning, a raging fire that hisses and crackles "billywheeling!" roars within.  It continually burns away all resistance to expressing my true purpose.  So finally, the natural progression of my own unveiling has led me to discover abilities I never thought I would have possessed. Alas, if I am to fulfil my dharma of spreading healing and unconditional love in the world, it will be through the use of my most effective gifts.  Gifts that are meant to help you locate your own inner source of love and healing so you can reaffirm, further or begin your own true blossoming. I am truly grateful that I chose to dedicate my life to learning how TO BE unconditional love.  This is the foundation for everything I try to give and do, how I heal and teach, and through which I am eternally empowered.  I look forward to our connections.
1966   1970   1976   1978 My name is Lisa Christine LeBlanc.  I was born in Dorion, a small town west of Montreal where the streets bear our family’s name.  Ten days before my second birthday, our town experienced an accident involving a school bus and a train.  Nineteen teenagers died on their way to a high school dance.  Because the bus was too full my cousin was sent away by the bus driver, who also died.  Though she wanted to, my sister wasn’t allowed to go to the dance.  Our family was spared but the accident (often whispered) was a tremendous tragedy our whole town suffered.  It was kept a secret, never spoken of in public.  Many families were permanently scarred.  I was sad and cried a lot during my early childhood.  I was empathic, and didn’t know.        I’m visiting my friend at her back door.  We’re both five.  Her face is red and drenched with tears.  Her eyes are puffy and she’s sobbing deep, long sobs.  She tells me her mommy’s dying.  I think to myself for a split second and decide the best way; in fact the only way I know how to deal with her terrified tears is to deny the inevitable.  “No! Your Mom’s not going to die,” I say as adamantly as a five-year old can.  “Yes she IS!” She yells at me.  “She told me today!  She said I have to be brave and that my auntie will take care of me.”        I went straight into denial.  My friend’s mommy was my second mommy.  She took me under her wing when she showed up with my friend on her hip, asking my mother if we could play together.  We were three.  At eleven, we sit far apart from each other at the funeral.  I can hear my friend’s wails from where I’m sitting at the back of the packed church.  We grow apart for a few years.  I'm hurt, sad, angry, frustrated, in pain.  I was empathic, and didn’t know.      5:30AM, the phone rings in the kitchen.  The heat of the summer has me sleeping downstairs in the living room, off the kitchen, where it's cooler.  I'm thirteen.  The woman on the phone asks to speak to my mother.  I wake her up and hand her the phone.  I wait until I see my mother buckle with a groan and exhale “No.”  I feel my body shutter.  “What?” I exclaim.  My brother has been in a serious car accident.  He is in a coma.  My parents aren’t letting me know what is happening.  I feel hurt, angry, frustrated, in pain.  I was empathic, and didn’t know.