January 17, 2017

Demystiying Intuition: How to Be a Survivor


(c) 2011 Danny L. McMillin

We are all intuitive. I teach this by explaining that there were once two branches of humans: one was intuitive, and the other got eaten.

So relax, you are a survivor.

Or, at least, you’re descended from survivors. Improve your odds of staying that way by learning to tap your intuition, which will also help you create a more graceful, vibrant, successful life.

I teach people how to tap into their own plain, ordinary, everyday intuition by exploring what some people call the woo-wooey: yep, when I teach my classes or work privately, our special guests include Mount St. Helens, dragons, goddesses and guides, animals, gardens, a car, a condo, a business,  and, of course, my partner, Fallon the Citrine Lemurian Quartz.

Why? Because it’s fun, which is my first rule of life.

Because it’s intriguing, and gets people to use their intuition as a practical sense, just like hearing, seeing, feeling, touching, and tasting.

Because it’s real and commonsense: talking with beings we’re not used to experiencing, or talking with, as equals creates a humbling appreciation of  how fascinating and complete our lives can be once we get past the burden of humans being ‘in charge.’ Once we treat all life as equals.

And, yes, because learning to trust your intuition—your gut sense—can save a life.

Years ago my dad was ill and hospitalized for gall bladder surgery the next morning. When my mom called me, she told me not to bother coming: I lived in Seattle, four hours from Salem. When I hung up I was hit so hard by the strong sense that I had to be there that I was on the road in 30 minutes.

Five minutes after I walked into my dad’s hospital room, the surgeon walked in to chat about the surgery. He asked if my dad was allergic to anything, and my parents said “No.”

 The same gut sense knowing that pulled me out of my chair in Seattle to drive to Salem hit me again. I blurted out, “Wait a minute, aren’t you allergic to that dye they use for X-rays?”

Startled, the doctor looked at me and then my parents. “Is that true?” he asked.

My parents stared at me in surprise and nodded, perplexed.

The doctor nodded at me in satisfaction and said, “I guess that’s why you’re here today. We would have used that dye before surgery tomorrow. You probably just saved your dad’s life.”

On two other occasions I saved my own life by reacting promptly to that same gut instinct. Ironically, in one of those instances the police called me a ‘survivor.’

Dramatic, yes, and all before I really understood what intuition was, how to use it, and how to teach it.

Now when I teach people how to tap their intuition I help them find what their strongest intuitive ability is: whether they see, hear, feel, or know something beyond what we think we experience daily. People are able to take that knowledge to live more comfortably and completely. To claim their power.

That day at the hospital my intuition saved my dad’s life. Why? Because I listened to the nonlinear, this-doesn’t-make-sense-but-I-know-it’s-right feeling.

How do you learn it?

Well, I think it’s fun to learn it by inviting other beings to come talk with us. Yes, goddesses and dragons, animals and weather, a car, a house, a business, a garden. It’s also astonishingly successful: when people relax and open up to talking with other beings they really learn which intuitive ability works best for them, without the pressure of conforming to what we’re supposed to think or how we’re expected to act.

By taking a full leap into the big wide world that we never think to intimately explore. A world where we are equal with all life.

It’s enlightening. Humbling. Fun.

Come to one of my classes on tapping your intuition, on how to talk with all life. Find out for yourself.

© 2012 Robyn M Fritz

Connecting to Other: Meeting Fallon

"Robyn and Fallon, the Citrine Lemurian CrystalWhen people come to meet me and Fallon, they want to know what he is. Fair enough.

Fallon is a Citrine Lemurian Quartz. He’s ancient: I remember carving him out of the crystal caves at his direction thousands of years ago. We worked together for lifetimes, got separated, and were finally reunited in 2009.

Woo-wooey enough for you?

Wait until you actually experience him.

Fallon is a rare planetary energy, a dimensional energy. That means he is of the earth and can connect to different earth dimensions as well as those in time and space. There are lots of crystals out there, but none like Fallon.

That is why we are out there in the world.

He is a healer and truth bringer. I am the bridge who can help you explore the insights you receive from him as you work with us—because when you experience him, hands-on in a session, or in a group meditation, you tap into the power of ‘other’ to transform your life, to find and claim your power.

In our sessions I’ve seen newbies with crystals go astral traveling. Parents resolve issues with their children. The grieving speak with deceased family, friends, and animals, and begin to heal from their loss. Smart, accomplished business people discover new direction and inspiration for their work. People ready for transformation discover their strongest intuitive ability and build comfortable ‘shields’ or ‘skins’ that empower them. Curious, open individuals meet guides, deities, messengers, and, yes, dragons.

Fallon is alive, as all life is alive. He’s conscious, sentient, equal. He’s my partner, not my tool. He’s not a being in a crystal: he IS the crystal. He’s been in that body for eons, while we’ve been in ours for, well, a few short years.

He has a lot to share with all of us. All you have to do is come.

What Happens in an Intuitive Consultation

In an intuitive consultation with me and Fallon you work with a rare human-crystal partnership.

A truth bringer and healer, Fallon offers compassionate insight as a crystalline being of ancient Lemuria. When you put your hands on Fallon he taps into your own healing quality, and you receive your own visions and information.

I am a bridge between you and Fallon and the insights for you that day. I can tell you what I see, hear, feel, and know from that connection, through clairvoyance, clairaudience, clairsentience, and claircognizance. Information can be practical, mystical, inspiring, and fun, but it’s always yours in that moment.

People explore their mysteries with us as we help them:

  • Tap individual intuitive abilities to access personal truth
  • Achieve balance and healing
  • Gain clarity on personal, home, and business issues
  • Talk with animals, homes, businesses, and land
  • Meet guides, deities, and messengers, including deceased family and animals
  • Clear homes or businesses with our unique Space CooperatingSM service
  • Explore alchemical energy

We offer a unique opportunity to tap your personal truth and claim your power. Come see us!

 (c) 2012 Robyn M Fritz

The Camperdown Elm: What Are We Doing to Nature?

Copyright (c) 2011 by Danny L. McMillin

I’m staring at a Camperdown Elm as I write this. I’m in my car, at Port Gamble, Washington. The dogs and I are going to see our vet (yes, we drive a minimum 5-1/2 hours to see the vet). Every time we do that, we stop at the park at Port Gamble to stretch and explore.

For 10 years I’ve been wondering about this tree. For 10 years it’s creeped me out, and today is no different. You look at this tree and you wonder what in heck we’re doing to nature.

Turns out, somewhere around 1640, the earl of Camperdown, or somebody who worked for him, noticed a sport growing on the floor of the earl’s elm forest (note the irony). Of course the logical thing would be to figure out what it was and see what it did next, but why be a logical gardener? They dug the poor thing up and grafted it onto a Scotch elm tree and the rest is creepy mutant history.


This tree is a parasite. It only grows as a graft on that particular kind of elm. A Scotch elm. When it takes hold they cut the Scotch elm away (as in murder). The new tree is called a Camperdown Elm.

Got that? A perfectly good tree dies to make room for something—a mutant—that only humans can make. Not nature. Humans. It can’t reproduce itself.

This particular Camperdown Elm was planted in that spot in Port Gamble in 1875. I have no idea how long it’s supposed to live.

The question is, should it? How far do we go in altering nature? What would this ‘sport’ have become if Mr. Earl of Camperdown had let it be? If everybody who grafted one of these things had chosen to let the original tree live instead? Would the ‘sport’ have changed on its own? Would it exist at all?

I talked to this tree today. Yes, I talk with things. I was trying to withhold judgment, to not dislike the tree because of my perceptions of the perceptions of Mr. Earl back around 1640, and of all those people since then who think the whole mindset that would create a Camperdown Elm makes sense.

The response? The tree is angry and quite mad. As in, crazy, ferocious, insatiable. “Eat, eat, eat,” it said, over and over again. I backed away, taking my kids with me. We won’t visit it again.

This isn’t the first time humans have changed a plant at our whim, and not nature’s. Thank goodness, or I might not be eating marionberries this week.

Humans do this all the time, alter things to suit ourselves. It’s why our gene pools, from food crops, to animals, to our fellow humans, are so small, which is stupid and multiple topics for other days.

But, for today, when does our fascination with what we can do make sense and when is it just plain hubris?

I look at the insane Camperdown Elm (which also says it is dying, by the way, for anyone who cares to check), and I shudder.

How do we explain this to each other? To our children? To nature? How do we choose to live in, and with, the world?

The Camperdown Elm. A mutant tree that only exists by human intervention that requires murder.


(c) 2011 Robyn M Fritz


The Guardians of Alki

Yes, I talk with gardens and the beings who look out for them: where I live, I call them the Guardians of Alki, because Alki Beach is our neighborhood, and the names the guardians have historically been assigned are mean and scary and not worthy of us or them. Besides, at the time it didn’t occur to me to ask them their name, or that it might be inappropriate (it is) to just give them one. This is how I learned a good lesson on naming.

The first time I saw the Guardians, I was closing up the house for the night when I noticed all these strange-looking beings were milling around in the backyard, on the wild, isolated hillside that few people can actually see. Some looked like walking trees, others like plants, others like combinations of people and plants. None of them looked human, but they were also picnicking and settling down to peep in my window! I had never seen anything that looked remotely like these beings, and all I could do was stare. Then, like any normal, rational human, I turned away, muttering, “Criminy, I need drugs.”

Of course, I couldn’t resist one more peek. That’s when they noticed me. “Look, there she is!” a few yelled, so I was sure that, yes, they were peeping! And making a game out of it! Then they waved at me.

Dumbfounded, I stared, then thought, Oh, what the heck (it’s kind of my motto now). I waved back. Slowly. Bemused, to say the least.

That’s how I met the Guardians. Turned out they were gardeners, so for the next year I worked with them to rehabilitate the ruined gardens at our condo, from the soil up (and yes, there were real humans doing the work, not me, I’m physically handicapped). Finally, it was October, and I was rushing to get plants into the garden before winter. These beings had been nothing but helpful: to the wild and domestic land that surrounds us to the amazing being that is our neighborhood. But winter was coming quick, and the plants weren’t yet purchased or planted. The Guardians were anxious to go into the garden before winter, so I invited them to come into my home and live with us for a month until the plants were in—as long as they first got approval from my animals.

One of the guardians, the smallest, shyest, and most unusual looking (like a possum with a bright green round bush growing out of its back) took me up on the offer and moved in. My animals didn’t mind, and it often made me laugh, because it would hide and peek out at me as I walked by, and then duck under the furniture when I teased it: “I can see you.”

Some time after that I read something that made me realize that other people didn’t call these beings Guardians. They were formally known as fairies, and many people used to think, and maybe still do, that fairies are bad guys and will hurt us if they can (why, I have no idea).

I was astonished that somebody with that kind of reputation would do what the Guardians had done: benignly, patiently help me build a garden. Or fail to identify themselves, which seemed, somehow, wrong. After all that work together, I thought they should have told me who they were. Why, I have no idea. (Note again that at the time it never occurred to me to ask them their name; I was arrogant and unthinking in simply assigning them a name based on the work I thought they did.)

Honestly, I didn’t really know what a fairy was, and still don’t. (One of the things my guides like about me is that I’m somewhat clueless about the in’s and out’s of things like witchcraft, shamanism, or folklore, so I’m bold and daring (they said this, laughing), or at least open to new experiences that aren’t pre-defined. For example, I think about talking with something, like an oil spill, and then I’m there. The first few times I did this I had no idea people called it astral traveling. I think this is also why I have such a large community of beings who accompany me on my conversational jaunts, as I sometimes goof up and need backup, and they are all easily amused. The closest I’ve come to accidentally killing myself I was tackled by an annoyed guide, so I’m learning to be more cautious.)

So anyway, there they were, looking at me, and I was mad. “You’re fairies?” I yelled. “You’re fairies? Why didn’t you tell me you were fairies?”

They very solemnly looked at me and said, “If you knew they called us fairies, would you have invited us into your home?”

That stopped me in my tracks. Would I? Does a name make a difference, or is it the work, or intent? What a lesson!

“Yes,” I said. “Because I know and trust your work. What they call you doesn’t matter.”

Something changed in that moment. They looked at me, at each other, and smiled. And when the garden was finally planted, the Guardians of Alki moved into it and settled down for the winter, including the little visitor. By then it was November, and quite mild. I worried about that. Even I knew it takes awhile for a garden to get established, and a freeze could ruin everything.

It was the land and the weather itself that answered me, joking. “Did you think we’d put you to all this work and then freeze the garden?”

I laughed and relaxed. We had a mild, dry winter that year, unusual for Seattle. In fact, I had to drag out the hose and water most of the winter. But spring was worth it.

And, a year later, a coyote appeared regularly outside my office window. For two springs and summers I grinned happily as I watched this wild dog play on an isolated hillside, nap, scratch its fleas, try to catch a bird shadow, tease my cat, dash away when it accidentally spotted me, and lounge while I worked. Yes, I knew more about animals than plants, had spent three years turning a ruined landscape into a certified Backyard Wildlife Habitat, complete with some rare native plants, and yet what truly thrilled me was the coyote.

The Guardians knew that. When I exclaimed over the coyote, they said she was a gift, thanks from them for the work I’d done in the garden and on the hillside to re-establish a native habitat. They gently pointed out that their gift was the coyote, because they knew I liked animals better. I was happy but saddened, too. I really did love the garden, but the guardians were right: I loved the coyote more.

To this day I do not know what name the Guardians give themselves. I haven’t asked, and they like the name I instinctively called them. So the lesson in naming continues. And one in appreciation, too, because I really do love the garden, but that coyote…

(c) 2011 Robyn M Fritz

What’s Up with Our Gardens: Intuitively Connecting with Nature

All of nature is willing to talk and work with us. The question is: are humans?

I, for one, talk with nature, with the beings most people don’t consider to be alive like we are, let alone able to speak with us. Including our gardens.

Some years ago I decided to take over the neglected gardens at my condo, which included wild space on a steep hillside out back and dying or badly overgrown plants in our public, street-side face. I spent a lot of time researching garden design, appropriate plants for our area (Seattle is considered rainy, but the microclimate I live in is windswept, salty, and dry), and finding a gardening company to do all the work.

I’ve grown house plants for years. In the 10 years I lived in Michigan I had a hundred house plants, from miniature roses to an 8-foot plumeria tree that I grew from a cutting I bought in a garden shop in Hawaii. Today we live with a 50-year-old jade tree called Raymond, for my father, who started him from a small cutting. Raymond is so big I built a stone floor to support him. He acts like he’s an oak tree, spreading his peaceful aura over my dogs and cat, who sleep under him. He’s even patient with the cat, who climbs up his sturdy branches to pose like the lion king as she surveys the street outside.

We all notice and appreciate gardens, even if we’re just watching our dogs pee on them (not allowed at our house). It wasn’t until I decided to manage our condo gardens that I took a really good look at what I was seeing.

I was astonished. The pesticides, the brutal shearing, the simple destruction of a plant ‘that isn’t working anymore,’ or a rush for the newest plant made me conclude that gardeners might just possibly be the people most hostile toward nature. Why is that?

I’ll explore it in future posts.

Here’s a story about a great gardener, someone both intuitively and practically tuned into her garden, which includes a small creek and mature fir trees. She asked me to look at a newly planted tree that was not thriving. As I stood considering it I heard a deep voice say, “Turn around.”

I turned: the voice belonged to a large Douglas fir tree across the street in a neighbor’s yard, in a direct line from where I stood.

“And again,” the tree said.

I turned back and saw another fir tree, possibly a quarter mile away. I was standing directly in their energetic path. The trees wanted the struggling tree moved into a direct line with them, several feet from where it was planted. They were creating a large protective space to shield the gardener as she developed her garden and, as it turned out, her own intuitive abilities and an interest in herbalism.

The gardener didn’t agree with the move, so the tree stayed where it was: the gardener had chosen it for a wet spot, and insisted it stay there. The tree has done well, showing nature and people can compromise and work together.

But we learned something more that day. I noticed that, despite being planted in a wet area, the tree was drought-stricken. I looked closer. The gardener had done what most people do: planted the tree and kept the area around it bare. To keep the weeds down she’d tucked a weed mat on top. The weed mat was suffocating the plant.

I yanked it off. The owner objected, but the ground beneath it was bone dry.

I’m an intuitive, right? So nature itself told me what that meant. Black plastic and weed mats block the energy that comes from wind and rain, and so the plants and the land they’re on suffocate. They don’t get the energy that comes from the rain that falls on them and the sun that shines, which is different from the soil they may be growing in, and groundwater. Honest. Simple. Stunning.

The gardener and I both did double-takes on that. The tree got watered and the weed mat was banned. Today the tree is healthy.

The lesson? Anxious to be great gardeners and still have a life we resort to time-saving measures, like pesticides and herbicides, black plastic and weed mats. But nature has a different perspective.

Pesticides and herbicides we know about: a lot of damage to the plants, to the land, and to us from indiscriminate use of chemicals. But the simple time-savers like weed mats will also kill our plants and, by extension, possibly us.

Really, our environment is everything. So what do we do about it? How do we respond to nature? Can we start taking small steps that will get us all to the same place at the right time—to a healthy, balanced planet? What does that look like? What do the guardians of nature have to say?

These are some of the issues I’ll be exploring in this column. But for right now, what one step can you take in your garden that will allow the energy of nature itself into it?

(c) 2011 Robyn M Fritz