A Journey to Find Her Soul

Cara Chugg

Description

Lillian is an artist of hopeful ideals who also hides deep sadness inside, and although she has walked a difficult path, she now shares the art of empowering others.
Lilly Blyly is the epitome of a free spirit. She seeks freedom to exist in a world of kindness and unconditional acceptance. She also longs for the freedom to love and be loved but not held too tightly. She needs to breathe, make her own mistakes, and forge ahead in pure utopian fashion.
Yet, as a visionary and artist, Lilly holds a sadness and feeling of disconnection within. Her moods bend and change, sometimes without warning, and move into darker, more haunting places. She lies in bed for several days, only rising to use the bathroom. She needs this escape. It is a time of recovery from the chaos of life.
Lilly’s journey has been long and arduous, but she has a story to tell. Overcoming childhood trauma, addiction, and mental illness, she has found her highest calling and shares her experience to empower and enlighten the collective. Lilly transmutes her pain into progress. We too can rewrite our stories, no matter how tragic or tumultuous. Follow Lilly on a journey to find her soul. Perhaps you may even find your own.

Sujets

• List of reportedly haunted locations in the world
• Journey
• Addiction
• Trauma
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Balboa Press AU
• Date de parution: 24 novembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781982296216
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

A JOURNEY TO FIND HER SOUL
 
 
 
 
 
 
Cara Chugg
 
 
 
 
 

 
Copyright © 2022 Cara Chugg.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
 
Balboa Press
A Division of Hay House
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.balboapress.com.au
AU TFN: 1 800 844 925 (Toll Free inside Australia)
AU Local: [phone] ([phone] from outside Australia)
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
 
ISBN: 978-1-9822-9620-9 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-9822-9621-6 (e)
 
Balboa Press rev. date:  11/23/2022
CONTENTS
Introduction
 
The Empty Girl
The Trauma
Him
The Adventure
Motherhood
The Career
The Betrayal
The Awakening
The Diagnosis
The Re-Wilding
The Message
The Book
 
A Note From The Author
INTRODUCTION
Lillian Blyly is the epitome of a free spirit. A true Aquarian in most conventional terms. She seeks freedom in every sense, freedom to exist in a world of kindness and unconditional love, the freedom to love and be loved but not held too tightly.
She needs to breathe, make her own mistakes, and forge ahead in pure utopian fashion. Her soft feminine features afford her the luxury of many adoring eyes. A visionary, an artist. Yet she holds within her a sadness, a feeling of disconnection. Perhaps a dissociation of sorts. Her moods bend and change, sometimes without warning, and move into darker, more haunting places.
She knows these places far too well. Some days, they even scare her. Her moods can range from sheer euphoria to complete nothingness, an absence of all life and will. Like a ghost. Sometimes, on these days, she imagines being dead, a phantasm. She lies in bed for several days, only rising to use the bathroom. She doesn’t eat during this time. No need. There isn’t much need for sustenance when sleeping for eighteen hours a day. You see, at these times, there isn’t anything to sustain. She needs this escape. Like rain in severe drought, or God to the desperate, seeking soul. It is a time of rest, a time of solitude after months of overactivity, overthinking, overexplaining, and overindulgence. A small pittance to pay when looking back at all the productivity of previous months.
She has become particularly graceful in her excuses to her boss, Phillip. He is a beautiful specimen of English sophistication: educated, loyal, and ever so polite. This week, it’s the flu. She texts with some apprehension; part of her doesn’t want to let him down, but the reality is, she simply can’t bear to look anyone in the eyes today.
“Can’t come in, Phil, coming down with something,” she writes.
“That’s okay, Lilly, rest up and get better,” he texts back. “You will be, of course, missing the cucumber sandwiches. Crusts cut off.”
It’s another royal wedding. The whole bloody country is buzzing with excitement. The pubs will soon be awash with merriment of all sorts. Wall-to-wall traffic and young single women, dreaming of marrying their Prince Charming. All of London will be alight with joy and celebration.
All but one flat in Shoreditch, on the East End.
A funeral is taking place there. Another death and rebirth cycle for Lillian Blyly.

THE EMPTY GIRL
Lilly’s upbringing was, well, difficult, to say the least. She did make it out alive; some credit must be given to her parents for that. An alcoholic mother and absentee father hardly make for many happy memories, but she can recall some.
Days of Our Lives and cups of soup with her grandmother were some of her most treasured memories. Her grandmother was an eccentric lady, short, white-haired, and attractive, with an infectious smile and rouged cheeks. Lilly would go over to her grandmother’s house when her father was too busy with work or any number of his extracurricular activities. She remembers her grandmother being exceedingly private. In fact, she can’t recall her grandmother ever receiving a visitor. She would talk to Lilly for hours about yesteryears—elegant parties and her husband, the most honorable Judge Ross. She met him as a secretary doing shorthand in the courthouse. She kept a painted portrait of him above her chair in the front sitting room. He was handsome, very dignified, with striking features, perfect, wavy hair, and a strong jawline. What you would call a silver fox nowadays.
He had passed well before Lilly was born. You could see the love and admiration her grandmother had for him when she spoke of him. Admiration dashed with a hint of misery at his absence. They would drink tea together from finely painted china cups. The tea was orange-spiced Ceylon. Lilly always searches for teas like that. She has only been lucky enough to find one similar to that in twenty years, but oh, do the memories come rushing back when she takes a sip. Memories of polishing silver cutlery and platters with Grandmother. Although hosting guests and cigars in the smoking room were a thing of the past, Lilly’s grandmother never allowed her silver to tarnish for too long.
Lilly adored her grandmother’s house. Crystal serving bowls with crystal fruit inside. Copper cookware and Fabergé eggs. What opulence. What a lifestyle of class and finery. Sometimes, Lilly was lucky enough to play with her grandmother’s jewelry. What a rare treat this was. She had two triple-tiered jewelry boxes that adorned her mahogany dresser. Ribbons of pearls and costume jewelry filled the wooden boxes; Lilly felt like a queen as she gently put each piece on her tiny body, looked into the mirror, and said, “Oh, daahhhling.” Her grandmother taught her that. She was too young to dream of romance at that age, but she wasn’t too young to dream of wealth and extravagance. It seemed befitting for her. She was going to be a lady like her grandmother one day. She was going to sip tea, use cigarette holders, wear beautiful clothes, and live independently. To the side of the jewelry boxes sat ornate, grand-looking perfume bottles. Lilly would carefully open the bottles one by one, take a sniff, and recoil at the strong odour inside. She wondered what they would smell like now that her senses matured.
Lilly loved to try on her grandmother’s hats, furs, silk scarves, and gloves. Hours passed as she would time-warp into the 1950s, creating scenarios in her mind—some that her grandmother had told her, and some that she had seen on the afternoon soaps. The gloves looked ridiculous on Lilly’s small hands, elongating her fingers in a somewhat alien way. Her grandmother’s house was a place of dreams. Still to this day, she dreams of returning there. Everything is just as she remembers it. The little red velvet love seat in the front room, the lamps, the finery, and among them, her grandmother’s beautiful, immaculate presence.
Lilly had many avenues to occupy her overactive mind as a child. Her imagination was powerful, and she liked her own company. She loved nothing more than reading books and imagining her own stories, but an art more powerful than anything else, an art that could encapsulate her very essence and being, was her love for music. Singing was her escape, a way to transmute all the heaviness of the world. She found beauty within the written note, in thoughtful and well-versed lyrics. There was an urgency to study, to know them by heart once a song captured her attention. She’d play it on repeat until it was etched onto her soul.
She wasn’t a very good pupil. Her marks were fine, but she always felt this strong pull to be outside, to be in nature. That is where she truly thrived. Her dad had built her and her brothers a treehouse in the woods. She would retreat up there, amongst the rhododendrons, her mind running wild with fantasies of having her own house in the woods. At the time, it was as good as it got, and she was content with that. She would take cigarette butts from her mother’s ashtray and sometimes full cigarettes, if she could. She would take them up to the treehouse. She was eight or nine by this age, and she would smoke them, inhaling the smoke deep into her lungs. Even at such a tender young age, she needed to take the edge off. Sometimes her stomach would hurt, hurt so bad that she would double over in pain, she felt a sense of deep melancholy. She wondered if all people