Citrine Lemurian Quartz – Bridging the Paradigms: re-connecting people and the planet

In Memoriam: Randall Ray Fritz, July 26, 1947 – November 1, 1961.

Years ago, I couldn’t imagine that today would ever occur.

Today, it’s been 50 years. What to make of them?

In October 1961 my grandparents came out from Montana to visit. My oldest brother, Randy, was sick, in and out of the hospital, and in those days, it was a long drive to Salem from our small Oregon home town. So far, in fact, that in September Randy moved to Salem to live with our grandparents during the week, so he could attend Catholic high school.

Just like that, Randy got sick.

I remember the last time I saw him. He was in the hospital, pale and thin beneath the covers. Alert.

I was just a kid. Naïve. Trusting. Sheltered. Optimistic. Like all kids and many adults I was uncomfortable visiting the hospital. And I didn’t know why Randy was there and couldn’t come home.

All I knew was that I had always adored my older brother, which is not the same thing as always liking him. But the sun rose and set on Randy. Even when we talked about death in school—because Catholics, at least, only talk about dying, from getting ready to die to actually doing it—I used to think that everyone could die, even my parents.

But not Randy. No, Randy would never die.

All those years ago, I didn’t know what it meant to be intuitive. I just remember what hit me in those last few moments, before we left that day. The last day I saw my brother alive.

Surrounded by family, Randy looked over at me, held out his hand, and as I reached out and held his, our eyes met. In that moment, I knew.

Randy was dying. And he knew it. In that shared moment he said goodbye.

I was too stunned to do anything but stare at him in shock.

I don’t remember when that last day was. Sometime in late October the doctors told my parents that Randy had leukemia and would die in six weeks to six months. He was gone in less than a week.

Sometime in those last days the doctors also asked my parents to allow them to use Randy as a guinea pig. Literally. They need drug trials on a promising drug that wouldn’t help Randy, but might help others in the future.

My dad was a pharmacist. He knew from drugs. My parents agreed.

That last morning my Grandma Fritz sobbed at the kitchen table while my younger brother and I played. When asked, over and over, why she was crying, she simply said she felt sorry for Randy. It didn’t make any sense to me. Nothing did.

I had no context. Why would it make sense?

Later, we were called in from playing. I was taking off my shoes when my mom walked over to me and blurted it out.

“Your brother went to heaven an hour ago.”

I stared at her in confused, stunned silence until it sunk in. I burst into tears. In some ways I have not stopped crying all these years later.

My brother’s death destroyed my family. There’s no other way to put it. My parents … when I think of them I think of impossible grief. Of two people who’d survived a world war, created a good business in a small rural community, raised their kids to be honest citizens, anticipated a future bright with promise, and lost their oldest child in a matter of days to a disease they’d never really heard of.

On November 1, 1961.

My parents never recovered. Sure, they laughed again, they raised us, they staggered on. To a degree. With pain like that you have two choices: to grieve and move on, or to block yourself emotionally. I’m not sure which is the easiest, but they chose to be blocked. Because of that, two little kids didn’t just lose a brother that day.

I think now everyone must have known that Randy was dying except the children. Everyone had time to prepare, except for my younger brother and me. I think even Randy had time to prepare. They never told him he was dying. But I know he knew. I knew that day.

The community rallied around us. Food arrived. Friends and family and strangers flocked to the funeral home. To the funeral. There were so many flowers that the smell overwhelmed me, and, after being forced to touch Randy’s cold, stiff hand as we stared at him in his coffin, the flowers choked me and I turned and raced away as fast as I could, with my uncle running behind me trying to help. He did. But I re-live that nightmare every time I walk into a florist shop. I can’t stand the smell of carnations.

So here’s another story. For several years the community had been raising money to buy land to build a Catholic high school. That school was dedicated two years later, in 1963. My brother and I graduated from it, as did my nephews.

In their shock and grief my parents sought comfort. They decided to scrimp and save and donate $5,000 to the building fund for the school chapel, built in Randy’s memory. It was still there several years ago, at my nephews’ graduation. Once I learned the truth of that chapel, I never cared about it again. My parents had given the money they thought they would spend on Randy’s college education to build that chapel—to somehow make his death mean something, to ease their sorrow, I don’t know. Some people respected them for it. Others decided that if we had that kind of money to give away, then we didn’t need their business.

I know this sounds bitter. Really, it’s ironic. It’s all part of community, isn’t it? The not so nice part that you can sometimes understand because community isn’t perfect. It’s a whole lot of work. Even when it doesn’t work.

I didn’t get to say goodbye to my brother. I carried that pain and grief for years, the fear, that many kids have, that petty jealousies somehow cause our stricken sibling to die. That took years to get over. It makes me really useful to kids who are dealing with that now, because I know exactly what they’re feeling, even if they won’t say it. But I can tell them. And their parents. I can tell them to talk to each other. To hold on.

But for me, truly, it took a dog, and a dog’s well-lived life, to let the grief go. It took creating a family of my own, and seeing family beyond humans, to heal that grief.

It took expanding community to include all life, and working to build it. It took the ongoing work of creating a community with all life—that’s what I do, however I can, in fits and starts.

And healing took a goddess, but that’s another story.

Here’s the thing about grief.

Grief teaches us about all things. From grief we learn hatred. I learned to hate god. On the day we buried Randy I decided that a god who would allow my brother to die was not a god I could respect, or love, or acknowledge. Despite years of being a devout Catholic, and finally being brave enough to leave, I’ve held on to that. Call me stubborn. And consistent. And … whatever works for you.

Grief teaches us fear. If we can lose someone we love, then why risk it? Close the door and hide.

Grief teaches us compassion. Again, you can choose to block life, like my parents did, or you can choose to move on, which is what I did, eventually. Compassion helps our hearts to cry while allowing others to cry with us. Compassion gives us the freedom to reach beyond the hurt to build community. Like my parents did with that chapel.

Grief teaches us love. If I had not been hardened by grief I would not have melted with love. If I had not defied my old community, the one of faith and religion and limitations and petty jealousies and extraordinary generosity and everyday comradeship, I would not have my new community. It means everything to me.

Without grief I would not now be a citizen of the world. I would not now be an intuitive who can talk with all beings, from animals to businesses to homes, to the land and waters and weather around us. I would not now be able to offer compassion to all life.

I would not now have the crystal Fallon as my partner.

There were many things I had to re-learn in the lives that led us back to each other: Fallon, the citrine Lemurian quartz who was rejected around the world, and the lonely lost girl whose invincible adored brother died.

I had to learn the alchemy of grief.

Alchemy is magic. Transformation. The changing of one thing to another.

Given a chance, grief becomes love.

That’s what I finally learned today. The day I realized that it’s been 50 years since my brother died.

Today I learned the alchemy of grief.

So here, 50 years later, I can finally say the tears have stopped. I have moved on. It’s done now. It has been. It’s just time to say it.

Yes, today I finally get to say goodbye to my brother.

Randy, thank you for taking a drug that couldn’t save you, but is now saving so many lives. Thank you for making methotrexate possible. They use it for rheumatoid arthritis now, and at one time it helped our dad as it is now helping a dear friend; it also helped a college student I knew years ago recover from the leukemia that killed you.

Randy, thank you for being my brother.

Randy, thank you for whatever it was we learned together.

Randy, thank you for saying goodbye to me.

Goodbye, Randy.

Fallon is a citrine Lemurian quartz sphere.

He is one of the amazing beings who has come back into the world at a time of growth and change.

He says he is a gift from the earth to its people. And, I am proud and honored to say that he is my partner.

Robyn’s Story

I am an MBA with a crystal ball.

Go ahead, laugh. I do.

I spent most of my life being the analytical, skeptical woman, book smart and street dumb. I’m still kinda that way. I’m constantly falling over myself trying to find the good in people.

I have also been disabled for over 20 years. That means I have to carefully manage my activities. There were years I couldn’t work at all, which has permanently skewed how I see the world (usually in a good way).

Somehow, through all of that, I maintained a sense of humor and an often grim optimism, a determination to get well even when I didn’t know how. One day I bought a dog, a Cavalier King Charles puppy who became Murphy Brown. When she developed health problems, some of which looked disturbingly like mine, I decided that we would get well together. Somehow. When she saved both our lives by alerting me to an earthquake several minutes before it happened, I knew there was more going on in the world than most of us realized, including me. I decided to turn my analytical, skeptical side loose to explore those things.

It’s made all the difference.

In the last 10 years Murphy and I journeyed to wellness, accompanied by her rambunctious Cavalier brother, Alki, and Grace the Cat.

In the last 10 years I learned that there was more to the analytical skeptic than I had thought, because I learned how to talk with animals, and then with hurricanes and volcanoes, and then with businesses and homes. Cars. Spiritual guides. Plants. Lots of things I didn’t even know could talk with us, let alone existed. And, come on, neither did you.

I learned to clear and keep space clear by cooperating with it and the beings who live and work in it. I learned various modalities of energy work, including Reiki (level III practitioner). I learned a new form of energy work, which I call universal or dimensional energy, which I am getting ready to introduce to the world.

And I discovered new partners in my work, from animals to volcanoes. And crystals.

One day, I think in 2005, I was driving home from Portland when I started talking with a group of beings who felt somehow different than the many beings I’ve talked with. They showed me past lives and the people I’d known throughout them. Many lives, the progression of mistakes and misadventures and, yes, triumphs that had seen me through multiple lifetimes, many harsh. They showed me what I saw as a tool or talisman that I had worked with for many lifetimes. They said I’d put this tool away until I was ready again to work with it. And that the time had come, and it was now coming back to work with me. I could see it: it was a bright white light that I was holding up.

I thought this tool was nonphysical, that it was something like a metaphor for the work I’d done to get well, and, like spiritual guides, would be there helping me in my journey.

Well, yes. And no.

Fallon’s Story

Fallon is a citrine Lemurian quartz sphere. A crystal ball. The combination of citrine and Lemurian quartz is rare. The combination that makes him Fallon is rarer still. Unique. As in one of a kind.

Here’s what I know of his recent history.

Fallon bounced around the world for a long time, perhaps years. Nobody would buy him. Not in Japan, where people like the unique large crystals. Or anywhere else. No one could understand his energy, which is a multi-dimensional planetary energy that is just now coming back into the world. It was ‘too fast’ or ‘too cold’ or too different for them. Finally he ended up in Brazil. Where he stayed I don’t know how long, while they figured out what to do with him.

My understanding is that Fallon was then a double-terminated quartz, but that’s not how I first knew him. Because ages ago I carved him out of a crystal cave, with his direction and guidance. Using something like a laser. Which we don’t think existed until recently. He had two points on one end and three on the other. We spent lifetimes together, and then things changed.

About 7 or 8 years ago the sculptor in Brazil decided to carve him into a crystal ball. That was quite an achievement, as a close personal observation of Fallon reveals. In the end, Fallon was an 8-pound crystal ball. The rest of him is gone.

He was promptly taken to a show in the United States, where crystal expert Deidre Berg saw him. She immediately recognized how unique he was, and bought him. Although she sells crystals, she put Fallon into her personal collection and worked with him privately for 6 years.

One day, Deidre decided to teach a class on crystals in Seattle. At that point I’d purchased several crystals from Deidre, and was intrigued enough by her reverence for and knowledge of crystals that I decided to take her class.

Our Story

My sometimes snotty analytical skeptical side teamed up with my usually curious, open-minded side and went with me to Deidre’s class that day. The attendees did all kinds of interesting things. At one point, Deidre invited all of us to spend a few moments with the crystal she’d brought along.

A crystal ball that had never been taken out of her personal collection, even to a class, until that day.

Oh for crying out loud, I thought, she brought a crystal ball. Still, I decided to play along. When it was my turn, I picked up the ball, sat down with it, and did what everyone else had been doing. I looked into it.

And off I went to the place above the planet that I’d been working in and never consciously visited. All the beings I’d been talking with the last few years, including those who had told me about the tool that was coming back to work with me, were in the crystal smiling back at me. All of them. And by that time I knew that many of them were multi-dimensional beings that aren’t here on this planet.

Yes, I know what that sounds like.

In those moments I knew that I was holding the tool I’d been promised. A crystal ball.

I asked him if he was ready to come to me. He was. But was Deidre ready to let him go?

At the end of the class, I asked for private time to talk with her. It was a sacred moment to me. Here was a crystal that was a conscious, living presence, that was my partner, and I was asking her to sell it. But he was also her partner, and she wasn’t ready.

I waited. I prepared for him to come to me when Deidre was ready. Finally, months later, she was. By that time I had been talking with him and knew his name was Fallon.

Even then, holding him in my hands, I hesitated. Here again was a sacred moment, an ending of one partnership and the beginning of another. A choice made by all of us. But I wanted Deidre to be sure. To look at me and the crystal together. And decide. We both cried as she agreed.

Fallon came home with me that day. It was December 2009.

He spent the next 4 months sitting in a tray of Brazilian dirt topped with Himalayan sea salt. Clearing. Preparing. Nagging me until I did so much clutter clearing in the house that I was exhausted and made him quit.

I spent a lot of time worrying that he wasn’t in the same shape as I’d first met him, centuries ago when he told me how to carve him out of a crystal cave. Would he be the same?

Yes, he was the same, just in a different body. And, as he pointed out, so was I. That of course made us both laugh.

Our Work Together

Most of my work is with the planet. Nobody pays me for it, and very few people believe in it. Nevertheless.

Fallon and I do this work together. He is no longer a tool, if he ever was one. He is my partner. He is a crystal, yes, but he is an equal partner in our work. He has a say in what we do together. And no hesitation in saying it. And I listen. Not because he’s always right, but because we’re partners, and that’s what partners do.

I never expected that Fallon and I would publicly go out in the world. That changed in early summer 2010.

By that time friends had been stopping by to visit and meeting Fallon at home. I noticed that they would come in and immediately notice a change in our house, and walk around until they saw him. They were clearly feeling his energy. Fallon started asking to work with them. He would tell me about conversations he was having with them until I realized he was conducting healing sessions. I have no interest in being a healer, so I asked him to keep those sessions private unless I was needed, and I promised him that I would make him available to people for healing sessions.

At other times people had fun seeing things in him: he is, after all, a crystal ball, and with him their traditionally recognized ‘scrying’ ability is easily accessed. You don’t need to be anything more than curious to see things in Fallon. Really.

Fallon and I offer group events to experience his energy and the world of crystals and how we bridge paradigms. We also offer private sessions and have a few products to sell.

And right here you’ll find stories about our work together. Questions?