Florence of the Fire ('Tis Clan Elliott)
In times past, I worked myself to the bone, learning absolutely everything I could, whilst in pursuit of a Degree In English with a minor in Humanities. I wanted to become a professional writer. I was determined to obtain formal education come hell or high-water due largely in part to my dear mentor's (Bob Rupert) encouragement regarding my ability to communicate on a level he had rarely encountered. Being a Journalism Professor at one the most prestigious educational institutions in Canada (Carleton University), winning Bob's praise was no minor thing. I took it very much to heart. Then, I took it straight to my brain.
I embarked on a journey of unpredictably epic proportions, I never expected it to lead me to uncover the mystery of the wretched horrid thing called The Elliott Curse, which I have discussed at length across my social media platforms (mainly instagram, Youtube and Facebook, occasionally). I do not like to discuss it much, but one thing I want you to know is this; it sort of found me, like it was desirous of being acknowledged. Such is the power of a curse (a real one). It is like the scene in the Harry Potter movie where they use their magic wand to pull memories from their minds. A curse is like that strand they pull from their brain only its not twisting in glorious magical auras. Rather, a curse is full of all that is bad in this word; the smell of decay, the burden of grief, the loss of all warmth and light, the loss of love, security, family, and stability. It is trauma and it is death. It comes out as tar from between the pebbles of a crush-rock pavement on an overly hot summer's day. It oozes around every open place, making it slick and sticky and impossible to get rid of. It becomes a mark. A stain. Indelible. A scarlet letter.
The details of these series of events that lead me to dive into research regarding this curse are too numerous to recall, but I would like to reminisce a little. I started this journey to make a name for myself, however small. Or however big, as the case my be. I am a true artist at heart and an artist doesn't crave fame so much as the opportunity to change the world. Sometimes these things are synonymous and sometimes they are not. Nevertheless (one of my favourite words), the fateful events (and people within them) have certainly served to bring me to a better comprehension of the things that are rooted deep within my psyche. I never knew about this damned thing until I was 41 years old. My eldest sister died at that exact same age, but there is a crux. The night before she died, she was gripped in what we call intercessory prayer for me and my family. I've seen her pray like that before. It was incredible, powerful, terrifying and so very very raw. She was like a woman gripped in the throes of labour, birthing something in the spirit realm that no one, including you and I, has the power to disrupt. After she died, I dreamt I was a midwife and I helped her give birth to twins. It was so real to me I called mother the next day and cried bitterly, utterly bereft. Her loss, times three.
I began writing a book about my Grandmother's life. When I first started it, I wanted to create something that highlighted her sense of humour, her ability to run hot to some and cold to others. Her warmth, overall. She made me laugh. She held me when I cried. We shared tears of joy and tears of grief and though I took the time to soak in every ounce of time I could with her, I know there was much of her life she held secret. She was protective of me. For example, one day when I was approximately 4 years old, I was at her house and her brother (who I didn't know) pulled into the driveway. I was playing outside and she was puttering around as well and as soon as he drove in, she beckoned to me sharply (which was utterly unheard of). I stood to attention and did exactly as I was told. Obeying her was never ever out of the question for me.
She pulled me in behind her and held her arms around me in a backwards sort of way. She would not let her brother see me and she would not let me see her brother. I became afraid but also lulled into a sense of fierce mother-bear energy which was not a common thing as my mother was grieving and often terribly distracted. But this was different. I felt her soul come alive like a lightning bolt, all for my sake. It was an incredible, exhilarating and endorphin riddled moment. I felt clarity of mind, knowing my place exactly, for a change. My place was tucked in under mother hen's feathers. I hid there with pride.
Later in life I discovered why she was so fiercely protective of me that day. Her brother was very bad news. He died an alcoholic, frozen to death in the winter time, in a chicken coop, from what I was told. I don't know if that is accurate, but that is the story.
So, she had an effect on me, to say the very least. I loved her and still love her, more than I can begin to explain. And what is more, I know I am not the only one who felt that way about her.
In grappling with this curse, I think of her. A lot. I think of all the burdens she carried and yet remained a woman of faith, of honesty, of hard work, ethical behaviour, love, generosity, kindness, accountability and so on and so on. She told me her father had a divine gift of healing and she also told me she saw the Spirit of the Lord visit her in the form of blue lights swirling around her bedroom when she was a little girl. She grew to be a shining example of the love she witnessed that mysterious night. The daughter of a Scottish stow away (who came to Canada at the age of four), she may not have known about the curse put upon our family, but it was no secret that our family fled Scotland due to "religious persecution" to begin again in the wilds of New Brunswick, Canada. What was the nature of this persecution, exactly? That is the question I asked and that particular inquiry lead me to discover this curse, as well as many other things.
I began writing my book in the expectation that I would be focusing on the challenges of settling in New Brunswick, especially during the winter months. And in those times, winter was a beast. A force to be reckoned with much more than it is for us today. I do not know exactly how they managed, but manage they did.
As for this curse? I pondered its power and authority and I began to realize a curse is something rather insidious in one particular way, above all. It's power is not some outside source, haunting you like a ghost. On the contrary. It exist in the inward parts. In the parts of the human experiences that are capable of abstract thought and emotion. It exists in the rumours people spread and the fear they begin to nurture when you are not around. They start to gossip and treat you differently. You become something warped due to the perverse thoughts associated with the bad reputation this curse inflicts. And so on and so on and so on.
Much like Martin Luther's letter that was nailed to the door, this curse was also posted publicly and in so doing, became a weapon against those for which it was written. So, in my estimation, it wouldn't take long for the weak, uneducated, protestant-era minds to consume it and regurgitate it with superstitions and worse. Everyone's minds would become infected with the question of "what if" and those relying on the church that issued it in the first place would not dare to denounce it or buck up against it. Eventually, those whom it calls out specifically (Clan Elliott) are treated differently. Things escalate.
I can see why my family fled Scotland. It is the words people utter to each other regarding the ones who are targeted. That is the power of the curse. It feasts on the proclivity of mankind to be viscous and cruel to each other, even within the slightest micro-aggressions.
My family has passed down many generations worth of DNA, traumatized by this event, make no mistake about it. And so, as time moved froward, the Elliott Clan evolved. Much like a fish will evolve in the dark to eventually loose its eyesight and skin pigmentation, the Elliotts (in my branch of the family, at least) evolved in an opposite kind of way. We became heightened in our ability to perceive the spiritual world. This is evidenced by stories that have been passed down (as mention earlier) not to mention the things that have happened to me in the last several years. It is no joke to come to terms with the forces of this world, but they do exist and someone like me was born knowing how to use them. I cannot explain it, I just know it. It was handed down to me by previous generations of men and women who bore the burden of this curse and learned how to navigate the world with the weight of it on their backs, but never bowing to its authority, despite the loss. Elliotts do not bow to anyone but God.
In the realms of a curse of this magnitude, the only word of advice I can offer is based on personal experience. Curses run deep. The endure. They take hold.
No trinket will save you. Voodoo is no match for this thing. Neither is Satanism nor any other "trick of the enemy' as my Gram would say. She knew exactly what she was talking about.
The only way out of something like this is one step at a time, one decision at a time, one battle at a time, one breath at a time. I come from a very long line of fire breathing dragons, as a consequence. It is a quest of living for God, moment to moment to moment, until you finally get to drop these burdens in the lava rivers within Mount Doom (metaphorically speaking). It helps to have access to Cole. Pardon the pun (I expect very few people will get that reference but my hats off to you if you do). As for fire breathing dragons? My grandmother was one, in disguise. You can think of the greatest love you have ever known and I promise you, I loved her at least twice as much as that. Dracula (the real one) lived his life based on a very similar premise.
As for Bob? He once advised me of this one tenant; don't go to university to get a better job. Go to university to become a better person.
I had two grandmothers. Both were named after cities in Italy.
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