This special Santa blog is a repost from several years ago, and back this year by popular demand. It’s worth mentioning that health-care reform was big news when this article first appeared.
Most of my sessions are conducted over the phone. There are, however, clients who insist on seeing me personally. This story is about one who was so eager to talk to me that he couldn’t even wait for my office to open after the holidays.
It was Christmas Eve. The kids had gone to bed, and I was sipping a glass of mulled wine beside the glowing embers of a log fire. I picked up the newspaper. “Debate Rages over Health Care Reform,” the headline read. I wondered what was so hard about coming up with a health care plan that would make everyone happy. “Young souls,” I mused to myself. Yawning sleepily, I looked at my watch. It was midnight. Time to hang the kids’ stockings and hit the sack.
As I leaned over and placed my glass on the table, I heard a muffled thud on the roof, followed by a series of thumps and bangs. “Bloody raccoons,” I muttered. The next minute, however, it became clear that something large and living had become stuck in the chimney. There was a massive crash, and what sounded like an enormous balloon being squeezed.
All of a sudden, a huge bloke in a red suit popped out of the fireplace and began dancing around in circles, vigorously patting his smoking posterior. He caught the startled look on my face, and reached out a gloved hand. “I’m glad you’re still awake,” he said. “I’m Santa Claus. I need your help.”
“You may well do,” I said. “But do you have an appointment?” Ignoring my comment, the old man slumped into the chair opposite me and helped himself to a slice of chocolate orange and a mouthful of room-temperature milk. “Hey,” I said, “Those are for San…” I realized what I was about to say might have sounded a little stupid. “Alright,” I continued, “Tell me what I can do for you.”
“Where to begin…” Santa sighed.
“That’s perfect,” Santa replied, popping another chocolate in his mouth. “You don’t mind if I…?”
“No, not at all,” I said. “They are for you, after all.”
It didn’t take long to figure out Santa’s soul age. “You’re a Level 10 soul,” I said.” He looked pleased.
“I told Mrs. C. I was a ten. She said that if I was a ten, by now I should have learned to put my socks in the laundry basket without her having to ask.” He gave a festive kind of laugh and kicked off his boots.
“You’re a Performer type,” I said. “Performers are generally fun loving and gregarious.” Santa leaned over, and with a bellowing “Ho-Ho Ho!” gave me a painful noogie on the top of my head. “No question about that one,” I said casually, turning momentarily to the wall so he couldn’t see the tears of pain welling up in my eyes. “And your primary influence is that of a Leader type. Makes sense when you have your own business and a company sleigh.”
Santa’s secondary influence turned out to be that of a Spiritualist. I explained how that imbued him with a great deal of kindness, and a desire to help others. He agreed, but something was clearly bothering him. “I want to help people, but I feel overwhelmed,” he said. “I look at little children like yours who have nothing to wake up to on Christmas morning but a Nintendo DS, a Lego Star Wars Battle of Endor Box, a Webkinz porcupine, a Twilight Trading Card Set, a Bakugan Dragonoid, an Avatar DVD, and a Super Mario Bros. Wii game, and my heart goes out to them.”
“The motivation to help others is karmic,” I told him. “You had a past life in which you were a child who underwent deprivations even more dreadful than those of my own children. As a result, you have this overwhelming motivation to help others who suffer as you once did.”
Santa seemed to understand. “Is that why I prefer to give than to receive?” he asked.
“Very much so,” I replied. “But remember, in spiritual terms, by giving love you also receive love. It’s a real two-way street.”
I went on to discover that Santa had a mission of Exploration. “It’s something you find in people who enjoy travel,” I said. “I take it you…”
Before I could finish the sentence, he pulled out his passport and shoved it directly under my nose. Even with my eyes crossed, and unable to properly focus at such close range, I could make out an official looking stamp. “Togo!” he exclaimed. “Togo! How many people have even heard of the place? Me, I go there every year.”
For the next ten minutes, Santa reeled off a list of all the countries he’d visited that night. I began to pity Mrs. Claus. Finally, I cleared my throat and said, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, “Wow! That’s amazing. Now, back to business.” He stopped halfway through the word Kyrgyzstan, looking a little miffed that I hadn’t let him finish.
When I saw Santa had a mission of Avoidance, but no mission of Connection, a lot of things fell into place. “You prefer to work at night on your own, don’t you?” I suggested. Santa’s eyes crinkled as he gave a wistful smile. “Just me and the reindeer,” he said. “That’s how I like it.” Then he sighed and shook his head from side to side. “It would be perfect,” he said. “But I feel under so much pressure. Billions of kids and so little time. It makes my beard quiver just thinking about it.”
“That’s your past-life fear of Failure at work,” I said. “I expect you feel a lot of internal pressure to achieve. I daresay you’re something of a perfectionist.”
“Perfectionist?” Santa gave a laugh. “Have you been talking to Mrs. C? Last year I finally made it home only to find I still had a Malibu Barbie in the bottom of my sack. I turned the reindeer right around and made it to Great Falls, Montana, with just seconds to spare. I hate making mistakes. I still cringe when I think of the poor kid last year who woke up to a Snuggle-Me Elmo instead of the Alien Battle Blaster he’d been waiting six months for. You should have seen the text he sent me.”
“Your mission of Examination must come in useful, though,” I suggested. “It should help with all the paperwork–attention to detail, and that sort of thing.”
Santa poured himself a glass of mulled wine and knocked it back in one noisy gulp. “I check the list once. I check it twice. I check it to see who’s been naughty or nice, but Jeez, I’m only one guy!” I tried to interject, but he raised his voice making it clear he hadn’t finished. “And it’s not just a one-day-a-year job, either,” he went on, “I have to oversee the ordering, manufacture and delivery of all those toys.”
“Have to?” I asked.
“If I don’t, who will?” he said. It was more a statement of fact than a question.
“I thought you had staff,” I said. “Can’t your elves pick up some of the slack?” Santa looked at me as if I’d just made the most idiotic statement he’d ever heard. He grabbed a fistful of Planters mixed nuts from the bowl beside him and crammed them messily into his mouth.
“Elves!” he said, wiping pecan and peanut crumbs off his massive belly and onto the rug. “You don’t know elves! If I’m not there nothing will get done.”
Suddenly, I could see the problem. It wasn’t the elves. It was Santa. “You have a mission of Control!” I said excitedly. “It’s your whole problem. You don’t trust anyone to do anything for you. You must learn to delegate.”
A look of revelation came over Santa’s face. “You mean I can get the elves to run the workshop, check the list, load the sleigh, feed the reindeer, pick up my Social Security check?”
“All of that-and more,” I assured him. “Elves are all Helper types. Their purpose is to help people like you. By letting them do things for you, you’re actually assisting them in fulfilling their life plans!”
Santa gripped the arms of his chair. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying I should have them look after me all the other days of the year?”
“And reindeer poop?”
“Rubbing my aching back and trimming my beard?”
“And you say that by letting them take care of me I’m actually taking care of them?”
Santa leapt to his feet. “You know what this means?” he exclaimed.
“An Elf Care Plan that makes everyone happy!”
Santa and I embraced each other like old friends. He promised to drop in on me again the following year, and I agreed to persuade my eight-year-old son that a flamethrower is on Santa’s list of banned items, and simply never going to happen.
I’m pleased to report that Santa has spent most of the last year on a beach in Acapulco. The elves are enjoying the opportunity to be of greater service, and Mrs. C. is delighted to have the place to herself, without some grumpy old geezer complaining about his workload all the time.
My client information is always treated as confidential but, before he left, Santa agreed that I could share some of the elements of his life plan with you. They are as follows:
Client name: S. Claus .
Soul Age: Level 10.
Soul Type: Performer.
Primary Influence: Leader.
Secondary Influence: Spiritualist.
Missions: Avoidance, Control, Examination, Exploration, Love .
Challenges: Insecurity, Conceit, Self-Sacrifice, Restlessness, Obstinacy . Past-Life Fears: Failure, Authority, Loss .
Desires: Fame, Immortality, Status, Glamour .
Talents: Intuition, Activity, Construction, Logic, Empathy
Would you like to learn about your own Soul Age, Soul Type, Missions and Talents, and determine what your soul came here to accomplish? Let Ainslie and his Spirit Guides reveal your soul’s purpose through a one-0n-one Psychic Guidance Session.