Long entry; it covers a lot that is personal to me but open for sharing, and has been in draft form since 30th October. While in drafts, developments in my life happened to add to this entry, to round it up and close it. But here it is.
In 2013, I found myself on an unexpected trip to England, around Christmas and winter solstice. I felt called to Glastonbury, and so spent that week there, including the obligatory ;) solstice atop the Tor. The photo above was taken 2 days before Solstice on a “reconnaissance” trip–and it was that first climb, and my first arrival at St. Michael’s tower that was the more eventful trip for me. I’ve never blogged about what happened, but now I feel freed to do so, perhaps because I can now see what was begun in my life since that time.
In 2011, everything I’d thought to be figured out already–material reality, my place in it, my plan towards Enlightenment via Buddhism–had burst at the seams. So had my marriage, spectacularly (I can laugh at it now). I had been experiencing, since 2010, night-time visitations and daytime hauntings, space-clearing (brought on by the hauntings), been stupefied at fairies and angels making themselves physically known, and was conversing in my lucid dreams with all manner of beings from my past (and distant past) that even my fantasy-obsessed teenager self could never have imagined.
It was a challenging yet heady time–the world was scary but also magical. Everything I’d ever wanted to be real was! I’d had previous brushes with the supernatural in my life before, in my teenage years, but those had all been negative and fearful, and now I was discovering different beings, different information, and different responses to my conscious actions and interactions. I had tapped into my multidimensional self, my missing pieces, my gifts from past and present, and my “posse”.
Yet a part of me remained wondering what I was supposed to do with all this without being seen as barking mad. My role and purpose were open questions (a good thing). Of course I wanted to know more nownownow, and sometimes entertained the idea of becoming super psychic-artist-writer-teacher-healer-master-of-all-the-spiritual-mysteries. (Someone please reassure me: This happens to all of us, right? ;) )
Anyway, back to Glastonbury of December 2013. Up the Tor I climbed.
huff puff huff puff vision blurring heart pounding legs aching I’m dyyyyying (Physical exercise was a novelty for me.)
And like this, I stumbled into the tower at the top, to at least collapse somewhere sheltered from the wind. I sat on one of the stone benches within St. Michael’s tower, and closed my eyes, breathing hard, wondering what heart attacks feel like and whether emergency services would be forced to get me from the Tor on foot.
And I saw behind my eyelids multi-leveled circles of beings gathered around me. Vast networks of light above and below us all. And I knew without a doubt I was not “making up” any of this because I was just too winded from the climb and embarrassed by my physical weakness.
Er, I thought awkwardly to the assembled VIPs and angels. Um. Gimme a moment. You’re all here early. I only expected this spectacle for the Solstice. I need some time to recuperate…
And the answer returned quite clearly that it was now. My body was winded, but my mind was clear, was it not?
The communication, the sight, the impressions of everything going on was of a clarity beaten only by lucid dreaming, and a bit of a shock to me, someone who still doubted what came through in my meditations. But there was nothing of this that allowed doubt.
I drank in the sight and just stayed to be there. And finally the desire burst out of me; I asked/offered* to be a channel for cleansing spaces, to bring light, re-connection and healing back to the places on Earth that needed such. (I felt, and still feel, my home country needs this desperately. But selfishly, I also wanted to travel more. The wish was also natural for me as a granola-munching treehugger long frustrated at how we treat this planet, both physically, and energy-wise. And who doesn’t want to be a bad-ass pillar of light? Or is it just me again? )
And so it was.
*A Side Note about Asking/Offering
It called to me to mention that I don’t like being a supplicant or beggar for favours. I realise that I have often (though not always) been cautious and conscious in what I ask for, and less so in what I give, even if, in effect, they are one and the same: We can’t give what we don’t own, and we can’t receive/wield what we’re not equipped to handle. When I am surrounded by witnesses (and we always are), I understand that my requests/offers of new roles are not so much appeals, but statements on what I am ready to experience. This is a distinction I feel is important as we step into our power and expanded responsibilities.
The Canyon Crossing Dream
Roughly a year ago, I had an unexpected dream: I was part of a huge migration. The people I saw around me were young, old, strong, weak, female, male… what we had in common is that none of us had anything in our hands or on our backs. We were on an important journey yet unencumbered, and un-bothered by this. There was no fear or urgency, only necessity as our journey wound through a rocky landscape, and we had reached a wide and shallow canyon stream. Slowly we were walking across, when someone on a ledge called for our attention.
Warriors were needed. Fighters. Trouble was coming towards us from upstream, up the canyon, and these individuals were needed to face this threat, to buy the others’ safety. A few people stepped up. For me, my spirit was willing, but my mind went, “I am a middle-aged, unfit woman who had trouble climbing the Tor… this is not for me.” And on my right, I saw my deceased younger brother step forward, offering himself.
This would normally be a trigger for my lucidity, the realisation that I was dreaming. (My brother committed suicide early 2010.) And I did have that realisation of dreaming, but another voice said, “Wait. Watch.“
The volunteers would be given peacock-like indigo feathers that would mark them as warriors for this mission. They were the size of one’s thumb, and very blue.
Oh those are pretty… I thought, admiring them, but I was too practical to claim one for myself. In a moment, it didn’t matter anyway, because my brother brought us both the electric blue feathers. He helped me wear mine; I pierced his feather into/behind his left nostril. I remember this clearly, because I was overcome by his being there and wondering if I was hurting him even though he wore other feathers. And I wondered why this little thing, this blue feather could be so light and small yet feel like such a heavy responsibility. How could anyone think I was up for it?
Then we were off, as if a starter’s pistol had been fired. We needed to be fast, to follow the leaders in front. All of us with the blue feathers ran forward, and to my surprise the others soon fell behind, as I leapt to follow the gods racing before me, my feet barely touching anything below. The divine feminine and masculine led in front; I knew one of them as the old man/magician archetype, and the other as Guan Yin, with purposeful yet effortless stride and flowing robes. When there were no more following behind me, we found ourselves in the most banal and local places of my current life: In a food court with local street food, packed with diners at tables and stools cemented in place.
“Oh, we’re early,” the gods remarked. (It’s funny because they have perfect timing, so I now know this was a joke / Glastonbury reference that I only just got.) Both were carrying simple tools that I knew were really serious business. I had nothing in my hands. They looked at me. “You need this,” they said.
They gave me a quarterstaff made of pink tourmaline, and in the shape that from my Dungeons & Dragons days was known as the “Healing Staff of Mishakal” (a goddess of healing). (I remain amused at how much material from my teenage geekdom gets used in my dreams till now.) The last of that dream was me, Guan Yin, and Fizban (the God/wizard) chilling in the food court, waiting for a mysterious, formidable “Her” to arrive. I wasn’t sure if we were to battle this new arrival, or sit down for tea.
I can tell this story matter-of-factly now, but there were months after this dream I would break down whenever I tried to write the scene with my brother. It resonated strongly in me as an abridged “origin story” for this lifetime, with some current updates, and there was also a survivor’s guilt; a late realisation and regret that my family had been so ill-prepared for my brother’s schizophrenia, that I could only “awaken” after his passing and his visits from beyond.
The blue feathers have shown themselves (and in pairs) in my life.
And I’ve been told that my aura is “very blue”.
I know exactly which shade of blue.
In the world of spirituality, titles abound. Lightworker / healer / priestess / channel / mystic / intuitive /witch / shaman… the list goes on. Labels define and restrict–this is something I figured out early in my life, when I was greatly distressed not being able to choose a clear path for myself: Did I want to work with words as an editor or author? Did I want to work with images as an artist, illustrator, or designer? Was I a programmer because I could design programs and build sites and had studied computer science? Why could I talk about literature, history, quantum physics, astronomy, mythology, science-fiction, sociology, politics, environmentalism, the lives of sex workers, Dungeons & Dragons games, art, crafting, craft markets, business, and conspiracy theories, and only feel alive with the very few people who also pursued deep and wide swathes of information and interests?
At some point (especially this year), the gulf between me and the majority of people became too wide to ignore the emotional impact that had plagued me since teenagerhood: feeling alone, impossible to understand, unfulfilled and often bored and uncomprehending of the obsessions and priorities of 99% of the population. I know the negative labels that I’d collected from others over my life: arrogant, proud, arrogant, not as smart as I thought myself, arrogant, antisocial, a troublemaker, arrogant, misinformed, a misguided feminist, arrogant, misled (“too much internet” for my information sources, just as the books/subjects I read were too many), arrogant. Well, I had also been finding the people I admired and whom I enjoyed conversing and snarking with on various subjects and getting tired of maintaining the relationships with people that felt forced in one way or another.
I accepted the way I was, forgave myself for not being liked by all (whether I was “arrogant” or not) and felt that the friends and support I did have and appreciate were more than enough; I am blessed. I accepted the intellect, curiosity and impulsiveness that had served me in my life and pursuit of learning widely, because they had brought me so much joy, adventure, and opportunities to share and have ridiculously rewarding meetings with “random” strangers.
It is a freeing thing to be able to not care what others think, and to be fine with oneself. It is insanely fortunate for me and also freeing to have the permission (from oneself) to pursue the heart’s whims and desires and to know, at last, that they do align with one’s purpose, even if one’s role doesn’t yet have a name. One of my biggest sources of confusion had truly been how my skills were varied; but always in the field of seeking, understanding, presenting, refining, expanding, and channeling information–all the better when it was in service to educating, healing or empowering others. At the very least, it should entertain or bring beauty or a pause into the programming. Healing and teaching/learning are also complementary–truth heals and empowers. Information is light. Light heals and illuminates. Everything is carried by light. Art cannot be seen without it. Art plays with it.
If I have huge capacity for information, I have a corresponding huge capacity to hold light and wield it consciously, wisely. The more light I can hold, the more information (and different types of information) I can receive and channel, whether for dissemination, or healing.
So it is in the last few weeks, I intuited the “big picture”, then had it confirmed, elaborated and expanded by other gifted channels. The work ahead of me will be interesting. It already is. I have no time for boredom.
So We Go On
After two weeks of hopping cities for personal and professional reasons, I finally could sleep in my own bed again this past Tuesday. I got a dream that was early in the night–not past 2am, I’m certain. I found myself in a white place with my dead brother. This was not the first time. I was immediately lucid and conscious that this was important, even if he appeared to be casually sitting and hugging my father.
“I am moving on,” he announced. He appeared young, light, happy. Around 12, which was around the time he’d last been “normal” and free of schizophrenia; yet his manner and voice was older, the ironic tone of his 20s was there.
“Oh,” I said. It all clicked into sense; at least in the dream. “So this is goodbye for now.” Time didn’t matter here. I told myself we would all meet up in the end; it was all perspective, points in time were illusory, and anyway, he looked happy.
There was a hug and a joke shared about chicks and chickens that only made sense in the dream but not here; it included the implication that he was familiar with the relationship between myself and my daughter, and that all three of us knew it.
I noticed that he was unabashedly hugging my father–something that had not been practised in our “real” lives. My father’s “placeholder” in the dream was passive–he was there but not fully present, something I understood as common in this space where some of us may visit without lucidity. (My mum not being there was also easily understood–Alzheimer’s and fear.)
I was reluctant to leave but conscious that not much else could be said. I wished my brother well, then wondered about my father being there.
“How much will he remember?” I asked. “He’s not going to remember, is he?” (After all, I’m the family’s sole dreamwalker for now.)
“Pssh,” went my brother. “He’s not going to remember. That’s your job.”
With that, I had a moment of being in two places (in the dream and in my bedroom) as if I had been pushed out (I’m pretty sure I was pushed out); followed by full waking up. My first feelings were of happiness, incredulity, and indignation of needing to be waken up as if I was a dreaming amateur. Reluctantly I had to admit that waking up did help committing the dream to memory.
And it was a very sibling thing to do. (I’ve laughed while talking about it. That’s a big change.)
I went back to sleep, and had other dreams.
My father had no recollection, so I shared what I could.
I feel a chapter has been closed; the next one opens.