Review and Revue

Well, what an interesting morning this has been. I was remembering this morning. Remembering. Playing a movie in my mind’s eye. Finding new ways to interpret something experienced. So, on this happy Sunday, let me share a story with you about that time I got stuck between worlds in Anderson, California.

One thing I had not wanted to do during that trip, the trip that brought me here, was step one foot in California. My gut told me if I got stuck in California, I’d never get out. I made an exception for Shasta because Shasta isn’t a place it is an Entity, but that’s another story. We were going elsewhere, leaving Shasta and travelling further into California exactly where I didn’t want to be, travelling with a couple, I didn’t want to be travelling with, that God had His eye on to put it bluntly, caravan style.

A lot of what I’m going to say may sound judgey. Oh well. I make no claim, no attempt to deliver a sentence, a decree or anything beyond relaying what I observed during that time period. I saw many wild creatures, straight outta books but living in human bodies, transforming and hiding not so well there. The female was gargoyle like. Cat like. Ogre like. A strange blend of something come up from the nether realms. But yet, a young girl there as well. A young girl that had lost her way somehow.

We were travelling to some or other hippie something or other because that’s the trip she was on, fastened to. Her beau, one of God’s own. That I saw too. I don’t suppose I would have shown up in the midst of that for any other reason. Somewhere on a freeway to nowhere good, her car died. I don’t quite remember how she finagled a tow, but she did, and we spent the next three days in a Walmart parking lot in Anderson, California.

Those three days. Holy Hannah. I knew, because I know weird stuff, that we were in an in-between place, a loopy place, that space on a vinyl record where the needle is in-between one song and the next and you still don’t know if it’s going to skip or not.

Anderson. My first husband, that snake in the grass, he was an Anderson. My first husband that took my prayer journal into court, made it public record that I was clearly mentally unfit to be allowed to mother my son. I mean, shit, I talked to angels and stuff. How could any woman who actually believes she talks to God, to Angels, to the unseen world be fit to raise a child, right!? Yea, so Anderson held some heavy karma clearing potential. I knew. Because I know weird stuff. The couple we were travelling with, unfortunately, did not.

She had bought the manifestor’s trip to paradise handbook, hook, line and sinker. I remember her sitting in her little folding chair with her cardboard sign on the edge of the parking lot, wondering why the fuck what had always worked wasn’t working. Three days. It got well over a hundred degrees each one of those days. No help in sight. You see, we weren’t in her realm. We were in mine. And in my realm I expect a little righteousness, a little purity, a little effort, a little less plotting, planning, hiding, and false light.

I kept her safe. My monk friend was given 50 bucks by a kind stranger, so we had food and water. But there was still something of a human soul left in her and I imagine the forces that be, wanted to give her a chance to see. Beyond. To wake up, just a little. And for me to learn how to be kind but discerning with my power, not bullied into bending over backwards for one that would just as soon eat my flesh before giving up their hungry ghost.

It wasn’t a fun lesson. It wasn’t fun to be ignored, passed by, essentially left to wither in the baking sun by those customers going to and fro. I was raised in a time where, if someone was having some kind of trouble, you inquire, if only to let them know another human cares. There was one guy that stopped. Every day. An old man. He was also a meth head, I discovered on the last day. No wonder he couldn’t fix the car but was having so much fun taking it apart. That was our lot at the time.

If she would have listened to me on the first day, some of the worst of those three days could have been avoided. But she had not been taught the wise counsel of listening to an elder, she didn’t even know what an elder was. So it took three days of “this fucking sucks” for her to finally quit stomping her feet and leave that car behind and be grateful we were still willing to drive her back to her homebase. And just to be clear, I don’t think I’m an elder all the time, but in that situation, with that Divine potential in human form, I was.

Why am I pondering these things this morning? What’s the lesson I’m reviewing, the choices I have a chance to correct? I can tell you that the other neon sign of spiritual force that’s been playing through my field is “spiritual ego”. Pride formed from accumulated spiritual or energetic interactions. The tonic of humility that brings joy and relief from such. Pride is suffering disguised, cleverly disguised, as love.

You don’t have to do it all alone. There is absolutely nothing in nature that suggests this would be so. You don’t have to hold the heavens up. Turn the sun on every morning. Tell the moon what day it is. Know every step. Decree, demand, create every slice of your life. It is a dance. You can dance alone. You can dance with many partners. You can dance to the music in your head or the music of angels. You can watch the record turning, round and round, or be the sound the comes up from it’s hidden depths.

I don’t know if this will work or not but I’ll attempt to embed the video I made from that time period. Back when I knew something, but wasn’t quite sure what it was that I knew. This isn’t an active campaign, I’m over thinking that’s how I get out of this. The story, the symbology, that so many want to understand, it is here for you. The best I can offer. For now.

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