Eros’s Error and the Compensatory Grace

 

“I thirst.”
– Jesus Christ

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In retrospect, Oracion felt Mother had done her a greater disservice when she had recommended Oracion be auctioned for dragons, than when she had sold Oracion’s night visions to a troubled prelate, for the cost of a trikerion lamp.

After all, the dragons had done Oracion no harm, and when she, a princess but only five years old, demanded Mother tell her –  what offenses dragons had committed that all of them were guilty of death (just so a princess could bear a prince) – Mother could give no answer.

“If any knight slays an innocent, unproven dragon for my sake, not tried for its case” Oracion had announced, licking honey cream casually off of her fingers (for she was eating a thick slice of current bread) “be he a knight, a prince, or even be he a king – he will never have my hand.”

Oracion had gone then to see Father, still licking her fingers.

She found him in the expansive castle library on one of the tall ladders towards the back of the room, beneath the ancient ceiling vault upon which the builder had drawn angels. He was paging through a heavy volume he had pulled from a shelf, beside an open window the height of one wall. From this emitted a gentle, summer evening breeze, that caused long, gauzy silk curtains to flutter, like wispy skirts of garden nymphs.

Father often seemed to understand Oracion, when others could not.

Indeed, he had overheard portions of Oracion and her mother’s conversation, which came echoing in from the dining chamber. It was funny how within this castle there were so few secrets, yet so many, that Oracion was wont to realize.

Glancing down at Oracion, Father was now only halfway absorbed in the fine volume, which had such outstanding, gilded lettering running down the length of its spine, luminous calligraphy seemed to jump right off of the binding, in response to the flickering candlelight.

“In your mother’s culture it was an honor for princesses to have suitors duel over them,”  he stated, matter of factly, still appearing to peruse the book.  “And where there was not game, the men would invent.”

Oracion crossed her arms at this remark, her brow knit with great consternation at what seemed like Eros’s error, then sat down silently into a great armchair, three times too big.

“That does not impress,” she had finally responded, which was a response that was also three times too big,  for such a little girl.   “So why would it honor?”

Father considered for a moment, then slid the book back into the row of bound manuscripts, closing the space.  He came down from the ladder and sat down next to his little girl empty handed, drawing her lovingly  – into his arms.

“Do not worry, my righteous little Oracion,” he told her.  “Your mother knows it will not happen that way. For I will not let her do that to you.”

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Oracion had looked up at Father then, suddenly more hopeful of a future not devoid of that virtue of which marriage claimed to promote, and which Father had taught her only too well. Father knew what love was, and he also had a habit of fixing things right.

His love for Oracion was like a deep well from which she could draw many delightful draughts, to the degree to which she was thirsty, and simply trusted he had secreted them there. Satisfaction was always there waiting. And since satiation could be so endlessly drawn – with little more than an inclination of will, or the sound of one’s voice in this kingdom, why did not everyone know joy?  And why then was poor Mother, so often sad?

“How then, will it happen?”  Oracion asked.

Father smiled.

“Oh that.   I do not know… for that is for you.  But you are part Etherate, so you will not be won.  You are also nobility… so you will rule with your king.  You are a shape shifter, so you will marry like mind –  with free choice –  and finally – you have warrior blood within –  of deep and ancient origin.”

“Warrier blood,” repeated Oracion. “Oh Daddy, I know.  I will duel with the suitors and whomever can beat me – I will allow them my hand.”

At this Father had laughed robustly, even slapping one of his knees.

“I don’t know about that, my dearest, funny heart.  Perhaps, but not like you imagine it.  You are sure to meet him in the midst of battle, but you are going to have to be willing to be saved.  The saving part is mutual, and non-negotiable –  for true love is a gift freely given, and accepted.”

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This explanation sat true with Oracion, so she had not pondered it further, or plumbed its depths.  Until she met Cosmos, the angel-boy she called Christmas, in Father’s mysterious orange grove.

Now it made even more sense, as if Father had been mapping for her the lines of his face.

As for Mother, perhaps she had just been teasing, but Oracion decided never to tell her about the boy she had heard being called Cosmos.  Telling Mother such things might worry her, hasten competitive suitors, or provoke a loosening of dragons.

And she had instantly loved that little boy like Christmas morning.

But that she was going to marry Cosmos  – the boy she called Christmas   – was something the Presence had revealed to her as well,  so in Oracion’s mind it was already settled.  There only remained decorating the ballroom with balsam and pine, not encouraging the other suitors, and planning the feast to which she planned on inviting all nobility, fairy-kind, shape-shifters,  servants, commoners and animals alike,  regardless of rank, species, table manners… or lack thereof.

But as the years passed, that magical and sleepy spring day in the orange grove faded like a sweet dream rather than a certain, tangible memory.  Though she missed her beloved Christmas with an aching, ever-present longing, Oracion had begun to assume her angel boy was already in heaven and waiting for her there, like one of those perfect cherubs, whose images had graced Father’s ceiling.

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The significance that the Divine Presence would allow her to meet Cosmos again, right before Oracion found herself, as an adult, shifting into the past to revisit her father’s death –  was not lost on Oracion, whose mind was ever reflectant, and constantly sifted analogy and thought. Analogy and thought, to be effective, were like shadow and light, juxtaposed. Though she had perfected these mental skills in time travel lessons as a child, instantaneous contemplation and awareness were something she had never been without.

So truly, as an adult, Oracion knew that hearing Cosmos’s voice (even as he rescued her from a blended-dragon, who was really her brother) was at the same time what gave her strength to face this uncomfortable reality.

Should it have come then as any surprise, that the Artist who tempered the forest she loved so dear, with variant hue and melodious bird song, had balanced her life with such a great paradox, albeit in the unhurried, eleventh hour, like her own father, glancing down from a book?

But He had.

And it did.

It did come as a surprise.

The sound of her lover’s voice, when she had heard it that second time, as an adult.

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Oracion noticed that during the most important events in life many things happen at once, and perhaps this was how they tended to take one unaware.

Even as she found herself shifting helplessly away from the now adult Cosmos, back into the past, visions started flashing rapidly before Oracion’s eyes like cut away still shots of life. The current buns with their sticky, dehydrated fruit – now a startling, disturbing ruby red –  and her mother’s eyes, on the surface kind –  but with hidden complexity.

This was a jarring disorientation, more dizzying than grains of sand in a sand storm, flying into her face.

The two visions crossed, in a sense also juxtaposed, and she saw her mother shifting into a dream snatcher.  Mother’s eyes seemed to sink in her face until they were filled with heavy, deep pools of currant jam –  which became dried, coagulated blood.  Oracion suddenly became aware of her own eyes becoming filled with something opposite – wet, stinging, and raw.

The wetness of tears upon Oracion’s cheeks stung like a bitter salve, even as she passed over and saw below the hang man’s noose being erected by the priests – and the testers –  in the castle square.

But she needed to cry to put back into her own mother’s eyes – life.

A loosening of emotions had been necessary and caused by this time shift, and Oracion wept even as she felt, and was becoming aware, of new – but past – surroundings. She felt the godmothers clinging ever more tightly to the folds of her skirt – Sweet Joy, hiding her eyes, burying her face, as if in this time shift she would be Chagrin once again. But it was also then that she heard the Madonna of the Glistening Wood saying  “He thirsts”.

Her voice was both a startlingly lovely, beckoning song, and a gentle pleading. She had promised Oracion to stay near.

Suddenly all Oracion could think was “Father”  –  the immensity of him –  and the depth of his love for her, what it had been, and what it was.  She was back in the turret bedroom her parents had given her, now weeping for Father, whose death was about to begin.

This was how Oracion realized it, the day the kind lady turned her tears for her mother – into tears for Father – at the sound of her voice. For if she hadn’t spoken Oracion would have died of grief, and martyred herself –  for a wrong cause.

My Pretty Rose Tree

 

Whole Lotta Love

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“God save us from single vision.”
– William Blake

“Neurosis is always a substitute for legitimate suffering.”
– Carl Jung

“I thirst.”
– Jesus Christ

“Denial is not just a river in Egypt.”
– High-level Freemason, releasing a sensational secret

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I have lost my faith.  I have lost my faith in man.  Moreover, I contend, to really find faith in God, one must discard all counterfeit religions.

Likewise, it is only when man recognizes his very enemy as his other self, and embraces his own humanity  (with all its accompanying sufferings, griefs, victimization, and mini-deaths) that any one man can find life.

Despite the obvious unpopularity of this truism –  and mankind’s many attempts to change it,  like a race of monkeys repeatedly banging their heads against a cage – dying to self is the only way any one of us can get out of this life ‘alive’.  And death to the lower self, the animal self,  is the only way we can live life – to the degree that we are able – as if it is heaven on earth.

That is, in freedom.

As another writer put it (in my opinion a lot more eloquently than I) we must paradoxically “not give a fuck” what happens to us on this earth – to healthily change this life.

For as humans, we are all in this together, and therefore in a spiritual sense, represent one another.  All healthy religious schools of thought hold to some version of the Judeo-Christian ethic “Love thy neighbor as thyself”.

Perhaps this is because, despite being infinitely unique, like countless snowflakes – with just slightly different life experiences and traumas, or choices of free will – we would all ‘be’ or ‘see’ exactly like our ‘enemy human sees’ –   and has come to believe.

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It is really difficult for the sane to believe that there are men who don’t deep down inside ‘mean well’ – or want ‘good’ –  if you really think about it.  “Goodness” is like a magnet, that even atheists desire and fight to possess, though some might call goodness by a different name. And God alone sees men’s hearts, and this similarity between men.  In fact, if you embrace any variety of an all good God and His all good creed, you must pray with Him for a new world order,  that “they may all be one”.  Those who fight against this creed become ‘anti-Christs’.

But for those who mean well, this necessitates we would want our brother to “get to heaven”  – not therein triumph in our brother’s nonexistence.

C S Lewis touched on this startling principle in Till We Have Faces, as have many other esoteric and spiritually gifted writers.  Without the outside-of-us Higher Power on the inner self, and without actually embracing grief, no man can fix the discord between the humanities, move mountains, change people, the world – or our surrounding physical existence –  let alone change the shape and nature of self, or the state of the human soul.

Indeed, as psychiatrists know, suppression of grief and suffering, refusal to acknowledge that we are helpless, in need of one another, or that we have been victimized, sometimes even by our own parents, is what causes mental illness, and is the seed of sadism,  and the development of a breed of empathy-less men.  Empathy-less Man, as I like to call him – Brute Man – though he may experience pleasure at the expense of another, cannot understand or ever attain joy.

If one cannot grieve, have empathy for oneself, and hates and judges oneself and his own weakness instead, one will certainly not have empathy for one’s own kind, or will judge his own brother accordingly, rather than fighting back against the ignorance and evil that afflicts humanity.

It is like suffering and fragility is a necessary healing and illuminating window or door, if properly approached, that every human must pass through to get strong, and therefore not an evil at all – even though in the passing through it might hurt, and feel like we have gotten wounded.

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In fact, though praying “may it be done on earth as it is in heaven… that they may all be one” is a hard, but healing prayer – attempting to make earth ‘heaven’  by one’s own efforts, on the other hand  (though it may not ‘hurt’ at all)  is quite another story.  The damage done to self and to others simply by drug addiction –  tells this story all too well.

Going at it ‘alone’ by one’s own efforts – not God’s – is being dangerously out of touch with reality, and exemplifies mankind’s historically repeated tale, its failed efforts to obtain power and grandeur.

In fact, it is this error or delusion of self-importance and power by which brute sociopaths and brute ideologies have, without any trace of human empathy, traditionally caused death, sometimes of millions of people, those deemed too “imperfect” to live here on this earth.  Sociopaths and sociopath like ideologies lack human empathy, but strangely assume to speak or act in the very name of God Himself, or as if they alone, are above God’s laws, the elected elite.

Thus we have abortion against ‘imperfect’ humans for a ‘better earth’ by the left elite, and ISIS and White Supremacist type movements by the ‘religious right’ elite, to impose control, slander, dominate or eliminate the ‘imperfect’ from one’s ‘borders’ for example,  via other methods of human destruction.

Man does not seek to be perfect so much as he tends not to want to be exposed to the humbling truth of his own “imperfection”, and what he deems as “imperfection” in others. It ‘hurts’ Brute Man to ‘see’ suffering, poverty, or illness, because these things remind of Brute Man’s own mortality.  It hurts him to see – one another.

But ‘imperfection’ is not a sin –  not even a fault – nor does ‘imperfection’ prevent freedom, or peace.   Imperfection is a state of being – not of our own fault and choosing – and a “cross” all of humanity must bear.  Most of us simply inherit a fallen nature.

From a spiritual perspective, the paradox is that though we may be imperfect in a physical sense, we were all born equally innocent, in fact,  in the very Image and Likeness of God. Therefore we can only gain true perfection, by reaching into the spiritual dimension.

We are all called to realize that the perfect God-Man is already risen, after being nailed to our cross, just like time is already written, and time is already undone. Likewise, our ‘imperfections’, sufferings and crosses of humanity if you will  – are also, in another dimension (outside of time) –  already ‘undone’, and it is only through Him that we can obtain our own potential.

Death has already been conquered,  just as the “perfect” man has  already been created – and crucified for it.  Jesus Christ was also nailed to that cross for repeating this truism, this plan for humanity, that I simply reiterate here on this page today. The cross is not very comfortable, but it is a beautiful, healing, life and joy giving reality to many.

And though most of us are obsessed with “left brain” activities regarding time, planning and strategy – to “make our world a better place” –  paradoxically, the only things really left of our once angelic conscious that can “move” anything at all,  or ‘help’ save the world, is none of these –  and never was.

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The “spiritual powers” of “movement” are of energy, of what Is, the Forever Now –  and include intuition, creativity, communication, knowing, understanding, awareness of patterns and analogy, empathy, free will and prayer. This is revelation, the realization of the deeper meaning of things, their familial, interconnected nature, and what Is, or shall I say –  Who Is. This is not to say we must not act out charity, fight back against evil,  exposing imposed wrongs on ourselves and others, or defending the innocent, inspired by these higher impulses –  but it is the will rather than the deed itself  – that is the more ‘powerful mover’  – because that is the ‘how’ we are ‘like God’.

There is a Who Whom holds everything in existence, and therefore a Who Alone that can change or save it.

Also, paradoxically, the spiritual gifts, those gifts that connect us to this ‘Is’, this all powerful God, are strongest in those who have embraced suffering and grief  –  like the handicapped, or the autistic savant –  and practically nonexistent in humanly ‘powerful’ individuals.  Man who has made himself blind to this higher reality and spiritual realm, jealously seeks, none the less, by methods satanic (inhuman, without self sacrifice) to ‘steal’ from God’s children their own birth right.

The reason why suffering and imperfection – trustingly embraced – as it is with suffering children, leads to spiritual enlightenment, is because where one sense may be lost via accident or nature,  others gifts and senses grow more powerful, like compensatory gifts.  Roses bloom, after being cut back.

But ironically, it is the very seemingly ‘powerless’ individual deemed ‘imperfect’ by Brute Man, that is targeted for theft, destruction, slander and extinction –  as if the very children of God – those who please His most Sacred Heart the most – who can move mountains by an act of will, prayer, fiat or simple longing for Him – have no functioning purpose at all in this life.

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This is why those who know Truth, weep.

And from a Christian perspective, this is why Christ’s own mother shed tears at the foot of the cross.

As the weeping, human feminine she was the “new Eve” that represented all of us, pondering these truths deeply within her heart, as she embraced the ultimate grief.  She wept not just for her Son, but for all of innocent humanity whom God allowed her to see would/did/is suffering, and would/did/is willing to be victimized, along with Him.

Therefore the mother of God  is our true Mother, more so than Mother Nature or Mother Earth, for she alone – as a human bridge – offers a spiritual pathway of transformation – always pointing not to herself, but to Truth itself.  I love this God-used link of the human Mary, who shows humanity whom humanity Is, and Whom God Is, the God that loves us humans unconditionally, despite our human rejection of Him – and the choice of hell.

But this is why in Scripture, we find that Satan hates Mary, with her knowing eyes, and her silent, intuitive heart.

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Deep down inside, all evil entities also know (though cannot understand ) the superior power of the innocent through their connection to God, and therefore fear this power ‘of’  humanity –  a power that can somehow turn tears of sorrow and suffering –  into joy.  If evil cannot steal or conquer this power of God’s Movement, evil will ultimately seek to destroy, control or eradicate all those humans whom he assumes possess it, or belong to it.  Evil is an illogical force much like jealous schizophrenia, though this must not be confused by brutes to assume those with true mental illness, are necessarily culpable of the evil they might commit.

The force to destroy those of Good Will, the innocent ( a suffering, weeping but capable of joy humanity) is the real Beast, or the Anti-Christ.

Anti-Christs spin off continuously from one another like countless, fruitless, robotic voids or black holes of destruction, ‘reproducing’ from the ‘makings’ of men… and he is legion.

They, these Anti-Christs,  are easily recognizable in the broken systems surrounding us that have victimized those very persons they were designed to serve, blaming their own corruption, disorder and ineptitude on the victim, each time around.  These broken systems are disordered parents, governmental and all man-corrupted, religious institutions and ‘authorities’  – that abuse their own.  Those that really represent God are all humans of good will, and God’s real ‘universal’ or ‘catholic’ church of every denomination. God’s children, of all ages and genders, are hidden and victimized within these systems, usually completely unknown to society – and the world at large.

They are hardly ever applauded.

These innocents have a spiritually powerful, but almost completely silent voice (I have been privileged to know a few) that the world is in general way too busy to hear, or because, after all, there is something better on TV  – a reality show –  or the football game.

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But in America today,  the political anti Christs that are really distracting, false and fraudulent dichotomies, rage blindly along in the ‘war’ to destroy the innocent, and battle among themselves, throughout all of society,  media outlet and venue.

The left, having chosen disorder over order by means of rebellion, negligence and relativism (“there is no such thing as truth or a moral code that should therefore be enforced or lived”) offers no protection or refuge for vulnerable and innocent victims, like pre-born children, as if they are material objects, possessed by another.

The right on the other hand, has an unhealthy obsession with order that makes man despise everything less than ‘perfect’, or anyone who is ‘weak’ and vulnerable, as writer Dean Koontz put it –  an outward demanding “obsessive compulsive disorder of the intellect, rather than the emotions.”  These entities on the right work to destroy and silence all those they think contribute to ‘imperfection’ or ‘disorder’ – ultimately – through similar methods and means, though cloaked in a different, even more dangerous language. They seek to breed only a ‘superior’ race.

Both of these political errors, the first of negligence and cowardice, the second of pride, are narcissistic. They result in the same thing –  the sacrifice of the innocent or “imperfect and unwanted”  for a “greater good” in life.  “Greater good” has become code for Oneself  (“Hail Man”).

Both are the refusal of self to look inward, the refusal of self to embrace one’s own imperfections of humanity – and the refusal to (instead of seeking ‘perfection’ of humanity outside of oneself) seek perfection and enlightenment of one’s very own soul.

Perhaps there is no place better to examine these conflicting, but equally erroneous pathological ideologies than through the battles that wage on social media, where the Logo that Brute Man has chosen – Might Makes Right – over human reason, truth, self awareness and ‘common’ sense –  is obvious, and clearly turning mankind ‘back’ into a mindless beast.  Man has become much like a squawking, preening peacock, that can’t even get himself above the material world, rather than like a soaring eagle – who can view a bigger picture –  from celestial realms.

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Countless times, I have seen this peacock-dinosaur type creature.

Not only have I been the victim of theft, slander, religious shunning and attempted soul murder by corrupted individuals and entities – in real life – that literally sought me out “to destroy” me,  but have witnessed and been the victim of the illiterate verbal monster on social media practically every time I enter into that realm.

But wherever provable truth surfaces repeatedly to fight corruption (as I have occasionally done in my work in fraud investigation and as founder of the Saint Germaine Foundation) with no party or religious bias, this is almost inevitably going to happen. This is particularly and ironically going to happen more frequently though, the more uncomfortable truths are expressed by individuals in a straight forward and carefully charitable manner, to enlighten minds, not attack, judge or punish others.

If one simple voice of truth did not have the awesome and frightening power of God behind it, why would truth itself be so frequently banned, shunned, crucified or silenced? Indeed it is always the intended deception of a degenerate perpetrator, to impose a toxic, twisted type moral shame on its victim for speaking out, and fighting back, against the perpetrator’s lies.

In fact, sometimes I have to laugh because Evil is so predictable, like an ancient old coot, cursing at rocks that get in the way of his cane.

Rather than assume the position of shame (though the shaming itself by people you love or are trying to help can be hurtful) you don’t have to fall for the toxic, imposed sense of ‘guilt’ – once you are aware of Evil’s ‘trick’.

It is then you can really sit back and enjoy not giving a fuck.

For example,  I got banned recently from Discus by One Peter Five “Catholic” blog owner, Steve Skojek, simply for pointing out contextual error and disinformation contained in his (and his bishop friend’s) anonymous “reveal” against Freemasonry. (Freemasonry is a secret, silent, anti-corruption society that is subsequently forever getting slandered and targeted by tainted clerics – on the right and the left – within the Catholic church, and other entities, despite the absurdities of clerical claims.)  Sadly, by methods of distraction like this, the only thing any hierarchy of man typically succeeds in ‘moving’ around  – are shuffled pederasts.

It never fails to amaze me, particularly as a female, that members of my own religious interpretation, particularly male members, are still obsessing over who is a ‘radical feminist’ in the church, a mason, a heretic, or what gender gets to use the men’s or ladies room, seemingly unaware of the male trans war going on right before their very own eyes. The brute males, though less identifiable and perhaps lesser in number than femme homosexuals, will always ‘fight’ and ‘win’,  perhaps because they appear – so traditionally Catholic – and masculine, even though they possess neither of those qualities,  in any orthodox sense of the word.

These brutes are the traditional, “Catholic”  ritualists, the Pharisees who worship ritual and discipline perfection over God and His teachings on love.  The church has become infested with brute predatorial homosexual types targetting femme homosexuals, women (again) only for breeding purposes, and children for abuse.

I even got accused of Jewry by one woman-subjugating, white supremacist styled brute male on Skojek’s blog, while his adulating guy friends applauded his bravado – let the witch burn!  My last name was  (erroneously) dissected and analyzed for Jewish origin (hail man) and banned, while the Catholic church’s own church builders, the masons, have taken vows of silence and circumspection to avoid corruption, and will not/cannot,  defend themselves.

But I digress.

The dignified and silent masons are masters at the gentle art of not giving a flying fuck, even if they are defamed, slandered and spit upon.  This is true masculinity – that reaches and sacrifices self to protect the innocent, that people of all religions and genders would do well to imitate.

Last I checked, I don’t even happen to be a mason, a ‘radical’ feminist (what’s wrong with being radically female – Mary was) or of Jewish ethnicity, although I wouldn’t mind being any of these things.  The whole humorous interchange exposing Skojek’s hypocrisy, his failure to read his own comments, or admit the pathology of his followers –  including “The Great Stalin”  and “Tall Order” – remains on his so-called Catholic blog –  for all to read.

So,  Evil inevitably simply exposes himself, like a fraudulent emperor not wearing any clothes, or a mean old man tripping up on his own cane, as if just to entertain innocent, but insightful and outspoken children, and make them laugh. Indeed, this life is filled with much suffering, but also with much laughter and joy, a free compensatory gift from the Father, and the author of Love.  Let us not make ourselves unaware of both, for they were meant to go hand in hand.

“It added importance to its jaw, and ignorance of its notes.  But Truth is like a living stream, that flows ever eternal.”
-From a dream

Day Prose

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Thank you for this beautiful dream, oh GOD
The morning birds
Singing, they greet me
The life of flower, fruit, mountain and bee
Leaves of purple, gold or pine
And with artist’s brush
Some powdered white
In confectioners sugared branches

The rivers that run wild
Their torrents of grace
Laugh like following, canine companions
And in a niche
There’s an entire grove

Filled with sweet oranges
We can eat all we want
Know the divine
That draws not a dragon’s breath

The spotless lady knows the way
But there for those that fear her
With angry thoughts
They do not want to know
The Father’s plan
Which is something good
To teach small children
When they start to awake
As they are wont to do
On their bended knees

Oh world meant to serve
To remind us of Eden
And remember life’s Maker
Until then our marvelous mystery
The day we return to You
Finally opening our eyes
We will also remember
All suffering and sadness
Undone
The day we return to Eden

Before They Made Monsters

 

Where perfectionism exists, shame is always lurking.
– Brene Brown

The laws of the past follow a distant norm.
– Lessons of Time Travel for Children, Book I

Oranges are one of the few fruits that will not overripen if left on the tree.
Fun fact

I believe in the magic of coffee and oranges.
– Paul Hodgson

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There was another fruit tree, other than the pear, that now grew wild.  There were less of these, but they grew nearer, and chose to intersperse with – the lady’s pear trees that had once been part of Father’s orchards –  rather than mingle with the giant oak and pine that lived near the stream, and reached for water with intermingling roots.   None of the fruit trees had been planted on flat land, but grew into the foothills of mountains, as if someone had been experimenting with elevation.

The tree Oracion had in mind was the orange.

She recalled when Father had had the gardeners plant these.  Their climate did not naturally host the tropical, so Father had induced the hybrid makers to regraft a wondrous, older variety  (before Priest began experimenting with other things) that would constantly and simultaneously fruit oranges and flower, while remaining impervious to the elements.

Father had loved his gardens.

When the weather was kind to her, Oracion would make the trek just to hunt for and gather these special oranges,  while her godmothers sat nearby, contenting themselves with spinning necklaces out of blossom and vine.  Oranges were one of Oracion’s favorite fruits, and reminded her of childhood. This evening however, Oracion was time traveling, and it was only by gut instinct she headed for the old groves, choosing this longer, more circuitous route through the forest, embracing the arduous incline.  She intentionally wished to come up upon the old castle from behind, and avoid emerging from the woods into village streets altogether.

The hunters were looking for stag, and the priests were doing the testings, but since Oracion had cloaked herself in invisibility she was not certain why she felt so cautious. She wanted to avoid the scouts and dichobots as well, who inevitably would be out and about looking for her, despite the fact they were as unlikely to see her as they were to become suddenly aware – of what they themselves had become.

Oracion did plan to show herself if necessary, but only once she had shifted safely into the past, and only when she had found Father. Though she could communicate with people in the past that she loved that had gone on in the present to other realms, she could not effect the past directly, nor could it effect, or harm her.  Nonetheless, the weight of this evening’s importance lay on Oracion’s shoulders as heavily as the fog that blanketed the trees all around her.

It was getting colder as well, which was strange for late spring.

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Usually, in the evening, the dark black, lacy limbs of upper tree branches stood out in sharp contrast against a setting sun, and its violet-purple sky.  Now the moon, full – but obscured –  was the only language by which Oracion could find her way through the younger trees towards what had once been orchards. The godmothers had cloaked themselves into invisibility as well, though Oracion could see them, and they occasionally reappeared playing nuthatch or robin.  As birds, they had no place to
land, as upper portions of oak and pine now disappeared altogether into the mist.  It was as if branches had been lopped off by a crazy gardener, who rudely defrocked trees of their budding leaves.

This was extremely disorienting, and Oracion felt like the forest she knew like the back of her hand had turned malevolent against her,  and was playing tricks on her mind with a new found wit.  Or, perhaps, Mother Nature could also shift, wanted to tell her something,  warn her away from this route and the knowledge which she intuitively sought. Nevertheless, something in the present was drawing Oracion toward what had once been the orange grove, where she had first seen the boy, as if she sensed in his absence –  invaders had overtaken the land.

She had seen the boy with the knowing eyes (that reminded her of the pear tree madonna) many years ago, when she, as a child, had induced Father to let her accompany him on a journey.  Father had been meeting secretly with someone on the farther side of the forrest – a mysterious stranger – a messenger, or a scout perhaps, from a distant land.  He had safely secured Oracion into his stagecoach, then for an hour or so little Oracion had slept with her head leaning against his big, broad shoulder, as Father drove the horses further and further into the woods,  by a little known access route.  Simply content to be at his side, the ride lulled Oracion to sleep.   But before she drifted off, Father had told her – when she asked on what business the special messenger or courier came – he could not tell her for her own protection.  If she squealed, he said, the tree monkeys would get her.  They could fly and had sharp teeth. He wasn’t going to take that chance.

Oracion started to suspect Father was making things up, for purposes of her own amusement.  It was a long journey, and he liked to see her smile.

She had awoken when the stagecoach came to a bumpy stop beneath a canopy of orange blossoms, and in that sweet spring day of many years past, the flowers and fruits blossomed in such heavenly abundance, they emitted a memorable, heady and potent, but at the same time delicate, fragrance.  This scent was better than any perfume the ointment makers made, even better than the lilac butter Mother had dabbed on her wrists, or the honeysuckle milk that she bathed in.   Father often brought back sweet oranges to Oracion when he traveled alone this way, but this was the first time Oracion had ever seen the grove.

He got out of the coach and disappeared into a thicket of trees, but not before soliciting from Oracion another promise. Whatever she did, she was not to get out of the carriage and follow him, and no matter whom she might happen to see here, to talk to no one.

Sleepily, Oracion agreed.

Sweet, silly, dear Father.

blog images science and flowers


The day was so bright, and warm.

Oracion couldn’t imagine she might chance to meet anyone here,  for she found herself alone with the birds that thrilled delightedly amongst fair fruit and blossom.   One branch held many ripe clusters of sun-kissed oranges which peeked out at intervals between petals, and one single, very perfect orange dangled temptingly within her reach, dappled with sunlight.  She was hungry and overheated, and surmised if she could just take one bite of its cool, rosy flesh, it would cure all remaining laments, and she could just get on with enjoyment of this beautiful day.  So, cautiously, Oracion stood up in the coach and leaned her small body outside of the window as far as she could reach, without falling out.

But this nearest orange was just out of reach.

And that’s when she saw him.

He had not been standing on the ground at all but was sitting way up high in the tree branches, looking down at her –  a young boy, quite tall and well built, but definitely her age.  Oracion had never seen an angel before, but she had seen drawings of them on the ancient scrolls that Father had shown her. The boy’s face was like porcelain, and in his fine blue eyes (which were as deep and sad as the sea) he spoke a thousand stories, but he didn’t seem inclined to tell any of them. He just stared at Oracion silently, the juice of an orange dripping silently off his chin, as if he was as shocked to see her there –  as she was to see him.

Though Oracion recognized him (hadn’t they known each other, once upon a time?) she marveled that if he was the gardener’s son, he could now possess wings, and the countenance of nobility, beneath long wavy locks of fiery, cinnamon hair.

“Christmas” she remarked, simply observing, before she could realize why she had spoken that word, and what she had done –  spoken to a stranger –  which was exactly what Father had forbidden.

“Why don’t you use your wings?”  he responded.  A voice like a chime, or a dulcimer chord.

“My wings?”  she asked, noticing that she had spoken again.

“To reach an orange,” he explained.   Why don’t you use your wings?”

blog image oranges with bees


The boy asked the question so sincerely and innocently it frustrated Oracion to no end. She did not understand why a boy with such an angel’s face and wings would ask her such a question about her own wings, when she obviously didn’t have any.

But just then his name was called out by someone she could not see.

“Cosmos!”

A man with a cruel voice, that seemed to threaten impending brutality.

And in that instance Cosmos disappeared, but not before he tossed Oracion the rest of an orange, that he had been holding in his hand.

Christmas (as Oracion often thought of him ever since ) had vanished instantaneously, into the warm, spring air.  When Father returned to the carriage, Oracion was savoring the sweet, refreshing fruit flesh that mysteriously had been given to her.  But thinking of the hard, cruel voice, and fearing for the angel boy, she hesitantly asked Father “Was the man you met –  was he bad?”

blog image oranges cut apart


Father looked at her, not harshly, nor disapprovingly, but as if Oracion had asked a question to which she should already know the answer.   “Oracion, you know the Maker does not make bad men, but people do.  And this man that I met wants to delay what is rightfully yours.”

She had turned to look up at Father when he made this cryptic remark, expecting him to look angry or displeased, but he had not.  Instead, Father looked solemn , his eyes knowing – like the boy’s had been.  Perhaps he knew she had spoken to someone without permission and was not mad, but simply disappointed.

She had never seen Christmas again, and wondered if it had all been a dream, especially in the contrast of this strange spring evening in the present,  with its heavy, dream like mist.

Occasionally (in the present) she noticed that some animal or beast imitated her pace and direction in the trees adjacent, but this was not so unusual.  Animals could sense Oracion’s presence and often drew near her, as if they felt there a safety they could not otherwise easily obtain. Through the thick fog Oracion could tell the gentle creature that followed her to the old orange grove now was large, like Noble Beast had been, and she once spotted majestic antlers cutting up through the mist, like sharp knives cutting into gray cloud.

The thought of Noble Beast brought to Oracion a bittersweet comfort and joy  – intermingled with the feeling of sorrow and loss.

For Oracion, emotions were as wild, strong and dangerous as she was, and in this moment she made conscious effort to harness and focus them, so they would not lead her astray, and instead work to her advantage. Not so far off she had heard a strange noise, as if large walls of metal creaked and scraped, one against the other.

But when an orange tree emerged in front of her, she knew she was in the right place.

Suddenly, an enormous dark shadow overhead,  a flurry of wings and horrible talons pulling painfully at her hair.

The giant bird screeched its horrific cry as it passed over Oracion, its cry much louder for it was in her ear this time, metal against metal, a glacier of ice seizing, then crashing into the sea.  And was this apparently blind creature actually able to see her?

blog image dinosaur bird


The velociraptor seemed unable to fly very high or far, and settled awkwardly and noisily into the branches of an orange tree, his tail curled in serpentine formation down and around the crook of its trunk.  The weight of his body cast too heavy a load on the fruit bearer, and Oracion feared the tree (though much thicker and sturdier now than she had seen the trees in the past) would break in the bending.

She stood at a distance of about fifteen feet away from this dinosaur-like bird, staring in fascination.  As she watched him pull at oranges and branch with his huge jaws, she guessed that he was frustrated that he could not use his stunted wings to separate and loose the treats.  Beneath the sound of snapping twigs and frustrated screeches, Oracion heard the Madonna’s voice whisper something silently into her ear.

“She was with child when she was taken.”

A fragment, of knowing.

It was then that Oracion noticed the creature’s eyes – blind apparently – and glazed over, as with filmy white cataracts  – like dichobotic eyes.  But Oracion couldn’t help sensing that they were creepily, and inexplicably – human – and also (perhaps even worse than the fact that they were human) that she somehow knew, or recognized them.

As an animal (much in appearance as well as behavior) the creature resembled a hybrid mix between a proud, preening peacock, and an angry, small-brained dinosaur.  In her sciences Oracion had learned such creatures did exist – and it was possible the priests could have returned them to the wood, much as Father had reintroduced cold climate oranges.

But his eyes, oh his eyes! – how Oracion pitied the creature for his eyes.  What had they mixed him with?

“And wanted her son to carry the gene”  said the lady gently, but firmer this time.

Then with a horror, Oracion remembered what Father had told her, one night when they were standing on the turret rooftop, under the light of a magnificent moon.

Even though lineage played a factor, the ability to shape shift was rare.  Shape shifting women who had turned,  wanting to assure the gene was passed to their first born sons, were going to the priests who meddled with the hybrid potions and vapors, which the pregnant women then drank in great draughts (for the price of their soul, a trikerion lamp, or some such thing) each morning for nine months.  For some, there was success – but other offspring were caught in a void-shift, part human –  and part beast.

The creature was a Blender.

And the Blender seemed to sense, or smell, Oracion’s existence – at least to a certain degree, though he did not seem to realize her godmothers, who had hung back somewhat in trepidation.  For though Oracion was still invisible (and she had checked, glancing down at her feet, which weighted the grass but still could not be seen) the creature seemed to get more and more irate, even to, and in proportion to, the degree to which she pitied him.  She had slowly been getting closer, even as he spat at her angrily, shaking his head violently back and forth, leaves and debris flying out of his mouth in every direction –  a shower of fury.

Then, to Oracion’s right, a movement where the gentler, pacing animal had been. Suddenly Oracion feared that the Noble-Beast like creature that had followed her had actually been tracking her purposely,  for he emerged out of the woods not as a beast, but as a man.

A huge man.

Oracion had never seen a dichobot so tall and formidable, even greater a force than Trock had been, with steel plated shoulders spanning an expanse wider than the velociraptor’s greatest proportion.  But this dichobot, like the mad, screeching dinosaur creature, but much more so, could see Oracion quite clearly.

This didn’t make any sense.

No dichobot could see Oracion when she cloaked into invisibility, and though his plated visor was down, hiding his eyes, he seemed to stare directly at her, one arm even extended towards her as if in urgent supplication.  It was as if he wanted to stop her – or for her to come towards him.  Could it be that one of Father’s soldiers remained, having survived the scourge?  She thought about that possibility. No, it couldn’t be. Hadn’t all those that had not transformed – been executed?

The man saw her nonetheless, for in that moment several things happened at once.

He rushed Oracion just as the flames shot from her brother’s mouth, a deadly, fiery conflagration.  She noted the acidic,  pungent odor of burnt oranges in the Blender’s breath, and instantaneously cindered twigs.   The heat wave alone would have killed her in a matter of seconds, had not the large soldier-man covered her with his metal plated body.  She found herself on the ground staring up at the emblem of a lily on a chest plate, as flames radiated over steel – red, orange, blue…  then white.

A memory, a flash in her mind, a little boy’s voice.

“Why don’t you use your wings?”

Oracion was so disoriented and shocked she felt herself shifting helplessly into the past. The scene, the heat, the trees, everything around her disappeared, but not before she heard his voice – all grown up now –  but still like a dulcimer – or a chime.

“Christmas,” he said, as if in transfixed amazement.

Then once again, they were apart.

blog image Oracion in orange

Oracion and the Lady’s Lament


blog image violet head piece

Thus saith the Lord: A voice was heard on high of lamentation, of mourning, and weeping, of Rachel weeping for her children, and refusing to be comforted for them, because they are not.
Jeremiah

People just don’t know what civilian prisoners of war are.
-Gene Green

Empathy is the antidote to shame.
– Brene Brown

Do not fear the Opposites
Who insist upon
The lie

Slanderers feign
A brutish bunch

But angels never die
– Song of the Washer Woman, Verse III

We should not be asking who this child belongs to, but who belongs to this child.
– Jim Gritter

blog images oracion


After traveling into the past, Oracion felt she could now surmise why she had forgotten what happened during the night as a child,  the night that she realized Mother had become an Opposite (what most people called in those days, a Dream Snatcher).  Forgetting Elements must have been placed in the small hearth that graced Oracion’s bedroom, which had rarely been lit.

For the next morning, when younger Oracion had found herself so ill, and her father injured (but still holding her in his arms, weeping) the room was filled with the smoky evidence of a hearth fire. Dark, curly entrails had already covered and settled into meager furnishings like an obscuration of sheet covers strewn out of thick fog.  Father’s clothing was covered with the soot of it, as if in recent attempt to smother it out, and as if he, having arriving much later than the moment he wished, stamped it out with bare feet.

At that time, Child Oracion hadn’t been concerned with the fire that had threatened her or the bedroom furnishings, for she was all concerned for Father, and for Mother, who had been taken.

“Will we get her back?” Oracion had asked.

“I do not know” Father had told her, and she read the pain in his eyes, for certainly even his honesty cost him.  “I fear she is dead. So, if you ever see someone who looks like her, be wary, Oracion.  Do you understand me?  Be wary.  So many things in your castle are not what they appear to be, and many persons in this kingdom want you dead, my precious daughter. My  precious…my  innocent, my much beloved daughter.”

Oracion sorrowed that he was brought to tears once again, sad that now he wept for her, but was also not concerned with the notion that she, as a princess, was the target of many malevolent forces.  If Mother could already be dead, Oracion’s grief  was all consuming.

Also, it was the time of the Priestly Conferences and the Cases, which coexisted with Stag Hunt.  It was early spring.

Oracion had a fear of which she could not let go, that her Noble Beast, due to the unique and genetically rare antler formation upon his head, would get mistaken for a stag and murdered for profit, the priests too busy to notice, or even to care.

She remembered sneaking out to look out the window of her turret bedroom many times during this illness (she had been ordered to stay in bed) watching the hooded prelates below, who scurried busily to and fro, constructing their tents before dawn.  They carried with them stacks of darkly oiled, tightly bound parchment, unscrolling them occasionally to examine undecipherable script, by the light of double trikerion lamps, held aloft on gilded swords.

The bright light from these golden sconces and from the priests multiple campfires, had cast an ominously powerful, pulsating glow, and frightening shadows upon the hunters, transforming ordinary men’s faces as they passed through the hooded prelates.  The hunters appeared to young Oracion then in a form she would later recognize as dichobots.  They were very much like the soldiers they were, but their eyes glazed over with the lure of their own growing, brute animal instinct.

Oracion amused herself then (as a distraction from these cumulative events) by practicing her shape shifting skills, but she had yet to advance from sandpiper, to dove, or even to sparrow.

And each transformation cost her,  much like Father’s dutiful honesty revealed, through his eyes, a heartache of monstrous proportion.  Shifting seemed to exacerbate Oracion’s illness, weakening her own heart further, and triggered it into random, flittering convulsions, which ultimately passed.  But Oracion imagined, in retrospect, this is why Father warned her not to practice warrior skills.  She was still too young.  Disobedient Oracion none the less felt watching the prelates from the secret vantage of being a bird or by cloaking  herself as a mouse, and from the added leverage of height (while remaining tucked up safely upon her own window ledge) was way too entertaining and distracting to resist.

Truly, shifting was the only power she could leverage against hooded prelates, some of whom were even bishops, while gaining a mastery over herself.  It seemed like she was prisoner, not a princess, held hostage in her own castle, which was also becoming a place she barely recognized, and had no permission to gain.

blog image sandpiper

Now, when Oracion in the present traveled through time to visit her Child Self Past, it cost her physically much in the same manner that learning shape shifting had cost her then.  However, she was a master shape shifter who had long since matured from the days of earlier lessons, and when she time traveled from the present to the past, she was sure to take along her fairy godmothers, Velocity, Alacrity and Joy.  Though fairy godmothers were at the same time children, they were companionable and reliable adult guides, especially after Chagrin had transformed herself into Joy.  Oracion knew they would never leave her abandoned should she fall ill in journey,  for if they were anything (child or adult) – they were ever faithful.

blog image violet 8


Yet,  she wondered oft why this business of gifting “godmothers” to princesses was more like turning princesses into “mothers”, of loving (but at the same time, precocious) children.  “Who is training up who?” she had often jested with them,  readjusting the woodland wreaths they had merrily woven, then placed half hazard and crooked, upon their own heads.  Admittedly Oracion enjoyed watching their innocent, but wild revels in the wood, and their petal-costumed dance.  But for a wandering villager to unexpectedly come across Oracion’s dancing nymphs, it would have been more unsettling for them than coming across a moonlit, empty grave, in that rarely traveled, wooded byway.

blog image nymph 2


The Sacred Presence knew Oracion loved and trusted in her godmothers, much in the same manner that she had loved and trusted in Father, Noble Beast, or the madonna that now appeared in the wood, who seemed to prefer and therefore reside somewhere in the thicket that at one time had been Father’s pear orchard.

There was a certain, ever untamable aspect about Oracion’s love for these few.  Though there were those she loved with a restrained love, tempered with politeness, nurtured and matured with age, Oracion’s love for her own was a wild and uncontainable thing.  For there was a wild and uncontainable thing to each of them.  Each would give their very life for the other. And the Presence was pleased that Oracion loved in this manner and trusted the fairy godmothers (or shall we call them fairy godchildren) to protect her.

Oracion knew this was true because this was what the madonna had confirmed.

The pear tree copse (by the power of time) had shifted itself as well, into wondrous trunks and strong branches that now grew to magnificent heights, interspersed occasionally with jade green pine, as if with bold, avant -garde, artistic intent.   Oracion and the godmothers would take violet and fern, weaving not wreaths but desiring to cast petals about the madonna’s feet (the godmothers’ idea) while she spoke to them,  in that steady and silent, maternal voice.  The kindly lady would gently submit to this, the Showering of Petals as Joy liked to call it,  so gracious she was, inside and out.  She was even more beautiful than Oracion’s own mother had been, and Mother had been an Etherate.

Oracion noticed that the madonna also wore upon her head a crown of more exquisite gems than Mother had ever worn, and it was interwoven with such unusual flowers (that resembled, in best human understanding, roses) that no earthly wreath could really, quite compare.

Therefore, Oracion’s companions had never bothered to boast or insult with a like gift of their own.

The lady’s fair, soft skin had a luminous quality to it that reminded Oracion of the moon.  Where she stood the beams of light that cascaded, particularly from her hands, sent shimmering translucent rays upon the pears that still fruited here in abundance, as if she was a spiritual chef sugaring them with a mystical, glittering light.

It was funny how much the madonna also reminded Oracion of Gilda, the washer woman, only Gilda seen in a manner by which Mother Nature had never naturally bestowed.  She remembered now she had gone to Gilda for advice as well, in those early days when she had first fled the castle compound, and sometimes Gilda would even sing to her, after her kitchen chores were done, and all the smaller children had been nursed.

But now that the time had come for Father’s Reviewing, the review of his death that is,  Oracion was glad she had come to know the Madonna of the Glistening Wood.  The anguish at facing this next step in her journeying was intense, and she shed so many tears before the woodland queen, so many shape shifter tears in abundance, that there was no need to cast petals, for wood violets arose instantaneously from the earth by the mysterious lady’s feet, wherever Oracion’s tears had fertilized them.

Finally Oracion begged her (for she had not yet this time heard the madonna speak) “Be with me when I go.”

blog image violet petals

It was in this moment that the lady gently moved one of her hands so gracefully that a beam of light shifted, and fell upon Oracion’s face. It startled her and dried her tears with its sudden, perfect, consoling warmth, and drew up the ecstatic fairies high, literally – high. They soared up into the air around the lady in a dance Oracion had never seen them do before, but it was as if it had been borne in their blood of fairies ever since the beginning of time, and they were just now rediscovering it.

The lady then spoke to Oracion.

“My child, you know I have always been with you, since before you sought my Son’s grace through your bedroom turret window.  One day you will remember it all.  Now at least you realize it is you who travel with me (for I take you with me wherever I go) not I who travel with you.  But this has come to pass so that thou shouldst ask for my companionship.”

“I don’t want to see him die,” Oracion confessed.

“Nor did I,” she said.  The lady paused, her face so solemnly beautiful in this moment that Oracion felt tears spring up again, unbidden,  but this time they were for the lady, who was gazing upon her with such perfect love, perfect beauty and perfectly deep sorrow.  Oracion suddenly understood that a creature so lovely, could only experience sadness in an equally meaningful manner .  Within her solemn eyes lay an infinite profundity, like the ironic juxoposition of sky with earth.  There was gravity in those eyes, though not of a fallen nature.

It was the Weight of What she Understood, as it had been the Weight of What Father Understood.

The lady continued.

“But the viewing is part of the warrior lessons he wished you to complete Oracion, for it is only through a father’s death by which all of your kind is born.”  She paused another moment, a moment in which Oracion felt the lady was speaking things directly into her heart, that even the godmother’s couldn’t hear, issuing secrets that Oracion would discover there later, when she needed light for a second illumination.

blog image violets 8


Then the madonna assured her:  “Even when you cannot see me, know that I am with you always, for I am inside your soul only to a lesser degree than the Very Presence, which makes up your very heart, very mind, very soul,  and even this very moonlit grove in which we now stand together.”

Oracion liked the way the lady called the Presence the Very Presence.  She like the feel of it to her intellect, as she had liked the feel of Noble Beast’s fur to her hands, the same way as a child she had liked naming Noble Beast, and in contrast, calling the corrupted shape shifters – Opposites.  It felt… True.  Who was this woman who was not her mother but her true mother, all at the same time – as if by adoption –  and who knew so well the language that the Presence used, and that He was so Very?

“Oracion” she added, as if now in turn beseeching. “My Son. They murdered my Son as well, and burned me at the stake, as they continue to burn me at the stake when they burn all women who speak in my name.  Now go.  Your hour is at hand.”

blog image gothic violet wood

Resident Scared and the Ghost of Raymond

Nothing ever goes away until it has taught us what we need to know.
Pema Chodron

Forgive yourself for the blindness that put you in the path of those that betrayed you.  Sometimes a good heart doesn’t see the bad.
Anonymous

Why do we act blind?  Seeing demands action.  To act is to risk one’s comfort and attachments.  Blindness is our play against right action.
Shri Prashant

Blessed is he, that readeth and heareth the words of this prophecy; and keepeth those things which are written in it; for the time is at hand.
Revelation 1:3

blog image spiritual blindness faith

It is strange to me how in modern times the undead have been depicted as flesh eating, soul murdering zombies.  It is not away from the undead, but to their defense, that I feel compelled to run.  Those we speak of as “dead but not dead” are simply those souls who, having survived their own personal Book of Revelation, advanced to a reality more real than this present state.

In my opinion, fear of ghosts  (if it involves gratuitous images of shooting them dead once, twice, three times, if necessary, oh damn it,  just nuke the entire zombie pavilion) suggests an attempt at eradication of the possibility of our own death, and judgment.  It also suggests attempted eradication of any chance that the already dead will talk and tell tales of our own iniquity –  truths thought long buried, but like the body of a murder victim dug in too shallow a grave, tending to resurface during an early spring rain.

Because, truly, the words of the Holy Dead never cease themselves.

The words of the Holy Dead are sacred, constant, and omnipresent.

Those who have neglected the now deceased in life (their just thoughts and their just wills) will spend an eternity knowing it.

For the deceased, their words, before death and after, become part of Whatever Is that continually expresses truth in glorification of God,  and if they weren’t doing this, repeatedly expressing themselves, albeit in some manner foreign to most, a guilty mankind would not be obsessed with setting himself at odds with the deceased, or feel compelled in any manner to mock them.

In my opinion, to mock the Holy Dead is like the scene in the Zombie movie where the living forego escape in the car, to hide out in the zombie house, and one step less perilous than mocking one’s very Creator.  I believe that’s what man should worry about – their own behavior – rather than wasting time inventing sexy security operatives turned rogue (who will arrive in a slick, black leotard to save us.)

blog image Ray, David and Steven

The words of the Holy Dead are Holy Powerful.

The words of the Dead Just are so powerful (albeit silent) precisely because their souls are now free from their bodies.  Subsequently, their voices are free from erroneous interpretation by family members and others.  No one can twist what the deceased says, or assert that one knows what their words “really” mean, or even attempt to twist what they “really” meant, right before they died.

Like my cousin Ray, who brilliantly willed that his brother Steven, who had been his caretaker, should inherit his house. Because Steven was also an inhabitant of the residence he inherited at the time, he would have been exempt from any unpaid medical debts incurred by the estate. Yet, family members have actually tried to assert that dying (but lucid) Ray made a mistake, and really meant to hand over his house to his father (who was absent for much of Ray’s illness and was the abuser that Ray felt “did a job on” Steven). Someone arranged so a thief should inherit the house for investment profit, and have the real inheritee, grown Steven,  do all the maintenance and renovation for him, while paying the house thief (his own father) rent from a disability check.

That might fly in a court of law when the victim chugs down victimhood like he chugs down nutritional supplements in a power drink, but no thinking human who has not happened to have their brain eaten out just quite yet can really swallow it.

We pre-physical death spirits cannot even begin to ascertain the power of the words the Holy Dead speak, though we may never literally hear them. We cannot begin to fully understand the infinite and unexpected meaning of their constant spiritual language, and what effect it has on this world.  For though mankind goes around stealing houses and painting the Holy Dead as flesh-eating zombies, he has an ancient over self-confident instinct to think of the silent voices of the deceased as harmless as the pinion of a bird’s wing, repeatedly sweeping the inside of a turret wall.

What is that noise… static?  Did you hear a bump in the night?  Who’s in my kitchen, frying something in a pan?

Some think they can wait a long time before a bird’s wings erode a wall, with their constant, repetitive effort, much as they put off dealing with the narcissists in their personal familial quagmire… but I wonder how well they sleep at night.

For this is a misconception, that ghosts want to invade out homes, erode our castles, or steal our rightful life and security out from underneath us.   It is a misconception of reality induced because of our own self-imposed distractions, and because so few can actually hear the dead, see their influence in our lives, or understand what their motives could possibly be. We therefore make the mistake of thinking of the undead as the ones trapped, half here, and half there. That analogy is more true for us, and those souls who have not yet escaped the cleansing place (and are just asking for our prayers) but it can never really apply to those who have escaped earth and achieved heaven. For these good souls still love us and all of humanity not in a manner of bondage by chain, but with a longing for us to share in the homeland they now possess, because their love has been purified by all manners – God.

God will allow them then, with their wings so like the wings of celestial angels, not to erode castles,  but to write within the Truth we need to hear in huge plain lettering –   on the very inside of our castle walls.

David, my cousin with the big heart, I think this message is for you.

to roar a will
and humble a will
I was wondering what you were going to do with this
You have two minutes
Without changing the subject
and you could always say more
Bring me a flashlight and a lance
fitted in the costume of the church
like a giant knight throwing a steed
I actually know folks who have geese
roaming in their back yards, like yours

[I love you, Raymond, I say]

Wake up David, coffee
the notes are still in there
Give them to him
I didn’t have a sour face
when I wrote that
Codependent cliches
You should be happy
all the times we went to bands
do not fear the ghost
It’s me
shedding light on your tunnel
Escape from it
lessons you needed to fall back on
all the time
Don’t make it harder than it is
She bought a house
she transpired from him
we have a warrant for your arrest
said the watchman
[“watchman” I believe is a reference to Reynolds, cyber detective/ criminal investigator/my boyfriend]
like a linkage on a chain of events
Very few people have this gift
(and it’s) not yours to keep
Don’t be a moron.

Deja Vous

The sight of the young man singing will take her breath away.
From my dreams

What the sinful man is afraid of will come upon him, and what is wanted by the man who is right with God will be given to him.
Proverbs

Father Ritter’s men seldom do insinuate the offering of women on the alter, cloaked in white garments while their altars are stained red…In keeping with ghosts of the past one has to acknowledge the present state…Incindiary advise…pelted at you like bullets of rain.
Holy Dead Aunt Hattie

You are his worst nightmare, all grown up.
Holy Dead Aunt Tonia

blog image girl with basket of ribbons

I know this will sound like subtle boasting, perhaps I am also unintentionally stealing a Dean Koontz cliché, and I know when people say they don’t mean to boast – they usually mean to boast.  However,  it’s difficult when the dead talk to you, and you hear things in the night that make you not paranoid but, well… equipped with something to say.

In my defense, I have a solid habit of making true statements.

And I defend myself and clarify the adjectives to describe myself (“not paranoid”) with purpose.

As a long time mental health advocate (and former caretaker for a mother with schizophrenia) I am well aware of how easily the unstable can fall into boastful, grandiose delusion.  I have said this so many times I believe it’s time for me to invent a new acronym:  ALTMHA.  ALTMHA, I am also well aware of how many will use instability’s opposite –  intellectual and emotional insight – to label the highly sensitive and those who are dangerously sane,  as paranoid.  It’s as natural as guilty prelates calling the children they’ve confessed “imaginative.”

Dangerously sane… All those dangerously sane children.

They’re the ones we should be “worried about”, right?

Harrumph.  What will the children think up next?

I use the description “dangerously sane” once again –  intentionally –  but not because I’m paranoid, over imaginative, prone to the same delusions of personal infallibility that haunt my mother, or because I believe it is me who is in any real “danger”.

I use it simply because I am intelligent and aware enough (sane enough) to understand who “doesn’t like what I write about” or who thinks my dreams “are misleading” and why. People who write about things that others find uncomfortable will not be very popular, or get the most “likes” on Facebook.  But these kinds of badges of social acceptance don’t interest me anyway.

Sometimes I simply wake up in the morning happy,  after some deep sleep more interesting to me than any book ever written (save the Holy Bible) and feel compelled to share silent words, the flash of imagery, a quick understanding or two,  before memory fades as the morning gets old.  I think of my blog and the convenient-ness and delight I take in it, coupled with a fresh cup of french pressed coffee in a favorite mug sitting right beside me, upon my father’s old military desk.  I am drawn to that desk more than I am drawn to the even nicer one he owned.

Which is odd, because that bigger desk has neat little, cubby hole compartments, beneath a roll top cover, like little rooms stacked one upon the other in high-rise rise fashion, in which my dolls could have played had my dad owned that desk when I was still a child. Perhaps I favor this more simple desk because this is where I seem to recall my father writing his own memoirs, when we lived at West Point.

I remember my brother in those days, just three years older than I, composing music on the piano so beautiful it could have themed Gladiator, Moses or Titanic.  But somehow those notes stopped playing and my brother, the brother I remember, disappeared into a world with the rest who seem to no longer value the same things I do.

Truth, meaning, personal integrity, courage and justice.

This desk is dark mahogany, in front of a large expanse of bright window, cleared of all of Mother’s old,  heavy curtains,  to expose the view. Now, it has become cheery in here.

Nonetheless, sometimes I’d rather shoot myself in the head than relay the dream I had the night before, transmitting silent messages that I find fascinating into social media format, subjecting them  to a culture that suffers from its own form of self imposed cognitive dissonance. I may be a loose canon, a liability, a free agent, and beholden to none.

But I  am not suicidal.

Hold on…  let me explain that.

I love life, and I love my own life in particular, the ebb and flow of it (despite its difficulties) so I am not going to shoot myself in the head (probably to the dismay of my many, would be silencers).  I love my desk, the amply filled coffee cup, and the deer who sometimes linger on the lawn outside my window, as if to distract me in a charming sort of way.  But it feels “suicidal” at times to reveal something you know others do not want to hear and will twist, in any attempt to use against you.

Besides, as Mother said (in a squirrelly, confabulatory kind of way) at her mental hygiene petition (not that it necessarily follows normal laws of reasoning) “I don’t even keep a gun in the house.”

Anyhow, I digress.

There are times when I actually refrain from writing.

Like the time Aunt Hattie’s message contained unsettling criticism of a particular family member that I had heretofore trusted.

Until that night,  I didn’t suspect the person of whom she spoke, my female cousin, could be intentionally culpable of a serious, single transgression.  And who am I to interpret dreams, even that of my own? But yet, I wasn’t interpreting. I was just hearing.  So, I think my hesitancy to publish Aunt Hattie’s suddenly extremely articulate verbal lacerations of certain family members was mostly due to shock.

”…she never lets them grow up like her mother did…victim’s a bitch smacker this time around…”

“God Almighty has a problem with faggots like his father.  They bundle sticks to tie them in a knot… called me, it was a joke.  I said, how do you like me now…”

And about my mother, who:

“courted disaster in the wake of my demise like a french hen caught in the noose.”

I had asked Aunt Hattie then, half asleep, admittedly more than ready to write down any answer, thinking I could try to figure it out later “but I want to find out who I am.”

“You will…It’s written in your genes…you were meant to do this.”

I had never before experienced Aunt Hattie express righteous anger so well, so…articulately. Plus, because the victim of the ethics violation which implicated the cousin did not want to realize his lot, there seemed to be no point in publishing any possible “communications” regarding it.  In retrospect, I believe we in society are guilty of a serious transgression of ethics when we underestimate the value and goodness of righteous anger, as if the holy dead would never entertain it because they are at “peace” now, immune to “gossip” and all things of this world, or something like that.

Sadly,  Aunt Hattie (even in this life) was often dismissed by “nicer” sounding relatives, who interpreted her words (especially if they implicated themselves of fault)  as idle “gossip”, because she was not as intelligent as they were.  As a child, Aunt Hattie had had a high fever that left her not retarded, but very unique, and not hindered by such standards of  “politeness”.

In a certain sense, she was always a child.

Look Mommy, do you see that?  The emperor’s not wearing any clothes.

As an adult (when I had become a young adult) Aunt Hattie was the only relative who had the boldness to tell me any of the truth regarding my mother.  I remember her righteous anger then that my mother was going around cloaking herself in religiosity, while imposing her own guilt on others, and particularly upon me.  It grieves me now that I dismissed Aunt Hattie’s brave attempt to warn me of truthful facts that were my birthright to know –  as idle nonsense, “gossip”, or talking “bad” about someone behind their back.

Good Lord, I was so brainwashed back then.

I think Holy Dead Aunt Hattie has forgiven me my I don’t want to know attitude of the past however, because she ended her night transmission with “See ya in heaven, Judy” and “I love you”.

God has righteous anger, and He is at peace.  Why therefore, I ask, would not a value of God, this value of righteous anger, continue to exist in Heaven, while we, trapped in time, continue to offend, and commit injustices against one another?

Gossip is not gossip if it is the truth, and withholding of information one has a right to know, is a lie.

Do the just not care about justice on earth anymore – simply because they inherit Heaven?

On the contrary, the dead care about us and they care about justice. They visit those with a sixth sense to reveal where their bodies and evidence lay hidden, expose or chastise those who committed crimes, ask for prayers, or give guidance to those that they continue to love. They will talk to those who are willing to listen, and to those who have the ears to understand. The holy dead are much more grounded in the values of the earth that last forever –  than they are literally grounded in the earth.

Revelation, for us humans, is therefore by definition an acquired taste.

Yes, it’s always freeing, and ultimately joyful, but revelation is the path we didn’t see, like a shadow ever present, creeping up upon us from behind.  It is a path now untangled, yes, but one in which we have to stop, step aside, and turn around to see, because we missed it the first time around, for all those trees in the way –  in truth,  a chilling realization.  To experience a realization or a revelation,  it often feels more like the sensation of deja vous, right before noticing what has been right before our faces all along.  Part of us, our misconceptions, have to die before we can behold it. Truth is a constant, infinite, multi layered reality, evil cannot create anything new, and grounded reality is driven vertically like a spike through all folds, rather than a crossbeam of our temporary, horizontal, time limited and often unaware existence.

blog image path through curly tree forest

Though I could not have made up Hattie’s transmission to me from my own fevered imagination (I’m not THAT creative) I realize in retrospect, that Aunt Hattie of course would be angry that her house, which she had always intended to leave to “the boys” (grown men now)  was instead shuffled to the very man who had abused her favorite niece, now Holy Dead Aunt Tonia, for investment profit.

Indeed, the proper recipient of the house – by verbal will – acquiesced to the theft of his own property and this grotesque injustice against him (he revealed this unknowingly) because correct legal information regarding remaining bills of the deceased and exemption for inhabitants who inherit, was withheld from him by the rationalizing, clever thief and my female cousin who defended the thief.  The victim (who once even owned his own business) simply returned to a life of abusive, familial bondage.  See the thief was too familiar to be recognized as a thief.  The thief was his father. The  injustice, still is.

As Jon Stewart said, fatherhood is great because you can ruin someone from scratch.

But I think one of the biggest revelations I’ve had through all of this,  is that much of my family is more concerned about saving properties, than helping to save the persons within them, even if the savee is one’s own flesh and blood.

So, as my last beloved aunt on that side of the family lays dying this morning, in a nursing home nestled in that northeastern Pennyslvania  hometown stacked with more memories than rooms in a cubby hole desk, I feel compelled once again to write, and I will not resist the urge this time.

Yea, I even indulge in banana liqueur this morning, swirling it guiltlessly and effortlessly into my coffee. I notice the way the patterns in the cup and on the cup resemble wood grain, and I like that. I do not write because the executor of this aunt’s estate is the very relative disparaged by Aunt Hattie’s shocking post mortem dispatch, or because I  care what Aunt Millie has “left”, or to whom she has left it. I write because the impending death of Aunt Millie has simply brought to mind the words of her pre deceased husband,  Uncle Frank, who also seemed to speak to me from the grave, a long time ago.

I remember during the time period I heard from him, I would pray to God before bed that my deceased father would be allowed to tell me the secrets withheld from me by the rest of the family, that were my birthright to know.

My father had been rendered unable to communicate by a stroke, and his inability to speak, despite desperate attempts to communicate things to me, lasted for many years before his eventual suffocation and death from lung cancer.  My father hasn’t stopped speaking to me ever since his death (“Johnny will say to me please, Raymond will say thank you, and David will sleep better at night”) but one night, asking for my father, I instead heard fragments of information, language, and words, silently,  that seemed to issue from Millie’s husband, my beloved godfather, Uncle Frank.

But before I repeat his words, which I had scribbled dutifully in the usual fashion into waiting tablet beside the bed, let me tell my reader more about Millie.

Millie and Frank were there my whole life.  I remember as a child, my Aunt Millie, through her generous love and positive nature, teaching me that I was a true princess, as a daughter of Christ. She was a believer in all the old ways and the existence of an unchanging Truth.   Her only naivety seemed to be an inability to perceive clerics and her own family could betray these principles. She was there riding shot gun when I drove up and down the coast, seeking help for my own aging mother, her sister, who was accelerating dangerously with now untreated schizophrenia, and starting to side with her demons against me.  Aunt Millie was there for me and for my own mother, even after my mother picked up her four-footed walker during one psychotic episode.  This had sent Millie flying backwards into a free fall that could have easily cost Millie her life, had she not grabbed hold of the door. Millie’s only “sin” against her had been defending me and my grown daughter.

Yes, Millie could not have any children of her own, like my mother did, but had been a real mother to many.

blog images Leonardo fetus

However, towards the end of her life I thought Millie behaved as if she feared there was something else she would not wish to know, for it was so horrible if she realized it, it would kill her.

She seemed to choose instead the burden of other people’s guilt, carrying it along with her like a badge of courage upon her back, but her angst bubbled out in the form of multiple anxieties.

About a week ago when I visited her in the nursing home, unable to rouse herself fully from the heavy sedation of morphine for bowel and pancreatic cancer, she begged incoherently “No more signs! No more signs!”. Even though we had never used the word “signs” between us, nor was I sure of what or to whom she spoke,  I grieved for her in her suffering, and tried to console her.

“Okay, no more signs” I told her.” I love you.”

“Wake her up…wake her up!” she urged.

“I can’t… can’t even(say how much I?)…

Love…Love….”

And in a world where white is called black , and black is called white, where good is called evil and evil is called good, my mother, her sister and the woman who assaulted her without apology, will ride in the first car at the funeral procession like royal lineage to a throne, with my brother, the Manchurian Candidate styled accomplice, riding shot gun at her side.

blog image Uncle Frank and cousins

I had to gather the old bedside notes to find her deceased husband Frank’s words, to relay them here, and I admit the banana flavored coffee and morning attempts at writing faded into an evening spent, rather melancholy, rummaging through old scribblings.  Eventually though, I was able to isolate the words regarding Frank for which I had been looking.

[ female voice?]  Uncle Frank is dying!

[Frank]

I was angry at what they had done to you
Millie spoke of it like a distant (plague/pain?)
It was at our house
our door
the rooms were congealed with it
the guilt against the faith
hush now became her favorite refrain
like a ring around my neck
but I loved her

Aunt Millie and Uncle Frank
like a just man does his wife
peace be to you
said the blind man
it’s all the same with me
but victim’s watch
will not contend
with the man upon the tree
making a mistake
is moot
when the others
see what they want to anyway
playing games with the victim’s daughter

baby-rockabye
like bullets in the rain
false pity
does not weep
It stands at a distance
watching the shore
wrinkles in time erase old wounds
before they are healed properly
Please wake up
for God’s sake family
before Millie dies
in her disgrace
It was never hers to keep
in the first place.
Christmas is coming
and the Man upstairs
wants to say hi
let me out of here

[at one point I asked him if he loved me]

Remember the train?
Do you think I did?

[oh how I remembered the train]

Goodnight
[Goodnight]

I set the papers aside.

It is close to midnight and I am exhausted, giving in to the heady need to sleep that overtakes me now, even though I am still sitting in a downstairs chair.  I awake all of a sudden, startled in a happy kind of way at the sudden realization of roses,  as if someone slipped into my sitting room, placing red roses in generous abundance all about the room and placing them by my feet, where I had remained in the chair sleeping.   The fragrance is so real and so lasting,  I am more startled that I cannot actually see the roses, when I open my eyes.

Thank you, Aunt Millie, I say.  Thank you.  I don’t even have the words to say how much I love you. Rest in the peace and the joy of heaven.  I write down the time, 3:20 a.m.,  March 21, 2017, and as I do so I have the strangest sense of deja vous.  It is as if I already knew it would happen this way, and Aunt Millie’s death, happening this way,  was part of a tale I had told my father a long time ago, when I returned from the dead as a baby, to help save my mother’s soul.

They had found my Aunt Millie stopped breathing when the nurses walked in at 11:20 pm, the night before.

blog image angel young man singing