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

“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

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

blog images orange and blossom


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.  Orange and pear now had to reach for water and they did so with intermingling roots.  Oracion noticed that none of the fruit trees that had been planted so long ago grew on flat land.  They grew into the foothills of mountains as if someone had been experimenting with elevation.

But the fruit Oracion had on her mind this evening was the orange.

She recalled when Father had first had the gardeners plant the trees which bore these delicious treats.  It was before Priest had begun experimenting with darker things. Since the climate did not naturally host the tropical, Father had induced the hybrid makers to regraft a wondrous, older variety of orange tree 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 now (in the present) 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 chance she found herself headed towards the old groves, because she had chosen the longer, more circuitous route through the forest, embracing the arduous incline.  She had wanted to come up upon the old castle from behind, and avoid emerging from the woods into village streets altogether.

The hunters would be on the lookout for stag and the priests were doing the testings, but since Oracion had cloaked herself in invisibility she was not certain why she intuited such a strong need to be cautious. She sought 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 yet 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 of course could see them, and they occasionally appeared to her as nuthatches or robins. This was intended to amuse her she was sure, but as birds they appeared to have no place to
land. Upper portions of oak and pine now disappeared altogether into the heavy 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 its own newly found wit.  Or, perhaps Mother Nature could also shift, wanted to tell her something,  warn her away from this route and the knowledge she intuitively sought. Nevertheless something in the present, even other than logistical strategy, was drawing Oracion toward what had once been the orange grove where she had first seen the boy, as if she sensed in the boy’s absence invaders had overtaken the land.

She had seen the boy with the knowing eyes (that reminded her in the present of the pear tree madonna’s) many years ago, when she, as a child, had induced Father to let her accompany him on journey.

Father had been meeting secretly with someone on this farther side of the forest, a mysterious stranger she now recalled in the present as a messenger, or a scout perhaps, from a distant land.  Father had safely secured little Oracion into his stagecoach, then for an hour or so she slept with her head leaning against his big, broad shoulder, as Father drove the horses further and further into the woods. Simply content to be at his side, the ride had lulled Oracion to sleep.   But before she drifted off Father 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 had 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 now, for purposes of their own amusement.  It had been a long journey, and he liked to see her smile.

She awoke 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 Mother bathed in.   Father often brought back sweet oranges to Oracion when he traveled alone this way, but this was the first time Oracion had been to the magical grove that produced them.

He got out of the coach then, and disappeared into a thicket of trees, but not before he had solicted 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, she must speak to no one.

Sleepily, little Oracion had agreed.

Sweet, silly, dear Father, she thought.

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The day was so bright, and so warm.

Oracion couldn’t imagine then she might chance to meet anyone here,  for the child found herself quite alone with the birds that thrilled harmoniously 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, dappled with sunlight, dangled within her reach as if to tempt her.  Oracion 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, she had 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.

The boy had not been standing on the ground at all but was sitting way up high in the tree branches, looking down at her. He was quite tall and well built but definitely still young looking, surely not much older than herself.  Oracion had never seen an angel before, but she had seen drawings of them on the castle ceilings, and they suddenly came into her mind much as the boy had suddenly seemed to appear above her.  His face was like porcelain, and in his fine blue eyes as deep and sad as the sea he spoke a thousand stories, but didn’t seem inclined to tell any of them. At that moment 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 then, that if he was the gardener’s son, he could now possess wings and the fine 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 particular word, and the magnitude of what she had done –  spoken to a stranger –  which was exactly what Father had forbidden.

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

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

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

blog image oranges with bees


The boy had asked the question so sincerely and innocently it frustrated Oracion to no end. She was unable to understand why a boy with the face of an angel and wings would ask her such a question about wings, as if she possessed her own pair with which she, like him, could use to fly upward to secure the choicest fruit.

But just then what must have been his given name was called out by someone she could not see.

“Cosmos!”

This word was shouted by what seemed to be a very cruel man’s voice, and it echoed heavily throughout the woods like it bore the threat of impending brutality.

And in that instance her new found friend had disappeared, but not before he tossed Oracion the rest of the orange which he had been holding in his hand.

Christmas (as Oracion often thought of the boy ever since, not Cosmos ) vanished instantaneously, into the warm, spring air.

When Father returned to the carriage, Oracion had been savoring the sweet, refreshing fruit flesh that had been mysteriously given to her.

But thinking of the hard, cruel voice and fearing for the angel boy (but hesitating to mention to her father that she had spoken to someone) she simply asked “Was the man you met Father –  was he bad?”

 

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He looked at her not suspiciously but with surprise, 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, once again expecting him to look disapproving, but he did not.  Instead Father looked solemn , his eyes as knowing, if not moreso, than the boy’s had been.

She had never seen Christmas again, and even now Oracion wondered if that day had all been a dream, especially in the contrast of this strange spring evening present,  with its heavy, dream like qualities and mist so different from sun dappled oranges.

Occasionally (in the present) adult Oracion 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 that one of these gentle creatures followed her now, but if it was a stag it was large for a stag, like Noble Beast had been.  For a moment Oracion felt that this beast was less real than her own memories, which, when she was not literally revisting them, were continuously revisiting her.  Were those really majestic antlers she saw cutting up through the mist, like steely knives cutting into gray cloud, or just the sharp curve of tree limbs?

The thought of Noble Beast had brought to her in the present circumstance a bittersweet combination of excitement, hope, comfort and joy, intermingled with sorrow and feelings of loss.

And since for Oracion, emotions were as wild, strong and dangerous as she was, she made a conscious effort to harness and focus them now, so that they would not lead her astray, and instead work to her own 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, for she had found the remains of orange trees near the old pear grove.

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

A giant bird screeched its horrific cry as it passed over Oracion, a cry much louder now for the sound was in her ear this time, like metal against metal, or a glacier of ice seizing, then crashing into the sea.  As Oracion put her hands over her head protectively, she wondered if this apparently blind creature could actually see her despite her cloak of invisibility, or if it just sensed her presence through scent as animals were wont to do.

 

blog image dinosaur bird


The velociraptor, being unable to fly very high or far, settled awkwardly and noisily into the branches of an ancient 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 these trees in the past) would break in the bending.

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

“She was with child when she was taken”

…like a fragment, of knowing.

It was then that Oracion noticed the creature’s eyes, blind apparently and glazed over, as if with filmy white cataracts.  They reminded her of the eyes of a dichobot.  Oracion couldn’t help noticing that the creature’s eyes appeared in some way inexplicable, unhealthily human, but perhaps even more troubling was that she sensed she somehow knew or recognized the beast.

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 velociraptors did exist – and wondered if it was now possible that the priests could have returned them to the woods, much as Father had reintroduced cold climate oranges.

But his eyes, oh his eyes! – how Oracion pitied the creature for his eyes.  With what had they mixed the poor creature?

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

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

Even though lineage played a factor, he had explained to his young daughter that the ability to shape shift was rare. Shape shifting women of nobility who had turned to the dark side, wanting to assure the gene was passed to their first born sons, were going to priests who meddled with hybrid emulsions and vapors.  These pregnant women consumed such potions in great draughts for the price of their soul, a trikerion lamp, or traded agreement, each morning for nine months.  For some, there was biological success, but other offspring were caught in a void-shift, part human and part beast.

The creature Oracion saw before her was a Blender.

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

Then, to her right, there was a movement where the gentler, antlered, 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 at all, but as a man.

A very huge and strong looking 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 chest.

But this dichobot, unlike the mad, screeching dinosaur creature, 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, obscuring his face, he seemed to stare directly at her, one arm extended towards her in urgent supplication.  He was either commanding her to stop or was indicating 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, that couldn’t be. Hadn’t all those that had not transformed into dichobots been executed?

But the soldier was real and saw her nonetheless, for in that moment several things happened at once.

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

There was a flash of memory in her mind like the echo of a little boy’s voice.

“Why don’t you just use your wings?”

Oracion was so disoriented and shocked she felt herself suddenly shifting, beginning to jolt helplessly and violently far back into the distant past.  The current scene – with its heat, trees and everything around her – disappeared, but not before she heard the angel boy’s voice, deeper and all grown up now,  but still like a dulcimer chord or a chime.

“Christmas,” he said in transfixed amazement, as if that was her name now.

Then once again, they were apart.  Yet in that instance Oracion realized that Father had intended them, all along, to meet.

blog image Oracion in orange

 

Oracion and the Lady’s Lament


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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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.”

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The Tower Bedroom

Beware then of useless murmuring,
and keep your tongue from slander;
because no secret word is without result,
and a lying mouth destroys the soul.

Wisdom of Solomon

blog image gothic washer woman

Do not fear the Opposite
The dark that steals the dream
Man cannot reverse the flow
Of river, gorge or stream

Song of the Washer Woman

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When the Presence allowed it, Oracion could travel into the past.

On these nights she often found herself in the upper chamber of the castle turret, looking for Mother and something else she had lost there, a long time ago.

This room had served as Oracion’s bedchamber when she was just a little girl, in the days before Mother was taken.  Oracion had begged Father to let her sleep in the attic, for the moonlight shining through the small window there was beguiling.  Because Oracion was closer to the moon in a turret bedroom, it would cast enchanted lunar reflections and shadows within – all throughout the night – of which Oracion had learned many things. She learned things of which most children were not privy, things of which even most shape shifting children had not been privy.

At least that’s how it had been in those days of old. In modern times the moon drew closer to earth to educate all of the young, as if in compensation for the stars which had been lost, burnt out in their orbits or cast to the ground.

But in days of old, on certain summer evenings, Father would allow Oracion to accompany him through the small trap door and winding turn of stairs that led from her bedroom to the open roof top above, and she relived all of this now. He and daughter would spend long hours in contemplation studying the landscape below from the advantage of height, moonlight and crenellation.

She remembered she hadn’t asked him for much in those days, but whenever she did, Father had not denied her.

And though Mother had not resisted the idea of a tower bedroom, she balked whenever Father took Oracion to the roof. Oracion saw again her face, tinged with a delicate pink, demanding “Whose idea was this?!” It was as if Oracion was a fragile possession not safe in her father’s presence, and would somehow plummet from the castle rooftop to the ground below, in some unforeseen accident or unexplainable turn of events, that Mother would inevitably blame on him.  Mother also suspected that Father was up there teaching Oracion the Art of War.

blog image Oracion in turret

Which he was.

But he was just giving her the Early Lessons, which consisted of maps, animals and flowers, and in particular the types of birds.  He would tell Oracion how the shifters would shape themselves into the humbler varieties – shore bird, sparrow, and turtle dove – to go unnoticed among the enemy.

“I would  want to be a sparrow, or a dove” Oracion had announced, for these creatures had several times landed in her hand for a crumble of scone, and she thought them the most gentle and intelligent of all birds, especially compared to the brutish Jays.

Father had smiled at her then, then would mention, casually, how shape shifters could even shape themselves into bats, and get up into a turret tower, to frighten little girls.  He had teased Oracion relentlessly.

Mother was correct in many things of which she suspected Father, but wrong in so many others, and she grieved for he who had loved Mother from the beginning and therefore had to willingly subject himself to her more worrisome imaginings.

For Mother was one of the Beautiful Ones, an Etherate, who would not become tame in any fashion or sense of the word, whose noble northern heritage would beguile any man, or make anyone love her, just as the moon had inevitably enchanted Oracion in the attic room.

She remembered Mother’s cloud of dark hair (which some said was much like her own) and eyes as blue and twinkling as the clearest spring water, laughing and flowing through a river gorge. She smelled of honeysuckle, baking flour and sometimes a sweet smoky scent that reminded Oracion of fire from an evening hearth.  She graciously swept through the castle in velvet slippers and flowing patterns of rose, gold brocade and lace.  Oracion remembered now that Mother had always been conscious of the dust Oracion’s skirts collected, as Oracion ran laughing and tumbling through heath and heather, but laughed off the dust that collected on her own as if it was just added embroidery, casting a delicate hue.

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And although Mother did not laugh all the time, her moods being most delicate, her laugh was one of the things Oracion now missed the most. It had rung out like a transparent chime up, up through the castle’s chambers, and sometimes when accompanied with lullaby or tale, had lured Oracion warmly to sleep in that bedroom, in which Oracion had dreamt dreams that only protected princesses dream.

Yes, in time travel Oracion missed Mother’s laugh and those days as deeply as that turret bedroom had been high above all river gorges and blistering mountain heights.

The room had been sparsely furnished. 

During her night travels when she returned there invisibly she would find the same small bed beside a rarely lit hearth, fur rugs, rolls of parchment and scattered orange peel, a single crucifix being one of the few adornments against vast stone wall. This was because of Father’s penchant for giving things away.  Oracion had shared the compulsion, and their secret charities were another thing that Oracion feared would drive a wedge between Father and his Etherate Bride, when she was just a little girl.

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Father himself then would laugh –  at such concerns –  the adult ones young Oracion had voiced to him in those days, throwing his head back in amusement at the ancientness of such a tiny soul. She was his verbal dueling and parsing protégée before she reached five, and was only too eager to trade in her words for a sword, so she could become a brave warrior like him.  His dark brown eyes would study her and twinkle at her with a lucidity that surpassed even mother’s blue ones. This suggested to her he possessed secrets so deep and elusive they were like that of the moon’s, and she hoped he would share all of them with her in time, because he could refuse her not.

What Oracion did not realize then was how much of the light that had burned in Father’s eyes was simply the manifestation of the love he felt for her, his daughter. She was truly his Little Ancient Soul, and he often called her this. How bittersweet this made Oracion feel now, recalling what she had taken for granted, or not even noticed, even though she had been ever vigilant, loving both of them with all of her heart, mind and strength, and all of her tiny soul.

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“Do not trouble yourself with growing up too quickly, Oracion” he had advised.  “Just think instead of the merriment of the washer woman at the light cast by our candlesticks set upon her table on Feast of Fat Pheasant”.

Oracion would giggle at this, thinking of Fat Pheasant and hopefully, soon to be fat Gilda, the one little boy Gilda had borne who had died,  and all the children whom she had since wet nursed, which could constitute the whole, entire village guard. Father would toss Oracion up upon his shoulders in this moment, still laughing, and Oracion would be laughing too, feeling lighter and safer there than even when they stood on the turret landing, surveying the landscape below.

But perhaps Gilda’s new fortune was why Mother had accused Father of stealing the trikerion lamps from the chapel priest in the first place, the prelate with the dark brown hooding and intelligent but brooding eyes that Oracion respected, but somehow still feared.

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It had been a moonless night, with rain coming down in torrential drifts, when Oracion first heard her parents arguing about trikerion candles. She remembered that night well because Noble Beast had not shown up like he usually did.  Noble Beast showed up whenever it was raining or the moon was obscured by shadow or snow.

Oracion had awakened because of the pounding of rain against glass and her parent’s angry voices from the chambers below, but this did not disturb her as much as the absence of The Creature. She had glanced about the room, half expecting to see Noble come padding silently towards her on his huge, hairy Beast Feet, beseeching her with sad eyes until she allowed him the pleasure of sleeping at her own.

But he had not.

Oracion had not known or cared until now from whence Noble Beast came, because he was yet another one of those things she simply did not question, and took for granted in those days of sweet cherries, moonlit lessons and the smells of sage and dripping candle wax.

Invisible Oracion moved with emotion into the past now and watched as a younger Oracion arose from the bed, not bothering to slipper her feet, seeking instead the creature she loved like a childhood pet to warm them. But he was not really a dog. Noble Beast (which is just what Oracion called him) was very much like an oversized German Shepherd, yet not quite canine, because he had two antlers that emerged from his head in such a fashion that one bent across the other, then twisted down once again to end in a sharp point.  This unique antler formation had reminded Oracion of the small crucifix that graced her wall, but even more it reminded her of the cross banners the brave warriors carried, with the family crest with gold lettering hanging down from one side.

It disturbed her, the drawings she had seen of those crosses and banners broken, littering the ground, golden calligraphy now stained red.

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So child Oracion hurried down stairs of drafty white stone passage, until she reached the rooms below. There she momentarily forgot her quest to find Nobel, because Father’s voice from behind Mother’s bedchamber was filled with something Oracion identified as pain. She was not used to hearing Father like this, and little Oracion crept even closer to the closed door, to listen without being observed.

“Desirous, how can you say this, of what do you speak?” Father was asking Mother.  “Why would I take the special candles from my own chapel passed down to me from my father before me, and his father before him, that which has been consecrated to my Lord?  Of what dark deeds do you accuse?”

“If it was not you than it was Priest” Mother stated with a voice that still sounded angry,  but now determined, and colored with urgency.

“Why worry yourself, even if the old man did?” Father queried. “Do we not feed him enough? Do we not pay him enough, to perform the rites?  If the priest has taken trikerions for dark purpose, the candles will not light, and if he has taken them for good, to bring light to others, then we cannot condemn.”

“We should not tolerate a thief in our house for any reason” Mother insisted, and Father must have come to her then, consolingly, for after a moment of silence his voice grew softer still.  Oracion had to press her ear against the door to hear it.

But what Father said then frightened Oracion to the quick.

“There now, there now, you know the truth, Desirous. The only thieves that can wrongly take things of value are the Dream Snatchers.  And these I will never allow in my house, I promise you.”

Upon hearing this declaration from her father’s lips, a chill had gone down the spine of young Oracion, a chill accompanied by the realization of an evil present, although not yet quite understood.

Though Oracion had not known what these creatures were called before, when she heard “Dream Snatchers” she knew of whom Father spoke.  But Oracion had thought up to this point in time that these evil things, these dream stealing creatures,  were just imaginary, and not a real threat to anyone’s well-being.

And she had been calling them Opposites.

blog image Oracion learning from book

She called them Opposites because when she woke to find them silently prowling about the side of her bed, which she often did –  sinewy, dark, smoky creatures – which were part smoke, part human and part beast,  drooling and smacking their lips grotesquely as if to devour her, they reminded her in an opposite way of her Noble Beast.  She had screamed of course when they first appeared and called out for Mother, who would come to her doorway almost immediately in rescue. When Mother appeared the monsters would disappear quite instantaneously, leaving only a swirling, smoky residue behind, as if they had never been there. Could it be that Dream Snatchers were so frightened by something as pure and beautiful as an Etherate, they could not exist in the same space at the same time?

“Where did they go?” Oracion had asked.

“Where did what go?” Mother would ask.

“Opposites” Oracion would say, her voice still trembling.  She did not really even want to say the word out loud, as if to speak it would hasten their return.

“Silly child,” Mother would say “Opposites are just your imagination.  You don’t see them here now with us, do you?”

No wonder Mother worried about her well-being, child Oracion thought to herself, frozen at her parent’s bedchamber door.

Mother knew the truth of what lurked in Oracion’s bedroom, but perhaps had not wanted to acknowledge their existence so as not to frighten the little girl.  In seconds Oracion’s mind was spinning, grasping at what could really constitute and motivate such vile creatures, and it didn’t take long for the little girl to theorize that they were some form of shape shifter, but with darkness of soul.

If this was true, than Oracion knew what she must do, but it would take the courage of a brave warrior, not just a princess, so the time for her to evolve was now.  She had to see where the monstrous creatures went when they disappeared at Mother’s entrance, next time they invaded her room.  For as long as smoky exhaust still lingered and swirled it suggested Dream Snatchers could not leave castle grounds quickly.  Oracion wondered what they cloaked themselves into next, perhaps a malformed grape vine to climb down and out her window, or a deformed animal –  part pig and part goat – howling in agony at a turret moon, which would be way too bright for their weak and watery eyes to tolerate for long.

But what were they really, and what was their natural form?

 

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Time travel to the past can be such a fascinating but frustrating thing.

For as the Oracion in the present sees the Oracion in the past,  forming this plan to catch Dream Snatchers in action, it is as if suddenly, time starts to speed up. Stone walls start decaying, first solid then crumbling, loose stones tumbling out in random fashion from their sockets, archways fading in and out, then dissolving altogether into translucent, arched tree branches, which in turn are becoming more and more solid over her head, until Oracion can see the morning light of present filtering through.

No, she must stay here in the castle and watch.  She has long since earned her own sword.

The sound of rushing in the ears again and she is back in the past. But as usual, she has lost a segment of time, skipped over it like a section of ink on parchment too wet and blurry to read, and now little Oracion is in her bed being woken by something wet upon her arm. 

Is the window open, and rain coming in?

No, it is Father, holding her in his arms, and the raindrops were not raindrops nor moistened, faded parchment but his tears, which the child had never seen before. The sight of him crying moves child Oracion to such love she calls him “Daddy” this time, instead of the usual Father.  Looking up at him, she also notices what looks like horrible wounds about his neck, as if rows of sharp blades had been pressed into the weather-tanned skin, and at intervals pierced it.

So she lays her small, child hand upon the bruises gently,  as if the touch of it could heal, and asks “Daddy, what’s wrong? What happened?”

Oracion has seen this scene too many times.

It hurts and she does not want to see it again. But she knows she must go even further back into the past to find what she missed, what she has lost, and realize again what she needs to realize.  (Rushing, rushing, the sound of rushing in her ears like a pressure, a frightening wind, driving rain against turret glass, Divine Presence be with me!) and then she is still in the tower bedroom but back to the deleted time frame, when it is not raining at all.  Father is not there either, and instead a hideous Dream Snatcher half crouched, encircles her bed.

“Mother,  come help me, quick!”

The Etherate appears moments later, disheveled in such radiant beauty that perhaps –  if Oracion had been a bit older – she would have suspected her cries interrupted Mother in act of her brother’s conception.

When the beast disappears Oracion waits only until her mother leaves her room as well.

Then she gets out of bed and peeks out from below the open archway that constitutes her bedroom door, just in time to catch a glimpse of the tale end of Mother’s evening cloak, crimson red, sweeping dust as it disappears down the stairs.

Back in her room,  the Dream Snatcher’s residue is still visible, like dusty entrails which one would not wish to inhale.

So over to the window young Oracion rapidly scurries, hoping to watch as the Dream Snatcher flees. This time the moon is quite full, illuminating everything below it, the extended drawbridge and finally the figure that emerges upon it to meet Priest, who has strangely been waiting there all along.

But it is still only Mother, in her crimson red cloak, the figure that emerges from the castle.  Mother’s hood is drawn up around her face like Priest’s brown one, and despite the moon and the brilliancies of color, Oracion marvels at how similar in this night the two hooded figures appear. However, when the priest removes his hood, and Mother in like fashion removes her own, there is no trouble making distinctions between them.

Mother’s face is hideous now, perhaps not even human.  Her face is that of the Dream Snatcher.

She opens her jaws wide as if to devour the wiry little man with long, fierce teeth, but instead slowly leans her gaping mouth close to breathe Oracion’s dreams into the greedy priest’s ear.  After receiving the vapor, he removes what he has brought hidden from beneath his garments, a trikerion lamp, and hands it to Mother, who enfolds it into her own.

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Oracion is so stunned she cannot move or speak, and it is only when she sees Noble Beast come charging swiftly out through the castle gates to attack the Dream Snatcher, and watches horrifying movements of flying fur and teeth too rapid to mentally contemplate, then Noble’s neck being pinioned and tightly clenched in her own mother’s jaws, that Oracion can scream at all.

“No!”

The child’s cry alert the beasts. They pause in one, simultaneous motion to look up at her, and in another instance, are gone.  Both beasts have vanished, and now Priest alone stares up at Oracion with eyes still quite human, but as cold and dead as the stones in her tower bedroom wall.

All that remains of Mother is the swirling, dark smoky residue at his feet.

It takes another moment for Oracion to realize that her hands are clutching the window ledge so tightly that they hurt painfully, until she realizes they are not hands at all anymore, but the tiny feet of a small sandpiper bird. For through the intensity of her emotions she has awoken her first transformation, but has not yet achieved sparrow or dove.

In this moment Oracion is just a ground bird, trapped way up high on a ledge.

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Song of the Washer Woman, Verse II

Do not fear the Opposite
Who dies not out through blood
Though blood is red as roses are
Life forms but through its bud

 

 

Lenten Grievances

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Oracion, upon hearing her neighbor was sick, dared to venture into the village one evening by light of the remaining stars. She donned a simple black cloak which was roomy enough to hide herself, and her offering for the poor – which in this instance consisted of waxed candles, fruit pastries and clover wine, a bundle of hearth pumpernickel, a bundle of rye, and a pound of soft, sweet cheeses and herb butters.

Oracion had packaged the gifts in pale papers and wrapping twine, placing them carefully into a small, moss-lined basket, adding as if in after thought, a clutch of gypsy blue violets, gathered before dawn on the previous day.

As she drew nearer the house she was marveling at how her flowers  (those that grew in Oracion’s hidden part of the wood) were different,  and she hoped they might bring her friends a secret kind of joy and health.  Indeed, flowers that grew freely seemed to benefit from a wild sturdiness not intrinsic to most.

Oracion recalled in comparison, the stunning genetically cultivated flowers she had marveled at in the priest’s chambers, so long ago when she had been imprisoned there, which were all perfect, identical and grew artfully arranged in rows – but which were somehow strange, and without heady fragrance or longevity.

They grew in even numbers as well, not odd, and they bloomed for just one day, then curled up to rot like obedient expendables.

Oracion was aroused from such botanical contemplation when the house which she sought loomed suddenly before her, modest in size and well shuttered.  How ironic that a row of the priest’s day roses had perished recently in a tidy window box attached to the dwelling, and as per usual, there remained just a neat pile of thorns, for it was night.

Ascending the porch steps, Oracion thought she saw for one moment – behind the shutters, though closed – curtains fluttering slightly in a cool evening breeze, then realized the windows were not open at all to welcome her, such a night, or any heady, woodland breeze borne fragrances in anticipation of spring.  And the windows not only were shuttered and curtained, but had also been sealed.  There it was.  She saw it plainly now;  a pane of thick, sealing glass.

The cleansing had begun.

And what Oracion really had seen behind the glass –  someone drawing the curtain aside to peek out from within  – which would once have been welcoming  (it’s our beloved friend, so come let us open the door) had turned furtive and cold.

The Dichobots had already been here, and Oracion was to be shunned.

She had drawn in such a sudden, startled breath, that she almost dropped the carefully laid basket at her own feet, as if the added weight of realization, loss and sorrow in her heart had also caused the small basket gravitational pull, and her own rare wild violets to tremble, wither and collapse.  Then Oracion caught hold of herself, considering.

She would not disturb her friends in the night.

She would leave the gift basket however on their steps without gift card or note, and in that manner, and in only that manner, could the small offering still be used.  This way in the morning her beloved could still take part in it, and be nourished without excuse, blame or shame, nor threat of scourging or punitive dispatch.  They could not be punished for any reason at all.

For though Oracion’s guilt was imaginary, as long as it was still imagined by some or by one, she would not share it with another, especially not with those that she loved.

And although the scentless gasses emitting from the wicked priest’s genetically designed flowers were sure to have already altered her friends’ minds to some strange and curious degree, plucking and destroying memories and understandings from their brains as efficiently as dying day roses (leaving just their thorns) she prayed that in their hearts they would still know she had been present, and remember her name.

For they had been sisters once.

Shape Shifting


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Oracion had been warned not to go near the new castle that was already old, that stood in danger of crumbling at the end of the wood.  It was there the wicked priest had taken the sun a long time ago, on a night so dark it lasted the length of three nights, and if not for the light of the moon, her kind would have died of grief.

Happy to be released, Oracion had made her new home in wood and flower, to trod upon moss and fragrant violet, ponder the graceful movement of heliotrope, and listen to chimes in the wind.

The three fairy godmothers that Father had given her were with her still.

Athough Oracion appreciated their companionship, she had to take care of them like little children, because all fairy godmothers will be, in some ways, little children. Subsequently, they often got tired and clung about Oracion’s neck heavily during the day, or pulled at her hair. Chagrin was the oldest, and was often found wandering off into the dangerous parts of the wood where the fog was deep, and had to be fetched before the child fell into the moat, or worse – got mistaken for Oracion.

If anyone found Oracion, the old priest would have her murdered instantaneously. If any of his servants dared to speak to her first, they would be executed as well.  And she felt it would have been her fault, although she didn’t think it was.

But she missed her friends.

The thought of burning at the stake didn’t frighten Oracion, but stoning did.  For her kind would be found guilty of knowing whatever sins the old priest had committed, and she would have been stoned for each one of his sins, as well as each one of her gifts, and each one of her fairy godmothers, the priest pocketing these things like plucked pansies into his robe.

And the moat into which she feared Chagrin would fall, was not like regular moats that Oracion had read about in story books when she was little (many lifetimes ago) or the one that had surrounded her own home in the Other World, but one that ran deceptively through pine and leaf throughout the forest floor like a giant, tangled snake set out to catch its prey.

Now that Oracion was even younger, she was very wary of this slippery inlet’s particular danger, and the fog that rose up from it in cloudy mists. It was the type of poisonous fog that had blinded some.

But the nights in the forest were beautiful because the fog never reached the sky, or obscured the moon.  And although the stars were falling now at regular intervals, the nights were getting brighter than ever before.

Some said these bright nights were day, and of course they had always been, to Oracion.

For it was in the night that Oracion could shape shift like the other children into invisibility and fly.

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Sometimes, after securing Chagrin, she would gather Alacrity and Velocity to her, and together they would slip into mysterious places forbidden, all walls dissolving in an instant at the touch of her hand. She saw books lining shelves that contained the hidden things, and passage ways that were really there, but hidden from plain sight, invisible to earth.  Once she found a bracelet of baguettes of exquisite clarity the old priest had stolen from her when she was just little. Then, as if he found it useless, he had tucked it into his bedside table drawer.

Yes, it was as if the priest just stole out of jealousy, yet when obtaining what he wanted, could not understand the things he had stolen,  in spite of their brilliance. Or perhaps, jealous of the shape shifters  (who could turn matter into other forms good) he had stolen the power to turn, but could not turn them good.

She hoped it was not that.  For for the first she had pity, but not for the latter.

And sometimes, during the night, Oracion found her real Father here and there in the woods like Aslan the Narnian beast, from a tale told in other demensions, and he drew her to him with more tenderness than ever expressed this side of heaven.

It was those nights Oracion liked the best.

But on one night, when the moon’s fullness made the castle more ominous and dark by comparison, Oracion found herself suddenly standing within its transparent walls in a place she did not wish to be, to view something she did not wish to see.  For Oracion was standing beside the dresser drawer that contained the stolen diamond baguettes she had once worn around her own tiny wrist, laughing, once upon that time.

Only the priest’s drawer had been pulled roughly open and the bracelet was missing – or changed. And, as if in desperate attempt so her kind would never find or want to look for such a priceless bracelet again, a monstrous black snake slithered out, raising its ugly head at Oracion to strike.

Oracion’s Fire

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I saw grief drinking a cup of sorrow and called out:
“It tastes sweet doesn’t it?”
“You have caught me”, grief answered,
“And you’ve ruined my business
How can I sell sorrow, when you know its blessing?”  -RUMI

 

He looked at her with undisguised and unapologetic contempt, but not before she caught sight of another expression that played briefly across his features; an expression not very unlike those that are known to depict fear.

This first, fleeting expression was one of being startled, that which a child’s face might possess when caught with a hand in the cookie jar, or the expression of a robber pulled over with stolen goods in the trunk of a car, or a sodomizing priest – facing a child ignorant of society’s standard of politeness and therefore not afraid to scream.

Yes, in that moment the troubled man looked very startled, as if she were some clever nymph that had emerged out of the woods with the purposeful intent to cast her spells upon him, or shed what was referred to in days of old  – as Oracion’s Fire.

This was just before the priest’s expression hardened into one of cold, impenetrable hatred.

It was in the preceding startled expression that the cleric revealed he knew not where to run and hide from such a deluge, and feared should he actually have to come in contact with the tears of the blessed – his skin would become instantaneously charred.

Did the mysterious nymph not know (in her innocence) he had no choice but to attack her then, for if her burning tears did not literally kill him, they would imprint upon him forever the evidence of his own guilt?

No, she had not known, but in retrospect, when thinking about that startled expression he bore her, Oracion knew that was when the wicked priest first devised his plan.  It was a plan to bear false witness against her, dispatch her… and started calculating the attempted murder of her soul.

Epiphany

In self-defense and in defense of the innocent, cowardice is the only sin.

–  Dean Koontz

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When I realized that it is God Who sometimes allows our cradles to come crashing down, into the void or whatever feels to us like a dark, bottomless abyss (as we fumble around in the dark trying to catch our breath, disoriented and spinning, feeling like our whole life has been ripped out from underneath us) I also had to realize something else.

I had to realize that the only reason a good God would permit such a thing –  that is –  permit the cradles we were born into to fail,  is for the innocent to realize a greater good.  Or else, I had to cease believing that God is good, just, or fair – at all.

Persons abused in early childhood (sometimes by their own parents) must be held safe in Someone Else’s hands all along, for the universe to balance out “right”.  They must be held safe (as I feel safe now) for me to maintain my Catholic faith, or for me to continue sleeping peacefully at night.

When I asked God one night why, why I felt so intensely about “these children” and the adults they become, He spoke something to me deeper than my conscious state can remember.

But I caught the tail end of truth as I awoke the next morning, through that Silent Voice, that Gentle Voice of Revelation that has become as intimate as my own thoughts.  It said,  “It was thrown at you so hard it broke inside your heart.”

I had to think about that for a moment – what was thrown at me – what caused my own cradle to fall, and what caused something inside my heart to break.  Hadn’t the plunging cradle drop happened several times already, inside my own heart, so unexpectedly each time I thought I would die upon impact?

I cannot interpret dreams and interior messages infallibly, but I can recognize the truth of their many analogies in retrospect. Some were actual predictions of real life experiences.  My heart has indeed been broken, for myself, and for others.  I know this to be true.

And although I have experienced sorrow,  I have also found joy.

I can’t help wondering, however.

I can’t help wondering, if truth is the opposite of evil,  if abused children are really the chosen ones (special souls belonging in a special way to God – God being a God of infinite justice, proportion and balance) are these souls then invited into a deeper degree of intimacy with Him than experienced by most?

I am thinking of the proliferation of bloggers on the Internet with childhood stories to tell more harrowing and horrific than my own, who have carried the weight of the ugliest abuse on their backs like the most gentle beasts of burden.  They are trauma survivors who yet never became bitter, but on the contrary, hear God’s voice in the whisper of the wind, music, art, or paths meandering through forest and solitude.

Some find profound theology without any formal education at all.

It is as if truth plants itself sturdy and upright, like trees growing right in the middle of everyone’s life journey. We can never avoid them, even if we try to bypass or plant around them for years, covering up for others simply because it has become force of habit.  When we see truth we see it plainly, or not at all.

You were born innocent.

You were never deserving of your parents’ guilt.

Your mother might have never loved you (yes that is true) but I have loved you always.

I Am He Who Is always there.

I love you because through suffering you most resemble My heart, which was also broken by mankind, and I made you therefore –  especially Mine.

Whether God speaks to us in such manners diverse during childhood,  or when we fall from our cradles as adults, smacking ourselves wide awake on blunt and painful crosses, those with need and desire will awake, listen –  and hear.

Knowing God’s penchant for paradox, I believe cradle dropping is actually how hope is reborn, our personal Book of Revelation unpacked.

Can it be for some of the most severely abused that they were already baptized in the waters of their own mother’s womb, as if to pre-cushion the blow? Can it be these were assured of God’s grace and Continual Presence, before they even took their first breath in this dangerous and sometimes heart breaking, yet strangely beautiful world?

Can that be possible?

For many scapegoats and victims of childhood trauma (once they learn to reject the accusatory and blaming voice of the inner critic) the acceptance of deep and difficult truths not only seems to free them.  It seems to perfect from within,  a disproportionate spiritual insight, empathy and above average emotional intelligence.  These survivors are typically driven and spiritually passionate.  It is like it is they, not their disordered parents or even those who come from “perfect” Christian families, have a real mission from God.

Tell them I Am always here, and tell them I Am always good.

Tell them I Am a just God, not the accuser, the liar, or one who would cover up crimes against little children.

Innocent children, and children at heart, know these things. God reaches out to them or sends them His own mother.  I think of the Marian apparitions at La Salette.

Abused children have become the recipients of such messages divine, and are like brave soldiers that I believe should be recognized for heroic virtue, not ignored, or repeatedly have their “integrity” questioned.  Abuse survivors are now leaders ahead of and immune to pack mentality, and seem to rapidly fathom and instantly calculate the inevitable toll of societal indifference whereas others of “correct” and “properly catechized” familial influence often cannot.

Those who have experienced severe suffering act because they know to not act is to fear, and to fail in loving a God Whom they paradoxically see has been so generous to them, where the world has not. They measure and are acutely aware of the Urgency of Things, and are determined to leave no one behind, or ignorant of God’s love.

I remember reading a book on maternal narcissism which said daughters are more often scapegoated by narcissistic mothers than sons.  The victims paradoxically have greater degrees of mental health later in life, as compared to the narcissist’s “golden” (praised and spoiled) children.

The researchers who wrote this book determined that this was because the more extreme the false accusations against victims, the more likely scapegoats were able to detect that blame lied in the accuser’s pathology, and not in themselves.  These victims therefore were least likely to emulate or perpetuate narcissistic behaviors.

Victims who accepted they could never win their parent’s love, and embraced this grief, not only moved on but often thrived, while maintaining higher degrees of emotional empathy for themselves and others.  Those who allowed little or no contact with familial abusers fared the best, but ironically were often the only mentally healthy family members left able to care for aging loved ones.

And why do these complex, follow-up studies make me think of the Catholic Church, the still largely unacknowledged pederasty epidemic, the abused devout, the countless victims, mostly children and many grown survivors, some already writing their own trauma and recovery memoirs?

Well, as I once heard someone (other than my Lord) say:   it’s a metaphor, you potato with eyes.

Those abused by a prelate see the obvious first, like the scapegoated daughter of mother church, and see the duty to warn others, perhaps more naive siblings, or the golden children –  the “potatoes with eyes”, no matter what the personal cost.

Yes, the situation is really that bad.

For devout Catholics, this truth may hurt at first (indeed it will be scourging) but it will always set one free.

For that is Truth’s nature.

Truth cannot do otherwise.

Someone recently told me the solution to the church’s ills could be solved with one good man, as if that One Good Man had not already been crucified for having had the solution in the first place. My friend (a mere man) did not realize that man simply did not like the solution that Jesus Christ demanded, because man does not come off as the hero.

No, the solution cannot be man, when man himself is the problem, the corruption of the expression of truth, the visible hierarchy and the very mystery of iniquity.

I think it’s funny that when the anti-Christ comes he won’t be a child, or even a woman, and that he will be, well – a man.  I think it’s funny because traditionalist reactionaries were acting as if the anti-Christ would suddenly turn out to be Hillary Clinton, and they could just “vote her out”.

So let’s have another conclave.

Let’s elect yet another man and just vote evil out of the church.

No, the solution lies not in yet another sociopathic brute male or holy Saint Gregory the Great, but in the Voice of Truth, and in the Revealing, the Revelation of that Truth. The visible hierarchy of Mother Church has already abused the devout and the trusting, both on the “left” and on the “right”.

Truth is not a reaction,  but a Reality and a Revelation.

Let’s say it again.

Truth is not a reaction, but a Reality and a Revelation.

Think of  Bishop Timlin, the FSSP’s Saint Gregory’s Academy at Elmhurst, Pennsylvania, or West Virginia’s own Bishop Michael Bransfield, and the innocents whose lives were ruined or are being ruined by these entities.  There is no classification “liberal” or “traditional” that makes child abuse, or the shuffling of perpetrators, okay.  How many children do we have to sacrifice to this monster before we have our own epiphany?

The mass is in tatters.

Its remnants remain, like shattered victims, on the floor.

Open the door and let them out of My house where (and when) they are being imprisoned.

I will see and feed them.

We should be particularly humble and quiet so that we should not miss hearing This Voice, This Voice of God and Voice of Direction out of the mouths of babes, those children crying in the wilderness.  Because I’m afraid, if you’ll pardon the expression, the emperor’s not wearing any clothes.

All of us would do well to take notice of this, regardless of how hideously ugly man can be.

Many bishops in particular are not wearing clothes, literally, as well as figuratively. They are not wearing the rank or office they “appear” to possess, because of their own actions.

Once again, I’m referring to the abomination of pederasty and it’s cover up, not loosely stated (yawn) informal heresy or some minor liturgical (yawn) infraction, or even “allowing” people prelates assume not to be in the state of grace, to receive Holy Communion.  I believe these lesser issues circulate to distraction among those who deem themselves elect, to deceive and keep them mentally preoccupied. 

And no, it is not a bishop’s personal guilt, sin or culpability but his ACT of child abuse, his ACT of covering up child abuse and perpetuation of child abuse that automatically excommunicates him, whether or not this reality is acknowledged by church officials.  Calculate Catholics, for a moment in your mind, what this truth entails.

Invalid bishops cannot ordain valid priests, and non-valid priests cannot transubstantiate the Sacred Species.

A fraudulent church can only produce a foul smelling abomination of desolation, that it still demands we worship and adore, as if hoping we will do these things out of force of blind habit or misunderstanding of required obedience.  Remember the stigmatist, Catherine Emmerich’s warning, so many centuries ago?

“There was no office on in (the strange new) Church. But the sanctuary lamps were lit…In the cave below (the sacristy) some people kneaded bread, but nothing came of it; it would not rise”

The teaching that those connected with incest or crimes against children are automatically excommunicated and therefore lose their powers of office is as old as the Didache.  Perhaps this is because the early Christians were all too familiar with the connection between pederasty and the occult, as the pagan religions prevalent in those times manifested.

No such loss of office was ever incurred automatically through “lesser” priestly crimes, even those involving actual fornication and murder. The canon declaring pederasty or its promotion ipso facto excommunicates is still in effect, and was re-issued many times, including one hundred years ago, in 1917.

It is as if, in the same year when Mary appeared to more innocent little children at Fatima, and spoke to them of terrible secrets, the canon was re-clarified to prevent the obscuration of it’s simple and most obvious interpretation and tenants.

Can it be just a coincidence that there were stars falling from the sky in the Book of Revelation around this Apocalyptic lady,  Mary, the same version of Mary that seemed to appear in the sky at Fatima? Can it be just a coincidence that the “stars” in this passage, from ancient times, were thought to symbolize (in spiritual language) the bishops prophesied to “fall” from their position, and “fall” from their own power?

3And there was seen another sign in heaven: and behold a great red dragon, having seven heads, and ten horns: and on his head seven diadems: 4And his tail drew the third part of the stars of heaven, and cast them to the earth:


Canon commentators bemoan the fact today that the ancient historically revered canon, canon 2359, is suddenly not “respected or enforced” anymore,  but I have never heard a canon lawyer argue that the penalty of loss of office (and loss of powers intrinsic to that office) is not incurred by way of crime itself.  No canon lawyer can argue it is by way of – and dependent upon –  formal decree.

As well, although personal sanctity or lack thereof does not directly effect office, it does not mean personal sanctity is not relevant to validity of office.

Formal acts that go egregiously against the mission of the church and church teaching indicate that the prelate has no intention to generally “do as the church does”  in the first place.  Do men who seek to indulge and cover up their pathological urges against children really intend to do the mission of the church?

This is even more clear with canon 2359 than in the annulment “process”, because acts of adultery do not automatically invalidate a marriage, whereas pederasty does invalidate a bishopric, or any church office.  And “mere” acts of adultery and other sins are considered during a marriage tribunal because even these may indicate an invalidating intent or disposition on the part of the person – when entering into the sacrament of marriage.  However, if one possessed the pathology or will to molest one’s own children, they certainly couldn’t validly contract,  or ever fulfill “the mission” of marriage.

As well, a marriage does not “become void” BY the declaration of nullity.  It is determined never to have existed in the first place.

No one reasonably aware they are living in an invalid and abusive marriage should hesitate to leave it, simply because church bureaucrats have not yet declared it.  Likewise, no person aware that his or her bishop is not a real bishop (by this canon) should ever respect his false authority.

Notice the present tense used in the language of the canon (below).  The bishop’s ARE deprived of any office, and any act that allows a child to be abused in any way qualifies.  Do we really think God would not have been on the side of the children all along?

By the simplicity principle called Occam’s Razor,  it’s the bishops who are out –  not the children.

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I believe the current situation of denial of this reality is far worse, mortally worse, than when the SSPX rejoiced when LeFebvre’s personal excommunication was lifted, but failed to acknowledge that the automatic effects of his schismatic actions remained in effect.

For God’s sake, can’t most Catholics read?  Can’t most Catholics see?

Are we all just a bunch of potatoes with eyes?

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.

The trees in the forest and their fruits remain evident and very clear, like the backs of our hands, yet prelates don’t even have to plant around them because reality itself is simply being ignored by those who pretend to be in charge.

Reality is also being ignored by laypersons comfortable and indifferent,  like a cozy and justified  Catholic colored cognitive dissonance.  Most don’t want to take off their rose colored glasses to acknowledge the suffering of innocents.

Maybe the children will just go away.

These children flee the visible church anyway.

Maybe this means the children were bad, or just lying.

But psychiatrists will confirm the children were not, and are not,  lying.

No man gets up on a stand in a court of law and acknowledges to the whole world that Father So and So did this or that to his genitals when he was only ten, unless his whole life has already been destroyed anyway, and he has nothing left of this world to lose.

Could it be that prelates still wish to enslave and ensnare the devout by way of tiny, vine-like tangled rubric, so they can continue to abuse little children,  while ignoring the forest of law that sets God’s children, their very victims, free?

For if Christ’s Real Presence is no longer certain to be in a Catholic church or upon a Catholic altar, the time is now to flee to the “mountains” to protect our children and families, where God will certainly feed His flock directly in spiritual communion, by means of prayer life, desire and inner intent, as promised by countless prophecies.

If not now, when, I ask parents of good will?

What are we waiting for?

Pope Benedict, the pope who two weeks after his election declared the Vatican infiltrated by predatory homosexuals, already “fled”.

Could Benedict be the real pope recognized by the saintly Emmerich?

Perhaps Benedict, upon assuming office read the Fatima secret, and had the courage (unlike his predecessors) to say yes, it’s happening in my pontificate.  Perhaps he did not want to officially head the false church.

I am not the one to officially declare this so, but I know I would never trust my son or daughter to a church whose catechists are pre trained not to question or suspect a priest, but turn suspicion back on you or other catechists, for sexually molesting our own children.

I have taken the mandatory church approved “child abuse prevention” catechist course, and was chastised for questioning it.

Why are we to suspect one another, the parents, or a neighbor, rather than the priest the child accuses of abuse?

Why was there no mention made of cell phones, gifts, private visits and modern means by which abusers secretly communicate and entice child victims?

Indoctrination programs that one cannot question do not emanate from a church.  Readers and thinkers and those with a heart, please hear this:  They emanate from organized child abuse cults. What can be worse than fraudulent impostors and questionably ordained priests who sacrifice little children, our children, and then point fingers at us while covering up for the guilty?

For God’s sake and for the children’s sake, cradle Catholics, please wake up.

Your cradle has crashed and you are dangerously sleep walking.  Be brave and do not sleep through the three days of darkness. Your life and the life of your soul may depend upon whether or not you awake. 

Is it up to abused, threatened and traumatized children to determine which lines of the priesthood have not become compromised, which bishop’s hands have not lost the power to ordain, and which priests are real priests and therefore confect the Eucharist?

As for God, since He never abandons those children of good will who feel they must break with abusive parentage for the sake of survival, He will never leave those who obey His admonition to flee.  God doesn’t expect His children all to be canon lawyers, but He does expect us to hear His Voice, which is also understood as the Voice of Common Sense, or the Sense of the Faithful.

I used to think it was so sad that persons molested by priests as children ended up “leaving the church”.  What I realize today is that these grown children didn’t leave the church at all, because they ARE the church.  I grieve over my former ignorance and the fact that I too, once had many blind eyes.

The Church includes the boys the current “bishop” of my state, West Virginia, carted by the truckload to Gana Farms thirty years ago. Those who survived, survived because they figuratively “left the farm” and figuratively “ran for the hills”.  Let not the comfortable, the golden children, the potatoes with eyes, add insult to injury. Let not the victims be chastized for speaking out, for having the correct intellectual response or sense of the faithful type spiritual epiphany.

15When therefore you shall see the abomination of desolation, which was spoken of by Daniel the prophet, standing in the holy place: he that readeth let him understand. 16Then they that are in Judea, let them flee to the mountains: 19And woe to them that are with child, and that give suck in those days.

Yes, I too, am of those who found my Father and her His Voice walking in the woods when I was just a sad and frightened little child.

And although my abuse at home, and by a priest as an adult, was not of a sexual nature,  I do not know where the bad men have taken my Lord, and that is what is most important to me.

I, like the other misfits and forgotten children, have had my blinders ripped off  and now see the monsters, those Beasts of Desolation spoken of in Revelation, upon the altars of the churches in my diocese and all over the world.

I have seen the monsters curled up in death grip like giant reptiles and serpents over and around furniture of countless altars, and through the eyes of too many fraudulent and demonic priests, to ignore reality any longer.

And although I do not know where they have taken my Christ,  and I cannot even be certain of my instincts upon which altars He remains, and am stumbling still trying to catch my balance, I do know where my Lord can be found.

He can be found wherever those innocent children who fled the visible church, and are fleeing the visible church today, possess Him.

For did not Jesus say suffer the little children, and forbid them not to come to me: for the kingdom of heaven is for such?  Has Christ not promised to remain with His children always? 

Trusting little children do not need man to provide God to them.

I, like all abused innocents, believe and understand the old adage that God can be found anywhere, and even in nature itself.  So for me, that is where you can always find me as well.

I’ll be with the children, wherever God’s children are, for there is God Himself. 

Going into the woods is going home –  John Muir