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

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.”

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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

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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.

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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.

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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 Shifters, Part II

“It’s really about the trans fight.”  ~ Anonymous

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In that moment many things happened at once, because Oracion sometimes saw and heard many things, all at the same time.

Though she could not yet understand them as simultaneously as her brilliant companions could, Oracion hoped in time (when she had grown just a little bit younger) her mind would be as clear as Alacrity’s –  and her thoughts as fast as Velocity’s –  but that time was not now.

She was well aware of the priest’s snake, that she knew he fondly called Onion, as it hissed and slithered out of the open bedside drawer. The snake was raised up in an instant, as if suddenly balanced on the tip of tiny feet, that were somewhere hidden but now emerging at the base of a still undulating tail.  In that instant Oration also observed Onion’s fangs, the tongue, and two small fetus size bulges packaged within the snake’s body – one in mortal stillness, but the other still slightly moving (Oracion realized in horror) and trying to get out.

Oracion also noticed a flash of light about the fat snake’s neck, which registered meaningfully as her own diamond bracelet, constricting the poor snake’s breathing, but preventing Onion’s expulsion of dinner.  She drew back and screamed an inaudible scream – as the snake tried to strike at her face, even though Oracion did not really scream in fright. She screamed more in anger for that which the old priest was using the snake.

For since night was like day to Oracion, and although she knew what she saw during her travels was real and had real meaning, she also knew her guides and her Father would always protect her, even from snake venom.  The danger was never real. Therefore her scream was more a horrified outcry against evil and the horror of everything she saw and now knew to be true, rather than one of sudden fright – or personal defense.  The castle chanters were singing “decoy” anyway –  to inform her there was something else she must look at (though the word sounded more like a silent chime, as their words always did in this venue) even as Oracion was also made aware her scream, however silent as she was invisible,  had been heard in the chambers below.

She was made aware of this because in that same instant she heard men in heavy boots pounding ominously, as they ran up the stairs.

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The fact that the wicked priest seemed to hear what was silent was more significant to her in this moment than the fact that his guards now ran up the stairs with murderous intent, and it was this fact that did mystify – and somewhat frighten her.  For hearing what was silent was reserved to the shape shifters and to her Father’s people, not to those whose business was soul murder.

But nonetheless, even as Oracion struggled with her desire to help the second baby out of the snake’s body, and knew that second baby was also her (in some mysterious way), Velocity laid an invisible hand on Oracion’s own invisible hand. In the next instant she was transported to the evil priest’s closet, as if in hiding from the angry men with the monstrously loud boots.

If the old priest had stolen the secret to hear silent things, had he also obtained secrets to see secrets as well? Could he find Oracion here?

Could that be even possible?

Though the enemies had seen shape shifters in various formula and format, the shape shifters were the only ones left that Oracion knew of,  to see reality for what it actually was.

To the pathetic wicked priest, when he could see her, at least as far as Oracion could tell, she would always just be the deeply disturbing garden nymph, with wild eyes, too pale skin and a cloud of black hair, the one he had cast off into the forest for being too intelligent.  He probably had fantasized that the girl would be taken in by the other commoners he had banished from his kingdom, and somehow, as if through what he viewed as a lower, less than pristine class contamination, forget everything she had seen within the castle walls.

How could the old priest actually see or understand who Oracion really was, when he did not even deem her human, or understand how she could be present when his tap dripped, babies cried, or even when he had flash backs to his own mother, hundreds of years ago, screaming at him for some imagined offense?

But while in the closet Oracion sensed, if not smelled, the unmistakable odor of long decayed flesh, it was so dark that Oracion could no longer see anything either.  The priest’s closet engulfed her like a sickening tomb.

She could feel around with her hands, however, and though what she felt disturbed her much, it suddenly made her see clearer than she had been ever been able to before.

Alacrity was whispering something silently into her ear that sounded like “Fuhrer” then “bioethics” even as Oracion was hearing the voices of booted men, perhaps a woman, and some other visitors (good or bad she could not tell) right on the other side of the door.

“ok, Miss Spider…” a voice began.

Oracion felt skeletons hanging from hangers, their little bony feet knocking and clicking against her back, as Oracion found a place to crouch, making her own body very little by kneeling on the floor.

“they found her…has a business now…probably should have stayed away”

The bodies must have been stacked together and compacted quite tightly in this closet, pressed together to get in as many hanging skeletons as possible. Surely they could not have been all of this one priest’s kill Oracion thought, as her small movements disengaged a sprinkling of loose toes from several dry, ancient feet, but this clink, clink, clink of the bones, apparently, the outsiders could not hear at all. The men continued their chatter, as if they were women gossiping about the next door neighbor, not soldiers with guns in front of a closet containing ancient bones.

“very sincerely misguided.  It’s like getting a tongue lashing from a snake…all of her comments are crazy…starving children can’t talk…standing up”

But at Oracion’s own feet, another type of body lay… lifeless, but still warm.

A little girl, around seven or eight.

Oracion felt the small, still, familiar hands of the child, and her familiar, round cherubic face, the cloud of tangled hair as soft as she could imagine the silk threads of the blouse of a madonna, and impossible ever to comb… while the most brutal pain of all and heavy understanding suddenly settled on Oracion’s heart.

Would she die an eighteenth death at this moment, in an evil priest’s closet, just so she would understand, with dangling skeletons above her, and her third beloved fairy godmother,  dead at her feet?

“I don’t know what to tell ya…her father called the judge. The North Door ceremony, over expenses, music… accomplished. I realize depression –  but the only possibility is a mixed seed”

Oracion wept bitterly, holding the poor, lifeless body of Chagrin in her arms.

“the only thing to do…threats, sticks, making stars…hey, what are we waiting for…you know in theory his father’s outbursts pre determine dream obsessions, an isolated bath…maybe the tin man did what he did because she wouldn’t even get a book – a false prophet, to deceive the elect…”

“Father, be with me!” Oracion shouted, no longer able to bear this moment, but fearing the next –  her rightful anger and love for Chagrin suddenly igniting into a desperate urgency, and so of course,  Oracion’s surroundings changed once again, instantaneously.

She was back in her forest home with Alacrity and Velocity, and Oracion was running through the leaves and sticks and underbrush to find where she had put her most innocent Chagrin down to sleep earlier in the evening,  on a blanket of warm winter edelweiss.

There was another moment of excruciating grief and understanding in The Seeing.

For all daughters who see, also grieve.  And all mothers who see, also grieve.

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It was seeing the child motionless, the child that was at the same time Oracion’s child, and at the same time her fairy godmother, as still as that first motionless baby within the snake’s body, that ripped another bloody sword into the center of Oracion’s heart. For she had to look to see if she could ascertain the gentle rising up and down of the child’s chest, to see if there was any life left, but Oracion knew the moment of death had just arrived, when she had arrived on the scene.

For in that same instance, the moment Chagrin’s chest ceased all movement, the child was already shifting into her new form, and breathing life’s breath once again.

Chagrin was an even younger child now, her hair a prettier and paler shade than the paleness of that winter moon, and her eyes brighter than the sparkling diamonds in a once treasured wristlet band. For what these eyes had seen while asleep and would always see now, was what Oracion could sometimes see as well, or at least intuit –  the Constant Presence, the Father Made Known, Who lived where He Would – to be with them always.

“I never left your side” she finally heard His Voice say in a voice that rang out though silent, like a loud crashing waterfall, in answer to the helpless cry she had shouted out to Him in the priest’s bedroom closet.

Chagrin’s laughter rang out as well and echoed merrily,  like a sweet musical note ringing loud and clear and finally free throughout the forest. And as the child sat up and reached her arms out to Oracion, Oracion beheld in them the gift of a small bouquet of edelweiss, clutched in a hand.

But Oracion knew she was no longer Chagrin anymore.

“Mother,” Chagrin called her, for the first time ever.

“I am finally Joy.”

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.

Jack and the Beanstalk & Other Tall Tales

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This morning when I woke up and went out to tend my plants, I noticed that autumn had already taken over my little garden.  The basil which had provided me with so much summer caprese was now forgotten and yellow.  I had to trim it down in hopes it would provide me a sequel.  A cucumber plant had wasted cucumbers languishing in wet earth while engaging a tomato plant with its tendrils to take over my back porch. I realized with a start that it would invade my home, if I didn’t cut it down soon.

Images of Jack and the Beanstalk had been vaguely passing through my mind each time I glanced out the back door, and I felt personally responsible for the tomato plant which the unfruitful cucumber had compromised.

As a child, I never liked the story of Jack and the Beanstalk.  I mean, what kind of child takes his mother’s poor cow and sells her for some “magic beans” from a wandering magic bean selling guru?  As well, there is so much death and destruction and chopping down of beanstalks towards the end of that tale, I think I figured as a child, the tale was best avoided in its entirely.  If it meant something, it meant something very dark and foreboding.

Now I think not.  I mean, it does mean something very dark and foreboding, but it is better not avoided, because if you don’t tend to it, it could slip into your house via the back door with the tiniest of tendrils.  It is like a thief in the night that one time you forgot to lock up, an unpaid debt, smoking or drinking just a little bit too much, Trump’s untended taxes, or my own untended health concerns, because I worry too much about “helping others”.

I think the tale (like most fairy tales) is a classic parable of good verses evil, and it has a rather unpleasant but necessary Catholic flavor to it.

The  Mystery of our Redemption is disturbing, especially to good men. It crucifies good men. As a woman, even just referring to this Mystery  or defending it has rendered me “disturbing”.  I “disturb” others with what I have to say in its defense,  and men assume I must be “disturbed” to so boldly and bluntly honor the Mystery (and so like a disobedient woman) refuse to apologize for doing so,  when the exact opposite is true.

You see, it’s easier for mankind that way.  No vines to chop down.

Jack’s mother is a prototype for Mary, the mother of God.  Jack is made innocent, in the Image of her Son.  She warns him to trust no man, only her Son.  But Jack is just like every man who means well, but doesn’t listen to a good mother.  He thinks he knows better.  After all, he’s a man.

The bean salesman is quite charismatic and charming, and there is truth to what he says.  He is symbolic of every new age visionary, every yoga or meditation instructor, every anonymous man named David selling an eight  point plan to find one’s true vocation, or that trip to Medjugorje people take, even though just authority refuses to approve, because it points to preternatural phenomena.

The beans do not represent timeless Catholic truths as in the three stages of the spiritual life, or the writings of Saint Francis de Sales on vocations. In fact they contradict these things.  But the beans do have some life in them and will really grow. The devil is not an idiot. There are some duds in there to be sure, with a virus that will poison the entire plant, but the beans will grow and astonish others with their wonders. There will be some authentic fruit on this tree.  As if beanstalks and wandering gurus could take us to high heaven, or to our castles in the sky.

When Jack returns home after visiting the giant’s house, his mother scolds him for not taking her warning against putting trust in man seriously.

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However, she does give him credit for the good he has brought out of climbing the beanstalk, those goods which the giant had confiscated, which had really belonged to her husband in the first place.

See, I did good, Mom.

But who is the giant, this sleeping giant, that Jack has not yet awoken?

It used to bother me as a child, how Jack was so careless, playing around near a big sleeping giant, as if this huge elephant in the room posed no real danger to him. It reminds me of how people, impressed by the benevolence and authority of a cult leader, feel they own him loyalty and love.   It dawns on me the giant does not represent an obvious threat to our well being, and that is why Jack isn’t really afraid of him.

The giant represents a worse threat, because it is a  hidden one. The giant represents those that we dearly love, yet those who threaten our physical, mental or spiritual life. We do not notice they are a threat, because they say so many truths, do so much good, and they point to many truths hidden in their kingdom.  They actually do give us some of these truths. We will not realize who they really are, or what demons possess them, until we wake them up, confront them with the reality that they have stolen God’s goods, and twisted a hideous vine growing nowhere into their own image.

They wake up only when you are charitable enough to them to tell them the truth (our moral obligation)  to put God before them.

Fee-fi-fo-fum,   I smell the blood of an Englishman,   Be he alive, or be he dead   I’ll have his bones to grind my bread  represents betrayal by those we love the most, because we have defended God’s truth. It is one of the most painful sorrows there is, this side of Heaven.  Does not Peter deny Christ three times? Does not the giant say the fee fi fo fum thing to Jack three times in the tale, like Peter to Jesus?

The giant is what lives inside my own mother that I love so dearly, my loving mother’s pathology, that caused her to bludgeon me in the face as a little girl.

The giant is the abusive parent, spouse or narcissistic best friend who you find out not only betrayed you, but is jealous (of your looks, intelligence, empathy, heart, innocence, whatever it is) and lusts after your blood.

The giant is when you find out the one balanced traditional priest whom you trusted has not only broken the seal of your confession and  lied about what you confessed in front of your daughter, but is the very one who spread  your delusional mother’s scandal against you and has disbarred you from socializing with your remaining friends at the Church for the “common good”.

The giant is when you take the time to help a man  whom you think has potential to be a real man,  by both discreetly slipping him the key to expose David Clayton’s evil intent and the key to stop dancing in Beyonce’s shadow, and he instead ignores both key and you, like you’re the ones without potential.  He treats the vine that threatens his spiritual well being like just another obnoxious GIF on his Facebook timeline.

By this point, you are devastated by all those whom you thought meant well, that you found out did not.  But you are even devastated by those who would still give their very lives for you,  and all of your friends, family, acquaintances and the very authorities and powers that be, because you finally realize not only can’t these people and systems  save you, but that they were not designed to save you.

Only God can.

I think of my own dating life, and how, even though the view-o-meter on Match.com flipped over at 15,000 views, I could still not find a man among them who could tolerate me loving God more than him.

The worst part of all is the ones you love the most have hurt you the most.

This is why Christ wept in the garden. And even as you embrace this cross, the very Mystery of your personal Redemption, you feel  that if the very people you love would turn on you, betray you, even prove of hostile intent, and if your sins of omission have betrayed them, than surely God has abandoned you as well.

But God has not.

He has been in your little home all along, your little house, or oratory if you will,  with your mother Mary.  She is standing on your front porch.  She does not try to sneak in through the back.  She is shouting out to you, out in the open, just waiting for you to come home.  If you are a man like Jack,  God might even use an infinitely much lesser woman, simply to remind you of the maternal.  I think of simple minded little Saint Bernadette, who dug in the mud until she got it all over herself, and people felt sorry and were embarrassed, for her. It’s like Bernadette had no sense of self worth, but the opposite is true.  It is those of us who are afraid to stop being “polite” and get dirty for a greater good that have too much pride.  God allows us to make even a public spectacle of ourselves until more important people will start paying attention. Mary does not creep in through the back door by deception like a noxious vine, and she will never fail to provide the water of Grace. Because Christ is her Son, in whose very Image you were made.

Suddenly, the painful paradoxical truth is exposed, like a pruned, scrawny little sapling that looks dead, but will fruit nonetheless true freedom, peace and joy. You see it all now, after hearing it so many times.  What you need is to totally let go and place your trust only in God.

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This means not only having faith that God is there, but much harder, believing that God is good, because only He alone sees you and loves you exactly as you are.  He does not accuse you of anything or show you false empathy. He will give you everything good you ask of Him, and even more. He was just waiting for you to acknowledge His generosity.

It is as if Mary has been pushing away tendrils attached to your hideous strength of love of man over God all along. But when you return to her, when you behold her standing bravely right there on your front porch, waiting next to Him in Whose Heart you were kept safe all along, it is you who must chop the hideous beanstalk down, or the giant will get into your home and devour your very heart.

For if you do not chop down the vine, if you do not embrace the Mystery, your heart will harden, and you will become the giant monster. You see it all in a flash, what would happen; the unacknowledged and suppressed grief turned into anger, the anger into hatred for all of mankind, but especially intolerance for the small and vulnerable, the weak or feminine, like the sound of a crying baby, just making a disturbance.  It is you who will become jealous of those that can still express sorrow, or feel any human empathy.

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The chopping down of the beanstalk is most terrifying right before it sets you free.

It will be painful, like a crucifixion, often accompanied with a feeling of toxic shame for having been so gullible in the first place.   Don’t fall for this.  Toxic shame is just a trick of the devil. Every man is deceivable, except one without the effects of original sin.  Imagine that, that the one undeceivable, unbrainwashable mere man was not a man after all, but a mere woman. Are men ashamed that God chose a woman, to become Man? Are men ashamed that God ordered them to behold His Mother? Though we all bear the effects of sin and are not God, we were all (man and woman alike) made equally innocent, because we were made in His very Image.

For those who prey on people of good will, prey on this very innocence and empathy.  They prey on you because you still have compassion for others. They are jealous of this.  It is this they seek to devour and destroy with sterile rubrics and lies like “If you sorrow over loss or show emotion it really means you are resentful.” It will feel like the severing of your own blood line when you cut down this vine,  because often it is. True Godly courage is a blind faith and trust that you are really a child of God first and foremost, and that this more real relationship will support you.

It is the no contact policy I have with my own sociopath mother that I still love.

It is the restraining order a woman with Stockholm Syndrome finally places against an abusive spouse that she thought she was madly in love with.

It is the giving up of a man I deeply loved to whom I was engaged, because he would compromise my faith.

It is the giving back of the engagement ring.

It is the moment you stop pretending your best friendship with someone is “brotherly” love when he feigns “empathy” for you in a private email to another man,  because his works were critiqued by a mere woman and yours were not,  or worse,  when he makes you complicit in his evil.

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It is the moment you face down an abusive priest, stop allowing you and your daughter to be falsely scandalized, and instead shout truth from the mountain tops.

People who are deluded by the devil, whether do to sickness or culpability, need hard lessons to learn truth, as do we,  and to be placed in God’s hands, not our own which have become soiled with earth.  Until they consent to being unraveled by God through Mary, they are a danger not only to us, but to themselves.

For none of us are God, and none of us can play God to save another’s soul.  We can only contribute to another’s salvation by offering something up, and sometimes it is our very connection to those that we continue to love, that we must offer up to God to help save them. Because we love them like ourselves.  But we love God more.

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Dare we think cast not your pearls before swine does not apply to us, because we are special, and our own magic beans will do the trick?  Or do we twist the meaning of this command into a loophole to neglect publicly defending God’s Truth, neglect cauterizing a leak?

That Jack is a boy, and not a girl, is significant.

Women reflect God’s mercy, are more empathetic, and are therefore called to forgive, but set boundaries against the men who have broken their hearts.  Men have a greater obligation to reflect God’s justice, in serving women.   The masculine has an obligation to sacrifice to protect his good mother, from the evil giant who has confiscated her goods.

That is how a boy becomes a man.

If any man come to me, and hate not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple.

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“Mother! mother! bring me an axe, bring me an axe.” And his mother came rushing out with the axe in her hand, but when she came to the beanstalk she stood stock still with fright for there she saw the ogre just coming down below the clouds.

I remember the day I left my ex husband. I had no car, and was trapped in the house with my young son and baby daughter.  I called my father, who showed up in his car to get me almost instantaneously, as if he had been waiting there all along.  I paused for a moment, turned around, and went back in the house to get the diaper bag.

When we were safely in the car my father scolded me.  “Next time you are in a situation like that Baby,  be ready.  Never, ever turn around for anything.  A diaper bag is not as important as your life and the lives of your children. Your husband could be keeping a gun. “

I asked my father, but you don’t think he really has a gun, or would shoot someone if he did, do you?

“That’s not the point.  I’m your father.  I love you.  I’ve been in situations like this before.  I do not trust that man with my daughter’s life.”

We drove off.

But Jack jumped down and got hold of the axe and gave a chop at the beanstalk which cut it half in two. The ogre felt the beanstalk shake and quiver so he stopped to see what was the matter. Then Jack gave another chop with the axe, and the beanstalk was cut in two and began to topple over. Then the ogre fell down and broke his crown, and the beanstalk came toppling after.

Imagine that. The beanstalk is down, but what a mess it is.  At first glance it looks like it has destroyed everything, the giant creature lying dead in your very back yard, like a hideously enormous chrysanthemum.

And Jack finally gives up.

Jack is finally grounded, just like a tiny pebble of sand who finally realizes who he is, and Who God Is.

His soul had always been properly intimate only with God.

Jack finally realizes he cannot trust man, over God.

Because there are no men left.

He is all alone.

So Jack starts weeping.

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Jack finally lets go entirely and lets God, because he has no other choice.

Jack cannot pull himself up by his own bootstraps.

He is finally safe at home, whether this symbolizes Heaven…

or Heaven on earth.

In all versions of the story, the mother and Jack get rich off the goods that really belonged to them in the first place.  In one, Jack remains with his mother.  In another, he marries a princess.  We do not know the end of our story, but we do know God will repay in abundance, with our heart’s most intimate, and fondest desire.

And they all lived happily ever after.

I include the following music video in this piece because my father loved country music. The words remind me of what my father said to me, and what God the Father would say to each and every one of us, without exception.

A Phone Call from Father Sabatino

Feast of Saints  Michael, Raphael & Gabriel

Phone calls are funny things.

I have a love/hate relationship with my phone.

I have often waited by it, hoping certain persons will call, who don’t.  I have often avoided it, too overwhelmed with things more urgent to even address the accumulation of voice mails, building up like some kind of virus that in the end will get me anyway, if ignored.

I am gradually learning that we cannot avoid what we fear, but even more importantly, these things we fear mostly are something for which we should not be afraid in the first place.  Anxiety is a lie.  Early this morning (too early, as I lingered in bed dreamily, listening to the rain) my cell phone startled me by ringing. So I reminded myself of that and picked up.

I had just gone public with my  critique of David Clayton who spoke at the illustrious Institute of Catholic Culture a few weeks ago, and was waiting for Satan to rear his ugly head and make his first punitive attack against me.

Attack 1.

The voice was amiable at first.

It was the newly ordained Father Hezekias  Sabatino Carnazzo, founder and head of the Institute of Catholic Culture.  (Congratulations on your ordination to the Priesthood, Father Carnazzo.  Don’t think I’m the last test you will have to face.)

Anyhow, as I was saying, Father spoke amiably at first with a voice sounding both calm, reasonable, and well… young.

But I am an oldster at fifty, so I guess everyone is starting to sound young to me.  He said it had come to his attention that a very disturbing “email” had been sent out, and asked if the sender could have been me?

I didn’t know about a disturbing email, except what artist/writer David Clayton had sent me, after he spoke at Carnazzo’s Institute.  I did know that last night, or early this morning I forget which, I had sent several links out to my latest blog post, Our Lady of Perpetual Help, The Meaning-heister and Men who Wear Hosen.

My post was  about a disturbing subject, David Clayton, and his plans to sell more books on his new “Catholic” method of eradicating the feminine presence (Mary) and the masculine (the cross) in homes across the world.  His methods smacked of brainwashing with intent to teach people to dangerously suppress all negative emotions. But I am flummoxed why Carnazzo would think my post was disturbing.

After all, I even gave it a humorous title.  Perhaps he didn’t get it.  (Hosen does not have to mean stockings Father.  My intentions were to mean pants, as in “Men who wear the pants in the family”. Don’t be so creepy minded. )

Father Carnazzo wrongly guessed my intentions repeatedly as we spoke on the phone.

He acknowledged that it was him who personally invited David Clayton to speak.  He wanted to know how I had gotten the email addresses of those who attended his event, to whom I sent my link.  I explained that I had signed up on the email list myself, and received all their email addresses when Clayton sent out his first email.  Clayton was inviting people to sign up to receive emails about his new 8 Point Plan in finding one’s vocation in life.

Startled at the subtly subversive creed he was preaching, I had signed up for the “8 Point Plan”, curious about the bunk that Clayton, with explicit permission of Father Carnazzo, was selling attendees.

I certainly did not lift or copy emails from the sign up sheet, though I sensed a certain disappointment in Father that he could not pin me down for that.

Perhaps I’m imagining things.

Anyhow, I explained to Father how I got the email addresses from David Clayton himself, all of them.  When he sent his first two attachments of subtle psychological brainwashing my way, he had attached all the email addresses himself.

Everyone who has been there knows the people who attend the Institute of Catholic Culture are by and large the faithful devout.  I care about these people.  I have learned from life’s experiences that not warning people of danger, under guise of adherence to some man-made “social custom of politeness” for which there is no true jurisdiction, is the grossest unkindness there is.  Even among Thomistic psychologists there is the ethical principle of  duty to warn.  This applies to every man, woman and child we come in contact with.

David Clayton knows there is a hidden Mystery behinds icons (and it is not the icons that are in themselves powerful) because he an icon artist.  His writings deny this Mystery, and attribute God-like power to man, the artist.

Father Carnazzo  knows Charity and the Rules of the Universe made by God are superior to the Disordered Shut up and Play Nice Censorship Rules that man imposes, when he has something to hide, because he is a priest.  A priest has absolutely no jurisdiction to ask me not to email someone, or command me to break the laws of charity in any way.

The little children of Mary talk to one another, Father Carnazzo, whether that is disturbing to you or not.

If we were protected by you, not Mary and her Son,  to protect us from scandal, you would not have invited your friend or whatever he is to you to speak there in the first place. We were not protected by you, nor are we bound by you.

But, Father insisted, Clayton did not “intend” for me to email everyone with a link to the critique I wrote against him, nor did he “intend” for people to get each other’s email addresses.  Man’s intentions must come first. Therefore, he said, he would ban me from The Institute of Catholic Culture should I not cease and desist. He said he “knows who I am.”

After all, he said,  they had been kind enough to feed me with “free food.”  That made me laugh.  Obviously he did not know me well enough to realize I owned my own coffee house.

Father simply could not understand why I wouldn’t promise complicity in a cover up job, or any part in hiding disturbing, but obvious and necessary information from the very people who attend his Institute, for the sake of a man who appears to have evil intentions against them.

Like I told Father Carnazzo, it would be fine if he banned me from the Institute of Catholic Culture.  My salvation does not rest upon The Institute of Catholic Culture, or any of the other so-called Catholic institutions that have disbarred me simply for stating truth out loud.   And though his phone call is disturbing in so much as it suggests even the ICC, with all the good it does do, is compromised with deadlock players…

I am still laughing to myself over his comment about the  “free food”.

Doesn’t he know, that the truth is free as well, and there are no laws that bind it?

Yes, false accusations, false imposition of guilt and responsibility, unrealistic demands, empty threats and promises, are usually just a sign, that someone has something to hide.

IF I speak with the tongues of men, and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.   1 Corinthians 13:1

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