Saviors Of Earth

The Unification Epicenter of True Lightworkers



I have every intention to crank out a bunch of Patrick later on tonight. Canceled once again. Haven't worked for 9 days. Seems I am going to pass through the eye of the needle again, get real real focused, count every damn penny, once again. This happened last year around this time. Tricky. Very tricky.

But at least it's familiar... the first time I went through this I was panicked a lot of the time. I', not panicked, not now. That's a totally valid experience, but completely optional, and really taxing to the old biology. Unnecessary, now. I am here, at my dining room table tapping away, on purpose. It's all been purposeful, voluntary.

Something happened to me this morning that I want to tell you about, although I want to end with the story ideas that called to me, kept me in this awakening game, and then I want to laud and magnify the creators of Wilfred. There. We have an outline.

This morning, I was doing the facebook thing, and there was a video post with a title like heart-warming, something like that. I rarely do videos, because my phone is so slow, it makes videos all skippy. Anyhow, I had to stop the thing five or six times to let it load, but I watched a twelve minute video that had me crying from the first scenario.

It was all set in athletic competitions, people who went out of their way to love someone competing. Many were about opponents being honored by the victor, but what got me spinning was a scene which began with a big man carrying a body onto a gym mat. The body was twisted, spastic, and the child was dressed as a wrestler, helmet and shoe wear and unitard.

The child lay there writhing. And a boy approaches, and gets down on the ground, and begins to writhe, and for just a second, I was unclear what was happening. I feared the healthy boy was going to pin the infirm one. But, then the little boy flips on this back, and starts nudging into the spoon the sick boy's body was making, and it became clear this little, healthy normal boy was then going to wind up sort of wearing this sick boy, pinned down, beaten.

The ump did the count, and someone came over and took the crooked hand of t he sick boy, and raised his ill formed arm into a sign of victory.

I had to stop. I had to hold all that love. Oh my god, I cry now thinking about it. It was so tender, so kind, so loving, so beautiful. So selfless, but more, such a statement of truth.

It was a truth, there wrestling on the ground.

The inform, the ill, oh I love them so much. I'm full on crying. I love the sick. I love them. I love the misshapen ones, the ones who think in ways that just make their lives hell, the ones who broke themselves, the ones who need to be sick, wanting the drugs and the tenderness and the unconditionalness of it all. I love them all, but I love the frail, the irreparably broken ones the most.

I will tell you now of an experience I had my first job out as an RN.

I worked nights with some really cool people. The nurses were always stick in the muds, but the aides were amazing. I had a crush on a boy with dark, long hair, who was an actor or playwright,I forget. I went to one of his works. I couldn’t tell you if it was any good. I was so in love with that guy, I just sat there and ate him up for two hours. Unrequited love, awkward girl that I was, and remain.

Anyhow, there were other cool ones, mainly doing the family thing, and then there was a boy who I will name Brett. I don't remember names, as a rule.

Brett had no face. He had eye, and I guess lids, although I can't really remember. He had blow holes for a nose, and a really little, scarred mouth. He was bald. And it was never clear to me if his face had just melted off in a fire, of if he was born that way. It seemed rude to ask. It's off, being among folks who are just undeniably in a tough spot, like the blind or deaf or retarded or misshapen, crikey, they are different, they are blessed, you see. They are closer to God than we are. They just are. All people who suffer are very close to god, but these, they are different. The suffering is exquisite, the sacrifice enormous, and the payoffs intense, sometimes.

Anyhow, I liked that kid, and he was always really nice to me, very encouraging. Some, who have been reading along, know that I set it up this way, being able to receive very little love, and being surrounded by people who just really didn't like me very much. So, here is this fellow who is kind to me, amazing with patients. All I could think about sometimes, though, was how Aunt Edna would feel about getting care, in the middle of the night, by a dude who has no face. I wondered if he flipped the old ones into hallucinations. I would laugh, guiltily, about that sometimes.

Then one night, I had a dream about him.

He came to me with a face, a very handsome one. But that isn't what was so amazing. In the dream, we were married. We were one with one another, complete, satisfied, whole, together, committed and true. It was such a strong and true love, it was healing, feeling it.

And then, upon awakening, when I followed the feeling state tot he images, I was amazed. Just amazed. Io wondered if that meant I should pursue him sexually, but I discarded that thought. I could feel this person's resistance, sitting on my bed. It was plain that was not the point.

I thought about him, while watching the remainder of that video. More and more and more scenes of compassion, communicating in a way that made my muscles ache with love, I watched these acts of love and knew that something was again shifting within me.

I thought about my career as a healer, a volunteer at the hospital at 13, an aide through college, dropping out for a year to do it full time, a nursing aide at a nursing home up in the hills, living with my folks that year.

I saw it all, felt how I felt so many many times at the bedside. Freed. Alive. Whole. Happy. It's the only place I whistle, work. I love being around the sick, I love them so much. I love it all.

I thought about it there, in my granny chair, in my jammies. Why? Well, I figured that out a while ago. It's because most people don't let themselves be loved until they are in a desperate situation. They usually are closed in some way, unhappy and troubled and sad, the ones not born with a disability. They are unhappy within. Sometimes it is an old injury, lifetimes old, an imprint that is biological, an infirmity we have married our biology to, something we live out life after life, and has nothing to do with processing or character issues. It is deep and mysterious, why people get sick. It is not to be judged, not to be assigned value. It is all valuable, meaningful.

I remember when I needed to get some IV fluids. I went to an outpatient clinic. I wanted to go back the second day, even though I didn't need it, I wanted to go, because they were nice to me. They didn't think bad thoughts about me. I could just tell. It felt good, being around people who were nice because they wanted and could be.

So I get it, sometimes being sick is about getting something that nothing in one's life provides. There's lots of reasons. I have a limp and my hip hurts a lot anymore. I don't think bad thoughts about my person hood, but I am deeply curious, certain that no doctor can or should fix this infirmity. It's me having a profound conversation with me, and I don;t need anybody mucking that up for me. No need. No one knows how to heal me better than me. But I get it, not everyone believes so much in their bodies, and all the other reasons people show up sick. I heard of one guy, who'd survived all sorts of extreme medical and surgical stuff, just a freaking train wreck physically, he went into hypnosis and learned it was because he wanted, had signed up for, all the experience. He wanted to really, really, know illness. HE was examining it, like a science experiment, and I think many of us have lives that speak to testing simple but profound hypotheses.

So the ill, I thought, there in my chair, they are just more willing to take my love, and I love them so much, so much, so much. I love them. It is not a personal love, and that's what I love most about it. It is sort of a category instead.

So, I thought about it, there on my chair. I have seen, often, writing as the highest form of selfishness, narcissism, especially this writing. Who am I to expose my consciousness like this? Who am I to reveal myself in such a way? No one else has. Why me? Am I really that sick, that borderline or narcissistic? I have abandoned, in my heart, my love of the sick. And it was my best part, I sat there crying, that's my best part.

I sat with a great love for who I was, who I have always been. I saw, in a glowing moment that just kept shining, kept going on, gentle but intense, I saw that I have always been good, always been kind, always been loving. Sure, I did things that were bad, from time to time, but it was by agreement. I saw the circumstances of my life all turn benevolent, and I couldn't really identify a mistake. Everything was symmetry. Everything was beautiful.

But, I had a thought, after that. I realized that I have been able to channel the most pure love, allowed myself this great fun, through nursing. Turning from this, oh, my, I am not so sure that's a good idea. I'm not convinced. I don;t think I can love that purely, do as much good, writing. It's not as sturdy, not as immediate, as nursing.

And tonight, I had another letter from a dear reader, who said she spent the day reading Patrick hears Voices, and loved how she could see herself among my friends, these slivers of myself I am populating through my imagination and willingness, and She had just asked me if there was someplace she could go, to learn of my awakening.

I told her about Deeply Awake, and then, I decided, once fully clothed, up from my, it turns out, totally unnecessary nap, to re-read a few of the old essays.

Here's the weird part. I randomly chose two essays, one recent, talking about my experience at the Riviera, when I was told to love it all, all the time, that is the point, to love it when you win or you love, just love it all. And then, randomly, I happened upon the essay I wrote when the experience was fresh. Funny how that works, when I re-read the work. I am convinced it is a gospel. There. I said it.

And I realized, as a read, that what I have done is just as valuable as nursing, just as aligned with my core truth, that I want to ease people's burden, lift up the suffocating blanket folks are sheltered under, tell them that the way out is here, that the suffering is over, all is well. That has been my purpose.

The shame I felt after finishing the video has faded, this faint tribal chant, “You are selfish, you should just stay quiet. Keep small... When you are big, you are scary” this is a chant that is fading now.

And so, I will finish up, spending good words on this essay rather than on Patrick, but some things must be said. They just must.

When I worked with The Teachers, after they left, what consumed me was a story for a novel. There was a woman whose life sort of implodes, and part of it has to do with her missing brother, someone who, she discovers, she never knew, because he had been working spiritually, and had prepared for ascension. When he was “taken away” she went on a quest, to find out what happened to him, and thus, in the end, winds up running a commune up in Leadville, and her brother returns, to assist, and bring the galactics.

Good story, right? But every time I tried to write it, it came out trite and unbelievable and dumb sounding. Like a teenager was writing about feelings they had yet to encounter. It was embarrassing, really.

Then I woke up, and thought, well, this is sort of like that story. I think I'll write about this thing that is happening to me. Deeply Awake.

I could see, once things were underway, that that story idea was more a metaphor, a story my future self was telling me about my path.

When I woke up in January of 2012, I was brought to attention with a brand new novel idea. A woman has a fascinoma and is slow to come out of a coma, or she has some sort of mysterious brain bug, so something. Anyhow, she comes to, and there is her physical body, but there is also someone else in the room, Ernie, who has been one of my guides since the '90's. He is crude, a bit of an imp, sort of socially retarded, but purposefully so, abstracted, wise, in complete control, but with a light hand and tons of really really good humor. That's Ernie. He's also a comedy writer. The first time I channeled, there was Ernie, and he wrote a drop dead funny script idea. That's my angel. SO he was going to lead this woman into her future, into the probabilities she'd set up, not that her life was on “pause,” and it was by manipulating, exploring and healing in the future that when she awoke, she found she had a completely different back story, and a present she'd only dreamed to have.

Yeah. Another metaphor, I know, but a good one. I've long played with time's plasticity, talking with my future self, telling her I need some really clear guidance. Been doing that since the '80's. And yet, to split these realizations off and personify the,, give them flesh and blood and lines on a page, this was a leap I was afraid to make. I was unconvinced I could contain it without losing touch completely with what everyone insists is reality.

And so, I knew, in the back of my mind, part of Deeply Awake was to shake out all the doubt, try on all the ideas and wear them around, see what holds up, reminded, as I was, more and more, of old ways, old selves, but all of it brought into sharp focus, in this now, whole, together, integrated.

I can't think of a nicer thing to say about a person. The highest honor I can lay on them is that they are integrated. Integrated. Whole. Complete. Fearless. Unashamed. Joyfully whole. Integrated.

I am not there quite yet, I'm just not. I have these money and relationships to deal with, this reawakening, now, into the physical, in a brand new way, with new skin, a new set of values, and my expectations, they have also changed.

I wanted to tell you how much I love Wilfred. That is, in essence, my talk with Ernie. I love how these writers split the selves, and then examined a word, and from that word tell us amazing truths.

I found listening to the commentary for Michael Clayton, that I felt a rising sense of alarm and disappointment, when the writer spoke of his work, and said nothing of spiritual or energetic principles. That movie is so obviously a story of a human Archangel. It is so obviously a tale of truth, the power of inner truth.

The line from the movie I love the most, besides, “Do I look like I'm negotiating?” is “I am Shiva, God of Death.”

But the writer didn't give away any clue that he'd channeled a great spiritual tale. It was all details and details and more details.

I want to sit down with the creators of Wilfred, to find out if they are aware of what they're doing, or not. I have no doubt, really, that they are aware of what they're doing. It is such an amazing tale, complete in twenty minutes, satisfying, but ongoing, the tale is. It is lyrical and beautiful and intense. Surprisingly, Sam loves it. He'll hang in through Season Two and get the pay off, and feel better for it.

I know this is all in divine order, and that I am as good on paper as I am in uniform. I understand now that it never was true, that I was worthless. It never was true, that I was wrong for being who I am. Those were things that were said that made me question my own worth, made me examine and come to peace with what was inside of me that often made things hard. I felt so much, thought so much, knew so much, it was hard, in some ways, to function normally.

I like that now, things are sweeter, clearer, it feels, and much more happy. Receptive. Lighter. Things feel very light, and I have few worries now. The ones that come, I deal with, and return to a state that holds no fear, holds gratitude and thanksgiving and excitement instead. Me, here with just change for the milk and stuff I need before Friday. Laid low by cash flow, idle. Stalled.

Purposefully so, but I need for the nightmarish part of it to end. I have learned that I often got rid of money as soon as it came to me, because I was deathly afraid it was going to be taken. I had that happen to, with my bank account, these invisible hands that would automatically deduce things form my account. It shouldn't but it would throw me into a panic. People taking. And this was the way of it,how I interpreted it, anyway. Always feeling like people take, and have no idea how to give. Just no clue. And it got old, real old.

But I can let it go. Those were different times. The lessons were different, and the messages have been received, loved into wholeness, released to go on, but to move from me, resolved, loved, just a bass note in my song now, not the lyrics.

And this is where I end it. I feel this is very long, too complex, perhaps, but this is just a function of the change. This is not Deeply Awake's voice. I feel there were three or four complete transmissions in this essay. Feel Complete now. Am heating up as I wrote, and I know I can go places on the first re-read. If I want to go away and have some fun, I'll be able to. These essays send me away sometimes, on re-read. I am open to that tonight.

And then comes Patrick, and if I am lucky enough to have such a reality come to pass, metaphorically or literally, as my reality, my own, then so be it. It is a good place to be. It is kind and open, curious and soft there, and people are nice there. I like it there. And the more you're there, the more you're there, you know?

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Comment by Besimi on November 23, 2013 at 1:29am



When writing Deeply Awake, oftentimes I thought of myself as a bit of a spiritual reporter, someone who liked going down rabbit holes, and sending notes, in pails, up the the surface now and then.

I feel that way again, now, but this is something new, something different, I feel freer, now. I am now, thankfully, without my faithful companion, doubt.

I puzzled over all of this so much, because it mattered to me. I did not speak of it freely, not at all, during most of my time here, just because, I needed to make sure I had it right. I would balk at seers and bloggers who speak with crashing authority, but still in highly linear terms, still bending low to gods, still looking at self and coming up short, and being mad about it.

I would read some folks, and just be floored at their arrogance. It used to crush me, that I didn't have their marketing skills, but, there it is, the idea of selling this stuff, holing it hostage for a few rectangular, quite ugly, pieces of paper, or zeroes in a bank account. So, I did the poor me thing, but, riding along with it, always, was this sense that they didn't have things quite as sussed as they should, before opening for business.

That is a gloomy way to live, and I stopped thinking that way. Although I think the way UFO stuff has been interpreted is pretty dark, how full it remains of creepy duality, intrigue, mystery. Men have warped truth into monsters that eat human flesh and do science experiments on us like lab rats. It's pretty dark, a lot of it.

But to me, that's just an interpretation, an understandable one, but laughable. Are there lesser, darker beings here along with us? Maybe. But I have seen people who have given themselves over to darkness, and they can get pretty nightmarish, without scales or putrid smells. I am done with thinking anything but that I will probably be surprised with how huge, and clever, and amazing it is, once the galactic piece is clearer. But it's just the god-the-father overlay to think that galactics are among us, unless you want to consider those of us who know we aren't from around here.

You see, I just had an amazing experience, and it is this that I need to cement, make real, and hold a light on, for all time.

I drove home this morning after dropping Sam off at school, and as I drove home, I could not access one bad thought. Not one worry, no anxiety. It was all real solid, a good, grounded happiness, not thin and cute, but strong and sturdy, this happiness. A great fondness for myself, I think, is what was its strongest generator. I thought good thoughts, not trying to, they just came.

I remember driving by a house, and there was a “For Sale” sign on the front lawn. I imagined moving in there, and realized it would feel too fussy for me. I need funky. And with that, I was off, imagining where we are going to live, and, you know, now, it feels very immediate. I have felt that the last two days. Immediate change. I can't imagine how that could happen, so it seems odd and sort of erroneous, but it also feels really, really good.

So, I hung with those thoughts, and it was all sweetness and light, all the way home. I came home and continued some correspondence, checked out the web. I found a Kryon post on, and that is highly irregular, so I read it. I was The Recalibration of Self Part I, and it spoke to me about light and dark, and about ascension, I think, but there were two or three themes that I had needed to hear, but hearing them (reading them, I mean), I started to get a brain itch, a need, a restlessness.

I needed to go to the Kryon site. I needed to check this year. I scrolled, but knew that's not where I needed to go. I scrolled back up, and felt I needed to listen to The Ascended Doors of the DNA. I listened to the pre-party, liked it, started to feel good, kept playing my restaurant game on my phone.

Then the big event came, and, within a few minutes, the phone was down, the glasses were off, and I was with him, them, away, getting helped.

Four doors, they explained, four doors which we can't open yet, because it's not time, spoken in February of 2013.

I understood, from the first few sentences, I was needed in front of my computer this morning. It was necessary for me to have heard that today. I needed, wanted confirmation, and now, thanks to Lee Carroll, Kryon , and me, I have it.

The information is still too abstracted within me to stretch out and discuss, point by point. As I listened, I thought, I don't need to, don't want to, no need to share what I think I have done. Those who read me know, I kept realizing. Those who read me will know, some of them. They will understand. And they will know, only because they are also aware of what I am aware of.

What I know comes through this writing, has informed it and enlivened it. What I know now was just a doubt, for many, many years. The pain this doubt created was excruciating. The waiting was really hard. Let's just be honest about this.

I understand that what I know is new to the age, but it is so old, so revered, and so comprehensive. I feel a bone connection to places I no longer long for, know are within my breath, inside my heart, waiting on my tongue, for the words, said in peace and reverence, for a remembering of what is real.

How magnificent, that the wonderful feeling I felt while looking out of my window at the mountains, while Kryon was talking, it is still here. Still feeling like it's now something I am wearing, but inside my skin, something I can feel from the inside, coming from everything.

We know that had we talked like this only five years ago, well, it just wasn't time for it, was it? It has only been the last several weeks that I have been feeling very different, very expanded, easily remembering things, bigger things, upon awakening, not having to dig myself out of a huge pile of pain to get to the truth of it, to start feeling good again.

It's as if the things that used to just break my heart, just fill me with a poignant feeling of imperfection, that is gone. It's just gone. The sad feeling I used to carry with me, that there is no point, that's gone too. There is no futility. There is no futility. There is no futility.

Do you have any idea how revolutionary this is, coming form me? Do you have any idea how depressed and full of despair I was, most of my life? Filtering through to me, on the happiest of occasions, was a weird sort of doom feeling, that things aren't right, and may never be right. That's sort of how I felt, most of the time.

How odd to find out that this is actually not so far from how things could have gone. My teachers, when they explained about ascension, it was rarely about the mechanics of personality structure. They talked about how things really are. That ascension is how planets evolve. That it is normal and beautiful, it is sacred and it is complex, and it is possible to understand. It is real, and it's ok to feel these things so deeply. It's ok to remember.

Although I am happy to think of my larger self as Pleadian, I will tell you, I think that is pretty limiting. I was told I came from Antares, one night, in the parking lot of a hospital, on my smoke break. A red flash. I kept hearing “Quasar,” and I googled it and learned about space stuff right after that, but I have no idea if Antares turned into a quasar, or I am from somewhere else. Does it matter? They're details. They are riding along with me, and I don't access that stuff by pondering what color my skin is on other worlds, I get there by knowing that I have lives going on, right now, on far away galaxies, and we are connected with my consciousness and heart. I can join in as much as I want. They'd like that. But it's all up to me, and this DNA of mine.

What we are capable of imagining is a result of how our DNA is functioning. This is a time of massive DNA acceleration, for those who have spoken their intent for it. Mine was spoken long ago. This is why I am here. Everything else is details. My sister knows of this madness, and we rarely speak of it, but one day, on the way home from Central City, she asked me what I thought my purpose was. Without hesitation, with a clarity that frankly surprised me, I said, “Ascension.”

it's all that has mattered, and although I got as hung up as the next person on who likes me and who doesn’t, all that old stuff just feels like fussy filigree. It's just fading into a blur, and it really just doesn't matter.

I have always felt that if I am not putting people at their ease, I am bad. And I think that is only a dysfunctional stance when I surrounded myself with people who could not, would not, simply refused to do anything but criticism, hate, fear, name call, minimize, resent me, their circumstances, their government, themselves.

It's only really stupid to love when those around you prefer punishing such behavior.

I learned early to hide my light, and to expect brutality from people who said they loved me. That goes for employers, lovers, friends, family. The whole lot of it.

But those were different times, you see? There have been upgrades, changes, beautifications, all along the way, but just like the 100th strawberry, sometimes it just takes a perfect moment for things to turn. In this case, they have turned sweeter, more gentle, more recognizable.

I know that these ascended doors open slowly. I saw, while listening, how my summer and fall were the opening of the never alone door. I am not alone. I am comfortable with my multiplicity. I am beginning to sense my imprint.

I want to dwell within the light that was given to me on Christmas Eve, all golden and liquid intelligence, true recognition of how much everyone loves each other, understanding how I am physically constructed out of love, benevolence, creativity, source. It was something I want to know all the time, and like that, a moving golden take-your-breath-away reality. Where I could see into other galaxies, or at my son's hair, flittering in the air the heater spat out. I'd like to be able to materialize things in my hands, heal infirmities, channel 24/7. I'd like all of that. I was told at a young age that this sort of love, loving everything, seeing everything as creator, this would be what I would have. I thought it seemed like a good goal.

Growing up was hard, being an adult, in this timeline, not easy either, but here's the thing. I look back on the challenges, and I can't feel the pain anymore. It's not there. I see the sense, the timing, the way x moved me to z, but I grieve nothing. And neither, in this state, do I fear anything in the future. It is an impossibility, here. Not a faux pas, an impossibility.

AS I have said from the beginning, I do not know how long I will be able to sustain this, and so , I am writing about it, to capture what this is like, so I can remember. I try to be clear, use anchors I can remember, and I worry this has been yet another cryptic essay, rather than being a song of celebration. However it comes off, it's ok by me. I know I will be helped if I read it again, and, like all of these essays, I don't doubt there are other messages, coded within, ready to bump into me and wake me up, if I do re-read.

I know this isn't for everyone, and that's more than fine. Not everybody wants to think or live the way I do. No biggie.

But with the change comes the hope for the future. Those who cannot act and think and be in their love, those who must fear, and must drink its koolaid to feel “normal,” those days are done. It's over. It's just so over. And when the young ones come in, they're the ones who passed away clinging to old ways, the old energy still their only yardstick. But everything changes, in this new energy, within the DNA there are changes, now, and these changes will ease the burdens of the ones so set to carry them for eternity. The burdens of fear and anxiety and worry, of separation and suspicion and derision, they are ended. These are weak constructs, and they will fall, and from here on out, those who come back in have a new set of rules to start off with.

And you know how this came about? People like you and me. People who found no satisfaction with dogma, but were drawn to spiritual things. And many who pursued none of them this lifetime, just holding that high energy, on vacation. But, I think I want to pat you on the back today, actually.

High consciousness, to me, is loving consciousness. Inclusive, merciful, imaginative, funny, often times, but at its base, it is generous kindness. Benevolence. This is the mark of a master, for me, and also, mental health. I grew up around mental illness, and have practiced as a psych nurse. I only have one definition of mental illness. Those who are intentionally mean, they are the craziest. Who dip into the crazy well over and over, and deliver insult after insult to one's being, those are the crazy ones. Mental health is seeing things whole, seeing people as more than they present, being willing to guide and teach, and even to admonish, as necessary, but only with great great love, and this sort of person is patient. More patient than they should be. I've had many people in my life like that, and I am blessed for having known each of them.

What has steadied me, from time to time, when things have been bad, is knowing that there is always going to be a way to change whatever is in front of me. Nothing stays the same. What was science fiction is not fact, what was once uncomfortable can be mended, and no one turns down love unless they are having problems understanding their own magnificence.

I am no one's critic, no one's enemy, and everyone's friend. I mean no harm, and know that I am unable to do harm. It's not in me anymore. If I feel I am off the mark with someone, I make it right immediately. Folks didn't know what to do with me, because I would call or revisit them and tell them I was sorry, for something they failed to notice. Some snag in the conversation, where I thought I'd missed an opportunity to be clear, or kind, or more gentle or thoughtful.

I felt, after Deeply Awake was finally done, that I would need expository writing less, or that it would morph. It has changed, in cadence and complexity, and, I hope, in tone. I revisited sad things, yes, that's true, but it was a final foray into that land. I think it Is well past time to stop resurrecting the things that were hard, and to cherish that I understand, now, why they were hard, and I love it all now, so it's really ok, whatever transpired.

I heard the admonition, to be quiet about this, from Kryon, and maybe that's a poor translation of what was being communicated, run through a filter of mine I had lying about, or maybe he did say to be in silence. To show your mastery by giving silence. If you know all things, he said, then it becomes unnecessary to tell anyone anything.

And that's where I want to be. I really do, but, you see, I have this need to speak. I know I must, and that this feels best, not channeling, and not fiction, but exposition, yet again, today.

Because where I have been, what I have seen, today, it is a joyful and completely unspeakable place. The word god is a misnomer, a shiny marble, a pretty bauble. Source, Creator, That which I know but cannot name, that golden light and benevolent person, this is my god, unnameable, unending, and I am part of it. Imagine such a thing. It is here, tapping on this keyboard, eating a twinkie, smoking. Imagine such a thing!

It is fitting to write to you about such awarenesses. In such a state. In a state such as this.

Thank you for reading along, my dear friend.

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Comment by Besimi on November 22, 2013 at 2:53am

PATRICK HEARS VOICES, Ch 36-42 By Kathy Vik, NaNoWriMo

PATRICK HEARS VOICES, CHAPTER 36 - 42 , 11-20-13, NaNoWriMo

Copyright, 2013

While writing this for all of us, a novel to and for and about lightworkers, I am asking for whatever financial help you feel moved to provide me. Private message me, or contact me at

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Indra drove down the wide highway cutting through the foothills west of Denver. By El Rancho, she could think a little more clearly, but she was still feeling a little blown open, strangely lost.

Valerie had been waiting for her, when Indra had returned from her day at the office. Val had looked stern, angry, as she often did these days. She made me sit, just like a kid, Indra thought. I should have known what was up. She hit the steering wheel, opened the window, and let the wind ruffle her dreads.

Indra was going to the Light House tonight for the solstice. That Indra had not followed through with doing the solstice festival at the DC had actually led to the break up, it turns out. Ironic, Indra thought. She values none of it, but still, she had to put her two cents into it all.

Valerie had told her she needed to move out. She said she couldn't take how Indra was “spinning her wheels with this garbage,” and had “put up” with Indra's spiritual pursuits, what Valerie disdainfully called “your hobby,” because she saw a potential for Indra a make some very significant money. She'd urged Indra to branch out, market, sell, sell sell, and at first, Indra enjoyed it. Her beauty opened doors for her that her ideas did not. She'd charmed a lot of people into the Temple, but that's not what made them come back. Indra knew that. Valerie was, sadly, blind to it.

And then Kevin told her he wasn't sure he was ready for what he sheepishly called, “a bigger audience.” She'd felt wrong about expanding so suddenly. She'd gotten used to the small group at the Temple, and wanted to be selective with who joined. Something, it seemed, Valerie took as something like a deal breaker. Indra thought it might blow over, if Valerie could ever find anything that made her happy. But it never did.

And now it was over.

She had an overnight bag in the back of the bug. As she turned onto 6th Avenue, running straight and true into the heart of Denver, she smiled, turned on the radio, and began to think that maybe things were actually pretty ok. This wasn't the end of the world, she thought. Just the world as she'd known it so far.

She loved hotels, and idly wondered if it might be good to just stay at the Brown Palace for a couple of nights. It was Thursday. It would be fun to walk to the office from her hotel, she thought. Just for the weekend. She smiled, then, and felt an unfamiliar calm. She knew enough to lean back, lean into it, and let it carry her into the city. Valerie really doesn't know what she's missing, thought Indra. Just then, a song came on KBCO. Indra drove through the evening traffic singing, “If you're sinking like a stone, or you're sinkin' like a stone, Carry o – o – o – on,” breathing better, feeling better, ready for whatever came next.


There was a gold Ford Focus in her driveway, when Bernie returned from her gambling excursion. She wondered what sort of shape Daniel was going to be in. “Jet lagged,” Bernie said to herself, resolving to stay on the first floor of her house and let him sleep until they had to leave for Ellie and Bill's.

She had told Daniel of her compulsion to gamble, before he'd left for his last book tour. It had been three months of Skype sex, but they'd gotten through. She only craved the slot machines when he was gone, and it had been such a strong, sudden compulsion, it really hadn't been too hard to figure out.

Daniel had been especially tender to her, after she'd told him, hesitantly, about how she felt drawn up there when he was gone. She felt an odd ache run through her, as she got out of her car. She wanted nothing more than to go up to her room and crawl into bed with Daniel, just spoon him and stay quiet, breathe with him, get into his rhythm, or he into hers, as was usually the case. Her body longed for him, as she turned the key, hearing her dog stir and begin to try to bark, behind the door. A rescue dog that sounded like a squeaky toy, that was her dog, Ed.

She greeted him, thankful that he was a relatively noiseless creature, feeling the house as quiet, holding stillness.

Ed followed her into the kitchen. She wanted the last piece of cheesecake, praying Daniel hadn't gotten into the fridge before passing out.

She turned on the light, and found Daniel sitting at the table.

“Lordy, you surprised me, Daniel,” Bernie said. “Tell me why you are sitting here, my love. Are you ok?” She walked to him and enfolded him in her arms. “I missed you so much,” she said. Then, she straightened up and asked him questions, how was the flight, when did he get home, how was the rental.

He took her hand and gestured for her to sit across from him at the table. He was smiling, which decreased the freak out factor, but this was, Bernie thought, very weird.

Daniel looked fresher than she'd expected. After a European tour, he was usually out of commission for at least a few days, in bed, “my travel bug,” he called it.

Once she was settled, he said, “I've missed you too, dear Bernie. My dear old friend.” He ran his finger down one of hers, an intimate act, and both of them could feel that old familiar fire start to kindle again.

“Bernie, I called Ellie this afternoon, and was sitting here, you then see, quite purposefully,” Daniel said, like the college professor he once was. “I wanted to be the first thing you saw when you got home. I needed to talk to you first thing.”

Daniel retracted his right hand from their embrace, and explored an inner coat pocket. Perpetually dressed for a lecture, Bernie thought. She particularly liked this coat. Boldly blue, more blue than a navy coat should be, it was just as vibrant as his intellect. Soft. He told her it had set him back two grand, tailored in a little village in Italy he'd visited once.

He brought a small ring box out, and placed it on the table.

He said, “You'll forgive me, I hope, for not having asked you the obvious earlier. Bernie, please consider being my wife, I your husband, dear Bernie. I think it is now time to be equals in the same city, my love. I knew it when I saw this ring, but I knew it, was certain of it first, when you told me about this gambling thing, before I left.”

He studied her, smiled, and asked, “How much did you come home with today?”

“Just shy of a grand,” Bernie said. “Ellie and I cleaned up. It was a clean grand, but I got snacks at the gas station in the canyon. I went a little crazy.”

She picked up the ring box, and found inside what she could only describe as the one that she'd hoped she would one day wear. Not a girly-girl, Daniel seemed to know that there was, still, a delicately female being within Bernie. This ring was all antique lace, pave diamonds, intricacy and understated brilliance. It was amazing, and its center stone was breathtaking. “Daniel,” She said, “This is, oh...” She broke off, putting it on, “Oh, Daniel, you outdid yourself. In every way, my friend. Yes,” she murmured. She repeated, this time a declaration, an intent, a knowing, “Yes, Daniel. Yes.”


Kevin stood in front of his bathroom mirror, and had to admit, he would be glad to be done with this living situation.

As he shaved, he felt a sour sort of disappointment in himself, something that had been haunting him the last few weeks. “I'm forty two,” he announced to his mirror. The number floated there, unpunctured by outside noises.

Then there was a big bang, and within moments, deep bass notes started rumbling through his tiny bathroom. The tenant above him was into reggae, and liked it loud. Kevin hadn't made a dent, fielding complaints with polite admonitions. He shaved being serenaded with Bob Marley wailing “No Woman, No Cry.” Kevin would have preferred something more mellow.

His kitchen was little more than a ship's galley, and he'd had to use the adjacent room to store cereal boxes, cans, and even his plates. “This is no way for a grown man to live,” he said, as he went through a pile of clothes, all worn, most only once. He found his least stained pants, and a shirt that wasn't too covered in cat hair, and then put on his shoes.

He'd been told by the building's owners, an elderly couple still trying to manage an ambitious rental empire, that they'd just sold their homes to a corporation. Ira told him Kevin could expect he would be interviewed by the new management next week, but Ira had taken Kevin aside and told him to “not hold your breath.” Ira had done some digging, and found out that none of this company's buildings had live-in management, Ira told Kevin. “The writing is on the wall,” Ira had said. Ira'd called Kevin Yiddish names, mensch, especially, and kept saying “these new ones, tsuris, I told Doris, but does she listen?” He'd used that word tsuris like a swear word. Kevin had no idea what it meant, but got the feeling Ira had done him a big favor, speaking to him in private as he had. Doris was a sour, fussy woman, and the two barely tolerated each other, it always seemed to Kevin.

Kevin made his way through his cramped basement apartment, petted his cat Jinx, and hesitated at the front door. He looked back, into his dark apartment, some of its general disrepair due to his lack of love for the place, he knew, and he thought, I need to channel tonight. It's time to get some answers.


Bill was sanding a huge block of wood when his cell phone rang. The vibration woke him out of the hypnosis sanding induced, and he noticed it was a call from an unfamiliar area code.

“Hello?” he said.

“Dad?” Melinda asked, a little panicky, she thought. “Dad, can you talk?”

Even though all the kids knew that their parents always talked with one another about everything, still the kids asked each of them to hold secrets. Bill told her yes, and asked her to tell him what was wrong.

She'd been calling him more frequently. The first time she'd called in crisis had been, Bill remembered, the first time Patrick had stayed any length of time at the house, documentary day, Ellie called it.

She'd called him drunk, more than once, and then, then next day, apologetic and, usually, quite shaken.

Bill had told Ellie about the trouble, knowing she'd be able to relate. She'd overcome a fondness for wine, and it hadn't come easy to her. But she'd chosen to drink, and heal, privately, the kids never party to her problem. Ellie and Bill agreed that whoever any of the kids calls is fine. Best they call at all, if they are in need.

Melinda was a beautiful girl, off to New York at 17, modeling, mainly for European fashion magazines, ever since. Three years was, she told her dad, a long time for anyone to model. She started talking like this during her months in Barcelona. She'd begun to call at all times of the day, altered, and increasingly anxious, suspicious, at times.

Bill began to wonder if his baby was perhaps slipping away from reality, here just lately. And now, here she was on the phone, sounding scared.

“Melinda, where are you,” Bill asked.

Ellie came into the studio then, took a chair in the sun. Smiling, she'd gestured for Bill to continue as if she weren't there.

“I'm in Chicago, Daddy,” Melinda said. “I'm coming home. I know it's sudden, but, daddy,” she said, “I can't do it anymore. I can't do any of it anymore. Daddy,” her voice broke then. He waited as she gained her composure, telling her then that he'd meet her at the airport, to check her ticket, “Just tell me the airline, Melinda. Can you see a Flight Number on the ticket, dear?”

He could sense her gaining control, focusing. Her breathing slowed, and she didn't sound so panicky. She read off numbers, and Bill wrote them on his hand with a Sharpie, the only pen that had been handy. She was calmer now, complained that her head was hurting, and didn't have long before her flight took off.

Her hand was shaking as she hung up the phone. She'd be in her own bed by bedtime. “Home,” Melinda said. She felt awful, but looked forward to a nap on this flight. She wanted to be left alone. She;d be seeing her mom and dad in just a few hours. She was already sleepy.

Bill hung up and looked at Ellie. He'd been keeping Ellie up to date with Melinda. Ellie wondered if any of this had to do with Melinda's boyfriend, talked about a boyfriend, Yakob, he'd been told, an Israeli here on a Visa, rich, devoted to Melinda, she said. They'd been dating for six months. Melinda never willingly admitted she was having problems. She'd always had been this way. It had been endearing in girlhood, but became harder to watch, as she stretched into her version of adulthood. Of all their kids, Melinda was the simplest, in many ways. She trusted readily, and seemed to have trouble sensing when people didn't have her best interests at heart. Naive, Bill thought, and a knock out. It had been a tricky combination, for her, and for her parents.

They'd let her fly free, absent as she'd become to her studies in high school. She'd always wanted to be a star, and preened constantly, something the other kids teased her mercilessly for.

Ellie was glad to hear her baby was coming home. She'd been worried for Melinda. Bill asked if her room needed anything before she came home. “Just check the lamps, would you?” Ellie asked. “One of those rooms has two burned out bulbs, but I can't remember which one.”

Bill ruffled Ellie's hair, hugged her, and thought of how keen Ellie was, so able to see into people, their inner workings, and yet she rarely knew what day of the week it was. “God love her,” Bill said to himself, walking hand in hand with his beloved wife, into the house, another day's work put to rest.


Since moving into the Light House, Patrick had become a very good cook. Ellie and Bill called him great, but Patrick knew there were things he dared not yet do with cooking. He found it stress reducing, and soothing, doing the things he could do in the kitchen, and he liked that he got to eat his creations.

Ellie had been surprised with Patrick's versatility as a cook. Bill let him cook more and more often. Bill had stuck around to answer questions Patrick had about some of the finer points of cooking, but it was a very natural thing, for Patrick, as natural as football, or math, or understanding the things he learned from Ellie. In the weeks he'd lived with them, Patrick had he taken notice of the dishes that went over well, and those that didn't.

Ellie was overwhelmed, as she was led by Patrick to the different cooking projects he'd done for this meal. Each and every dish had been the resounding successes, the stuff Bill and Ellie had told each other they wanted to start requesting Patrick make, the meals had been so good. All their favorites were there.

Bill rolled up his sleeves, washed his hands, and volunteered to help Patrick with the finishing touches. Patrick asked Ellie if she'd set the table.

Ellie went into the dining room and found it had been prepared expertly, tastefully. It looked more stunning the tables Judy used to lay, when she lived with them.

There was an envelope on one of the place settings, one word on scrawled in a childish hand on the envelope, “Ellie.”

Ellie took the envelope into the cabin, shut the french doors, turned on the space heater, and opened a window.

“Dear Ellie,” the letter began.

“I'm not good with words, and am just now seeing that being open, like you guys are, might be a better way for me to live. I have been lonely for a long time, Ellie. I told you once I didn't have a right to feel that way. But, since living with you guys, I think I did have a reason to feel that bad.

I can't ask you this in person. I'm not sure what will happen, asking, but I kind of feel like it is ok to do. If I'm wrong, please be nice to me anyway.

My dad's left me alone, and that's not a surprise to you, I know, but me being ok with it is. I don't feel like his kid. I sort of feel like an investment he made.

I don't feel that way with you and Bill. I feel like one of your kids.

So, on this solstice, instead of burning my hopes or blocks or whatever, I'm going to tell you my secret. I think you are some sort of mom of mine. I feel that way about Bill, like he's a dad.

My solstice wish is to be able to call you mom and dad. Just around the house, maybe, I don't know, but, I figured out, this is a wish that couldn't come true unless I say words. I wanted to ask you this way. I hope that's ok.

Patrick Augustus Sweet”

Ellie pulled the letter to her chest, and she breathed in the summer air, and this newest love. She smiled, and could feel that overwhelming heat surge through her. Looking out at the traffic, she imagined herself once again like a surging, bright white pillar of light. She could hear her light crackle. She imagined what it must have been like, just then, to have been burned at the stake. “This is the fire the legends speak of,” she felt, heard, in some non-auditory way, words coming to her whole, full blocks of information, sometimes, but now, for now, just words, “Invoking the fire which cannot consume, the friend of the witch, the pagan, the wise woman,” she heard the knowledge like a physical throb. “You are charged with creating, not destroying, community this lifetime. Gone are the days of a community devoured by ignorance.”

She closed her eyes, and saw the Light House, her Light House, but it was somehow bigger, now, and there was a parking lot. There were flags. It was night,and there were so many floors, some little squares of windows lit, groups of people meeting, teaching each other, laughing, she saw, inside.

“Honey?” Bill was at the door.

She turned and looked at Bill.

“I'm here. What's up?”

“Judy's here,” Bill answered.

Old shaman that she was, that she had been, she knew that Judy had come for another fix, another balancing, another healing.

“Where is she?” Ellie asked. “Is she ok?”

Judy poked her head in, just as she had the day she'd told Ellie of her decision to leave.

“How've you been?” Judy asked happily.

Ellie was up, then, smiling and approaching Judy as she always had, grateful to see her face, feeling Judy's innocence and her troubles as her own, seeing Judy as a friend, struggles and all.


“I'm not sure how it's going to go tonight,” Kevin was telling Indra, in the pantry off the mud room. They'd been tasked with fetching chips, paper products and a six pack of Coke, the last for Patrick.

“What do you mean?” Indra asked. “I've never channeled, you know? Can you tell if it's not strong, or something? My mom never talked to me about it. Kind of shroud it in mysteries, you know?” Indra asked. She was suddenly aware how nervous she was around Kevin.

“Well, it's sort of like that,” Kevin said. “It's more like getting out of my own way,” he explained. “It's easier to do that around strangers, I think.” Kevin found the chips and pointed Indra to the paper plates. “I just need to disengage, and I’m wondering how easy it'll be with this audience.”

“You use that word a lot,” Indra said, “about when you channel,” Indra said. They emerged from the pantry and returned to the kitchen. They drifted, together, to the foyer, and then went onto the porch.

Kevin lit a Lucky Strike, offered one to Indra, shook her head and then pulled a black pack of clove cigarettes from her front pocket.

Indra leaned against one of the lions flanking the porch and said, “What I see happen, week after week, Kevin,” Indra said through sweet smoke, “Is that what you do for people is individual. Everyone has a different experience. When I think of what you do, the word 'audience' doesn't seem correct. Do you follow me?”

Kevin smiled, pulled a piece of tobacco off the tip of his tongue, and said, “You're right, Indra.”

They smoked in silence. Off in the distance, Kevin watched Daniel and Bernie come up the block. Indra was looking the opposite way, facing north.

Kevin returned to Indra's face. He wondered how set she was, being with women. He thought to himself that it was just his luck, that this woman would be gay.

He wanted to tell her, ask her, reach out to her and shake her, just then. But her eyes were distant, her heart sad, he could tell. He wished it felt right to tell her how he felt. He wondered, watching Bernie scale the treacherous stairs leading up to the house, if he'd ever feel free to talk with anyone. He felt alone, just then.

He greeted Bernie and Daniel, turned to let Indra greet them. He opened the door and let them go through, following Indra, walking in the wake of her perfume. Kevin would follow her anywhere.


Bill, Kevin and Daniel found themselves in Bill's studio before dinner. Daniel had sought Bill out, told him the news about he and Bernie, and to celebrate, Daniel asked if Bill wanted to get high. Daniel had an encyclopedic knowledge of marijuana strains, was a connoisseur of the local growers. His last book had been on psychedelics and their role in ancient shamanistic cultures. He'd done his own field work for it, Daniel always said.

Bill suggested Kevin join them. Daniel brought out a small plastic tube and flashed its contents at Bill. At least a dozen joints, tucked in a canister that let out a pungent, skunky odor. “Ask anyone you like,” Daniel said. “I always have enough when I'm here in Colorado. You know this, Bill.” He heard the edge in his voice. He pulled out a brown cone fattened with oily herb, and left for the studio.

Bill got Kevin's attention from across the huge kitchen. Kevin excused himself, and in a few minutes, walked into the studio's thick haze of dank.

“Daniel, how've you been?” Kevin asked, before pulling on the butt-end of a joint. Kevin noticed that Daniel was looking sharp tonight, real dapper, Kevin thought.

“I'm glad to tell you I'll soon be your brother in law, Kevin,” Daniel said, smiling.

“No way,” Kevin said, shaking his head. “Bernie said yes?”

“And why would she not?” Daniel asked, just lightly enough to be taken very seriously, indeed.

“I didn't think she'd ever do it again, is all,” Kevin said.

Daniel nodded his head, “She and I have certainly had some misadventures, yes.” He sounded detached, amused. “I'd also vowed to stay far from such archaic commitments,” Daniel confirmed. “But I have been feeling my age more, lately. I sicken of my vagabond life,” he said, with his usual verbal flair. I deserve a rest, I think, now that I am established, such as I am.”

Daniel was proud of his work, but was ever aware that his theories were seen as “fringe” by many of his former colleagues.

“You guys seem to fit together,” Kevin observed.

“How big of a deal is it going to be, your wedding, do you think?” Bill suddenly asked. “There are some very unique spaces here in Denver, you can go as big or small as you want, really. It depends on how much funk you think Bernie is going to want.”

Kevin laughed, “Are you thinking about doing the wedding planning, Bill?” Kevin turned to Daniel and said, “What you probably don't know about Bill is, he's a sucker for chick flicks. What's the one with JLo and Matthew McConaghy?” Kevin asked Bill. “Wedding Planner? Wedding Something. One of his favorite movies.” Kevin took another hit, “But he'd never tell you that.”

“No, no,” Daniel laughed, “No, this is good. I have no idea what Bernie is going to be wanting,” he said, in his peculiar lilt, “But it's good to have some ideas. I don't want to do that old saw, with the woman taking over the plans. I must have input. There are some things I feel it is overdue to include in these rituals we persist in perpetuating”

“Oh, you mean like, ancient rituals and things,” Kevin asked, feeling stimulated and calm, simultaneously.

“It's a different approach, really,” Daniel said. “More maternalistic, more pagan, if you will, but, um,” he paused, coughed, “But, um, fully clothed, quite tasteful, actually. Old pagan, not Alistair Crowley pagan.”

“If I get any higher, it'll be too obvious. Who has Visine, Bill?” Kevin asked.

“”Visine?” Daniel asked. “Whatever for?”

“I'd rather not have Patrick know we're high,” Kevin said.

Bill laughed, “Oh, Kevin,” he said, “That horse has left the barn. We live together, and Ellie and I are not all that secretive anymore. We've relaxed a lot.” Bill nodded over to the furthest part of his studio. Bathed in the sunlight this studio sparkled in, Kevin noticed six huge pot plants. “It's legal, dude.”

“What about Patrick?” Kevin asked.

“”He told us, he doesn't care what we do, but he doesn't want to do any of it. He doesn't drink, either, never has.”

“Never experimented, then?” Daniel asked.

“No,” Bill said. “Patrick told us he's never used any kind of mind altering substance. Says he doesn't see the need to.”

Uncanny,” Daniel said.

“Megan was like that. So sure of herself, so solid, you know? Couldn't argue her out of that sort of thing either.” Bill took another hit and asked, “How did that happen?”

They left the studio, returned to the bustling kitchen, and within a few minutes, their plates were laden, the music was playing softly from the big stereo, and the group settled into their meal.

Kevin was hearing the voice of The All so loudly, at times, over dinner, that he had to just go silent. This was the other reason he stopped talking, at times. Sometimes it was all so intense inside, he had to tend to it, regardless of how it looked from the outside. Silence helped him.

Kevin looked around the table, once they were settled in. He saw that the group no longer wanting to fracture and regroup, change and morph. Tonight, it was a group of people, instead, who were choosing to be cohesive. Who seemed to know that the night was a significant one.

Ellie raised her glass then, got everyone's attention, and called a toast.

What followed, what this toast created, they're still talking about today.


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