At night the revolving noise of my ceiling fan is like some kind of aerodynamic symphony. Sometimes I think it makes my heart beat faster. Very little does lately, unless I'm chasing Aurora in fields of colorful leaves or carrying her up the narrow, wooden, paint stripped stairs to put her to bed.
Entering the Aurora threshold, the little girl's fantasy filled, princess imagination, requested that her environment to be a replica of a mermaid's lagoon. To achieve this result, a lively kelly green shade saturates the upper portion of her quarters, fair purple on the bottom half, and I ordered a darling Ariel boarder for three walls to split the colors in the middle. An underwater mural of the redheaded mermaid was stroked onto the last remaining wall, but like most projects that pile up, bare stairs included--the painting has rested in partial completion, only to be tackled in increments when we stop wearing clothes to wash, or break from eating off of more dishes to load.
Tucking Aurora in, as sacred a nightly ritual as it is, I'd be fooling myself if I said these tender moments with her provide the same type of rush other stimulating moments in life tend to offer. Perhaps I don't crave those alluring butterflies, or mutual showers with a man so much anymore, as I simply desire to curl up within the solitary confinement of a little mermaid cocoon and drift further into my own inward metamorphosis. Further, I seek seclusion in the woven walls of my dream cocoon to avoid a world often too full of fake girls with fake hair, over inked butterfly tattoos, and men who label aforementioned tattoos as "tramp stamps." When did expression become such a tramp? Why can't females label the tattoos men scrawl on their shrinking biceps as "ego enhancers?" I've dated enough men garnished in such markings to say it's a fair and accurate assessment.
Denouncing the stamp of an often small-minded society, small talk has never been my forte and I avoid it like swine flu. Maybe one virus creates another and gossip is just as much of a fucking disease as anything else that actually has a working vaccination. My home remedy has been, well--home. Here I am free to write poetry about God at an ungodly hour, paint roses or crosses until my ambitious heart is content. In between dreams, colors, and metrical verse, I integrate my putrid past into a mystical present. I can't say I consented to the integration process of self and God peacefully---God knows alcohol and insomnia have been big enough barriers to a balanced contentment. Apart from restless and frustrated occasions though, I have been brushed by serene and sobering angelic sonnets, composed by a very real awakening taking form--- an awakening straight from the grace of a formless God.
When I was 18, in addition to case of rebellious teenage angst and getting my very own sea horse "tramp stamp," I began having an influx of divine energy. This has come to be defined as: an indigo child in a "transitional crisis." Basically what takes place is a rapid onset of multidimensional awareness. Once the internal soul arrives at a place of instant knowing that it is time to fully reconnect with the Source, individual cellular rebellions also occur. The brain, which is actually a spiritual vehicle and portal of sorts, has been largely diluted and programed by a desensitized world and in turn-- the personality or ego often fights the transition and attempts to minimize the spiritual anomalies as false or "unnatural"-- which could not be further from the case. Many of theses indigo creatures begin to "hear things" or "see things" and as medical consequence of such, are commonly misdiagnosed as being bipolar--or worse.
Some seek out professional help and are improperly medicated with harsh and experimental psychiatric drugs. Often these artificial methods prove to wreak havoc on what is a natural stage of evolution and ultimately the unnatural forms of treatment prove to be even more damaging and only hinder and trigger over-reactive haywire in functional emotional responses and brainwaves-- which are already preoccupied with a very confusing cosmic transformation. The transitional process is marked by an increase in telepathy and subconscious interaction with angels and deceased spirits. It can happen while awake or in the sleep state and has also been commonly mistaken for vertigo. These unique individuals are vital to the movement that has been subtly gaining momentum around the world. If we rob or deny these souls of their abilities, it will impact all of us negatively instead of positively. Very simply, this breed of incarnating species is here to bring about advanced thought shift in humanity. It's the hybrid flock Edgar Cayce predicted would come to be---the indigo and crystal creatures, encoded with spiritual DNA. We should not fear them but help them come to terms with their integration, for we are all merely being reintroduced to heavenly roots, our sacred origins. It is much like Jesus said, "that which is above shall be as below," and "everything is returning to its root."
Narrowly, the medical adults treating these children have been trapped on the earth so long or limited to only scientific thinking, that they have forgotten and are closeted in their own denial of higher truth. The divine transcends humanity and there isn't a pill that can prevent it if it's God's will that these blessings and powerful messages should stream through for the purpose of altering humanity from a state of chaos into a spirit of more celestial order of harmony. Systems and economic infrastructures around the world are failing so that people will remember that the powers of Spirit are all that truly last after the institutions and material have crumbled. History has maintained societies rise and fall--Atlantis is a prime example. We are also discovering the hard way, that the US is certainly no exception. The arrogance of this culture is mind blowing--we're still a governmental baby in relation to other sectors around the planet, which is why we need to learn from all religious establishments instead of marking them a tramp or terror oriented whore. The Qur'an is a beautiful piece of work, but many Americans whom have never even bothered to read it, have falsely stereotyped it or come to fear it and the entire Islamic faith due to governmental pressure and unfounded psychological fear as a result of a post 9/11 world.
In my individual harvest, spurts of psychics became like flower bulbs within my chakras. Even though bulbs don't always bloom that first spring you plant them, many lie dormant in the dirt , just waiting for a fresh spring rain to grant nature's motive to spout out and make their life known. It never happens over night, but in subtle, patient steps leading up to a full-blown flower. Still as most wall flowers might tell you, the rigorous and bustling modern demands of life tug and pull people from their inner urge to stop and smell such roses, but rather cut them from their life source and throw them in a vendor's bucket. In this case, the bucket we are seeing the indigo children tossed into is the barrel of the prescription drug companies.
Before I became another monkey in the barrel (a story for another blog perhaps)a groundbreaking development that broke the soil for my own psychic flower, occurred in the days following the death of the singer Aaliyah. I was keeping a detailed journal at the time and the date marked in the diary is September 1, 2001, just ten days before 9/11. Believe it or not, I was in Las Vegas of all places when the spirit decided it wanted to spring fourth from my star seed.
Vacationing in a huge house, about 20 miles away from the neon strip, all of my roommates had made their way to bed, leaving me alone, swimming in a huge pool that drank a stunning view of the desert sky. It was late and floating under swells of stars, there was light all around me. For the first time in my life, I felt God in a way I never had before.
Unaware of the top terror grade of world events in waiting, I thought I was losing my mind. For years I'd marched into the pews of a conservative Methodist church, looking for God, but from my tiny human perception, it seemed He didn't fully acknowledge me until I was smack dab in the middle of sin city. Go figure. I started rambling about how the children of Light had returned and that we were granted authority by the Law of One-- among other things I had never heard in church before and dare not utter in the presence of "normal" people. Was I just manic? Maybe. But when reality beyond this fit of mania sunk in with a vengeance, ten days later, sweeping the entire nation into panic that the world was ending, and all of my cryptic talk of demanding the masses to "shed their sins and see the light" took on serious consequential meaning. Many people might reject my claims-- it's happened-- but in order to be received you must first be rejected.
After the epiphany in Vegas, the following evening, I boarded a plane bound for Jacksonville. Being ipods were still a luxury of the future, I pulled out my old CD player and began to hold a silent vigil for Aaliyah from the window of my plane. The instant I pushed play, I saw a huge streak of purple light jet through the sky and right up to my window. There was a glowing young woman staring and smiling back at me outside. It was Aaliyah.
Before anyone starts to scoff or doubt the visual of a celestial Aaliyah, I should mention that I am just like Allison Dubois from the show "Medium." Not merely the character, but the real person the shows conception was based on. In life, Allison also has red hair and brown eyes and she is an Aquarius; just like me. The other link I share with her is that we both have daughters named Aurora. This was unintentional on my part, I had no idea who Allison was when I had my baby, I just fell in love with the name Aurora. (Great minds think alike.) Anyway, once I researched Allison and related to all of her dreams and spiritual experiences, I knew that this is just the way God designed me--I am supposed to be psychic and have a very active, communicative dream life with the forces on the other side.So as I am looking in a virtual window to the other side, looking at a free-floating Aaliyah-- I became very concerned that my plane was going to explode. She shook her heard and telepathically I heard her say, "not yours." I let out a sigh of relief and didn't draw any attention what was going on, but continued to stare at her and weep for most of the flight home. I was awestruck and humbled at the same time, but for the very first time in this life, I stopped wondering if there truly was life after death.
On September 11th, the comment "not your" plane made awful, tragic sense. Aaliyah
had to be taken back a few weeks prior, she was on the divine welcoming committee and Jesus needed her to help the victims of 9/11 transition back home. The events of 9/11 didn't frighten me nearly as much because I had seen Aaliyah just prior and I knew in my heart that everyone who was taken that horrible day--just had another place to be and they had to arrive on God's time and not their own. Still, I stopped some of my bad behavior and turned to blessings--blessing others and seeing life in the context of the true blessing that it is.
Blessing people is free. Once you have a baby you truly understand the value of not only free stuff, but the priceless gift of a simple blessing. Blessings are never outdated-- they last longer than lamp shades and curtains that serve only to dull and conceal the light. Sometimes I bless people when i don't know what else to say, it makes the silence more fruitful, even if it is an awkward, burning silence. The point is to never dwell in how we are burned or rejected, but to reform our interpretation of people events and diagnosis into an advantage instead of a weakness. By accepting our new roles and elevating our perception to the angelic realm, we are lifted into a better position to bestow generous servings of love upon total strangers--- whenever we can. You never know who will be boarding the next flight home, so receive and bless each other as often as possible.
Beyond my bipolar adventures in a bipolar world of sin and synchronicity, I retreat into the room of my mermaid cocoon and switch the ceiling fan back on to tune out the deafening cries of a dazed and struggling society. It's difficult to divide the sound of the fan blades from the harmony of the angels chiming their pitch in my ears as I spin myself into another dream and patiently bide my time until I am fully transformed. My mom gave me a mermaid music box for my birthday last year, which sits perched on my computer desk and my eyes drift to its resting place when I can't fall asleep or need to focus on something. Sometimes between the angels and the steady swirl of the ceiling fan, I reach over and crank the mermaid up and watch her dance for me-- if only to remove my scattered mind from the chaos and shallow questions of the world outside, and instead hone in on the simplistic fathoms of synchronized revolutions residing in art and figurines within my own isolated fortress of sea foam, a holy place of awakening.
And so, this is life in a mermaid music box.