Not Xena

I pass this on because I believe being true to our nature is as necessary at this time as it is at any other, in linking our strengths together to build a strong community..


I am currently listening to the audio book version of The Game of Thrones, and have come to like Samwell Tarly, the self-confessed coward whose finer qualities his Lord father would not acknowledge as valuable. Sam is a philosopher, perceptive and sensitive. I am identifying with him. I’m afraid of violent encounters, too.

Remember seeing the student stand defiantly before the tanks in Tiennanmen Square? As soon as I watched that, I wondered what would propel me to do such a courageous thing. To protect my child, yes, certainly. Would I rush out to defy violence for a less crucial and immediate threat?

As it turns out, years later I watched myself answer that question, amazed. I was in a class at the Omega Institute. An angry student kept up a barrage of complaints against the arrogant teacher, who wasn’t having it. Neither was giving in. Arrows were flying and I was getting more and more anxious. Fear flooded me, my heart raced, and I needed this to stop.

Suddenly my body pushed herself up from my chair and rushed out into the center of the room. I really hadn’t seen that coming but had to follow through. My fear immediately coalesced into righteous determination. I shot what felt like a commanding glance at the Red Queen at the front of the room, and she reined in. The arrows stopped in mid-air and fell just short of my back. I turned fully toward the other class participant, a stranger made intimate in that moment, and said as quietly as I could, “You know, this is hopeless. She’s not going to listen to you. Let’s go outside and talk.”

Another nearby participant voiced his support, and the three of us walked out to the porch. After a brief parley, the angry participant left. The other one and I walked back in to the class and resumed focusing on what we had come to learn from this famous teacher.

Every time I think of that unplanned intervention, I am astounded. So, check mark, I’m not, to use George R.R. Martin’s evocative adjective, craven. But I am no warrior. My Xena Warrior Princess refrigerator magnet reminds me of how much I admire people who can be.

I walked in anti-war marches in the 60s and rode the high, charged energy with confidence. But I don’t march now. My gut quakes when I consider how hysteria can turn a crowd into a mob. Whenever I went to the races in Saratoga Springs, I avoided the area where people milled around watching the race on monitors, waiting to see if their wagers would succeed. The sound of their urgent murmurings made me uneasy.

And since the day after the election, I have awakened nervous every morning, my solar plexus quivering. So two days ago, I finally sat in meditation and sent my perplexed longing into the higher realm of being, that realm that I call the divine, from which I have received helpful teachings and all those illuminating, nourishing downloads.

They’ve tumbled into my head in a variety of language styles, which I have transcribed as accurately as possible, leaving literary judgment and theological preference at the door. The message has always conveyed the same idea: that I am a conduit of love, a messenger of hope, and that my nourishment comes from focusing on possibilities that vibrate with those qualities.

Take heart. Don’t give up. We/you/ are here/there. We are with you, the same as you, forever and ever, we are one in creation. It is only the separation brought about by apparent material necessity which creates the illusion of separation. Blessed is the one life in which we all swim.

Your dreams are our help as well. Take it either way, both are true.

We love you. Sister of souls past, lover of the divine love within, seek the directions where love is most evident, leave behind the clutter of hardened memories for others, iron-clad, to ponder. Not for you is the battle field with its terror of meanness, but more to the sunlight and souls in flower. The balance is well fed. The times to wander in are those which nourish, not challenge, thy soul. The cow that gives the sweetest milk is she who has grazed in the sweetest fields resplendent with lush flowers thriving under the rays our lord sun and the gentle mists and baths of Lhiekhe (pronounced /lye-kee/).

Peace to you and to all those who nourish thee, sweet sister, lover divine, and mother of hopes. We have missed your kind company and long for your recognition of our dwelling places, so we can communicate on a more conscious level with thee.

So when I ask for guidance, I am not surprised when I am encouraged to take the road that offers the least resistance.But I am always ready to hear that I must put on whatever armor I can create and stand against an onslaught. I did once receive firm marching orders to plow into a very scary obstacle in my life, told that there was no way around, above, or under, but that through was the only possibility. I jumped down the rabbit hole and was there for eight years, and the beauty of the world into which I emerged within and without was worth the dark journey.

Two days ago, I didn’t ask how I could help others or for advice I should pass on to others. I didn’t ask what I could do to be of the most help to my country or the world. I asked what I needed to do to fortify myself, to be the person I came here to be most fully at this time. What came in response has helped me see how I can fit into this time.

On the blank page of each unfolding minute, find the direction in which the tiniest mote moves along the subtlest current. Close your eyes and sense the flow under the turbulence of the fray. There you will find the sweetness seeking its outlet far along the course of current events. Place yourself there, in the sweetness under the ice, in the quiet far from the roistering crowds.

Your role is to tread water in this flood, staying put in your center. Your moving arms will be fins in the water, moving the sweetness and the calm that is the Earth’s nourishing milk. Those who can pause long enough to discern the scent will find their way to it and will find strength and calm.

You do not need to be the spasmodic body in the birth throes of this time. The midwife does not feel the mother’s agony, but remains cognizant of what the mother needs. She remains focused on the laboring being, offering hope, directions, clean cloths, water and soothing liquids, massaging and caressing, urging the mother’s well-being and encouraging the baby to emerge.

Soul groups also emerge now from warm nests of soft undergrowth, from under the rock ledges along all the waterways of the world. Under the layers of turmoil, the Earth shelters pods of tender blessing, curled and waiting to be called from sleep when the tribal unrest above them strikes the nerve that is the awakening bell for each of them.

Take the long view.

A number of my good friends are more able than I to grapple with anger, and some find it energizing. In the face of their calls to action, I often feel cowardly and inadequate. But I trust my process and the life pattern I have built with it, and so I trust that the guidance I received in answer to my question yesterday is authentic, and not just wish fulfillment, because it does, of course, occur to me that this all might just be wish fulfillment, just as everything I believe and everything I see might all be in my head.

We often say that — “it’s all in your head” — as a joke, black humor, indeed, as so many women, particularly, have heard this from their doctors or their impatient, unsympathetic intimates. But I’m being serious, knowing all along that my bringing it up at the end of the last paragraph may have cued a smile.I have great respect for imagination. It’s the beginning of creation. “Oh, it’s just your  imagination” is probably one of the least useful sentences one can say, unless to quell a ravaged heart from further fear.

From a page in the online community called the Joseph Campbell Foundation comes this simple description: “Vishnu is pictured as the divine dreamer of the world dream. Vishnu sleeps on a great serpent, whose name is Ananta, which means “Endless.” The serpent floats on the universal ocean, called the Milky Ocean. But this Milky Ocean and the Serpent and the sleeping God: these are all the same thing. They are three inflections of the same thing,, and that thing can be thought of also as the subtle substance that the wind of the mind stirs into action when the universe of all these shifting forms is brought into being. Vishnu, the God, sleeps, and the activity of his mind stuff creates dreams, and we are all his dream: the world is Vishnu’s dream. And just as, in your dreams, all the images that you behold and all the people who appear are really manifestations of your own dreaming power, so are we all manifestations of Vishnu’s dreaming power. We are no more independent entities than the dream figures in our own dreams.” (

OK, you say, but Vishnu is a god. Yes, and we are gods in training, created “in the image” of a Creator. Created to be creators, with no limits but our finite minds, and we’re working on that.

I don’t understand how or why reality comes into being. Fortunately, I don’t have to. I just have to stay as healthy as I can, act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with my God. So I go to the gym, take walks in the forest, examine my thoughts, care for my heart, my community, my friends and those I love, send as much money as I can to the several organizations which do battle on the fronts I care about, and write letters to powerful office holders begging and commanding them to take actions I think need to be taken to create a more just America and a more compassionate, safer world.

I pass this on because I believe being true to our nature  — being true to the authentic selves we came here to be, as opposed to whatever kind of role-playing self we may have given into believing we should be — is especially necessary at this time. Taking the long view, the last advice I received two days ago,  implies an ability to be patient, to know that what is in front of us now will be behind us later, and that being impatient to create a specific  “later” sooner than later is not “taking the long view.” But it does not mean that I — or anyone else who resonates with the guidance I received — should do nothing while taking the long view.We can link our strengths together to build a strong community only if we, ourselves, can be strong links. Marching with banners is one way. Writing impassioned letters and posts on social media is another. For me and probably for many others, staying out of the public fray while plying our skills to create the world we want is another.

In my heart of hearts, I know Xena and Samwell have each other’s backs.

Seeds of the Divine

How powerful are we? How powerful could we be?

What if I, I alone, by simply abandoning every shred and iota of resistance to who I really am, could be the cure of every disease and cause balance to flow so pervasively that there would be no more war, cruelty and all that feeds on hatred? It sounds like hubris, but maybe that’s the point: when is humility a lie?


 We come to this planet, seeds of the Divine. We come to this planet with the pulse of the cosmos in our hearts. We come to this planet to express the Creator in myriad possibilities.

We look out of the Creator’s eyes and listen with the Creator’s ears with hungering zest, pulling in the shapes and sounds of all creation.

We swallow all we perceive and all that we do and we call it our own. But it is not our own. We are stewards, using these bodies, filtering information through our yearning hearts and complex minds, and we make the lives we call the World as agents of that which blew life into us.

“God has come to visit and has chosen you to be guide and host.”

These words were on a piece of paper in my handwriting. On a ratty little piece of paper. And it reminded me of how small scraps of awareness can bring such richness. It was one of those pieces of paper that swim in the mess in the car, that I grab whenever I need to write something down. Other things that were written on the same piece of paper were: “fruit, yogurt for Rosette” and “find a Trader Joe’s nearby.” And then there were phone numbers upside down from where I had written on the paper turned the other way.

I was writing on the go, maybe at a stoplight. In the stream of life happening topsy-turvy, one bright flash makes it through and we find our clues and our direction becomes clear.

In the Brownian movement images suspended in my imagination, I see a huge, rolling metal cylinder, a perforated  lantern that lets some, but not all, of the light out. The cylinder rolls and turns ceaselessly, releasing pinpoints of its light. I catch some of them. I lose some in the tumbling cacophany of my life.

Of all the images that might have rolled into focus, the cylinder seems almost cruelly primitive, an outdated, rusty, creaky relic of the industrial revolution.  I take this image as a clue to get with it and advance my mechanism to a more current technology, but I don’t know how to do this. So I ask for a few reminders. I know that we are, in fact, nano-second by nano-second, repairing the world by our very existence on this planet:

  1. We are God at the show that life is, each of us a multi-dimensional constellation of awareness, our eyes, ears, and pores all open, witnessing creation, even as we are every character in the drama and every member of the audience.
  2. We are finite manifestations of the infinite, exquisitely unable to grasp the whole of which we are part.
  3. Although most of us neither understand how it can be possible nor believe it with every wave and fiber of our being, we are not only every character in the drama and every member of the audience (see #1), we are also the director of the show. Each of us.
  4. Because we cannot possibly keep everything in our limited consciousness balanced all the time, we stumble, and sometimes our missteps appear in others’ perspectives as intrusive, cruel, premeditatedly hurtful. Sometimes their perceptions are not incorrect.
  5. Every moment of our existence, we are worthy of every kind of love, no matter how we or others feel that we have failed.
  6. This spot is available. (I still think something may appear here. This is the empty chair.)

The Divine knowing is not just present in each of us all the time, but is who we are, you, me, the people whose choices we doubt or judge,  looking, listening, and soaking up every nuance of impression in every moment of our lives. We are the Great Experiment, we on this Earth. We come to this place to heal our wounds, living the collective consciousness through individual experience. We live each of our nano-moments under the cosmic microscope and dance on ever-balancing scales, which we polish with pride through our achievements, driven by our passions.

The enormity of the possible scenarios we might create and facilitate is overwhelming. Lakes of tears can not wash away remorse, nor rid a human soul of sorrow.   Our hopes, prayers, and visions float upwards whether we intend them or not into the heart of the longed-for savior whose hands we are, whose eyes brim with our own salt tears.

I read Michael Harner’s book, “The Cave and the Cosmos”, relishing the accounts of shamanic journeys by people who grew up more or less as I did, in a first-world country. There was a sentence in one woman’s narrative that reached in past my heart and shook me a bit more awake than I had been the second before. It was this: “We are more powerful than we can possibly imagine.” I was deeply identifying with her story, and so I took this very seriously. Now, I have a very good imagination. What could I not possibly imagine?

I  cannot  imagine what it is like to be God. Not just to know that God is walking around in me, that I am a conduit, a cosmic outpost as we all are, but to know the totality of God. How can I? I am finite and God is infinite.

But there we are. Could it be that that grasp is available to me? And if so, then what must I do to stop short-changing my authentic self?

What if I, I alone, by simply abandoning every shred and iota of resistance to who I really am, could be the cure of every disease and cause balance to flow so pervasively that there would be no more war, cruelty and all that feeds on hatred? It sounds like hubris, but maybe that’s the point: when is humility a lie?

If I could be that, would I? Would you?

The Water is Wide


A dear friend of mine died recently in her bed on the other side of the continent, in the company of her beloved rescued dog and her deceased son’s two cats. They were her whole family. She had recently left the home she had purchased so that she, her only child, around whom her life revolved, and her aunt, her only other relative, could live comfortably.

But it was never comfortable. Her aunt was a harridan. Her son’s addiction to pain medication (beware what you step on in tropical climates) had worsened, and he couldn’t live safely alone any more. My friend’s health declined. In 2013, she found her son’s body seated upright on the sofa in her living room, dead of what the coroner said was an accidental overdose. My friend fell, and fell, and fell into a dark pit. She was unable to maintain friendships or a reliable social life, and when she died, I knew the names of only two people I knew were her friends. She may have had more; a few others have commented on my facebook post announcing her death with as much of a tribute as I knew to write. The funeral director who wrote her paltry obituary notice had not known whom to contact for information about her life. Her banker, apparently, had made the arrangements. The woman who cleaned for her had found her.

My vibrant, outgoing, take-charge friend had once had a community of friends who had known each other, if only superficially, but the thin thread, knotted only by the few gatherings she had held, where we met once or once again, had broken. None of us were friends in our own right.

By contrast, and what moves me to write this today, a new friend of mine has written several facebook posts to let her wide-ranging community of friends know how her mother is doing in the hospital as the medical team works to figure out why she is in terrible pain. My friend’s most recent post is anguished, raw, and nonetheless, beautifully written; my friend is articulate and able to find words, as my long-time friend could not, and my new friend wants to share her life. She reaches out into her community, knowing that there are many hands ready to grasp hers.

Community is crucial to our well-being.

In 1999, I left my sweet husband. I didn’t want to leave, but some Self was pushing me, and I did. Now, 17 years later, we are – and have been throughout our painful journey – good friends. We, the two of us, are a small union within a larger community of people who know, love, and support us in every way possible.

In the ripping-apart time before we stopped living together, he and I spent a beautiful, warm late summer afternoon in my favorite place in the world: on a rocky promontory not far above the strong current of the Hudson River just above Rockwell Falls, in the Adirondack Mountains.

I lay on the sun-warmed, broad rock, watching the current below me and watched, about 50 feet away, a small brown merganser chick struggle against the current, desperate to climb up onto the rocks opposite where we sat. It swam, fighting the water with every heartbeat. I saw its head submerge once, twice, three times. I had never witnessed any being’s struggle for its life before.

I prayed. I sent up for guidance to help me understand what there might be for me in what I had just witnessed.

I felt these words flow into my mind: “There is a time for heartbreak. It is a time which seeks us at inconvenient times. It may be heralded by the appearance of perfection. Things have never been better. It is a time that waits in ambush, breathing quietly as one breathes through a reed, submerged just beneath the surface. The breaths are full of summer heat and warm breezes caressing skin celebrating safety beneath meteor-charged starfields.

“Just before the heartbreak we revel unaware, thanking all that is for our privilege, for the beauty of a meal. God dresses as a small brown merganser chick spending every ounce of its new life force paddling against strong early summer current. It falters, loses its advance, moves forward one inch in our across-the-river view, and surrenders its body to the river.”

There is a lesson in this, I knew. Oh, God, I asked, what is this lesson? It cannot have been mere happenstance that I sat here in the perfection of a summer afternoon with nothing on my mind except gratitude and watched this beautiful gift show me unconditional love.

What is the lesson? What is the lesson, beyond the fact of death?

“The lesson is simply in your response to what you saw. Lessons don’t necessarily emerge as sentences or even thoughts.  Heartbreak gives birth to new worlds unimaginable beyond the womb. This is the womb: maelstrom. Drift, be blown, notice what is inescapable, hold onto nothing, for it will be torn from you in this journey.”

We float on an unimaginable vastness of being. We make boats of every description to stay afloat, hoping to direct our journey. What I know this week is that the best boat we can make holds a community, so that when we fall overboard,  there will be more than three people who know each other who will come to save us.


With Gratitude

These early transmissions, as I called them, thrilled me, showering me with glittering inner movies of angelic and elohimic beings, in which these bright, shining ones whispered, sang, chanted, and shouted beautiful words into my inner knowing. My mind was blown so often that I think the apparent top of my head must really be just an illusion.

Most of all, of course, I am grateful to have lived long enough not only to know my grandchild, but to look forward to being part of her life.

If I had been born well before the date I emerged, embodying the same physical configuration that felled my maternal grandfather at age 45, I would probably have not have lived this long, with the expectation of many more joyful, appreciative years ahead.

So first, thank you to All That Is for this timeline.

Thank you to my family, friends, and everyone I have ever known for anything and everything you ever said or did in my presence, whether it was intentionally for me or not. I saw, I heard, and have been incorporating the unedited flood, becoming my whole self, and I am not done.

With respect to this new online publishing enterprise, 40 years in the making, I send my thanks to the buoyant soul I knew as Karen Stone, who wrote to me in an email in 2000 or so, “I have just returned from the lap of the gods, aka Taos…” That phrase, “in the lap of the gods” captivated me, moved in, and became the caption for a stream of communication from the divine that I opened to in 1980.

These early transmissions, as I called them, thrilled me, showering me with glittering inner movies of angelic and elohimic beings, in which these bright, shining ones whispered, sang, chanted, and shouted beautiful words into my inner knowing. My mind was blown so often that I think the apparent top of my head must really be just an illusion.

It occurred to me to publish what was pouring through me, but I knew nothing about publishing. I’d go into bookstores and see that others were publishing the part of the stream in which they stood — J.Z. Knight, Barbara Hand Clow, Barbara Marciniak, for example, and I’d think, oh, good, I don’t have to interrupt my life to do this. Someone else is taking care of getting the word out about our multidimensional nature, about Earth’s transformation, and about how we can be in touch with the greater, non-material portion of all being that hovers at our closed lids.

Decades passed. I retired. I moved to the other side of the country to be with my family. I thought I’d be lonely and have lots of time to  pull my writings together into something a reader could hold in her hands. I was wrong. Turns out it was more important to me to embed myself in a community that would wrap itself around me, so that’s what I did.. I found a new community, made new friends — while missing my old friends and maintaining precious contact with them — and found lots  of reasons to avoid the enticing work I’d anticipated as the core of my new life.

A year has passed. One of my new friends, a spiritual companion with whom I have occasionally shared some of my old transmissions, suggested I publish them in a blog.

And here we are. Now — will I discipline myself to add pages to this blog? Time will tell.