It was there all the time.

And so I searched for an image that would by its very nature blatantly evoke the idea of sparkling light as an external fact. It did not occur to me to refer to my own truth about what it is that we communicate naturally, unstrategically, and without being able to help ourselves: we communicate who we are. 


I’ve begun a new venture: a part-time revival of the strategic communications consulting practice that helped send Seth to college while my husband and I continued to pay our mortgage and go on a few vacations.

So I set out to create a new business card. Because my creative process is often a jumble of words and images at the outset,  I started with both a word and a visual. The name I chose to encompass my new venture is Lightspeak, a name I’ve used for many years to hold the intuitive work I do. Therefore, of course, I wanted the card to show light. I played in the fields of Adobe for several hours and when I thought I had a first draft, I posted the card on facebook for  review and input by my creative, generous friends. You, yourself, may have offered your perceptive, supportive, critical advice, which caused me to revamp the card until I thought it would do quite nicely.

Lightspeak Strategic Communications

I was ready for the next step: a website. As soon as the word “website” sat in my consciousness, I realized, a bit aghast, that no, this image would not do.  Don’t ask me why — I just knew. To tell you the truth, the thought of all that yellow full size on a screen made me gag. I know I could have used the image smaller, but I wanted a large visual display.

And so I searched for a new image. I googled “sunlight through trees” — too much “the-voice-of-God.” “Sunlight on water” brought too much visual turbulence.  Then I remembered that I had taken some photos of my favorite place on the planet, the Hudson River just above Rockwell Falls in Lake Luzerne, and I made a new card.

Lightspeak communications Luzerne

And oh, my goodness, I felt like I had come home, found Mother after being lost in a store, awakened from a strange dream of artificiality. Of course that was the image to use.

That image pulses in my heart always. That is the view, whether in real life or as a photo, that fills me with peace.  When I am actually there, sitting on the large, flat rocks (out of sight in this photo), listening to the water rushing past me and the leaves rustling in the breeze, I feel my molecules becoming congruent with the place itself. I have commented to friends that I believe that if I were a specific bit of geography, I would be that place.

Long ago I had Vistaprint put it on a mousepad; I painted tiles to look like it and created a large ceramic work of art to hang over the stove in my last Schenectady kitchen. I ordered a version of it as wide as my bed as a headboard in my Rohnert Park bedroom, and a smaller version to hang along with some gorgeous photos of the delicious jade green Yuba River in my living room.

In all my life, there are two images that open my heart wide, wide, wide as the cosmos: Seth’s kindergarten picture and this.

Seth 5.jpg

So why did I spend hours looking for images on the web? Why did I forget that like Dorothy, I had what I needed right here at home?

Because I thought I was looking for a image to go on a business card, as if my business self had to be, of course would be, different from my real self. That rings true, doesn’t it? That’s the old paradigm.  I grew up with adults who believed that that was the way things had to be, and they promulgated the schism in their own not-so-virtuous business practices. And I, a vocal proponent for authenticity, for honoring the heart and the path within, fell into step with the line of drone-thinkers. Even remembering that “the personal is political,” I assumed that I needed to step outside my sacred, loving self because I was launching a new business venture. And so I searched for an image that would by its very nature blatantly evoke the idea of sparkling light as an external fact. (I suppose that the ability to keep catching myself in embarrassing points of view is a good thing, a sign that I am not static.)

It’s all personal.

It did not occur to me to refer to my own truth about what it is that we communicate naturally, unstrategically, and without being able to help ourselves: we communicate who we are.

Good heavens — that’s the whole point of what I do for people: I help them find how to be the person they want to communicate to others, and then I offer suggestions for how to design their communication with a plan in mind.

When I placed that scene at the top of my new business card, a giddy anticipation flooded my self-awareness. I felt myself releasing what I had not known was a tight hold on the reins of my being in the world, finding a natural gait I had never dreamed possible. I could trust myself to be who I am not just in my private, chosen communities, but everywhere.

I knew then that the only light I could offer my clients would be the light sparkling within me — as a mirror for their own. It’s my light that I offer, not some external fabrication. It’s my joy that sparks a mirroring hopefulness and eagerness in people who invite me to help them craft a version of themselves to bring into the world.

And what’s more, a new certainty rose up in my heart, surprising myself as I watch myself initiate yet another project. Before I left the world of business and salaries and working every day at something I didn’t always enjoy,  I had projected that “retirement” would be empty of external agendas and activities, leaving lots of time for wandering in nature and making art. I laughed out loud with unforeseen delight at the realization that just broadcasting myself through this image is satisfying all by itself, as satisfying as any painting I have ever finished.

Hmm. In fact, the joy of this broadcasting of self  closely approaches a vision I have not shared publicly before.

I love an audience. That’s not knew to anyone who knows me even a little. But now, this:

Eccomi: I see myself standing on a proscenium stage before an immense crowd — at least 5,000 people. Maybe more. The hot spotlight makes my face flush. Anyone sitting in the audience sees not the colors of the clothes I am wearing, but a hazy, bright shape, the light is that bright. I look at the crowd, seeing it not as a jammed-in mass of individuals, but as a pulsing, living being whose gaze I feel as a welcome invitation to announce, finally, after all this time, why I am here and what I have to offer.

I place my hand at the indentation at the bottom of my throat and move my hand down to the bottom of my torso,  unzipping myself. Placing my hands over, not touching, each side of my body, the left hand over the left side and the right hand over the right, I slowly  open my arms, bringing my hands out and away from my body completely. The light around me intensifies as I  butterfly myself, revealing and releasing from its hiding place within my flesh all the Source light within, my essential being. This light uncovers and magnifies every single truth about me. I am naked beyond naked, available for and unprotected from perusal, research, study, critical observation and discussion, wonderment and love,  and as a model of willingness to serve. I am human.

This is what we all are. We are transparent and totally visible to everybody all the time, but we need to believe that we live in an opacity that affords us privacy, because the enormity of what begins to happen to us as soon as we slide out of our first cave is terrifying, confusing, and impossible for our finite minds to hold.

Moreover, I know that each one of us, each amoeba, each cell of every body in creation, is also essentially this light seeking recognition and unification with every other expression of creation. I invite you to stand up on this stage with me. My unrelenting dream is to share this stage with everybody, all of us relaxing into the surrender of our fears to our unguarded, radiant truth.

And oh my goodness, in these words, I have just fulfilled my vision as surely as if we were really in that theater. I bow to your generosity with gratitude. Namaste.



In the Beginning

A friend in my workplace asked me what it was like and I had to think a minute before finding the right image. “It feels as if I am somehow standing aside, an empty tube, or a channel through which all these words and images are flowing.” I had never encountered the word that came to be so popular that we don’t even want to use it anymore: channelling.

People have asked me how I began channeling.

First of all, when it began happening, I had never heard of or read any accounts that described what I was feeling. A friend in my workplace asked me what it was like and I had to think a minute before finding the right image. “It feels as if I am somehow standing aside, an empty tube, or a channel through which all these words and images are flowing.” I had never encountered the word that came to be so popular that we don’t even want to use it anymore:

What you’ll read here is a truncated version of the story, and the juice is in the awkward sputterings through the faucet when I turned it on for the first time. I’m sharing these first downloads exactly as I wrote them down at the time because they may serve to bolster confidence and offer calm to anyone who is now opening to her or his own expanded awareness and experiencing words and images pouring into her head from somewhere that doesn’t feel familiar.

In 1980 I stepped up into the RV which the much-praised psychic, David Massengill, had parked on a friend’s country lawn. He told me there were guides waiting for me to be ready to receive information. Their names were Andreas and “Master Matthias.” I wasn’t into the whole “Master” thing – a carry-over, I thought, from the antiquated Alice Bailey material. But I suspended my disbelief, sat – enthralled — through a two-hour session and stepped down onto my friend’s lawn quite changed, and ready for action of biblical proportions.

David told me that my guides wanted to set up a schedule, and added, grinning at my raised eyebrows, “They have schedules, too.”

On the appointed date and time, July 30, 1981, at 1:45, I sat at my desk, a fresh sheet of paper in my typewriter, and closed my eyes. I saw a man’s face, which seemed to be laughing and twinkling. This image lasted for a second. A fullness rose in my throat, blossoming as an immense pink flower with seven rounded petals. The petals expanded. I wondered if I should stop, concerned that this soft growth could not possibly fit in my throat.

As this was happening, I had several impressions, and typed out the following words:
The water running through me creates a mirror down the center of me. Oh my soul I see you and reflects the lights lords from above. The reflection is a solid shaft of light that passes through my pink flower throat chakra into my mind where it is channeled into its proper places to begin functioning efficiently toward the purpose. The more water I drink the brighter the reflection, which is the communication they told me about.

This gobbledygook didn’t make sense in any linear way, but it felt wonderful. I trusted that there had been a connection with my guides and the tip of eternity they held open as a door into Discovery. I was content that my soul, through the opening of my throat chakra, was now firmly connected to the Source of all being, to the divine, to all I had never even dared hope would be revealed to me. And so now I felt I was one with a kind of future that would be informed by my higher self.

I drew a picture of the flower I had felt pushing out the boundaries of my throat, and tacked it up right in front of me on my bulletin board at work. I felt beautiful whenever I looked at it. (I have searched in vain for it, to include it here, but alas. Perhaps it will surface later.)

Also on July 30, my doctor called. He said that upon reviewing my record, he noticed that back in November, he had noticed a swelling of my spleen and my liver, he was concerned, and wanted to put me through some tests in the hospital. I was scared.

I continued with my normal activities as wife to Lee, mother to five year-old Seth, friend, daughter, homemaker, human services worker, writer, painter. On August 14, around 1p.m., again at my desk ready to receive, I felt an odd sensation in the lower right side of my skull, as if

Hildegard of Bingen pictured it exactly.

someone was knocking at an inner gate. I closed my eyes. I felt words come into my head, which I wrote down.

Regarding your illness, let it be recorded that there is no illness. There is only the body’s adjustment to its own rapidiment. The cure will be itself’s action in time, but the quest might prove useful for overcoming doubt as to proper course of action. Of course the painting is appropriate for that time. Yes, this is it. We have hoped to contact you prior to this meeting but the activity prevented. Suggested that the time be put aside regularly every day for reception.It is enough. Other business at hand can be taken care of by the secretaries. The proper order is very important. Of course the anticipation creates its own impetus. Knowing the paper is there is a help to the process. I suggest you keep large paper at hand. It will be necessary – a good idea – to rest and continue to drink lots of water. The pancreas is involved as well and especially needs the water. The bile duct – it’s a matter of priming the pump – lubricating the flues so that matter is not secreted which excites the liver. Avoid starchy, fatty foods. Enough.

As the words were pouring into my head, I began thinking about the process and the source. I wanted to see how high into this expanded awareness I could get. It did not dawn on me that the source of these words was actually a being, or a group of beings, who would respond to my inner fluctuations. I had a lot to learn about the process and the senders. As I asked my inner question about the source, there was a wavering of the words, and a feeling of great distance, light, and an attenuation of our connection.

Fixed in your mind is the impression that we are here to serve – and not to ask. We have things to ask. Rest assured the information is correct. Many there are who have waited to be heard, just as there are those in great number who have waited to receive. The alignments are rare, and exquisite only are they which fulfill the requirements. We extend our hope that this will be fruitful. The height – the high Colonial (one from the high Colony) requires thin piercing. The matter of the body strains to accommodate, hence material difficulty. It would be better to accept the comments of the Laughing Face as valid which they are, and true.

Fortune is only the projection of men’s hopes impacted by the others’ hopes and projections bumping in collision.

They will not be able to harm thee by the probe or by other treatment for the body will adjust correctly to balance. Pain is sometimes unavoidable unless the negation of its existence acquires a positive cast.

As for Seth, he is well protected and guarded. It is not necessary to wonder or fear for him. He will guide his guardians for his best care.

No. Death is not in order. It would be an abrupt ceasing of process you have worked hard to establish and which now carries the greater impetus.

My liver biopsy

With that assurance, I agreed to let the doctor book me into the hospital for three days of tests, and decided to enjoy the rest.

The next day, my birthday, I had another “transmission” – I didn’t know what else to call this blessed outpouring. In 1980, I had never heard of transmissions.

Somehow I didn’t think of this as the same process that David Massengill or other psychics regularly experienced. The transmissions came upon me at the same time every day – which usually fell conveniently in my lunch period. I took my pad of large paper to the restaurant, where six friends and I downed a lunch topped with champagne and raspberry shortcake.
One thing we need (want) to make certain is that foundations require tremendous insight and celebration, as well as the more somber aspects of concentration and alliance. It is certainly in our interest – in the field of common interest – to comment on the cooperative nature of this endeavor.

Now – we have a number of items to cover, and as we have said, order is of the utmost importance. So although it may seem redundant, we want to cover some previously explored territory.

The first order is the machinery of reception. As we said yesterday, the finer the tool, the cleaner and more rarified, yes, a correct term, the product. What we both want here is the exemplary detail possible from concentrated efforts. You have made it clear to us that no less than clear communication will do to firm your purpose in bridge building and clarifying muddy issues. Your teachers by previous readings have prepared your mind well enough to understand for yourself that the mind must be clear. We are dismayed although understanding of the time delay today and we would prefer that you take your imbibing at another time. We have schedules, too. Of course you don’t feel guilty. This is because guilt is a function of the incorporation of the chastisement. This is indeed not your own self chastisement, but one coming from another source. We love the process, we love the being that permeates and unites us all. You have chosen a duty for yourself that is rewarding and fun, and you understand that there are rules, of which you approve and which serve as boundaries within which you are free to romp. So on with it.

Fortunately, as we attempted to begin with before, the ground work has already been laid by some previous workers, so we don’t have to go into everything. We have been working with a number of people whose main interest and thrust has been with the theology of the workings. (It is indeed a good thing that you like to type, since this seems to be the fastest and most legible approach for us to take.) Here we are concerned not so much with the theology but with the preparation necessary to the coming enterprise.

As they – it definitely felt like a consciousness of plurality was speaking – my mind was alive with a flow of images, some clearer than others, some merely fuzzy patches of light. With the coming words, I saw Mary on the donkey traveling, and the word “travail” was a companion. I knew that this word meant “work.” I also understood that this Mary was about to go into labor. And that in my mind, the words “travel” and “travail” sounded alike. So together, they imply an arduous journey.

Yes, it is a good idea to explain the image as they serve not only to vivify the writing but also to make more clear the meaning.

In fact, as I was experiencing the transmission, I was thinking that I should record as much as possible about the experiences themselves. In others’ accounts of receiving direct communication from spirit guides, channeled entities, and other non-identified sources of information they felt in their minds, I had read that they saw specific images, and had impressions of a certain feeling of color, a mood, of multiple images combining in terms personally meaningful to them.


When the phrase, “high Colonial,” came into my mind the day before, I saw again in my inner eye — my imagination — my first, breathtaking view of a high, sunlit-rich bank of cumulus clouds as my plane’s wingtips grazed its flank. The distillation of the flow of associations that produced the “high Colonial” is this: Such gorgeous, high glory brought an immediate sense of a place reserved for the elite. I felt the source of the information coming into me as a plural being, the consciousness of a colony. Visitors from higher (more advanced) civilizations flow into less powerfully flourishing cultures and assume control and ownership. That intuitive part of me who makes all the connections between and among ideas is not sophisticated, and not politically correct. She translates input immediately into as words and images to convey the clarity and meaning of her first impression. That’s how intuition works. It doesn’t pass through logic or ego.

And now, dear reader, I will continue in the present tense of the journal I kept of those first days of connection to a part of myself I had never imagined.
I have the feeling that I am waiting, perhaps out of vanity, with lonely aspect, for a new, glamorous friend whom I have heard is in love with me and whom I have heard is going to be visiting me. I feel as if I am putting my good dress on, making sure I look right – in a mirror in a dim room. It’s a scene I see, and it is my low self doing just what I have described, as I send up and open myself to whatever will come. My fear is that I will begin writing the thought in my head, undirected, thinking that there is direction – but I trust that any writing coming from within me will serve some good purpose.

There is a change in the internal atmosphere – all needs to be still – and the words come.

Foolish it is that men’s eyes do not recall the beginning of the history for it was told to them as babies in the most basic means possible, and reinforced through the lessons of each group’s times. Few there are who remember the purpose of being, which this receiver sometimes doubts, a measure of the poor mirror presented by the rest of the world. This purpose being JOY – to be written large, adorned, copiously fulfilled – it is a mandate. To this one we have taught it from birth, so it will be the flavoring direction of these notes. Keep in mind that the seer sees only through the only eyes the seer has.

The world is indeed different to each person, for the world that is the perception of existence as it appears to each being is according to the equipment played. Here the world seems precious, fair, poignant and having the ability to love. There are yes many paths to the One and “different strokes for different folks” is surely the best and indeed the only way we can go.

We said we would be covering some history and some beginnings. So back to darkness is perhaps the best approach.

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?

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.