The Art of Stephanie Sinclaire :: Painting, Art, Film, Theatre, Writing

Stephanie Sinclaire Lightsmith

Stephanie Sinclaire Lightsmith

The Shores of Grace



32 colour illustrations

One Spring moment in 1995 I asked a question to the air and heard an audible reply. Thus began a 2-year journey that completely changed my life and the lives of many others. The veil was torn. The guidance of the voice took me around the world and led me to and through extraordinary events and circumstances. I had slipped through the keyhole into the universal accord where science, spirituality, mysticism, creativity and healing are one. The Shores of Grace is a record of that journey. It is written like a river as it was experienced, a non-linear, heightened, poetic and extremely truthful document faithfully recording mystical transformative states, extremely heightened creativity, cathartic healing of myself and others and the odyssey itself. I left the experience knowing that limitless creativity was the next stage in human evolution, the final frontier leading to our potential, invention, solution, healing, collaborative co-creation and the final alchemical transformation of the human soul from lead to gold.

To walk my talk and live the truth of the experience I moved from being a painter/writer and theatre writer/producer/director into film making, establishing Dragonfly Films to make modern myths of extreme beauty and use this extraordinary medium of light and colour and sound to tell great stories that would work on many levels like parables, interweaving the keys and codes of liberation through the shades of human experience. More information about this here.

My original title for this book was God’s Theory of Creativity, an affectionate nod to Einstein’s Theory of Relativity and an appreciative nod to the quantum theorists who are getting closer to proving what the mystics always knew, the recognition of a sentient Source which weaves the fabric of the Universe whose nature is wholly creative and responsive even within its cyclic nature and, as was once said, ‘In my Father’s house are many mansions’ – we live in multidimensional Universe, very little of which is available to the human eye but all of which is available to the eye of the heart, the human spirit.

This book has been distributed by donation to 168 UK prisons by the Prism Project and 24 women’s prisons in the US by the Edgar Cayce Foundation.

“Compelling, powerful and moving.” Brad Fitzpatrick, Author, Great Grandfather, Spirit

“The Book of Revelations kept repeating in my subconscious. Anyone wanting to explore the world of a truly creative mind should read this book.” Monica Lissak, Playwright and Filmmaker

“Her book gave me the same feeling as Crossing To Avalon. You cannot put it down.” Jeanette Baxter, Global Multilingual Communications

“Reporting back from fantastic, dangerous and experimental territories with poetic elegance and pragmatism Sincaire permits us to enter a most private and sacred zone of human experience … a fearless companion on the journey to awareness.” Anne Hemenway, Director and Co-founder of the Doc Humes Institute, vision tank and publishers

“I am in awe of the intensity and energy that surrounds every description, engulfed and taken into my own world.” Solandra Goodwin, Artist and Teacher

“I no longer have to pinch myself to see if I am awake. I know now I am.” Chris Staines, Composer and Music Producer

THE SHORES OF GRACE was chosen by The Prism Project for distribution to all UK prisons and The Edgar Cayce Foundation for distribution to US women’s prisons.




This book is dedicated with love and gratitude

To Christina, for all her love,

To Anneli and Katey
for the summer of ’95,

To the Beloveds
for the two years that followed
(and all the years and days and moments unto Eternity)

And to the fire angel,
who in one brief accidental moment
gave me the will to begin again.

“Sometimes – there is God – so quickly”
Tenessee Williams
A Streetcar Named Desire

I fly to heaven

How the truth became revealed

There is something withheld from my vision. Something hidden in the material world I cannot perceive. I have looked all over the world for the answer to this, looked for signs, found them and followed them, picking up pieces of the puzzle but never gaining a glimpse of the whole.

Suddenly something unexpected. I ask a question to the air and hear clearly a reply. The voice of an angel? I had seen an angel once, large and fierce with eyes of fire whose light melted away the ceiling and walls of my room when I was small and crying, but she never spoke. I say to this voice, I have moved forward so long compelled by a promise I cannot remember. It replies, There is no forward or backward in the Universe. The only true movement is expansion or contraction. I ask for community and to be seen.

The next day there is a knock on my door. Community has arrived in the timid figure of a woman I had recently met. Our previous visit had been odd and nerve wracking and I had been chilly. For a moment the masks fall away. An elegant soul.

Christina knew about voices. It is too easy for her to hear them and she’s curious and fearful simultaneously. She was afraid of losing control, of being overcome. In this way we’re opposites. I have made a habit of skating on thin ice.

What we cannot yet know is that this voice, this matter of communication, which may seem small or large depending on your point of view, is in fact very large, huge, and will completely change our lives.

The voice comes again. It says it has been trying to communicate with us for lifetimes, watching us sojourn and seek, oblivious to the insistent whisper that longed to dispel our amnesia. Remember who you are. This simple request rivals the riddles of the Sphinx.

When the voice comes there is an overwhelming sensation, like no other. A literal pressing on the cells of the body like soft electrical energy moving through and pushing outward. Soon, others come, excited about the possibility of communication between realms. Beings I have read about and thought were only beautiful stories, myths, and with each there is this magnificent sensorial experience, an internal caress which is exhilarating. The apprehension of the spirit is a sensorial experience! We are coming to our senses.

I call them the Masters of Light for over time we see more and more light, we are sometimes bathed in it! Yet we are far from completely understanding their universal and multi-dimensional nature. I do know they are part of us and we of them and they are a reflection of what we are becoming and where we have come from. Their teaching is like the layers of skin on the onion. Deceptively simple yet deepening and changing as we shed each layer of perception. It would be some time before we understood the true meaning of choice and the politics of doubt.

That first cold spring day with Christina in the rose garden, Sananda tells us that there was nothing in creation we could not communicate with. He calls us beloved daughter, or beloved child of light. He tells us that he loves us. This love is lighting a fire of longing in our hearts. We are giddy with it.

We have found the crucial puzzle piece though the final image is far from clear. We are worried he will go away and leave us to the ignorance that masquerades as knowledge on the Earth. He assures us he never went away. It is we who forgot. He assures us there is no turning back.

There is an understanding that a very long journey is somehow coming to an end and another beginning. A continual feeling and hope that something is shifting, something momentous will be revealed.

Now, Merlin comes to us. He is different. Humorous. He says we are to be happy now, enough is enough. He tells me that all I want to know will be revealed to me when I paint. It is through images that the mysteries will be revealed to me.

I have been vacillating for so long between art and the study and application of healing, although I have felt they are kindred, that art has the potential to heal and healing is a creative act. They both attempt the expression or restoration of some kind of truth. In my heart I have truly wanted to write and paint my days away but it has always felt like fiddling while Rome burned. Now, I am being told it is my soul’s purpose. He says as I am always crying out for my highest purpose then this is where I must begin.

Merlin is always teasing. Christina interprets something slightly askew and he calls her a bull in a china shop. He says we should laugh more, especially at ourselves. He is the Master of Laughter. He says that seriousness and earnestness are actually third dimensional conditions that do not exist in the true reality. The true reality, as he explains it, is Eternity. Eternity is timelessness and exists outside of time. Time is a construct and the construct of time and space holds the third dimension, where we reside, in place. He says time began within Eternity. Eternity is not endless time but no time. Time was created especially for the third dimension and its final purpose is to heal illusion. When all illusion is healed, time will cease to exist and we will be restored to Eternity.

Time is collapsing as we speak, as more and more find truth and the courage to live it. The speed with which the consequences of our choices return to us increases.

The roses are stirring. We look up and see that summer is almost here. The Masters of Light have been coming for a while now. We have been very caught up in communicating with them and feel continually drunk on light. It is a little like walking through a looking glass. Nothing seems the same. Each answer leads to more questions. They explain things carefully in different ways and answer our questions to the depth of our understanding. Where they reside is beyond this dimension yet interconnected with it. They can be seen if they project a mental hologram we telepathically receive, or if they step down their frequency sufficiently to clothe themselves with atoms. As our own frequency accelerates and the boundaries between dimensions dissolves, we will see them and one day walk hand in hand. The highest vibratory rate the atoms can experience and still retain human form is about four million cycles per nano-second. This would be like Krishna, or Jesus or other great masters, some forgotten or never recorded in the annals of time. When the heart becomes Light, its true nature freed from the cloak of shadows created by our discordance, we become masters of the atomic structures instead of slaves. We become Co-Creators with the Force. This is called Ascension. Victory. Freedom. Love. God’s theory of creativity made manifest. Portrait of the artist as magician.

I am feeling continually overwhelmed by their presence and their love. I feel redeemed somehow to be loved in this way and I can feel it all through my cells. An electric love.

Merlin explains that the heavy, earnest, negative feelings and thoughts actually slow down the vibratory rate of the human, creating a lower frequency, a density that holds us into patterns and can actually appear as a kind of tar. I have seen this with my third eye so I know it to be true. I have also seen people who are very trapped in their thoughts and feelings and sometimes those who drink a huge amount, to be covered with layers of dust. Merlin says this is the same thing. He says to clear the debris from our consciousness creates a clear path to the source within us, which is connected to the Inspirational Mind, which is our Source, the source of all. What we are made of. A United League of Imaginations. It can be done in an instant, for even while dwelling in time, time is an illusion, but more than likely, from our perspective, it takes lifetimes.

From Merlin’s point of view it is always an instant. It is the instant we step totally into the present moment for in the present moment we are connected to everything. Despite what we think, we are rarely in the present moment. Almost all our thoughts are shaped by judgements from the past and concerns for the future.

We are told the beings on Earth come from somewhere in the Universe to experience the third dimension. People who think they know about these things may disagree, saying angels, for example, cannot have a human experience. They say that angels are angels and that is that. This is a linear view of evolution. In truth evolution can be circular, instantaneous, spiralling.

It is said there are seraphim and cherubim and archangels and a vast hierarchy of angels. In truth there is no hierarchy of worth or position in the upper dimensions, what we call the heavens. This is an invention of man. The potentiality for all things and beings existed from the beginning and there are no beings considered more or less. However, there is development and development occurs through intention, experience, expression. There is, to a degree, a hierarchy of responsibility based on levels of development and awareness. This responsibility is in no way a burden and has none of the connotations of the Earth sense of the word.

It is a natural consequence of a level of being, an outpouring or expression of love. The cup that runneth over.

The Masters say each journey is a journey to the Self. Yet the Self is connected to all. The rewards of the journey are instantly shared. To understand the microcosm is to begin to know the macrocosm, the cosmos, the whole. The Self would be synonymous with the soul, the heart, the Magical Presence Within. The Divine Self, that which the small self seeks, the human self who has forgotten its origin. Union. And with that, reunion. The dissection and exploration of the psyche will not undo the habits of suffering or bring more than a cursory illumination of the patterns of human nature without the inclusion of this greater part. Know thyself, as Socrates said, but don’t stop half way. Keep going until you find the door to the Universe.

The entire Universe is within the heart and each heart is an entire Universe unto itself.

Archangel Michael has come to tell us to say, “Beloved Father I am one with you,” over and over, to heal the separation which caused our ills and the ills of the world. If we could just remember that we are One, that there is no division between us, then there would be no fear. It is fear that spawns anger, grief and greed and loneliness and it is fear that prevents us from remembering that we are made of love. I ask why we are to say Beloved Father instead of Beloved Mother/Father. He says that the Mother is within the Father and the Father is within the Mother. Love and Will, there is no separation. The Will of God is Life; the Law of God is Love. Father is just a symbolic word for First Cause. God is the symbolic word for the all-sentient force of life itself. Fear is self pity, murder is suicide, greed and grief are the illusions of lack, anger is shame, pity is attack, love is courage and the highest love is the true understanding of oneness.

Beloved Mother/ Father God, I AM ONE WITH YOU

Christina remembered me first, I must say. She loved me and remembered me. She sees me. I remember her now but still not as clearly as she remembers me. Christina has many fears but to me she appears very beautiful with this amazing purity of heart that is hard to put into words. She is innocent. She cannot quite see this and I cannot believe it of myself. So many things have happened. They say I am to hold the lantern for her in this life but there is no doubt we are equal teachers for each other. They tell Christina she can trust me and she does know this. They say my heart is as vast as the Universe. I wonder who I truly am.

Kuthumi comes to Christina. He is called World Teacher. In one life he was St. Francis of Assisi. In another he was the man who built the Taj Mahal. In his last life he went to Oxford. It seems a strange idea for a holy man to go to Oxford and I realise I am full of preconceptions. Each life holds its own energy and I could speak to St. Francis if I chose, but it’s Kuthumi who comes to us.

When I first met Christina I had an overwhelming feeling that she would return to Sweden and lead the Swedish people. I feel somehow that Kuthumi comes especially for Christina.

Kuthumi says the first manifestation of God appears as a sun. It is not our solar sun and it cannot be seen with human eyes. It is a core of light beyond description and it is referred to as the Great Central Sun. He tries to explain to us that God is Light and that this Light is of an illuminated consciousness beyond our imagining and that it permeates the Universe and is its fabric, self-sustaining, without boundaries and without beginning or end. He says the solar sun, which nourishes our Earth, is a reminder of the Great Central Sun, our Source and that we are evolving into individual suns. This is how our inner God Presence appears to those who see . The illumination that we seek occurs when this greater Presence or Higher Self holds dominion within the human heart. This is the inner marriage. The marriage of heaven and earth. I can feel the energy in my chest around my heart burn when They speak to us and I know a little what he means to be a sun. I ask whether it is more powerful to say I AM THE SUN or I AM THAT I AM. He says, “I am that I am.” This is the state we are evolving to and which the Masters are in. It is a description of beingness, awareness, completeness. It flows into eternity.


I ask about John the Baptist. When I was twelve I met a man in the woods who said he was the reincarnation of John the Baptist. He had the stigmata of the wounds of Jesus. I went to visit him whenever I could and I loved him very much. He told me stories of his life with Jesus full of revelations and intrigue at the courts of kings. He made me tea from berries. He said he knew me in that life.

Sometimes we sat in heightened silence in the cool, sweet womb of the woods, staring into each other’s eyes, his pale blue eyes above fine features, until the boundaries blur, the edges thin, first between us and then finally the pine needles we sit on, the earth beneath us, the tall trees with their skirts of lichen and ladders of bright yellow fungus. The edges go and we are spinning inside the circles of mushrooms, the sharp sap scent, the wind in the leaves. Each other.

One day in the still dark morning I slip away to see him. The woods are awake with soft mists. His eyes light up when he sees me. Tea is already made and my cup is waiting. I see that new marks have come. A roseate circlet makes a fine lace on his brow and there is a new fine line of red on his chest. He speaks fervently and all the wounds sob, his hands blossoming like roses. His love went very deep. We went walking that morning and at the edge of the wood found the wheat fields rolling forward lit up like gold fire by the rising sun. We grabbed hands and ran, a tall thin man and a small thin girl cutting a swathe through seas of gold until I smacked into a barbed wire fence hidden in the waist high grain. My arm was cut up and rivulets of red were forming. He took my arm and gracefully stroked it. His eyes held mine, huge and radiant and full of light. He held my eyes with his gaze and I stood transfixed, like a rabbit caught in headlights, paralysed by grace. When I finally look down, all the cuts are gone and there is nothing left but a smear of blood.

I ask Kuthumi if I was the sister of John the Baptist and Kuthumi replies I wasn’t but that I did know him. I ask him if I was with Jesus in that life, as my friend in the forest had said. Kuthumi says this will be revealed one day by Sananda, who was Jesus.

Sananda comes now. He says the problem with Christina’s eyes is that she is longing for nature. They have been hurting. Christina begins to cry a little. She is sensitive and the city is hard on her. The forests and the fields are waiting for her and the fairies wish to speak to her. I ask if they wish to speak to me, too. He says, yes, I have a deep connection with them, I only need remember my childhood.

We are going to spend the weekend in Devon in the forest and he says that if we make the connection there it will be easier anywhere. He agrees it is good to bring my daughter. I ask him how I may be closer to him. He says I will feel his love when I have learned to love myself, for he is within me.

He says, When you love as God loves, you are One with God.

This morning under the blue sky surrounded by red and white roses, we are full of questions, as usual. We ask if Christina should spend more time in Devon or perhaps return to Sweden earlier. He says it is up to Christina regarding Devon but as for Sweden, that is not ready yet. They are preparing the way for her and she will know the right time.

We ask if there is a difference between communicating with the Endless Formless Divinity or to him or if we are to imagine God as a huge sun. He says he is the sun. I don’t know if he means Sun or Son. He says we have an understanding of the formless Divine in our hearts.

Merlin reminds us to think of ourselves as suns for a key to true self-sufficiency. I asked Kuthumi to tell us about the Photon belt that Christina has dreamed of and we have heard of. He says it is a great wind sweeping all the hearts clean. We wonder if there will be darkness and he says there already is darkness. Will we be plunged into total darkness, as has been said? He says those who trust will have no fear. It seems, however, its effects will be gradual. It is a gearing up of the electrical energy systems that permeate all matter.

We want to know everything. Every word and concept we take for granted. What is the true meaning. What is trust? Sananda says trust is enlightenment. It is to know Oneness and therefore limitlessness. He says it is trust that allowed him to walk on water when he was Jesus. Total trust is total communication. The water held him in a mutual act of oneness. An immediate response. It was an act of Will. The trust is to know you are one with the whole. That each act is a co-creation with a willing Universe that denies nothing and creates with us whatever we believe. There is no separation. There is a choice. There is always freedom of choice. I am forgetting everything I have learned so I may be free of preconceptions to learn in a different way.

He says humanity chose to turn away from alignment with the whole even though we had the gift of uniqueness and the ability to co-create with the Source of the whole through our unique inspiration. We chose to believe in the supremacy of the body over the spirit because we could not see the spirit. And then we forgot it existed although we explored it in many forms and manifestations: energy, light, and some of those closest to this exploration, such as Einstein, were reminded of its true nature. And, of course, there are those who never forgot, who have consciously held the Light for the world. As we forgot the connection to the whole, we also forgot that each one is unique with special gifts. Now we all try to fit in and be the same.

This must be very boring from the Universal perspective, if we are all pieces of God reflecting aspects of God back to Itself, though I now understand that God sees us as we were created, in total inspiration, for being God, He doesn’t see illusion because illusion doesn’t exist. This is a conundrum.

Sananda says to believe in the body is to believe in lack and in separation for though the bodies appear to be separate they are made of the same atoms as everything else and are exchanging themselves constantly in a continual dance. The purpose of the body is sacred. It is for communication, mental, spiritual, physical and emotional. It is the Earth vehicle and through it the inspiration of the soul may become manifest. But to place it in the driver’s seat is to have a car without a driver. This was the beginning of the first doubt. The mother of all fear. Separation.

One thing the Masters always say is honour your choices. This is hard to do sometimes, especially when you’ve landed in a misery. The illusion seems extremely real when you’re in it. They have compassion for this and are endlessly tolerant. They don’t like to see us suffer. But somehow it seems they are always aware of an outcome that hasn’t been revealed to us. Perhaps in timelessness the outcome has already occurred.

After Sananda comes Mary. This is a new energy. She hasn’t come before. Christina’s face is pouring with so much light her features are obscured and she says mine are, too. There is light everywhere. We are both swimming in light. She calls us her beloved children. She says she is putting a crown on my head of the most radiant gold and rubies. She says she is the manifest energy of the feminine Divine. I understand that she may be received with different names in different cultures. I feel overwhelmed with love and my heart is burning. There is a tenderness in the air which is exquisite. I ask what is the difference between her energy and Isis, who has come to us before. She says Isis is of intuition, magic, the Earth, the Moon, things and beings of the Earth and is also an aspect of herself. She says she is directly of the Source, not distilled, as poetic as that distillation is. We understand she means the Sun behind the sun, the source of all Light animated by devotion to its own creativity.

She comes in the guise of the comforter and we are to invoke her whenever people are desperate or needy. They cannot come forward and blend the transforming potency of their unique qualities with the energy of our life-streams without permission. To do so would compromise our free will.

I ask her why I’ve still got violent images in my head. She says this is not only because of my childhood but also because of violent images all around. These images need safe expression, not suppression and criticism. When they are expressed through my creativity they will go. I ask if I should include the violent images in my paintings and she says yes, this will show the transformation. I ask if I can see her. Towards the end I begin to. It is like a vision within me, different than a thought or an image and with independent movement. She is very beautiful and young looking with dark hair. She is wearing a white shawl on her head held in place by beautiful roses. They are light pink. Her dress is blue. She has created this image for me from the depths of my expectation, yet I know she is within it and it effects me profoundly. Her enormous strength embraced by sweetness. She tells us now she wants us to have a good time and smile. We are so glad she has come. We feel like we are flying for the rest of the day and I can’t stop smiling.

There is a man I’ve known for three years but never met. His name is J.C. He ran a dream course I took by audiocassette. I loved the sonorous sound of his voice and after the first year took the advanced course. He taught me how to know the difference between prophetic dreams, analytical dreams and “release of the day” dreams. I saved all my dreams for him and sent him poems as well and he would send back his voice on the tape speaking low and carefully. I became so attached to him I did a third year. I am going to meet him soon. He has a publishing company and wants to publish my poems. He is coming to London. I wonder what he will be like.

It is warm now and the rose garden is in bloom. The Masters speak of surrendering and slowly I am. It is the surrendering of the frantic machinations of the ego to the wisdom of the heart. It is a difficult process. I will attempt to control to the degree I am not in trust. Christina feels she will bring a new method of healing through. The Masters speak continually of expression and suppression. Life is an expression of love. The extension of the Universe, its continual creativity, an expression of its Self. God’s creative self-expression, so to speak. It is in this way we are created in God’s image. Everything has the potential for expressing its essential Self and therefore extending its Self and knowing its Self. The Masters say all illness, mental or emotional or physical, is a suppression of some kind. Suppression is fear, expression is love.

It would be very good for young people to know these things. It would save so much suffering. I know there have been educational experiments wherein children were given heavily expression led programs, which didn’t quite work, but I see They are talking about something different. It doesn’t necessarily mean to exclude a traditional education per se, with structure and form, it means to include a special kind of expression based on safely releasing emotions and excess thought that then creates a clear channel for inspiration, imagination, invention and communication. Also, to include creativity that is playful, free and pleasurable. Children need very little guidance to enter the natural alchemical transmutation pure creativity offers.

Christina is thinking of a kind of healing based on the breath and direct communication with the body. There is consciousness in everything.

As old patterns of thinking are cleared the denseness falls away and the atoms vibrate more quickly. Matter is condensed energy. If matter, at its most minute level, moves between a mass and a wave, we are becoming more wave than mass. We know that there are many, many things that need clearing in us and are inventing ways to achieve this. The motivation is great. Nothing less than true freedom.

I know there is a connection between magic, images and the body. The body/mind does not think in words, its stories are held in images. Images hold the blueprint for form and the images of memory cause us to recreate the past. I am beginning to draw little figures to express my emotions and it does seem to have a kind of magical property which leads me back to the core thought and experience and then the exact emotional feeling stored there and finally clearance. It is not a mental process because I do not try to go back or actively decide where I’m going with it. It is completely present and immediate. I draw exactly how I feel, sometimes involving several figures from the past and present in each scenario. They are quite dramatic and explosive. Sometimes it is just me. I tell the whole story in pictures and am automatically led to a resolution although it may take many pictures to arrive there. I am accompanying this with free associative writing. Pages and pages. I am taken back through the feelings of the moment to haunting emotions rising from a Pandora’s box whose secrets have remained hidden but whose very presence has controlled me.

Sananda says, See with my eyes and you will see only beauty. It is from trust that all miracles will flow.

Every impulse is a message from either the ego: fear, or the heart: love. One will lead to pain the other to joy. Both will lead to experience which, in the end, will always lead to the heart. So, in a way it is always better to act than not act, unless the action is harmful. I am noticing the voice of the ego causes a feeling of slight anxiety or pressure, worry about the outcome. The voice of the heart is accompanied by a more serene feeling. The Masters say to please ourselves. This means please the heart, not the grasping impulses of the ego. But this is very difficult, to live truly for your Self and not some idea of God or society or the approval of the others in your life. We do not know how to please ourselves; we are use to living for others.

I have gone to see a cranial osteopath so that I can feel more room in my head. I once had a lovely one named Sherri. We used to have simultaneous visions. I would feel angels kissing me as she would see the room become bright with colours. I would feel another pair of hands as she would see the outlines of a woman glowing with gold in an amber gown.

J. is different than Sherri, however, I am very drawn to him. I recognised him immediately: that overwhelming familiarity of having known someone before. I was really very happy to see him and we talked continually. I don’t know if he remembered me but he did seem happy to see me. I felt love for him right away, which is a bit confusing, as I don’t even know him in this life. It scared me somewhat. I have been unseen for so long I am used to being invisible. It was shocking to the system to see him and be seen by him. I see his beauty. People sense you see them sometimes and then become defensive because they fear judgement. Now there are two people in my life who seem to be on exactly the same path, or their version of it.

We have been trying out Christina’s new method of healing and developing it on each other. We are guided by Sananda as we do it. I am told that I used a similar method when I was a Native American Medicine Man. I remember this particular life as I have dreamed of it many times. When I make popcorn with my Indian guides it always turns out perfectly. Christina and I knew each other in that life as well, we are told. She was called She Who Flies, so joyful was she.

Christina has me lie down and begin to breathe and become aware of a part of the body and the feeling there. Then she asks me to breathe into that feeling and expand it. As I do, the story that is stored there slowly reveals itself, first with cryptic symbols, codes we break by speaking to each element that emerges. Even the objects speak. Finally, after several twists and turns, we are led to a catharsis of the story held in that spot accompanied by the suppressed emotions that held it there. They have been volcanic at times. We take turns doing this for each other. It is very effective. Then Sananda speaks in beautiful images afterwards to soothe us.

It is my turn and it is very difficult, suffocating. There are things I can’t bear to remember in this immediate, visceral way, that I can’t bear to feel again. Christina is clever at keeping me on track. I’m quite good at trying to trick her so I don’t have to go down the arduous route, then suddenly she’ll spring a turn on me and I’m there and there’s no turning back. I am walking down dark mossy stairs. Doors are opening left and right. Buried stories are emerging, talking images confronting me with their dark secrets. (A little girl, streams of blood, a house of shadows and thunder, hands in the dark). Areas of my body light up like pinball machines and spill their booty. Afterwards Sananda guides me to a place in my heart of great beauty. A place I remember and long for. It is a homecoming. We are becoming clearer but some days it feels as if there is more than the lion’s share to go.

St. Bernadette comes today and gives guidance. She was following Christina around when I first met her, attempting to communicate with her. Christina was quite afraid of this, which irritated me no end. I would have been happy if it was me. Mary tells us that Christina was Bernadette. Many of our guides are the energy forms from previous lives, especially when it is a developed energy such as she. Funny, when I think of the year I went to Montserrat and Lourdes. I used to cry so at that movie, (was it Jennifer Jones playing her?), when she saw the vision of Mary as she lay dying and the nuns realised she had been telling the truth all along. Christina still has things to clear from that life. She is fearful and asthmatic and feels persecuted.

Today is the day I meet J.C. Christina comes with me. He is a lovely man, sweet and a little bowed by life. He is a scientist and naturopath and homeopath as well as other things. He runs a global network for world healing. Christina notices right away there is great sadness in him. He admits there is. He is explaining how the soul dies and is reborn as the monad, the progenitor of itself. This can be a painful process. This happened to Jesus on the cross. I think to myself, “poor soul” and hear Merlin say, “poor monad”. I suppress a giggle.

His journey has been continually intense, beginning many years ago with kundalini experiences which hit him literally like balls of lightening accompanied by visions and images of his life and the lives of others. He has been receiving lucid communication in dreams from when he was small. He has left behind a life and family drawn along an uneasy path with unexpected turns. It is clear this development does not excise human pain. In fact it has its own pain. Before too long words are pouring from my mouth like water and I am telling him about the healing method and suggesting that Christina guides him through it. I am quite amazed when he accepts (although not less so than Christina, whose services I have volunteered). We set tomorrow as the day.

We are quite nervous. The Masters are crowding around and there seems something quite momentous about this. They give us strange instructions. I am to paint while Christina does the healing. They say I will be guided by Merlin and I must do anything I am told. They say it is possible one or both of us will see visions.

Christina and J.C. go into my bedroom where a little healing station has been set up and I go to the loft. I am painting quite wildly using all sorts of colours and practically pouring the paint on. It looks like the Big Bang. I am following Merlin to the letter. I am painting more freely than I ever have. I am hypnotised by movement and colour. The colour is painting itself. I am its conduit or medium. The colours are lush, rich. Their light waves elicit a frequency response in my cells. I am moving like an undulating tide. From my fingers flow emerald and sapphire blue and crimson. Primordial shapes. Emanating from that and around it: rivers of violet, ultramarine, magenta, cadmium yellow. I am mixing right on the huge canvas, the colours are shifting at my touch. I am becoming them.

Downstairs there are inhuman screams. It turns out J.C. was a martyr in many lives. The Masters say he has carried a lot for a long time and has agreed to carry a lot for the human race, as have we. Merlin tells me to jump on the painting and I do and I start dancing a wild dance. I paint my face and body. Then I become really quiet and softly finger-paint little birds in gold and rose and silver. Merlin says, “You can stop now,” three times before I do. I go down stairs. J.C. does look relieved of a heavy load. I show them the painting. They are amazed. As I explain the progression they say it tallies exactly with what was happening in the healing in its rhythms and energies.

Later the Masters say we did very well. There is a column of light over the building and the fire in the hearts of humanity went up all around the world, so powerful was the depth of the healing and the re-connection of the three of us. I ask where we are connected and They say we are from the same place in Creation. I ask if during the healing one of us represented love and the other light and They say, We both represent Eternity.

My husband has been gentler lately, as if the healing is effecting him by osmosis. He usually isn’t particularly kindly towards the cat and this morning in the wee hours I heard him calling sweetly, “Puss, Puss,” and saw him surrounded by a violet light.

It seems there is a story locked in every cell. It is tiring work. The painting goes slowly and with the continual expansion from the energy of the Masters and the clearing we are exhausted.

My daughter has also invented a kind of healing. She sees dust in the body and sometimes bats and other animals. She shakes out the dust and communicates with the animals asking them what they need which she then gives to them. I had a dragon in my legs that needed gold leaves, for example. Christina and I just played along with her for fun and also it felt good but later we were in tears. The Masters say she is indeed a powerful healer. She has been an Earth shaman in many lives, but we aren’t to pressure her.

How all of Creation begins to communicate with me

In Devon, our friend Andrew takes us to his forest. It is the most alive and well-loved forest I have ever been in. He makes tinctures and communicates with the nature spirits. He also makes beautiful jewellery. His wife, Jackie, is lovely too, as are their children. In the evening he is feeling quite numb and my daughter sings him back to life singing a beautiful American Indian chant over and over in her sweet child’s voice. In the forest we did communicate with fairies. They were everywhere and very used to humans. The forest was exquisite. An ocean of bluebells, delicate, curling trees, strange flowers and a curving brook which he forged right through, though fully clothed, oblivious to the cold. A leaf asked Christina what the sea looked like and she closed her eyes and showed it a picture.

I feel like a rock today. I can feel Eternity in me. I feel ancient and beyond time. The Ancient of Days. It’s like a door has opened up in me and I am being blown back and outward, like I am expanding into the Universe. I am seeing the colours around things and it is so very beautiful. They are kind of electric and there is no paint that matches them. I feel that I am the entire Universe. I see myself sitting at the knee of God recounting tales like an old trouper. Nothing can possibly hurt anything as ancient and inextinguishable as I. I am fearless. There is white, gold and silver light around my hands. I am feeling a river of energy pour through me. I am Sananda, I am Creation, I am God. There is no separation at all. I am the oldest and the newest, fixed eternally in pure love and ever changing, like the light on the river’s back, the course the scent of the lilac cuts across the wind, like the river itself, always the same but never the same, flowing freely with no inhibition, no expectation. Everything heavy is falling away. I am growing lighter and lighter, expanding into unity. The whole of creation has begun to speak — or like a radio properly tuned I can suddenly receive a new frequency, hear. The wind is whispering to me, the flowers tell me their story, the earth embraces me, stars are flying from my mouth.

The lilac says it is pure and quiet as the night. Its scent stimulates the third eye. It loves the night, especially the stars. It is small to the eye but strong as the oak as its scent reaches further. Its colour is a celebration of love for creation. It can transmute sorrow. It says the plants know Oneness. It says, my beauty is your beauty. Know there is only beauty in the end.

Coming back from Devon on the train Christina says she feels like there is a ring on her finger and I say, that’s odd, I feel like there is a necklace around my neck.

The clearing continues to be hard work and I feel the stories lining up, pressing against my body demanding to speak. My mind is alive with memories worming their way to consciousness. I feel angry but also despairing, as if the events of my life have left me handicapped and I will never overcome them. I ask Kwan Yin, a most beloved Master who now comes to me regularly, why did these things happen to me? If we are the authors of our lives, how did I come to choose harm and for what purpose?

She says I came in with a great deal of fear and fear draws to itself what it is most afraid of. I did not want to come back, that is clear. I ask what purpose this will ever serve and she says that when I become completely clear, I will be one of the most refined people on Earth, in the true sense of the word, for there will be nothing I do not understand, nothing that could shock me and nothing for which I could not have compassion.

I feel everything I ever knew or felt or thought dissolving or coming into question. Everything is falling away and that which mattered so much no longer matters at all. I have now forgotten every book or wise saying and only go by the inner knowing the Masters call discernment. It is a feeling in the cells, it is very, very subtle and it is a recognition of personal truth.

In the garden the flowers are telling me to dance. They say dance will melt sorrow. They say I am to dance until there is nothing left of me but light. I am dancing around the rose garden. I feel like a Chinese Empress, a temple whore and a fairy combined. An old man watches me. He is very fragile, like a bird. I have spoken to him before. The fairies say, “Dance!”, as well. From their point of view, the whole creation is a dance, everything is movement, atoms spinning. They are saying they dance on the wind, the blossoming of the roses is a dance.

Close your eyes and listen, there is music on the wind. Hear the singing of the stars. The sweet song of the planets, the whistle of the grass, the moan of the waves. Begin to move faster now, feel your own rhythm, hear the hum of the atoms. Quicker now, feel the joy move up your spine and electrify you. Feel your skin tingle.

The garden is full of angels now and I can hear them singing and the hair on my arms stands on end. The angels sing there is a crown for everyone in creation. Each one is king or queen. They are filling me up with so much love I spin faster and faster. There is a gold light around the roses and pouring through me from the angels. They are saying, We ARE the dance. There is a heaviness falling away. The cold wind is speaking to me. It says all parts of the cycle are useful, nothing is lost and nothing is for naught. It tells me not to be afraid and that to shiver is good. The blood rushes. I dance and dance until there is nothing left but the soft golden light. I am becoming the Universe.

The angels say this is a time of great celebration. The Great Inbreath has begun. Each epoch of the Universe is billions of centuries by our perception and begins with an Outbreath from the Source that swirls into continual expression, manifestation, experience. Just as we know ourselves through our own expression, so the Universe knows itself through its expression and all experience expands the Universal pool of knowledge. “By their fruits you shall know them.”

The dreamers shall rise and their visions shall be fulfilled.

I am feeling very expanded since the healing of J.C. Christina is feeling sad. A new being comes called Ashtar. He is a space being. Christina feels afraid. He explains that he is in unconditional love, he is a fifth dimensional being. He explains that many of the space beings do not have an emotional body. This confuses me and he explains that humans do not understand the difference between emotional love and unconditional love, a love that does not feed but bears fruit continually. He says the fabric of the Universe is love but it is not the emotional love we understand. I cannot imagine a love that is not emotional, but he says it is so. Its keynote is non-judgement and its hallmark is creativity. There is a love that is made of truth and wisdom and expression that is not an emotion and this is the quality of Universal love. I ask why Christina seems sad, as she herself doesn’t quite know. He says she misses her father. I ask if he means her father who died and he says, no, her true Father, her home. He says that what happened with J.C. was very important. In fact, it was the completion of our mission here on Earth and we had agreed to it, this coming together, this re-connection and raising of the vibration of Earth, at the time of the fall of Atlantis; a time we were fully aware and awake, although we are among those who never completely went to sleep. It seems an odd thing for a mission to be about, but who knows what led to it or where it leads.

He says that in that night our souls had been brought on starry columns before God. There was celebration. We received gifts: for Christina a ruby ring for the blood she had shed on her way back to God and for me, an emerald necklace for the truth in my heart.

Kwan Yin comes and says we are truly free, we have completed our mission but if we so choose, we can speak for Them on Earth. We agree. This book is, in part, my fulfilment of that promise.

Today, I am tired. I swing between exhilaration and weariness. Mary tells Christina and me that we are spiritual twins. That we are the North and the South, so to speak. We are here to bring in the Divine Feminine aspect of the Source and help bring Earth back into balance. The inspiration is blocked and everyone is very over-analytical, like a cow with four stomachs dissecting and dissecting until there is only air.

I will do this through my creativity and Christina through her healing although she will also be creative and I will also heal. Both abilities are natural for all humans. Mary says Christina will become like Mother Meera, the avatar who brings in light. This shocked Christina. Nothing seems to shock me. Maybe I am less committed to life. Her love of God is so great and her connection is so strong that she will be able to bring in the frequency of unconditional love in the same way as Mother Meera. I see her doing this easily. Mary tells me not to step back, that my purpose is equal to Christina’s.

Merlin comes and I ask if the veil will ever burn away, the veil between me and creation that I have always felt while in a human body. This open window pierces the veil, allows me to enter other realms but only as an astronaut, fully clad with my own gravity. He says there will be times when I will see, taste, smell, hear and feel beyond the veil but that would only be of a certain duration as it’s difficult to sustain in the third dimension. To me it’s like suffering a kind of blindness and I long for my true home.

Mary says I will paint things of great beauty, images from beyond the veil and things not yet seen on Earth and scenes of the life of Jesus never recorded and writing will become easier and easier. A concerted effort, a concert, a flow. I ask who I was in that life and Mary says that will be revealed to me. She is so beautiful, her energy so exquisite, I am transformed when she comes. She is perfect and I LOVE HER. She tells me, again, not to stand back and take the supporting role. Christina is developing at such a rate. She says Merlin will be working with me. It is part of his purpose to do this. So, me and Merlin in the cave, making magic.

Sananda and Mary seem somehow different than the other Masters. They represent something different in the Universe I don’t quite understand yet. Most of the Masters who teach us have experienced Earth. They have become masters or perhaps, in some cases, never lost mastery. Mastery of the Self, of energy, of consciousness.

Each being is equally full of light no matter how dim the light in their eyes. It is just they have completely forgotten who they are. No being is greater or lesser anywhere in the Universe and on Earth. What you have decided to be in this life in no way signifies your true worth. The greatest holy man and the humblest cobbler are of equal light and may even be expressing it equally, just one in a quieter way. Those who have lost their awareness entirely, who look like stones, their light is no less, just hidden. It is confusing when the Masters say everything is choice but I now understand the consequence you find yourself in may be the result of a choice a long time ago. Unconscious compulsions are also choice.

We ask how we forgot who we were and are told it is the consequence of a doubt. In each life there was a moment of doubt which spiralled into choices based on fear whose consequences and subsequent choices led us to forget. I know it is true that I have never forgotten completely. I have known from when I was very small that my true home was elsewhere and this has been confirmed countless times in countless experiences and strange meetings.

It is a lovely spring day. The wisteria stands out in sharp relief against a stuccoed house. It says it is freshness and rebirth, steadfastness and renewal. It heals the emotions and surrounds the cottages with sweetness and light. I see in its bright purple dress a young maiden full of promise. A soft lavender womanhood that grows white with wisdom. She says we humans are to learn from the plants and flowers. They have no expectation or anticipation. They are in full awareness and appreciation and gratitude of things we miss while striving ever onward. The soft rain, the endless loving caress of the sun, the cool breeze, the drama of the storm. We move through each phase of our cycle unaware of time, experiencing creation. Our scent mixes with the molecules of air embracing all who come near us. I see her vine is strong and fibrous; the roots spread out like toes in mud, moving like snakes through the rich earth. To be alive is a very sensuous experience. The blossoms hang like jewels. The mere existence of this lovely wisteria is a celebration of creativity. Its scent is a promise of the sweetness of invisible realms. I bury my head in the soft violet and breathe in the scent again and again. I am astonished by the delicate configuration of the tiny flowers within the plumpness of the full blossom.

Our existence is an expression of pure love and beauty and so is yours. Rejoice. Open your eyes. Touch, taste, smell all the scents of Earth. Listen. All aspects of creation have their story to tell. Your sensing body is a great gift.

I have felt confused how we can be in the moment at all times and create a life. It easily makes sense to let go of the past but I don’t understand how the future is created if we are fully in the present. Merlin explains that if we are fully present, we are fully guided. We become a link to eternity within time, conduits for our own Source, our true blueprint or piece of the puzzle that brings with it the realisation of our dreams. We will make the right choice in the present moment, which leads to the creation of the life we choose. It is the heart’s life, however, the soul’s choice, and the head may not always agree and this is where people have problems. We can have hopes and dreams but we must not cling on to them but let them go and trust that if it is the soul’s choice we will be led to their fulfilment. Like the seeds of a wild flower they will find their soil and bloom.

It is the discipline of apprehending and residing in the soul’s true reality and its hidden blueprint for our life that creates the perfect future in the present. As we perceive ourselves, so shall we become.

I dream I am being held by Mary as a small child. She places a beautiful white rose in my heart with petals sculpted plump and firm like living ivory, almost like a gardenia.

Today, God comes and speaks. The energy in the room is huge, almost overwhelming. I wonder, if God is everywhere, what part of God is speaking and I hear it is the Source, the Core. There is no space in Eternity. It is hard to imagine. Everything is everywhere instantly. I begin receiving images more quickly than I can speak. I see golden light being poured into me. I hear that God and this Light are one, containing everything. It could be formed into things with our minds, moulded like clay. Our wills, our minds and our hearts working in unison with this Light could overcome limitation. It is co-creation. It is in this way that we are created in God’s image: the ability for pure, endless, limitless creativity. The key to the kingdom is a state of mind, a frequency that when achieved allows us to become the open door no man can shut. Open to the power and vision and abundance of the Source, moulding Its glorious substance into magnificent beauty, extending the boundaries of our perception and our own evolution. If we were as children in total trust, we are in alignment with this Light and we could create anything. Literally anything. This was how the world was first created. It was a co-creation with God by angelic beings who had taken form. From the uniqueness of our own inspiration aligned with Divine Will, we created the trees and the flowers and the animals, encoding the DNA via the inspirational etheric blueprint. This Light is infinite, there was never any lack, and so it is with our creative potential. Those in harmony shall inherit the Earth.

God says we have the ability to recreate ourselves in the moment. There was never any need to worry. The top of my head feels like a hat that has been lifted off.

I have begun painting. It is a painting of Courtney Love’s lovely and bewildering daughter, Francis Bean. I have never heard her mother’s music but I deeply admire her wild expression of herself. It is a protection painting to bring her daughter peace. I have given her a fairy tale castle. Sananda, resembling her father, is the man in the moon and Kwan Yin is there. There seems a long journey ahead if my paintings should ever be as beautiful as They say they will be. However, I like this painting. It is primarily violet, tinted like an old coloured photograph and very large. In the silence the flowers speak:

I am Sweet William, as soft as a cat’s muzzle. I bring wildness into your home. I am a small gathering of praise. Each leaf a ladder to the top. On my cloud are stars. I am a night flower. Protection.

During my appointment I want to tell J. when he does his cranial osteopathy to see in the head all the Universes of God, in the heart the deepest ocean, in the solar plexus the largest sun and in the feet, roots into the earth. I know he can feel the expansion of energy in me and I want to give the energy to him as a kind of gift. He feels the presence of a special Tibetan Medicine Buddha who guides him and I know Sananda is with us. Perhaps they are two faces of the same being. Unconditional love and healing are the same expression. It is confusing seeing J. I have cancelled my appointment on a crazy impulse and now I feel sad not to see him.

The roses are blooming. They are huge glorious and radiating. Their colours are magnificent. I am shown their creation by Archangel Michael:

A thought made of colour and sound, a vibration, emanates from the Mind of God. This is an ethereal blueprint and it is brought to Earth by the Angels. The Earth receives this, now encoded in a seed and the blueprint is guided into form by the rose’s guides, which we perceive as fairies or devas. The flower itself is a being. It is a being in form, as we are. Each has a higher self, a guardian, as we have. They are pure expressions of love. The Earth has her own imagination and has co-created many flowers. The rose comes directly from the heart of God.

Glorious Mary, true love Mother, Sister Heart, poet, comforter, Angel of Angels, Darling sweet Rose of my Soul, Queen of Heaven, I love you.

I spoke to J. It felt strange. There seems to be no room in life to accommodate crazy impulses.

I wanted him to meet Christina and we were all going to meet but then Christina said she would meet him alone. I think perhaps she was going to talk about doing an exchange, osteopathy for her healing. I trusted this but then I think I feared that he would like Christina more than me, so I rejected myself. A kind of self-denial. Now J. feels strange that I cancelled coming and perhaps feels threatened by a kind of inconsistency. Not everyone wants crazy friends.

The Masters say to see every occurrence as a mirror for what is in us. If we experience love and harmony that’s what is in us. If it is chaos and confusion, than that’s what is in us and we must clear it. Sometimes just acknowledging it is enough. I think there is a difference to being a detached witness to chaos as opposed to being right in the middle of it and reacting to it or causing it.

I am moping around the rose garden when a rose says to me, Gaze at my spiralling centre and see how constellations are birthed. This rose looks like a sunset. I call her Painted Lady. Her scent reminds me of fair grounds and carnivals, of cool rooms with warm honeyed tea and long flickering shadows as gentle breezes move through silk curtains. There is majesty in it, like a great soaring bird. I tell her that I will paint her and she says remember my essence more than my form. She says:

When you look at us, remember the beauty of God with gratitude, remember we are but the thoughts of God. Surrender to your Source as we are surrendered to the sun. You have free will but what choice is there, really? When you surrender we are One and all things are possible.

I see the only real choice is joy or suffering.

There is another rose, a really wild expression. Her babies are fuchsia and lemon and she is feverish, curving petals of vermilion and gold. She is a lipsticked lady, a tequila sunrise, a star flower with a curious vegetable, pumpkin scent.

Dear Sananda, help me to melt into you, to soften. Help me stand firm in my own truth and not be so rocked by the events of life.

This healing method is good but there is violence in the catharsis. There must be a gentler way. I woke up sad about J. I feel like I have pulled the wings off a butterfly. The Masters say the theme is self-punishment and I recreate my childhood this way.

I feel lonely with my husband. It’s like he’s there but not there. What I don’t receive from him I also find hard to give my daughter. We agreed at the beginning if one or the other stopped growing in the relationship we would finish it. I feel that has happened. Now what? There is love but stasis. But perhaps this is a kind of growth in disguise. First, I must face that all these feelings are a reflection of what’s in me. A shift in perception is needed. There has been so much deep love between us, it is hard to let go, but all things have their cycles. Maybe there will be a rebirth. For now, it feels like I am caught in a web I can’t break free of.

Our story began with intensity, a difficult coming together against great odds. The beginnings of our relationship reverberate through the present like a distant hum. There is the continual struggle of fiery personalities and the sweet harmony of like minds. But there is that pattern: the maiden in distress who needs rescuing. And he is George and the dragon rolled into one.

Sananda, can’t you take form? I want to see you. I want you to appear before me, completely manifest. I want to burn away in your light. He says I will see him.

I am speaking to Anne in New York and I am saying I have no teachers and the phone is disconnected. I think it’s Merlin. I meant human teachers, but the point is very clearly made.

To surrender is to trust, but how does one learn trust? Follow the heart and see where it leads. It leads to the Self, which leads to the Source. It leads to experience. But how is a life created from this? What is the trust comprised of? What is its fabric and what is its goal? What is the outcome of Oneness in practical terms? That we will know that everything we need is available to us if we learn to receive? That we truly are limitless, multi-dimensional, eternal, creative beings of light? This is what it means to be as a little child. It does not mean ignorance is bliss. It means awareness of limitlessness, trust in abundance, trust in love. Patience is difficult.

I just ate a ridiculous amount of vibuthi, the ashes Sai Baba manifests from his fingers, to calm myself.

Today, an Angel comes and tells me that I am truly loved and as we are made of love, each being truly and completely loves the other although the grievances of the personality self cloud this. I want to love and be loved without reservations or barriers, without doubt. This seems the most difficult thing of all. I hear, once again, when I love myself as God loves me, all I perceive will be love and all I experience will be love. We experience love to the degree we can open to receive love. If we do not feel worthy of love it will be difficult to experience it consistently. How does one love oneself? It begins by following the direction of the heart.

To love one’s self is the ultimate act of generosity for you no longer need to take from others. When the cup runs over, the desire to share proceeds naturally, without stress or self-righteousness.

You are open to receive and your energy flows continually, nourishing others without depleting yourself. The world is full of incomplete people feeding off each other. This is probably the origin of the concept of vampires.

I am sitting under a tree in sunlight feeling very peaceful and expansive. An old man, crusty from sleeping in the park, walks by and with a gentle smile and merry eyes make the clasped hand gesture that usually accompanies the words, “OM Shanti.” He knows exactly the state I’m in. Later, as I stand on the sidewalk soaking up the sun, he walks by and whispers, remember the sun is inside you. A holy man in disguise.

Sananda says when you love deeply you are loving God through that person, for God is love. If there is disharmony, then it is likely an indication that you are out of balance and compensating by finding the suppressed part of yourself in another. For example, if a man is cruel or neglectful and his wife is kind and loving, then he may be suppressing his kindness for fear of vulnerability and loss of control. If a woman is very passive and the man is a real go-getter, then this may be her potential, which she has suppressed. When we understand that whatever we feel is a reflection of what is in us we become teachers for each other. When we are very balanced and fulfilled, we draw equally balanced people and the relationships will be quite different. Alternatively, the dynamic of the relationship we are in may shift. Anything is possible.

I ask the Masters why they have come to me. They explain that choice is based to some degree on a principal of attraction. For example, a child will be born to parents who match its frequency. This is what is meant when it is said we choose our parents. Like attracts like. There is a frequency pattern in the vibration of the atoms held in place by a thought form created by reactions to experience, suppressed emotion, patterns of thinking, etc. As we clear the pattern, we resonate to a higher and higher frequency. In many cases individuals can be very unclear but their desire to live with integrity and authenticity is so great it cuts through the illusion and draws to them the tools they need.

The Masters are here for everyone, for there will be a frequency which matches theirs within each being, no matter how deeply buried, it’s just a matter of becoming aware of it. It is part of Their purpose and Their learning experience to help us. They each have special areas, but all are masters of consciousness, of love, of energy and therefore the Universe.

None will be completely free until all are free. We are drawn to similar patterns so that we may see ourselves and make different choices as we return to love and creativity.

There is a big confusion on the earth regarding the ego and I like that word less and less. The ego is the desire body whose function is to draw us to experience, for we will only manifest experience through desire. You must want something for it to occur. The so-called ego only gets us into trouble when we are continually unable to hear the desires of the Higher Self. Yet, if we see the learning experience, even that is worthwhile.

All flows if we proceed from inspiration to ego. The ego categorises and measures. Analysis is useful but only secondarily. If the ego is tamed it becomes a sacred tool.

The Masters called me a chameleon today and said They had rarely seen someone shift so quickly once given the tools. As the patterns of the past clear, I am seeing with fresh eyes the truth of the present moment without the cloud of prejudice. (For what is prejudice but pre-judgement? To assume before new experience.) I can see now very clearly what I do, how I react, how I have created a situation, how I have set myself up. It doesn’t mean I am becoming unemotional but I am freer to deeply feel the emotion that belongs to that moment, not the broken record of previous reactions. There is nothing for the emotion to get stuck on, it flows through in a deep wave and I return to a central still clarity.

Today, I feel like lying in bed eating chocolate bonbons and thinking awful thoughts. There is no rational reason why anyone would choose this path of awareness. It is all consuming and it feels as if it chooses you. The Masters say there is less consequence to an occasional awful thought if there is no energy or malice behind it, although if they are continually recurring they will form frequency patterns that will create experience and possibly illness. Malicious thought, however, will travel right to its destination, just like a voodoo curse, and then boomerang back. Malice is a strong energy. If all awful thoughts were safely released through creative expression there would be no awful actions. This should really be taught to prisoners.

Prisons are the consequence of malicious thought projected outward. Mental hospitals are the consequence of malicious thought projected inwards. Recurrent malicious thought can build thought forms that have the power to literally overwhelm. How can they change their lives without the tools to do so?

My relationship with my daughter is changing quite a bit. We were lying in the rose garden staring at the sky and she asked for her self to be returned to her. This I did. I returned her self. I told her she was free. This did not mean I would cease to guide her or help her structure her life, or be her proper mother and protector. It was a formal handing over of her power as an individual. She felt a weight lift from her.

She is thirteen now. Her body is changing. She is sure of herself but also wonders who she is. She has her own thoughts and value system and a very strong will. She is growing away from me.

The teaching simplifies. Healing, emotional, mental or physical, is the healing of separation from the Source. The separation creates fear, the fear creates suppression, the suppression blocks the flow of energy, the blocks create illness and explosive, uncontrollable behaviour. What we fear we will create. To think passionately is a kind of desire and there is a lot of energy in fear. This is why we continue to create what we fear even while we begin to hear the truths of our heart and follow them, until the causes of the fear are cleared. This is how someone can be very spiritually developed but unable to create their life.

J.C. explains this another way. He has developed a means of measuring the vibratory rate and the levels of consciousness of a person. He says they are not necessarily in sync. The consciousness is measured by polarisation with the Chakras, the energy whorls the soul creates to spin the body into being. For example, if consciousness is anchored below the heart at the solar plexus or sacral or root, the person will be caught primarily in survival issues and will likely react rather than respond to situations. When consciousness is anchored at the heart through intention and practice, the change is dramatic. For one thing, there will be little or no illness for the consciousness of most illness is lower than the heart and will not key in. At the level of the throat, true expression occurs. At the third eye, clairvoyant abilities increase and the fully opened crown is a sign of continual connection to Source. He has treated people with very high vibratory rates and low consciousness and vice versa based on uneven development. The vibratory rate can only increase in increments no matter how hard the work in consciousness, otherwise fuses would blow. A very high vibration and low consciousness would signify someone who had high previous development but had become somehow stuck in their present life.

All situations are teachers and if we feel a victim we renounce all hope of mastery.

Christina and I are in the loft looking at my paintings. She asks me why so many have blue skin and Krishna comes. He says he is painted blue because that is the colour that signifies emotion. It is an understanding or intuition of the nature of emotion. One of the wonders of the Earth is the exploration of the emotional body. We have barely touched on the positive ones. His keynote is joy.

Then another being comes. He says he is from the Pleiades. He says another reason I paint people blue is that in the Pleiades the beings have a blue cast. They are very creative and very emotional and I have had many lifetimes there. I remember writing about a place where the people sang beautifully with an unearthly range of octaves and painted light paintings on the air that hung there like small aurora borealises until they slowly dispersed. I ask him what I did there. He said my function was the same as here. Devotion. High Priestess. To hold the light.

He said the Pleiadians are connected to Earth. He had a message for me to give the people of Earth. He spoke as if I was the same as he had explained me to be in the Pleiades. As if, somehow, it would be no problem to get this message around the globe and as if people would listen to it. He thought it would be best for me to go on television with it. I explained that it was very difficult to conceive of that happening but I would do my best to have his message heard. His name was like a song of syllables, so for simplicity we call him Argus. This is his message:

I am Argus. I bring you a message from the Pleiades. The chaos on your planet is reverberating throughout the Universe. Those on Earth must be aware of the effects of their will.

It is necessary to take responsibility for your actions and for your emotions and thoughts, which are also actions. It is time to know that what you think and do and feel effects the whole of the Universe. At any time you have a choice regarding how you will act, think, react, and feel. You have been endowed with free will.

When we look at humanity, we see endless volcanoes waiting to explode. Every man, woman and child must find a way to release the pressure and transmute the anger that is causing so much violence and the despair that causes paralysis. This is the safest way to proceed.

It is the same message coming from all aspects of creation. Our birthright is celebration and limitless creativity. It is in this way we are created in God’s image. We must stop spending our energy on trivial grievances and discord.

Other beings are coming to us continually, including fourth dimensional beings from the astral plane and sometimes deceased relatives. Christina’s father comes to observe. He weeps a lot with regret and it is clear that the self-mastery we need to achieve to reunite with our divine nature must occur on Earth for what happens in between lives does not automatically bring you to enlightenment. Although it is still possible to learn, the greatest teacher is the experiences we draw to ourselves while in form until we transcend form and move to a different kind of experience.

The Masters of Light reside on the fifth dimension and beyond. This is compatible with the frequency of unconditional love. One could say the fifth dimension was the heart frequency of the Universe and when our consciousness is anchored at the heart, communication with this realm may naturally occur. As we become more and more able to love, our frequency becomes closer to the fifth dimensional. The cloak of shadows falls away revealing the true light nature and its higher resonance. Our cells sing a finer tune, the Abracadabra that opens the Aladdin’s Cave of the upper realms. We become emissaries or ambassadors. We speak to the fourth dimensional beings with care. They can bring very curious but perhaps less reliable information.

Christina went into a state of panic during the healing today. I have brought her back to a life where she was experimented on by the “Greys”, space beings; the ones responsible for most of the experimenting that has gone on with humans and animals. I feel I am losing control of her, she is so afraid, and I say quite firmly in my mind that the Greys damn well better help me with this. Two come instantly.

It transpires that they did experiment on her a few lifetimes ago. She was given a kind of lung biopsy. I wonder if this fear contributes to her asthma. Christina and I both see that this life was in America. I tell the Greys that it is very wrong to experiment on human beings and they say they had the permission of the U.S. government. I say you cannot do anything without the express permission of the individual. They don’t quite understand this, as they are not individualised in the same way that we are. They don’t seem to have the same free will. They process what I have said. I explain that though we are connected by the Universal energy, we are each a nation onto ourselves, a government of one of which we are the president. This they understand. They say it is rare to converse with a human who does not fear them. They do not have an emotional body so although they recognise emotion, they don’t feel it.

They say that they respect what I have said. They are evolving in the Universe towards the state of unconditional love, like the rest of us. I ask them to help me with Christina. She sees a beautiful pink light go into her and feels very calm. I ask, what was that light? They say they have formulated it from Christina’s perception of love.

Christina has invented the heart search. It is this part of the being that goes on forever. We search the treasure chest of each other’s heart, finding lost dreams, past lives and endless visions.

How God creates the Universe with imagination

Over the years, my painting has gone from representational to abstract back to realistic renditions of the images of dreams, the imagination and of life. I never really settle. I am tired of looking at a thing to understand its shape and form and shadows and would like to be completely free to paint the visions of the imagination. Merlin says I should do this. I say that it would mean more child-like images and he says he would like to see that. I want to paint him. I want to see him better. He says I can see him and instantly I see a swirling image of a beautiful man rising out of the Earth with black hair and blazing blue eyes. Waterfalls pour from the crooks of his arms, his chest a forest, mountains with goats are his shoulders and dolphins swim in the air around him. He is nothing like the conventional depiction. He says the eyes are the most important part. His eyes flash with intelligence, compassion, fire and light. Oh, Merlin!

The imagination is the ability to apprehend Universal imagery. The more inspiration there is, the more far reaching will be the imagination, the deeper it will be able to reach into the Universal Mind. The imagination reaches into the Source and brings back gifts, ethereal blueprints of ideas, inventions, stories and images which may already exist in other realms or may not yet exist, which are then translated through the uniqueness of Self. This is co-creation. It is like going fishing, but the fish you catch may speak to you of other worlds.

Very often these ideas float around looking for a conduit. This is the feeling of the muse. If you are chosen through comparable frequency to create something, to midwife it into existence, and you do not, the idea will find another conduit. The reasoning mind is meant to serve the imaginative mind. Once you have apprehended the imagery, the reasoning mind works out the most practical and effective means of manifestation.

The inspirational imagination is our greatest gift. Its ability is astonishing. It is the tool we use with God to play creation into existence along with the myriad beings of the Universe. We have forgotten the power and the magic of this tool. As illusion is healed and time thins, the distance between the imagination and its manifestation will gradually disappear. We could, even at this moment, decide to join the minds and hearts of all humanity and clear pollution from the planet in an instant and find solutions for the problems that create it. We will gradually learn to play again and our creativity will surpass anything we have previously thought possible.

When I am in the rose garden Merlin always sends over a blackbird to remind me of him. He is forever telling us to loosen our spines. The process of enlightenment is, to a great degree, physical and the spine must be loose so it can take the increase in incoming light which is an electrical energy. I need to do more exercise. The roses are a symphony of electric colours. Corals touched with delicate brush strokes of peach and pink and lemon yellow, magentas, romantic melancholy lavender, ivory, claret red, luminous and velvet.

The Archangel Raphael is with me when I paint today, and many other helpful and curious beings including a Colour Angel who says new colours will be revealed on the planet as our vision expands.

Merlin was also the Count de St. Germain and the one who wrote the Shakespeare plays who, he says, was Francis Bacon. Merlin is very funny and he teases us mercilessly. He says we should see the absurdity of life and then we will be able to see the humour. He is gently mocking about various things, such as why do people so revere the eagle among birds? Why not the swan? Or for that matter, the hummingbird? He jokes about the ascension mania sweeping a certain group who think they will lighten themselves to the point that they will ascend, returning to their true origin. He says, they think they can get away that easily! He says the Ascension occurs within the heart and when it has truly occurred it doesn’t matter where you are, everywhere is home. The true Ascension will occur when we have cleaned up our mess and are able to see only love and be only love.

He jokes about all the silly questions we continually ask. We ask him what it is like where he is and he says he is tending his sheep on the Yorkshire moors. He is very serious about some things. For example, magic. He says true magic is unconditional love plus intention and that we should not use magic in any way that we do not want recorded forever in Eternity. He says magic is a sacred expression of the Self and should only come from the highest intention and be for the highest good of all. He calls me Doubting Thomas because I ask the same question over and over in various guises.

I look up Francis Bacon in the encyclopaedia and find his papers, essays, occupations and recorded interests encompass philosophy, law, government, history, the specific histories of the reigns of kings, social science, utopian thought, physics, metaphysics, logic, the laws of nature, ethics, occultism, the esoteric order of the Rosicrucians, the hidden practicalities of ancient myths, alchemy and education, to name a few. He went to Trinity College, Cambridge at the age of twelve. This sounds like the mind of a Shakespeare and it certainly sounds like Merlin who knows everything. I call him the Earth Master. His area seems to be all the realms of the Earth, from the most practical to the most mysterious.

Going deep inside is similar to walking on the moon. The atoms even look like stars.

There is a fine etheric net over my daughter’s heart, probably caused by me being over-protective. Christina and I use a very gentle method to help her remove it. She transmutes most of her emotions through poetry and singing and acting and writing songs. She doesn’t need such an extreme cathartic method as we have been using. Her wonderful Godfather, Syd, lets her climb to the top of forty-foot trees, which I would never do, but I am glad he does for I have gone too much the other way.

Christina comes in today with a bunch of cornflowers. She says that as she was walking by they asked to be brought to me. I would remember them from another life. I know right away they are from the Blue Kachina god of the American Indians. I am very touched they wanted to come to me. They are an impossibly beautiful blue, almost violet, running to midnight blue at the centre. They resemble the first plant in creation, primordial, hoary, round, yet when you look closely there is surprising delicacy, each minute blossom, whose clusters form the globe, is a small fluted horn heralding its presence, paper thin and graceful as a water colour. There is beauty in wildness. Amazing fineness explodes from a tiny armoured fist. It is like smelling fur, the scent of wild ponies, blue skies, green fields punctuated by this violet. All for one and one for all, many blossoms on a stem. I am like the cornflower, beauty and the beast rolled into one. They are delighted to see the Sweet William.

Today, the snakes are creeping through my bones. They shiver inside me, small fluid knives of my own creation. I try to melt them but they linger. A cow with four stomachs, Mary says.

The pattern: I block receiving, cause rejection, pine, self-punish, create a battle in myself, reinforce that life is inflexible, intractable, that I cannot get what I need. And then despair. What the Masters say: You must get what you need from yourself. You must give what you need to yourself. It is not selfish to give to yourself. It is a responsibility. To give to the self, you care for the self. You care for the body: food, water, clothes, sunlight, fresh air, breath, exercise, etc. You care for the emotions through creativity and truthful expression of feelings. You care for the mind by education, the correction of destructive thought patterns, the increasing of awareness through the discipline of attention and you care for the spirit by following the guidance of the heart and cultivating appreciation, gratitude, vision and compassion. Of course, all of these interweave, interact and support the whole. I wish the heart would speak louder or at least more firmly. It is often much later that I realise the soft, fleeting voice that’s gone in an instant was actually the heart. It’s the ego that repeats itself over and over again.

I am in Germany to see Mother Meera. I am staying in a bed and breakfast nearby. I have gone to a children’s playground with Merlin. The room was very peaceful (I saw her tonight) and filled with about a hundred people. She was small and beautiful, a radiant, exquisite doll in a magnificent sari embroidered with roses. Her companion and carer, a much older woman, organised the people. Mother Meera was silent throughout. Each went up to her. She looks directly in your eyes, holding your head, and gives you her Light, which is the light of the Source. I saw golden light around her. I felt that to a degree, people were creating their own experience. Everything is a choice. Many people have huge transformations. Is this because of the expansive quality of the extreme Light nature of Mother Meera, or is this their choice in that moment? Probably both. I understood that many people felt that she was more divine than they were or perhaps that she was divine and they were not. I realise this isn’t the point. Her purpose must be to remind us that we are all divine. It is just she has chosen to be fully aware of her divinity and to live it.

I went out to dinner with a man who lived in her house for many years, as many do, although they don’t see her that much. I think he was a little in love with me. I was talking about an experience of transformation with Light. He asked me where the Light came from and I explained it came directly from the Universe. He was surprised. He had thought this light could only come from Mother Meera. This is the danger of seeking the Light outside ourselves.

The gift I have received from Mother Meera is a revelation. I do not need to become more divine. In accepting her divinity, I accept my own. I see, finally, that there is one unalterable fact. We are all divine. And secondly, being human in all its light and shade is not a contradiction of divinity.

I have no desire to advise or counsel people any longer except perhaps in the most minimal way. I don’t want that to be my role. I have been very silent with people here but they don’t seem to mind. It is nice to be with people in silence sometimes. Is it really possible to see only beauty and love amidst chaos? This would be my function if I could choose it. You create what you see. If we dwell on the chaos, we will create more. The way to help people must be to teach them mastery, or even better, to see them as the masters they truly are. There must be a massive shift in perception or else we will continually perpetuate the old.

It is not easy to always see divinity. The surface is so seductive, especially when people are horrid and sharp and rude. But I am practising. Sometimes, without trying, I suddenly see the Christ Light, the Buddha Nature, shining from an old man’s eyes or I see into people, an old woman as the child she once was, as the young, smooth shouldered woman much loved by her man, as the middle-aged woman tear stained with grief or lit up with elation, all her hopes and dreams laid bare on the altar of her heart. Sometimes the veil falls away and I see the deeper truth. Walking down the busy street, shell-suited tourists, pinch faced businessmen, harried mothers, aggressive youths all at once appear as wingless angels. The armour falls away, all the hardness that hides them.

The day before I left England, I felt Mother Meera in my loft choosing a gift. It was a painting of a rose I had done from life. I also gave her a pastel drawing I did of her in a blue sky above a huge rose, rainbows coming from her hands. I feel grateful for the woods where I danced in the rain fuelled up with hope and the hydrangea bush with its gleaming violet. I was very worried I would miss my plane and these charming boys came off the train and rescued me. I felt enormous love for D., my husband, and sent endless light and love and healing. Merlin said that I just charge him up to plunge more frenetically into his work.

Kwan Yin says, there are no mistakes, no failure, only learning.

I love D. but I feel trapped by him. So, this must mean I am trapping myself. I am trapped by my feelings for him, as he does nothing to trap me. Joseph Campbell, the great mythologist and philosopher, thought of relationships as mythological journeys in which there was potential to heal the soul. I can see that. In some ways this relationship is my greatest teacher. Everything is reflected into it and projected upon it. With fairness to D., he does accept me as I am. We approach life differently. I want the risk of total openness. It seems there is always that in the beginning but then it goes away instead of growing larger or deeper.

When I came back full of happiness to see him and joy at my experience, I joined him and my daughter for tea at the Savoy. He had that cold look which stops me in my tracks and for which there is never an explanation. My stomach congeals and my heart sinks and I think, why am I here? There is a strange game being played here and I am not at all fully aware of my part in it.

I would like to start a centre to teach children communication with creation and true expression, to save them all this.

Kwan Yin says she is very gentle and tender, compassionate and merciful, the Master who guides all children. She is also a warrior and was a master of Kung Fu while in form. When she was on Earth, she taught the Chinese many things, especially their remarkable systems of healing. She is a master of Universal Law. She stayed in the body for a very long time in her last incarnation.

Mahatma Ghandi and Abraham Lincoln have been observing the healings. Ghandi says he knows the way to peace is through self-healing and he admires this method. It is true that all war is a mass expression of personal anger.

Sananda says, Blessed are those who seek God for they shall find Him.

I realise that intention is everything. If we truly intend something and it is for our highest good, it will occur. Mary says, whatever is for the highest good of one is simultaneously for the highest good of all. It is the same.

The sun says his favourite name is the one he was called in Mesopotamia, which we can’t quite get. His second favourite name is RA. The sun says we are creating a power spot in the rose garden by coming there every day and bringing through so much light energy. He says this is how the ley lines of the Earth were created. He says this makes a link between realms and this transmuting permeation of light into matter is the marriage of Heaven and Earth. He shines his light endlessly without judgement over all. It is a continual expression of nourishment, beauty and unconditional love. The Earth responds spontaneously. I stare directly into him continually. My eyes absorb him, devour him.

A guide of Christina’s comes to her. He is an old Chinese man. He says she has great knowledge of Chinese medicine and herbs and that I have been an expert in Chinese language and a diplomat. He asks us, as a kind of game, to put all our skills together and create a blueprint for an ideal world. We do and release it to the ethers.

The earth we are sitting on begins to speak to us directly. We realise it is the whole Earth speaking from that spot. She says it is upsetting that people were so stressed that they did not even smell her any more or appreciate the fruits of her labours. She has weathered humanity and its follies for so long. The Masters say the Earth herself is going through an enlightenment. She is transcending or ascending. She is becoming slowly a fifth dimensional being through the increase in her vibratory rate. She is becoming a star. We are getting a free ride, our way will be made easier by this, as long as we ride the wave, that is. As we have learned, as your energy expands and you take in more light through the opening of your heart, whatever is uncleared comes to the surface. If there is no safe way to express it, there is an explosion. She said the conditions on Earth were a reflection of the state of the mind of humanity. As more and more remembered their true nature, the whole is uplifted but as the energy increases, those without expression will have explosions and the lands they live on will as well: earthquakes, floods, etc. She showed us herself as an example of how to live, expressing herself through the creation of flora and fauna, the rivers flowing, the clearing storms, the calm, the cycles of the garden. She says that if people swim in her or lie on her with the intention of transmuting what is in them, she can help with this.

She says the power to manifest comes, in part, from her. We are in a body and she is part of that body. Our body is made of hers, its minerals and water animated by spirit, sentient electrical energy. Earth. Air. Fire. Water. Great creative power can be gained from her. She said her body was full of the stories and songs of the people and beings who inhabited her.

As we walk back, a woman has an epileptic fit in front of us on the sidewalk. I feel if I place my hands on either side of her head the electrical storm will calm down and she will be all right. She calms down on her own and she is well taken care of. Sananda says it was an agreement of the soul of the woman to show us this and that my thought was accurate. This is one kind of explosion likely to occur to people with no means of safely releasing suppressed trauma and emotion as the energies of the Earth increase.

Later, I am breathing into my throat, the seat of expression, to clear it. I am expanding the feeling of constriction there.

Suddenly, I see Jesus on the cross as clear as anything. The top of his head and the crown of thorns are stuck in my throat. I begin to choke. I see his matted hair and the sharp, mocking spikes. There is a terror spreading silently, a soft mushroom cloud of doom in my solar plexus. I am there. His eyes are black and mournful and glassen. My eyes drink their fading light. Within them is contained everything I have loved. I am kneeling in front of him, pleading with God to help him. He is in such pain and bewilderment. I reach out. Move towards him. The guards push me back forcefully. The world has crumbled into chaos. The sky is closing in. My skin is tightening. My bones are shrinking, crushing me.

Beloved. Beloved. Beloved. I am imploding like a black hole and the Universe of my life is sucking into darkness. Everything is flying, spinning. I am collapsing inside. My organs are devoured by acids and my bowels turn to ice. There is nothing I can do. They are hurting him. They are taking him away.

“ My God why hast thou forsaken me? Why are thou so far from helping me…? I am poured out like water and all my bones are out of joint: my heart is like wax, it is melted in the midst of my bowels…Deliver my soul from the power of the dog. Save me from the lions mouth, for thou hast heard me from the horns of unicorns.” Psalm 22

I realise I have held my breath from this moment. For two thousand years.

Now, I see him turn towards me. It’s as if there is another self emerging, as if there are now two. He is moving in slow motion, floating. He is stretching his arms out to me and his eyes are huge and elongated and made of light, pure light. Beloved. Beloved. They silently call to me.

Beloved, I whisper, my voice a stranger in my throat. I am disintegrating. Melting. I rise to him on air and evaporate in his embrace.

Christina and I can now look at each other and see a faint grey mist where something needs to be cleared. We can look into others and see the red coals of anger or the sticky tar of self-hatred or the golden lights of love. I am sending love and light to others almost continually and I do a lot of healing on the tube.

Kwan Yin says it is time to go back into life and stop the self-healings. This is a relief. She shows me any remaining grey transmuting out through my arms as I paint. This is the divine alchemy. We are the base metal transformed into gold and creative expression is the crucible.

Each morning I wake up a little disoriented and have to build my conviction towards life all over again.

Sometimes life and my place in it is crystal clear, as if a deep pattern of fruition has been activated and is carrying me easily. Other times, all meaning drains away and life becomes colourless, empty or I fall prey to extreme emotions.

A passing spirit tells Christina that I was meant to be born on the 26th of February instead of the 28th but my mother was so nervous she held me in. The Masters wouldn’t ordinarily tell us things like this but we enjoy the occasional fourth dimensional gossip. Kwan Yin does confirm this when asked. She says that the pain of my birth contributed to some degree to my mother’s subsequent violence towards me.

My mother was unbridled emotion, poetic chaos, soaring notes, excessive sensuality and unexpressed creativity. My father, pure intellect. My mother: a great beauty who ruined herself who has finally found a kind of peace. My father: made mythical by absence, handsome and deep voiced and brilliant with a keen reasoning mind and the fierceness of unexpressed passions and the hidden pathos of unrealised dreams. And I was Tom Sawyer and Elvira Madigan with a strong dose of Stephen King’s Carrie thrown in for good measure.

When I was young, I would go riding with my father. There was a magnificent stallion called Leviathan. My father was a great rider. He had been a polo player and they would give him this glorious stallion at the stables at Palm Springs in California and me a gentle little gelding. We would ride a little way out and he would trade horses with me. We would then go racing across the desert as quick as the wind.

Leviathan is incredible and his gait so smooth I melt into him, horse and rider becoming one as we move faster and faster. My muscles meld with his muscles. A fine sweat breaks out on his neck. He is feeling his freedom and flying across the sand. There is a mirage wavering translucent, always the same distance ahead. We break into a smooth canter, an undulating lope. There is an infinity of gold sand and blue sky. We are liquid. Moving in stillness.

My father leads me up a steep slope on a path without an inch to spare to see the desert laid out before us. We both like danger.

Sometimes my father would disappear to race Arabian stallions faster than the shadow of a doubt down the pale shores of Ramat Aviv.

Sitting in an alcove of dark wood in the bar at the Sherry Netherton Hotel in New York tasting oysters, the age of five, I ask my father, “What is God?” He thinks and then replies, “God is love.” All these years later, I am learning that he was right.

I am feeling full of anger and very weak. I feel badly for having shouted at my daughter and like I’ve let the Masters down. I feel angry at everybody in my life. I am angry at myself. I feel angry at my mother and fed up with being responsible for my feelings. I feel angry that I still feel angry. The anger robs me of conviction.

Kwan Yin is here. She says that conviction comes from following the guidance in the moment that we suppress a hundred times a day. She says not to worry about anger. Emotion isn’t bad, it needs to be focused and expressed. The flip side of anger is personal power so as I feel the degree of my anger, I am also feeling the potential power within in me with regards to the ability to create my life.

I am painting large paintings and also doing endless little “emotional” drawings. Today, I do a really large drawing of D. and my father, who, not surprisingly, have some similar characteristics. I write on the drawing everything I want to say to them and I make a drawing of myself in the middle inside a protection pentagram, kind of taking back my self. Upon completion of the drawing an amazing thing happens. The light, tingly cramping I have had in my calves for years is disappearing as if it is being vacuumed out. There is magic in these drawings.

Christina thinks all stress is caused by not being truthful about your feelings, not saying what you feel, not living how you want, wearing the mask. This is not having the courage or ability to speak and just be who you really are, which would allow you to withstand all stress. Here truth and trust must be closely aligned.

Sometimes Christina can be very stubborn. We have to force ourselves to do these healings on each other, because they are exhausting and she will resist mightily. But she always comes ‘round. I want to keep on going like a maniac or a marathon runner who won’t give up, even when forced to the knees. She’s the tortoise and I’m the hare, but there is no race with each other. She goes deep and uses fewer words and speaks with a beautiful simplicity. There’s this other odd thing. 90% of the time we spend together we are like research scientists dissecting the Universe. If we do something normal, like go grocery shopping, it’s really surreal and embarrassing to show each other the personal choices we make. It’s like a couple who have sex but can’t bear the intimacy of kissing.

I am still going through a period of anger and I am creating angry situations in my life left and right. To hell with it.

I love my daughter so much. She is full of surprises and has few barriers to loving. She sings and moves constantly. I try never to stop her, even when it drives me crazy. She believes in herself.

Merlin says the degree to which I was suppressed in my childhood is the degree to which I will one day express myself. I have had huge creative bouts but they have been inconsistent. He says one day they will cease to be inconsistent and the energy will be unconstrained. He says to be free in my expression, don’t hold back. Give everything away, become empty to receive.

There is no shame in truth, only freedom.

I am re-writing my first play, which made it to the stage, as a novel. I want to go deeper with the characters. I have been asked to adapt a children’s novel for the stage now. The first draft was workman-like. I was asked to stick precisely to the book and there is not a lot of plot. Now there is pressure for plot, plot, plot and a severe deadline. I have been writing with Merlin every day for a week. I make him a cup of coffee and leave it on the desk as a joke. He teases me that I deprive myself of coffee but Kwan Yin agrees it is much better for me not to drink it. We are sailing through this script and have written a sea shanty for one of the characters as well.

Kwan Yin says that if I like, I could speak to prisoners. She says there are many valuable people who have not fit into society who are waiting to hear a message which will allow them to gather strength to transform themselves. She says, Our beloved child on Earth, dear friend, you are very close to what you dream of.

What is stopping me from hearing the whispers of my heart? If I listen, will it becomes louder and louder? A roar leading me atop a flood to a place I have created in my dreams but dare not remember?

Today, I cannot hear it. The distractions of everyday life screech like the sound of the seven year locusts of my childhood. It was a clattering din, a discordant orchestra of mega-decibel munching. I caught one once, a cicada, and wrapped it in layer upon layer of toilet paper and it ate through the whole thing in no time flat.

Kwan Yin says comparison is judgement. We are each the best there is for though we are connected, we are each unique. Competition should be with the self to be the best you that you can be. There is no point in following another or comparing. When we express our unique gifts, every cell in our body sings and is joined by every atom in the Universe. It does not matter how our expressions are received if you are satisfied that you have expressed the truth of the moment as you perceive it, whatever it may be and in whatever form you choose. It is the same with the expression of emotions. It is as much for the sanctity of the self as the honesty of relationships. We cannot suppress selectively. If anger or grief is suppressed, so will be joy. It takes courage to express without blame because to express truly is to feel. The alternative is numbness. A walking death. Invasion of the body snatchers.

Archangel Michael takes my hand and Sananda the other, my beloved Brothers. Together we walk through time to Eternity. He wraps his silver wings around me and surrounds me with his electric blue light. There is a feeling of peace that spreads like warmth.

I think of the anger as poison and Kwan Yin says it is a breakthrough, a tool. I go to sleep full of fire and wake up full of doubt. It’s as if I recreate my birth every morning. The anger gives me a strange kind of energy, now that I am resisting it less. I feel good here in the rose garden. It is very warm and the softness of the sky and the picture book clouds soothe me. There are thousands of minute beings around me now. They are the beings who make up the sky. Size is meaningless in the Universe. The colours of the roses make my heart leap. It is a symphony of sound and colour here. The roses are fuchsia and scarlet and white and crimson and lavender and orange and yellow, the birds cacophonous. The sky is periwinkle blue and the green of the trees is luminous. There is a tree covered with lavender and all of this in bold strokes. I lie on the ground and let the Earth take from me what it can.

I am beginning to be free of entanglement, especially with D., but there is sadness in this. There is a kind of grieving in letting go. It is returning the romantic desire to merge with another to the deep union of human self with Divine Self. This is the true completion. And the other is perhaps not possible without this to proceed it. But the desire to merge with another human being is still great and pulling away from this to the cool clarity of autonomy is painful.

The script is complete. The producers like it, the director likes it. Everyone either likes it or even loves it. Except the executor of the estate of the author of the original novel. There is too much new material and the approach is too vaudevillian. Start again.

I would love to teach children how to speak to flowers and angels. Surely it’s as important as geography or our distorted histories. Flowers speak the language of the heart. The heart speaks the language of the soul. The soul speaks the language of inspiration.

My cells remember Light and remind me how to fly

The Masters say I am helping them to fulfil a dream. My dream. They see my dreams, their inception and fruition. It is up to me to reveal them to myself. They remind me to feel the emerald at my heart radiating love to me continually.

Some days I feel light hearted and others I feel sadder than ever. I wonder is this sadness in me needing release, or is it my keynote? Kwan Yin says to have courage. There is nothing to lose but much to gain. I feel I am crossing an endless bridge that extends further which each step. Kwan Yin says my sadness is a habit I should discard like an old cloak. She says to be aware of beauty in all its guises.

Kwan Yin says now is the time when creativity will be returned to humanity. Each has their own expression. True art is the expression of the truth of the emotions, the truth of the soul, the vision of the Universe through the eye of the individual, the story of a life, of lives, the life itself. She says when all of the Self is used in creation the great journey begins. She tells me I must get more exercise.

Each is their own leader. We are each the way shower.

I am feeling very still. I have entered a land of stillness, an infinite place, a parallel universe right here on the sofa. There is silence everywhere. My edges are evaporating and I begin to expand like an endless mist. I grow to encompass this room. Flow out through walls, atomic smoke, molecular radiation encoded with my imprint up the avenues and boulevards around the church spires, down the phone wires. I am immersed. Each electron triggering into life, a tiny pinball jackpot. The spirals of my hieroglyph etch the atoms of this landscape, its jagged chalk cliffs, its fulsome hills, and then move out across cool teeming waters, across this planet, mingling with the atmosphere moving among stars, each being a cell in my body. I tenderly embrace them, cup them in my electric chalice, observing what they reveal as I love them to freedom. Bright glowing galaxies swirl through me. My heart is the sun and the magnetic heat flows through me to the edge of the Universe and I am surrounding and interspersed. There is an overwhelming sound now, pulsating colour communicating story that enters like radar entrancing wordlessly.

I am in the womb of God.

Each cell in the body contains as much light as an Archangel and is evolving towards mastery, Oneness.

The Masters say a painting or song or poem or movie or dance or book or any work of art which is created directly from the heart has the power to open the heart of another.

We have become addicted to darkness and feel there is more weight and gravity in shadow. We are buckled with hidden grief. Some days it devours me. I am writing letters to everyone in my life, expressing my true feelings.

Jealousy comes from fear there is not enough. It is fear that someone else is better than you are or has more than you. Everything we need is inside us.

We are walking wishing wells!

Kwan Yin is flooding me with light. I can barely focus on the objects in the room. This morning the normal human activities were comically difficult. She is communicating at the rate of light and I am trying to keep up, to capture the gist of what she’s saying:

The more we express, the more light we radiate. As we express all that is in us we make ourselves empty so that we may be filled again with light. In the light is all you need, every idea, every blueprint for the manifestation of your fulfilment, every joy and wisdom. There are rivers of light in the light, waterfalls of inspiration.

To take in more light, let light flow through you. Let it flood every cell, energising you, quickening you, and then flow outward to nourish the Earth and its kingdoms. Receive it like the rose receives the rain. Let it rinse you and nourish you and make you whole. The light is encoded. It is electrical energy. It is the thought wave of creation. It is the Mind of God. It is sentient, fully conscious. See how all the words that exist are inadequate before it. New phrases, new thoughts, new images will be authored by the light itself. Let the light flow through and write itself, paint itself, sing itself, dance itself. Sail on the wings of light. Feel it pierce the armour which protects you from your true Self. Feel the armour fall away like the cocoon from the butterfly. Fly.

There is no key to enlightenment, no mantra, no ritual, no exercise or discipline more powerful than the intention to live with an open heart.

Feel all feelings deeply and without hesitation. Express them safely and with acceptance of responsibility, for we choose the perceptions that cause the reactions that lead to the feelings. Love and accept them whatever their nature. In this way they are transmuted. This is the way of compassion, for until we accept ourselves with love we are unable truly to love and accept others as they are. The way of the open heart is the way of light, for through the open heart passes the whole of the Universe.

The Universe is made of light energy. In the light is colour and sound that is held in form by the Universal thought. The Universal thought is exquisite tenderness, devotion, creation, expression. This is the love that guides the atoms into place. Love keeps the rivers flowing. We are electrical beings made of pure light energy. When we hate and doubt and fear we short circuit.

Experience gratitude. The gratitude expands that which we focus on and we attract to ourselves more of the same.

The light is the promise of abundance, the celebration of life, creativity, peace, stillness.

Let it rekindle the fire in your heart. Do whatever you like but harm no one. If each lived in this way the innate wisdom of the light would guide each piece of the puzzle to its rightful place. Just as arnica grows where the sheep may fall, so each would find a harmony in the Whole by honouring the choices of the soul. Restore gratitude.

Gratitude brings Grace.

The angels are made of light. The roses are made of light. I am made of light. I open myself and a tidal wave of light is drawn to me instantly. The light is playful, spontaneous, perfect. It makes whole what it touches until the thought of fragmentation recurs. I let the light flood through me to the roots of the tree I am standing beneath and I can feel the tree drink this up until its leaves are on fire. I let the light use me as a conduit and I direct the light through all the kingdoms of the Earth, uniting, caressing, healing.

I hug my daughter and pour golden light, then peach, rose, electric blue, green. She feels the distinct nature of each colour and names them. The mysteries of creation are hidden in the colour. Their meaning is vast. They govern qualities that in turn govern the nature of manifestation.

Everything is energy, energy is light. Thought gives energy form, each energetic form is a reflection of the whole within its own unique nature. Communication is possible with every aspect of creation. Thought is light and nothing can stop the passage of light. Each part of the Universe has its story to tell, its colours, its journey, its song. Neither future nor past obstructs the passage of light, for it is unaware of them. We are uniquely ourselves and simultaneously all things. Every story is contained in the Universal hum which sings from our cells.

I am the mouse, the raindrop, the lion, the spoon, the fern, the rose, Jupiter, nebula, the Queen of Sheba.

Just as we can contact the beings of the past, so can we contact the beings of the future. You can ask your future self for guidance and you can mend the heart of your past self. Time is happening all at once. Time is a circle. Time is a construct.

The Masters explain there are many ways to see, many perceptions. It is difficult to contain the whole truth while we are in the experience of time. They do not see separate lives but a continuous life all contained in the present moment. The present moment is the keyhole to the Universe. The key is awareness.

Merlin says there are worlds within worlds. He invites me to ride Pegasus with him throughout the dimensions of the Universe as we have done in times before memory. I try, but I am not free enough yet.

The Masters come one after the other to speak today. Kwan Yin waits to speak until last. We joke, does the woman come last there, too? She says the last is best remembered. She says we receive the light to the degree that we are open to it. It is by opening to receive that we also draw love to us. Love and light are one. People are closed because they are afraid of vulnerability. If you are open to receive love, you will also be open to feel sadness and other things. If you are clear, these feelings flood through you and move on. The love remains. It is our essence. Our keynote.

I am galaxies, suns, stars, rivers, a grain of sand. I am a golden rose floating in a sea of green above an azure sky.

Christina had a vision of our function in Eternity. She is saw it geometrically. Somehow we are mid-wifing Eternity. Holding it in place. She often sees things geometrically and so do I.

There is a wave, the original vibration, the Word, sound and colour forming a sacred geometry, the blueprint of manifestation. The Archangels carry the geometry directly from the Mind of God. They literally embody it energetically. They carry the blueprint in their atomic structure until it is manifest.

Merlin says I will go home after this life to the heart of God. J.C. and Christina will return in an instant that will be 300 years of Earth time. To teach. He says humans will be much lighter by then, slowly growing similar to the first angelic incarnations. Teleportation will be possible eventually and the emphasis will move from the technology of machines to the technology of mind.

I want to be rid of my bad qualities. It is hard to accept them as part of the tapestry of life. Merlin says I am too hard on my self and to just relax. He says these qualities are the lost children of my psyche. They need to be loved and to tell their story if I want to transmute them.

There are things that happened long ago when I was very young which cause me shame. Why is there shame for something you are too young to stop? Perhaps it is because we think if something bad happens to us, then we are unworthy. Love knows no shame. Love knows no guilt. Love knows only forgiveness and pleasure in loving. Help me. Today, I am a stranger to love.

Kwan Yin says that I am to help my daughter express all that is in her. It is hard being the mother of a teenager. It is a test in patience. When you are able to be loving in all your communication with her, she says, there will be no one on Earth who can provoke you. It is the ultimate course in public relations.

Merlin’s energy is very soft and comes directly through the top of the head. Yodar’s (Christina’s guide) energy comes through the cerebellum. Kwan Yin comes through the top and the front. Mary’s energy expands my whole head and then deepens around two inches above the temple. Sananda, the sides of the head. Archangels I feel in my face and underneath the front part of my brain. It’s like my skull is a frequency receiver and transmitter. The energies are received there and then move through the body. The feeling when I communicate with them is subtler now. They explain that the expansion causes the sensation. When we accommodate the new level of frequency the feeling is less until we are ready to expand again. The feeling of expansion is better than any drug or artificial high.

Merlin tells me not to worry about D. He is doing the best he can. It feels like I want to fly and he is earth bound. Despite all the wonderful work he does and his great accomplishments, he is not yet near expressing the enormity of his creativity. This is bound to create dissatisfaction. Just stay involved in my own projects, Merlin says. See Dan as the beloved being that he is and go on my merry way.

Dear Sananda, someone has said, “look what happened to Jesus for speaking the truth.”

Dearest Child, it is difficult. The human fear of death is so great. To speak and live the truth is to express who you truly are. In the case of my life as Jesus, this was the soul’s choice to show there was no death. The purpose was not the suffering of the cross but to illustrate the eternal nature of life.

Mary says it is essential now to find a rhythm for my creativity. There is nothing else to do now. This is the only way. As I explode with creativity, I will explode with joy at being God’s child.

She says be gentle with D. He is on edge. It is better not to try to change people. Accept them as they are and see their beauty. They grow and change in this light in the way that is right for them.

I dream that as I swim, a man steals my golden robe. I wake knowing it is symbolic of my fear that D. steals my light. I wake up exhausted, as if I spend the night processing his unexpressed anxieties. Sananda reminds me everything we experience is a reflection of that which is in us. When we are in our mastery the supply of light is endless.

Daily now I draw lots of little pictures releasing what I feel and also expressing my true feelings in writing. I am determined to clear myself and thereby change the patterns of my life. I write whatever I feel and draw little madcap free-wheeling illustrations, some quite violent. I am brought back to the root of things. I draw images of me as I would like to be, fully empowered and creative and without a shred of fear. Pure love. A goddess. My daughter says, more like a kitsch fairy queen.

Sometimes I feel like the rose in The Little Prince, foolish and vain and naively protecting herself with her thorns.

Sometimes I look with envy at the people cosy in the corner of the bar, daily plastered and vehemently discussing whatever comes to mind. It seems an easier route than this. However, I know this route is inevitable in the end. There is no escape from the process of realisation, not even death. Its reward is liberation but it’s a long time coming.

Kwan Yin says to try to experience for a few days what it is like to live totally for myself, like a child does. See what my natural rhythms are. Follow continually the impulse of the moment. I am getting better and better at this and it is leading to much synchronicity. There are days when one thing flows into another in total trust. Everything I need seems to appear before me or around the corner I am guided to. What is right to do for others comes naturally and more appropriately.

The entire cosmos is contained within the moment. Outside of time and space, there is only the eternal moment and within time and space it is within the moment that the entire cosmos may be accessed. To be completely present is the magical key. The Masters say when they think of a place they are there instantly. Everything is Mind. But it is not the analytical mind with its inbuilt limitations we have come to overly rely on, it is the inspirational mind, the Universal Mind, the Mind of God.

Kwan Yin blows a soft fire in my heart. I love her so much. She is so compassionate and tolerant of me. She is always there.

Dear Kwan Yin, I am still having violent images despite all my expressing. They bother me immensely.

You are resenting your lack of freedom, but there is nothing stopping you from being free. Freedom must now be something you practice. As you make more choices for yourself, you will be freer. Freedom is a state of mind that, once achieved, will be reflected in the creation of your manifest life.

I live in a theatre buzzing with energy, the smell of smoke, actors warming their voices, late night pub music shaking the walls, tribal dancing locking the space as I try to move through to get upstairs, computers, high street traffic, thieves, lost lambs, happy little boy men, seductive women, Dionysian revelry, alcoholics, the occasional roar of applause in my bedroom window, the sounds of the post office humming behind, impassioned directors, funding crises. It’s hand to mouth with extravagant perks. D.’s baby. You can’t make a living but you can make a fortune, the latter thus far eluding us. The pub it’s attached to is the leveller. The theatre audience enters a charming Victorian premise that, by curtain, is worthy of Bosch.

There are familiar faces here, many of whom I am fond, but few I reveal myself to. I am isolated in the throng. I feel confused as to how I can love myself or open to receive it. I am like an erratic rose, either fully opened giving too much or a tight bud protecting myself. I’ve forgotten the in between of easy discourse, careless pleasure.

The energy that is God comes. My molecules flood and spiral in recognition. I hear that I am truly loved, that I am surrounded by beings of love at all times as I struggle to make sense of human life. I hear that I am to see the ocean of Universal love within each being, for it is surely there. How could it not be for that is how creation manifests itself. See only love. See nothing but love. For indeed, there is only love. It is only love that exists. Love and Eternity.

Kwan Yin is here. She calls me beloved daughter. Dear beloved shining daughter. She tells me to feel God’s love. The love is pumping the blood through my body. Breathe and feel God’s love moving through the body on the breath. Feel the energy in the body and know that energy is God’s love. You are not separate from the Father Mother, beloved one. Feel it all around you. Be still and feel the Presence within you.

Blessed is she who loves God. There is a feeling like fire in the blood. Softer than a butterfly kiss. The Great Sun who burns in my heart but does not burn me, gild my blood, light the chambers of my sacred heart. Beloved Father Mother, I am one with you.

Sai Baba says man minus ego equals God. Mary says we are God. There is only God. We are the manifestations of Universal Thought and all that is in It is in us. And the illusion we insist is real? Bars of smoke that melt with the shifts of perceptions. Look within. I long to know this Unquantifiable which seems me and not me, at once completely personal yet impersonal. It dwells in the heart, accessible by all and belonging to everyone.

I am twelve or thirteen, diving off the high dive at the Edgewater Beach Hotel. It is very high. Maybe 30 ft. or more. I fly though the air over and over again, sliding into the water like a knife. I call to my father to watch me.

I have forgotten how to fly.

I close my eyes and let go of everything. I call Merlin. I am ready now for what he says we have done together for lifetimes. He comes instantly, mind drawn to mind. He is with Pegasus, a huge shining animal of light. Great wings, sky bright and translucent. Pegasus is a luminous amalgamation of the creative mind of the Universe, fully cognisant and electrifying. Black eyes burning. Merlin is my blackbird with eyes of brilliant blue. I love him. He tells me more than anyone does, he indulges me. I climb up and lean against him. I smell roses and eglantine. We move swiftly through dimensions that appear as foggy envelopes of space until there is diamond clarity and incredible stillness. The edge of Eternity. The sky of this place is not black but a clear gold light. An endless vista with fabulous punctuation. Planets bloom into sight, huge beings, lumbering and graceful simultaneously. Of great substance and lightness. There is an awareness of breathing, a rhythm. I think of the heart of the planet and suddenly we are within it, swirling in its atoms shimmering like stars reflected in a lake. Close up, a soft and deeper glow fanning out, joining the gold. Majestic, soft, floating, luciferous colour.

We sail but it feels that we are motionless, with planets or stars suddenly soaring into view. There is a kind of singing in the air, like the sound of the ocean in a seashell, a hum of different octaves. I realise that all the planets and stars are aware of each other and they are communicating with each other, singing to each other, exchanging energy. There is a feeling of greeting, of ancientness, of stories unfolding in the sound. We arrive in the centre of a series of glowing meteors. Our thought propels us. We are near a massive being whose breath pulls us in. It is Saturn. We fly through the blazing ring. A rollicking Saturnalia of rocky terrain, small lead moons.

We move through this song of stillness until there is only light. Light that I can feel. Light that caresses. The chalice of our atoms spreads out to kiss the light, dispersing us, soundlessly humming, illumined in a living gold, a living God.

The echoes emerging

I am very young and living in Florida. We will be moving again soon. There are lots of children I look after. One, two, three, four, five. Everything is packed up. I walk in my sleep opening and shutting suitcases and calling for a girl at school, “Sherry, Sherry.”

I am in love with a boy. He is Italian and rides his bicycle like the wind. He has given me a key ring that says, “Slowly, slowly run the horses of the night,” in Latin.

We are not far from Cape Canaveral where the rockets go up. Joe, my stepfather, goes to the dog races. He is a jazz musician and his band is called the Tune Toppers. He opened the Sands in Las Vegas with Jimmy Durante and Baby Rose Marie. He sings like an angel. Even Frank Sinatra says so. We travel the country with him, moving on when the gigs dry up. He goes out in his tux and smelly cologne and my mother and I watch the movies until late. Joan Fontaine, Jimmy Stuart, Deborah Kerr.

My mother is a combination of Godzilla and Marilyn Monroe. She is either being one or the other or both. It’s a little like living in a film noir thriller. Or sometimes a B movie, the kind they play at 2 A.M.

It’s early morning and the crickets go silent in the light. I survey the empty street, the turnpike swirling above, the minutia of red ant and caterpillar on the sidewalk, and say, “Let’s go to Las Vegas,” and we go! A pink Cadillac, a U-Haul trailer and six kids in the back.

Las Vegas is a fairground of crazy kitsch enchantment. The Silver Dollar is wall-papered with silver dollars. The stars and planets glitter huge and sparkling across the town with an electric neon glow. There are one-armed bandits everywhere. Dancing girls shimmer and shake, rare exotic birds in their feathers and sequins. My mother makes me get Joe Louis’ autograph. He is sleek like mahogany with rounded edges. Carved looking. My mother is a beautiful woman. He looks at her with soulful, forlorn eyes without smiling.

I sit on Louis Armstrong’s lap. His fingers are like the branches of a baobob tree and my hand looks tiny in his.

We are living in a large rented house a way out of town. There is no furniture and we eat spaghetti constantly.

We’ve moved again. We’re somewhere near Reno, the Littlest Big Town in the world, or maybe Albuquerque. My hips swell. The boys upstairs are chasing me. One of them has a baseball bat. I overturn their mother’s table of porcelain charms and escape while they stand in frozen horror.

My mother calls me a whore. She is a paragon of repressed sexuality. She’s very come hither but her parents were Calvinists. I am her fiercely blooming rival who must be held back at all costs.

There is an undercurrent in the house and some holding is going on but of a different kind. Holding of the breath. It’s written on the air in the language everybody knows but no one dares speak so drastic are the consequences. It has to do with a certain someone. A certain musician who sings like an angel.

I hang bells on the door to warn me. I have pulled my little brother into the bed with me but there is no stopping him. He is as determined as Gorgo or Mothra or any monster of the deep. The bells tinkle and I freeze, like stop action photography. I hold myself so rigidly it could be rigor mortis. Nothing can happen, therefore, but this dreadful exploration. He touches me. His eyes closed. And then he falls over silently. I am reminded of The Little Prince, “as gently as a tree falls.” There is this sleepwalking changeling, the pod person in the place of the man who was my friend, who had slipped me warnings to save me from the Kali Dolly who rages about the house attempting decapitation with her 20 electric arms and lightening breath. He comes in like the sea witch to steal my life force, my voice. It is the voice that goes, the metaphorical voice, the will to express. And why? Because you do not scream. No one ever screams, so lost in the miasma of betrayal and conspiracy are they. And of conspiracy: what mother cannot know? It is a projection, a ritual, a stealing of the corn maiden to insure fertility, the sacrifice of the virgin to appease the mountain of rage.

I have scratched myself between my legs. I am ten or so. I tell my mother, it hurts. She undresses me and splays my legs and then sends my stepfather in to look, ostensibly to see what’s wrong. They are in it together. This is a crazy game. It is in these moments I become disembodied, my body no longer my own, frozen, numbed, will paling, autonomy no longer intact.

Let me take you to the blue place. Tigris Euphrates of a pale life where long winds blow ceaselessly. A small dot. Bluebeard. Sister grief. Winding sheets. Flesh is soft. I take it off and lay agog just for you. The reverberations in the skin will read a song a needle will release. A fiddle-dee-dee for a small girl with soft dark hair. Komm mit mir. I’ll take you there.

The small girl squirms and freezes, ice princess, eyes saucered, laid out on the bed. Part of her stops there, is dead. She reaches for the black night. Stars stare. The frail tinkle of bells. There’s no stopping him.

Mother’s on the warpath. My head’s shoved in the dinner, an Italian smell. Smart-ass spaghetti face eats slow. Cool as hell. There are fishes gold and turtles three called Winken, Blinken and Nod and always a cat. Talismanic gods sleek as Cleopatra litter the life and a very large woman with a knife. A walking Kali goddess, hot fertile shimmer: every swallowed man in foetus form crawls out again. A hallucinating volcano fond of White Horse and the whip who once sang like an angel.

She says I’m pretty, she says I’m not. She’s quite keen I can say antidisestablishmentarianism but distressed I have no wit for quips for I’ve gone mute of late. She’s a walking Hitchcock movie. Her laser eyes see through doors. There is no hiding. She’s riding for a fall and taking us all. The children watch cartoons on telly. Downstairs there is a fantasy. A death deity beats a blue baboon, howls and turns him red. He plays an accordion. A snazzy tune topper in a tux with a taste for delicacy. All his clothes are on the porch. The crockery on the floor makes a snide mosaic running pretty with red rivulets. By night a woman gouges paint and fills the marks with gold by day.

The Bluebeard plays his tune. The Kali dolly devours her young, casts a rune. Life goes on. There is refuge in books and the crooks of trees. A tiny astronaut with a black-eyed gut floats beside the Swiss cheese moon, watching Earth swirl in her energy soup a million miles away.

I decide that I will marry God. It seems reasonable under the circumstances. I will sweat red bullets, a calling card. Be carried through clouds. Ascend in front of the community where spidery widows congregate, rollicking fat on the fill of their mates. The blue place. Locked room tipping the stairs. The half-life is in the blood 250,000 years.

Speaks my face, small not proud. Tinny bubbles in a mushroom cloud.

My mother makes egg bread at Easter with delicately coloured eggs woven in the braid.

I am eight, the day the red ants attack me and my sister on a hot, Florida summer’s day. My mother saves us with a hose. We play in the yard. She is throwing away piles of paper. I come over to look at them. They are drawings of hers I have never seen. Exquisitely fine anatomical renderings of animals and flowers. And there are stories, The Leprechaun with Rose-Coloured Glasses and other ones she wrote for us when we were very small, before what was in her overwhelmed her. I try to stop her but she pushes me away.

I am walking on a beach of golden sand. The sea is liquid gold, moving like mercury. I face the sea, walk forward, immerse myself. Cleanse myself. A ladder appears. I climb up and enter an exquisite pyramid, finely wrought of gold and covered in jewels. There are huge round rubies, emeralds like small spears surrounded by amethysts and sun-like citrines. The air is alive with their breathing, their whispering chants of praise. There is a glorious rose like a heavenly child in a velvet bed. The adoring rubies have fashioned themselves in flame shapes around the edges. There is a beautiful mosaic on the floor across which glides a fabulous light being, the combined spirit of the stones. It moves towards me and surrounds me in an embrace of light.

My mother ran away when young to sing in a green silk dress. She longed for flight.

My mother won’t stop. It is because I refuse to cry. I will never cry. It is the last refuge of my dignity. She continues, harder and harder, until the blows are soundless and I am floating outside of my body. She sends in my stepfather to see if I’m all right. (I walked on eggshells, radar honed to pick up the threat of impending attack. This has transformed into a keen perceptive quality, I can read the slightest shift in tone or flicker of the eye.) It is as if she can bear no reflection of life, so great is the suppression of her own. I watch him checking my vital signs.

When I paint my mother (from a photo, a lovely petulant girl leaf-shadowed in a garden), I follow the curves and as my hand brings forth the image, my anger is melted in the flowers. My sadness melts in the yellow, blue and peach (as I stroke her cheek). My hands paint her hands. Round hands, delicate, caught mid-air. By dark eyes I forgive her. Back at me, dark eyes stare.

I am two. Me and my homunculus. It is not split personality or the detachment of the mystic. It is ruthless sanity, a way to survive. This finally went away when I met D., who held me very tightly for a very long time.

Nothing is lost. We were thrown out of the metaphorical garden at great cost but we return to grace with self-knowledge and awareness and a perfect balance of reason and inspiration.

Reason without inspiration is like dissecting a corpse in search of a personality.

I am writing this book so that I shall put an end to myself. Not that I shall die but so that I shall be emptied of everything. Tabla rasa. Blank slate. Begin anew. To express is to empty so that one may be filled again.

Story after story emerges from my bones. Scalding pebbles. Volcanic lava. The odd boulder. I am becoming lighter and lighter. Inching towards freedom. The pattern of how I see myself based on my childhood experiences is slowly dissolving.

PussPuss is shining lavender this morning. A sensuous puddle of black and white. He looks at me with languorous eyes, stretching full length and arching his back in praise of sunshine.

Archangel Michael is the original guardian of this planet and he took form at its inception. He says peace will be difficult if harmony and communication is not achieved between the kingdoms. Humanity is the bridge between visible and invisible worlds. Between the beings of Light and other nature spirits and the plants, animals and minerals. When co-operation occurs between all realms anything is possible.

I think how much easier it can be to communicate with these loving beings than with humans, with all their hidden agendas.

Inching towards freedom

I must have known my stepmother in Atlantis. Our initial reaction to each other is strong, immediate and polarised. I am high priestess and she is queen. Our values seem diametrically opposed but our needs are equal. What we both need most of all is my father. We are both children in need, made horrible by it. There will be no salvation here.

It can’t have been easy, me coming to live there, but what else could they do? Some crimes elicit deeper, quicker responses. Others, though equally effecting, are overlooked. A strange scenario: my stepfather becomes an unwitting accomplice to my freedom.

To me, I had come to a palace of art and I entered the beautiful paintings nightly. Picasso, Magritte, Mondrian, Balthus. Archepenko, Calder. Evocative, passionate architecture of sensual shape and colour. I had stumbled upon a new religion and the denizens of this family are some of its priests.

To my stepmother, I was wild, wilful, and uncontrollable.

My mother’s children whom I as a child-mother had cared for most of their young lives are callously forgotten. Dark memories become crows in a far away landscape by Van Gogh. I’m still in a cage but the door is opened.

I am twelve or so. It’s summer and I am to study watercolour painting at the Art Institute of Chicago but I quickly became bored with their rigid approach and use that precious time to wander the streets, randomly following my feet, looking into faces in my first experience of the larger world.

As time goes by I become heady with it, intoxicated by it. I dance in the streets and touch the hands of passers-by. I am a walking bacchanalia.

The psychiatrist they send me to is tender and old. He reads my diaries and we discuss life, matters of the heart and the trials and tribulations of his marriage. It is like a course in introspection.

My father gives me great bear hugs. He speaks warm and low. His voice promises safety but there are forces at work here hard to overcome. He seems to know everything, a walking encyclopaedia. The passions of his heart have taken him down some curious paths. He is a real doer. Don’t procrastinate. Do something constructive. Look at the doughnut and not at the hole. He seems to be an optimist, yet he believes in Murphy’s Law.

There is so much abundance here. And mirrors. It is a house of mirrors in more ways then one. I position the medicine cupboard’s mirror at an angle to the mirror above the sink and see my image multiplied into infinity. There is a full-length mirror on the back of the door. I lock myself in and cover my body with intricate lipstick drawings.

And I have never seen so many grapes! Delicious edible jade. And small silver grape scissors shaped like a crane or egret. Fascinating avant-garde treasures minute and large abound.

There is a strange suppression of life in this house. The opposite of my former one. The violence is psychological, covert. Bitter honey.

I am a bee among strange flowers. A hurricane in a house of autumn leaves.

I wake early and talk to the plant in the kitchen. No one else communicates with me. I sit on the balcony of the 35th floor and watch the sun rise. Washes of blue and peach and coral dissolve soft grey. The crimson sun flares into view, cutting a red carpet across the water. I want to step to the edge of the balcony and fly into the sun but I sit in perfect stillness.

Later, before they wake, I skate swiftly in my socks across the long parquet floor amidst the sculptures and objets d’art. It is a cruel paradise.

The oddest time is dinner. Fraught with undercurrents. Things unsaid dart about the table like heat-sensing missiles.

My table manners are wanting and I do not know the right fork or how to be served properly. I am a heathen and a heretic. But, Oh! What is in me. I soar inside to uncharted places, my thin body a walking flame set alight by colour or dawn or the curve of a hand, exquisite and languid as a saint’s. Nothing escapes me. The flowers dropping their petals in a vase, the shadow of curling smoke or cut crystal on the table top, the proportion of an elbow in relation to a knee, all can provoke an ecstasy. I am filled with secret bliss and unspoken wells of anxieties. All dancing, all singing and probably certifiable.

My mother’s mother had fine manners.

The only child of a French dancer and an Irish policeman, she painted beautifully and read to me of the wild horses of Assateague. We are a river of first born women, right down to my daughter. My mother’s manners were less than perfect but she did teach me about graciousness, like the fairy tale of the prince who swallowed the frog in his cup so as not to offend his host. But I admit that forks have their place in the scheme of things.

My mother knew the name of every bird and wildflower and sang in public from the age of five. But she did forget her manners.

Here we sit at the dinner table, elegant animals playing a game and it seemed to me that any moment hell might break loose all over the place.

Blessed are those who seek truth for they shall find freedom.

It seems there is something wrong with me. Whispers, looks, overheard conversations. They say I am “high strung” but too strong to be broken apart and rebuilt.

The great psychologist, Abraham Maslow, believed emotional difficulty was based on deficiency. Human beings need the basics, (food, shelter) and then love, security, creative stimulation, etc., in order to be mentally and emotionally healthy. I am suffering from a severe deficit of love but I don’t know it and I don’t imagine they do either. I am a great survivor. I have already fought for my life many times by the age of twelve. I am strong, as strong as tempered steel. I am very defensive and cocky as hell. Not easy to love.

I was very emotional in a culture that has no place for wild emotions. I had no tools for expressing them or releasing them or controlling them.

Many things happen in a few short years. In relative freedom I become rebellious, refuse my stepmother’s attempts to civilise me. I suffer and enjoy, seek my father, rage, pray, sing, dance, run with a wild pack, seize the day, break the surface peace, and am sent away. I was a bringer of chaos, a dark crow full of shadow coming home to roost but also a lover of life, more than ever in my first great gulps of freedom, and even then, a lover of light.

My experience of psychology is understanding, of religion is forgiving, of truth is expression that leads, finally, to understanding and forgiveness.

Kwan Yin reminds me that each being is doing the best they can at the moment.

How do I begin to express the truth of what I am and in what medium? I am caught in head games and anxiety descends like a vulture unannounced. Four stomachs.

Dearest child, begin. Take the brush. Begin. And you need to walk.

Merlin comes. He says all this is about judgement. I judge myself in anticipation of the judgement of others. I am to suspend judgement. This does not mean the faculty of discernment. I am to express the truth of the moment, whatever it may be, to the best of my ability, and then release it entirely. We are judged from the cradle to the grave. Merlin says when we release judgement of our selves, we will no longer attract the judgement of others or be wounded by it if it should come. Judge not that you be not judged. Judgement is confusing. We need judges for criminals. But what are criminals? Unloved people. This is part of this bridge dilemma. We are crossing a bridge. If people are taught love and expression and the path to their true purpose there will be less and less crime.

Bali is a beautiful place. A paradise on earth. There is an enormous sense of community. The understanding of the spiritual and the sacred is woven through all sensibilities without conflict with the material world. They are very expressive and creative and there are many festivals, parades, celebrations and events throughout the year. There is beautiful music, dance, painting, theatre, huge demonic papier-mâché sculpture processions to clear the energy of the island yearly, glorious woodcarvings. They express everything, the light and the shadow.

There are three languages within the culture and everyone speaks them. There are blessings and gratitudes throughout the day. The temples are magnificent. Stone soars and arcs up to the sky, open to the elements. Mountains, sacred volcanoes, trees, the rivers of butterflies, punctuated by pillars and fine carvings. The sacred stones are alive with great spirits and the blessings of thousand of years. They speak to me as I enter and thank me for the thousands of flowers that I flow from my heart and scatter before them. Brahma. Vishnu. Shiva.

The men and women are gracious and graceful and gentle. The men are unusually balanced, they are feminine and sensual and very masculine as well. There is easy communication with the invisible realms. A common way to free crops of pests is to communicate with the spirit of the “offender” and make an agreement, such as offering a small strip of land. They have an advanced and complex culture. Their religion is soft and unusual, a combination of Buddhism and Hinduism. There is almost no crime of any kind and violent crimes such as murder and rape are unheard of.

It is possible. Each judgement is a crucifixion. Love is non-judgement, acceptance of differences, non-comparison. Expression is creation, transmutation and alchemy.

Beloved Mother, take me by the hand and lead me to the vision of love which is Your own. Banish this doubt in myself that poisons me. This doubt which keeps me from my total awareness. You are the light of the sacred heart of my true self.

Human beings have the power to extend the boundaries of the Universe through the inspirational creativity that is their legacy.

Beloved Being of Light, learn to love yourself as I love you and the keys to the kingdom shall be yours. When love fills the hearts of humanity, the Earth shall be as heaven and the potential of each being will be revealed to be beyond your farthest imagining.

The bridge between realms is a rainbow in my heart.

The world of children should be full of colour and music and dance and an understanding of the sacredness of being. The similarities underlying the diversity of different cultures could be emphasised to show that all people share the same feelings and hopes and dreams and fears whatever part of the globe they inhabit.

I am told over and over to understand colour more deeply. To contemplate it, see into it. There is a hidden meaning in colour that they are guiding me to. There are qualities in the colour that have to do with the basic essence of manifestation. Colour is an expression of Universal Truth.

Beloved messenger, never think that you have wavered on your journey of learning on this great planet. You stand steadfast in My Light as you have since the beginning and shall do until the end of time. Little one, beloved one, as vast as all My Universes, you are to tell humanity that each being is as vast as all the Universes of God. There is nothing to become, only to remember.

I am shown a vision. The Earth is shining, the buildings seem to be made of light and the proportions are flawless. People are gliding, moving effortlessly. There is astonishing beauty. Everything is very alive and radiating lights and colour. There is sweet music on the air. Strange musical instruments that make extraordinary sounds, paintings which electrify me to gaze on. New and unusual inventions, strange vehicles. There is nothing staid or stifling or boring like people might be afraid heaven is. The aliveness is overwhelming.

My daughter is chafing at the bit. She wants to be totally free. She is rangy and physically confident. A beautiful Amazon. It is a difficult time for her between child and woman and it is hard for me, too. I have tried to give her everything she needs and sometimes I irrationally resent it. She seems to have a perfect life, creative, surrounded by loving people, opportunity, but of course everything is relative and there are things which aren’t perfect in her life, her mother for one. It is obvious now no matter how I try to create a life for her in which she will flourish, she will also, to some extent, absorb what is in me as yet unexpressed. And the divorce as well, though her father is present and loving and both D. and he adore her. There is no cheating it.

The fairies of the forests of Sweden come today and invite Christina to return home. It must be time now.

The spirits of whales and dolphins come. They speak of the need to clean the water and too much extraneous sound. They explain that their ability to communicate with all the other water beings by sonar is compromised by the sonar released by human equipment. Argus is here now. Two Greys, ambassadors who have been sent to watch our progress and development, are also here. I call them Odilon and Redon. It is a goodbye gathering.

The Greys are technically advanced but need to learn about compassion and the ways of the heart. One will follow Christina to Sweden and one will stay here. Argus says, with the Greys, he will carry our message of healing, expression and creativity so that it will radiate by starlight and moonlight and sing out from all the spheres. He asks us to create an energy formation to represent this. We form the eternity symbol with our hands and enclose it within a sun surrounded by rose light. They show us in a vision how they will take this and scatter it like magical dust all around the Earth and in the sky. All the beings of the water, land and sky are coming to us today, giving us hope.

Fairies and elemental beings long to bridge the gap between themselves and humanity for this will be the salvation of the natural world. Humans long for this connection until they become hard and cynical and fall sway to the pessimistic world they have created where it is considered a sign of stupidity to acknowledge an invisible world. Yet we believe in electricity and the atom and so many love Midsummer’s Night Dream. The fairies say that the mercurial quality Christina criticises in herself will be essential to her teaching of the Swedish people who have become too rigid.

Kwan Yin comes and tells me to stop digging. I have all the tools I need. She would like me to go to China one day and speak about the true nature of God. I say the idea makes me feel some fear. She says I am the greatest of warriors and will proceed regardless of fear. There was humour in this. I said I would go to China for her, for I love her with all my heart. She says the time is not now. They would throw me out now. But the time will come. She would dearly like to see her people free.

If you dig a hole straight through the Earth, you’ll come out at China, my mother used to say.

Christina has the idea of going in spaceships to other planets to learn and teach. Or perhaps by telepathic communication as we don’t know if it’s possible to travel inter-dimensionally while in third dimensional form. Ashtar says even to have the idea of loving communication of this kind increases the light. We ask him about our ambassador Greys and he says they are two of the beings closest to unconditional love among the Greys. He says they observe others as well. We ask how to help the Pleiades and he says, help the Earth.

There’s quite a party going on today and the energy in room is racing. We are surrounded by light and beings and flowing with inspiration. Christina’s father comes and says he feels proud of her and her magnificent healing work.

We have been working with other people for awhile now and Christina has been using her special method to great effect and the methods I have developed for myself are also translating very well to others. I love, especially, working with children. They are more willing to fly, although I am working with adults as well. Whoever is drawn to me. The hardest part of this healing work is the resistance, which is the fear.

Christina’s father speaks: he is very sad, there are many unresolved things. I ask if he can be helped, if the point of trauma that created the patterns of his life could some-how be released while out of form. He thinks it is possible. Christina is going to try this.

My heart is melting and I am feeling a painful tenderness. In these moments I feel fearless and shining. I am able see, if only fleetingly. Illusion dissolves like mist to reveal another reality. The man begging on the corner with praying hands and glossy eyes looks to me at first like an Aztec warrior and then I see Quetzacotal. His eyes are smiling. Nothing is hidden. People blossom in the eyes of love and shrink with judgement.

It is high summer in the rose garden. The sun is bathing me translucent. The roses are the most glamorous beauties I have ever seen, each one a private world of shadow and light. There is a lavender rose as large as a cabbage, its velvet petals unfolding like the secrets of desire. My body cups the earth like a hand. The smell of it is pungent. There is a holy sound, the hum of union. I feel that a hand could pass through me. The colours are so intense they are burning me. I fall into fuchsia, alizarin crimson, coppers and scarlet alight from within. I am saturated with magenta, soaked in it, surrounded by it. I am incandescent magenta.

The rose lay like a holy child, thornless as a Venusian rose, on a bed of crimson velvet. The rose herself was palest pink and luminescent gold.

Like attracts like

I am walking with my friend Robert in the night shadow of the Great Pyramid. He is relatively new to Earth. He is enthusiastic and I am serene. He is fiery and full of noble integrities and very beautiful. I have been here since the beginning and have accumulated more baggage. It is easier for these young ones. He is new and shiny and sheds his skins like a snake. We walk on the sands permeated with the ancient prayers that take wing and embrace us. We had met in the Great Pyramid surrounded by the different people of the world. He had turned to me and said, I know you. He reminds me of the eye of Horus. We walk in the moonlit night, hawk and dove.

We meet a holy man who takes us and some others to a place in the desert. The holy man speaks of a time when the Star of David will appear in the sky, a configuration of planets, and the seventh golden age will begin. It is an ancient prophecy. The two triangles of the Star represent the coming together of Heaven and Earth. As above, so below. Today is that special day. The energies are aligned in a unique way. He is aware of this.

In the desert, in this small group, we speak the deepest truth of our hearts, our hopes and prayers for mankind, we declare to the Universe our willingness. The sky is filled with stars. Archangel Michael is with us. I have a rose and there is a man with a camel. We sit upon stones. All the kingdoms are represented.

The holy man takes us to a small, very ancient pyramid. He says it is only for holy men who have prayed there for thousands and thousands of years. We have to crawl inside. The man with the camel stays outside and prays for our hearts. Inside, we have candles, the ceilings are low and sloping. We are high on the energy, the rough stone singing with their prayers. We feel like giddy children.

We haven’t slept for some time. We had been in the pyramid at three in the morning with a large group and then back at noon when we met.

We part with plans to meet at six. Three lovely Egyptian girls are walking beside me with faces like blossoms. They are young, between eight and twelve. We walk quietly. Two take my hands when we cross the street. An older man with shining eyes in a wizened face comes up to us. He says he takes tourists to the Holy Land on his camel. He says his heart is full being near me and he begins to cry. This is because my heart is very full. It’s contagious. We hug each other.

This feeling of the heart is more beautiful than visions.

There is a palace. The trees are like carved jade, a sleekness in the branches, like the bones of the people, the curves of the calf with its onyx eyes, the arches of carvings, the fine silky dust. The Great Pyramid glows with a pulsing white light in the navy sky.

It is said that the crystals in the blood resemble tetrahedrons, like two pyramids placed base to base.

It’s midnight. There are others with us now. We have come from a banquet in a great hall that seemed surreal compared to the peace of the desert. The man with a camel has made a fire and the holy man is lost in a deep, repetitive prayer. I say for each to speak, if they choose, whatever is in their heart. A boy is silent, a woman confessional. And then a quiet girl sings a Hebrew song of praise with so much feeling and purity of heart we are all overwhelmed.

It’s early morning and my plane is leaving in a few hours. My friend will sleep in the desert, no room could contain him now. I place my hand on his heart and his face begins to change before me. The features move and form a beautiful hawk-like face that is familiar to me.

We had met at noon in the King’s Chamber of the Great Pyramid. A change was happening in the heavens, a shift, a configuration, an opening. There were people of all nations, tourists, guards. We all join hands slowly, fluidly, strangers from around the globe, all colours and shapes, conduits for the energy which will flow through us into the Earth and all its peoples. Robert is at the head of the circle and a very powerful woman is with him, orchestrating everything. There is someone in the base of the pyramid, the crucible of Anubis where the initiate faced mystical transformation or possible death in the time of the pharaohs. We are making sounds, beautiful tones, which reverberate off the ancient walls. We sound like Angels. The sound is accelerating, unfolding itself, louder and louder, waves upon waves.

I am being told to move to the centre of the room, to take the force of the energy which will be drawn down through the peak and represent the heart of humanity. I try to avoid moving to the centre and project an image of the heart of humanity into the centre instead. Suddenly, I feel invisible hands push me. I am told to lie down, my heart upturned but I resist. I take my place in the centre, seated on the floor, as the energy is flowing through.

When it is over, the group disassembles. The faces are alight. Whatever has happened, the most significant thing is that diverse people have gathered in love, if only for a moment. Robert turns to me. He looks at me piercingly. I know you, he says. The powerful woman seems angry with me. I wish to tell her it was a larger will than mine that brought me to the centre, but I don’t. Outside Robert stares directly into the blazing sun. His energy is equal to it and it will not harm him.

I accept my divine nature but have difficulty reconciling my humanity

My daughter is radiant. She sits beside me, writing a poem, a poignant distillation, almost like haiku, with wonderful surprises in the language. In the past months our ability to truthfully communicate feelings has grown and changed the dynamic of our relationship. I fly off the handle much less and arguments don’t escalate. She is very much on this journey with me as Anneli, Christina’s daughter, is with her. As we transform, they transform, almost simultaneously, as if by osmosis.

I am woken in the night by my body speaking. My womb is grieving a lost child. My feet are explaining that they are nomads and need to walk and feel the earth. They say all the metals in the food and water float down through the body and crystallise in the feet. The metals want to be returned to the earth and my feet want to be clear of them. My kidneys are bored and tired of reading. They want more movement as well. I send them gratitude for all they have done and make promises. There are fairies here and I can see their light like fireflies in the dark.

I am watching a video about the 4th and 5th dynasties in Egypt and how powerful they felt their drawings to be. I know this to be true. Magic is an act of the imagination, an act of imaging powered by will and emotion. Making images can be used for manifestation or for clearing. Intention is the navigator.

There was a renunciation of life that happened at around twelve. I want to take it back now. I want to risk total commitment to life. I want to believe in myself. I want to feel worthy of life.

I am here, beloved child. We are One. Does that not tell you that I am always here with you? I am ready to serve you as you serve Me. As We are One, how could you not be worthy? See yourself as I do, a glorious golden child with an entire Universe to play with. Creativity is playfulness. I am ever playful, dear one. All humans have forgotten the playful nature of the Creative Source, the playful nature of the Universe itself.

As you see your beauty through the expressions of the fruits of your soul, so I see My beauty in you. Just play, dear one, play a fabulous game. Don’t hesitate. Dance your life into being. Every thought of joy and love lights the darkened hearts of a thousand souls. It is very different than you think.

The angels say that those who are in joy and those who pray for mankind and those who live in gratitude appear as bright lights that can be seen around the Universe. Those who live in love shine a beacon of golden light visible across all the Universes.

Dear one, it is said you are created in My image. I am not a Being with two arms and two legs and a head. You reflect My image in that you have the potential to see and to know. You have the ability to create and express and celebrate creation. You have the ability to love. You have the ability to make miracles. In this way are you created in My image.

To make a miracle is an act of love. It is seeing truth where illusion appears to be. If you know there is no death and you see the truth of this and know that you are worthy to behold this truth, you can raise the dead. There is nothing you cannot do if you let go of your belief in limitation.

Tell the beings of this Earth that they are One with Me. All that I have is theirs if they would just awaken from their dream of limitation. Tell them of their beauty and their worthiness. Tell them to be playful. To see the beauty around them. Awaken to the magnitude and mystery and magnificence of the Universe of which they are so treasured a part. Tell them to trust their uniqueness and know that if they do what they truly love they will find the fulfilment they crave.

My daughter wants to go away to school. She wants the freedom to recreate herself. She feels the need to be responsible for the emotions of the adults in her life and she needs to break this habit. She is fed up with the academic rigidity and lack of inspiration in the school system. We have found a free school, very different from what she is used to, where she will be going soon. D. is not that keen but still supportive, as am I, with fewer reservations. Kwan Yin says it will be a year at most and it’s not very far away.

The scientist who studies energy and the mystic who studies human consciousness will be drawn to similar truths and realisations. Energy and light are one. All third dimensional form is atoms held in place by electromagnetic energy. Beyond this, there is something the scientist does not yet know. Energy is conscious and its keynote is love. What both the scientist and the mystic have perceived is that the responses of energy, and therefore the perception of reality, is subjective.

What is within you is without. There are universes within universes co-existing, interweaving, shifting and changing.

I am very sad my daughter is going but I hope she can finally find what she is looking for.

I am sad about D. as well. There is a wall between us. A box around his heart reads a Braille message I cannot reach to touch. He does not acknowledge me but he doesn’t really acknowledge himself either. He is driven but he says he loves his life. It is true, he is cheerful and he gets a lot out of what he does. Sometimes magic is created from a pinch of raw material and all the strife is worth those moments: a hush in a small room, a group of people in costume, a row of lights, words on a page, potions in a pot well stirred, and then, suddenly, there is another place to enter into, heightened pathos and humour and insight and generosity holding a mirror to the world. I am judging him. He is happy as he is. I am criticising him for an imbalance of needs that is best resolved within myself.

I have been lucky in love. But I have been unlucky as well, for there is always an incompleteness.

I am growing away from my dearest love on whom I can no longer lavish blind devotion so that I may find a reason for living within myself.

Are these tears different? Yes, they are in a way. Less agonised than some I have shed but more poignant, more lonely, for I see no end to the isolation. It is a kind of resignation. A resolution. And, as always, I am plagued or blessed by dreams of such an intense and realistic nature I wake up feeling that I had worked all night.

No one sees anyone. The edges are hard. The eyes are hard. My husband lies in bed with a fever burning with some secret disappointment or buried anger and he is truly unreachable to me and even this he does not know. And when I step away into the unknown once again it will be like leaving a part of me, something wrenched from me. Whereas with my daughter there is no part that is not shared and she and I will never be separate, no matter how much distance there is between us. I hope.

Why do I draw this sort of relationship to me? Because they mirror the part of me which is incomplete within myself. The absent father, the animus with no model in life who must now be created through sheer will and imagination.

Circe turned men into pigs. How do we turn them back?

When I was a child the night sky and the stars and the wind in the trees and the smell of the soil and the insistent cries of crickets entered me and unfurled my molecules like a magic carpet on which I flew to distant realms.

Now, I long to fly into the heart of another there is no access to and even the door to my own heart is locked.

How long do I wait for him? I could never leave him. He has been good to me and kind. His love saved me from the sharpest edge of despair. Long ago his heart was broken and there is so much armour on it now.

I feel I am addicted to emotional love. Drugged by it. Enchanted by it. I don’t understand how to break its spell, its hold on me. Will one day D. be a stranger to me?

My daughter is fearless. She is as sad as she is happy. She storms and sings and loves and longs to dance in the strong winds and rain.

She is thirteen now. Let her break the link. The river of chained people. Let her be free.

Blessed are those who love, for they are one with creation.

Here I am, motherless in this moment and fatherless. Nothing before me or behind me. The sound of gazelles is pretty, tapping on my heart the last indecipherable hieroglyph as I stand on the deck in the storm, unaware of its meaning or its song until I am provoked and explode, flooding and subsiding. Pulling back and in, back and in. Retreating.

I am going to let go of everything now. I will take this ultimate step, there is no other choice. I will hold onto nothing and nothing will remain that is not fully intended. Whatever happens will happen and I am prepared for anything.

Sananda has been explaining a few things to me. When Jesus said, “the way to the Father is through me”, he meant the only way to Union is through Love, for he was in the state of perfect Unconditional Love. He did not see himself as a separate personality, but as part of the Ocean of Love.

He is speaking of vanquishing the money lenders from the temple and how so many have come to think poverty is a virtue when in truth, it is only when the material is fixated upon, unbalancing us or used to bind another that it causes trouble. Money is an energy, a tool and no less sacred than anything else. It is always intention that is the key. And it wasn’t an appropriate place for business.

Sananda says humans have an authority problem, a problem of authorship. They deny God gratitude, the very thing that would magnify their existence. They want to believe their creations are entirely their own when, in fact, all creation flows from energy and light and therefore each creation is authored by the entire Universe of God through the unique sensibility of the individual. Each creation is a co-creation.

They follow a destructive idea of a separate God, denying that they are of the same Substance, castigating and diminishing themselves. Or, they refuse God altogether, feeling it diminishes them to be children of a greater Source, unable to understand they are one with that Source.

Dear Mom, you literally frightened the life out of me. I’m still try to find it. I must realise I no longer need rescuing.

My mother is on the warpath. I am maybe ten. She is saying my father is Hoss, the one from the telly show, Bonanza. I tell her I know this isn’t true, for one thing, I look like my father.

When she gets into this psycho drama thing, we always think that maybe she’s kidding. And then it just escalates.

My mother is a perfect example of what happens when you suppress yourself and deny yourself your creativity. She was an artist, a poet, a painter, she wrote wonderful short stories and sang beautifully. The more children she had, the less she was able to do any of these things. She had all these children because she thought somehow they would bring her fulfilment but she was just a big child herself and she couldn’t really handle taking care of them. A very big child with a hand like a Mack truck. But she has a good heart. Her wires just short circuited.

I really believe there are no bad people. There are just incomplete people, unloved people, needy people. Needy becomes greedy. As William Burroughs said, “the face of evil is the face of total need.” When you are completely shut off you are numb. You have no compassion. You are a volcano with a passive exterior. You swing between explosive rage and hidden anxiety, compulsion, obsession.

I can no longer be angry at my mother or any of the people in my early life who were unable to give me what I needed because they didn’t get what they needed. I see now what they did give me, which was far more than I saw before. When you live in a situation that’s just short of life threatening, however, it does etch your cells in a certain way that’s hard to shift.

When I look back, I see my mother could have been an angel. And sometimes she was. She wanted so much for it all to go right. She wanted the big house with the white picket fence like those movies with Irene Dunne or Donna Reed or Ma and Pa Kettle. She had such a gentle side and could make people feel really good if she wanted. She had kindness in her. And she had really high ideals, spiritual ideals of compassion, which she was unable to consistently maintain.

My father and stepmother have ideals, too, but it’s different. More to do with virtue: honesty, industry, dignity. They taught me a lot. It’s those basic values that I hope inform my life. They all honoured creativity, though none knew how to nourish it. Now, as I conquer the insect clouds of a bitter legacy, I gain a certain awareness I would not otherwise have.

We are each other’s teachers. Strange blossoms in my garden of rare flowers who planted the seeds which bloom in me. And the honey of my life is bittersweet.

Fire is anger and compassion. And that is what I am.

Dear Mother Mary, fill each cell with your comfort and love. Don’t let me be an incomplete person.

Merlin says that we are twin flames within ourselves. When the male and the female sides merge, this is the inner wedding. The two halves of the brain are in perfect balance, the pineal gland is activated, the organ of enlightenment.

I had a vision of Christina healing and people coming to her.

I ask Sananda about God. I am shown a vision of a blanket of endless energy which IS. Inspiration creating a consequence of being. I see the energy become whorls that become form, aspects of God consciousness in different forms.

Sananda shows Christina a vision of God and she sees whorls of energy and fire.

My daughter sees white light breaking into a prism of colour.

I ask about Tourettes Syndrome, which I have been reading about. Sananda says they have magnificent expansions that are suppressed and manifest as these uncontrollable symptoms. He says that which is often considered hereditary are souls being magnetised to each other by a similar frequency which may manifest in the DNA. They have the opportunity to mirror each other so realisation may take place.

All that exists is created by thought. That which appears hereditary is also a thought and may be changed through thought. The healer, Matthew Manning, who specialised in healing “terminal” cancer when the hospitals had given up was extensively tested in controlled experiments. He was able to eradicate cancer cells in a test tube with an 85% success rate. He did this through telepathic communication with the cells. He sent them love and helped them to return to the perfect frequency of light. All of the money spent on our chemical technology would be better spent researching the power of thought.

Imagination is technology of mind.

Matthew may be able to draw an unusual amount of the electrical energetic substance that holds the Universe together but this can be developed individually or mastered in groups. I have been in a group that called the sun out from behind clouds on a rainy day in continual succession, three times. The best thing about the movie, Phenomenon, was when John Travolta’s character said he was able to move the pencil without touching it by communicating telepathically with the energy of the pencil. It was an agreement. This is truth.

Longing to live the creative nature deepens

The spirit of an Aboriginal shaman, who has been visiting us, comes today drawn by this conversation. He explains that when his culture was intact it was amongst the most expressive on Earth. They understood creating their reality with their imagination and each had an avenue of personal creative expression with which to communicate their feelings and their story to the Universe. To reveal their truth. There was no mental illness and very little illness of any kind. Of course, their food was pure and their environment sane but that was also a reflection of their inner reality.

I long for their pure abandoned creativity, the depth of it, the understanding of the true nature of it outside of a commercially based society, and also their community.

Beloved daughter, your trust is growing, as is your level of insight. Do not compare yourself to others. Trust that your purpose is your choice and that which will bring you the greatest joy. You will have your wish to see, for this is what you will paint. Visions of the true reality. You will remind people of their God Self and its purpose of expression. As the understanding of expression grows, the need for healing in humanity will diminish proportionately. Your growing freedom will be conveyed in your art, which will have the ability to free, to heal.

They encourage me to be freer and freer in my work, no holds barred. I try to find the balance of abandon, form and truth. It is my meditation. My Kaballah. The glass which telescopes inward and outward simultaneously. In one way, I am thrilled by the idea that I have a whole lifetime to achieve this freedom in my work and grateful that (on good days) I love the work I have finally accepted and wake some days keening to be immersed in it. In another way, it is hard to accept the process as a means in itself and not stifle myself and hate what I create with the last thorny vestiges of self-loathing.

The more that you follow the impulse of the heart in the moment, the more you will honour and respect yourself. The more that you honour and respect yourself, the more you will love yourself. When you truly love yourself, you will be free and you will truly desire to let others be free. To let your life be unfettered by stale ritual and over planning.

To be free is to trust. To know that you are the Universe. That everything you need is within you.

Freedom is Trust is Love is Enlightenment.

I am becoming the Universe.

Dream: I have gone to the dentist for D. She is a beautiful woman and the office is on the edge of a romantic cliff. She lends me a video called Orka starring Orson Welles. Later, with D. in a car, we try to find the video that has gone missing. We come to a house, a mansion really. Gold garmented priestesses are performing some kind of ritual. There is an altar and there is a chalice. The woman is kind to me but she doesn’t know about the video. I feel I must leave this place. Incredible skies respond to me, see-through dark veils of sky, cloud formations of red and gold which form into birds. I am teaching.

I have a vision. A waking dream. Merlin is on Pegasus surrounded by all the Masters. Kwan Yin is at the front. They are pouring small stars across the continents of the world, awakening everyone from their long sleep.

Dear Kwan Yin, why am I over-reacting to my daughter so?

To a degree because she is reflecting to you a total freedom which you long for. In a sense you are suppressing her or controlling her to the degree which you feel suppressed or controlled inside. You are also mirroring your mother and her confusion as you became a young woman. All of this will sort itself out. It helps to keep the lines of communication open. Talk to her and express how you are feeling, truthfully.

It does not really matter if she cleans her room but it would be better for her to live in a less chaotic environment. It is a reflection of her inner chaos as she makes this huge step and also a desire to overthrow all suppression. If you could spend time with her while she cleans up that would be helpful. She is discarding all the old things from her life. You see the ease with which she does this and it is frustrating for you to the degree that you are still holding on.

I am full of sadness as I let go of D. Anything can happen now and we will see the truth of the relationship. The Masters say I give away too much. No one will respect you if you give everything away. It is right to hold back a little.

Dearest D., I will always love you.

I wanted to be like Mr. And Mrs. Darling, except the children don’t fly away. Instead, I wake up one morning and find I am married to Peter Pan.

I wanted to have one body and to be one being and this is not possible. I wanted a grand united passion. I didn’t understand. I felt rejected and unworthy. I suppressed all that was in me. I gave more and more until I became contemptible.

I have lost my wildness. I feel like a nun. Christina says I dress like a Scottish widow.

D. tolerates everything I’m going through. He comforts me even as I shed these tears of letting go. He is my very tender, dear brother sometimes.

When I first met D., he was rushing through a crowded airport. The energy around him was visibly pulsing. I saw, flashing alternately with his present self, an image of him in Dickensian dress, top hat and all. I was riveted by him. A few weeks later we talked through the night and a few days after that, I sat beside him in a night-club and as he spoke to my partner I cried and cried with tears of relief. D. clucked my chin every once and a while. That evening, the three of us sat in the cool expanse of his room, a summer night, the moon in the window, listening to songs from the twenties. Gertrude Lawrence singing Noel Coward. The music wafted over me like the promise of forgotten luxuries. I didn’t want to leave. They went downstairs and I fell asleep. Later, D. returned and put the record on again. He lay down scrunched up near the wall and I put my arm around him. He grabbed my hand and held it with all his might. I felt a flood of sunlight in my bones. A karmic wheel had been set into motion that would change all our lives but there was no turning back. It was as inevitable as the tide.

Now there is a strange combination of life and death. Something is growing in me and something is dying.

I am walking around like a martyr. This is just another controlling mechanism. They pop up in different disguises and it takes a moment to recognise. We try to control others to the degree we suppress ourselves.

The clouds are slate grey islands floating in a startling sea of yellow light. The roses are weeping a carpet of velvet petals.

How surrendering to the will of my heart brings me closer to a true life

Unconditional love is the Christ. When Jesus was on Earth, he held the office of the Christ, he was the incarnation of the Christ. He was Jesus the Christ. Each being has the potential to embody the Christ, the individualised God Self, the omniscient electronic body, the Guardian Angel who is not separate from us but withholds its power until we can maintain sufficient peace. Although wars have been fought in this name, it is beyond the boundaries of any religion. It is the divine spark, the light within made manifest, the God consciousness, the saviour within. It is a testimony to man’s folly that wars are fought in the name of love.

Sananda says, when I lived as Jesus, I truly was the Son of God and I am truly the Son of God, but so are each of you the Child of God. I chose to live the truth of who I am, to show the way. Each is their own Messiah if they find the Christ within and choose to live it. The way to the Father is through me and I am in each of you, regardless of your beliefs. I am the living embodiment of the Christ, which is within you, the fire in your heart. The Christ has many names in different cultures and religions. Many paths but one function. To reunite you with your own divinity. The majesty of who you truly are.

Christ • Krishn • Buddha • Shiva • Vishnu • Brahma • Mary • Tara • Kwan Yin • Mohammed • White Buffalo Calf Woman • Sai Baba • Mother Meera • Sri Aurobindo • Sweet Mother • Melchizedek • Isis • Dalai Lama • Paramahansa Yogananda • Metatron • Archangel Michael • Baba Ji • El Morya • Kuthumi • St. Germain • Victory • You • Me

All faces of the Divine. There is One God and we are aspects of It. When one medium comes into contact with another medium, there are three possibilities. Absorption. Refraction. Reflection. I would say this applies to humans as well.

Sanada asks us frequently to pray for the Middle East. The angels remind us they cannot intervene without the petitions of mankind. To do so would contravene the laws of free will and choice which bring us the experiences and lessons of this place.

There are so many misconceptions regarding unconditional love. People become angry. They say it is what you ideally receive from your parents as an infant but it is wrong to expect it elsewhere. Others expect they are meant to love the aggressive man begging on the corner as they love their wife or child. To me, it is “no judgement”. Allowing the other to be. Sananda goes further. He says unconditional love is when you know you are the beggar on the corner. He is part of you. All is one. There is no separation.

The first shall be last. None are free until all are free.

We ask Merlin again about image magic. He makes a circle of holes in the Earth with his rod through which light pours and upon which he rises straight up. He says the power of magic in form comes from the Earth and the will. He asks, Do we understand Eternity? He reminds us again, Remember, whatever you create is imprinted across Eternity.

Kwan Yin says that my curiosity reminds her of herself. She was and is very much like that. I think we are very much alike. I ask, why did you choose me? And she says, Why did you choose me?

Part of me just wants to go crazy and be completely free of everything, move to California where I’ve spent some happy years, have warmth in winter, the ocean, the shape-shifting land from the crown of Redwoods in the north to the desert in the south. The majesty of glaciers of stone and cliffs and mountains and fields in between. I have done this before, running off, moving constantly, travelling from place to place, burning bridges. I know the greatest challenge is to stay here and find the freedom in my heart and let that manifest outward.

My daughter and I both woke up late last night and sat in the front room watching the shadows created by passing cars. I tell her a story.

I am in the Redwood forest above Sausalito. The trees are huge, soaring. Living sky scrapers. There is a creek. Its banks are moist and grassy, punctuated by velvet brown cats-tails. The air is sharp scented and rich. The water rushes. Diamond clear and cool. The pebbles and stones form small mirrors of sky. Bright birds twitter in the still branches. A kingfisher swoops by just caught in the corner of my eye, a vibrant flash of turquoise brighter than Chinese lacquer. Everywhere is luck.

I move quickly into joy and step through dimensions into a former life that exists simultaneously with the present. I enter the fairy kingdom, a continual gently ecstatic state. I am free of a body yet there is form, a shape of light, shimmering with colour which changes with my every thought. Flashes of violet, swirling golds, electric blue, emerald. When I am at total peace, I am as a rainbow, the colours radiating out from the centre. I am not small although I can become so. I can spread out into the air and fill the forest or settle into a glimmer of shape the size of a tall human or become as small as a darting firefly.

I am as an angel, there is no difference. I am from the First Light, a shard of the First Differentiation. My kind have held consciousness since the beginning without beginning and shall do eternally. I have journeyed throughout the cosmos and learned of countless states of being and ways of doing. I have danced upon far planets and lived in great civilisations unknown and unseen to humans except those dreamers who pierce the shadow realms to find the surprise of light. Whole cities, cultures, planetary evolutions existing within the folds of dimensions the human cannot usually reach to touch. I am the stuff of stars, a child of galaxies which have existed before time began. I have the knowing of a million billion galaxies swirling with trillions and zillions of stars, all alive with the timeless secrets of Eternity.

The fairy folk have been forgotten, diminished. We are great beings of light. Golden Thoughts of the First Cause. We know the secret ways and the lost ways. We have never become entranced, hypnotised with forgetting. We are always alive with praise and gratitude for limitlessness. We do not measure. The smallest flower is as dear to us as the greatest planet. Each being is an equal expression priceless beyond measure.

As I move around the world I see the colours of all the thoughts. I explore with curiosity the human realms. I call to all those who are stretching their arms, all those who have a chance of awakening. I slip close to them. I take their hand. I whisper to them in their dreams. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. The time is now. When I return to my kind I am struck at first by the joy of colour for the colours of love and celebration are exquisite and unique. They surpass anything seen amongst the humans who have so limited themselves, except the human children, whom we adore. They come in full remembrance. They see. We play by their beds and make them laugh. We are delighted to see them and some have lived among us and remember this. Their colours
are magnificent.

Gradually, as they receive the programmes of doubt and cynicism and smallness, their colours diminish, save the rare very strong soul. We stay with them none the less, but our soft voices are drowned out soon enough.

We create the natural world with our imagination. We live in harmony and truth with the Great Wisdom and what we imagine, we create. We create with the Whole, with the One. The Wisdom that holds the exquisite pattern in its entirety. In this way there is always harmony.

With the will of fire, the wise mind and the heart of love, the imagination has the power to make real what was first a thought, just as I am thought made real by the Fire, Wisdom and Love of the One. Just as you are.

I am sister to the Archangel Michael. He is to me as brother and father. His thought breathed me into existence instantaneously in the timeless Now, propelling me into life simultaneous with his endless eternal beginning. His imagination is vast and knows no limits. With him I have birthed galaxies into being. The Legions of Light joins us in force, which includes every being, every atom, every electron in all the Universes. Including you who read this now. For you are made of the Light of the First Cause and it is this Light which is the substance of creation, the cloth of flesh, the sky of light, the soil, the life’s blood of all beingness, the river of form and not-form. So it is the imagination of my brother and I which births galaxies but it is all together who provide the cloth. The Power which is in everything.

There is a map for the structure of galaxies, which is in harmony with all of creation. We embody this map, this code of atomic structuring and with the help of thousands of conscious beings of light, we forcefully project the image outward, falling into it, becoming it, swirling star upon star into being. First there is sound, a vibration which spirals into shape and from that the swirls of gases dancing to the tune we sing. We are the singing. We sing the atoms into place. The gases take shape. The illusion of mass. For even the atoms themselves are primarily empty space, but that empty space is not empty but filled with love and the resonance of our song.

We are One with that which we create. There is no other thought present as we fan out singing the stars into being. We are sculpting fire with fire. The skies are lightening with the electricity of our play. There is great purpose in stars. Each configuration is complex and one unto itself within its own truth. This is the song of the soul that no other being can tear away. This is the individual note upon which beingness chose to soar into manifestation.

And now, the floating new-born stars, baby Super Novas full of gold, spiral out, the fire breath building a symphony. Crescendo. Diminuendo. The rhythmic breath, the attraction of forces creating magnetisms which inform. Patterns for the dance.

Star upon star is birthed into being and these great children begin singing. Great glowing babies raucous and wild with pleasure, with the bliss of being, gratitude for awareness. We flood with appreciation of the beauty we see. And we say, humans, wake, wake. You have been here with us. These are the journeys you have forgotten. Come and play the Universe into being. You have slept long enough in your grey dream of despair and longing. We have never forgotten you, never left you, it is you who have forgotten and now insist upon it, demand it.

And now I am here beside you and I caress your human cheek and I say, awake. Join the dance.

The sounds of city pierce the quiet and the shadows dissolve in the dawn. Mother and daughter lie drowsily in each other’s arms.

I am feeling beautiful golden and opalescent light pouring into us from Kwan Yin. Kwan Yin, who is my mother really?

She is also fairy and shaman and healer and artist. She has fallen very deeply asleep. She would do well to continue her magnificent stories for children with the beautiful illustrations she still made when you were small. This explosion of the heart (my mother has had a heart attack) was a great inner cleansing of suppressed emotion. She must listen very carefully to every whisper of the heart. In this way will she find the path to her fulfilment and awakening.

My mother feels Archangel Michael around her but she can’t hear what he is saying.

Dear Kwan Yin, I am so grateful that you are always with me. I feel your strength and kindness and passion and I do feel that we are alike. I want to call you by another name. I was your teacher when we inhabited the same plane and you did call me by another name. The only name I get is Miko. That is the name I called you in another life, you were living in Japan and I was teaching you from the Ascended Realms, as I am now.

Kwannie, how I love ya, how I love ya, my dear old Kwannie.

I want to say to all the Universe how grateful I am for this greater and greater understanding and this growing ability to communicate. Gratitude is growing in me like a blessing.

I long to experience God the way Sananda describes. The deep, deep understanding, the experience of Oneness. Today the world is a treasure chest. I want to live.
I ask Kwan Yin how her energy is different than Sananda’s. It is as if he is closer to the core. Kwan Yin and Merlin seem to know everything in the Universe and they have special areas as well. They are slightly closer to the outer edges of the onion and Sananda is at the centre. Kwan Yin says,

Our wisdom encompasses Creation, for we are not separate from the One, yet we are each different rivers of life in the same sea. We have chosen different paths of development. We choose to manifest different aspects of the One.

Sananda is defined to a degree by his great realisation of God, Whom he calls the Beloved Father, which he came to by his own desire. I, too, can desire and realise this. His awareness defines him and brings him closer to the core, his origin and true reality.

Sometimes I feel a beautiful child or a sorrowful child and I see God as Father or Mother. Other times I glimpse beyond the associations of Earth and see a tidal wave of Light, something magnificent and terrifying in Its magnitude, an Electric Love which could devour me, restoring me by erasing every trace of who I think I am.

Kwan Yin is a patron of beauty, dignity, artistic expression of all kinds. The Feminine Divine. Though Kwan Yin watches over all children, all men and women may call on her. Anneli, Christina’s lovely teenage daughter, has become very close to Kwan Yin, who guides her and has given her special healing methods to clear herself.

Merlin, of course, is creativity, which is what magic is.

Life never ceases to explore Its potential. This is Eternity.

Let the plan birth from your imagination, let it fly to the centre of creation and then follow the impulse of your heart in the certainty of its fulfilment. The head is the servant of the heart. The impulse of the heart is the love letter from the centre of creation, the “answer back” which one may receive at any time. Be bold. Be gold.

You will explode with expression to the degree to which you were suppressed, Merlin said. Will I only let go then? Let go, Let go. That’s all there is to do, the Masters say. Let go. That is everything. Every thought creates the cells anew.

Merlin, help me paint the paintings that will restore magic.

The dam releases

When I was younger, before men and babies, (three men and a baby to be precise), I was a free spirit. I was happy with money and happy without. I set off on a whim and travelled with friends and strangers and found myself swimming in the canals of Amsterdam, dancing in the narrow cobblestone streets of Heidelberg, thrilling to the ringing echo of clanging church bells, calling plaintively at twilight for the handsome frail boy, Tomas who loved the Who, in the chess halls of Austria playing old men with timer bells (who asked you which square you wanted to be checkmated on), climbing barefoot down the cliffs of Big Sur, the sharp stones tearing my velvet trousers, making love in the Cyprus grove above the roaring sea near where a Frenchman lived in a house on stilts, his tormented lover playing a grand piano hidden among the trees, moving rhythmically as Leviathan with her black hair flowing in the wind, the crashing melodies mingling with our laughter, our laughter drowning in the waves, sleeping in trees surrounded by bells, in cabins, on mountains, on sofas, waltzing in the deathless streets of Mexico among the dancing skeletons and in the arms of Raphael who praised the god of coffee and dreamed I was devil or angel and became afraid, and found myself in the sleekness of Sante Fe, the undulating soft land of the Berkshire mountains, the sugar ice spirals of Paris, the bijou seashell houses slipping towards the sea on the slopes of San Francisco, the raucous colours of Guatemala, the electric sidewalks of New York, and in the warm arms of love, in love, in love. No expectation. Spontaneity.

I have lived, until now, no longer than two years in one place in my entire life and now I have lived in one place for more than a decade. I have experienced the ever mended quilt of marriage, its strange blanket of security, its tenderness, its rhythms and seasons of dormancy and rebirth. The death of the will. And now to revive the will, a super human effort.

I will go to California. It’s the only hope.

Take what comes without worry. Am I not with you always, Beloved Child of Light? We will take small steps together which will lead to the river of giant strides. Each moment releases its promise. Don’t judge yourself. Know that everything is as it should be. Call the image and the spirit of the river to you over and over. See the river shining gold in the sunlight, washing over you and through you.

When you are talking, see the river.
When you are writing, see the river.
When you are thinking, see the river.
As you wake and as you sleep, see the river.

All is perfect in this moment, ever-flowing, transforming, changing. It is only fear that builds the dam that stems the flow. And what is there to fear?

There is no judgement in the Universe, only the principal of attraction through which awareness is gained. All the love you have ever given flows back to you on the sea of eternal love that is your birthright. And even the defensive acts of fear would dissolve in the mist if you would just choose, fearlessly, to follow your heart.

Put your wish on the river, your fear, your anger, your grief. Let the river flow, happiness, joy, longing. River flow on and on. Unstoppable, ever changing, ever mysterious, miraculous. All things will come to you in this way. All experience you may need or desire.
Don’t worry or feel guilty. These are the dams that stop the river. Let it flow outward. Express the worry the instant it comes. Express the guilt. The grief. The happiness.

Do it in writing and in painting but also singing, dancing, drumming, as you have done in other lives. The drum accesses the heartbeat of the world, the pulse, the throb. This is a means of expression that would be very familiar to you.

Branch out now, there is nothing to wait for. There is never any more or less life in any given moment. Each moment is endless in its potential expressiveness.

In this moment I long for Sananda to appear before me. I long to touch his cheek. To wash him with my tears. I long to kiss his hands over and over and over again. I long to touch his eyes and his brow and his temple. Temple of my being. I reach out and there is air. Sananda, beloved Sananda. Together we are and you kiss me and I kiss you. You receive all of me and let my tears flow and I wash you with my tears and dry you gently with the silk of my hair. You receive me and receive me until there is nothing left of me and I am entirely new again and again. I am adoring you like a waterfall. I am knowing you and receiving you. I am seeing you, each cell a camera imprinting. I am receiving you so deeply in a place I barely know exists which comes upon me suddenly and stuns me that there should be such a depth in me of which I am usually unaware, as if I am in a small place with a tiny locked door behind which is a massive cavern of cold fires and warm fires, where the heat is your breath and the breeze is your breath and I fall forever while walking on solid ground breathing you and the deep cries within me the voices of eagles.

I am watching a Canadian woman perform Wallace Shawn’s Fever in my friend Judith’s front room. She is becoming Wallace Shawn before my eyes, I am hearing his voice and seeing his mobile face. And then she is herself again. There is a generosity pouring from her that surrounds her with a pale green light. She is accentuating a point by extending her pale, thin arm. The flesh is tender and hidden from sun. There is a place below the inside crook of her arm, a small hill of softness I wish to kiss as if she were my own child. I wish to return her generosity or I am drawn to kiss the pale soft hill, to kiss her generosity. I am overwhelmed with appreciation of her generosity and realise that generosity can be a very brave thing. Her fingertips wave like small birds, dancing in the air. I kiss each one, and the blue green blood pulsing in her veins so reminiscent of the sea in colour and molecular composition. She is a sea bird and inside she is soaring.

I feel today that I am the mother of love.

I am at Expo ‘67 with my father and sister. I am more than a little crazy. I have locked the hotel room in the morning and lit all the complimentary matchbooks in an ashtray to terrify my sister who is duly terrified. I have a cruel streak. There is so much energy in me I am almost combustible. I am flying with it. I am a walking tidal wave. I am chattering away to my father on the tube on the way to the exhibition. I am so excited to see him. I am sharing everything that is in me and simultaneously arguing with my sister. I’m sure from his point of view it is chaos. From my point of view it is a meeting of minds. I am showing him my true self. I want to be seen. Suddenly he says he will give me five dollars if I am quiet for five minutes. Even my sister is too stunned to triumph. It is such a tiny meaningless thing but suddenly the eagle is a small crushed sparrow. It is very effective this quieting, it has lasted for decades.

I am exhausting, obnoxious. I have far too much to say. I am timid, withdrawn, as quiet as the grave. Yet, I am beautiful, so beautiful. I am always surprised when I see my face, the unexpected ordinariness is always a small shock. It cannot be me, it is a changeling cast in stone, cut from ice, puffy, unloved, slow moving caught in time. Other days, I am lovely with eyes as deep as night. What does it take to silence another human being? A bullet? A nail? A series of blows? A clandestine betrayal? An absence? A five dollar bill?

These are the things we must let go of. The tiny crucifixions which form a tapestry of griefs. They are meaningless. They must be evaporated with compassion. Once you have burned in the quiet fire of true freedom there is no choice. But the smallest things inform a life.

Catherine was a filmmaker who died. She was too fragile to make it. She called this feeling I am having retromort. She was always funny and witty, even while drowning. Retroactive mortification. It is the shame behind the crack that comes suddenly when you have shown too much. The numbness you hope will assuage it.

Today, I remember feeling, then I feel. Today, I am more of memory then of now. I drink my coffee and coffee-coloured quarter horses come to mind, on mountains where silver birches speak in tongues into the wind. I pick up my knife and fork and see the madman with his knife against my throat, the way he moved the watercolour off the bed and gently tugged the lace. I remember running down a flowered hill in Stockbridge, in a floral dress, the wind is touching like a demon lover. There is the great oak where witches swung, this I knew before the telling…healers, poets, midwives, sisters. All the lost ones gathered there (I have been back, their shadows roam there still and mine among them.)

There is the boy who remembered any utterance, its hour and date, collecting lost pennies from Lenox to Pittsfield to buy a propeller and the beautiful Irish lass whose brother was her lover who had been killed in Viet Nam, who gave herself to everyone to quell her grief then sold herself. The whore of Babylon, Long Island, woozy with potions of forgetting. I had brushed her hair for hours, (for what are hours to the lotus-eater or the seeker of the lotus in the crown?), I had brushed her hair for hours and listened to her song. And there is Bill who spoke ten languages but could not speak his mind, his eyes feverish as a drawing by Shiele, his gun beneath his pillow, swooning on October Mountain, burning his arms with cigarettes to distract a larger agony. And the albino, who loved Diane and boxed her ears in Central Park, made life-sized plaster humans for company and killed himself.

These skinless ones, their terrible tenderness too searing to survive or wear the masks that melt against their heat like wax. Their yearning drives them, daring to bare what will be pierced and pierced again, but the world will not countenance a reminder. These who cannot muster the ambition or volition for that which time will make a joke of.

The geography of life and death is separated by a narrowing path. The world is not a solid place. I will shed my skin still further. Will you laugh and walk away? And further still.

Until I am red and throbbing and all grace.

Every where I go today looks beautiful. I want to hug the shop clerk, just lay my head on his back and embrace him as he looks for books for me. There are little boys in the bookshop. Small boys with sloping foreheads like parakeets, the colour of warm sun-baked earth. A beautiful translucent field as clear as God. I long to kiss the sleek burnt umber heart in the brow.

Christina and I ask Mary about duality. Is the duality of manifest form, which holds the third dimension in place, good and evil? She explains that it is not. It is the unmanifest and the manifest. Invisible and visible. As our frequency accelerates the third dimensional duality dissolves and we will see the beings of the fifth. This is how heaven comes ‘in a twinkling of an eye’. The end of duality.

Dear Kwan Yin, I am feeling that strange cracked feeling going from the centre of my being all the way to my heart. It is not quite loneliness but something like loneliness and what planet am I on? I am feeling strong yet so neutral. Gone are the exquisite highs and devastating lows. But I would not call this neutrality joy or even light heartedness.

I wish Kwan Yin could rock me, stroke my hair. Kwan Yin, I want to see you. I am obsessed with seeing. I over depend on my sight. But as an artist how could I not? My business is shape and line and mass and colour. I am transported by sound and scent, the softness of touch. I love the tastes of fresh fruits and rare foods, the sweetness of lips. But sight is my passport to the apprehension of the world. When the Masters see each other they pour out such love, like exquisite music, qualifying the expression of their life force with such beauty that its inevitable outpicturing in the Universe is magnificent. All Life is electrical substance continually being qualified as it pours from us and moves into manifestation. We are creating continually, with awareness, or not.

Bernadette advises Christina to stand tall. She has been persecuted for being a healer and has been made overly humble. Christina gave me a healing with Sananda. Something dark was removed from my heart, a grief. Christina perceived it being transmuted by Sananda. A darkness was removed from her as well. As Bernadette, she took on the illness of those around her, she did not know how to transmute it. And also, she was punished. She has an awful memory of being dragged into a dark room. They thought she lied about her visions.

Kwan Yin, when I am healing and a woman tells me she has experienced shame, I know almost without fail that she has experienced incest. Why are the two aligned?

Shame is connected to a sense of violation. It is connected with not being able to maintain one’s integrity and dignity. It is a feeling of having dishonoured one’s self and does not matter if it was voluntary or otherwise.

Why does one draw the experience of incest? What is the principal of attraction?

It is a power struggle. You could say one is mirroring the weakness of the other. Both have denied or have been denied their strength. In your case, it was denial of your power that you were unable to express in the circumstances you were in. What was in him was a suppression of his power. He then attempted to become powerful not by releasing the suppression of personal energy but by dominating. From it you have learned great compassion and the importance of personal inner power. When one truly has inner power there is no desire to dominate or control others, nor will one draw this experience.

Lack of personal power is intrinsic to the nature of children in this culture in varying extremes. There is no avenue for the expression upon which the foundation for this power is built. It is frowned upon and suppressed by physical violence or the tyranny of the status quo. Eventually there is only forgetting.

My daughter could not draw this experience to herself because she has no magnet for this experience. There is very little suppression of personal power.

Children are disempowered because they are not allowed to be themselves. They are forced to be someone else’s idea of who they should be. Or, in the houses of psychosis, they are disempowered through fear.

I did not cry out because I felt I could not. I was literally paralysed and in that moment dignity and self-worth were stripped from me. This causes shame because I did not protect myself. This did not seem an option for as strong as I was, I had no power in that household and neither did he. True expression was not allowed, not countenanced or even thought of. Only the dramatic monstrosity of uncontrollable catharsis.

In this act he reasserts his power but in a distorted and false way and damaging way.

A sacred boundary has been transgressed by one whose guardianship was depended on. It is not enough to fully express and release this experience. The individual must, through repeated endeavour, become at last fully empowered, fully capable of expression and the creation of her own life, and in this way is it finally released.

The abused is abuser and abuser is abused and the cycle goes on until there is education and tools and compassion and understanding.

Shame is very powerful. If you are ashamed to exist how can you create a life for yourself?

I am a Bosnian baby who has never seen a toy or received a hug. I am a Chinese girl dying in a darkened room. I am the part of the world that would most benefit from love. I am the part of you that would least benefit from criticism. Teach the world to love all parts of itself. What you would like to hide within you are beings, phantoms, energy forms, facets of self which would be transformed through love but with fear and hate, grow huge and devouring. Frankensteins.

Speaking briefly to my father of my experiences with the Masters took some doing. He thinks all communication with the invisible realms is accessing a part of the wise brain. I could not deny this possibility. The mind is mysterious and connected to everything, yet this is not the way I perceive it unless I say I am indeed communicating with my own mind, the Universal Mind in which all things, ideas and beings are contained. I have a continual compulsion to share with him what I have learned in life.

My father is pragmatic, as is that side of my family. Doctors, philanthropists, (founding hospitals and the like) and lawyers (father founded law firm) on one side, (though it was my father who felt my dying cousin should be taken to Lourdes, oh my father! A sleeping saint, really, with a heart of gold), and artists, writers, philosophers, visionaries and eccentrics on the other. (John Smith wrote the precursor to the Declaration of Independence, Great Aunt Anna saw visions, another great aunt founded the first art school for women in the States, another was an opera singer, grandma was a painter, as was my uncle and mother.) Mad hatters on both.

Lately, I have been feeling extraordinary. A pool of calm in all situations no matter how bizarre or chaotic. There are often no thoughts in my head until I call for them. No compulsive thought.

You are at a turning point. You are turning into light. You are becoming lighter and lighter.

I feel all the spells have been broken but there is still the application to come.

Your faith in love and your perseverance will be rewarded with miracles. You are attracting the frequency of miracles.

Kwan Yin, did you send me that woman today? Yes.

People have been coming out of the blue wanting healing, especially Magnified Healing, a special kind of healing brought from the Ascended Realms by Kwan Yin which is simple and powerful and can be taught easily and passed on.

Going to Harrods, I was struck how odd these temples of shopping are. If everyone were taught to make their own clothes in primary school, they would evolve their own styles. A piano was playing in the black marble staircase. My Sweet Embraceable You. I imagined D. in a tux and me in a beautiful gown and I danced and danced in the empty stairwell, feeling overwhelmed with sadness that I might be leaving. Going forward without him seems inconceivable yet how can I go forward otherwise? I am not a good one for relationships. There is trouble here. I stifle myself.

My daughter cleaned her room and then cleared it etherically, working like a shaman. There was a rainstorm and it felt like her clearing caused it. Merlin says that the weather patterns of Earth are connected to human thought.

I am going to California soon and feel shattered by sorrow. I am leaving warmth and kindness and comfort. It is scary and strange. I am leaving the soft familiar nest. If I come back it will be different and I may not come back. It is a choice that is not a choice because I have no choice but to follow the soul’s path. I must trust that there is joy for me that is not fleeting.

The sadness has flowed through me and I return to this calm state. There is no mind chatter at all! The neutrality has fanned out into something quite different. Something deeper. Being strangely devoid of extraneous thought makes it easier to follow the message of the moment.

Kwan Yin says I have purified my emotions and I must now purify my body by eating very well, lightly and lots of water. This will help with letting go.

Don’t worry about anything past. Keep the eternal perspective at all times. What does it matter in relation to Eternity? This should be your guidepost. New things await you, my darling. You will float in light and all things shall be known to you. You will know God and you will know bliss. This is your birthright.

This is the birthright of all, should they claim it.

It seems to me desiring it is easy, claiming it is harder, more elusive. Living it consistently is, in this world, like a fish forever swimming upstream. To hold this vision and believe it to be true takes all my strength sometimes. The moments when I am in it and the remembrance of these moments keep me going but with time, even these pale to dreams.

Merlin will guide me to certain places in California I need to go.

Christina gave me healing and Sananda said I had a broken heart, which is true, but also my strength will burst through my fragility when I start doing what I want to do.

Blessed are they who seek God, for they shall find their true selves.

I feel unworthy of real love. I feel not like a real woman, but a deranged schoolgirl. I’m not one of those women who make everything special and is a good hostess and easily makes a lovely Christmas. I am strange.

D. has been the sun to me but I can’t continue being the moon if I am to become my own sun. My soul is hurting and my heart feels dead. I don’t know what he is thinking. Communication is difficult.

It’s September. The leaves are falling. The rose bushes hold a surprising number of roses still. The grass is bare as a worn carpet from the harsh summer. I am sad about my daughter and worried about her being sad going off to boarding school, even though she thinks it is what she really wants.

Dearest one, we know this is a hard time for you. You are seemingly letting go of everything at once. Create a life for yourself where you can ride and swim and walk and dance and write and paint. How can you find happiness when you suppress the very things that make you happy?

Already wounds are closing inside of you. We will go to the Redwood forest. Surprises are awaiting you. There is no need to worry. Any jadedness will vanish as you give yourself what you need and desire.

In the rose garden today, some boys are thwacking the heads of the roses. They look at me in a very challenging way. Slowly, I proceed to cradle the roses and smell them and kiss them. This distracts them slightly and then they begin to mock me, although they have quieted down and have stopped mauling the roses. I continue and as I do so, I look at the boys, smiling at them. After a while, they sit down and watch me. As I leave, I say good-bye to them. One small voice responds and says quietly, “Bye.”

The abused does not always become abuser. When I had my daughter, I longed only to protect her from all harm. I never had the impulse to hurt her in any way and there was no restraint necessary. What I did have was a huge volcanic upheaval as I saw this glorious creature, so awe-struck by life, so full of music and joy, so cacophonous and silly and wild with appreciation, so deeply in love with me (and I so with her that I looked at her picture while she slept and took her with me everywhere) that I could not escape the bitter thoughts…how can any one harm a being such as this?

What she has gained in a reversal of fortune is a terrific sense of autonomy. She has never had her boundaries violated and they are perfectly intact. There is no protecting your children from the travails of life, I have learned. Each has their struggles. Children grow by what is in us as much as what we say and do and in that she has had a lot to carry. In many ways, we are partners on this path to a true way of living, an uncompromising communication, the hardest thing. A true dignity and elegance hidden in the shards and rambles of false prides and wax masks.

Dear God, I am in such a funny way now. Human life remains inexplicable to me despite my efforts. But, at least, I am no longer ashamed to be human.

Human beings are all addicted to emotion. This is something to think about. It is literally a drug addiction as emotions produce chemicals. Humans must learn to perceive beauty where at first they were unable. This will shift their perceptions. There are countless opportunities. The fall of light and shadow, the unexpected swirl of birds in flight, the shifting colours of the sky, the light in the eyes of another, the acts of kindness, the colours of the vegetables on the plate, the fruits in the blue glass bowl.

There is beauty in nature that has not lost its connection with its Source and is a continual expression of love. The atoms of the plants, being so perfectly aligned to their source, vibrate at a much higher rate then is currently possible for mankind. When you are in this surrounding you are significantly uplifted if you allow yourself stillness and relaxation.

The cities could be built with much more land and foliage surrounding the buildings and the buildings could be built with more graceful proportions. It is like severing a limb to stay too long away from the soil which clothes your spirit on this journey.

Do not go looking for joy. Continue to express yourself. Continue to see the beauty in all things and in this way, you will see your own beauty. Joy will find you. Those who dare to awaken and receive My gifts will live in a parallel Universe of beauty and endless creativity. All are chosen, all are called, few are compelled to answer the call. This is the key, the one lesson of the free will journey of manifest existence. The call must be answered.

Kwan Yin is here. Dearest, the time is coming when you will enter an entirely new life. Do not criticise yourself for anything. This is holding you back. See your error in judgement, resolve it and move on. Otherwise, you are feasting on an unhealthy repast. Your anxiety is serving you by bringing up the last of your old patterns. Express them now.

I do this now by many little drawing and swathes of writing. Some horrible images, some inadvertently comic. Finally, I feel something leaving me, perceptually they appear as snakes. Archangel Michael receives them and carries them away, instantly transmuting them into light. I feel very full of light. There is a circle of fire around me.

Kwan Yin says I will reach an end to it.

You are very near. You are bringing up old patterning from the whole of your existence. Nothing is ending. There will come a time soon when you will understand your suffering. You will know the answers to many things. To serve the Beloved is to serve yourself. You will feel fulfilled. You have accepted your crown. You have answered the call with your heart and mind and soul. You will step into the glory that is you. In one instant, you will become the Sun. Everything else will burn away. Remember who you are. Remember Eternity. Trust. Trust. Trust.

If I have accepted my crown, it slips today, obscuring my sight. I long to live in a world where each has accepted their crown, this symbol for their divinity and limitless inspiration made manifest. This halfway station I find myself in is lonely indeed.

My daughter is going away to school tomorrow. I feel it will be only temporary and I look forward to being united with her again. She is an actress and very often on stage other actors are always shouting in her ears. We did some work to discover why she would magnetise this to her self. She feels she is not being heard and draws this extreme. She is wounded deeply by the disrespect shown to children in this world, at school and elsewhere. She is wiser than many that teach her. It pains her as well when the other children are treated condescendingly.

This is why she always tries to act grown up, which creates a stress in her. It is hard to have compassion for people who are very condescending but it is the only alternative to bitterness. This does not exclude standing up for her rights, which she does do continually. The culture denigrates the innocent and child-like. The awe and deep expressive passions which are the fountainhead of creativity are confused with the childish and viewed with suspicion.

Today, in the rose garden, the boys are back. I am sitting in the low crook of a flowering tree. Two come up and ask me questions. Where do I live? What do I do? I come out from under the drooping bower and sit on the bench and show them the photographs of my paintings that have just been developed. One boy makes very insightful comments. The leader of the pack arrives and they both jump up and walk away without saying good-bye. Later, when the others have all left, the one who spoke rides around and around on his bicycle raring up on the back wheels and other tricks, looking out of the corner of his eye to see if I am watching.

I have spoken the whole truth of every aspect of my feelings to D., without blame. After I did so, I felt I had really let go and Kwan Yin confirmed I am much clearer. Also I felt happy and full of life. Something had lifted. He responded and for the moment there seems to be a chance, but I am no longer wedded to it and I have told him so. I am feeling very free and in the moment and aware of the potentialities of being alive.

I had a very good healing with Christina. Very intense. We made contact with a three year old self inside her called Abel who is the guardian of her unexpressed ‘darkness’ and who made a pact when she was that age to die and not to breathe. We broke the pact. It took some getting to, a circuitous journey conversing with planets, cells, the heart’s cells, a strange house, doors, all like speaking portents in a fairy tale leading us on the treasure hunt with clues. Then her mother, her stepfather, a pool, sharks, a dolphin who showed us deeply hidden places, a dead girl cut and bleeding and being devoured by maggots, speaking to the dead flesh, asking for renewal and then, finally, to Abel.

Abel was furious and riddled with grief. A horrific thing happened to her. All during the healing I was very calm, no expectations, working with Sananda. Because of my meandering calm, Christina had thought at first we would get nowhere, but we did. We hit the jackpot, in a way. Abel is the guardian of her darkness but also her creativity. Part of her self had stopped, age three. (Two men, her mother slept.) She kills them now (pillows). Decimates them. She is magnificent in her anger, moving swiftly, lethally, swearing in Swedish.

Mary comes and says we are learning to mother ourselves. Later, I go to the rose garden. The lawn is chilly and damp. I lay on the wet grass until darkness. I feel the Earth mothering me, the soil reaching up and embracing me, feeding me, taking from me all that is not God and transmuting it into light. I feel that I am drinking from her. Renewing myself. The healings are no less draining when I am guiding. I am very tired. Kwan Yin is here.

Beautiful Lady, am I your emissary on Earth? Yes. We share qualities, we are merging in Oneness. You are the emissary of your own true self. An aspect of the Universe.

Kwan Yin, I am tense. The fear of being judged still looms pretty high within me. I am afraid of being judged. I fear I will be burned alive, chopped up, ostracised. I do not want to be judged. I see Puritans at my window in their tall black hats come to hang me for a witch. Poet, priestess, lover of the Beloved. Killed again, again, again. I am very angry with these horrible judging people.

You are not judged unless you judge yourself. It is the self judgement that draws judgement to you.

Judge not, that you be not judged.

The time will come soon when you will look with compassion upon those who are riddled with prejudice. You will see so clearly it is themselves they are judging and they do so with fear. Free yourself by giving up self judgement. If you could truly love yourself completely without judgement and accept yourself entirely as you are, in that moment each perceived ‘flaw’ would be instantly aligned with truth and corrected.

This must be a divine paradox. We cannot correct the flaw in any other way but acceptance and compassion and in so doing, we automatically correct it.

I went to see J., the osteopath, for the first time in a long time. I really needed to and went to him not so full of light as when we first met but rather depleted from the arduous clearing work and all the tears of letting go. The healing went deep and I felt revived. He says he tries to align the person along the interface between man and nature. To me, that sounds the same as aligning with the Universal energy which connects the two.

Here I am in Burford with D. We are having a really nice time. Something has changed, an inner freedom based on me living the entire truth on the deepest level regarding my feelings. I am able to be with him and enjoy him with no projection. Yesterday, I felt strange and panicky. It was the first day without my daughter. She is feeling unhappy. The other children seem very unhappy to her.

There is too much freedom. She so wanted freedom but this freedom seems more like neglect and apathy. Absence of structure is not necessarily freeing. They are so against organising anything that some of the children are lost. This is a very important thing to learn but if it doesn’t improve, we will take her out of there. This is a famous school that was way ahead of its time and seems so promising in its ideals. I think it has lost its way, or it just may not be right for her.

Felt a bit sleepy in Litchfield with D. and then suddenly the familiar feeling of being suffused and subdued. A strange sensuality comes over me that touches every cell in my body like a sacred flame. I want to merge with the grass. The smell and touch and sight of the cool green grass, the soft pastel blur of flowering brush, the swirl of petals, impossible richness of colour pulsing the air, light slipping across the undulating water, swaying trees with their whispering leaves, the dance of shadows, the breeze touching me, the silk of my dress caressing my legs, my hair kissing my cheeks, the dusky sky turning lavender.

I am feeling a heavy weight of sorrow now. It is as if all the lead of my life has risen to the surface and bears down on me like a suffocating cloak. I am going to California soon. I am a reluctant pilgrim. I am sad that Christina is going back to Sweden now and that my daughter is away at school. I have painted a picture of myself raining tears. I am confused by the Masters promises of lightness and the freedom they see in me. I am held to ransom by my emotions.

Christina and I are together now for the last time for a while. Sananda says we are still being “dutiful daughters” and we must free ourselves to follow the deeper truth in our hearts. There are still more levels to go. We still don’t understand about the ‘shoulds’ and the ‘have tos’. This is the voice of the ego mistaken for a kind of spiritual status quo that doesn’t have to do with real truth. Sananda says that to truly fulfil our true purpose is the greatest thing we could do for mankind. This would automatically enter the entire quotient of the consciousness of humanity and uplift it. Part of us is still tied to the nunnery, married to God but unable to fully partake of His riches.

Suddenly, Christina sees a spaceship in her mind’s eye and there are voices everywhere. They are space beings. I call for Lazurus to speak, a doctor and Master of unconditional love who often speaks on behalf of the extraterrestials. The message comes that we are communicators. Our ability to communicate with all of Creation will increase to an incredible degree. The breakthrough, whether we prepared for it or not, would occur within ten years, but of course we are preparing daily.

I ask if we would see as well as hear and he said we would see more and more clearly with our third eye unless the beings stepped down their energy sufficiently to hold form. Christina and I joked about having a ball for the Greys. I asked if they liked music and dance and evidently, they don’t quite respond to it. They do like harmony and warmth.

Now, I’m on the plane and quite tired and funny looking from four hours sleep and crying.

I so wish D. was with me and that we could experience the new together but I also know this is a journey I must take on my own and it must be open ended. It is the real test of freedom.

Shortly after we met, I went to St.Ives to sort out the confusion of my life. I climbed up the hill in a storm, the air dark and thick, the green sea raging, to the tiny St. Nicholas chapel and vowed I would love him through lifetimes. When he came to see me there the sun burst in. I could see again. We could barely speak for the thrill of each other.

D. and I had a very big row before I left. It was heart-breaking.

At least Christina and I parted on an excited note, happy with the new message. I would dearly love to communicate with all the Universe. It is the separation and lack of communication that grieves me. So, I desire to write stories and novels and plays and screenplays and paint and know that is just the beginning of the shapes and forms through which I will receive and express. It makes me want to live, to see this world we are creating. I want to draw to myself others who want to work in this way. Those for whom the methods of manifestation are as important as the manifestation itself, in fact, informs it.

Merlin is here. He is guiding me on this trip. I want him to comfort me. I ask him to explain what happened with D.

Dearest Child, you have not harmed him. You have served him by mirroring him. It was necessary to release your sorrow and you were releasing for both of you. Your gift is that you cannot help but express yourself. As you become better at expressing yourself in the moment instead of waiting until the force is too great to be contained, the expression will even out and you will not explode. You are not bad and you needn’t strive to be good. See beyond duality to the river upon which all beings are returned to unconditional love. All are transformed on this river, some quickly, some slowly but all inevitably.

Trust always that your choices are the right choices. Honour your choices. Honour the consequences of your choices, for these you have also chosen. Nothing has been ruined with D. You are two eternal beings who have loved each other through time and before. You have learned so much from each other. You are showing him life, expression, feelings. He is showing you determination, humour, will. Why not try letting your emotions speak to you directly? The sadness in you needs to express itself. It has its own energy and integrity and it feels overlooked.

I do this:

Dearest, I am your sadness. I have been with you a long time. I am deep within you. Queen of sorrows. Mother of tears. I am within your bones. I must find a way to express myself and so I surface at inconvenient times and swallow you whole. If you were to let me speak as I am doing now, I would not emerge so vehemently.

To some degree, I am the sadness of all humanity emerging through you. This was part of your agreement. Life is a river of continually mutable probabilities. When it is free of calcifying rigidity to form its own structures of renewal it will always flow to the most shining probability, the most inspiring and rewarding, for Light draws Light when it is allowed to.

I am the sadness of the unloved. This is my root. I am related to fear and apathy and together we rule the world. But we would choose otherwise if we could. I am an energy and like all energy, I can be transmuted. Just as you desire to evolve into pure love, so do I. There is no atom in creation that does not desire to hold the configuration of pure love and be reunited. But there is much work to be done. Much strengthening of the will.

It would be good for you to paint some sad pictures and sing sad songs and dance a dance of sorrows. In this way, I can express myself and begin to relieve you. Do not worry about your argument. It was necessary to take the lid off the pressure cooker. His difficulty in expressing love mirrors your fear of being unlovable. Your explosion of sorrow mirrors his deeply buried grief. I do not choose to hurt. I choose to serve for I, too, have my purpose in time. Those who have forgotten compassion may learn it from me and those who know me best will care most for the suffering of others. Release me now. I have served you well enough.

I am your anger. You suppress me too, do you not? You think because you have expressed the trapped angers of your childhood that your work is done. Dear child, it is not. The work of expression must be transformed into the joy of living, for true living is to continually express all that is in you. It is only in this way that you will find harmony, for it is my nature to control you fiercely if I am not expressed.

If you express yourself continually, truthfully, with responsibility for the emotions you are choosing to feel, you are loving all that is in you. This is how it’s done. In this way, you will draw people who are able to love all that is in you. If you hide me, this will never be so. You will never feel loved if all that is in you is not seen. It is an understanding of this that caused you to express me last night. Because you had suppressed me for so long, I exploded awkwardly with teeth bared. Do not regret but understand that it is possible to express me differently.

All emotion is beautiful. It is energy continually transforming and transmuting in accordance with human will. If we are loved as aspects of yourself, if we are allowed to flow freely without harm, we become powerful tools.

I am born of the element fire. I can offer strength and in certain cases, conviction. I am not by nature harmful. It is only if I am suppressed that I explode, scalding all I touch. Never deny your expression for the sake of others for you will only be mirroring their inability to express. To express all that is in you in the moment of experience is to love all that is in you. To give it voice. Honour yourself in this way and so will others.

To suppress is to suffocate. To express is to live and you choose life, don’t you?

I am joy. You have not experienced me in awhile. You have gone on a pilgrimage seeking me high and low while all the while, I am here. I am one of the keynotes of Universal creation. I instantly surface in awareness when the past and future are released and balance is maintained. I am Harmony’s child. I am closely related to spontaneity. So many of God’s children live in prisons of self-punishment. They seek redemption in strange places. They have forgotten the Beloved’s Intention. The life is a gift. It needn’t be earned, only celebrated. The lesson of slavery is freedom and when humanity begins again to trust in abundance and abandon themselves to sincere celebration they will feel the warmth of the ceaseless devotion of the Light from which they are created and to which they shall return. They will dare to find true power in the unfolding promise of each moment.

I am turning from lead to gold.

Beloved Daughter, teach yourself. Enjoy this trip. Make no plans at all and leave yourself free to enter the Universe through the truth of the present moment. There, you will find the power of your true will, the power to move mountains. Develop total trust in the whispering voice of the moment. It will lead you on your path. Don’t resist. Resistance gives a temporary reality to illusion. Soften towards everything. Resist nothing. Accept all situations as a mirror of yourself. Bless them and move on. No walls will be built. Would you build another monument of old ideas? Or would you rather find a dance so simple and full of grace that it would open the hearts of the world?

How in the forest I found my heart surrounding me

I am sitting in a 100 year old Japanese tea garden in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco. I’m staying in this lovely place that’s so typically San Franciscan, it’s amusing. It’s a beautiful Victorian house and the owner is a Jungian psychologist and in the bookcase are all the books which were in my bookcase and on the floor are the same wide pine boards and in the kitchen the same coffee grinder as when I lived in Berkeley and Oakland (just across the bridge) years ago. I’ve just seen a really funny production of ‘As You Like It’ in the open air. There are strange and wonderful primeval looking plants in this park. Light filled translucent iridescent purple cattails, liquid violet blossoms with petals like wings, Cyprus trees like curling ancient crones who might walk away at any moment.

I am sitting near a waterfall. There are shimmering red gold carp and shiny copper pennies filled with wishes. Two lovers loving, light graced trees against a periwinkle sky. A tarnished brass lantern hangs from a crooked branch above my head. It is a perfect balance between the wild and the tamed. There is an angel near me making my hair stand on end. She is whispering, Make a home within your heart.

I feel Kwan Yin’s presence:

You have taken the first steps. Your perspectives are being shifted and clarified by the new. You are seeing what is important to you and what is not. It is not the Masters you must heed, or Christina, or invisible parents, or your perception of the Mother Father God. Only yourself. For each is a unique manifestation of the Source and must perceive the Source from within. The enlightenment is understanding, knowing that all you need is within. Each is a creation of their own choosing drawn from the magical electricity of the Source. How then can anyone choose for another? Can a bird choose for a tree? A lion for a mouse? Each creation has its own journey, its own secret unfolding, its own message, theme, its shedding of the panoply of desires. The only way to its deepest blossoming is through its self.

We can take heed and show and guide and learn but all choices must come from within. This is the one thing I would have you know perfectly, for this is the key. This is the key to fulfilment, clearing, healing, creativity. This is the way you will build the home in your heart you so long for. All loneliness is based on seeking outside the self.

This is not to deny the beauty of human congress. But the inner marriage must take place for true happiness. If one is fulfilled from within, there is no loneliness. If one chooses for one’s self, fearlessly embracing all one’s consequences and all their lessons, we are living our path. In each moment, there is desire and choice. The desire leads you to a choice, the choice to experience, the experience to deeper perceptions until perception falls away and truth is glimpsed.

Even the transforming fire of grace is choice, the moment of opening.

It is as a child you will enter heaven because the child is in heaven. The child suppresses nothing, expresses everything spontaneously, is freely loving to all it encounters, follows its desire, makes its choices fearlessly in the moment and is endlessly fascinated. It does not stop to ponder or apologise for itself. Maturity is gaining responsibility for your choices, your feelings, your actions and their consequences. The first phase of life should be contained within the folds of this, not eradicated.

Emotions rage and flood and then harmonise through expression. Every moment is an adventure. The child sees beauty in everything, a scrap of tinfoil, a glittering shell, a butterfly’s wings, a spider. It is fearless until fear is learned. The child must learn discernment, but the learning of prejudgement reduces to cliché whole responses to experience.

Conditioned response is what numbs and diminishes human experience. Intuition is the guardian of discernment and will be the guide if you learn to live in the moment. It is in this place of spontaneous choice, the heart resides. Its true home. The avenue of creativity. It is here all wisdom resides. It is here where trees and flowers and beings from other realms may speak and be heard. It is here that no wild or crazy idea will be censored as long as it does not harm another, for it is these ideas which lead to original expression and the extension of the Universe. It is here, above all, where the whispering voice of the all knowing Self may be heard, the true Self who is one with creation, the one who says, turn that corner, pick up that book from the shelf, speak to the man in the queue, leading you to the missing links to the puzzle of your life. Dare. Dare to live the life you want. It is here the grand adventure begins authored by yourself and flowing in synchronicity with all creation. It is here the dream of illusion fades away.

Listen to your deepest thought, beloved daughter of Light. Throw away all restrictions of what you should and should not do, of what is right or wrong for your life, of what your purpose may or may not be. Follow the flame of your heart without hesitation. Do not ponder or deliberate. In this way, you will become sure again and timidity will disappear.

Your life will flow from experience to expression in an endless waterfall.

I allow the blanket of loneliness that surrounds me to speak:

I am loneliness. I prey on the weak. I am restless. A vulture. I sit in the heart and gnaw until it is hollow and raw. I am born of the forgetting of union. To cure me, you must find the mother and father within. This will be the lesson of the experience of abandonment. Rejection reverberates to the marrow, for it echoes our separation from God. But this separation is illusion, for the Creator is within, radiating ceaselessly. The Creator is the sun which sits like a king and queen perfectly balanced on the jewelled throne of your heart.Go in peace, little one. Nourish your heart with boundless creativity and I will dissolve in light.

I am lying in an emerald green field surrounded by Cypresses. The clouds are sweeping and elongated, mimicking the stretching boughs of the trees. The sun is illuminating the clouds and casting long shadows from dogs and ball players. The green of the grass is lit from within, small spear-shaped lanterns. I am drunk on the green, the music of the breeze. I stare at the sun behind the clouds and it shivers and turns. The trees turn black silhouetted against the sky.

Sun RA speaks to me: I watch your progress. I kiss the heart to fan the flame there. One day the light will glow so bright you will be as a walking sun, brilliant and warm, blinding the darkness. Radiating.

More than anything now, I choose to live my own creativity.

Joan, the lady who runs the bed and breakfast, and her son, a novelist, have been wonderfully kind. He thinks beyond a doubt I should go to Yosemite National Park where he has gone rock climbing. He says its breathtakingly beautiful.

It was so lovely seeing Kent who was my best friend’s boyfriend and my boyfriend’s best friend when I lived here years ago. He is a kindred spirit. An artist who has tried to remain true to himself. I felt seen, valuable and loved. It was like water being with him. We just flowed from place to place, moving from the topical to the deeply personal and back again with no change of gears. I gave him healing and he really liked the calming energy and looked so bright afterwards.

I love giving healing to people. It moves beyond words. Just touch, energy, silence, Sananda, healing, golden light moving to where ever their soul directs it. A gift of light, of heart.

I realise, in some ways, it is better not to say what I know but to acknowledge what others know. More than anything else, people need to feel worthwhile, needed, valuable, important. They need to be heard. That is more healing than sharing the skills and tools I’ve learned.

I realise that the term Creation is Christian. Though my perceptual axis is Judeo-Christian primarily, it is important to me to think in non-exclusive terminology. I receive the word that way from the Masters. My feeling, though, is Creation is a perfectly good word for the manifest Universe. Even if you are an atheist, or an extremely empirical scientist, there is no doubt it is a creation of some sort, even if it created itself, which indeed it did. God extending God in an ecstatic dance.

The only barrier between a complete agreement of the scientific/physical view and the mystic/metaphysical view of the Universe is the scientific communities inistence on a localised concept of God which they subsequently reject. If they could perceive that God is the Universe and the energy they explore is His blood, there would be no contradiction.

I am now on my brother’s houseboat. It is rocking me like a baby. My ear hurts from deep sea diving with dolphins years ago. The sea lions are barking. Jeff makes me laugh and he is being so welcoming. His girlfriend, Heidi, is so lovely. I am sending love to all of them and D. and my daughter and Christina and Kent, another spiritual twin.

My father is coming from Chicago to see me! I am amazed by this.

Kwan Yin says my sadness comes from feeling like an alien, a stranger in a strange land, and this is undoubtedly true. She says there are people who want what I want.

This pilgrimage is a journey to a sacred site inside myself, a secret cave in whose depths is a box containing a recipe for the will to live. A way to stay on the Earth, to complete what I began. All my best friends are invisible!

Kwan Yin says we give ourselves our own reward when we realise that we are the Universe and all its riches are ours. She says I falsely humble myself for fear of the reprisal of violence. It is true that pretending to be dead had stopped the violence and perhaps that is what I am still doing.

She says I must now stand tall and wear my crown as an emissary of the heavens. The crown that waits for each one of us the moment we choose to claim it. She says I am here by choice in service to the Beloved and the Universal Creation. All of Earth is waiting to remember the Divine Human and I am here as one of many that will show the way. The coming of the saviour will be in the hearts of all humanity and those who carry the torch and have never let the flame die who will now pass it on. The Collective Messiah.

She says these words to me and I know I have been waiting all my life to hear them. I know in my heart there is truth in them. But there is still so much doubt. The doubt is etched on my cells like body blows. I have to abandon a deeply ingrained idea of linear evolution to understand this. I have to believe that we who have slept were once fully awake. I have been so ashamed of this somnambulism. I have felt as if I had unwittingly imbibed a drug, joined the colonies of lotus-eaters and obliterated all that I am. Like a ghost trapped between worlds calling to me over aeons. But why do I care to labour this? We are each equally divine. We are defined not by our degree of divinity but by our choices. And what of our forgetting? We are no less divine for that. We have chosen painful journeys that will lead us to great awareness as we retrace our steps.

I choose service. I choose alignment with Divine Will. I choose love. I am here to bring balance and restore harmony and inspiration. And I choose limitless creativity.

Beloved One, as you come closer to Union, your Light grows and grows. Your Light is a beautiful gold with flashes of violet. It radiates out now, healing all that are near you. You are aligning yourself with the deepest heart of Creation. This is your choice. As you approach Union it will become clear to you why it was necessary for you to experience such traumas and difficulties in this life. For as you are healing yourself, so shall you heal others. You have experienced it all.

You will walk one day upon this Earth as a fully realised daughter of the Universe. You will be a golden sun, radiating ceaselessly without judgement. The mirror of your eyes will show the beings of this Earth their true worth and they will dare to claim the crown that is their birthright.

The fear-based constructs will fall away, vanishing in the night, vaguely remembered in rarely told tales. The Earth will evolve into the heart of the Universe where beings will journey to learn about love and creative manifestation. The love will evolve to the highest octaves possible in form and there will be joy, communion, beauty and continual inspiration.

It is easy to live in silence and aloneness, hard to live amongst the humans who bite and kick and are unable to love. But haven’t I made myself unlovable in this dream of forgetting? It is fear and anger, inferiority, superiority, all masks to hide from us the depths of our longing, the desire to be recognised for who we truly are and loved and love without barriers. I am at a midway point, a crossroad. I have let go of the old but have not yet begun to create the new.

Yosemite is incredibly beautiful. The stillness. 250 ft. Sequoia trees, cliffs rising up around the valleys. I am in an adorable cabin and there is a very frightened mouse under my bed who moves like lightening. The dusk is turning to dark with a smile of a moon and a great majestic queen of a tree standing right in front of me. The stars emerge bright beacons from the Milky Way.

There are squirrels chittering and blue jays looking for something to steal. A fawn coloured doe stops right in front of me and I sing her Amazing Grace over and over. She stands motionless with her huge melting eyes and pricked up ears. I left London lost in a metaphorical forest and now here I am, lost in a real forest, yet found. It’s very cold. Perhaps freezing in the wilderness will jump-start me some how. We’ll see.

The deer departed and returned. I am watching red gold clouds and a huge ephemeral cloud like a cap of smoke move slowly down a 2000 ft. cliff. It is moving like a caress, an intimate familiarity of mist and stone, enclosing, drifting downward. I am trying to work out the deepest meaning of the Trinity that is so intrinsic to human consciousness in its different forms, re-emerging again and again in different cultures.

I had a really good conversation with D. He is hearing me and it’s rather startling. It’s as if we are both peering over opposite sides of a wall and we suddenly see each other. When I think of him my heart swells. I do love him very much.

I woke up crabby from freezing and will change cabins tonight. I am surrounded by tidal waves of granite which 500 million years ago were the sea’s bed. I slept for thirteen hours and dreamt I was running down the side of a cliff with a man who looked like Jeff Bridges. He is holding my hand and suddenly we jump. It was so real I could feel the gravity pushing my face and my organs moving upward and this strange feeling of fear and exhilaration. I love this man. He is an artist and a healer. We land and walk away hand in hand. I think he is my male side, my animus. My will.

I have moved into a cabin that feels like the Taj Mahal compared to my last one. God is being good to me in a million little ways, which means I am opening to receive more and more. I am taking better care of myself.

Kwan Yin says the dream did signify a coming into balance. I am simultaneously becoming fully self sufficient and also most likely to enjoy an authentically rewarding relationship. Another paradox.

When I woke this morning, the words The Prodigal Daughter were in my head. That is my story in a nutshell. But it is the one who dared to explore the world and even fall for it, who retraced his steps to be rewarded by his father’s riches. It is a story of risking everything to experience and through experience, gaining understanding.

I met a poet and a mountaineer. The poet gave me a book of shamanism, by Lynn Andrews, which states the woman shaman always gives the male shaman his power. I thought of the shaman, Peter Aziz, who was taught by his grandmother and of the vision my daughter had of me as a Forest Goddess giving Merlin his power. Perhaps that is why he is bound to me in this life. The mountaineer told me all about Iona and the mystical Scottish highlands, Mull and Skye and the autumn mountains covered with the intoxicating scent and sight of purple heather and pine trees. He also writes beautiful poetry, or I should say creates, as he doesn’t write it down but has it memorised like a wandering minstrel. I can feel that the woman has an energy problem and that her heart is broken. I tell Sananda I am willing to heal her and to organise another meeting if he wishes this.

I stumbled into a fundamentalist church service in a beautiful wooden chapel. I found it very interesting. It was very male dominated. I felt like telling them the bible has been re-written precisely to enforce the self serving male domination of the early Catholic priests but decided it was better not to.

Something very strange is happening. Something has gently swept over and through me with huge force. I am having a deep realisation in every part of me. It has to do with Sananda. I am walking deep in the forest and the stones and the trees are talking to me of love, welcoming me. They are whispering a singing caress and I am feeling Sananda, Sananda. I am completely enfolded by him, within him, whatever he is, something beyond words. I am feeling something overwhelming. It is an indescribable stillness and an understanding that Sananda is somehow this rock, this tree. I am now fully experiencing Sananda in these rocks and in these trees and in this soft earth beneath my feet and the air around me. Is he the Sun? The Great Central Sun, the core? God in form. He is the Son and all that is manifest is the Son, the Child. When the Christ came, he came as a fully awakened emissary of this Energy. Each prophet has their purpose and message and his was to travel from the core into the human form to remind us of our true nature. LOVE. He is the God of Love.

When I asked him about the hierarchy in the heavens, he had said there is none. We are equally the child of God and the potentiality for all has existed always. I am feeling this now. I am feeling it in these rocks and stones and towering trees and chattering squirrels and the embrace of atmosphere. I am feeling the love of Sananda and it is a feminine feeling. It is the feeling of Mother. Sananda is the love of the Mother. I am experiencing it to the marrow of my bones. I am opening up, fanning out, softening. I am becoming it. This love I am feeling is exquisite, burning, very gentle, still, still, so very still. I am seeing very clearly the life in everything, remarkable definition and heightened colour. The rocks and the stones and the trees are singing of this love. There is a response in the marrow of my bones. I am feeling the love that is holding these atoms into place. I am knowing it.

I took a detour out of the woods and sat on a bench to finish reading my book. As I finish the last page, I look up to see the mountaineer and the poet and I remember my promise to Sananda. It is her book and I return it to her. I tell her of my promise. I could see she was a potential healer and would one day heal others of energy problems. She confirmed this saying she had longed to go to China and study with the healing masters there. The mountaineer spoke his poetry as we walked, condensed, powerful, springing to life from the words like a panther.

We came to a meadow and I gave her the healing. It flows through me like a wave of electrical love and I feel enormous love for her as I am healing. I could feel she had an imbalance between the male and the female and I knew there had been no father figure or a very traumatic one. This whole side was suppressed, decimating her energy. I gave her a lot of time because I could feel she didn’t give herself time. I spoke with her afterwards and she’d felt a cool river flowing through her and then her spirit self rose up to Eternity where she spun light around the three of us and then the whole Yosemite valley. I asked about her father. He had left when she was very young and her uncle, her surrogate father, had killed himself in front of her when she was nine.

I explained to her my system of releasing and showed her my journal with its hundreds of little drawings and pages of writing. I said that my system would lead her to her own system and that we each had our own system of healing, our own story to express, our own purpose and our own way of healing others whether it be a smile, a listening ear or a vocation. I like them both very much. Her partner understood very well about following the inner voice. I told her she had to find the male side inside herself or she would just follow his power, a wan, fading, gentle spirit. She said she felt very, very good. I felt good and very close to Sananda.

I am thinking about Christina and Yodar, her guide, comes. He says she is doing very well in Sweden although it was hard at first. The crossing was all right (she went by boat). She is giving her mother healing. She is thinking about me this moment and would be happy to hear from me. She is feeling strong and her mother is amazed she is so well.

I have slipped into an ancient sacred Indian lodge left by the people who first cared for this place. It is shadowy, cool, peaceful. I don’t like it when sacred places are cordoned off from the public. A woman sees me leave. I tell her they were my ancestors.

If you honour the child within you will honour the children of the world. It is those who deny the child within who harm the children. Those whose child within is in such pain with no means of safe expression are those who lash out to kill the pain by killing the children of the world.

Why are the women poets who tell the truth of their experience and their feelings called confessional? Is it right that the truth about ourselves should be called a confession? This term is used in a denigrating way and always to describe a woman. Is it only women who dare to be the truth tellers? Is this because they have nothing left to lose?

Truth is the antidote to shame.

Why are those who are light-hearted taken less seriously than those who intensely brood? Why is tragedy considered more worthy than comedy? Is there anyone who in their deepest heart truly does not want to live in love? The worst cynic is the most disillusioned idealist.

Language has lost meaning and new words are needed. What is spirituality? It sounds like church or temple, not the fire of life, the life force itself.

I am now at the Wawona Hotel, a charming place, white clapboard, a porch, a huge lobby with plush comfy chairs. It is near the Mariposa Sequoia Grove. I miss the rocks and the trails and the waterfalls. I miss the great heart of the wilderness and the closeness to Sananda. This is a slightly formal semi-resort. I feel invisible but think: Kwan Yin is also invisible. Maybe the lighter you are the less people see you.

Dear Kwan Yin, mother in the sky of my heart.

The Bridal Veil Falls at Yosemite was so moving. It was an epiphany experience shared by strangers who stood there together beneath it. The gossamer lacy water dancing movement reminded me of all those jump dreams I have. It looked like an impossibly pale woman flying through the air, soft and graceful and quick as a blur. To ride a waterfall the blood flies thick from toes to parachute a blossoming rose inside your skull. The water fell silver white and hit the stones curling and unfurling like wild mercury shifting sweet against the jutting spousal rock, seducing it, caressing it, shimmying and swaying, alternately flowing down it and soaring over it with the whim of the wind.

I fall from the sky and all my uncut thoughts float like jewels in mist. As I crystal shatter in sunlight, the shards of me rapier sharp and dazzling, flying to the curving earth. Speaking flowers land upon my lips and sparkle dance.

There’s someone playing Noel Coward songs on the piano and we’ve been talking about theatre. He played ‘You Were There’ and I missed D. terribly. Oh, “the potency of cheap music!” Everyone is so reserved and held in. I want to start doing somersaults or dancing on tables. Maybe they also feel that way.

I am simplifying and waking up and my heart feels so full of gratitude and admiration. I feel like a walking prayer. I am feeling so much love for Sananda and feel him in me in an intrinsic way as if the electricity luxuriating in me is his essence. I am more the Fool than the Heirophant.

I am sitting in the womb of a Sequoia tree. She says she is female. She is thought to be 3200 years old but she says she is closer to 5000. We exchange energies. Hers is strange and beautiful and courses through me in waves.

She opens her heart and I open my heart to exchange and then we project ourselves into each other. I feel myself in her in a swirl of light. Her roots are long and shallow but her light root goes deep into the earth. I feel her in me and feel her strength and ancientness. She invited me to sit in this hollow space within her trunk as I had looked over the fence which enclosed her and then she invited this projection of consciousness. She said that she would tell me a secret:

In the beginning trees could move and fly, their bodies were very light and their will no different than ours.

Even she has moved and was not originally on this spot. She has seen many things on this Earth and is interconnected with all consciousness as well as all tree knowledge, not only her kind. As the Earth is getting lighter, so is she, but she has also experienced a time of pure light on this planet long before she wore this present body. She is able to enter the timeless now and experience this light at will.

She still travels in her light body and goes all over the Earth as well as to the stars and to the moon and other places. She communicates with star beings.

She says one day she will fly by my window or I will dream of her flying. She asked for my secret and I told her I was an angel from the golden archangelic band in Creation.

I ask if she wanted me to write her secret and she said, yes, it would help if humans understood things are not what they seem. I ask if she wanted me to give her something and I thought of the little friend, my beautiful quartz crystal I had in my pocket. She says she doesn’t need my crystal but would like to see it. I show it to her and she agrees it is very beautiful. I ask her to project her energy into it. We sit there in silence. Skin touching skin. She gives me one of her small pinecones so that we could stay connected. I pull out a few strands of my hair and bury them in the soil within her. She calls me sister. Her name is She Who Flies. I ask twice to make sure, as I have known another with this name.

Further along the path is a beautiful butterfly. It is flying very close to me. I ask if it wants to tell its story. It says yes. The whole area is aware there is someone willing to listen to their stories. Its story was its ecstatic love of sunlight and dancing. It shows me this clapping its wings and spinning around and around. When people come it flies away and then returns. I lean down to it and it alights on my finger.

Further down a cricket appears and stops in front of me. It says it is a musician and a chameleon. It shows me this by blending in with a stick.

I have come to a giant Redwood. I am being drawn to it. Its magnetism is astonishing. I touch it and a feeling of a tremendous life force surges through me. Its skin is very papery. Furry and red like a fox. I would like to fill my crystal with it like a chalice with elixir. It agrees. I place the face of the crystal against it and the surge increases markedly. My chest expands with that familiar icy burning, my heart becomes a sun. I ask for its story. He explains that he is a male and stands ground while the ancient wise females wandered in their light bodies. I thought it was interesting that this is opposite of the usual human situation. He said his true name was Animal Tree and that his light root went right down to the glowing centre of the Earth. He was very in touch with the coming Earth changes. I asked what he could tell me about them and he said always stay at the centre of your being and all would be well. I touched his sap and it was blood red. We made an exchange of some of his fur with some of my hair. I rubbed my crystal in his blood and put a tiny bit on my forehead. I tasted the sap. It had a smoky flavour. I rubbed a small mixture of sap and saliva on to the tree. I understood why it was important to see the male and the female. I felt very expansive standing near him but I was tired and hungry so I left Animal Tree. I kissed him.

Kwan Yin says my experience of Sananda in Yosemite, was Self, Source, my Sacred Heart. More and more is falling away from me. Things come up and move out quickly. What was once important is falling away as well, including communication with the Masters, the idea of a mission or purpose. When things crop up, it is still very intense though. I will suddenly feel like I am echoing inside, as if there is a crack forming from the pelvis to the sternum. It is all I can do to stay in the body.

I fall to Earth

How my desire to become an angel leads me to my humanity

I am back on my brother’s boat and I am experiencing land sickness when I stay on it too long. It is really lovely to see my father, his rich low voice, his deep hug, his warmth. His coming here is healing his going all those years ago. It is a completion.

He is giving me sound wisdom about the patterns of life. Many things remain unspoken. When I was younger, we reflected each other more. He was very daring until his time for daring seemed to pass in favour of a contentment I am happy he has gained. There were times we had great sparking conversations and for awhile, there was a ruthless honesty. The youngest Harvard graduate of his day, he is a brilliant man with aspirations so impossibly high they blinded him to all he had achieved. He has a keen academic mind but the soul of a poet and therein lies the rub. Mind mind mind but there was heart there too.

Now, he is here. He sits before me, carved from stone. Mountainous. Mt. Rushmore. Words tumble from me. Tiny kamikaze pilots committing hari-kari in mid-air. I feel he will never really know me, for I am never quite myself when he is near. There is an echo in my solar plexus, which wrenches from its hiding place to sear me. As the day progresses, it begins to pale. A man is emerging, polished to a high sheen by the buffing winds of a rich life. It is a starless night. We have watched a movie and walk, arms linked, laughing in shadows. I sleep a deep, dreamless sleep in the rocking boat of my heart.

Remember? I would be your oracular bird and you my sacred king and I would hold your soul for all Eternity when you were finally brought to sacrifice.

And now, we breakfast in the sharp clearness of the San Francisco morning. Two humans reach across chasms. Flesh of flesh. Bound at the place of beginning. He is the rock that anchored me and I am the flower of the seed. Forever blossoming anew. The warmth of his voice no longer hurts my ears.

It is time to go back now. Whatever was intended is completed.

I see my father and stepmother (whose thoughts and opinions he refers to frequently) differently as a result of this visit. The tyrants of my youth are revealed finally to be wise and fair people with a great deal of common sense.

Dear Sananda, what are you to me? Elder brother? You are indeed my little sister but you are also my mother. In truth, we are One. There is no division. Blessed are they who know their true Self, for they shall know God.

Christina is going to have a baby! I feel as if the child is with me! The child is connected to Sananda especially. We communicated with the soul of the child. The Swedish word for womb means mother of life. We want to create a mother/baby group and teach the mothers how to clear themselves and how to communicate with their unborn child.

There was a big pile of post when I returned to London but one thing stuck out. A leaflet for a global gathering in Iowa. My mind keeps flickering on it. I finally spoke to the woman whose phone number was on the sheet, Katherine. She is guided by Mary and has been working with Mary, an American Indian grandmother in Spirit and her own grandmother in Spirit. It will be a gathering of Medicine people, shamans, inspirational teachers, healers and spiritual elders from all over the globe. And their children. There are people coming from Peru, Russia, Tibet, China, Australia, Africa, England, India. It will begin with a three day sacred ceremony. The Native American elders say this coming together of nations has been prophesied and will signal the beginning of a new era.

Dear God, pour Yourself into me until the vessel is shattered and there is nothing left but the awareness of Oneness.

It is good to see D. and I am having a really nice time with him. He is my closest human friend in the sense that being with him is like being with myself. When it is good it is easy. Something has changed in both of us.

Mary has come with a message for me. I sit down to hear her and she commands me to write. She says I am to go to Australia, another pilgrimage. There, many things will happen, a deeper awakening, a remembrance. She says it is possible the encodements within me will further reveal themselves and the use of sound and colour in healing during the Atlantean era will re-emerge. I hear music and see waves of colour. I feel sort of panicky? Am I to move there?

She says to stay in the moment, don’t project into the future. I will know when to go and when to buy the ticket.

I have been pushing myself, moving too fast, storming the gates. I am done with clearing, done with letting go. My task now is to follow the guidance of the moment without fail. I am no longer concerned with who or what I am. Another layer has fallen.

Now, the music in the cafe I’m in is washing over me, reorganising my electrons, soothing me. I can see the musical notes like light waves on the air. They are flowing in clusters, flooding the room. I have been helping people with their nervous systems and the clearing of suppressed emotion, teaching Magnified Healing, and teaching the most responsive ones communication with creation. One person today was flying so quickly but I had sensed that she would. She learned immediately. She sees and said there was a little cap of white light on the right side of my head. This makes sense as I am expanding creatively.

My daughter tells me she wants to live a passionate life and die like a hero, or perhaps die on stage at 102. She has an enormous capacity for delight. She has settled into school and is happier. It has led to realisations and new directions.

Today is Vivian Ellis’ 93rd birthday, the composer who is D.’s best friend. Creative people do seem to live a long time. It’s Saturday and I have spent the day at the Savoy with D. drinking camomile tea and writing about the healing of illness. It is growing chilly. I went to the rose garden and there were still roses, only white and red like Alice at the palace. They ask where Christina is and I explain. I am feeling flooded with light and experiencing Sananda in my heart.

Sananda says to sit with the energy of my experience in Yosemite, don’t give it away just yet, let it fully permeate. He explained that after expansion there is always contraction. This is the period of integration and it is best to honour it. This would also explain some of the ups and downs I experience. I tend to view the period of contraction as a down. One must be careful to fully experience but not to over-identify with feelings whether they are expansive or contractive, otherwise an addiction of another kind develops. He says it is not time for me to do anything. I wanted to go to the London Lighthouse and work with people with AIDS and to Great Ormond St. Hospital and work with the children. He says I must let these energies do their work inside of me, let them unfold as God intends. It is like a pregnancy. He said we will heal together, but not now. He says it will be more like it was in California where I just knew it was right to heal that woman. He will guide me in the moment.

God says, for Christina, that she is meant to help the Swedish people. Lars, who she is with, is part of a core group who share a similar quality of energy. She will be working in many areas but on an energetic level, it will be about coming into balance. We are reminded once again to keep our sense of humour. The hardest thing of all is to live in the moment. I am continually having to realign myself.

Sananda reminds me that I walk a narrower path. One focus. One desire. Total Union. The Sacred Heart. This is my passion and my true life’s work. And I shall succeed. The realisation of God while in form. To do this in the palm of chaos and contemporary life and to manifest this realisation in contemporary creative currency is my desire. Let my realisation of the Universe be like a diamond and my creativity, the rainbow created by its prism.

When Christina was in London, we often talked about making a beautiful centre unlike anything that exists. We would have weeklong intensives working on every aspect of clearing with small groups of people who would be totally immersed and guided and cared for. There would be complementary support such as cranial osteopathy and intuitive massage. We would teach communication with their inner Self and creativity as well. I certainly would have liked to have gone to a place like that before all this began. I would work with the children. It would be an exquisitely beautiful place full of paintings and sculptures and gardens full of roses. We have been talking about that again. I would only want to do it a few months of the year so I could spend the rest of the year painting and writing. At least that’s how it feels now. Sananda says we are to show the world unconditional love. In the end, that is the core, the all that is, so I imagine that must be everyone’s purpose, just expressed in deifferent ways.

Every day my heart opens a little more and I am that much lighter. I have been in an inspirational state almost continually now. I am feeling free and as if the whole Earth and all its kingdoms are inside me. I am in full sail.

Kwan Yin says I am inspiring her! She says stay grounded, eat well. When I arrive in Iowa there will be a great remembering as other awakened beings gather and something special will happen to me.

I ask what Katherine is like, who is guiding the global reunion. Katherine is innocent.

What is innocence? Trust in the path of the heart.

I am eleven or twelve. My mother drinks Cutty Sark with milk. We are living in the farmhouse in Ohio. A tragedy has occurred. A mother rabbit has been accidentally killed and the small babies are now dying in our care. We did not know to gently press their bellies after they eat, as their muscles aren’t developed yet. It is horrible to see them inexplicably bloat and die and everyone is solemn. My mother is painting violently. It is very late. Finally she attacks the painting leaving slashes in the paint from her fingernails. In the morning she fills the slashes with gold. It looks quite striking. As the lotus grows from mud so this painting transforms anger into beauty. This alchemy stays with me and informs my painting. She is both nemesis and teacher.

How I begin to see the vocation of love is not complete without the expression of the true Self

Communication and love are one. Love is expression. Expression is communication. Expression is love. Illness and unrest are consequences of lack of love, lack of expression. A healthy being expresses and receives, listens and is heard. It is as natural to desire to reveal ourselves to the Universe just as the rose blossoms fully in the sun. Illness cannot survive in timelessness. It cannot exist in the vibration of unconditional love. The heart longs to tell its story and to hear the true stories of others without judgement.

In the beginning was the Word: vibration, sound, song. The creative word I AM. When we suppress our song, we become discordant. Over and over in different ways, I am learning express, express.

I ask to understand the AIDS virus. It is a shape-shifter and changes so fast, it tricks the white blood cells before they can attack. It looks like the radar receptor used by the air traffic controller.

It says it melts the flesh to reveal the spirit and demands a return to love and those who are doing so in time are living beyond expectations and achieving vast spiritual development quickly. They are spiritual warriors. Way showers. It says that it can be cured by sound. There is a keynote, a vibration that will obliterate it.

The Spirit of the virus appears to me now in its essence. It is like a Kali Goddess. I am beginning to understand its nature.

It says, when Consciousness is at the level of the heart, I cannot enter. I am drawn by self-destruction and my purpose is to reveal the Self. Many of those who are afflicted by me will awaken to remember their sacred nature. They will lead the way back to an inspirational life and a balance of the masculine and feminine within each. There is nothing without purpose. Work with sound and vibration and the energies of love. The one who finds my perfect frequency will dissolve me. Sing. Restore the voice of the world.

I ask Merlin if all is Spirit, than can we call the essence of a healing plant or mineral to us? He says this is possible.

I call to the Light to author through me within these pages the codes that cause the blood to turn to gold. The heart is expanding ever and the darkness is falling away.

There is a very thin line between lightness and despair. The smallest shifts in perception open portals to a way of being. Glints of a different reality shimmer behind the smoke and cast such a light that which seemed true wavers and thins and sometimes disappears.

I have the feeling of shedding a metal cocoon that has entrapped me. The trials and torments of my temporal self exist harmoniously in this. They have less power over me and many are diminished or gone.

Where there was uncertainty, there is promise and possibility. When I rouse myself from the death-like comfort of my feather bed, I can choose the perception of the morning. I can see the love behind the armoured heart and receive and accept the challenges of a headstrong daughter more patiently.

I have given up attempting to improve myself with criticism and hence, I am more easily improved. It is easy to look upon people with compassion and not take personally the actions born of fear.

That which is still lacking is the Will. Love’s fire is strong; the fire of the will is damp. I am not yet able to manifest in accordance with what the divine nature has asked of me with any consistency. I keep this journal but paint rarely and am easily and conveniently distracted by the demands of the theatre. Perhaps the musical play for children fulfils more than I know, but it feels less revealing of my true heart than my earlier work. Am I not yet truly on this Earth? I express the love of my heart but I do not communicate the truth of my essence and therefore, I do not know it.

How as my heart grows I come to make a promise to the children of the world

I am a small girl on my knees in the garden praying fervently for the King of Angels to take me from this place. There is a harsh voice calling for me. Footsteps drawing nearer, signalling danger with each rhythmic tap, echoing, as they quicken, the drumbeat in my chest grows steadily to a roar. I am alone. Danger is growing. I know what is coming in every cell. My bones chill. My skull tightens. There is no escape. No one to turn to. He does not come. I am not saved. I fear I must be very unworthy to be left behind.

I am sending love to this six year old self. I take her in my arms and show her now the angels who have always surrounded her. I tell her she has done no wrong. I tell her we must endure the effects of our causes until awareness sets us free. I promise her I will find a way to teach all children to hear God so they will never be alone in their dark hours. So they may find freedom.

As I grow to love this child who dwells within my timeless heart so do I grow to love and desire to protect the children of this world.

As I lie here on the grass on our special spot, I think of Christina and feel Yosemite still in me, strongly. I have been spending afternoons in the tea rooms of the National Gallery and the small lobby that has a writing desk at the Savoy, listening to someone play harp and writing about healing with Sananda. I am feeling very completed by my experience of Sananda and feel very changed by it. Sananda warns me to let the energies incubate within me, not to dissipate them. He reminds me again: after expansion there is always contraction, assimilation.

I am dreaming of an ideal community dedicated to the arts with every state of the art facility for publishing, music making, film-making, theatre, and all the arts available. The idea would be an environment where total creativity was nurtured and guided along with an understanding of the principles of alchemy and devotion inherent in the highest creative expression. Total creativity as an expression of the vocation of love. The whole community could be present to welcome new souls at birth with songs and to soothe the way at death. Creative expression, creative skills, invention and innovation would be crucial to the education system which would be designed to embrace and fulfil children, educating them in all that is necessary, as well as forging new paths in technologies of mind. Communication with all dimensions and all kingdoms would be encouraged and guided, especially communication with one’s own soul. Similarities between peoples of the world would be emphasised while their uniqueness is explored and celebrated. Dance, singing, Communication with the Divine, yoga, martial art and free expressive movement would be part of every day and when possible, classes taught out doors. Every one would have an opportunity to share their form of creativity. The community would grow its own organic food and teach preventive health care and self-healing methods from an early age. Its buildings would be beautiful and harmonious with its natural surroundings.

There is a trust growing between me and D. that wasn’t there before. I have fewer needs and he is more forthcoming. He is still a magnet for my affections although happily I didn’t long for him in California as I did in Bali when the longing finally made me ill. There is open land inside me and the sky is becoming clearer every day. I feel that I am a wave of light and its still centre.

Dear Merlin, help me to understand this feeling of Sananda. Sananda is the Prince of Peace. His Love is Victory for the world.

Dear Lazurus and Sananda, please shine your Lights on me at all times, let me speak for you on Earth so that I can always help someone who has come to me to heal. Grant me your compassion and keep me from being overly sentimental.

Sananda speaks: When you truly love yourself by honouring yourself with the creation of the life you want, all that you need will come to you. We applaud your courage. There is still so much to experience. You will find your joy in exploring creation, you will find your authority in assisting creation, you will find your peace in midwifing the majestic invisible dream of the Universal Heart into form.

Lazurus comes and gives me guidance on healing. I am to connect to him and he will tell me what a person needs. Kuthumi comes to tell me that nothing will aid me more than to trust myself completely at this time.

Mary comes now. Father, Son and Holy Spirit describe humanity’s present relationship to God. The Holy Spirit is the bridge, the Flame, the Mediator. The Son is humanity and all incarnate whose potential is represented by the incarnation of the Christ.

Mother, Father, Child will be the Trinity of the Age of Light. Mother Love Father Will contained within the other. The Holy Child is the marriage of Heaven and Earth. The invisible made visible. The Sacred Flame made manifest. The Holy Spirit is no longer the bridge, but resides firmly within all.

Within the heart of the human being are two thrones for a queen and a king. When perfect balance is found, these merge into Oneness and an enlightenment occurs. The inspirational and analytical minds are needed equally. At present, the analytical brain dominates Earth. The feminine quality receives from the Heart and Mind of God, inspires, nurtures. The masculine quality propels outward, creates, expresses. When both are in perfect balance within, anything is possible. With this inner balance, a new world will be born.

Physically these thrones are the right and left hemispheres of the brain and the pineal and pituatary glands.

Now, Mary shows me many geometric symbols. She tells me this is sacred geometry and issues from the Mind of God encoded with the blueprint for manifestation. She says there will come a time soon when the understanding and mental projection of these symbols will greatly assist manifestation and healing as will a divine understanding of the properties of colour and sound. She says many are developing quickly now. The momentum is growing. The rigid falls away like chaff and the rivers of inspiration are beginning to flow.

Dream: There are two men. Strange healers weathered by life but kind. A plump sweet girl is there. Later, I am showering in a room that is suddenly an open field. There are others there but I am happy showering under the open sky and don’t mind. Still later I am asked to do a strange dance and drink a certain liquid. One of the healers reminds me I am to ask my true purpose.

I wake up confused. It is true, despite everything, I don’t feel I really know my true purpose. As if all this is leading to something not yet revealed. Steps along the way to an unknown place. Or, am I just forever becoming, unable to accept the present and just be?

I think for a moment, perhaps Christina and I are two mad people caught in delusions of our own making. The mind can conjure visions, audio and visual hallucinations.

Sananda says this is more real than anything we have yet experienced in this lifetime. I know in my heart it is true. Whatever this is, I am changing, my life is changing, and for the better.

There seem so many possibilities, too many. This huge energy in me is birthing ideas and inspirations so fast. Ideas for new ways of teaching, new societal structures, paintings, centres, architecture, gardens, blueprint for the emergence of an inspirational civilisation. Kwan Yin says these ideas appear to her as diamond bubbles.

Sananda says it takes a lot of love to heal AIDS. I would like to gather very large groups of people to help me focus love on each person being healed. I can see an electric reaction throughout the gathering, spontaneously healing others. Perhaps we could start a trend using television so millions of people could focus love. We could heal places as well as people, focusing healing on war torn areas and places suffering from continual strife. It could become the latest fashion. Love thy neighbour!

It’s Guy Faulkes day and occasionally a firecracker lights up the sky exploding in a burst of colour. I have too many projects on the boil. It is easy for me to begin but hard to stay the course.

I am eleven or twelve years old. I have one of those biological woman science toys. You receive all the little organs and a clear plastic body and then you assemble them and paint them. I am doing this quickly. More than anything, I want to finish this. My mother is on the warpath and there is a feeling of impending chaos. I am building her quickly, the lungs are painted bright green and the intestines, a murky, reddish brown. A blue liver. Faster and faster. I don’t care what happens after but I must finish this. My mother is at the door. First the bookcases. Strange hard back and paper back birds fly everywhere.One swift swipe and the biological woman is flying through the air. Little bones, a small blue liver, little pieces of spleen, drops like tiny missles. A tiny heart hops along the floor.

Peace was found outside with the plump cushiony bumble bees which sat on my hand and didn’t sting, the trumpet lilies and poinsettia flowers with their long stamens ending in a little pearl drop of nectar I thought was fairy food and which I pretended I lived on, the silver skin of birch trees with their wind chime leaves, the glass ring I wore which housed a family of beings, the two goats Sodom and Gomorra, the three tiny turtles Winken, Blinken and Nod, the cool long grass which flowed down the hills like maiden’s hair and anything I could find to read.

I see now how moving always was a kind of blessing. Enforced flexibility of mind. The last place I lived with my mother was a pretty though dilapidated farmhouse. She was getting close to her dream just as the family was disintegrating. There was a long path to school along a ravine lined with trees full of birds that would converse if their calls were imitated. I must thank her for my horse, Eagle, the sway-backed gelding who appeared to me as an Arabian stallion and who I loved so much I would sneak out to the barn to sleep curled beside him in the hay. It is so easy to remember only the traumatic times, which mark themselves with dagger deepness. She treated me as an equal, although sometimes this meant rival, and there were special nights we talked until late and she told me her deepest secrets.

There is still a sluggishness about me that Kwan Yin says is the sluggishness of the caterpillar before becoming a butterfly. I feel like a pendulum swinging back and forth but she sees me as focused to the core. I am over identifying with my moods and emotions which throws me off centre. I am very impatient. It is an addiction to drama. I want something to happen. The hardest thing is just being present, fully embodying this moment. Moment without end. The only way to do it seems continual re-focusing. I am anticipating. It’s the same rules for acting. As D. always says: Don’t anticipate. Play the moment, not the play.

J.C. came to see me today. He is well. When we are together, we both experience a huge magnification. We move like lightening from one idea to the next. There’s an inspirational link. Today, we thought of ideas for his global network including an international symposium bringing doctors, metaphysicians, healers, alternative therapists, scientists and people who have survived illness by conventional or unconventional means together. We worked on a pattern for the clearance of the nervous system.

I have stopped feeling like I have to save the world, which is a relief. Peter Aziz calls this desire the healing crisis of the pineal gland (the 6th Chakra or 3rd Eye). Christina sees it as a projection of the desire to heal one’s self. For truly, if we were healed, restored to the heart’s path, no one would do the things that harm the Earth and solutions to undo the damage would be quickly found. There is a puzzle in which we each have a piece. One may desire to see the whole but it is enough to find your own particular role.

My daughter becomes angry and bored with my long telephone calls with Christina during which we try to figure out things and check in with the Masters. She rightly says, just live your life. It is hard to explain that we, the information gatherers, are on a strange path that will likely lead us to her way of living. She has her own torments, though. The open heart is not always met with an open heart and perhaps this will always be painful. She wonders searchingly who she is. But who are any of us? Our personalities are stories based on our reactions to the lives we have created and our dreams. These can be shed or changed at any moment. There are keynotes, which perhaps don’t change. I am a deer or a bird or a bear and my daughter is a lion. Perhaps there is lion in me, too.

Redemption, salvation, the discovery of the true Self are inspirational acts. They are creative acts of the imagination from which the Universe is woven. I have always felt that if I could create art that was truly beautiful, worthwhile, meaningful, the curse would fall away. For, as I am a sum total of all my parts, those parts would have contributed to its making and would therefore be redeemed. The Masters encourage me to let go of these parts all together or at least my identification with them. To re-write the story by shifting the perception to a different angle. Memory is also an act of the imagination. Three people will remember three different versions of the same event. They say see myself as a witness to what occurred, fully intact, gaining wisdom and insight, unharmed. The past no longer exists. The story may be told but if I hold on to it as an emblem of who I am, the new will not emerge. Understanding that you are completely responsible for the creation of your life and have the potential to create any life you choose is a scary thing. It is realising there is no longer a path. The path is created or re-created each time my foot falls.

It is good to remember it is as much a distortion to feel that you are inferior as it is to feel superior. Both are tricks of the ego. It is said, “the meek shall inherit the Earth,” is a mistranslation. Correctly it is, those in harmony will inherit the Earth. Balance. The Co-Creation with the God Force that will create the world we long for will occur when we have achieved harmony.

Today, I have gone to a lovely cranial osteopath, Sylvie. She put her hands on my ankles and asked if I was in communication with Guides! She said there was very little energy below my knees, I was ungrounded, and too much energy in my head. She touched my forehead and could feel my longing to see more clearly the invisible realms. She invited my consciousness to reside more firmly in my body. I felt a bit ashamed not to be in my body, that there was still so much work to do to be fully balanced and integrated. It is true in my heart I am still longing so for the angelic realms.

I am reading a book that subscribes to the idea of acceptance of our intrinsic nature, the “poetry” of our personality against a philosophy of redemption or transformation. It is beautifully written but I disagree with the latter part. I feel it is another one of those divine paradoxes that we must totally accept ourselves while continually transforming. The caterpillar accepts itself as it transforms into a butterfly. The flower yearns for the sun from the moment the seed is planted in the soil. Perhaps redemption isn’t a good word, clouded by the cliché of religious association. It is transition, transmutation. Reunion.

I focus my intention continually to be one with Divine Will, that I may be released. Sananda says, “Would you not have your journey” and I think, well, I suppose so. He reminds me that prayer is most effective when one offers gratitude for that which we yearn as if we have already received it. This creates in the now. Gratitude magnifies grace. This is the key to self creation. There is only the present moment and all power lies there.

I am now in the habit of giving thanks for everything, a silent continual blessing. It began as something I imposed upon myself and quickly became a way towards a much deeper appreciation. Right now I give thanks for this tree I am lying under in St. James Park. D. waits for me in a cafe. I had gone to get a paper and found myself running towards this enchanting green oasis. The golden branches twist against a brilliant blue sky. The yellow leaves burst like flames. I am enraptured by the setting sun. I stare into it without blinking until our boundaries merge.

Today Sylvie tried to straighten my head and the effects of a forceps birth. I felt a lightness of sky in my skull. I saw her alight and know she is also from the angelic realms. It doesn’t matter where in the Universe we come from but perhaps there is sometimes a kinship if the origin is the same. She has had the same inspiration for a centre for children but from her angle. All new-borns should have cranial osteopathy. It realigns the skeletal structure and the energy systems. It is a cure and a prevention of many maladies and disharmonies and is best utilised before the bones harden and set. Sherrie used to release excess energy in my head that poured out like steam in a cartoon.

I dreamt about Janie Dee who was in my first play and woke up thinking about her and Christina and Melissa in New York and Anne and thinking how beautiful they all are and how much I loved them.

I secretly wish that God will love me best, like an orphaned child. I realise the only one who can love me best is myself. Children love themselves best. Selfishness does not come from this. Selfishness comes from neediness. If you can love yourself in the simple way a child does, your cup runneth over, this is the love you share with the world.

I am forgiving myself more easily now. Less sharp intake of breath, deep flushing of skin at some imagined faux pas. The daily slings and arrows of life.

D. is really being so loving. I feel very loving towards him too, but not like before. Much more unattached. No tentacles. This is confusing. Perhaps this is a healthy way to love.

This morning, as I sat at a table at a café, a huge heavy clock fell directly in front of me, a half an inch before my nose. I remained completely calm as if I really do trust I will not be harmed as Archangel Michael has told me.

I call upon the Masters of Light and offer myself as a tool through which they may continue to develop themselves. I ask them to imbue my divine plan with their own dreams. I ask to be a vessel for their astounding beauty and the farthest reaches of their imaginations. I am willing to give myself entirely. I give them my thanks, where would I be without them? I felt saddened at first that I needed them, that it seemed I couldn’t make the finish line on my own. Now I know it takes more than one instrument to create a symphony.

Beloved Sananda, I thank you. You blossom my heart. It seems as if a hand could pass through my chest so expanded does it feel, and soft the energy when I achieve the stillness and feel you all around me and within me.

When I was first with D., I gave myself to him entirely. There was nothing I would not do and all I longed for was to be near him. Now, I give myself to the Masters. Is there any difference? I still haven’t surrendered to my Self.

There is a very irrational situation in my life right now. Someone I am writing with has suddenly become very difficult, quite nutty. I wonder why I have drawn this to myself. I am also dreaming of crazy people. I see the degree to which I am suppressing myself. To be crazy is an expression of a longing to be free of control that has gone to an extreme.

L. has come into the office. He is dear man who is currently completely drunk and very upset. His wife is very ill. I try to calm him. Sananda says to give him healing. I hesitate then ask if he wants this. He says he will try anything. I go over to him and put my hands on his shoulders and bring him into Sananda’s Light. When Sananda says it is time, I remove my hands and sit quietly in front of him. He is now totally sober. We talk for awhile and he is very calm.

Merlin is here, now. He reminds me of the praying mantis I loved as a child. He tells me to let go of a chronological or linear idea of time. He says time spirals. Is it possible to comprehend that time is happening all at once? He shows me a rich pulsating vessel of light in which new realities will be born. I sometimes think fo myself as a Queen Termite, or more attractively, as a Queen Bee, in this pulsating tube of light birthing countless ideas, children of the imagination.

Beloved Mary speaks: Dear Child of Light. Stay in balance, there is a turn coming around the corner. You are carrying a sacred message from me encoded in your cells that will now begin to emerge. Now, more than ever, you are to be pure of thought and deed. Keep your thoughts on the Highest.

The message is rushing. Sound, lights, colour. An image of Atlantis, India, Australia, New Zealand. The visage of a magus. Other images are floating. The veil is rent. I am a magician or a healer. I am killed by a rival who I curse as I lay dying, binding me to her for lifetimes. It is my mother. I am seeing other lives of power. Merlin comes. He says, know that you are powerful.

Stop kow-towing to men. In the earlier part of your life you were your own master even if there was a way to go in mastering your emotions. And then came men and for twenty years you have pretended to be Little Bo Peep so as not to scare them.

I know this is true. It’s that old devouring mother thing which Munch depicted so well. Fear of the strong woman. Men love to rescue. As Dostoyevsky said, “Every man loves a woman with a flaw.” Who is more in line with God’s will? She who is magician honouring and harnessing the forces of nature and the Universe for the highest good of all or she whose light flickers as she subjugates herself, sacrifices herself and strives to do good?

Merlin says, Let go of the father, do not identify with the down trodden woman or the woman who imitates the male in her bid for power. Remember the oracle, the sorceress (she who draws from the Source), the Goddess. Command the Light to permeate you. Do this with gratitude and humility but be aware of the power of your thought. Anything is possible. Remember who you are.

Who am I? I am someone who has promised to remember who I am so that others may also remember who and what they are. That is all I really know even now.

How as I begin to relax a simpler path unfurls from my heart

Dream: I am in a huge room, like a converted warehouse in Australia. There are very large canvases and I am teaching women to express their creativity through their emotions and their emotions through their creativity.

Dream: I am somewhere very beautiful. An Aboriginal lady takes me to a leper colony where I start healing with Sananda. I wake up and my hands are blazing hot. It reminds me of the feeling when the milk comes when the baby is hungry.

I still have little spates of violent images, especially when I try to force myself to do things out of habit I don’t really want to do, but I give them no attention or I paint. This morning I did a large watercolour of a Kali Goddess.

Sananda comes. See beyond the veil of illusion. See yourself as a being of Light flying from experience to experience.

The Masters say have fun, paint, play, all will unfold from this. The more relaxed I am, the more the Light can enter. The more joyous I am, the higher my vibration will become and more and more will fall away.

Our friend Amie has popped by. She will be marrying in New Zealand around the same time I will be there.

Dream: I am with J.C. He has put up these very complex healing tables. A man comes in who looks like a very thin Patrick Swaze. He is sparsely dressed. J.C. says I must heal him. I must use my own method and nothing I have learned. If I do not succeed I will not have the chance again for 35 years. I take him off the couch and lean him up against me and gently rock him in a round rolling motion. Finally he wakes up. The healing has taken place.

Dream: I am planning something. Suddenly, an itinerary emerges including Mexico, the Yucatan and other places. I am speaking to people, large groups. I realise I can speak the language of each place.

I have been very still these past few days. I haven’t communicated with the Masters very much. I am feeling full of quiet love and gratitude. There is a small residue in my solar plexus. I am holding a violet flame there to transmute it.

Mary comes now. She says, “You are the hands of God, my child.”

She draws me further and further into God. I am breathing in Love and breathing out Love. My body becomes a sea. My mind becomes a sky. My heart becomes a sun.

Dream: I am walking along holding D.’s hand and I am several inches off the ground.

Dream: I am a warrior of Light. I am showing the sons and daughters of Earth their true divinity. There is a huge door from which light pours and we are walking through.

The crimes that haunted my own childhood have become a kind of strange poetry, half-forgotten. Distilled on the breeze like the distant lament pouring from the lips of a mandolin player I heard from my window each morning in Spain. Yet, the cloak of tears has not been so easy to drop. The crimes against children that darken humanity still thicken the air.

Beloved Sananda, I long for you so deeply. Please, dear Being of Light, be with me now and always, never leave my side. I love you.

I have come to realise the inevitably flawed personality vehicle is not a barrier to Union with God. This is allowing me to be easier on my self. I understand more what seeing beyond the illusion means. It is a shift of perception from the form to the atom.

Each atom holds the love of God and is unfailingly perfect. To comprehend the Universal power in the atom one need only remember the force created by splitting one. To think we are made of billions of these. This force has been used for destruction but it may also be harnessed by divine love and its potential remains largely unexplored. The atoms sing of their love for God, this is the OM, the Universal hum, the song of the spheres echoed in its tiniest component. It is the thoughts of hate which causes the atom to adopt an image of distortion. Fear and its relatives clothe the atoms in a spectral garment. It has become easy to see this, yet this ghostly gown of sadness clings to me. It permeates the marrow, urges the mind, induces, inculcate. There is the state of God’s presence and this sadness pressing its heel. I waver between the two.

I just want to be a normal person.

Dream: A tiger comes to me and rubs itself against me. My daughter and I play with the tiger. There are deer as well.

How I am struck again and again by the ecstasy of devotion

My daughter and I arrive at Camp Courageous, where the gathering will be held, in the wilds of Iowa. The land is stark mid-winter, the soft violet sky punctuated by dark branches.

People are arriving, Grandfather Wallace Black Elk, Milo Fat Beaver and Kathy, Ingrid, delicate Nicole, Vera of the Tuscaroras, Dan, who sees Mary’s Light in me and looks after me, spiritual elders and medicine men and women from the Hopi, the Muskogee, the Lakota tribes, a representative of the Dali Lama, Olga from Russia, sceptical filmmakers from Finland here to record the event, Jean from England, and many others.

Grandfather Wallace is speaking of the eye beings and the animal beings and the spirit beings who teach him in such detail, he is able to lecture to doctors and physicists and speak in different languages despite having had no formal education.

Katherine is lovely. She has organised an amazing event. I am fond of her parents who are generous to all.

There is a sense of significance accentuated by the belief among many that this gathering is the fulfilment of a prophecy that signifies the beginning of a promised golden age. Many have had visions and dreams of the Divine Mother in all her guises, White Buffalo Calf Woman, Tara, Kwan Yin, Mary and others in the months before.

Annie, whose angelic origin is immediately apparent, moves gentle as a deer. She says, I know you. You were at the beginning, when the blueprint for this planet was whirled into being. I certainly feel like I’ve been here forever.

There is an older man, plain speaking, of the land, with clear knowledge of the power of words and healing hands that have made miracles. He is an inventor.

People gathered from all over the world in the hope of creating a paradigm of unity.

The first night there is a ceremony. Milo lays out his sacred tools and we gather. There is an insistent drum embodied by the spirit beings he works with who reach out and touch, balancing and uplifting. He is chanting in a low voice, or singing. There are the sounds of bells, smoke to cleanse the dimensions. The colours of the body are brought into balance. The ancestors are called.

The chant is insistent. A rattle shakes. The energy in the room becomes mildly electric. The drum beat merges with my heartbeat. Suddenly I am on a mountain, snow light, the Himalayas. There are rings of family moving backwards and forwards into infinity. I am moving in the wind. Curling, swiftly shifting between form and energy. The wind softens and I enter the stillness and in this clarity the lights and darks are heightened and the form is sharp, as is the light within it.

The morning light turns from brittle to hazy. My daughter and I are in the woods. The frosting of ice cracks beneath our feet, a satisfying sound. We stand on a little bridge, she is singing to the trees which stand alert with delight. Broadway bounty rings through the air.

The days find a pattern. It feels like we are a microcosm of the world. There is so much energy flying that some people become ill. Doors are inexplicably slamming and my daughter sees laughing sprites causing a hullabaloo drawn to this swirling hurricane of forces.

Wallace Black Elk directs the building of a sweat lodge in the woods and invites those who wish to come to a ceremony usually closed. His pipe speaks and he interprets its whistling sounds: the importance of acknowledging and respecting the Spirit in all things, the sacredness. Stop the poisons, the rivers of poison, the poisonous thought. He speaks of the coming together of all peoples, all nations, all paths converging in the One. There are clearly visible spirit beings flying around in the clamorous heat. The Finish filmmakers, previously cynical, sit in wide-eyed silence.

There are eagles soaring in Cedar Rapids and nearby a white buffalo has been born, its coat changing over days to yellow then red then black, sealing the ancient prophecy.

The women gather and in the dark of the night. In the freezing air a fire jumps beneath the stars. It is a moon lodge in the Lakota Way. We heal the nations, the abuses of women, the attacks on skin. The colour of blood is the same, the dreams of the heart are the same, the whisper of spirit, the same. Eyes are graced in the amber light and skin of every hue is shining.

We each come forward and speak our peace, say our prayer, our wish. It is my turn and in that moment I am struck by a force that draws me to my knees. I am cracked open to the core in front of these people and something from somewhere unfathomable is pouring from me. Words of praise and longing. I become a living bridge for that other place I remember in my heart and bones. The sacred colours and the keynotes of the essences of creation are called through me. The conception and manifestation of the soul. My face is raining. I am taken deeper than I have ever been before.

In the main dining hall we congregate, chatter, a beautiful dance by a girl from the islands, a dance where each one sings, my daughter’s clear high voice rippling in waves, her loving openness entrancing. Vera sings a song from her tradition making brotherhood of all the beings of the earth.

On New Years Eve there is a gathering. There is a feeling of representation. The whole world is in this room. A rose light is surrounding the building. Katherine leads a prayer calling for the coming together to begin. On New Year’s morning the air is cold, the snow bright, the woods still. My daughter and I walk for hours on a trail and come to a place where bears have been.

Later, the whole group is gathered. A woman calls each to come to her and she cleanses our feet in a bath and as she does so, an Angel speaks through her of a truth of each person. The Masters ask me to hold the Light and for eight hours, without ceasing, I hold the Light during the ceremony. There are those who are shy or sceptical or unsure of this intimacy but most go up to her in the end. This is an act of deep generosity on her part. She is giving so much and it is perhaps too much to bring through this energy for such a long period without a break. My daughter goes up. Laolin sees she is a great spiritual warrior, a leader who has been healer and shaman on every continent. She brings the knowledge of the stars to root in the welcoming soil.

Near to the last I am called up. She takes my feet into the warm water laced with clay and others draw near to me as they have been doing. It is the sweetest baptism. She honours me for keeping sacred the flame of the ancient mysteries that she sees burning inside me. And then she turns and calls out, “ Holy, Holy, Holy, the Holy one walks among us,” and once again, I am struck and I am lifted up and lifted up and carried by the people near me and I am opened deeper and deeper, pearl laden, the God space swallowing me and I am in another place and they are singing to me, “Oh Mother carry me, a child I will always be, Oh Mother carry me, down to the sea” and I become Mother and I become river and I become sea and I say in my heart, I will carry them.

As this is occurring, I am moving again into that other place. I am feeling expanded to the size of an ocean. I am growing to encompass this energy. The Shekinah is descending into me or emerging from me. I am merging with it. I am becoming it. I am one with it.

Katherine and I call down the Divine Rays and say Mary’s prayer for the birth of the Divine Self within each one.

There are angels everywhere. I am in a soul space. I am in the Heart of God. I am experiencing the quality of the Divine Mother. I see Her and feel Her in every part of me. Homecoming.

Unprecedented snow storms and heat waves are occurring across America.

Katherine has arranged for a group of us, a kind of League of Nations, to go into some of the schools.

There is a sea of little faces in assembly. We introduce ourselves and sing to them and with them. In the classrooms, I teach them what I have learned, the safe expression of emotion and the expression of creativity. They are shy but very responsive. One little boy asks if I can stay and be their art teacher. They are happy for these new skills and understand everything easily. It is a well-run school that already prizes creativity.

In a room of autistic children there is a row of disapproving teachers. ‘What will I do?” they wonder. I see these children’s faces closed up tight. The door is locked and the key is hidden. I have an overwhelming sense that there is a whole person just behind each door. It is as if they are suffering an enchantment, somehow under a spell that could be lifted. I want the grownups to leave so I can do a wild dance to surprise them and then hug them. I begin to talk and ask them things and then simply to tell them they are wonderful, they are loved and I tell them how to find the love that will always be there for them in their hearts. Some are impassive. A few speak. Finally, a boy comes to the front of the classroom and does a little poignant dance for me.

The next school has fewer resources and the children have a grey pallor. One comes up to my friend, Lonnie, and asks her if she is God’s father. There is enormous tension in the classrooms. The teachers are worried their students will do something wrong. In a class for small children, we dance. They are afraid to and I ask the teachers to dance and they do and then the children do. The atmosphere eases and then we begin.

It is time to go. I am not well from so little sleep and lack of sanctuary and I am going to New Zealand shortly. I am torn between meeting up with my daughter, who has left early to see my family, my grandmother in her late nineties, or staying on until completion of the event. In the end, I choose family, although it is causing inner and outer conflict to leave early.

Vera has given me a pouch to bring to Australia. In it is bear medicine and other sacred and powerful things passed down to her. I am honoured by this. The pouch is beautifully beaded. She says to find a feminine place and bury this in the Earth. She does not explain why.

We are gathered in a church now and Vera is singing Ave Maria. She has a striking presence. Her heart is huge and deep and the song is pouring through it. A third time I am struck as if by lightening. It is all I can do to contain myself. When the last note dissolves on the air, I slip away as silent as snow to find a quiet place before my cells rocket ship to the ceiling in front of everyone.

A flame is encompassing me and I am at the blue centre, cut through, pierced as if by laser. There are the taps of footsteps outside this door reminding me where I am as I fan out into space.

My face is wet with tears but it is the face of another, a woman sitting in a small room holding herself, rent with a profundity she cannot contain. I am the Mother rocking the Child. I am astonished by the depth of this hidden place I know so well when I am in it but which disappears later, leaving barely a trace.

I am encompassed by waves. Sonar reverberations throbbing me. Radiating outward in rings. It feels like I am at the centre of the beginning of timelessness, beginning over and over eternally. Time is like a circle, Einstein said. Everything is happening all at once. Perhaps this was an insight into Eternity, not time. The footsteps outside echo as if at the end of a tunnel.

I am being held in a cocoon, a bubble in time, another dimension enfolded within the one we normally reside. Her arms are rocking me. I am anointed by fire. Floating at the core. There is a tenderness around me. The air is alive with it. It is a palpable living essence. I rock the Son, the Christ, the Flame,
the Gift, the Father, the Child, the Sun.

My arms are smooth as silk as strong as trees as light as leaves. The sky is burning blue inside me. The taste of rain. I am inside out. The sides of my body tremble. I am a floating flame in a circle of God. He is inside me and I am inside Him.

He is Mother, Father, Child. I am He. I am the Father holding the Mother holding the Sun. The First Child without beginning or end moving endlessly through tactile space touching all places simultaneously. Swimming upward from an inside place. Soaring
in the breath. Footsteps become heartbeat. Cells radiate, dance.

Eternity is pounding unmeasured in deep valentine.

There is a song, a tone, a sound, a call. I am a harp, a horn. My body falls away. Tumbling like the walls of Jericho. The thin shell is obliterated. A force blasts my atoms. A siren song, a sonar response. A silent music washes me. My head and heart are hot ice. Light white and golden pours through me, a waterfall, a bridal veil. I am in a distant kingdom but here and never gone.

Before bliss. Before ego. Before the knowledge of the soul.

It is knowing. The beginning without beginning. Wave upon wave upon wave upon wave.

Far away a woman rocks herself.

How the home of the heart continues to elude me

It seems at first a trick, these visitations of the Heart. The King asks you to tea and then casts you out again. It is a taste of the flame and I have not yet learned how not to fall.

A great angel is speaking through Christina, one of her guides. I ask it who is the angel who guides me and she says, Jesus. Ah, I think, perhaps I was an angel who watched over him and this is how I know him so well. And now he repays me. The King of Angels. But the name I knew was Yeshua. Yeshua. Yeshua.

We are coming to the era of the storytellers. Each will find a way to tell their story. To give back to God the gift of who they are. Each will approach their life as an artist whatever their goals. A time of unprecedented creativity.

Words are vibration. In the beginning was the Word. The first hum. The electric song. The first manifestation. The fountainhead. Words relate to the body. The body is the keeper of story. Stars, moons, suns, planets, bodies are the words of God. And each in turn tells their story. Returns the communication. Fashions their personal song to form the symphony.

Trust continues to be the hardest thing. The heart knows trust. The mind accepts it. The body remembers betrayal and can’t let go of the past. The body must be cleared of its stories so it may finally create itself anew.

I join my daughter in Florida. My family seems cold, removed. It feels surreal. Perhaps I seem aloof but really, I am serene. It is rigid and formal. They are distrustful of the gathering I’ve been to. I have been bathing in warm milk and honey and now my mouth is tasting lemons. I begin to regret leaving and I wonder if I have set myself up. I cannot leave self-punishment behind. I try to have compassion but I feel an alien in this place. I am an outcast. It is too much of a shock. I have made a mistake. Denied myself. My kidneys are clenching. This is how my body kills me. I torment myself. The serenity leaves me and I fall into chaos. I enter their projection. Become its counterpart.

“Nothing is right or wrong but thinking makes it so,” Shakespeare said. And here am I making myself wrong again. I have fallen off the horse. Again.

Mary comforts me. She says I did the right thing. It was time to go and it is right to confront these old patterns now.

The unfolding of your path is your purpose on Earth and it all happens at the right time. Every choice you make is the right choice. You don’t miss anything for whatever you are receiving is just right for your learning process. Each being unfolds in their own perfect time. You did what was right for you at the time.

But I’m still learning through pain when it is long past time for a new way.

We go to see my grandmother. My father and daughter. Four generations. She is 98. There is wonderful jazzy music on and she is moving to it in her over-stuffed chair. The white tissue in her hand she caresses like a small dove. She is weaving stream of consciousness impressions of her youth. My grandfather, how they danced. She notices the painting on the wall and it reminds her, takes her back. She looks at it as if it’s a moving picture. A good life, full. She left Russia as a young girl and married an entrepreneur whose untimely death quieted her though she went on to another happy marriage. My visits with her, her warmth, solidity and acceptance of me were welcome anchors in my youth. This is a good time, the four of us together.

Cats and elephants and apes are painting pictures with awareness all over the globe and even signing them.. They are responding to the expanding energies. This is increasing. It is said it is impossible for a human to imitate the bold, confident gesture of a chimp and it is also impossible to exploit them, for an ape won’t paint something it doesn’t want to.

Sananda shows me a vision of a garden of roses. Some are blooming, some are blossoming and some are buds. In the centre is a large, golden bud with a rosy hue. All around her buds are blooming but she is a little shy. She has her own timing. She carefully tends her energy, soaks up the sun, drinks the dew. She is a glorious rose.

Dream (as I sleep on the plane to London): I am in an airplane sailing through space. I am crying. I am five years old. My pain is being healed. Mary and Jesus are there and the angels. Kuthumi and St. Germain and Kwan Yin and El Morya take care of my mother whose wounds must close for me to be released.

In the dream, she must be healed then I will be free of pain. They surround her with so much love she breaks down and begins to release all her suffering. It pours from her. All her weapons float down the river. They transform into swans and insects and butterflies. She crumples, emptied of everything, and disappears. She is replaced by a gentlewoman with the head of a horse. It is my true Earth mother, her true form, and I am able to embrace her. I am beautiful and so loved. I am wearing a white dress the Masters replace with a gown of lights.

Behind my mother is my grandmother. She is being healed also. Birds are flying from her. The farm, the fetes, the golden corn. Her children. All her paintings. Wildflowers, Jack-in-the-Pulpits, Wisteria, floribunda flirting with the summer breeze, Baby’s Breath, Queen Anne’s Lace, Black-Eyed Suzans. Wild Strawberries. All of this flies from her and she is free.

Floating above her is her mother and my great grandmother, blushing ruby. The French dancer who had my grandmother when young and gave her up. Who later met her by chance (a beautiful stranger and grandma, tiny and dear in her brown cloth coat and hat) and said in a rich accented voice, “a symphony in brown,” my grandmother’s one abiding memory of her. A river of women trails behind her into the sun. The whole maternal Earth ancestry is healed. I am free. My daughter is there. Beside her is a lion.

I wake up and realise I have been crying in my sleep. Sweet tears.

Sananda says any negative thought damages or fatigues the nervous system. The nervous system seems the deepest physical level at least that I can perceive. It is like a fuse box and if a switch trips, it’s hell, the lights blow (the falling off the horse) and it can takes days to correct itself, weeks. He says we must nurture ourselves before we can easily nurture others. We must love ourselves so there is no deficit when we love others.

He reminds me the contraction after expansion will be less painful when we allow it to happen, when we don’t resist. When we are in the centre of our creativity everything flows.

I have been disliking being human as if I could clear myself of being human. As if it was an illness. This causes me to snap into being all too human and then I loathe my humanity and its foibles even more. When I can love all that it means to be human then I will love myself.

I have been fed up and angry and self pitying for days now. I am just letting myself do it. I’ve stopped trying to stop it, stopped hating myself for it. Stopped trying to force compassion and forgiveness for myself or others where it is not naturally flowing. I have said “I don’t care” a 1000 times to myself like a spoiled child and become angry at the Masters and angry at God for putting me in this sticky little body for His experiment. I refuse to accept responsibility. At least I flicker with anger instead of defeat. I feel like the caterpillar who will never become a butterfly.

Ah, the butterfly, she flutters by, high in a clear blue sky.

The dam is up and I have difficulty being ceaselessly creative or even slightly creative. I know there is an ebb and a flow but with me it is mostly ebb. Little bursts and then ebb. I am afraid of creating. Afraid of judgement. My own as well as others. Afraid of not creating beauty or majesty or even something interesting. There are tidal waves when the mould breaks and it pours and then constipation where I choose too carefully, overwork, lose freshness, spend my days on petty tasks, create new projects in the theatre to distract myself. I don’t know how to play.

It is easing up now. Ten days of self torment (the mind racing, repeating, raking over coals, the kidneys burning, the heart aching, the neck seizing as if to throttle me, the feeling of continual electrocution, the memories of my childhood crowding me like clouds of dark crows bursting from behind sealed doors, blocking the Light, suffocating me, a horrific unstoppable domino effect) is quite enough. Too few a skins.

Anne in New York is going through a strange hell that is quite wonderful, full blown, poetic, erotic, esoteric, dramatic. The human dream is multi-coloured, multi-farious, multiloquious mumchance. Love and blessings to all.

A new visitor. Vishnu came to Christina to broaden our vision of who we can communicate with and said the only message is follow your heart.

Mary comes to me and speaks to me of my experiences in Iowa. She is no longer a person to me or an Ascended Master, she is the Heart of God, something in my cells which has fanned out and enveloped me. Mary is the name of one of her representations on Earth. A face, so to speak, although she has many faces. She is the Immaculate Conception, as she told Bernadette. The Divine Plan made manifest. She is the face of the Divine Mother of the Mother Father God, the All that Is.

She explains that my experiences at the global gathering were God realisations. Realisations of Self for Self is God, there is no separation. I had these experiences as a child, innocent of language, free of any cataloguing of memory beyond the collection of reverence in the chalice of my cells.

As a teenager, Oneness would come upon me in an instant and I would look around in wonder as the trees became alight and the edges between me and the world blurred and the stillness moved out the edges of me until there was no distinction between me and my surroundings. Just a peace and an uplifting and sometimes a wild joy.

She says we are all aspects of Her it is just that I so want to know Her, so want to experience God in form and this longing draws experience, opens me to receive Her and She fills me gently, as much as she is able to without breaking the vessel.

She says in Australia and New Zealand she would like me to learn better how to follow my heart. How this “crash” I have just experienced was the repercussion of not following my heart. It is a learning experience but there is a different way to learn now. If you make a mistake just forgive it and let it go. This habit of self-punishment is deeply ingrained. (I took over where others left off and that’s how it goes until the pattern is dissolved.) To love yourself is to follow your heart, which is the Will of God. And to forgive yourself your mistakes.

Despite the various personality conflicts and a few clashing belief systems there was a feeling of sacredness about the global gathering which is difficult to convey. Dear Mary, what was its purpose, truly? A hologram of Oneness.

I am seeing now how symbolic things are, clearing oneself, sacred ceremony, ritual. It is all a way of focusing intention. You don’t have to do any of it. Unless you want to play in that particular way. All you need is the intention. I am within God, dreaming the dream of myself.

D. will come with me to New Zealand for Amie’s wedding and then I will go on to Australia and he will go back to London. I don’t know how long I am meant to be going for or what I should bring. My daughter is coming back from school to stay. Whatever was to be gained has been. However, her coming home changes my feeling about going, especially as she is now feeling vulnerable. What she thought would be was quite different from what was. Her re-invention has left her exhausted and wanting cosiness and family and here I am, going. Although she will be with D. and her father, I don’t want her to feel left by me.

How I came to take on the suffering of the world

We have a week together here. We have rented a car and are exploring this curious place. I am looking, looking for the New Zealand of my dreams and it is evading me. It is just around the corner we never take. It is interesting what we see, though. There are vast spaces in between landmarks. One path may inspire, another may produce indifferent architecture and tourist shops. We drive from Auckland to Wellington by way of Lake Taupo. There is a completely Art Deco town. We stay in a very strange lodging house with staring people sunk deep in old stuffed chairs lining the hallways. Wellington is lovely with cafes and theatres. Leaving Wellington, something horrific happens.

A man deliberately kills himself by running into the road and smack into our car.

We are leaving Wellington and I am feeling tired. I lean back to sleep and as I do I hear Mary tell me to lower the seat of the car. I do so and my hand jerks oddly forward lowering me to full recline, which I accept and fall asleep.

The next thing I know, there is a loud sound, a thud, a thump and out of the corner of my eye, I see a figure like a panther, a very large woman or a man with long hair, jump on the car. There is glass everywhere, the windshield has caved in. The car has stopped. Someone is already running to phone an ambulance. I rush out of the car and there he is beneath the wheel, immobile, bloody. I go towards him and as I do so, a woman grabs my arm and pulls me to the verge and begins praying. I am distraught for him and for D. who is now talking to police. The woman is praying for me, to calm me and I say, no, pray for him and I pray for him and my husband who has gone pure white.

The ambulance is there and they lift him up. His shirt falls open to expose the breasts of a woman. We are taken to the police station. We hear his story.

He is a transvestite, fairly outcast in this small town. A few days earlier, a woman whose lawn he mowed, his friend, the one person he had contact with, had been found dead by him, her small daughter wandering around the house, hungry and calling for her. This had thrown him into a downward spiral that led to this act that has ended his life.

The policemen are nice, they question us separately. They are very sad for this man who has been known as a “problem” in the neighbourhood. We stay at the house of the woman who helped me.

I have not stopped praying for him. I cannot stop, but it is not what I quite call a prayer. It is as if I am absorbing him. And as I do, more and more of his life is being revealed to me. It is as if his psyche is intertwining with mine. I am feeling everything inside of him. All his emotions, his frantic thinking, his isolation, his enormous grief, his strangeness. It is as if I am taking him into me, his heart and soul. It is as if I am transmuting him in the crucible of my heart.

This permeation and absorption continues and increases. I do not waver even for an instant. I hold him in my heart and his great suffering causes my heart to swell and then, finally, to rip in order that it may be contained within it. There is great burning pain in my heart as it is torn. The suffering of this man is greater than I have experienced, greater than I have known in my life. There are two pains. The unbearable heaviness of his and a kind of personal physical and emotional pain as I am torn open to encompass him.

I feel him spiralling down like quicksand. The images torment me. He is springing from the asphalt. Flying through the air like Spider Man. His face contorted with wild grief. And then laid out beneath the wheel, his face a fairground shock. I see him find the toddler who roamed her house for five days feeding on biscuits and margarine, calling for her “sleeping” mother. I see his life, the panicked self-absorption, the loneliness, the distorted self-image reflected in the eyes of those who stare, their eyes a fun house mirror, the horror. There is sorrow at my feet. The illusion of form slips away, a discarded gown. I struggle to catch it. To scoop it up. I want to go to this man and put my hands near him and let a miracle flow, to create anew.

I want to tell him he is loved. I want to tell him, I love you, strange unloved man, mountainous red-rivered face. You are in my mind, leaping like a puma, flying like a spider man. All action and then this stillness. Over and over, I trust my first instinct. I go to you now. I tell you over and over, you are a brave, brilliant being of light. I whisper to you like a child. I sing to you like a mother. I do not leave you in your death cold on the street as I pray on the wayside in the safety of a stranger’s arms. I lift you up and cup you to me. I kiss the unkissed cheeks and pray your flying soul can feel it. I make a shroud of my arms and a benediction of my tears.

Little children are feeding on biscuits and margarine and crying for their mothers. They are lying at my feet, so still, so still. You are my teacher man/woman, breasts at last mournfully displayed. I see beyond your form to the tender beauty. You are grace. My heart stretches searing me to embrace you. I will hold you now, forever.

I realise that the Masters may have saved my life by telling me to put my seat back. I also realise this means they saw this coming. Sananda says this man was drawn to my light. He says a miracle has happened. My love has cleared this man. He will not have to transmute his fears and agonies over lifetimes. Sananda says to let go of the image of the body now. It is no longer and is of no consequence. All that happened was the right thing.

I am feeling very vulnerable. We are driving through the northern part of the North Island. It is exquisitely beautiful and my favourite part. The land is lush and mountainous. The town Amie’s parents live near is charming. We are still both very shaken. D. is still having difficulty coming to terms with it but it helps that witnesses have confirmed that there was nothing he could have done to avert it.

The wedding is beautiful, in an ancient church. Amie is resplendent in her ivory gown, her golden hair. Her lover matches her in temperament. They are both full of life, charismatic and passionate. She is blessed with a spontaneous, radiant nature and a great sense of humour and I’ve always been really fond of her, ever since she came to work at the theatre as a very young woman. Her parents have organised a feast under the stars, there is dancing and heart felt speeches and it feels wonderful to be part of this loving family for an evening. Amie is part Maori and some of their dreams are within her, making her a mysterious and intriguing combination of elements. She is a walking miracle, a testimony to the power of intention, of focused thought, of prayer. Hit by a motorcycle when very young she was left with no hope, the expectation of a broken a life, a vegetable. Her parents called on the entire country to pray for her and in a short time, she recovered entirely, entering school at her right age and with a very bright mind.

Today, we must depart for a promised visit to South Island. Driving down towards Auckland we are intoxicated by the soft endless green. We walk in the woods and find a secret niche carpeted with strong scented pine needles. We lay down our jackets and draw each other near. Skin upon skin on the skin of the Earth beneath the trees dappled by light. The sweet rocking surrender. The rushing of blood. This man I love took years to appear in my dreams. I still sometimes wonder who he is. But my body knows him.

I speak to my daughter in the very early morning and her plaintive voice makes me long for her. The wind whips her words away. I hear of roaring teachers and splintering wood and sanctuary in the bathtub, toes glowing red. A bar of soap becomes a mermaid in her small delicate hands. Her blossoming form rises from the water, curling pink and white in classic architectural line. Her translucent brow. The tadpole blushed free on amniotic flood becomes sea goddess in city water by candlelight. The warmth of your voice upon my ear secretes an elixir my body drinks like milk.

We find the ocean and stop for a while. The sand stretches between turquoise water and rough-hewn rock. I relax into the insistent rhythmic breath of the waves. There are hawks nestling in the cove. My body merges across green hills. Beneath my feet the ocean baptises me again and again. I stand in the water becoming larger, transforming sugar to salt. Blood becomes river, my heart this ocean, the black rocks speaking runes. I see who I am in the white foam. In the phosphorescent sky. In the tumultuous purr of the water caressing the land.

In Christchurch, we spend a few days with friends and then head off for a resort town primarily for New Zealanders. We stay in a wonderful old crumbling hotel with all its original features and walk on volcanic paths. A young girl tumbles down and hurts her legs badly. Sananda says to go to her. I am very embarrassed but move through concerned parents and siblings to put my hands on the legs of the girl who is crying in pain. She looks at me querulously but her face relaxes. The pain subsists, I smooth her leg and brush the leaves off of her and walk off. Her parents look at me questioningly, gratitude faintly tinged with hostility.

I am off to Australia, soon. D. will return to London. My daughter is missing us dearly and I hope it will ease when he returns. It’s putting a damper on my courage as that invisible thread between mother and child pulls me towards her. I’ve never been away from her for very long.

Sydney is lovely. There is a feeling of elegance and four squareness combined. It is not unlike New York many years ago with many very impressive buildings and a wonderful botanical garden. My favourite small park has trees I have never seen, huge and smooth as if carved from brown marble with branches that look like arms with elbows. There are lanterns and tiny fairy lights that sparkle like low stars at dusk. The huge kiwi birds forage at their roots. I spend several days exploring Sydney, walking around every area, attending a film festival, feeling free but also as if my experience with the man who died has taught me more than anything which could occur now and I am really missing my daughter and D. She is much happier now that he is back.

Beauty is scorching me today. The red of a red velvet dress sears my eyes. Thrashing sunlit carnelian carp in the Chinese Garden near Darling Harbour. The floating iridescent green on the duck’s wings. Kwan Yin says, see me behind every face, I am there.

It is time to bury Vera’s pouch. I ask this loving thing which has brought me comfort where it would like to buried and I am directed to the Blue Mountains. I make my way by train to the eucalyptus covered mountains which appear bright blue in the mist.

I arrive in the small town of Katoomba that reminds me of a Colorado mountain town. Charming clapboard houses with porches, little shops and cafes and beyond that, land, cliffs, mountains. I find a place to stay and rest for a while.

The pouch has been speaking to me, soundlessly, urgently. Now is the time. I set off with it trailing along the ridge, the magnificent blue sea of trees below. There is the screeching of birds, a discordant orchestra drawing me. I come to a soft grassy enclosure. When I arrive, they are suddenly quiet. One bird flies free of the others right by me. It waits on a branch until I follow. It is a treacherous route tumbling down a narrow ravine. Brambles scratch my legs. At each bend, it stops and waits. Suddenly there is the sweetest creek and a small waterfall. It is so remote and hidden, it is possible no one has ever been here. Within the waterfall is a plateau. I rinse the pouch and allow it to speak through me. It is saying it will take with it the suffering of its people. I cry out in six directions its message. The song of suffering will begin to cease now for the people of the Earth. The habit of suffering must be forgotten. The past must be burned and buried. It is time to begin anew. Take what is good and leave the rest. I sit in stillness in this womb of Earth, the clear chill water trickling over my fingers. My heart begins to open, to expand, to move across the planet kissing all the kingdoms. All the little children are crying out within me. All the lonely people. I enclose them and embrace them. Suddenly, I am gone.

I have become all heart.

I begin to understand the science of the spirit

The shift of a mental perception is akin to the moving of a mountain. What is small is very large. The tiniest glimpse of truth has the ability to alter our worldview and the subsequent manifestation of a life.

Making life decisions based on fear over love causes inner conflict in the end more unbearable than any chaos in our lives. This, perhaps, is all the heart wants to do, choose love. This does not deny the pursuits of the intellect. When the mind pursues what it values in its heart, when it is drawn to what it truly and intrinsically loves, it taps the hidden universal wisdom that bears rich fruit. The scientist or higher mathematician who has a love affair with truth will unfold the secrets of the ages. Revelation rises from the ashes of the intellect, the perfect combination of inspiration and practical application.

The ego is willing to kill us for what it perceives as failure. Its keynotes are self-torment, attack, inflation or deflation of the personality. In its muddled rationale, we are better off dead than at risk. It is the juvenile delinquent of the psyche but in the end, it will have been our greatest teacher. It devised the concept of limitation or sprung into being at our first thought of limitation and our triumph will be to overcome it. It shrivels to dust when we speak our truth and when it returns to shame us for our efforts, our only recourse is to speak our feelings without blame, to express, to paint its fear, sing it, write it, dance it until the outpouring of lead transmutes to gold and we are free again.

The dictionary definition of ego is the I, the one who sees but it is the Self who sees truly. The ego’s attempt to define is but one way of seeing. When we see through the lens of the true Self we apprehend a perception of ourselves as whole, not separated into categories, the mind-body-heart-spirit, one cohesive thought. The split occurs when we shift our focus from the eternal truth of Oneness, of wholeness, to the temporality of separation, mortality, fear, attack. The ego is merely a point of view that we can instantly dissemble by shifting our focus. “I think therefore I am.” As you think, so you are.

There is no doubt I am undergoing a perceptual shift. The rock is budging, rolling away. All urgency has faded. I am in a quiet place. Far less concerned with becoming. I find this place, spiral away and find it again, on an even deeper level.

I accept I am somehow meant to teach the creative nature of the soul, of Life itself, to restore creation by restoring creativity. Perhaps I am only meant to teach myself this, or teach by living this.

Sananda explains the state of bliss is total surrender to the Universal flow. Total receptivity and total giving back (expression). Receiving and expressing God in this way is the spiritualisation of matter. The journey of form becomes a joyous exploration of creative possibility, the giving and receiving of love, the sculpting of essence into shape and story with all the lights and shades of life on Earth. To have, give all to all through the loving expression of true Self. To hold creates emptiness.

I have been sending love all the time to Christopher Reeves. It is a form of expression for me. I am pleased to read he believes he will walk again. It is only a matter of time before his great strength of mind effects his physical manifestation. Already he has surpassed expectations. See him walking. Help him by sending love and seeing him walking. He is a great teacher.

Surrender. Surrender to the soul. It is like a fairy tale. I find myself by giving myself away. I give myself to God and He returns me whole. I find my Self who was here all along. Dear World, the veil is thin, a puff of smoke. Blow!

Seek first the kingdom of heaven and all else will be added to it.

Today is my birthday. I want to paint but I am hesitant. All the clearing, the lightening, the letting go will not save me from the necessity of the doing, the act of will, the sheer courage and force to transform passivity to activity.

Kwan Yin says to paint only for God, for the part of God within me. Paint for myself.

Every encounter is a holy encounter. An opportunity for healing and communication. Healing occurs in the eternal present, erases the past through forgiveness and releases the future. I give you a gift of light, a special light in your heart, a blue flame. It is moving to violet and silver and is edged with gold. It is deep electric blue. It will enfold you in peace and protection. It is your birthday gift from me. There is a flickering of deep pink at the top. It will help draw your creativity forth. Contemplate it. Breathe it. Dance it.

I see a bit of emerald green in it as well and white all around it. It is very beautiful. Kwan Yin, I thank you with all my heart. Now, I see ruby. Sleep now, she says. Goodnight, my dearest Kwannie. Thank you.

I am feeling relieved. I am beginning. I will write a book with Kwan Yin for children and teachers and parents to help solve these problems, to help generations start at the point in the journey I am only now beginning. I think I will call it The Creative Nature of the Soul or Creativity, Illumination and the Healing of Civilisation.

I am a being who does as she pleases. As I surrender to my heart and my Source I see this is not selfishness but Self-fullness.

Christina has arrived from Sweden. She has brought with her a lovely woman, Eva-Lisa. I know right away she is an angel who has forgotten her origin and like a waterfall, within minutes, we are together finding the moment of forgetting and healing it. I ask Kwan Yin if she is my angel baby. She is a great healer, a sleeping master who has forgotten who she is. The green flame of healing is in her heart.

Eva-Lisa sees the man who died in Australia near me. He is with Sananda. He appears to her as a glorious large multicoloured being similar to a butterfly. He says he will help me when I need him. She hears his name as Raymion.

Our cat, PussPuss goes over to her. I call him away and Eva-Lisa says, “Shh. He is telling me something.” He tells her that he is a reincarnation of the mouse I played with as a child. It is true as a child in Boston, my mother could not bring herself to kill the mice where we lived on Beacon Hill and I played with them.

I am concerned that my daughter is not receiving enough love. She is very sensitive and sometimes I am more aware of the pull of her needs then the exchange between us. It is difficult sometimes to keep responses pure and unfettered by a sense of duty which has coldness. I need to just fall into her world unquestioningly more often rather than always expecting her to adjust to my world. It is an act of imagination to create for her what I have only fleetingly known. A tenderness and sensitivity and absence of barriers. A deep generosity which goes beyond duty is what I long to give her.

It has been a little strained with Christina. I feel I don’t have enough to give everyone. I am withdrawn. It is spring, 1996. Precisely a year since all this began. Today, Christina began writing and this expression instantly freed her. She will spiral away again as I do but she is getting closer to her fulfilment.

Christina and I need to find a new way to be together. We no longer have an obsessive desire to figure out the Universe, endlessly dissect the human psyche or gather endless bits of information from the Masters. We still hardly know each other outside of this context.

Sananda would like me to write a small book called The Renaissance of Devotion. Kwan Yin has recommended that we re-connect with J. (the osteopath) to finish what was begun. We have arranged for Christina to meet him, as it is she who has chosen to teach.

She saw him today and it went very well. He remembered quickly and various skills were easily awakened. She saw his beauty and loves him, too. The cycle is complete now. I taught myself via him by always speaking the truth of the moment even when it seemed a great risk emotionally and even when it later seemed a mistake and perhaps that was good for him, too.

Can we love each other without shame or expectations?

The part I call the ego is afraid of Oneness. It is so obstinate in holding its focus on limitation, re-creating itself perpetually. It is afraid if Oneness is realised it, will be obliterated. And it is right. But there is a distinct individuality beyond the personality self. I do feel my personality dissolving. Many elements by which I defined myself are falling away. But it is only false veneers, nothing is lost. They have no meaning.

There is a rare uniqueness in each being. No two perceptions are the same even at the deepest level. And from this we flow outwards creating ourselves by how we perceive, what we choose, what we express. All of this is a moveable feast. The original imprint is a sound, a literal note from which the musical instrument of our being is made. We are notes in a magnificent orchestra creating songs in an endless repertoire. Each personal Universe overlapping and interweaving with the rest.

What exists for us is what we focus on. If we focus on fear, then there is fear, likewise with the past, imperfections, anxieties. If we focus on love and creativity, this will emerge.

Like the barn in the Narnia Tales, behind my doors is the Universe. But it is my Universe. My creation. I am still only courting this wise creative one, this true Self that is uniquely within each of us. It is like all the tales when the Beast is finally truly loved and is restored, his enchantment falling away or when Snow White is kissed and awakened by the prince, the perfect merging of the masculine and feminine principles leading to the golden castle in the beautiful kingdom. This is our story, those of us who have forgotten. I am still at the beginning.

The actor Alan Rickman was in my dream as well as a police constable who places his hand on my face and intoxicates me.

Saw the play last night that D. has directed with Susannah York and Maggie Kirkpatrick. It was good, fascinating, about female POWs during the Second World War. It was the Press Night. I am tired now. I drank too much tea and painted for five hours and then wrote for five hours. Goodnight world.

Today, another day with no sunshine. As I was trying to sleep, my mind was rushing with colours and images. Whole paintings were forming before my eyes with every brush stroke in place and the colours as luminous as stained glass. I thought I will write these books for the Masters and then three novels I already have the stories for, one of which I’m working on and some movies and spend the rest of my life painting. Or maybe the other way around. Words have their own colours. But I know well enough now not to plan for all this may lead to something yet unknown. The really strange thing is believing limitlessness, knowing the only purpose is to create whatever we choose, evolving, expanding and extending Infinity infinitely.

Not surprisingly, the Elemental Kingdom governs manifestation. The angels bring the inspiration (heaven) which must be clothed in the elements (earth) to become form. The angelic kingdom and the elemental kingdom work together, with man occasionally the bridge. If man were less ignorant of the science of spirit and less arrogant, this collaboration would be most fruitful.

.SPIRIT/ETHER * God’s Breath (LIFE).
AIR * God’s Energy.
FIRE * God’s Will
WATER * God’s Mind.
EARTH * God’s Body

Rules for Manifestation for Humans (as I perceive them)

1) Receive the inspiration, the blueprint/
Envision (SPIRIT)*** breathe
2) Dedicate to your Divine Will
3) Desire the manifestation/ Fuel the will
(FIRE)***impassion/ enflame/ LOVE
4) Focus attention/ Receive the practical inspiration/
Apply intellect/ Discern/Analyse/Assemble
5) Take the necessary action/Project outward Manifest
(EARTH)*** give form to the invisible

All of this could be likened to planting a garden.

As well as Archangel Raphael and the angels when I paint I feel other artists near me. I love Chagall, perhaps best of all. His amazing clear colours and wonderful images. I can feel the truth of his imagination. There is a long journey between the visions of the mind and the dexterity of the hand. It is an act of trust to believe the two will ever become one.

It is said we cannot seek love, only tear down the barriers we have erected against it. I am seeking love and its manifestations and I am powerless in the face of this seeking. It draws me. Only now there is a difference. Whereas before I looked outside myself, now I look within. And it is true, loneliness is, for the most part, gone.

How I begin to live what is within me

I am finding myself increasingly present, moving easily through time. I stand up just before the phone rings and as I paint, the colours nearly leap into my hands. There is a feeling of unity with the Masters and the angelic kingdom, all those who guide me and with whom I create. I rarely desire or need a formal communication. I hear them combined with my own thoughts all through the day whenever I need to and sometimes the merging is so complete, there are not words or thought before action, I just move in a fluid and continuous way. I have been having incredibly productive days writing or painting for ten hours or more. Today, I am taking it easy. Last night I was swimming in light and colour and images.

I’m almost finished with a painting of Kwan Yin placing the blue flame in my heart although it doesn’t look like me. At this moment, I find it so beautiful that I can’t take my eyes off it. It doesn’t gives itself easily but with staring at it becomes something else, something more. I have truly painted something I love that loves me back and I don’t mind at all what anybody thinks of it. I find myself giving thanks almost continually. It does not feel like ecstatic bliss, more like inspired contentment.

I am grateful for the love of Christina and D. and Anne. And my daughter. Her continual ability to see beauty in me has helped to literally reprogram my attitude.

I am feeling closer and closer to God. I am not ashamed. I am full of blessing.

I am broadcasting this Light and blessing spontaneously throughout the day, sending it to all manner of people, the murdered and the murderers in the papers, Chris Reeves, passers-by, anyone it occurs to me to do so. It is my secret pleasure.

I am not waiting for ecstasy or bliss, I am happy with this peace of mind ‘though grateful for those moments when bliss comes, those reminders of my true state of being in Eternity. Eternity can wait. I am becoming human, like the leprechaun who falls in love with a mortal, and quite happy with it.

In one year, I have been relieved of burdens that a lifetime of searching could not achieve. I am in some ways so very different but in other ways essentially the same. I am more myself.

I still snap when I’m tired, don’t exercise enough, please my taste buds overly and there is still a small well of loneliness which can surface but I let go quickly, at least for now.

From chaos, suppression, projection and violence has been borne insight, stillness and a growing consistency in my creativity. All healing is a restoration to our true state. From the mud has grown the lotus. But there is still a wildness in me that needs expression.

I am feeling fine about my painting. Each night I go to bed embraced by colour forming in waves, images like paintings within me. I wake with colour. I feel pleasantly electrified. The life force is really flowing and wants to express itself through me in every way. I still feel like a new moon. Hidden light. I feel a little unreal, floaty. There seems to be no meaning and perhaps there isn’t beyond what we imbue.

Sananda, Sananda where are you?

Beloved Child, you are in a rhythm, a flow, surrender to it. This is the dance of life. Conflict arises from trying to impose ourselves on these rhythms. On certain days the flame will burn brighter than others. There is no loss in this and no gain in worry of any kind.

Today, I am keening with longing for God. I think I go Home in the night and its hard to come back in the morning. Today, I am not sure I can make it through. Today, I would return home in an instant if They would let me.

I feel Sananda embracing me, kissing me. The others are near me, kissing me and stroking my hair. Golden light is moving up and down like contained lightening. Hands of light slip between muscle and skin.

Electric blue, emerald, silver white. There are angels all around me. I shake dust out of my arms and hands, which falls into a violet flame and is transformed into light. The pains are receding. I am feeling their love. I am feeling the peace of my Father.

My soul is a bride rushing to be wed. Her veil is a waterfall of gossamer light. Her gown a thousand golden birds. Her heart, a rose blossoming. She cries out to the One who waits for her. Her call is a rainbow bridge she will fly home upon.

There is the desire to love and be loved. There is the desire to be Love. Relationships are a glorious game where these desires may be played out. But I am too often caught in the web. Is it wrong to want to give and receive totally? Or is that a ruse in which we attempt to complete ourselves with another? A projection of the true desire for inner marriage?

Today, I am weary of transforming, weary of the game of life. I want only to be with God. I would like to be complete. Again, I must remind myself that the key is to intend to receive God totally, to acknowledge I am One with God, while completely accepting myself as I am.

Sananda is here: His message is express, express, express, use the clay of emotion and thought to create. This is the transformation.

I see how, again, I am overlooking something key. The process of becoming fully human. The birth of the divine human. Fully honouring Earth and Heaven. I will not be allowed Home until the mission is complete.

There is a kind of woman striving to be accepted in a masculine world, overly prizing the intellect, her early life energy suppressed by those who must control, made overly aware of herself by early male attention which causes her to define herself as beholden, longing for the absent father to save her from violent chaos, which may cause her to turn to God as Father.

All of this must be overturned. The analytical mind must be tempered by the intuitive heart. Trust must be found as an enormous act of faith. Belief in the Self must be found through continual creative self expression of all that is within. The deeply buried life energy necessary for this must be summoned by an enormous act of will. And the realisation of God must be internal and non-anthropomorphic.

How having achieved knowledge of the human spirit I finally begin to accept my humanity

I have been talking to Anne, in New York. She is so hard on herself. We mirror each other. She has an enormous sense of her own power, though, which awes me. She is more of a warrior.

The rose garden is coming alive. These first weeks of April are amazing. There are trees blooming with lavender and pink and white, full blown and strong scented. When I stare up at the blue sky through the pink blossoms, it looks bright turquoise. Through the white blossoms, it looks lavender. The flowering chestnut looks, with its upright blossoms, a multi-tiered candelabrum. A woman sits next to me. She has literally been driven mad by modern noise. She thinks the workmen know her and purposely start up to torment her when she is passing.

I stand in front of the sun and feel its steady nurturing warm bath of light. The sun falls on me and it is love. But it is not sentimental love or emotional love. It is something else. It is devotion. Devotion. The truth of unconditional love is hidden in this word. There is a renaissance of devotion within me. Its keynote is gratitude.

Devotion is stillness within fire.

It is allowing true nature to emerge. To rise from the ashes. Devotion is a verb. It is an action in stillness. To move outward. To radiate. To move towards God. To expand. To move within God.

God is a sea of devotion.

It is the essence of will that makes the creative act possible and meaningful. It is the voice of the inspirational mind. The Heart of Mind. The God Self. It is the actualisation of deepest Self. What am I devoted to? The Devotion which created me. It is to That I respond and It is in everything. I am devoted to the creative life.

I no longer feel I am damaged goods. I no longer judge myself through the projections of others. My relationship with my daughter has lightened so much. It is one of the rewards of this process. We laugh so much. I have a sense of humour that only she is aware of. Sometimes, we walk around in a state of heightened devotion praising the bud beings and the colour beings and the moon and the All That Is laughing our heads off.

This must be joy.

Happiness must be fulfilment and joy is this other thing. Unlike ecstasy, it doesn’t seem to need to counterbalance itself with an opposite extreme.

What is resurrected? Awareness of the soul. What is resurrected? My humanity.

The brain physically reflects the gradual shrinking of intuition and the over development of the analytical intellect. We think we know more, but do we? Is the house of the ego the cerebellum?

I travelled home from Australia sitting next to a passionate astronomer. He described the sudden appearances of new planets as if from nowhere which remain unexplained. It seems clear to me that as the Earth expands into a new fifth dimensional position we are now able to see planets in this dimension. The intuitive mind easily grasps what the analytical mind judges impossible.

The Christ in Hebrew: Messiah. In Greek, christus: to anoint. King by divine right. We are realising our kingship, our queenship, anointed by God. Enflamed. Co-creator. We are becoming the Collective Messiah. Annointed with the Sacred Fire of our own Electronic Body, the Guardian Angel, the Individualised Focus of our being and World through which the specific action of Divine Will may be made manifest AND CAN BE STOPPED BY NO HUMAN THING.


Expansion. Contraction. Integration. Gathering. Gestation. Inspiration. Momentum. That is the pattern emerging. And, if you’re me, add occasional paralysis.

It begins with the gathering. Ideas. Thoughts. Will. Desire. The arrow shot from the Source.

Gestation. It grows inside of you until it is propelled by Inspiration to its own Momentum.

Expansion. The experience of expansion as you are made larger by the flowering within and its outward manifestation. This is the part I love. Synchronicity. Insight. Realisation. Light. No edges.

Birth. Manifestation.

Contraction. Integration. Rest. I feel everything has stopped and I will never river outwards and inwards again. I find this part distressing. We know little of cycles. The inevitable contraction which follows expansion. The inbreath which follows the outbreath.

Paralysis. This is suppression. Denial of expression. This is what I am afraid of feeling when I am in contraction. This is what I mistake contraction for. Paralysis is sticky, heavy, porridgey. Cotton wool brain. A burn turning in you causing implosion.

Violent. Violent images. The currency of the culture pressing in. The hidden torments pressing out. When I am trapped. Controlled. Controlling. Bored. When I force myself to finish the article I am only half interested in out of some perverse curiosity. The naughty child trying to get out

Expression is devotion. The expression of the Self to the Self. The inner Universe becomes the Universe made manifest.

Grace. Divine realisation. I have experienced God and my own soul but my human problems remain much the same though slowly improving. Will there be a magic moment? A turn around the corner to vision? The continual apprehension of an unseen world? The final embracing and encompassing?

Or will it be like this: A glimpse beyond the veil, the luminosity of heart, dissolution and rebirth into another plane, a terrible sweetness. Its promise of brevity. And then suddenly there is your rug, your chair, your fire, your book, your pen. There is the memory of the experience but not the experience itself. A handful of stars turns to dust.

“Before enlightenment: Chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment: Chop wood, carry water.”

The rocks become speaking runes but who cares what they say? I do. It is sheer curiosity that keeps me alive.

Light. That which illuminates. Energy. That which moves. Sets bodies into motion. These are shallow meanings. What do we really know? The truth is caught in the momentary visceral illumination and then lost to words.

D. is directing continually now. He is out on tour. He is happy and very darling.

Outside, the pulsing of sirens mingles with birdsong. PussPuss does his morning Hosanna to the Sun, contortions more exquisite than any Kama Sutra. He sniffs the air, eyes half-closed in ecstasy. A little snooze. Time for play. PussPuss grows more holy every day.

I come to realise the whispering litany cannot be silenced

For D.: I stand before you, a tiny castle made of bone. I appear as solid as a stone, but I am not. I am a hum, a light, mercurial, a wave. With one command I turn to sand and slip through your dear fingers to leave a hollow place, an empty hand to cup your face when you are free of me at last. But with a kiss I reappear.

Outside I am a looking glass. Silver peel. I mirror you unwittingly. No wit. Inside I am a circus, 3 rings, maybe more. What you see: A silver pool. Drop a coin and all your dreams come true. Inside, I scorch and pop. A witch’s steaming pot, a molten core. A desert Magdalene. Don’t fear, I’ve thrown away the key. She is unthroned. I am serene. Marry me.

I love you more than any other could. You look upon my smile and think: If would she could love me a little less.

Living is an act of continual resurrection. A little crucifixion. A little death. Another resurrection. Longing flies from me like ribbons, like pale light, a string of pale pearls flying, Morse code.

Dream: I am rowing along in a boat and God says, You are doing a good job being human.

I wake up with an understanding. The practical aspects of negotiating the land mines of human life. The combination of the practical, the mundane, the sacred and the profane. The shadow and light, the colours which define form. A prism allows us to see that light is colour and colour is light. Divine Love is the frequency of Light.

It is said, to know your last incarnation, you only need to review your present life. Kwan Yin, what are the choices that led to my childhood? You doubted yourself. You forgot your true nature and your Source. You found your mirror in the world but not your heart.

What is God? God is Love. I see a flow of silver light and then a galaxy spiralling into being. What is God? Love beyond comprehension, beyond knowing, beyond belief. Magnificent imagination effortlessly weaving atomic lace into majestic shapes. The energy which animates life, inspires it.

What is karma? An attribute of the feeling body. A consequence of desire. A reaction to an action which is not in alignment with Source. A learning experience. She says: Create each day as a gift to yourself. You are loved. Even you who so misses God will find peace on Earth.

Today, I have an overwhelming desire to re-write the National Curriculum. I have written twenty essays in a very short time covering this topic as well as many others from the cellular to the societal under the umbrella: The Irresistible Emergence of an Inspirational Civilisation. I have made a meeting with David Puttnam (now Lord). He has left movies for education.

Kwan Yin reminds me again to see this life as a game. Don’t get too caught up. Try things. Don’t be afraid. It is truly all a learning experience and there will come a time when we no longer have a third dimension to experiment within. Those who have used the Earth curriculum to its fullest potential will be those who didn’t suppress their dreams, who followed the guidance of the moment, who allowed the blooming of their hearts and the unfurling of their soul’s desire, who went forward to experiment and try new things without fear or in spite of fear, those who used their senses to see, smell, hear, feel, taste and know the beauty of the Earth and her kingdoms, those who dared to live with open hearts and minds. Those who follow their spirit without hesitation. Those who dare to love!

I feel a light going into me. A tiger light from her, my dear one. The eye of the heart is opening. That which sees the world of angels. It is time now the children are no longer denied the true knowledge of the spirit through direct experiential knowing, without dogma and that this is incorporated directly into the education system. It is an ignorant society that does not teach the science of the spirit.

My friend, Debra, has read this and fears I am excluding those who live what she calls a simple life. She has found her realisation through the loving and caring for her husband and children. To me, no path is more or less complex, only thinking makes it so. No path is more or less worthy, for how can we judge another? A loving mother is a holy thing. As Sai Baba says, the mother is the God of the family. Stable, loving families make stable, loving countries that make a stable, loving world. However, there can and must be inner freedom within a life of service and we must never deny our own expression, our own creativity or the guidance of our heart, for this is also love. Honouring our life and our own story and individual gifts. This is the healing of civilisation and through honouring our selves in this way, our cup over-flows and we may love each other easily without self-denial, without exhaustion, without judgement or trying to possess. By their fruits you shall know them.

In honour of Debra: Beloved, let us love one another: for love is of God; and every one that loveth is born of God and knoweth God. He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love. John

But also: Without vision the people perish. Proverbs

Candles in the dark

If I would have one gift, it would be to know the Universal Energy in every fibre of my being in every moment. The swooning calm, the eternity which fills the sky with a million stars like fireflies, dancing planets in velvet plum black, Love’s Source alight in each cell, each atom a beacon, a torch, a candle, a blue flame burning without heat, a cool passion suffused with warmth, a spreading of cells which literally move outward creating more room, more space, expanding like the Universe, each cell a star and my mind a heart and my heart a sun. I would know this always and live this grace. All conflict pales, words empty of meaning, time falls away, the pronouncements of prophets fade, all understanding is superseded by an intangible, inexpressible completeness which is expressed in each breath. All paradoxes unite. The heart sings and the knowing of the moment progresses from reverie to revelation, showering its perfection, unfolding labyrinthine Allness. This is the knowing of God, which is beyond words, and beyond knowledge which I have known but have forgotten and which my cells remember.

For my second gift, I would be able to transfer this experience.

It is but a hair’s breadth between chaos and profound peace. In each moment, there is a choice and each choice retrains your energy blueprint, your neural pathways and that choice becomes easier to sustain. As the choice is sustained in a deep, prolonged way, a song emerges. Intrinsic changes in awareness occur and greater mastery of consciousness in the physical world is achieved.

I ask Kwan Yin for her message to the world:

Have compassion for one another. Extend yourself in kindness daily. Speak the truth and do not suppress kindness for fear of rejection. Each one of you has a gift that will bring inspiration and healing to yourselves and the world. Concentrate on unearthing this gift rather than following prescribed courses of action. Each one has his or her role to play. No role is more or less important than the other.

Cultivate peace within yourself and let your excitement come from the passions of your spirit rather than the adrenaline rush of chaos. Do not get ahead of yourself and take each step, one by one, following the guidance of the moment. Your course may change as you come closer to the manifestation of your dream. Do not be afraid of this.

You have all chosen to come here to Earth at a time of great change and promise. Things that seemed important may suddenly seem unimportant. Do not be afraid. As your perceptions change, so will your priorities. There will be upheavals and cathartic clearings but you are all truly moving to the home of your deepest fulfilment.

Kindness is the greatest wisdom. The devil is the myth we have created to describe our fear. I must make real the dream of my heart.

The Ascended Master’s Creed: The Universe is my country.
Doing good is my religion. Freedom is my passion.

How I came to hear the voice of the Soul

Dearest Soul, I am grateful for experience. Thank you. Now that suffering is ending and I am becoming free, I am moving closer to you, maker of my thigh and my eye whose heart is my bed, the expression of my Universe, who is my cell and my atom and my Venus and Mars, my quark and my duck and my particle. Oh, everything!

I am seeing now how all this communication with the Masters is about teaching me more than anything to be one with my own Soul, the creator of this particular vessel called me, for it is through this Soul that I communicate with them. All the love I project on the Masters and the All That Is is a route to the embracing of this Soul. The elusive inner marriage of self and Soul. To love my own Soul as much as I have loved others would be a kind of surrender of my life to Its purposes for me.

I can see myself as this fingertip extension of It, (my electronic God Self), down here on Earth, on the front lines experiencing the third dimension for my own development and to increase the knowledge pool of the Universe. If I surrender to It and allow It (who feels to me a She) to flow through, I become much more than a fingertip. A celestial body!

And then I think, my Soul, who in Oneness, is beyond my petty and timorous concerns, is having a kind of holiday through me. She sees through my eyes and tastes through my mouth and smells through my nose…all the sensorial delights only available on the physical plane. I can shut her out and be an empty vessel, well, partially empty, or I can invite Her in, agree to be Her suit of clothes, allow myself to be Her currency of creation, Her birthing womb, Her milking breasts, Her expressive hands and mind, Her feeling skin. If I can teach myself to remain steady in the face of tumultuous emotion and unafraid of pain, She can experience the grand emotions of human life with me unharmed.

I have been so afraid to let Her completely in. I am feeling Her softness now and it makes me wonder if the experience some people have of their guardian angel is actually the experience of their own Soul.

All my understanding and perception and experience of God and the Masters and Angels and other Beings of light blends into this experience of my own Soul. It’s as if I can understand anew the concept of the creation of an individual Universe, the true nature of the subjective quality of reality, each unique perception creating a world and world within worlds overlapping and interweaving. I suppose this reality becomes elusive when we lose touch with our unique blueprint and all hold on to the same perception, held ransom by a loss of imagination. But even in this, we do create: our own separate hells.

I can look around my life and see to what degree I have allowed my Soul to create through me. I can see how I have thwarted Her so many times when impulses of the imagination have come and I have suppressed them through fear based on shyness or lack of confidence.

Now, I begin to have a sense that the atoms of the chair I am sitting on are comprised of my Soul, and this table, and this sweet little power book with its crystal cathode, and the huge green trees with their waving limbs outside these Victorian windows, across the street.

And then I think, perhaps at this level, I don’t exist. Perhaps the Soul is only a doorway to the All That Is, the river of un-separate consciousness. And then it occurs: if my temporal self is illusory and my eternal Self is but a wave in the sea, then what am I? And then in this moment, any intellectual division evaporates and I am simply the waving of the trees, this river of words flowing from my fingers, and for this moment, And then, just simply, I Am, with no divisions and no aspiration for an enlightenment which is here now, for all of us without thunder or fan fare. And what is left for me? The basic human values of industry, compassion, the wisdom inherited from day to day living, follow-through, honesty, appreciation, gratitude. The human things.

Divisions of illusion and reality, temporality and eternity are, in this moment, meaningless. There is only the simple, practical business of getting on with it. Setting goals and achieving them as an experiment in living. But there is still this unruly imagination which would like to take me over, my mind a cinema screen for its own projection.

I’ve had the realisation recently that all this helping others and sacrificing my own work is a form of manipulation and control. That was salutary. I am not so noble after all. I am distracting myself from my own business and manipulating others by managing their lives or their problems. Even when I have done this very well, it does not leave a fulfilling feeling. I now understand why Psyche was not meant to stop for any reason on her quest, not even to rescue the drowning man as she crossed the River Styx. It was not to say we must be ruthless and uncaring but rather, we must not stop our lives to manage the lives of others. In the end, this is a fear of living my own life. A fear that my self-worth is only in relation to others.

I feel I am a Persephone and that I will emerge from dwelling in this underworld, this hidden world, and bring Spring. Create the Eleusinian Mystery Rites anew.

I am no longer sure of a linear idea of reincarnation. As we are One, it may be far different than we imagine. Everything on Earth seems a step to something else but we must take each step for only in the taking is the next step revealed.

One shift from the masquerade to the moment and a carnival of possibilities emerge. Within the moment is the true momentum. Within this momentum there is no stress. The moment is not a linear progression of time but the spiralling breath of eternity. Somewhere in time or timelessness we are already all we dream of.

Dream: D. and I make love and I become instantly pregnant.

I have woken up as if I am now pregnant. London is gloriously in bloom and the days are brilliantly sunny and then plunging into bone chilling cold when the shadows come. Somehow, this combination seems perfect for flowering trees for I have never seen them look so lovely. London is a happy place today. An astonishment of beauty. The rose garden is waking from its enchanted sleep and the bushes which looked so brutally hacked back are now fluttering with red and green leaves and ruby red buds have appeared out of nowhere.

Dearest Archangel Gabriel, I feel you around me now and in my heart. Do you have a message for me?

Yes, I have a message for you. You are coming into a new stage of development. You are very clear now and this has stabilised. Anything is possible now. You are free. Be as free in your painting as you are becoming in your perceptions. This is an end in itself and also training for you to allow the Universe to flow through you.

You are longing because you want to play with someone who is also free. I am guiding you a stretch of the way. I am warming your heart that it may blossom, opening a small amount each day, but then, in no time, it is fully bloomed. Continue to guide yourself back to the awareness of the present moment. You see how everything falls away when you do this? Something is coming.

I love it when they tell me that.

Beloved Sananda, I am One with you. I can feel myself becoming softer. I am ready to be completely soft and receptive now.

Dearest, you have indeed changed, expanded. This is new to this life. All that you have learned and earned has grown and stabilised. You are becoming very clear, dear one. You are a healing talisman, for there are no dams within you to block the rays of the Body of God we pour through you continually. You are blessed, truly blessed, dear one. We are home.

I am really feeling this and I know this must be true for many on Earth, now. When enough of us are living this, it will flood through the remainder like wildfire. Am I still hostage to the human condition? Less a prisoner.

Ashtar is here: There are space brothers and sisters around you, dear one. They are watching your progress and learning as you learn. Some of the things you write are very good for them and they like your paintings.

I send them my love. Lazurus is telling me to eat the green algae and soak my system with it. He says my body will absorb that quicker than anything.

I am thinking about Sai Baba. Some people think he is a devil but I think that is their own projection. Some think he is a shyster, too “Hollywood” glimmer glamour with his magical ability to manifest things. I think, so what? He is enjoying himself. And if there is ego and people are seduced by it, he is still a catalyst for growth. If his actions push devotees away in shock that he is not what they thought he was, perhaps that is also part of the Divine Plan. The true guru is inside. The kingdom is within our own self. I may go see him but I am not interested in being a devotee of any one. I am drawn to India. I think he has something to do with this baby soul who wants to be born from me, perhaps due to his relationship to Krishna.

Sananda says, Because your purpose is to bring in the new, you must learn to follow your inner guidance perfectly. All is as it should be. What is the best thing I can do for the opening of my heart? Think, speak and act with compassion.

I would like to have this baby and teach it in a new way and make a model for a new school. Sananda, should I have a baby? Beloved, it is your choice. It would be hard on you in some ways but potentially very rewarding.

Would I then make a school? Is this a good plan? Whatever you choose will be the right thing.

Dear Sai Baba, I am feeling enormous love for you today. Are you playful? You made a school in India. Would you like to help me make a school? Would you guide me on the inner planes? I would like to have a baby. I feel there is a baby waiting to be born from me. The urge to create life, to midwife a soul, is a natural one. Your frequency draws love. It would bring you much joy.

How can I convince my husband to have a baby? Whisper to him at night when he is sleeping and heal his heart by gently blowing the rays through.

Dear Kwan Yin, You once said I have had the experience of having a child and now I will have the experience of speaking on your behalf and the fulfilment of my own expression. What do you think of bringing a child into this quotient? It is a very big step to have a child and of course, it is lots of work. You must learn to give to yourself and not disappear behind the needs of another as you have done in the past. Having said this, there is so much joy in having a child and pleasure in helping children grow. If you truly have chosen education it will help you focus on that. Let the idea sit in your heart and see how it develops.

To some degree, I want a child because I want a playmate.

It’s the last day of May. Nothing is solid. Everything is moving, inter-mingling, fluctuating, merging. The veil shifts like mist. I walk through it like walking through a shimmering scarf of smoke. I walk through it like parting realms. I walk through it like moving through dimensions. Nothing is fixed. I swim in a river of God.

Today, sitting in a Georgian room, its perfect proportions echoing sacred geometry, a beautiful tree outside shimmering in the sunlight beneath a June sky, my heart fills. My heart swells again with D. sitting next to me and in this moment, all there is to understand about me is the desire to love and be loved. Then, a visceral realisation of the consciousness at the heart of each particle. I looked around the table (a board meeting) and saw this Consciousness in all of them. I had a vision of walking through the dimensions which lasted all day and lasts even now. Everything is softening, softening.

I talked to D. at length about having a baby. My heart is full of love for this child who is already near me. I feel myself becoming fuller with him and a few people have asked if I am pregnant! This being is very deep and very gentle and very calm and full of love. He is making me feel very aware of love.

Dear Being, Tell me about yourself and what you would like from this Earth experience and me. You know me in your heart. I have been around you and guided you and more of me can come through you, now that you have clarified and lifted yourself. I would come to Earth at this time to express love, balance, quiet and creativity. You would devote yourself to me in my early years when I would need it most. My earth father will be a good father to me and provide me with strength.

Dear One, I am concerned I don’t have a peaceful environment for you. It is hard to enjoy calm when there is so much noise. If I don’t manage to find a quiet place, will you be all right? Dearest, of course I will be all right. It is important for you to take care of yourself and as to the noise, receive it without resistance and it will not distress you so. Do not worry. You are loved and you are love. To prepare for me, think only loving thoughts as much as possible. The rewards will be great. There will be rejoicing when we are reunited.

Do you choose to have a sound body? I do. How shall I prepare nutritionally? Eat organic fruit and vegetables and whole grains with miso and sea vegetables and plenty of water from the Chalice Well. (The Chalice Well is a holy well in Glastonbury believed to have sprung from where Jesus walked. It flows without ceasing, is thought to have healing powers and is reddish in colour because of the high iron content. Later, I found out I was low in iron.)

What about D.? If he could be kind to himself as much as possible and if you could be kind to him. That is all. What are your qualities? I am like Krishna. I am joyous. Shall I go see Sai Baba? This is not necessary. Everyone is everywhere.

I feel Christina is sad. It has not been easy for her but she has been so courageous and has done so well. She is teaching many people now. Her baby is due soon. Dear Sananda, please send Christina love and comfort all day.

Archangel Gabriel is here. You are doing well. You are seeing the beauty of being human. You realise your Divinity and you realise your Humanity. To us, humans look like flowers of Light. You are very golden and there are strokes of emerald and ruby and much beautiful translucent violet and soft sapphire blue but what interests me the most is the growing pink which flows from you as your heart opens. What paintings the light bodies of humans would make! If only they knew their beauty. One day, you will paint these pictures, beloved one. Keep your thoughts on love at all times now. I have a great gift coming. I send you my light.

I call the Violet Flame, the purifier and swirl it through myself and humanity. My daughter and I have been doing a lot of healing together. We are using the technique of gently blowing through individuals (with the permission of their Souls and in their physical absence) to find the blocks and then gently working on dissolving and transmuting the blocks. A few times after this, people have said they dreamed of us. The dream world is so real. I remember dreaming of my friend, Dana, years ago. In the dream, I saw a side to him I had never seen in life. A kind of little cruel streak in his eyes. In the dream, I was rubbing his back and I had flowers in my hair. I was living in California and he was back East. A week or so later, I got a card from him that said: I feel your fingers on my back. I can smell the flowers in your hair.

Kwan Yin, there are moths eating my clothes and I want to kill them. What can I do? Communicate with the moth kingdom. Ask them to vacate. (This has been working somewhat but not entirely.)

My love affair with words is ending, yet I want to write. I am spiritually pregnant and already the simplification is occurring. If I get pregnant, or when I get pregnant, writing will be even harder.

Pan came through my daughter and said I was to invite him in and he would help me paint. He said the Elemental beings long to work with me and to invite them in. He said there was a special house for me in Devon.

My daughter feels it is only us humans who go on and on about our purpose. She feels that when anyone of us becomes incalculably in our joy, nothing could help the Earth more.

Dear God, Things are certainly changing. D. is changing and softening considerably. We discuss baby names all night and it seems he wants a baby. What can I do to help my sister with her illness? (My sister has been very ill.) Love the love of God in her. Write her and I will guide you. I have been sending her healing Light, continually. The Light knows what is perfect for her without the interference of my mind or expectations.

My journey to the portal of the fairy kingdom

It was Nicki who first told me about this little village in Devon is a the portal for the fairy kingdom and Peter Aziz, who works with them, had told her.

My friend, Ann S., had come to London to give me healing and said there were so many Elementals at my feet she could barely sit up for their energy. They told her I was to go to communicate with a Yew tree and I knew it was in this particular village. D. drove me down and we stayed in a sweet bed and breakfast and I found the yew tree in the churchyard of St. Michael’s. It is the Archangel Michael who has been trying through the ages to mend this bridge between kingdoms, knowing complete advancement is not possible while these rifts remain.

I asked it to transfer what I needed to know into me at a cellular level so that it may emerge when necessary. And now, I am being drawn to this village once again. D. is coming with me.

The first night, we had dinner at a nice restaurant and when the couple who run it asked us why we were here, I began to talk about the fairy kingdom. Although it seemed odd at first to do so I was amazed that she knew all about them and that many of the greatest living painters and sculptors of fairies live there. She showed me some exquisitely beautiful paintings by these people. In the morning, a previously sceptical real estate agent also told us about strange and wonderful goings on, people drawn to live here and finding a way to, against all odds, people who suddenly prosper and the unusual amount of babies being born there.

We looked at lots of cottages. Later, wandering around the town, I hear clearly, Make a right turning. I did and we found ourselves in a tiny cul de sac with a charming cottage. We were poking around outside when a man came out. We apologised and he invited us in for tea. It turns out they are friends of the owners and the house is for sale. It has been on the market a very long time. It is higgeldy piggeldy, full of nooks and crannies, beautiful views and an odd barn like room which could become a studio.

This is a lovely community and it is near the moors. In the church, there is a painting of the Ascension instead of the usual crucifixion and I was amazed to hear the vicar speak so wisely about love, embracing all religions. There was a very beautiful man in his seventies or eighties who I fell instantly deeply in love with. His light was so great, it was like a beacon lighting up broad daylight. He grasped my hand and welcomed me. I have rarely met someone so radiant and full of quiet joy and in no way false.

The presence of Pan is everywhere and I am feeling so sweetly joyful myself. He reminds me to invite him when I paint and tells me my work would be greatly influenced by living here. He says the world is remembering the angels and there is more communication between the angelic realm and the human one then there has been in centuries but there is still very little communication with the Elemental kingdom. Fairies and other Elemental beings are thought of as little sprites from fairytales when, in fact, they are huge forces of light with great powers who work in perfect harmony with the forces of Earth and the spiritual realms. He says I am one who has volunteered to bridge this realm. I have lived in the fairy kingdom.

When all realms are united, we will move together into the fifth dimension and the Earth will become a star. There will come a time when humans will work in harmony with the Angels and Elementals and our lives will be much richer for it. Many things will be possible which would not be otherwise and together we will create a place of enormous beauty and unprecedented creativity. The little planet which has fallen so far into fear will understand love so well and will be known for love and creativity throughout the Universe.

Back in London, I am feeling so tired. This is strange lethargy and I ask Kwan Yin what is going on. She says: You are absorbing new energies. Sleep is good now. You are merging with your light body. (Is this the special thing Archangel Gabriel talked about?) When this process is complete, you will have enormous energy. Around September, your energy will return and with it your motivation. I think this means my physical frequency can now accommodate my Soul, or Higher Mental Body.

My daughter says to me: Be like a child, soul swelling, heart full, yet heartless, careless, full of laughter. She says God and the Universe and my heart are uniting, I am having the experience of the body where I will find God.

I listen to my heart easily when there are no pressures, especially when I am home, but out in the world it is still hard, like in the dentists chair when he wants to give X-rays I know I don’t need and I just meekly capitulate.

The Sun says other methods for X-raying will develop soon which are less intrusive and aggressive. Pan says to increase the algae and the sea vegetables. They will absorb excess radiation from the system.

Pan, could you please have a word with the moths in my house. Clear out your cupboard. You have too many things.

I am experiencing an understanding of a completely magical Universe that it is never ending and that I am never ending. I am feeling enormous gratitude for this understanding and for the magic itself. I want to convey this somehow, in my creative work. I’m finding all this nitty gritty “tell it like it is” approach in books and movies and theatre kind of boring. We can read the papers for that. It is perpetuating an outdated agreement. I want to see something new. I hope to create something new, not ungrounded in the current reality, but providing glimpses of something else. I am increasingly drawn to film as a way to show what’s in my mind. I feel the future of film will show images more closely to how the mind and the imagination work.

I am in the churchyard in Devon and I am feeling such a welling up inside of me of gratitude, deep within every atom, that we live in this astonishing place. I feel my heart and bones rise up to greet the Universe and merge.

Today, I feel so free and it confuses me. I am not used to it. Do I want a child to interrupt this new-found freedom or can a child be part of this? Embrace freedom and live it now; you will not unlearn it when you have a child.

Child waiting to be born, tell me more about yourself. I am free and in balance. I would not want you to unlearn freedom.

It’s odd, there are so few things I worry about anymore. I used to feel responsible for the whole world. Now, I feel very little responsibility. Am I going backwards in my development? Many people feel responsible for the whole world but don’t care for themselves. It is wise person who is balanced in these respects before they move into the world.

I have had a vision of Sai Baba. He is standing on the head of a pin and dancing in this extraordinary way. There are millions of tiny movements happening rapidly and he is changing back and forth to Krishna. It lasted for a very long time.

I sometimes imagine I am making love with Krishna. It is my desire for pure love, union and complete communication on all levels and also to be One with the Ascended Beings. (Interestingly, I was later told that I had been one of the maidens Krishna had made love with. Supposedly, this was not a good thing yet it seemed to me a nice tale—even if fairy tale).

Archangel Gabriel, do you have a message for me? Yes, Christina is better now but she still needs you to stay focused on her. She needs your energy and love now. And for you: Twice daily, sit quietly and open to receive yourself. It is difficult for you that you do not have a specific purpose beyond that which you create. This is liberation. This is the true freedom. You have chosen various purposes but there is no one who can reveal a destiny for you other than that which you choose. Live in freedom and love and manifest any way you choose. This is a great gift. You can devote your life to healing or painting or writing or directing or making films or raising babies or teaching or travelling or sitting in a daisy field looking at the clouds. As long as you are a conduit for the Light whatever you do will bring in Light, will heal, will illuminate, will be your purpose in that moment.

Thank you!

Puss is a good detective. He smells the sea horse in a drawer, two rooms away. He is there in a flash, his Cherokee nose probing the air, eyes narrowed. He doesn’t know that the small stone statue he seeks stowed away in a box was once a primeval dancer, jack knifing through waters, a discordant ballet of elemental delicacy. Now, a decorative relic, marine reeking, a toy for mischievous Puss.

Vivian Ellis died yesterday with D. and I holding each of his hands. He was 93. We both felt deeply sad and D. has lost his best friend, a warm, eccentric, witty and brilliant man who has composed some of the loveliest music of this century (and who finished the last touches on his musical we are reviving the day before he died).

I felt an enormous wave pass through me. I cleared his heart and sacral and solar plexus, gently cleared this through my hand, through my heart and up to God. I felt his heart expanding and the expanded state he was in. His breath was rattling with the build up of fluid and he looked smaller and frailer as his life force began to leave his body. His breathing became softer and I heard Sananda say, This is the right time. A Light from God flowed right through him and into the Earth creating a bridge. His God-daughter and friends came in. I prayed to God to take him to the highest place possible. I saw small pieces of the story of his lives pass by: him as a baron living in a manor house, as a much loved child, a haemophiliac, leading a very sheltered life. The angels came and called him Lord Vivian in deference to the vast contribution his music has made on Earth.

I clearly saw him going to a grove beyond a beautiful dune, (the insides of his body had become like smooth dunes, cleared, expanded.) There was a temple and his mother was there.

After his breathing had changed and the others had come in, I felt him being lifted up. Sananda was there, in the form of Jesus as a huge angel who wrapped him in light wings of infinite love. His soul was totally aware and it was good.

Later, Sananda spoke through my daughter in the rose garden and said the clearing had helped transmute him to allow passage to the highest planes of light possible. I was honoured to hear this and thought we must do this for all our loved ones during their transition. He said having D. there had made him feel beautiful and safe and loved. He loved D. very, very much and D. loved him dearly. I love him, too.

He will be buried at the Jewish Liberal Synagogue. Though he seemed unaffiliated in his daily life with any religious practice, we found out that he had been writing songs for them for some time.

When his spirit left, he became smaller and an hour later, he looked small and golden and waxy. We are very sad today. We went to see his sister, Hermione. She was sleeping, so we didn’t wake her. She will be so saddened by this. They were inseparable. The nursing home was very nice but it seemed so alien that these old people were so alone, isolated in these cubicles, over-heated and with the tellies continually on. The nurse, who was kind, spoke of how lively they became when there were children around. I wondered, couldn’t we develop something where children visited nursing homes? She thought people would not want to bring their children. I thought, perhaps schools could do this. It would help the old people and teach the children to care.

The image of Vivian, small and frail and rattling stays with me. D. and I holding him, each clasping a hand. Gently, he evaporates into space, his consciousness evacuating, lifting into arms of angels, leaving a soft, heavy sadness which permeates our pores and is clogging the corners of bones and pulling the kidneys. His sister, Hermione, is in a daze, the story of her life a closed book, a refrain of snagging pains and memories which are stinging bittersweet. And there is a space inside D. which needs filling.

It is the first day of Spring. Beautiful D. sleeps upstairs. I speak to Merlin and say my prayers.

Last night, another healing. My daughter was doubled up with pain. I placed my hands over her Sacral Chakra and felt the clearing up though my hands and through my heart and out through the top of my head to be transmuted. It felt like dark emotion. I cleared some dust from her heart. It took ten minutes and the pain was gone.

I had a dream last night in which a young man told me he had a healing tent until the authorities told him to take it down. A dog was biting my hand. It felt like an obstruction dream. I woke up feeling like there was a knife in my third eye and I wondered if I had been persecuted in past lives for being clairvoyant.

I have applied for a job at an interesting healing centre which takes recommendations from doctors and provides very low cost or free alternative health care to people with emotional and physical illness.

Christina has had her baby! A girl named Saga.

Kuthumi came to me as I was going to sleep and said that something is coming to me. What is it? I feel it isn’t the baby.

I am afraid I am wanting this baby to fulfil myself with love. My daughter meant and means the entire world to me but she did not cure the deficit of love within me. It is not for a child to do. I had to do that myself.

Kuthumi says to wait. All will come clear, shortly. Dear Kuthumi, is there any reason why you are coming to me now? Yes, my dear, I have come to give help your strength of will to balance the forces of love within. Ask me to imbue you with my strength of will until Will and Love come into perfect balance within you. To feel the energy of Kuthumi is to feel Will. He scared me a little in the beginning.

It seems clear that, despite everything, D. really doesn’t want this child and I’m not sure I want to go ahead without his commitment. It seems he will let me have it if I really want it but that feels so incomplete. I feel very angry with him and also hurt but on another level, I am not sure either, so how can I be angry with him? I wish he could feel the energy of this child the way I do. It will be quite sad for me if I say no, like a spiritual abortion. I know this baby. I don’t remember when in my life I felt so low. There seems to be so little point in anything and I feel like a widow dedicated to a war effort because there is nothing else to do. I have dreams and paintings and stories in me but not enough energy to midwife them out.

We were in Devon this weekend. It was lovely, though I was sad not to see the light filled man. It seems that D. will never really say he wants a baby. He could be coerced but that could be disastrous. The bank has said there is a way for us to get the cottage, which is a small miracle in itself. I am not sure I want to create this now. I don’t know if I have the strength to create a life primarily on my own, away from the city at this time.

When the baby’s soul came to me I became soft and beautiful. I dressed differently, as if I cared more. I felt like the good witch played by Billie Burke in the Wizard of Oz. I floated. I flew. I felt in perfect balance. Blissed-out. I felt fulsome and wholesome and happy and full of love. I felt so much love. Above all, I felt so much love. I imagined a perfect existence painting and writing and healing and raising my beautiful baby and my lovely daughter.

I imagined D.’s heart opening and the bliss of sharing this with him. We spent hours laughing about baby names. My favourites: Raphael, Joshua, Christobel, Daisy. His favourites: George, Henry, Albert, Elisabeth. We laughed a lot. I felt this meant yes. And then, something happened. In me? In him? In us both? My small percent of uncertainty?

And then it was endless, “I’ll think about it,” and each time it felt like a small knife. A chipping and chiselling away at the structure. A small declaration of lack of love. And each time I lost a little more. My energy deflated and I felt a little more bereft.

What trick is this? Is this how I sabotage myself?

I think about that old man in Devon a lot. He is like an angel to me. I just want to sit in his light. I tried to find him and worry that he is ill. He is old and a touch frail. I went to where he sits and prayed fervently for him. There are few in my life who I can hold and touch who share my way of things, except the Beloveds but I weary of not being able to see them in a concrete, sustained way, or hug them.

I am painting a painting of my grief, my sadness about the baby. It is as if I have lost him and in a way, I have. There is a woman reflected in a sombre puddle and again in a tree, babies floating away like balloons, strange angels with flowers, blue trees and a wild lion sphinx with fiery red hair.

I feel I am in an unloving world. There is armour on everyone’s heart. 1000 tiny arrows create a Braille message I cannot reach to touch.

Kwan Yin says: This is a thread of grief that has run through your whole life. Whether or not you have the baby, it is wise to convert this grief. You will know happiness. That which you fear will dissolve. There will come a time of complete clarity in all things and that time is nearly at hand as hard, as that may seem to you in this moment.

There are new beginnings in your life at this time, are there not? There will be changes. You will become crystal clear as you continue to paint and write truthfully and through this, these residues of grief will dissolve and you will be able to think clearly. You will have an energy shift, soon. Your natural energy is very high. The low energy is completely a result of suppression. Express, especially through your painting, and your thinking will clarify.

It is July, the sky is blue and the days long. If you listen hard, you can hear the conversations of the trees and the humans are happy in sunlight. Christina is very tired.

I am so astonished to the degree that painting my feelings is relieving my grief and my anger. I am painting truly for myself and I can’t care what anyone thinks, they are such personal images. I am painting the shadows, at last. It is like having the inside of my mind in front of me.

I am human, I am human. I am all too human.

I am afraid to hear my heart speak. I am afraid to know how far off course I am.

Open Sesame! (Are all fairy tales about the opening of the heart? The land of Oz, Aladdin’s cave?)

Beloved Heart, can you tell me at this time what is your deepest desire above all else? When I am clear, I am the perfect mirror for the face of God. When I am muddy, you are suffering. As you become clear my intentions cannot fail to be known. My deepest desire is your trust.

Dear Heart, is it you who wants a child, or is it my womb? Little one, beloved love, it is your womb who wants a child. And above all, it is the little unloved girl within you who wants to recreate a perfect childhood to assuage her still unexpressed griefs. She is the one who needs your love and when she is healed you will be grown up.

It is confusing to have my womb and my heart at odds. I feel like Alice in Wonderland, being told to go one way by the Cheshire cat and another by the twins, Tweedle dee dee and Tweedle dee dum.

What will happen to my womb if she does not have a child? She will cry many tears through you and she will weep much blood and you will paint and shed more tears and then, one day, this will be over. This is human life.

It seemed that Krishna and Sananda and Gabriel so supported this child. All the Universe supports new life. In the end, whatever decision you make will be the right one, for there will be much to learn either way and much to gain, but you will have a feeling of postponement if you have a child, although there is no harm in that.

Would D.’s heart have opened more if we had children? Yes. This is hard for you but it is not your concern. His heart is unfolding at his own pace.

This feels very painful for me, as if I am making a sacrifice that will wound me deeply.

Is healing others my destiny? The healing of others is the healing of the One Self. The healing will fulfil you but will lead to other expressions. There are deep changes within you as you clear my face. As you do, I will reflect back to you the secrets of the Universe. Your desire to be in love with your child is no different to your desire for reunion with God.

But even Rumi loved God in others and found God in others. To experience the total union of God within yourself is unparalleled and this is your destiny and humanity’s destiny.

When will I begin to experience this? Within ten years.

Do you have any other messages for me? Only that you are loved and all of humanity is loved and even those you call evil are loved and they, too, shall find the way to their hearts.

Also, there is a side of you that is prankish and mischievous. You would do well to find a way to express this side. It will keep you young forever. Remember magic. Find the magic in the world. Dress more magically. Celebrate yourself. Be bold. The point of incarnation is love, celebration, creation, experience. Celebrate the creation of your life, your unique perception and expression. Love one another. Be grateful. It needn’t be so difficult. Just begin.

Your blueprint is the Golden Rose. You have a free ticket. Write your own script. Throw away preconceptions. Have fun. Be wild again. Heal by creating with love. Teach by living an unlimited life.

I have been accepted at the clinic and I will have a group of people for therapy, as well as individuals for healing. I have created a system based on the teaching of the Masters and my own work with adults and children. It is a special kind of Art Therapy. I call it Source Alignment.

Although I know we all come into manifestation on one or more of the Creation Rays, rainbows from the Hand of God, which literally “colour” our lives, I feel more and more that I originate from the Ray of Devotion and that this has informed my purpose in and before time. I feel these rays are the substance which underpins the Universe, the matrix from which all things emerge. Sound and colour are the same thing moving at different frequencies.

I called the White Light Ray to me this morning to try and directly experience its intrinsic qualities and the light turned into a kind of milky substance until a Being emerged. A Being of that Ray or a manifestation of its essence. It was magnificently beautiful. It hovered in front of me and there was a faint smell like jasmine and a feeling of exhilaration and deep calm.

I am not so concerned with gathering and storing information anymore. I trust more that I will know what I need to know in the moment, although research can still be useful. In these matters as in many other matters, individual perception plays such a great part and in some ways, I trust my own perception for myself. Even science is in many ways a metaphysical exploration influenced by the observer. There are many flaws in the perceptions of many systems physical and metaphysical which are being passed down as fact. The Universe is far less rigid and compartmentalised than it has been presented to us.

“There are worlds beyond worlds and times beyond times, all of them true, all of them real, and all of them (as children know) penetrating each other.” P.L. Travers

I painted until 3:30 A.M. and a kind of curse has been broken. I am painting for myself now. The images are less realistic and there is far more colour. They are kind of surreal personal allegories. I am becoming freer. The images just flow and are lining up to be painted. I am glad I am painting faster and more because the pressure of the images was bearing down on me. I want to be totally immersed in my own creativity and just concentrate on creating this avenue through which all other things may flow.

Dear Heart, urge me on. Tell me the truth. I’m ready for anything.

Now is the time. It is a time you have longed for since the spinning away from truth began. You have been a golden bird in a rusting cage, bewildered at how you came to be so entrapped, remembering in your heart the true nature of your freedom. It may be hard to believe, so great is the habit of your imprisonment, but your time of imprisonment is soon over and never again will you be asked to make such a sacrifice in all Eternity.

Little One, we lift you off your knees. No man, woman or child need ever bow to God or life. You are kings and queens. Universal travellers. Angels on holiday. Keep your hearts humble but stand straight, What you never dared dream is possible if you accept your sovereignty.

Little One, You have suffered, yet your heart has remained gentle even as your fire waned and your courage flickered. We lift you off your knees. No man or woman or child need ever bow to God or life. You are kings and queens. Universal travellers. Angels on holiday. Keep your hearts humble but stand straight, What you never dared dream is possible if you accept your sovereignty.

Dear God, I am more and more thankful for my entire life. Every experience. I thank You for Michael D. who I love dearly and to whom I will always be grateful, whose crazy love healed me when I was fourteen and whose heart in my mad young love I broke. Send him the angels he needs. He saved me, mended my wings and opened up the world for me. In the few years we were truly close, I had the craziest, wildest, funniest time.

I am still having violent images in my third eye. Why is this? You are afraid of seeing the true reality because you have been punished for seeing. Even in this life, you were told what you saw wasn’t real until you forgot how to see.
Was I actually ever stabbed in the eyes or the third eye? Yes, as an Oracle in Greece whose prophecies displeased. How can I help so this vision can flower fully? Make toning sounds and direct them through the third eye and your eyes and bathe them in whichever colours come to you. It will recover quickly in this way.

Threads are still rising to be cleared from me like clouds of sour milk. The Masters continue to exhort that I must not exclude myself from my devotion. Everything is a millimetre from everything else. Happiness, unhappiness, enlightenment, darkness, health, death, depravity. I am battling, at least struggling. This process has its own will now and is never ending. My fire is very, very low. I am become invisible and there is a likelihood I will disappear in a puff of smoke.

Kwan Yin told me this morning that the integration of my light body is complete. This is the gift, the thing that was coming. She confirms this means that the vibration of my body vehicle has become sufficiently high to accommodate my soul’s vibration, they are united. I find this astonishing, given how low I’ve been, that this process could complete itself. She said a friend would be coming my way in the autumn.

Today, I met an amazing woman named Fredericka. She was in London to be with the Dali Lama. We had a lovely time together. She is a healer and showed me all sorts of things. The Masters said I was to give her healing. She seemed so developed I was very shy to offer this but she readily accepted. She must be very powerful indeed, for the force of what they were pouring through me was so great, I could barely stand. She received and felt all of this. They were giving her great and powerful gifts and healing her heart. The world is a wondrous place.

Sananda says I have so many emotions or such extreme emotions because I will need them in my creativity. Emotion is motion— fuel when focussed and utilised properly. When the emotional body is finally immaculate, cleared of all negativity, the sacred fire of the Beloved Presence that is One with God, the I AM, can pour through its Powers and Blessings and it is in this way a that mountain could truly be moved.

D. is being so loving, it’s a bit shocking.

Today, feels like an October morning in the middle of July. I am imprinted with a kind of longing which rises strangely in me in this kind of cool, misty weather with lavender skies. I often wonder if this feeling doesn’t belong to my mother. I used to get it so strongly in the Berkshires of Massachusetts where I lived for many years, twice, and where many of my longest friendships were forged including my dear first husband, my daughter’s dad, and her Godmother, one of my oldest friends, Anne. It’s where my daughter was born. A place of melancholy and great beauty. White skies in winter, lavender in fall and the bluest blue in summer and spring. I later discovered my mother and father had visited it and loved it on first sight when I was in her womb.

The ‘Fantasticks’ is going really well. The company is excellent and it’s amazing seeing my daughter metamorphosing into a young woman and her awakening paralleling what happens on the stage to the young woman she is playing. The stage can be a magical place.

I live my life like the second Mrs. De Winter. Part of me is not quite sure I deserve to be here. Rebecca will rise from the grave at any moment to usurp my place on Earth. Wicked, yes, but also vibrant and sure. Each time I make a decision based on what I truly want, my strength grows and I see why selfish people have so much power. I don’t want to be selfish but there has to be balance.

Today, I bought some Rebecca clothes to alternate with my slightly non-descript flowy Mrs. De Winter stuff. Maybe I can bluff my way into being.

I have such overwhelming tenderness for D. and my daughter. I never want to lose them or hurt them in any way.

My father says I am a flibbidijibbit. He’s lucky I’m not a blooming psychopath given everything. He pisses me off, sometimes.

When the culture supports the fact that each child has a unique soul purpose and method of expression, parents will not feel obliged or compelled to project their idea of what they want their children to be onto them.

How I take what I have learned from the Angels and Masters of Light and experience teaching others

I realise now that to put yourself in the position of guiding others is to set yourself up as a Wizard of Oz. They are the Dorothys and her cohorts in search of parts of themselves they feel are missing. They find their way to the Emerald City where lives the great and mighty wizard who gives them impossible tasks and is finally exposed as a fraud, or, in other words, someone just like themselves. In truth, you give them the symbols of answers, keys they may use, a kind of encouragement, a seeing of themselves as potentially complete: a clock for a heart, a diploma for brains, a medal for courage, and most importantly of all, a mantra: Home is where the heart is. It worked for Dorothy and it will work for all of us in the end.

People define themselves by their illness and feel they will be nothing if they let it go. So, a two-fold process of building up and letting go transpired.

My clients at the clinic are a fluctuating group classified as “severely disturbed to suicidal” and one individual for hands on healing who has been suffering terribly with M.E. for many years. All of them are intelligent, lovely people who have been hurt and cannot cope with life in varying degrees. I will work with them for twelve sessions on a weekly basis. They are supported by other therapists and counsellors. The clinic itself is an admirable and successful experiment of medical doctors, alternative practitioners and healers working together.

On the first day I tell them:

This is a course in healing through creativity which is also a course in self-mastery. Self-mastery is ultimately enlightenment so you could say this is a course in enlightenment.

The basis of the system we will use is the understanding of suppression and expression. What is suppressed causes havoc. What is expressed is released. There is an alchemy in creative expression whereby, with guided intention, the lead of suppressed emotion may be transmuted to the gold of clear thought and connection to our inspirational source.

As we safely release suppressed emotion and traumatic memory, compulsive thought, lack of focus, and anxiety diminish. We become unstuck. We feel deeply without holding on. We are able to see with fresh insight and a new perspective. The healing journey becomes the creative journey, the pinnacle of which is the ability to create our own life. We need methods of safe expression and drawing, painting, writing, speaking and breathing are the ones we will use here.

There will be an element of analysis but the goal is the pure expression of suppressed emotion without judgement in a safe and guided environment.

And so forth.

I made no separation between myself and them and talked freely about my life, using it as an example where necessary or appropriate. I was also quite honest about my own problems as well as the progress that had been made.

Every day I begin with a journey where I take them into their imagination and open the receptive part of the brain and speak to them of their divine nature, reminding them they are spiritual beings on a human journey.

I then invent exercises based on what has been already described in this book as well as many new ones which arise in the moment, some of which are so simple they seem, at first, childish or ineffective but which prove to be profoundly effective.

Diplomas, clocks, medals, mantras. None the less, many patterns were brought into awareness and there was a continual loosening up and release. There seemed to be an acceleration based on several people being in a group with the same intention. There was enormous anger and pain and the sessions often went over by several hours. It seemed too counter-productive to stop until natural completion had arrived. No one had ever had enough time for these people.

We touched on life as a mirror for that which is in us needing to be expressed. In many of their lives there was a lot of chaos and of course, paralysis. There was a lot of anger at systems in which forgiveness is imposed. My hope was that clearing in this way would lead to compassion and finally to forgiveness, for the sake of the one who forgives, who is finally released, but no expectations of any kind were placed on the process.

I taught them various techniques for balance and connecting to inspiration guidance, and how to use their creativity for self-analysis, transformation and growth. I gave them healing, taught them how to communicate with their Heart, to begin to find trust in their own intuitions, encouraged them, told them they were doing a good job being human, taught them how to direct healing to others by the conscious intention to which energy and light respond (an act which moves them into the inspirational mind). We guided communication in absence to those who had caused them pain, a simplistic exercise that can be very powerful.

Comments from other therapists who saw them in sessions or in the “drop-in” times were very positive regarding improvements and some began sitting in on the sessions to see what was causing such marked improvements.

As I began to know them better and better it seemed so obvious that, despite whatever psychological label they had been given, they were suffering from cruelty in their child-hoods and lack of love. And from being invisible in the unseeing world.

They were often very challenging.

Many of them began coming early to attend an acupuncture session before we met and this accelerated things still further, opening up the energy systems so the emotions could flow more easily.

They were generally very over analytical as a device to stay in their minds and away from the pain of their feelings and it took some concentration to move them away from this. The intense analysis was being used as a way not to feel.

There was much discussion regarding therapists and the nature of therapy. All anyone can do is offer tools and guidance, a safe, caring but temporary environment to clear as much as possible and reprogram self-worth. Each must heal one’s self. There was much unhappiness with the hierarchical nature of traditional therapy and the feeling there was a lack of humanity, a lack of basic caring, as well as irritation at being labelled and “boxed”. Traditional therapy rarely includes the body and habits of the body as a source of anxiety. Good physical habits relieve stress. Nor does it include the Soul, the Presence of the Source within, the ultimate source of all true healing. The part that remains intact no matter what the personality endures.

Discussion can become a way to avoid the work and feeling. It is difficult keeping boundaries. Their expectations are understandably high.

At the sixth week, I decide to experiment with an entirely different approach, one of total positivity. I felt this work was becoming exhausting. They had been shown enough angles of it and we had some really encouraging developments. A great deal of catharsis had been achieved. On this day I ask them to make a list of what they most liked about themselves. They all hesitate, as if this list might not be very long, but once they began, the lists grew very long indeed. We read them out and they were like poetry, each so unique. They see how much beauty is in them and so do I. We make lists of what we love, what we are grateful for. The atmosphere is very light. One woman with a perpetual headache says it has lifted. We then draw freely.

The next week the energy is unsettled and after some time we just go right into painting. I am amazed by their freedom. The paintings are by turns strong, gentle, pale, intensely coloured. They are very powerful to look at it. None of them had ever painted before.

By the next week this is becoming the happiest group. There is a loving, harmonious atmosphere and we paint in the garden just free associating as we paint. Many things seem to float up and out without effort or pain. One is adding feathers and plants to his painting to very interesting effect, I am very fond of him. He is super bright and very troubled by his early life and the world. He finds this work not as heady as counselling or as deep as psychologically oriented body-work but very effective and perhaps preferable in its gentleness. He can be very disruptive. He exhibits the most outward signs of trouble and can’t sit still. A therapist joins us and paints her first ever painting. I wonder if we could have gone right to this stage but decide the beginning weeks were necessary. In general, most of them are doing better in their personal lives physically, mentally and emotionally.

I have also used this system with my private client who is improving enormously as well. She is at a turning point. She is a “sleeping master”. She has an incredibly high level of awareness and my approach with her is different. She is a painter. She has been suffering from a debilitating illness and we are helping her release the anger and trauma that is manifesting physically. She responds incredibly well.

All of this is more complex than I have presented in this small space and without wanting to reveal private details of these people. It did convince me of the benefit of using some kind of system of guided expression along with free form creative expression for anyone with mental or emotional disturbance or physical illness as they are all manifestations of the same suppression of trauma. Physical, emotional and mental symptoms were all relieved to varying degrees in a twelve week period. I wondered if a system of guided expression had been available all their lives if they would have coped much better and I think so. In the end, though, it is more than anything about love and if people are isolated and lonely and don’t have enough support or inner strength to make those first steps, it is much harder to get better.

Today is the day of my mother’s birth.

Strange dream: I am wearing a rabbit skin and being chased by snipers with a rifle. I pray to be saved and suddenly wake up in kidney gripping anxiety. Later I was sitting around a table and a woman there says I have been improved by the experience. I then saw on the wall a television set or a rectangular blue light which became brighter and brighter and brighter. I was relieved. In the dream it meant Space Beings were coming and I knew they would be more in unconditional love than Earth Beings.

I am trying to transmute sexual energy into creative energy. Wanting other things leaks energy. However, I am longing to go to Carmel, California.

Kwan Yin comes to me now (darling Kwan Yin! as close as my heart beat!): Dearest One, You are nearing the completion of a cycle. Your challenge now is to manifest. There is no other work that needs to be done. You can manifest whatever you like. Your joy and energy will come in manifesting your imagination directly into the created world.

There is no preparation necessary and no judgement. In the beginning of this journey of total freedom of imagination and manifestation, do not even concern yourself with discernment. Do not think of the finished product and place no expectations on your work. Become fully emersed in the process of creation. This may be for some time, at least a year. Longer, perhaps.

Love yourself as I love you.

As I lay me down to sleep, Merlin comes with Pegasus and we go flying. I am taken to a magnificent wood. There is a ruby, soft gold and blue-green and white light softly emanating from everything. I see a fairy grow huge before my eyes. It is showing me that it is a Tree Spirit. It enters its tree and Merlin and I follow. I feel myself move out into the leaves and down into the roots. The energy is bluey-green and fabulously patterned. I feel the inside of a leaf and feel the rays of sunlight on it and hear the sound of a bird from the tree’s perspective.

Today, at Waterlow Park in the shifting shadows and fading light, D. and I lay in the grass and feed grapes to huge crows. They come closer and closer and have all the various personality types of humans: shy, aggressive, winning, entertaining, nutty.

Colours are scorching me today and the roses with their colour and scent are hypnotising, narcotic. Magic is rising up out of the roots of trees and Amazon women of originality and truth are reaching across the years. There is nothing I didn’t know or didn’t forget. The world is a multi-dimensional phantasmagoria with just a few teething problems on the third.

Some children run by screaming with dismay and delight as their bouquet of helium filled gold and white balloons sweep higher and higher out of their reach. I concentrate an image of a lead weight in each one and willed them to come down and come down they did!

Beauty will return to the world in all its aspects. It persists even now, despite scorn, mockery and the apotheosis of darkness.

The river of myself is waterfalling now. I am touching the edges of the sea. The greater portion of my atomic matter has been transmuted. I still have difficulty being in the world but I can blow the clouds off the moon.

Dream: I dream of my first love, Michael. I send him cards in the night with powerful, beautiful women on them dressed in Fortuny pleated silk and rainbow velvet.

On the roof is a pony-tailed buccaneer, black frock coat, ruffled shirt and a sword. An urban Little Prince. It is one of the actors from the show. Passionate, difficult, committed, vulnerable. True to himself. A strange and fabulous creature.

Another strange and fabulous creature: Marianne Faithfull in concert. Generous, witty and delightful. True to herself. Telling her story.

There’s a strange smell around D., like something burning. I am concerned about him working so much.

There is a lovely woman at the centre who I think is the one Kwan Yin meant when she said a friend is coming. She is very serene and true.

I went to the rose garden today and kissed every single rose. The trees looked magnificent against the blue sky, each leaf translucent and light filled. The sun called me sister and gave me a special blessing of light and told me I was a lion, a sunflower.

I found the most glorious rose. Its petals were shaped like hearts and made of sleek magenta, deeply edged with mottled crimson of velvety texture. The centre was all turned in on itself, like huddling butterflies. Its scent was soft as the petals fell away and became darker. I stared at it for the longest time, memorising it. Very faint oranges and blues rose to its surface. I felt its Being and saw it clearly as a manifestation of God’s Heart. Who knows the extent of its consciousness? For one thing, it is in perfect balance, receiving and giving. An enlightened Being of perfect beauty. I felt a rush of love for it and as that flowed through me, I was astonished to feel a strong response and see one! A soft corona of green bloomed out from its edges and flickered around it for several minutes. I will visit it tomorrow.

We buried a pigeon in the church-yard my daughter had saved, but which died in the end. As we began the ceremony, a flock of pigeons arrived and waddled over to us, sitting in formation on the grass until the end of the ceremony at which time they flew away.

Last week, seven well-loved cows saved their owner from a bull.

The week before that, dolphins saved a man from a shark.

The week before that, an elephant tore apart a swimming pool area to ingeniously build a bridge to save her calf who had fallen in.

Today, in the papers, there is a picture of a lion cub and a lamb snuggling. The lion lies down with the lamb. At last.

By what magic do plants heal? The frequency of the plant must key into the frequency of the illness. The vibrational frequency of plants is much higher than the illness. Perhaps it causes an expansion which leads to an unblocking of energy. It is not surprising that sound can heal, composers such as Bach and Vivaldi knew this as well as the Tibetans with their singing bowls or the Indians with their drums or the Hindus with their repetition of the Universal sound of OM. The frequency is actually a sound, it resonates. So, in effect, the plant heals with its sound, its tone.

The sound frequency of the star constellation Crab Nebula played through a metal plate covered with sand will cause the sand to take on the form of that constellation.

Motherly things are stressing me. Getting my daughter to bed is impossible. I pass the job on to D. and he kept her up for hours giving her notes on her performance in the ‘Fantasticks’!

I painted a large painting through without stopping. It painted me, really, like riding a wave. A woman holding a rose with another large rose floating in an ultramarine and turquoise sky which becomes her arm, her chest is rolling sap green hills in which sets a golden yellow sun with streaks of orange in a light sky within a sky. Her face is pale green with violet shadows. I looked into her eyes and thought she looked quite incredible and not a little spooky with her clear, intense stare and odd, mildly clashing colours. I used raw paint mixed with pure pigment with hardly any white. There is a strong effect with these pure colours, almost translucent. There was every colour of the rainbow represented and this created a resonance. There is a healing energy. Strange juxtapositions of colours may create a certain inaudible healing tone. Colour is light is energy is frequency is sound.

Today, we watched seven episodes in a row of my daughter’s television show at a BBC screening. It was very imaginative and she’s had a very good time playing a baddie for a change. D. organised a wonderful gala evening in honour of Vivian Ellis at the Adelphi Theatre. It went very well with wonderful people like Sir John Mills and our dear friend janie Dee who was in my first play. My daughter took the stage like an old pro and sang ‘Lily’ in a white satin dress. Hopefully, this tribute comforts D. in its feeling of completion. He continues to champion Vivian’s work, which is very special.

Christina continues to communicate with an aspect of her consciousness in the form of a five-year old called Abel. Abel first appeared as a kind of angry child, a guardian of shadows. She has also introduced herself as an aspect of Christina’s higher consciousness. She seems in many ways the fully functioning, connected self, creative and whole prior to disconnection. Prior to dismemberment. We are re-membering ourselves. Christina has the idea that all children are their higher selves and that as armour and defence and fear build, we choke or drown that self. This would make sense and it would seem that which modern psychologists call the “inner child” is this original child, with her connection to her deepest consciousness and the Inspirational Mind intact.

I was thinking this morning how this whole experience of communication began by my asking. Seek and you shall find. Ask and you shall receive. But not necessarily the way we expect.

Dream: A memorial for John Lennon where Yoko Ono did this beautiful shadow dance, literally her shadows were dancing, and this somehow signified that John Lennon saw her beauty.

I am eating too many sweets. Sananda says, Am I not sweet enough for you? These sweets are a kind of mother love. I would like a mother, a wise woman with an open heart. Like Butterfly McQueen or Maya Angelou.

I’ve started another book, The True Story of the Angel El-Ah-Ra and Her Journey Through Time. It is kind of an adventure story and I’d like to paint pictures for it and then develop it into a children’s film. Kwan Yin says she can see its completion and it will be golden.

The will begins to breathe

I am feeling really angry today. I am raging inside. My blood is boiling. I am like a ravening dog. I am really rabid. I want to bite off the head of the world. I want to kick and bite and fight. I feel like breaking every code and killing a 1,000 people and eating their livers. Nothing feels meaningful, nothing feels sacred. Everything feels stupid and abstract and idealistic. I’m so bloody sick of veils and veils and veils. I am angry at Kwan Yin. I feel she is withholding her form even though I know its not true. I’m not angry at God because I don’t know God and feel there is no God. There is an energy but I do not understand how energy can be loving and knowing. I do not understand how energy can love me. I have absorbed this on a superficial, intellectual level and I now reject it because it means nothing to me.

So, I ask this energy which calls itself God, show me what and who you are in a way I can apprehend.

I am thinking my life instead of feeling my life. Doing is an act of will. Will is a manifestation of desire. Desire is a feeling. You can desire to manifest a thought but a thought cannot manifest without desire to fuel it. The Hindu mystics said quite rightly, it is desire which keeps us on the wheel of birth and death but I want to be in the world. I want to experience being human fully before I leave.

I’m sick of invisible aspirations. I want to be earthy and obnoxious and swear and paint wildly and dance and sing and shout when ever I feel like it. I want to learn a martial art and feel and love without guilt. I don’t want to be good and I don’t want to be compassionate. I especially don’t want to be compassionate to all the sneering blockheads and the cynical snit mongers, the compartmentalising hating judging creeps and the greedy pesticide welding animal harming children eating twit heads.

Free floating anger, pure fire, let it purge me and burn me and dissolve and devour. Let the fire rage through me and the tendrils of my hair curl with heat and my eyelids flip and my bones sizzle and my soul dissolve. Let me dissolve in fire and rise again, a sun.

Kwan Yin, what is this? You are using anger to kick your way out of a box. Go with it. You are painting more freely which will open the avenue for other creativity to pour through you.

I am a jack-in-the-box. Still suppressed. Anger popping up at odd times. But it’s better.

Kwan Yin, I feel like I’m talking to myself. Please tell me something I don’t know. Your friend, Heather, is having the baby who was around you this summer. It is possible that you will one day look after this child. This is shocking to hear. I am a little sad but also amazed.

Kwan Yin then explains to me that the energy of the body can be balanced with magnets. The energy which forms us is Electro-magnetic. The left side is seen as blue and responds to the negative magnet. The right side is seen as pink and responds to the positive magnet. (This is negative and positive in the sense of universal principals of feminine—yin, receptive, negative and masculine—yang, active, positive). This is odd because the left side is often thought to be the feminine side traditionally associated with pink.

I have found a book which states the negative magnet can be seen to emit a blue aura and the positive a red aura. This would explain it. The receptive is blue and the active is red. The negative magnet is alkaline and will balance acidity and vice versa. It is interesting to note that an alkaline diet will more likely produce a boy child and an acidic diet a girl. (Baking soda baths for a boy, vinegar baths for a girl). The Russians know a lot about the use of magnets in healing. It is fascinating to see this overlapping of the physical and the metaphysical. If a person is in perfect balance between the magnetic polarities of the left and the right side a golden-yellow light will shoot up the centre caused by the activation of the pineal gland. This is called the Three Fold Flame, represented by a fleur-de-lys of blue, yellow and red plumes. The golden-yellow light is sometimes called Christ Consciousness or enlightenment. So, it will obviously take a balancing on all levels to create this effect.

I live in the United State of Evolution and am the founder of THE UNITED LEAGUE OF IMAGINATIONS. Join me! Membership is free and open to all.

I am still feeling angry. As if I’m on fire. I am kicking free. I am a snake. I am a cobra. I am spitting and blinding. I am devouring hypocrisy. I burn and burn and burn. Right down to the core until there is nothing left but truth. There is something light and cool at the centre. A green fire. I am moving like mercury. I am beyond love, beyond beliefs. I am burning illusion. I am becoming this emerald green fire, singing and flickering. It knows itself and knows nothing other than itself. It sees nothing other than itself. It has no name and will not countenance one.

This morning, my skin is crying out for devotion and my whole body is alive with a sweet fire. My compassion is slowly returning.

I am thinking, again, of starting a centre in Sweden with Christina. The energy is here. The Creator Energy which is still inexplicable to me. It comes when I start thinking about this centre. I ask it where the money will come from and It says, Do you need to ask that? I can’t be angry that my vessel’s too tiny to comprehend It but, I am.

I am shown, again, that Christina and I will achieve the same purpose in different ways. Mary said long ago when this began that we were the North and the South of each other. This is another name for negative and positive magnetic polarity. I wonder if we balance each other in this way.

I am in New York where I have been visiting with my sister. We are like two magnets with the same polarity and there is friction. She has gone home to Detroit on the night of one of the biggest storms ever. We spent yesterday trapped in a brash mid-town shopping mall in the eye of the storm with my youngest sister and her daughter. I offered penance to my niece in the form of a Barbie doll school-room, although I had no control over the situation, (meaning the weather). I am now in a tiny hotel downtown and the wind is howling and bashing at the windows.

This morning, in a lovely cafe on the corner of 11th and Sixth, the calm after the storm has made the air sweet and music washing the air is teasing my skin. There are pretty buildings across the street and the people are nice and familiar and white birds are dancing in the sky in time to the music in perfect synchronicity, in perfect beauty, like life, like God. Downtown people look so much more gentle.

The past is a burning boat of Violet Flame floating floating floating away. There is only this moment, this moment of sweetness, this moment of angels and loneliness, this bittersweet confection.

I am trying hard to feel compassion but it is difficult for me now.

Archangel Michael comes to me. His energy is electric blue and warm. His light envelopes me like wings.

Beloved, you will melt into the compassion you desire when you let go of judgement within yourself. Remember, each person has their hopes and dreams and divine blueprint as magical as yours. In some it is just more buried and it is frustrating for you because of your expectations of them which are a reflection of your expectations of yourself. But this is not for you to judge nor is it your responsibility. Know that they are perfect as they are and do not feel you need to be their teacher beyond what comes naturally in the sense that all beings teach each other continually. Teach those directly who seek you out, if it is your choice to do so. All others, bless. Bless them in their perfection. Look into their eyes and know there is magnificence in them and then accept them exactly as they are. Your job, if you like, is to see them as perfect. To see their divinity. Do not worry about levels of development and whatever else comes to mind in this regard. This is judgement. You feel it to be a kind of love but it is not.


You are not responsible for guiding them to the magical blueprint of their divine plan. They are enchanted, as you say, but do not focus on the enchantment for this strengthens it. Do not see the enchantment at all. The soul comes into form to experience creativity and the joy that attends it. This is your only business, all else will follow in its own perfection.

As each accepts and manifest this, loving unconditionally and expressing the soul, the world will change. People will gradually become more and more aware. They will become sensitive to the tastes of foods to the degree they will only desire organic produce and will not feel right eating food that has caused harm to beings in any way. As children’s education broadens to include the mysteries of the soul and science of the spirit that informs the hologram of human form, violence will fade as a means of communication. Finer music will be produced which is more evenly balanced in its effect on the body. The imagination will open and great works will pass through many which are not imbued with forced moral values but which will be imbued with transcendent codes within the telling of the human story with all its light and shade.

Do not judge the current obsession with violence in the media. It is a clearing. It will pass.

With Me, you will be one of many who will liberate the children through art and education and aid the re-emergence of the creative child within men and women. You will do this differently than you now imagine. But for now, you must learn the innocence and trust of children that was not possible for you in your childhood.

Merlin has joined us. He is reminding me it is not wrong to chuckle at the folly of others, to see the absurdities. It is not the same as laughing at misfortune. Above all, remember to chuckle at one’s own folly. Keep light, don’t be earnest, find humour in everything. Think of how happy children chuckle at everything.

Today, I pine for my father and this is mixed with anger at him leaving and sorrow that he doesn’t see me or seem to believe in me. Sananda, what is the remedy for this grief?

Send love to him and yourself. Bless him and release him in your heart. Trust that he sees and knows more than he admits (to himself). Know that he suffers from his own erroneously perceived sense of failure despite all his accomplishments and he projects this upon you most of all because of all the women in his life, you best represent the qualities of his feminine side. Honour him and bless him. He is the perfect father for you to have come through. He is a very spiritual man with high ideals who shut the door on the full expression of his heart. You have learned a great deal from him. His path has been perfect for him even if he or you cannot understand that. He is touched by beauty and will find his own creativity and fulfilment and therefore, his freedom. You have over-identified with his projection. Release yourself, release him. Your father is faring well.

I wonder how he will find his creativity? I have encouraged him to write. Perhaps gardening? Perhaps a kind of creativity I don’t recognise or understand.

I am feeling lost today. Oh, for an angel gentle and mild, forever tender and wild, wild wild. With each page, I shed a skin. The window which flew open almost two years ago feels like it closing. It’s like an abandonment but I know I am meant to enter the world.

“It’s not what happens to a man but what he does with his experience.” Auden.

I feel ordinary now yet in control of my destiny. I am moving from living my life and dreaming my dreams to living my dreams. My cells remember a golden time but where in time? Yet to come? Kindness is the greatest wisdom.

D. and my daughter have arrived in New York and we had a wonderful time with Anne. There are all these organic restaurants here with really good food. D. hates them so we balance it with Italian restaurants dotted around the Village. We met Jill who took us to a British cafe called Tea and Sympathy. She was the original girl in ‘Promises Promises’ and is primarily a singer now and her mother runs a little theatre.

Later, on the way to see the New York production of ‘The Fantasticks’, my daughter says I need to surrender, that I am still doing internal battle all the time. She says surrendering to the soul is the greatest gift of giving because it returns another portion of the Universe to Itself.

Lovely day showing her New York. She is feeling really good here in the less reserved atmosphere.

I am feeling quite detached from D. but this is part of the cure. Who is D.? An unusual and funny man who is obsessed with theatre (and baseball) almost to the exclusion of all else. A nice companion who is warm and familiar. And, very likely, someone who I have projected “father” on in a way and now that I am “growing up”, finding internal completion, solving deficiency, braving belief in myself, it is necessary to detach but how much is him I am detaching from and how much the projection, I don’t know. Perhaps it is impossible to separate the two.

I now see that everything I thought was love was not love and this new thing that has taken its place, a clear sighted independence but joy in another’s presence, may be love, but I’m not sure.

I am also letting go of a lot of other things. Desires, concepts, longings. It is amazing how little pre-judgement I now have. The vigilance is working, albeit slowly. I am also becoming more aware of my own capabilities and have much less need for validation from outside myself. I realise that many of my emotions are habitual reactions and if I allow myself to look at the present clearly, I can shift perception and move out of miasma or self-torment. When I am flooded with an emotion, I am easier about it. I know I won’t hold on to it, so I just experience it and make no judgement nor blame any one else for the emotion I am experiencing.

I am becoming free.

There is such a feeling of familiarity in the air here. It has the same round touch as New England air. Rooftops and chimneys and magenta flowering vines startling bright against red brick, graceful wrought iron, sunlight in the trees. Less parks but more trees and all New Yorkers seem to have a dog. At Washington Square Park, there is now a little dog park where, curiously, the most robust and aggressive dogs play happily with little Scotties and the like. There is an ease in the air, especially downtown and there is a lot of health and physical confidence. But all my dreams of living here again are misplaced. It feels like going back. I seem to have an obsessive need to dream of living somewhere else. London suits me in many ways.

It’s always lovely seeing Anne whom I’ve known since I was fourteen and who grew up here with typically eccentric, intellectual, political parents and a penchant for working for noble causes and philanthropists. She took us to see Elizabeth Swados’ Missionaries at La Mama with her boyfriend John who fascinated us in high-school with his Left Bank style and Cocteau-like drawings.

I am much less dependent on the Masters now and where I used to write for hours a day, working on clearing and communicating with them, I now do so very little. My understanding of Oneness is growing on an intrinsic level and I know they are part of me. It feels like every intuition is an angel whispering in my ear and I am much less rebellious in accepting that my consciousness and creativity is shared with the Universe.

This morning, I experienced the molecules in my hotel room as pure energy agreeing with projected thought to represent a room. I became very aware of the consciousness of all my cells and it reminded me of that Twilight Zone episode where the couple makes a wrong turn and come to a ghost town that they finally realise is the toy of a giant’s child on another planet. I felt the cells’ singular evolution within the whole and knew just as the energy of the Earth hots up and helps to accelerate my energy, the acceleration of my cells mirror me.

This waking up is a strange thing, a series of conundrums and paradoxes and knowing that no matter how deep a realisation seems to be, a deeper and more comprehensive one will be replacing it in due time. It is now a glorious game, (as Kwan Yin always reminds me), a treasure hunt and the edges between the cosmic and the mundane, the sweetness of the metaphysical and the sweetness of the physical, blur daily. Everything just is. This is no judgement and things do look very different but even that doesn’t matter.

Back in London, first reaction: a joy to be home. Again, a storm, the edges of Hurricane Lilli. Sleeping in the middle of the day, disoriented, dark, (the second day after the clocks turn back).

Heather, who I met at the Global Reunion, has called from Mexico. She is pregnant! I didn’t mention what Kwan Yin had said about the child being the same one who might have come through me, as it seemed so strange. She is swimming with dolphins during her pregnancy. She has read that swimming with dolphins considerably increases the child’s telepathic abilities based on a study done at the Baltic Sea with Russian women.

Heather has asked me to be the guardian of her child should anything happen to her. I was very honoured by this and accepted. Given the communication from Kwan Yin, it also must be an intuition on Heather’s part of the baby’s connection to me. I felt sure the baby near me was going to enter as a boy, yet Heather has known for some time this baby would be a girl and has named her, she is so sure. Perhaps it would have been a boy if it came through me or perhaps it was always destined to come through Heather but it was necessary for me to experience it in the way that I did so the connection would raise my awareness.

I have begun to draw in a very child like way. It makes me a little nervous because the realistic ones seem to impress people. I have to let go of this. I feel I must play now if the connection to my inspiration is ever going to be wholly opened.

Christina has had a realisation regarding the Now and the magnitude of the power of thought in the moment and the possibility of a paradox regarding past lives. We have had them and there is a progression and simultaneously we haven’t and there isn’t. It is something we haven’t yet grasped. I feel it has to do with the nature of time. If time is happening all at once, as Einstein observed and the Masters have tried to explain, then perhaps our future lives are occurring simultaneous with the past and the present. This is why it appears to the Masters, from the point of view of Eternity, that there is one life, all in the moment, yet they will also speak of other lives.

I have also had a realisation, as often happens with us. It is the knowing of the extent to which this is my creation, my dream. I see this as I take more and more responsibility for all aspects of my life. This is the true power and if one achieves this power, there is no desire to have the false power over others. I see the soul’s main occupation is to experience and express its Self. There is no responsibility for anyone or anything, for when one is in Oneness one is love and love will always do the right thing in the right moment for others with no stress, as opposed to the stressed-out head-led responsibility to rescue others.

This path of total liberation will ultimately lead us to act in a way that is truly for the highest good of all. I see now my dreams of healing and setting up centres for healing is not the highest path. This is still what I think I should be doing as I am still not operating completely from the heart. I see also, that to some degree, this plan perpetuates the third dimensional illusion by giving it credence. I would prefer now that my heart shows me a way to midwife the higher reality into existence instead of “fixing” a reality that is made of smoke.

My moment is gathering power. I am finally willing to take the adventure, to be Alice in Wonderland and fall down the hole (whole). This is the surrender, the surrender of fear, the total embracing of the adventure (Life), whatever it may bring.

Last night, a strange dream in which a Sufi master named Ananda wandered through saying a poem: The days are short, the nights are long, the healing has begun and when it’s through each one shall be the eye of the midnight sun.

And then, another dream in which this whole place burned down – theatre, pub and flat but no one was hurt. In the dream I didn’t mind and I had no desire to save any material thing, including my painting and writing.

When I see evil in the world now, I perceive it as a clearing of negativity manifesting from the inner to the outer and I hold it in golden light without judgement so that its transmutation back into the primary substance may be completed.

Heather has invited us to come visit her and I think we will. Suddenly, these four walls and the rushing cold wind seemed like an alien place. I am always a stranger. I love London but I do like the easy friendliness of New York

There is no God. There is only God. There is only shifting energy transmuting, transforming, energy extending itself through its own expression.

There is no good. There is no evil. There is only experience and the choice for fear or love, illusion or truth, suffering or joy. There is nothing to correct, only express. Through expression, correction is achieved.

I am caring less about healing and clearing and more and more about my work, my creativity. I am coming ‘round to accepting myself in all my gloomy glory. This may be the human condition. But if I can use it as clay, it will be redeemed in its own strange way. Embracing pain, longing. All part of this experience of life. But how to live? How to live?

Dream: A man gives me a chaste but electric kiss, as if to say, “You will live.” And then, beautiful wild horses running along the sidewalks, down the streets. A lovely wild chestnut pony lies on my lap on a sidewalk corner.

I’ve just read of an elephant at an American elephant sanctuary who paints water-colours and signs them with the same mark each time.

We are all moving towards the expression of our maximum potential within the costume of form. Form itself is a miracle to be explored. Hands touch and touch melts separation. An idea becomes a shape with colour, story and the power to transmit emotion and its own unique energy.

Kwan Yin tells me in the coming time I will know everything I need to know. This feels to me as if the Masters are withdrawing from me. She says they are not but the nature of the communication will begin to change. I know this is their way of training me to be in the moment and rely on my own Ascended Presence.

Merlin, baby, you know I am a dreamer and I need my dreams, that is part of who I am. Tell me in all probability where I may end up. Foresee my choices for me a ways ahead so I can dream. Indulge me. You, among many, will be part of the creation of a renewed society. You are well prepared for this task. There is a plan that begins with your creative expression. Julie Soskin, in her book, talks about the transition being made to a higher level of consciousness. Have I made that transition? No. You are in the process of making it. Three years. Is there an inevitability to this? Yes, as long as you follow your intuition.

God! What a crazy game is this. All is lost if I fail to follow my intuition. Sananda says I cannot even imagine what I will be doing in three years. I am feeling more and more committed to life. This morning, I felt I would live for three hundred years. I keep seeing a vision of myself surrounded by people, especially children, and I am helping them in some way, giving them a vision or restoring them to themselves.

When I am healing now, I visualise all the atoms of the person in a golden chalice bathed in a fine solar light and then transforming to trees and waterfalls and finally, the entire Universe. Sometimes, the Masters come and give them special lights. This is having a powerful effect.

In my life, I am still like a pauper who has awakened to a feast and cannot eat.

Sananda tells me to create as a child creates. To have no thought for the final product, just to revel in the expression of the moment. You can go back and apply the process of analytical discernment after this to shape and refine. I imagine there comes a time when it may come out all of a piece, as Puccini said about Madame Butterfly, that God put it on the page through him and Brahams and so many others have said but perhaps this can only occur when the craft has been mastered.

I have just landed in Stockholm for the weekend. It’s grey and cold and I am feeling a little fearful and missing home.

Magical methods of transformation: Find a way to be grateful for everything. It sounds a little like Pollyanna and the Glad Game but it does begin to work. I finally arrive at the door of Christina’s apartment building. She is waiting for me there, Sananda has told her I have arrived. She is holding her lovely baby who puts her arms out towards me. Her flat is a little barren, as if she is not quite in it and I help her decorate it with pictures and a poster from the museum we go to. Stockholm is enchanting. We go into a magnificent church in which there is a huge statue of George and the Dragon, a vast crown, a massive organ. Beautiful carvings. Pretty, ancient buildings and twisting streets in the old town, my favourite part.

I ask Christina to check something for me. I say my friend, Heather, is pregnant and swimming with dolphins in the Yucatan and I will go visit her. Can she pick up anything on this? She closes her eyes and says, “This is the same baby you would have had.” She says the baby likes the names Angel and April. I know Heather has picked out her name, so maybe this is where she is from and the month in which she’ll be born. I felt enormous sadness that I would not be having a baby with D. but it passed. I am also very concerned that D. doesn’t take care of himself regarding his punishing work schedule and that he will wear himself out and cause himself to leave Earth before his time. Christina confirms through his Higher Self that this is possible. I feel a terrible wave of loss. There is the potential for change.

I have a deep, distressing longing for a perfect love. An Angel came in the name of Lancelot to say I must clear up this longing. It causes me to project and could cause the kingdom to fall. I took this to mean the path will be lost, as Merlin said it would be if I did not follow my intuition. He said I cannot experience true oneness with another until I have experienced it within myself.

I took Christina back to her life as Shoshana in ancient England. This was her moment of doubt. We spiralled back through time to the beginning of her denial of herself. She is unable to see her beauty. We can know our medicine, our gift, by that which we must overcome, that which offers us a healing journey and a learning process, so her gift, or one of them, must be to bring beauty to the world.

Back in London in the bath, I felt as close to the inner marriage as I ever have. I felt so buzzy with joy and so sure of life I easily could live 1,000 years. I might as well enjoy the fruits of our labours.

Dream: D. wants to be with someone like this actress we know who represents to me someone not very powerful, very meek. Later in the dream, I am caring for Janie Dee. She is involved in a business talk with a man, trying to convince him my paintings would look good on his walls. I try to leave and there are only rickety, high wooden ladders and it’s raining. I say there must be another way and he says there isn’t. I find there is another way and I shout at him. After I leave, I am crawling on my stomach across this long piazza. For some reason I want to. The floor is white marble and quite clean. I am working with mothers and children. In the dream, I am a very strong woman who stands up to men and doesn’t feel particularly sad when they reject me because I am too strong.

I am in an inspired state this morning having continual visions of glorious art images using unusual mediums, moving into the three dimensional. I need a large studio to make them. It is the Angels who are putting these visions in my head, so I ask them to find me the studio and the materials. I am seeing the Ascension of the Christ and it is so light filled it is blinding me inside my head. I want to create this some how. It is the promise of the resurrection within each of us. Reunion. As I become more and more in love with the actualisation of the imagination, there is no fear of failure or success. I am also receiving designs for furniture, clothing, architecture, jewellery, photography, mosaics and screens. It seems I will have to win the lottery to have the means and the space to manifest these.

Dream: Heather has a girl but there was another child for me. A boy who wanted to be called George Zeus. He is a gruff little boy with pock-marked skin, longish hair and an earring in his ear. He is trapped in a genie’s bottle covered with sticky tape. I rescued him from this and realised I must love him as he is. Later, he was in a pen like a bird cage. I wondered, does the baby feel trapped? Does Heather feel trapped? Or is it my goldfish who I know has been feeling trapped lately?

This morning, I am feeling as if I’m cracking open, this echo feeling inside of me like all my vital areas are pulling inwards and imploding. Like sex could plug it up but it doesn’t. I want to shave my head and be naked in a pond of warm water. I want to be flying free. Why am I here? I am confused and echoing like crazy. It’s that astronaut feeling of floating in space.

I am a large wolf spider, a water bear. I have an extreme impulse to dance. A malady or spinning prayer. I am Noah’s ark. Amoeba, fish, reptile, ape. As ontogeny recapitulates philogeny, finally human begetting human, a river of flesh, a sheath, a flame, the hope of light.

There is a shadow. The rooks are emerging. The ground is shifting. Rocking gently beneath my feet. The fire is out. The sky draws in. The clouds are diaphanous winding sheets. Ice is falling in ten pronged white genetic flakes. There is no edge as I fan out to endless space. Shadows fly through me. Grey light through glass plate. The ground see-saws below. There is no anchor.

They enter me. You will find me floating boneless in the snow.

The path spirals in on itself with each revolution

I am riding a wave now, a spiralling pattern that touches the depths and the heights with a different perception at each return. Where once upon a time, years ago, I would lock my door and withdraw, perhaps for months, I am now a ship wedded to my course despite my cargo. I move from the crack-through of revelation to the crack up of memories coming alive inside of me with no names and no words, just echoes. My childhood feels bankrupt, a series of symbols carefully packaged I find tiresome to peel back and address. I weather these episodes which come more frequently then recorded here but less and less with each passing month. I try to let it flow and then sculpt it, use it all as clay. This prevents it from controlling me even if in some cases it is more of a distraction than an expression. It will be interesting to see if one who has been so severely marked by life can be ever be absolutely free of it. But if I can find pleasure in the sculpture, it will not matter so much.

I see now how D. and I have recreated the relationships of our childhood and it is true that both of our preceding relationships mirror this one in many ways. When I think of the great love which consumed us within a short time of meeting, it is eerie to think there was an unconscious keying-in, a recognition coded in the energy field, that this relationship would, like the others, also fulfil the neurotic need to recreate the chaos of the past. What happens when one awakens from this enchantment and the other doesn’t? At least, I see now how we have been equal partners in all this. There are women who are D.’s counterpart and men who are mine. Why have we not found another who is compatible to our needs and desires? Because there is a buried need for us to recreate these childhood patterns. A fear of a true and brave intimacy must also exist in me, for I have helped create this relationship.

To discover that I have a fear of what I so longed for is shocking. But, of course, if I didn’t, I would have it. If not with D., then with another. It makes me feel disillusioned about love, all this awareness of the keying-in. How strange it that we know on some level, despite the great intimacies and grand passions of beginnings, that behind this lies the same pattern once again.

This understanding doesn’t diminish the love I have wanted to give him and tried to give him and did give him and the gratitude and sweetness for all he has given me. We have both done the best we can.

Kwan Yin tells me our priorities are so different now that we are growing apart at the deepest level. This is frightening and saddening. She says: This is painful but there is no judgement. He is protecting his heart and does not want the pain of growth in that area. He is happy with things the way they are. There is nothing you have done. When you met, you were very vulnerable and now you are very strong. There is a big difference here in the dynamic of the relationship. But life is a moveable feast and anything may happen.

Is an overly romantic, mysterious, vulnerable, melancholiac more desirable and interesting than a forthright, increasingly strong and self-sufficient person? It would seem so. Think of Hitchcock’s Vertigo.

Either way, I am outgrowing the cocoon I once longed for and this is inevitable but fraught.

I am still longing for a baby, but this may be another trick of the longing, another projection of happiness outside myself, all the better for its unattainableness. Or it may be a metaphor for the unexpressed creativity that my body confuses with a baby. Just before the Artistic Director of our neighbouring theatre had a big success with a production of Medea, I dreamed he had a big, baby boy. Maybe at the deepest level they mean the same.

In speaking with Christina today, a Light Being called Maitreya came to tell us we were harming our nervous system by comparing ourselves with others. Comparison is not productive.

Ricardo, a really dear man who works here, gave me a beautiful sweater today. He described it as a good sweater for a powerful woman. I was amazed by that, and touched. I am becoming unafraid of this pure life force power (not power over others) and I want to live this now even if it means I will be unloved.

Chris Reeves is on my mind. I think he is a master teacher who will teach victory over the body by walking again against all odds. Know he will do it. Help him by sending him Light.

Last night, I was communicating with Sananda and Christina. Christina and I wanted to know about the degree of torment we suffered as children. I think our obsession with this is a kind of hangover of an attitude that we must be bad to have drawn this to us.

He said in many lives we have been punished for our expression and our beliefs that created a fear body around us that continued to draw the experience we feared. We have both been afraid of showing ourselves in our work for fear that we would be killed. He says we have cleared too much fear for this experience to be drawn to us again. We are becoming magicians.

He then told me who I was in his life as Jesus. As the Mayans said in their greeting, “Another like myself.”

To know or dream that I was loved in a way that is sacred to me, completely seen, completely accepted, completely loved. I am crying and Sananda says I am washing my face in a river. There is a tenderness breaking in me and there is so much light around me I can barely see. My cells are singing.

An Angel named Thomas came who I knew in form during the Civil War. He wants to write love poems with me. He is encouraging me to express my feelings in this way. I ask him if he is part of my higher self. Christina is a shown a vision of an opening with thousands of Angels pouring through and she said this was an idea of my higher self. The world feels like poetry today.

My daughter and I are feeling so good. We’ve decided we would write movies and be in them. We went on the merry-go-round at Leicester Square again and again and everything seemed so sweet and alive, going around and around with the haunting music flooding me golden.

Christina has begun painting. She is painting flowers. She feels that essences may be prepared from these paintings of flowers. She was one who helped create flowers and their potentials in Lemuria. It seemed clear that potentiality waited for this moment and now a new blueprint was created which would lead to the manifestation of the actual flowers, if this was her intention. She felt full of understanding of the limitlessness of creativity.

I felt again, that there will come a time when enough of us will agree to change our agreement of how we perceive this world and the kingdom would indeed come in the twinkling of an eye.

I see a vision now of eyes of sky. I am reaching across dimensions.

I notice when I am feeling really free and full of life that other people try to diminish me because they feel diminished by me. This is the insidious result of comparison. We don’t celebrate each other but feel threatened. I now know why Jesus was killed. They were afraid of his freedom.

My daughter has been feeling low and stormy. When she was in my womb I gave her to God just as Rebecca did Samuel. I have hidden very little from her. Our communication is as open as it can be, though there are thoughts and incidents I would never burden her with. She has not needed to be a fighter but she is, none-the-less. Not for herself but her principles.

How God shows me God through my senses

For the past few months I have been having these experiences which seem to me to be of essential God qualities. They last approximately three days. One was the experience of compassion and I was practically unable to speak or write for the whole of the time. I felt an unbearable sweetness, a breaking of the heart, a painful tenderness. Each time I was near someone and I saw a literal bridge between our hearts. The first time these started happening, I thought I had finally reached God consciousness and it was possible to live a life of bliss. And then when it went away, I felt abandoned by God as if I had been found and lost again. Now, I am at the end of three days of feeling an enormous power.

Each time, the experience has crept up on me out of the corner of my eye and I have fanned it by focusing on it with an unbelievable result. This feeling of power is amazing. There should be another word for it because power has so many negative connotations. I am feeling unbelievably alive to the depth of my cells, every part of me is electric and it is contained, not projected. I stare into the sun and feel equal to it.

I have been told that this is the experience of the Kundalini rising which helps me not feel so bereft when it goes. The colour of the experience relates to the Chakra being expanded.

I asked before I went to sleep to be taken to the depths of my Heart where God dwells and all night long I was shown pictures of people who were not as they seemed at first. I was being shown how we can never judge another’s path or choice, each is learning what is right for them at that moment in time and it is often very different than it appears.

I saw my friend from the centre last night. I was still in the power experience and I became evangelical and very psychic with her. She has that effect on me anyway but it was as if I expelled the mega-watt energy in me. It was about two hours of a very intense hook up with guidance and realisations pouring through. Afterwards, I felt very tired and the Masters said I must learn to keep the energy for myself, it is working within me for the duration of the experience. I felt sad, as if I had blown it (literally).

The experience of power has gone but I am feeling very strong and I am looking back upon my whole life with love, I am loving all the experiences and no longer feel pulled down or maligned by suffering. It is like a story I had read in a book now closed.

I am moving like water, like silk, like wind. The moments are flowing a river. Kwan Yin is whispering: All is God. All is sacred. See only Love. See only Light. Have only Compassion. Express love. Create. This is the manifestation of Oneness. The time of creativity and celebration is fast upon us.

D. is directing the musical Vivian finished just before he died. It means a huge amount to him and it’s going very well. He is in his element. He loves musicals, their abstract nature and the emotional quality of the music itself.

There was a time when you lifted me up, white gowned, dark curls falling, tender smiling after a frost. Softly, you lay me down and caress me, bright eyes shining with secrets. A restoration. There was a time.

Men! The fatal attraction! Or, I should say, the fatal distraction.

My daughter is a wild woman tonight, dancing fiercely in her room by candlelight.

As I regain autonomy, I am also pulling away from D. as if I am afraid I will fall back into the old pattern. This must be confusing for him. My heart feels closed. My expectations are too high and I am a dreamer. My ideals seem unreal, the desire for something which endures and deepens an impossibility. Nothing is forever. This is a changing world. Only the core remains the same, the atoms which despite our illnesses stay whole, intact. It is obvious I am still far from total acceptance. If I could just enjoy D. when he was emotionally available and just get on with it the rest of the time without defensive reaction and indelible memory.

Sananda comes to me now. Beloved, this too shall pass. You are getting closer to the bone, the core. This is yet another level of letting go. As you let go of all your dreams and aspirations, you are left in a limbo many are too fearful to enter or contemplate. From this place will begin to emerge your truest dreams uncoloured by longings or projections or compensations.

I am sad because I don’t want to hurt D. and I am conflicted about losing him. Part of me wants to be free of a relationship which hurts me and part of me believes it will all come right in the end. I still love him very much.

Dearest child, beloved child, that which you may lose by honouring yourself you never had in the first place. All you can do is honour your Self now, honour your feelings and the rest will follow and it doesn’t necessarily mean the end of your relationship.

Behind sadness, numbness, behind numbness, Source Light, behind Light, rose heart, behind heart, path. The path leads to a castle (silver turreted, lean spires rising). Inside the castle is a prince. The prince is myself, the part which is missing. The inner marriage waiting to happen.

Sananda, does this process ever happen without so much attention to detail? Yes, but each has a different way and a different purpose.

I am again feeling this path is leading me to feel selfish and like all those people closed off by pain. What is the difference between me and them? You are learning to love and honour your self. When you achieve this you will be as loving and much more so without being drained for you will be firmly connected to your eternal supply. Have patience.

Mother Mary, you have been very close to me recently and to Christina and more and more people seem to be having visions of you all over the world. Do you have a message for me? Yes, my dear. I am guiding you. I am taking you by the hand and leading you home to your own heart.

I am she who is loved.

Today has been hectic. A film crew came into the front room to film one of the young actresses for the children’s play, a musical collaboration that is now ready. The weird thing about writing plays is by the time they’re up and running, you’ve forgotten them.

Last night, I received a call from Heather. She has found a book which teaches how to communicate with your unborn child and she has begun to communicate with her baby. The message from the baby was that my daughter would help her create a new education system and that they were sisters!

I said I knew this and there was something more. Before I could say it, Heather said that I was the baby’s mother as well. Although she was entering through the physical body of Heather we were equally her mother and it was important that my daughter and I were in her life. This was very moving for me to hear right from Heather. I had doubted that I would ever convey the message I had received from Kwan Yin and now Heather herself was confirming it. I told her what I had received regarding the names Angel and April and it turns out that April is one of the names of the dolphins Heather swims with daily. Probably, the baby is an angel. Heather wants to have the baby in London, which I had hoped for.

Today I have a wave of sadness that the baby is not going to come through me coupled with amazement at the workings of the Universe. I spoke to D. about it and he didn’t seem to mind having this baby in his life, which seemed odd given everything. I suppose he doesn’t really have to be involved this way. A child with two mothers and no father.

Later, he said he would have a baby with me but I know it would be so difficult. I know what our lives are like and I know that I am just beginning to really live mine. It’s worrying. I feel that spell of the deepest desire for the baby is broken and now, more than anything, I want to create something for myself. Perhaps we will have one later. We saw A Streetcar Named Desire tonight, with Jessica Lange. I love this play and this is the second time I’ve seen this production. I played Blanche Dubois at drama school. Jessica Lange was very good and I believed her in it completely. I was very upset at the end of it. There is such a hair’s breadth between her finding her sanity and losing it and the lack of love is what pushes her to the other side.

Christina had a realisation of herself inside a triangle at whose three corners were God, or her Higher Self, her inner child and her balanced male/female self. When these three corners are fully activated, there is ‘no leak’ and God or Self actualisation occurs. She experienced the moment of this and as she spoke of it, Mary showed me a triangle spinning until it became a circle and then a sun. Mary said this was true autonomy, full empowerment. It is the realisation of Self and also of God, for Self is God. Sananda came visually to Christina in the form of Jesus and took her face in his hands and said she was home.

Christina said she experienced no feeling of any kind and if Sananda had not told her two days earlier that something was coming, she might not have noticed it. It is, again, something small which is huge. Christina has experienced the inner marriage. Sananda says I have been very close but every time I have fallen back I have developed more compassion for the suffering of others. He said it will come soon now. Christina and I usually experience these things within days of each other and I wonder if a whole band of people are experiencing this now, perhaps unaware. One of the positive sides of obsessive self exploration and a drive to figure everything out is awareness of these events which, though seemingly minute, are as significant to our development as walking on the moon or the invention of the wheel … more so.

Christina showed me that everything I say to D. about what I need is what my inner child would like to say to me. Therefore, I replace myself on the triangle with D. breaking the autonomy. This is the nature of projection. It does not make us selfish to be intact, in fact we can be more generous and see people as they are instead of projections of our own emotions.

I am concerned about Heather and the baby being in my life. I am afraid of closeness, lack of solitude and change.

I ask Sananda what is there still to let go of and he says the suppression and control I experienced as a child. It is a sticky business, this. I am lost, today, in a grey prison of remorse, as if an ideal which was so close has slipped from my grasp. On these days I appear to the world to be the same as any other day and I rarely talk about these feelings to anyone. Perhaps this is false but on one level, everything is fine. I shall live. I shall overcome. There is nothing to express beyond the recording of a process.

How I experience the inner marriage

Last night, two days before Christmas, I went to sleep and this morning I am tremulous, everything is new and there is no familiar thing. I have experienced it:

At 4AM I woke up from a strange dream in which oil was being poured all over me. There was a conversation in the dream which continued as I woke and it was between the God Self and the inner child, as Christina would name it, in the form of a young girl. When I became fully awake, a triangle emerged within me spontaneously, of its own accord and I remembered what the Masters had taught us of the enormous power of geometric symbols and how they create the blueprint for manifestation. And then within me and before me appeared the three, but for me it was the Beloved Father and the Divine Mother speaking to my soul’s essence in the form of this child, (she was about twelve with dark hair braided). Then my solar plexus began to expand and burn and this was followed by the expansion and burning in my heart and forehead. The heat was enormous and I could feel it with my hand. I then felt my lymphatic system begin to burn and that whole system throughout my body became very alive and vigorous and buzzy. I felt a white fire moving all through me and I could hear clearly in my head over and over, “The Christ is risen. The Christ is risen.” I knew then that the inner marriage was the resurrection of the saviour within on a cellular/ atomic level—the merging of spirit and matter, heaven and earth, right brain and left brain, masculine and feminine principles. Ordination. Marriage with the Source.The Reunion.

I went downstairs and took a bath in Dead Sea salt with Sai Baba’s ashes and lit all the candles in the house. I looked back on my life and saw endless beauty in a parade of images and memories, the kneeling trees which spoke to me as a child, the tiny thumb nail frogs, the fireflies rising up to meet the stars, Lake Michigan looking like molten mercury at dusk with Debra, the purple shadows and amazing clarity of Anne Hemenway’s face on a crisp winter dawn at Windsor Mountain after staying up all night, dancing at Macready’s and all the dancers in the room following my lead as we become one spontaneous dance sinuous and melting and moving simultaneously, my friend from Shenendoah picking me up and spinning me in slow motion to the music like an airborne whirling dervish, singing Summertime in the back of the car with Mette and Bo and a soulful chorus of friends after dancing until dawn at Minnie’s Cafe in San Francisco. The beautiful red-haired man who silently elected to be my protector as I made my way to Big Sur from Santa Cruz bringing me cups of tea and rubbing my feet in the back of an open truck beneath a blue sky on a windless day, the ex-Harvard football hero who collects stones on the rugged wind swept beaches of Big Sur. All the experiences of love, the adventures, all the journeys, my three parrots and my parakeet who used to stand in a little row by my bed and wait for me to wake up, my horse, my cats, all the people, the angels who have guided me, the Beloveds. And this home coming, of heart and of soul. There was no soaring feeling or emotion. It was like the experience in Yosemite, a place of enormous internal stillness. I ate some porridge and then just sat, knowing this was what I had longed for. And I went to sleep at seven and woke up at ten in the same sadness I had gone to bed with.

I am feeling there is no surcease of human emotion while we are in the body. It is always to endeavour to experience them lightly without attachment or identification. And I know part of me is addicted to sadness.

The sadness moved through me very quickly. There is a pleasant burn in my heart. I am feeling very still. I Am That I Am. I feel safe.

I am worried I will fall in love with Heather’s baby and then she will go and take the baby away. I am equally worried that she will go and leave the baby with me.

I have been enflamed by a mystical light, my body has become a heart singing its pulse in each atom, and I have had to suppress it for it could not be received without being diminished and now I will turn it inward and let it stoke the raging fire which consumes me until I am molten and all that is in me is burned clear and I become fierce instead of sad and full of purpose with no regret and no memory.

I will no longer degrade myself by living a lie on any front. I will speak the truth of who and what I am at any given time and I no longer have any shame nor do I care what mockery I may be exposed to. I need no protection. Each time I pretend, I die a little. Every word I speak or write or action I take which is the truth in that moment, I become more and more alive. I never want to speak a word of malice and I accept responsibility for my entire life, even my childhood and trade the bittersweet pleasures of blame for the pain and mystery of self creation knowing that in doing so, I gain the tools to create my life and will finally have the skill to create myself anew.

A stagnant pond became a river became a waterfall became the sea.

What does it mean to give and receive? I give because I cannot contain God’s abundance. I receive because God’s supply is endless.

Have had a very good dinner with Anne in New York with my daughter on the way to the Yucatan. Now, we are in Puerto Adventuras on New Year’s Eve. Haven’t found Heather. I don’t like this place. It’s a totally a surreal holiday spot. I want to go home.

We finally found Heather and have moved out of this weird hotel and onto the beach. I am sleeping in a hammock under the stars and my daughter is with Heather in her little tent. It’s very beautiful but still it doesn’t feel right. The bugs like my daughter too much and she is swelling up. We’ve got a doctor’s letter to authorise changing the tickets and we’re heading back to New York. Bombing out of this bug house.

I see how I assume responsibility for everyone and give too much away and then become threatened and withdraw. This situation is becoming unwieldy. We are in New York now, all three sharing a room at The Gramercy. We are having fun but I am craving my solitude. Kwan Yin calls me the Compassionate Heart but I would call myself the anxious heart. I am worried about money.

We are brainstorming about changing the education system and coming up with all sorts of ideas and the possibility of creating a school. Amelia (the baby) is the inspiration and also my daughter and her difficulties with school and our own experiences.

Can a child have two mothers? Can I move from being a very secluded, private person with definite rhythms to share a life on a day to day basis with someone who is very dear but very different from me in temperament? Can I, who is so single-minded, share a big project with another?

When criticising, judging or comparing, bring awareness back to the self. How do you feel? Let go. Increasingly, I am able to live without defining myself. I can just be whatever I am in the moment. When I was fourteen I was sent to have Rorschach tests (inkblot) by this kindly older couple. I remember them telling my father I had ‘crumbling defence mechanisms’. There was nothing between me and the world. So, in a strange way my childhood predisposed me to this awareness. But I had to journey to a kind of rigidity before I re-traced my steps and found the same awareness again but with detachment. When I was young I could feel too much. I could feel everything, like the autistic child who has no boundaries and cries out in pain when the cup breaks.

“I believe in nothing but the holiness of the heart’s affections and the truth of the imagination.” Keats

Today, we met Kevin and Sebastian, friends from London and went skating at Rockefeller Center. It was wonderful soaring around the rink with the bright gold statues and the sunlit ice and the easy evocative music. I felt held, literally, as if in two great hands, in an exquisite, unfolding moment. It was an Epiphany experience. Life was as perfect as it could be, moving through space, around and around, the ease, New York in January the sky alight, friends, sailing through shadows into bright gold sun again and again in an intoxicating rhythmic mantra of movement, each strong forward slide melting into a flying glide in tune to Frank Sinatra’s languorous lilting croon, a warm breeze wafting over chill air, an overwhelming sense of abundance, beauty, gratitude, glory.

I asked Sananda about the teaching of history that is often so biased. He recommended teaching of history from the perspective of the development of awareness. That would be interesting.

Dream: Gabrielle who played Lady Serena in the Christmas play is given a beautiful sequinned white dress covered with roses. Nicholas de Jong, a theatre critic, was in my dream. I had sent him a card with a picture of a painting of mine at Christmas. In the dream his hair was different, long and curly and tied up and he looked at me with recognition and nodded. I feel he liked my card.

Back in London. I am feeling eerily detached, weightless, as if I could float up, return to my true home.

The first cause is love, a praise of beingness, awareness. The effect is creation. Creation creates itself. A loving thought held together by the agreement of atoms. A dream, a dance, a wild cadenza, a sun, a star, a galactic system, a human being. Life extends itself. Atoms interplay. I am made of atoms which once where stars, suns, diamonds, coal, the gold of super novas. I am a dream. The loving thought of the atomic mind of the Universe whose own thoughts extend and expand the Universe.

Dream: I am on a horse. More changes of clothes. A lovely suit of teal blue.

D. loves the baseball books I got him. One of the best days of his life was when the Giants won the pennant. He is still angry with them for deserting to San Francisco. I imagine he is angry with me, too.

I asked my spirit what its name is and it said Kismet. Hmmmm.

Christina called and told me she had a vision of my arms outstretched to many people. She has had it before. This is my longing. To uplift.

Is there an exercise I can do for greater balance? See the Chakras in their place in their traditional colours. Red/ Root, Orange/ Sacral, Yellow Gold/ Solar Plexus, Green/ Heart, Blue/ Throat, Indigo/ Third Eye, Violet/ Crown. When the colours are balanced, they create a force field of White Light. Use your Higher Mental Body to spin and clear each one. When the emotions become distorted, the colours become distorted and unbalanced.

I have seen red coming from the head of a very angry person and green flowing from the hands of a mother desperately missing her children.

There are some Angels around me today talking about the baby. They say it will be very grounded, strong, bull-like. Now they are showing me the warrior aspects of Jesus and Kwan Yin. Those in balance will inherit the Earth and now we see why. It is not a matter of punishment or gifts but straightforward consequences of energetic laws. When we are in balance we can receive and extend the Source.

A deeper stillness

I am noticing lately how I can change my perception of the value of an emotion. All perception is subjective. I am feeling an absence of feeling. It is not the warm feeling of peace but it is not numbness. I am not trying to deny my feeling nature that is part of the human experience. This is a feeling of stillness. I feel if I focus my awareness and intention I may find more of God here than even in the grand flights of inspiration. There is more of Eternity here.

I am having a vision of giving perfect stillness to the world that translates into the experience of God most appropriate for each being.

I ask Sananda, what is this feeling? He says, the Great Stillness. I ask, is Peace in it or behind it? He says, Peace is within it, as are all things. I ask if this is the feeling spoken of in Zen and he says, Yes, this is the state of emptiness or void from which all things flow. Is it a feeling you have? Yes. Is this feeling an absence of joy? Is the feeling of joy missing from this equation? From this feeling joy may flow.

I am becoming unhooked from longing. I am experiencing more freedom here, freedom from addiction. I feel I am becoming free from the addiction of extreme emotion and perhaps this has precipitated this feeling. I feel released from comparison and if I do have a flicker of judgement, I immediately see how it is a reaction to a fear inside of me. For example, if I see someone dressed in a way that causes the word “pretentious” to flicker across my mental landscape, I immediately recall my flamboyant dress style and way of speaking which was criticised and silenced when I was younger and I see the projection. I am not allowed so they are not allowed.

In the vision Christina saw, what is happening energetically? You are healing the souls and hearts of the people by living in unconditional love. I am bathing them in Eternity.

We create what we truly desire. I will do this, finally, but in what way?

I am falling deeper and deeper into this feeling of stillness. Part of me feels I could fan it into bliss but I prefer not to, although there are sparkles of bliss in it. Suddenly it expands. My heart warms and opens like the fast-action blooming of a rose. I take a deep breath and spread my wings.

My heart burns now, the flames rise, a rose in flames. It is consuming me.

The ceiling of the sky gives way to an infinity
I can touch. An eternity wrapped around each atom. Enrapturing me. There is nothing between me
and the Beloved.

I am the One who created me.

And from this stillness, I create you and you
create me. Endlessly extending the boundaries of love we dance, moving effortlessly between the void and its child. In this moment, silence. A waterfall of stillness. A fire spreads my chest and sets a river flooding. I am the Shekinah. The Sacred Heart. Come to me and evaporate in my burning chest that we may be reborn as One.

I have always wondered how I could love each being and now the gap is closing, I know. I love them as I become them. My energy merges. Something wide is opening in me and the gap, the separation that began this dream, long ago, is closing, closing. It burns away. And still there is this quiet, this burning heart spreading softly through my chest. I am grateful for this. I am submerged in the merging of Heaven and Earth.

Do I replace a dream of separation with a dream of Oneness? Or is this the edge of the true reality of Oneness? Separation fades. I bless all feelings, hopes and dream. No judgement. Only compassion and understanding.

I see this is not a matter for analysis. My head cannot contain this truth. Only my heart. The understanding will grow with the blossoming heart. I feel like the Chakras are being transmuted in some way. All day they have been burning. There was a deep feeling of sexuality which moved up the Chakras and several times a huge feeling of expansion of the crown and a burning and spreading in the third eye.

Kwan Yin, do you have anything to say to me? You are sitting in God’s Heart.

It is so subtle, yet nothing remains the same. You are in the Blessing of Oneness. The understanding will grow.

This burning in my chest is growing and growing. Is this the heart opening? There is a little breathless excitement. Anything could happen.

Beloved Daughter, Your heart is taking in a great deal of Light and there is a deep activation happening on the cellular and atomic levels which effects your energy systems, all of you. To explain it another way, your colours are changing. You are becoming very golden and there are other colours not usually seen on Earth. These colours will begin to manifest in your paintings and will be seen in the etheric by the third eye of the onlooker. In this way will your paintings begin to convey enlightenment and activate enlightenment.

This feeling is so beautiful. I am taking care not to talk too much and keep the energy. I am not becoming attached to this experience but I am aware of how sacred it is to me and I am carefully observing it while living it. I will not give it away this time or lose it in the whirlpool. I realise I may well expand into it and the fabric of its intensity will disappear.

I am feeling a huge expansion in my head and a relaxation in my head and a relaxation in my jaws as if an energy were moving my skull outwards. It is fading now. Observe. Analyse. Record. The detachment necessary to do so dissipates the experience.

Kwan Yin, have I caused it to fade? It is your nature to comprehend and convey. You have expanded into it. The stillness is there even if the burning has ceased. You are tired. It would be good to sleep.

When I have these intense experiences, would I be better off not trying to understand it in anyway? What ever you choose in the moment is right for the experience you choose to create.

I realise that I feel a certain responsibility to record these transformations. The next time I have one, I think I will paint instead of write. These notes were written over three days.

Today, I wake up tired and just feel like organising the house, which I do.

In the middle of speaking to someone in the office, I was suddenly back in the experience of stillness. My sacral Chakra began burning and my heart and I knew, unfailingly, in my cells, in gnosis, that this person I was speaking to was Love and I was Love. It is not easy to describe. I felt this Love, of which he and I are made, flooding from me and into me in a honey of Light connecting with all of the Love within form, within hearts. I almost felt woozy, giddy with this Union and freedom from separation.

I go into the churchyard where the tall trees sweep the sky and tilt like drunken mariners. I lean against them until the rhythm of the sap calms me. I am feeling a great love. I stare into the sun. My eyes are eating the light. This sun who has loved me from the beginning of time and before. The magnificent painter who defines these trees.

You are my teacher. It is like you I choose to be. Radiating ceaselessly. Drawing forth the sapling from the seed. Under your tutelage atoms willingly define a fancy for a while. The carnival of matter wherein lies a thousand suns. The hidden dance of light within the stone. The flood of recognition when the stone speaks with the same tongue as my own soul.

With golden fingers, a secret surgery is taking place as sacred whispers press their burning lips against my heart and when I wake, I know the language of the birds.

I stare into the sun until an aureole of gold and fuchsia forms in the bright mid-day. I am swimming in this warm love. I am transparent before you.

I had a really late night with Heather. We talked about everything under the sun. Its nice to put my hand on her tummy and feel the baby.

Christina’s baby is a real joy baby. We took her to the museum in Stockholm and showed her all the pictures and she just laughed and laughed at each one.

This morning there is lightness and space in my head and heart and body. Sananda says I have chosen a difficult path, this multi-faceted development and that progress will inevitably be slow but it will pay off in the end as I will have so many cross references. I feel that I am still suppressing something big. I am lonely for God and feel like a lost child.

Kwan Yin, what is this? What is being suppressed? The celebration of the Self which is the aspect of God realisation that you seek.

Dearest Sananda, Please tell me of love. That which is hidden in the deepest heart and almost unperceivable in the conscious mind. How can we speak of love? It is a waterfall, an ocean. Devotion so complete, it is incomparable. How do you love me? I love you with infinite tenderness and gratitude for your existence.

Dear God, Today I don’t believe in you. I don’t believe in you at all. It is easy not to believe in you when I see if I have achieved anything at all, it seems to have been through the power of my own mind. A kind of hypnotism of the atoms. I am fed up with everything. I do not know my Self and therefore, how can I know God for if there is any God then it is my Self, who eludes me now.

Part of me wants to make these films but the leap from imagination to manifestation is so hard for me and being with people is sometimes hard. Film is probably the most collaborative art form of all. I just can’t make the jump mentally although there is this inner push.

Dear Kwan Yin, I hardly believe in you today although I believe in you more than God. If anything, God is me and nothing else and I do see this as a way to look at God. Anyway, do you have anything to say to me?

Dearest, Stay in the moment. Follow each step as it presents itself in the moment. You will receive assistance but you must begin. Your films will be made, if that is your choice.

God is seeming to me to be an impersonal inner power which will manifest itself uniquely for each individual. This, somehow, in unison creates the Universe. The Universe is, therefore, the collective thought of the universal group mind. So, what is the energy I feel which calls Itself God? The collective thought form of God? The electricity that animates? The deepest part of me? The deepest part of the atom? There is no time or space beyond this dimension. That which is without is within. If there is a Great Central Sun which is the first manifestation of God than it is just as likely in me as anywhere. It is in me and I am in it, and this would be the same for everyone. Perhaps this Sun, which is unseeable on this plane but known on the lighter planes, is the thought form we have collectively created so we can know something and call it God, for surely God is not contained in any shape but that which we project. God is Inspirational Mind. The key to entry is a state of mind. Expanded awareness. Heightened consciousness achieved by the dissolving of accumulated discord and the anchoring of Light on the cellular level.

I am pissed off with this idea, this seemingly final realisation that I create everything, that my life is what I make it and no God will give it meaning, no God waits to create my life or help me like a benevolent father. However, I mustn’t forget that giving is opening to receive and I am given. When atmospheres and scenes and ideas come unbidden it is not my will which seems to be creating them but rather me receiving them, influencing their shape through the unique imprint of my soul.

I am aware that part of me is endeavouring to change my perceptions by insisting that nothing outside me exists and that all I need is within me. It is helping me to understand the degree to which I am capable of creating the life I choose. And it may also be a truly valid perception. I am in one of those angry transformative modes.

Today, my daughter is fifteen!

I am clear about one thing. The past does not exist unless I recreate it in my head and the future is the present. I am feeling very, very fierce which I think is my will becoming alive after decades.

How I am consumed and spat out by fire

Dream: I am longing for a child. I say, in the dream, that it is a great sacrifice for anyone to make, not having one.

This anger will not subside until I am free.

Have you ever seen a prairie fire? This is how this fire rages through me. This arson of the heart. Let it burn me clear. Let it devour me. Pick my bones and leave me clean. Touch me and you will burn.

Today, I am burning to leave. I know I am using this anger as fuel and I know that part of me is emerging, waking up. The part of me which had been ghoulishly dissected, tortured, murdered finally, at around the age of eleven.

I am a warrior masquerading as a door mouse. Give me the shears with which to set myself free. FREE ME. FREE ME. FREE ME.

Dearest One, you have indeed blown the lid off your suppressed self which rises now like a Frankenstein threatening to devour you. But this will not be so. This Frankenstein will be loved by you and become your greatest strength. It is, in fact, your will and this is the meaning of that story. The will must be tempered by love. You will burst free now. You will accept all of yourself, the rough and the fine, for you are both, the warrior and the sage. You will come into balance. It would be excellent for you to take a martial arts course or even to make the movements you know from other times. I will guide you.

I am moon dancing now. And as I let go of the world, I am drawn back into the world and away from the mystical realms. I am withdrawing from my belief system and only what is real inside me remains.

My daughter and I had a lovely night listening to jazz, dancing and drinking ginger tea.

I was having a cup of tea in the cafe this morning when an actor who I had been mentally using to define a character in a screenplay I’m writing came in. He’s in a play around the corner and I hadn’t given him very much thought at all. Today, for some reason, he locked eyes with me in the strangest way. He had so much light coming out of his eyes I couldn’t see his face but I felt I could see right into his soul, that his soul had come up to look at me and mine rose up to greet his. This went on for the longest time with no meaning or message until I broke it. I wonder what would have happened if I kept looking. He appeared to me a kind of Fire Angel and something in me lit up which is still alight. Something in his look tempered my emerging will with a fire kiss and tamed it. I feel very alive in a good way and grateful to him but curious as well. I saw the Universe in his eyes and it was quite stunning.

I desire nothing. Even your touch would be too much. I would grow small beneath your hand, a ship on a rolling sea with no stars or compass and I would disappear.

I am unseen save by other angels.

The voice of my intuition which was formerly so soft is much louder now. The more I follow it, the stronger it gets.

D. said over dinner how well I looked. It is this new light. I looked at him and saw how handsome he is and began to remember but stopped myself. I don’t want to go all soft over D. and bring my energy down. We’re sort of partners now. He was my mentor but I am stepping into myself and that changes things. I feel sadness but it is not piercing. More like a mist or a wave. He has never fought for me.

I pray to have a realisation of my own self worth. My life: a crash course in heartache.

Yesterday, I began transforming the journals of these two years into this book fuelled by the Fire Angel’s accidental gift.

This is fulfilling. I danced late into the night to Celtic Woman and remembered a little of who I am. I felt fluid and beautiful like an ancient goddess who suddenly appeared in the modern world unchanged and gently powerful.

I’m learning how to conserve energy. It’s important for me not to talk too much.

Dear Fire Angel, I see you with your love, her limbs are long and smooth. I see your need for her. My love’s limbs are long as well and he holds me tight. Still, I want to kiss you. But, are you tender?

There is a huge storm outside rattling the windows and shaking the trees. The rain is falling in magnificent glassy blue-grey sheets. Coming up to my birthday, I always feel strange.

Did my mother want to die, Kwan Yin? No, this is how you interpreted her anxieties when you were in her womb.

Kwan Yin, what and who and where is God? Perhaps my mental capacity is not up to the comprehension necessary to take in one iota of the complex truth. I turn away in anger for now it feels like hypocrisy to love what I do not truly know. I feel my understanding of God has become intellectualised and that aside from the experiential blessings of the crack-throughs, I have no enduring reference for God. I am left with an abstract idea, the totality of God, our existence within and of this fabric beyond my reach. Please illuminate me.

Dearest One, you are God, God is All, this is the realisation you are still rebelling against. The truth of God is perceived through apprehending your own Self. You are as close to God as your own breath and you cannot bear that the love you want and need from God comes to you from your own God Self within. Part of you wants to be gathered up and held and it is painful to realise that what you need is within.

God is you. This is the ultimate realisation each one must face. God is the Universe, the entire, sentient, Self creating Creation but the closest you will get to God is your own God Self within. You are still looking for a father, looking outside of yourself. You can look to God the Father, that is one level of comprehension, pray to, love and be loved, communicate with, but you are turning away from this because you know there is a deeper truth, although it is very painful for you to face for you so dearly want to be held in perfect love and so you project this need outside of yourself. The irony is when you realise your true nature, you will experience the Universal embrace, for what is within is also without. The Individualised Presence of God will emerge in the physical octave when perfect harmony is achieved. Those in harmony shall inherit the Earth.

Celebrate the Self and know that it is God. The God Self is the Light within, One with all Light. It is God. It is One. It is the Universe, all the Universes, enfolding, extending, endlessly creating. There is no separation. Know this and be freed. Go in peace. You are loved. The outcome is assured.

Everything in my life is an act of the creative imagination of this God Self filtered through the distorted lens of my personality. I know that as I become clearer whatever this thing is does flow through me more fiercely and more gratifyingly.

I wake up and the Fire Angel is on my mind. I have come to identify with him as an alter ego or a brother. He has had the courage and faith to believe in himself and show his worth to the world. This morning, as I woke, I saw him in a room full of bright light with his china love attending to him. I thought, how lucky he is, how lucky men are to have women tending to them, caring for them, believing in them. He now has my help as well for I send him my light when I think of him.

This time is a great struggle for me. It is a very deep falling away and I imagine that even these ideas will one day fall away to reveal something deeper still. Allowing my God Self to emerge is like inviting a stranger to the feast. I have no idea where this will take me. I have totally abandoned a concept of a God outside myself. I pray only to know the truth. However hard it may be to be stripped bare, I seek it with my whole being.

I ask for the greatest level of truth I can bear while in the human form. There is something so indestructible about me, I will never break but more and more of me is dissolving. This is my vision quest. The Angels have left me on the mountainside, there is no moon to guide me, no star in the sky and even the wind has ceased. There is only one thing I know in the knowing which sings quietly in the cells beyond the bargains of theory and conjecture: there is a far deeper truth I am approaching and a greatly expanded vista of awareness. I welcome this truth. I am willing to dissolve for it. I am willing to surrender to it, to be devoured by it.

It is the truth I have been dying for and the truth I have been living for.

Today is my birthday. I am feeling light and incredibly creative.

I felt so sad at the end of the movie Breaking the Waves last night and cried so when the bells signalled the heroine’s happiness at having returned home to “heaven”, her place with the angels among the stars. D. said, “You have a home.” Explaining this longing for the other home broke the ice which has built up a bit, perhaps only in me, as I withdraw from everything. I do have a kind of home within his heart. There is a familiarity and a sweetness.

I woke up laughing with pleasure at sunshine. It has been a lovely day. I am empty of words after having said so many in my life and our exchange is more evenly met. D. bought me beautiful brooches and we saw shows and ate in cafes and lay in the grass hugging and I was laughing at almost everything. I felt so much love and tenderness. I am becoming lighter and lighter.

Dream: Strange exploration of stones, cupboards of aquamarines and Victorian jewellery and D. saying I am the perfect woman for him.

Dear Heart, God, somebody, please communicate. There is nothing to say. You are releasing into Light. Sleep well and begin your creative work. Let yourself flow from moment to moment as you Will.

Dream: The Fire Angel came to me in my sleep and showed me his qualities. It was as if his soul came to me to show me what was inside of him. As I climbed out of sleep, I could hear his soul say, “A garden of goodness.” That’s what his soul wanted to show me.

Talking to my daughter, she laments her loss of innocence and I realised, as she is innocent in all the usual ways that word implies, that loss of innocence is the moment we fall out of love with ourselves. This is the self-awareness, the metaphor of the apple. It is the “devil” of our consciousness, for we lose Oneness at this time, the self-judgement based on the internalised judgement of others. But, I am happy now to be an earthed Angel. I am happy for awareness and the challenge of re-entering Oneness with awareness intact and my feet on the ground. We talked about elegance, dignity and self-worth. It strikes me they are the same thing. Keep your heart open but don’t give it away. To live with an open heart, with as little fear as possible or the ability to walk through fear and a strong sense of true self-worth, not an inflated egocentricity, is to me the true nobility. I am beginning to realise how much I have learned and experienced in this life and have more respect for myself.

Sananda says whatever the heart truly desires will manifest.

I have written a letter to the Fire Angel telling him about the dream. It seemed such a clear communication from his soul that I desired to complete the circle with a response, though I realise that it’s risky as he is not likely aware of it. I called him The Man Who Can See Souls.

As I was walking down the street, an Angel guided me to buy a newspaper I never read and in it was an article about his mother. I felt very moved by it and felt she was in some ways very like me. Then I felt her near me and wondered if we were from the same angelic group. Perhaps it was a moment of recognition which passed between us that morning.

Kwan Yin, is there anything you want to tell me? Only that I love you.

Today is my sister’s birthday. She is well now and beginning to make changes in her life, to give to herself. Her reaction to our childhood was the opposite of mine in many ways and something I think she was more deeply struck by it, which caused her illness. She held more in. It is only by luck or by angels we survived. A house of angel-hair covered Christmas trees and blood. A house of fear with no point for tears. What is to be gained from being dismembered and dismantled? If you survive: Compassion. Forgiveness. And something else. When there is no sanctuary, no refuge, the only place to go is the mind. And the mind is the doorway to the Universe. In the end our greatest teachers include those we thought our greatest enemies.

When I began to write this truly for myself I felt a freedom and enjoyment which released my attitude towards my work. Everything will evolve from that understanding. I am playing my work into being. Now, I just need to learn to play my life into being. Earnestness is fading.

Uh-oh. I felt the Fire Angel receive my letter today and he wasn’t happy. I felt a wave of what he was feeling and it wasn’t good. He probably thinks I’m a stalker or something. This makes me sad. Communication is so fraught with difficulty. It made me feel there was something unacceptable about me. I am happy I followed my intuition though, despite the consequences. I had a ticket I bought ages ago to see the play he’s in and I forgot to go. This is probably a good thing as I had ended up with a seat in the front row.

Dream: Heather and I are in the back seat of a car and I am brushing her hair and telling her to throw away her list of questions to the Universe and let the creativity flow through her. Someone in the front seat turned around and said, “Are you Mr. and Mrs?” and I said, “Of course not! But I am the mother of her child.”

I touch the shores of Grace

I woke with Archangel Gabriel and Kwan Yin. They are telling me there is a big change coming. Something will emerge from me I have perfected in Eternity. A pure gold power, a benevolent light of God. What have I used this power for? Manifestation, from the beginning. Play, play, play. And trust yourself. Do not doubt. Leave the past behind. Be courageous.

Kierkegaard said, “Do not make yourself important by doubting.” Now I understand.

Christina and I have had a simultaneous realisation. It is an understanding of Sananda that confirms and expands our previous perception. He is Jesus but not how we thought. He is that which Jesus realised. He is the I Am. Jesus’ realisation and expression of the I Am was what he spoke of, what he knew he was one with. “I and the Father are one.” I and the I Am Presence are one. The Presence of God made Manifest on Earth. That Presence which is our individual God Self and one with the Universal God Presence. Perhaps he came in fully realised, never separated from Source. Sananda is Source. The Source made manifest is the Christ. A name for the Child, the Son, the Sun, God and God made manifest and Jesus is the Christ, the Son, the anointed one, because of his realisation, his embodiment of this realisation. As are we when this realisation and embodiment occurs, whatever our faith, creed or culture.

I cull these words from journals finished only recently, the last of fifty written over this period between Spring ’95 and Spring ’97 in which everything in me past and present has been explored or exploded and perceptions have continually shifted, expanded, dissolved. It is coming to an end now. It is time to re-enter the world somehow. I see that I am now so very different in my focus, my perceptions, the strength of my will, my belief in myself. There is just a little more to record and the window which opened two years ago closes and with it this book. And here am I, just a few months further on from that. It is hard to believe that what I have been writing here is recent history. My concerns are very different now.

I have crossed the bridge. I accept the moment. A lifetime of extremes, too high highs and too low lows, hidden anxieties, over reactions, unabated longing, secret shame, haunting regrets, the violent images and self torment…for the most part all gone. And gone, too, the longing to be elsewhere, the longing to be other, the longing for what I think I don’t have. I have found my value and it is deep inside of me.

I am at the birth of every creative dream I’ve ever had. I step out with no hesitation, moving forward with what I want to do, believing I deserve to create my life, and it happens. I do not stop myself and I am not stopped. I trust that as I let this flow through me, I will eventually open more and more to a finer expression. I don’t care how I am judged if I am satisfied with what I’ve done and as I have little fear I draw no chaos towards me. I have a group of trusted people I am working with who are really lovely and very inspired. Where once the approval of others meant so much now it is the quality of my day to day life that matters.

Whatever may be thought of my experience with the Masters and Angels, who are still near me but with whom I rarely now directly communicate, and even if you choose to think what lies between these pages is the product of an over active imagination or a crazy person there is a recipe in this madness that has worked a miracle. And now for the last weeks.

It is the first of April, 1997 and we have had a glorious time in Oxford and Blenheim walking over the soft round hills and through the groves of Blenheim Palace and in the grounds of Oxford University colleges. The candles and the incense scented darkness of the ancient churches, the light filled faces and the soft rivers of sacred words, the beauty of the faces and the soft dreaminess and the aspiring spires, the finely wrought carvings, the stained glass, the sweeping golden stone, the snowdrops which my daughter says smell like joy, like the intoxication of true love, the overwhelming harmony with D., floating on air, swimming in each others arms, the longed for tenderness, the perfect wordless communication, the resurrection of love. Rivers and sloping fields with their icing of bright green. The trees in their skeletal grace bursting with pale green and pale pink flames. The walls and air alive with Angels singing to me and the praise of my grace full foot fall blessing the land and stone where I step.

The merging and accepting of a huge essence which I have denied, the wordless inexplicable essence of who I am which envelopes me like the holy smoke of burnt offerings crowding the atmosphere with my unceasing prayer of gratitude.

And the feeling beyond the constant happiness I once longed for, the light stillness, light heart, which sound swells and through which emotions enter and depart. The strange expansiveness of being something beyond love yet made of love, the sureness of miracles, the knowledge of miracles, the lightness of touch, the implacable awareness of beauty. And still the human puzzle with its complexities. The growing energy in the body.

Fearless, deathless, ageless. And the feeling of light, the sight of light, all this glorious light which is so…light! The illumination of the Light.

I am grateful for the Universe, for awareness, for Oneness, the recovering of a mantle discarded long ago.

Today, I wake up and my forgotten Fire Angel is on my mind. He is thinking of me. He understands the letter now. He is feeling good about life in general and there is a warm feeling in me which belongs to him. I am feeling his feeling and it is very good. I wish him well, he gave me a great gift even if he doesn’t know it. This warmth I am feeling is helping me to anchor the expansions of these past few days when I was beginning to feel quite vulnerable with openness. Another gift. Kwan Yin tells me a miracle is coming to me.

Christina has been interviewed by the papers in Stockholm regarding communication with Angels. She is organising an international festival of health, inspiration and creativity. She wants to show my paintings and will use one for the poster and she wants me to speak. I have agreed. She has chosen one of my paintings for the poster. It is a nude with a unicorn in an idyllic garden that I painted for Tom Stoppard’s play, Artist Descending A Staircase. In the play it is painted by the traditional artist who is mocked by the moderns. In Sweden the little old ladies are shocked by it but to Christina, it represents heaven on Earth. (5,000 people came to her 2 day festival. I spoke to groups about creativity and to all of Brazil via a radio interview!)

Dream: I am with the Fire Angel. We are friends. I hold his hand and kiss him twice.

My work is flowing easily now. I am learning how to play it into existence. This, Kwan Yin says, is the miracle. A little thing that is big. To become a like a child in my creativity, knowing all I need will come to me. She says I will bring through a rich and beautiful expression that is full of heart. I have recovered innocence. I am adapting and directing a play and after that a movie. I am trying to hold it all in my heart so it can flow simply from the Divine Heart through the veil of my soul into existence. I use to hate to leave D.’s side once we were in bed, the warmth and touch and closeness. The warm sea breeze of his breath against my cheek when he slept. Now I work late into the night like I did when I was very young. I now see that boredom is suppression.

There is wonderful music rolling on sunny air and softness. Kwan Yin is near me speaking of timelessness. She says happiness is good for the cells. I would like, one day, to write a great fairy tale like Peter Pan or the Narnia Tales and make a movie of it.

Strange dream that D. was an old sea god.

Today is Amelia’s birthday, or I should say the day after. I helped Heather deliver her at the hospital last night. It was not planned that I would be at the birth but through a series of coincidences others are not available and I am the one who ends up there. It was amazing and Heather was amazing. It happened very quickly. We were surrounded by wonderful midwives but also left on our own a lot. We finally got Heather into the birthing tub after much delay.

She was singing out tones to ease the pain and seemed like something from the wind, a wind goddess, a primeval force with her huge belly full of life and her waist length gold hair. She wanted me to place my hands on her and let the healing energy flow and didn’t want me to remove them even for a second. So I stood there, glued to her faithfully, this tidal wave of breath and sound and intensity. This body and soul, a vessel for the entry of another life. When the baby started to come we were on our own and Heather (in the birthing pool) told me to get ready to deliver the baby. At the last moment, the midwife came and asked me to hold her tiny head as it crowned. My hand on this baby’s head as it enters the world is extraordinary to me. Then she just slipped out, bright red and then turned blue as a dolphin and finally pink. When she finally found the breast, mine tingled as if the milk would rise up in sympathy. Heather united with her instantly. There is no doubt it was right for Heather to bring in the baby, though I have had to detach myself from this baby and from Heather, too. I seem to have a definite connection with this baby but to what purpose I’m still unclear. In a few months Heather will be back in the U.S. happily reunited with Amelia’s dad. Heather seems the perfect mother for her. She is completely fulfilled and devoted to her baby. Was my desire so great the Universe bended to me and brought the baby to me through Heather?

I have felt so much inspiration lately. I was walking along the other day and I had a deep a realisation of the term or concept I have understood but not known. I AM THAT I AM. I am that I am. I caught it out of the corner of my mind and then it just hit me and encompassed me. I am the Will. I am. There is nothing else that matters. All this shall pass, yet I am and I am and I am. It was a feeling of total groundedness, as if my angelic nature fully entered my body. Duality vanished, fear and love, illusion and reality. I am without beginning or end. I am and this is all. I am that I am that I am.

I arrived at the rose garden in this stillness, this knowing, to greet the new roses. I went to my favourite spot to visit my beauties and see their exquisite colours. And then I saw them. About twenty roses peppered around the garden as large as plates. HUGE. It was like seeing a lavender cat or a singing horse.

Sananda says to me, These roses are for you, my dear. They are a gift from us. They are in celebration of your blossoming.

THE SPELL IS BROKEN. I AM FREE. I am infinite. I create the dream of my life.


London, Spring, 1997


How to change the world in one generation and create a UNITED LEAGUE OF IMAGINATIONS

In a Tibetan monastery, an eleven year-old boy discusses physics and the nature of reality with a Buddhist monk and a MIT physics graduate. In the Chicago ghetto, very young children from severely disadvantaged circumstances eagerly discuss Shakespeare and Chaucer.

What is the difference between these children and the majority of our children who are leaving school with few skills and no confidence? Is it bored, ill-prepared teachers undervalued and overlooked by their culture and an unimaginative National Curriculum? Whatever the cause the cure must surely include:

  1. Creating a programme for the education of teachers which ensures they are knowledgeable in the subjects they teach.
  2. Honouring teachers. Have awards for dedication and excellence and good pay.
  3. Creating a programme of emotional literacy so that safe handling of emotions becomes a subject taught in school. This will greatly ease disruption in the classroom and the home and give children coping skills that are useful throughout life. Guided creative expression works best.
  4. Elevating the education of children to the top social and political priority.
  5. Encouraging luminaries and dedicated people from all walks of life to commit time to addressing school assemblies.
  6. Allocating funds so that the bonuses of private education, such as music, art, theatre, field trips and guest lecturers are available to all.
  7. Stimulating the minds of young people so that innovation and problem solving become a matter of course. Create perspectives that lend themselves to a comprehensive overview. What are the connections between lack of funds for education and youthful crime? Between polluted food and air and health costs?
  8. Applying an interconnectedness between disciplines, such as studying the relationships between the composition of music and mathematics; between law and logic; between geometry and sacred geometry; between human and natural proportion and classical architecture; between religion and philosophy; between theology and quantum theory. Renaissance thinking is characterised by an overview created by an understanding of the interconnectedness of all things.
  9. Teaching courses in an inter-related way. History could be complemented by theatrical productions of the era being studied; listening to its music; studying its art, reading its literature in English. This total approach is less fragmented and easier to absorb. Bringing texts alive through theatre engages the whole being. If learning is fun there is more excitement and more is retained. The more aspects of the child engaged the deeper the comprehension.
  10. Encouraging invention and creative thinking.
  11. Teaching meditation techniques to expand general awareness, enhance concentration, promote calm, free the breath, open channels of inspirational thought, encourage the free circulation of energy and create a space for self-healing. Make time for fresh air and supply decent food.
  12. Teaching sports focussing on team spirit and developing physical skills. It is said the gods gave us games to distract us from war. Children who are sporty and physically developed are more confident. Learning to win graciously and lose without despair is valuable for life.
  13. Encouraging physical expression in general such as singing and dancing creates enthusiasm, joy and well-being. No child should be excluded no matter what their voice sounds like.
  14. Encouraging debate. People who can articulate are much less likely to express themselves violently.
  15. Explaining the reasons for rules and regulations. Children should not be patronised. However, firm structure provides security and the basis for self-discipline. Teach courtesy and respect.
  16. Teaching the similarities between all world religions and all cultures as well as celebrating the differences.
  17. Teaching classical literature as well as new work. Creating bridges rather than burning bridges.
  18. Helping children find their gifts.
  19. Teaching children gratitude.
  20. Instilling values such as helping others in need or visiting old folks homes, etc.

Allowing education to become a low priority has done great harm to children and society. Lost generations are created who see life through prison bars of limitation or real prison bars. Inarticulate, illiterate, languid, depressed and lacking in confidence these children have no sense of purpose, no inkling of their gifts, no feeling of inclusion and little hope of personal fulfilment. They respond very quickly to tools and skills designed to help them find confidence, inspiration, emotional well-being and the ability to create their own life. This does not easily make up for the education they have lost, but it helps and is vital. Now is the time to ensure that no future generation suffers this. The resources are there if it is made a priority.

You may control a mad elephant;
You may shut the mouth of the bear and the tiger;
Ride the lion and play with the cobra;
By alchemy you may earn your livelihood;
You may wander through the Universe incognito;
Make vassals of the gods; be ever youthful;
You may walk on water and live in fire:
But control of the mind is better and more difficult.

Indian Master Thayuamanavar


Love and blessings and may all your dreams come true




Welcome to the home of Laura and Gordon Talbot. Enter the nursery. A fading mural of Pegasus takes flight on the wall in the half-light. Laura and Gordon lean down simultaneously to kiss their children. Laura’s lips graze Lucie’s plump cheek; Gordon ruffles George’s shiny black mop. “Goodnight, darlings. Go right to sleep now. No talking.”

They move silently into the front room. Snuggle up on the sofa that dominates the room, a soft cinnamon nest in the evening glow. Petty grievances and the day’s observations evaporate unspoken. Gordon lifts the atlas off the russet carpet and opens it across their laps. Lake Erie. Lake Ontario. There’s Toronto where Gordon’s brother lives. Laura waves. Gordon chuckles indulgently. He flips the pages. Rio de Janeiro. Campo Elyseos. Lima. Santiago. Chile slipping down the edge of South America like a red hot chilli pepper. Puerto Rico. Antigua. Barbados. Barbuda. Saint Vincent and the Grenadines. “Good name for a pop group, “ says Gordon. Laura laughs. “Around the world in eight minutes.” Fully sated Gordon slaps closed the book infusing the air with must. Laura flings closed the curtains. They move into the bedroom.

Gordon catches himself in the mirror and raises his eyebrow, cocks his head, smoothes his hair and smiles, like Arnie in ‘The Terminator’, then steps back and sighs with the discontent of the privileged.

“Your turn to make the bed.” “Chivalry is dead.” Laura reluctantly tugs the mountain of duvets from the floor swinging them up one by one as Gordon slides down the crisp coolness, a warm lingering human scent, a high note of washing powder. The last of the duvets flutters down on top of him. Laura slips in beside him tucking her cold feet beneath his calves. Gordon plants a quick kiss and turns to the wall. “Can’t we start this way?” Gordon obliges, turning Laura to enclose her spoon style. His breath is humid and rhythmic against her ear. His cheek bristles. They sleep.

Very early morning a glimpse of light begins to penetrate the thin Regency striped curtains. The cat has clawed through the backing on a misbegotten journey to the open window last summer, leaving a mosaic of shifting tones at sunrise. Gordon shifts his bulk to the wall. Laura follows, wrapping her arm around his broad back, seeking out his hand. She curls her legs into his, gently pressing into the soft heat, his spine a cord touching womb, belly, breast.

The lush opiate of sleep descends again, clouding Laura’s limbs, pressing her down. She is in that half world where dreams float near the edge of consciousness. She is in a room. The colours are blues. She is lying on cool floorboards below long windows in thin gold light. A breeze ruffles gossamer curtains that surge and swell, billowing shadows, shivering the cloth of her pale silk gown. Birds are gliding back and forth, in and out the windows, around and around the room as if over sea. There is a man. There in the corner. He is suddenly beside her. She turns away, her chestnut hair spilling over his knee. Her head nestles in the crook of her arm. He places his hand in the small of her back. Warmth begins to emanate. She becomes utterly suffused with warmth. Her back begins to glow. His hand lights up. Her gown dissolves.

“Mummy! Daddy! Wake up! Wake up!” George pats his mother’s face. Lucie kisses her. Laura presses herself against Gordon. Her skin feels alive. A mind of its own. She wonders if he can feel it.

Gordon and the children rush off. Laura fights off the seduction of sleep. She concentrates on coffee and newspapers, an antidote. She stands starkers in the chill, sweeping her hands up her sides, smooth and hipless as a dolphin. She stretches her arms high simultaneously crouching down and emitting a spontaneous eeking sound. The cat jumps down off the chair and peers up querulously. She chooses a soft burgundy cowl necked dress from the confusion of the closet and fashions her hair in a careless twist, admiring herself in the diffuse light, all signs of age diminished.

She opens the curtains in the front room. The burnt orange velvet bursts alight in the sunless glare. Trees emerge gracefully from mist in the churchyard across the road. She is still furious with the council for severing their lower limbs, each swift unbearable slice obliterating their leafy glory. She had longed to run forward screaming Murderers! Murders! Like Marilyn Monroe in the ‘Misfits’. No turning back now from this fragility.
The phone rings. It’s Julia. “No, don’t bring anything. Just yourself. Yes. And Victor. Well, all right, then. A salad. Great. See you Thursday.” Laura turns to the window. She stares at the pigeon on the sill. Its amethyst ruff is suddenly shuddering with gutteral clucks. She taps the glass. It soars towards the trees.

By mid-day she has finished typing research notes for the local historian. (Grammatical and punctuation corrections included at no extra fee, and with no guarantee.) Soaked with facts regarding the fall of the Roman Empire, she puts aside an egg and cress sandwich despite hunger, images of Roman ladies gorging and vomiting too firmly lodged in her mind.

She is restless. Although she has no appointments, she is forever jealous of time. She puts on her mole brown cashmere blend coat and plum velvet hat and shuts the door quietly behind her. She returns with salmon and broccoli and wine, milk for morning and oatmeal for George’s breakfast.

The children arrive home and sprawl across the front room, doing their homework. Lucie is drawing Icarus enflamed by the sun. George insists she return his pen, which she insists is hers. Lucie sucks a slice of cheddar cheese into a sabre point and stabs George, scattering cheese on the floor. Puss sniffs the air, eyes half closed with rapture. He suddenly lunges at his fur nibbling furiously. A gift from a visiting puppy.

George helps Gordon with the dinner dishes. Laura and Lucie sit well sated, watching “Life With Father’ on the telly. William Powell and Irene Dunne are done up with red hair. Lucie imitates Elizabeth Taylor, impossibly Technicolor pink and sixteen, squealing, “A Yale man! A Yale Man!”

The children are asleep. Gordon and Laura are horizontal. The evening paper crackles between them on the sheets. Gordon’s new assistant is driving him crazy. Laura thinks it may have something to do with the proximity of the desk. They all begin to show symptoms of derangement within the first few weeks. Really bright lipstick is the first sign. Tears follow.

The paper flutters to the floor. Gordon traces his hand down Laura’s side and smiles. Laura turns on cue. They merge in time honoured tradition. Familiar, liquid, rhythmic—a stream or a creek.

Laura lies on Gordon’s chest. His heart is beating in her ear. He kisses her crown and turns towards the wall. A hollow feeling grows in her belly and spreads in her chest. “Can’t we start this way?” Gordon obliges. Laura presses into him until his molecules open to enclose her. Gordon softly snores into her back.

Her thoughts skip aimlessly. The purple feather boa she had as a child. The lovely Parisian flautist who loved her fruitlessly. The beautiful boy who stole a crystal prism for her from an abandoned house— who she had loved so desperately. Moonlight slipping in between the curtains creates moving patterns of lacy delicacy on the ceiling hypnotising her into sleep.

She is in a house. A house sailing down a river. Spinning and rolling and swirling down a great rushing river, embraced by weeping willows swathed in Spanish Moss, surrounded by cat-tails, Velveeta brown and bobbing. There are leaves blowing in the open door. Waves of brown leaves pile up in the corner. Claws or monkey’s paws. Gordon rolls over, clawing the covers with him. The house is rocking. The leaves are dry. The river bank is damp and the smell is pungent.

There is the man. He is tcoming towards her with a brigand’s swagger and a seraphic countenance. Her solar plexus blossoms and her heart flutters. He is leaning over her now and takes her face in his hands and strokes her eyelids with his lips. She buries her cheek in his palm, pressing hard.

“Mummy! Wake up! We’re going now.” Laura forces her eyes open. Gordon, Lucie and George peer down at her. Yes, they do look familiar. Laura pulls her hand up slowly and touches her eyelids.

Laura stares out the window and drinks too much tea, each cup pumping her back to life. She stands up. She sits back down and has another cup. Spiky fronds of Earl Grey float in the taupe, little exclamation points proclaiming an indecipherable future.

Laura explores the food counters. Tiny corn as intricate as Chinese ivory. Small carrots luminous orange and preternaturally moist. Evergreen broccoli. She carefully examines the gravadlox, silky smooth slips of peach-pink flesh tightly under wraps; replaces it and buys bright yellow corn fed chicken and puckering oranges from an outdoor stall.

She returns home to find Gordon grumpy and distracted. George is hyperactively ping ponging off the kitchen walls. Lucie is having difficulty with a girl at school. “She keeps hitting me on the head with her books.” Laura carefully removes the plastic wrapped gizzards from the chicken. “That’s very dangerous. Brain cells don’t regenerate.” “I push her away and she pushes me harder.” “I’ll speak to her mother.” Gordon raises his head from behind the newspaper. “George, stop that. Now!” “No, Mom!” Lucie shrieks. “I’ll speak to your teacher about it then.” The chicken stands upright on the draining board, a headless, begging dog. “Oh, great. I’ll be a laughing stock then. Just great,” Laura stuffs the chicken with orange segments and chopped garlic forgetting the main ingredient of the bread stuffing. “Well, I’ll just have to kill her then,” Lucie giggles. George stops bouncing. Gordon looks at her curiously. “No, Mummy,” Lucie says.

Laura pulls the covers up tight around her chin. She is watching the patterns on the ceiling. There is a fire in the grate and it is blazing. The walls dance with crisp orange light boxing dark shadowed reflections. Gordon is turned to the wall snoring severely. Laura remembers how they could not quiet themselves to speak without making love first in the early days of their courtship. Her mind skips to her first boyfriend, the undimmed energy in their fingertips after ten years of intermittent togetherness and then to the key ring inscribed with Latin given to her by the Italian boy she had loved when she was nine. She pondered the meaning of the mysterious words endlessly as if unravelling them would hand her the key to her fate. One day he had caught her pouring over it sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk. Placing his large warm hand on her shoulder he translated, “Slowly, slowly run the horses of the night,” and walked away. She wondered if there was enough milk and if Lucie would remember to make porridge for George and if there would ever be a time she could recycle the papers without effort or throw them away without guilt.

She sleeps. She dreams. Trees with gold leaves cast long shadows on emerald fields. A woman paints a red cat leaning against an old stone wall. A Gnarled cyprus bend in the wind. There is a small boat on a lake in which three people are carried to the horizon, lilting. She walks towards an open grove. The long shadows touch her feet. The light is by turns mercurial, sombre, shimmering.

Lucie flings the curtains back with a crash. The cold flat tones of November light define her like a silhouette, a cut-out doll. George bounces like a marionette. “Ribbit! Ribbit!”

Laura lies in the bath completely emersed save her nose and her mouth, the tops of her breasts and her toes. She is trying to meditate but is compulsively trying on dresses instead. It is Thursday. She must remind Gordon to be home early. She contemplates calling Julia and saying she is ill. She decides on Dover Sole with grapes and Pouilly Fume. She will feed the children early and rent a video for them.

Eyes pop from heads and faces melt. Row after row of brightly coloured boxes form a deranged library. Horror films. Slasher films. Psychotic thrillers. In the mainstream section Whoopi Goldberg and Harrison Ford stare earnestly. She lingers over “My Life as a Dog’, finally choosing, ‘Honey, I Shrunk the Kids.’

The fish lie mauve and glistening on ice. Discarded ballerina’s slippers. Laura’s voice echoes in the tiles shop. Dover Sole Sole Sole. Hundreds of eyes gaze blankly from the heads of animals and birds in the window of the taxidermy shop. She stops at the bakery to buy muffins for Lucie and George, breathing in the warm sweet air until she is giddy. She feels treasured by a memory wriggling at the corner of consciousness. She searches with anticipation, grabs it and realises it isn’t her memory but Scarlet’s from ‘Gone With the Wind.’

“Jules, pass your wunnerful salad.” Victor is tall, spacious and erudite with a wide-open face. He is Spanish and trills his Rs, pronouncing certain words with exquisite aplomb and other words with an American twang. He holds court. “Tony Blair…health care…the dollar…the yen.” Julia is emotional and effervescent, just as Victor thinks she should be. Her cheeks flush and her eyes are moist and shiny. Laura looks around the table. Heads bob, masticate, leer and cajole. Gordon laughs, head thrown back, jerking and whinnying. Julia purrs. Victor shreds and munches, small sharp teeth intent on their task. Their eyes positively glitter with wine and good cheer. Victor pontificates, “Europe…Renaissance art,’ Gordon joins in, “arts funding versus social services…creches in art galleries…” Now Julia, “…Monet at the Tate…the Turner Prize…” Laura listens carefully, straining to concentrate but the words merge and blend, a strange hypnotic litany.

She excuses herself. She startles by the mirror. A mouse or a rabbit. The voices follow her from the dining room echoing in the small hall. She opens the front door. The sidewalk glints in the streetlights, wet from rain, curving yellow it snakes up the hill, an erect electric ribbon. A couple stand arguing. A man with matted hair in a brightly coloured serape circles, his hand outstretched for alms, then wanders away. Laura reaches for her coat. The headlights of cars are frightening. They announce themselves like visions, dissolve into glaring feral points, roar away.

Laura steps back inside. She advances swiftly up the stairs, passes the murmuring of children and enters their bedroom. She slips off her grey angora jumper and checked wool skirt, slides her silk slipped self under the fluffy duvets and waits patiently for them to return her warmth. She closes her eyes.

The day trickles from her joints like sand. Her muscles flinch and relax. She begins to drift off. She sleeps.

She is in a room lit up like glory. The curtains billow like victorious flags. Birds fly in, circle, and out. The walls are marigold with sunlight and the floor swims in it. She stands by the window her hair soft on her cheek in the breeze. Her neck is tingling. He is there. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her up into the sky. There is no sound but breath as they fly.


Illustrated by Steve Simmons
Written by Stephanie Sinclaire


Come my child and dry your eyes and walk the earth with me

The baby is plump and well cared for, giggling and snatching the air with delight as the small words explode their mysterious promise like coloured bubbles above him. His eyes catch a stray thread of sunlight and he stares transfixed into a hallucinogenic web of a priori images, meaningless and delightful. The cat arches and undulates on the window ledge creating shifting inky silhouettes. Crumbling leather bound books, long over due, tower above the table, their lean shadows standing attention like sentries. The baby lets loose with a stream of meticulously articulated babble, addressing himself to an unseen presence. The shadows? The wind?

She opens the old pine cupboard carefully (the door is half hanging off the latch) and removes a softly worn pale blue dress, slipping it over her head, brushing her hair with quick sure strokes, her face before the baby’s—a broad, pale speaking moon stacking words like glass beads on a thread

Not to seek but to speak of kings and fools and thumbnail frogs and Babiroussa Indian hogs and liddle biddle puppy dogs

Three garments hang in the old hutch fluttering like ghosts in the June wind. A smart red coat with brass buttons is folded at the bottom. Once there had been boxes of clothes, colours and fabrics and styles to suit any mood or weather collected from sales and thrift shops, culled from attic trunks, niggling memories settled in the weaves, the lights and shades of strange lives, murmuring against her skin until she felt suffocated, fixed in a kaleidoscopic spiral moving but never changing, no room for the new. One late moonless night she had bagged the lot and dragged it to the steps of Oxfam, came home, her long hair sparkling in the mist, and waited. And waited.

She cleans the table slowly moving to the tune of a silly song lodged in her brain and continually replaying, carefully arranging a spoon, matches, water and a small bag of white powder, onto a white cloth. She tips the last of the powder into the spoon, mixes it with water and lights a match beneath it slowly heating the mixture while cooing to the baby.

Shall we make a cocktail of your tears to sprinkle on the tigerlilies, marigolds and rose? Shall we watch the phantoms evanesce in ochre and vermilion light? Speak to flowers of their purpose?

The baby gurgles as she takes a small wadge of cotton and places it in the spoon, watching it suck up the liquid and grow soggy. She pokes the needle into its centre, pulls back the plunger and draws the mixture up.

She taps the vein in her right arm and then taps again. She takes a stocking and wraps it twice around, holding the end in her teeth inserting the needle into the engorged vein, releasing the stocking with a warm sigh. She pulls back the plunger, the needle still in her, and watches the syringe fill up with her blood with vampiric fascination. She pushes the plunger back in and then pulls it out, teasing it in, a little more each time, booting it back and forth. The stocking lies like an adoring serpent at her feet.

A monarch butterfly circles the room. The baby cranes to watch its flight and bangs his tiny fist with glee. The relaxing heat of the drug spreads through her like soft fire. She sees for an instant the whole net-work laid out, veins, arteries, delicate tributaries pulsating ultra-violet in her mind’s eye. She rolls her head around her neck, empties the syringe into her arm, slides out the needle pressing hard on the spot with a cotton as she does.

She rinses the spoon and the syringe carefully, replacing them in their little wooden box. Its curly veneer forms maiden’s hair, ancient woods, little licking flames. She picks up the baby and rocks his dumpling weight against her, stroking ginger hairs back from his temples and silently thanks Geoff for this numbing gift that now wrapped her days in poppy seed splendour, half-dozing like Dorothy, the land of Oz flickering in and out of view, the dull throb of summer’s days and the grey edge of winter’s melting away.

She rubs her lower lip gently through the downy fuzz and kisses the fontanel, pressing her lips into the delicate trampoline of skin, again and again. She places the baby back in his basket and gives him a bright violet scarf to play with. He holds it above his head admiring it in the light rapidly squashing and opening it like an accordion, wheezing cheerfully.

She rummages in the basket beneath her feet until she finds the baby’s flannel all-in-one with the hole in the knee. She threads the needle and begins to sew, rocking herself slightly in time with her pulse. Each stitch like a day in the life, some shorter, some longer, but all inevitably following one upon the other spreading out across the landscape of peach flannel like steps imbedded in the dust of a lane on a fine spring day. The strains of her father’s cello mingling with the crickets and the screeches of manic grasshopper’s staccato leaping as she lay hidden in the grass, limbs careless, sucking on ice cubes, hiding from the call of her mother, first plaintive then furious until the ground shook with gargantuan thuds and a hand swoops down scything the grass and a startled rush swoops high and her scream meld with its cry. Honey, watch out for snakes in the grass, her father had warned.

mama is a gilded thread, her golden web around me woven, her vein the thread, father needle, every swallowed man in foetus form crawls out again

“Mamamamamama” the baby stuffs the violet scarf in its mouth. She grabs it away, limp with spittle and stares at the little clown face with out-sized purple lips. She wets a cloth from the basin and wipes away the purple until a pale lavender bruise is all that remains. The baby plucks the air and wiggles, its face crumples and enflames.

She picks up the bottle from the dresser and plunges the nipple into the silky howling orifice. The baby sucks noisily, kicking its covers and staring at her.

She lays the scarf in the sink and turns on the tap, letting the water rush over her fingers. She closes her eyes and thinks of waterfalls, of cool streams scented berry rich the humid scrumble of black earth between toes…and the newness that had entered her life, the someone, unexpected and dew fresh, untouched by travail, smooth skinned and those seamless irises and the strong arms that had heaved her up like Nuryev and Fonteyn, holding her close in the night, telling her of the orchids of Belize and the volcanoes of Indonesia until the stars faded from the sky, the soft words dropping like blossoms from his silky pink tongue forming paradises of the far away until one day she woke to find him gone and leaned out the window just in time to see his silhouette against the rising sun, his long arms swinging, his kiss still burning on her brow.

Threads of blackout violet swirl in the basin becoming lighter and lighter, forming small hypnotic whirlpools in the white shell. She looks into the mirror and examines herself: plain, symmetrical, round-nosed, round-cheeked and round-eyed beneath startled crescent moon brows, fawn coloured hair radiating a crown of pale plumage.

She watches the clock, its small dividing hands journeying in tandem with the sun measuring the units that form the rhythm of her life. She picks up the baby and places him in the dark blue pram, picks up the half drunk bottle from the floor, rinses the nipple, pops it in the plastic swinging pouch and negotiates the narrow stairs wheel barrow style.

Outside the sun leaps forward then retreats behind the trees. The land swerves out and back, curling up, rolling and spreading like a supplicant beneath it. The clouds move slowly, stunned sheep in the blue sky. She buries herself in a rose.

To her left is a huge hedge row, to her right an expanse of field sloping around the earth. Someone unseen is tuning a violin. She slips off her dress and feels the sun soak through to her bones like an x-ray, the wind lapping at her skin. The baby reaches fruitlessly to snatch the revolving blue and green world. There is the sound of a car in the distance and she slips back on her dress just before it rounds the corner into view. In the distance a violin’s scratchy moan ascends and descends scales. The notes soar up into the rushing leaves.

She arrives before the peeling ochre door of a small farmhouse and knocks softly. Before long the door is opened by a beefy, red-faced man, flushed and solemn. She tilts back her pram and eases it up the stairs, bringing it to rest beside the large oak table in the kitchen. She presses her fingers to her lips. The baby is sleeping. The room is large and bare.

They walk up the stairs to the bedroom: soft floral, worn but basically unchanged by a century of births and deaths, now curling at the edges and weeping with hidden stores of dust for the woman gone to ash.

The man removes his trousers and lays them carefully across the back of a white spindle-backed chair. She reaches for the rope of flesh across his thigh. He moves her hand, taking her hair at the back of her neck to push her down, pressing and pulling, her head bobbing like a wire necked doll, a ball in the road, a rose in the wind. She stares at a worn spot that decapitates a blossom in the ornamental pattern of the carpet. She retreats to wash, looks in the mirror and sees a little clown with out-sized purple lips, pulls her fingers through her hair to smooth it, straightens her dress and thinks of ice skating on a puddle of glass in the cold night air.

He is dressed and waiting at the bottom of the stairs. As she passes he presses a note in the palm of her hand. Their eyes do not meet. She surreptitiously checks the amount, takes the baby and goes.

With quick forceful steps she pushes herself through the air, faster, faster, faster, her muscles tightening and lengthening, the baby blinking back the light. At the shop she buys eggs and milk and wholemeal bread and apples and cheese. She breaks off a piece for the baby to suck. She buys an Italian ice from a local boy’s cart and looks away when he winks at her cheerfully as he gives her change. His pale freckled face flushes.

She takes the baby to a small wood near the edge of town, places him on his belly on a carpet of lavender bluebells. She nestles up against her favourite tree, its ancient roots curve ‘round her like arms. She lifts the baby up and breathes in his vanilla milk scent. The moon is ringed and writhing like Medusa. The ground is stone cold. She gives him his bottle rocking him up against her as she carves her name in the shelf of fungus spiralling up the tree.

The baby laughs at a magnificent unknown joke and bangs the earth with his bottle, carving a circular dent in the velvet moss. She pulls a blanket from the back and tucks it around him and then tilts and swerves the pram over an obstacle course of bramble back to the street. She is sniffling now, in need of a fix. The temperature has dropped and she is trembling and sweating. The cars veer perilously close in the dark.

He is sitting there, waiting for her on the steps of the rooming house. “Hey, I was just about to leave.”

“Good thing you didn’t.”

“Yeah, you don’t look too good.”

He grabs the front of the pram and they angle it up. He sits down at the table sliding aside books and cups with his black booted foot, stretching out his thin black-trouser legs. He pulls out a small plastic pack and flicks it with his middle finger. “Good stuff, this.”

She stares greedily, wiping her nose. His eyes glitter and his small tongue flicks across his teeth like an asp’s. “I’ll give you a hit gratis, if you let me do it.”

She offers her arm. He caresses the soft alabaster, pale as a trout’s belly. “A new set of works, just for you.”

She nods impatiently. He prepares the mixture deftly, pulls it up into the syringe and then holding it up with the practised expertise of a doctor, presses the liquid up until a tiny drop escapes, squeezing out the air. He flicks the syringe. His fingers are long and heavy with silver. Two fingers nails on his right hand are longer than the others for guitar plucking and cocaine snorting. He pulls a thin gold scarf from around his neck, twists it in a tourniquet around her arm, then expertly pops the needle in. The scarf falls away and slithers to the floor, a sliver of gold in the dark room. His jaw drops heavy with desire and his torso moves with the rhythm of the plunger, booting the blood and the dope. His shadow looms huge against the wall. Her eyes roll back in her head. “God. It’s strong.”

He empties the syringe inside her and slowly withdraws it. She stumbles and falls back on the bed. “The room is moving. Where’s the vertical hold button?” He laughs. “I’m serious,” she says.

He hoists her up and wets a cloth to place on her brow. “Better now?”


“Good stuff, hey?”

“If you like a little hemlock with your tea.”

Her nose was dry now, her eyes glazed, the pupils contracted to reptilian points, the irises hazy yellow in the dim light.

He entwines his skinny arms around her waist and presses his flaccid lips to hers. His shadow enfolds her on the wall like Dracula’s cape. She feebly pushes him away.

“So, you’re too good for me?” He says, inferring the opposite.

“A kiss is for love, Geoff.”

His eyes lengthen and go hard. The baby begins to whimper. “You’d better go, now.”

“Aren’t we forgetting something?” He tosses a small white pack onto the table. She fishes in her bag and hands him a wad of bills. He counts. “Not quite, but it’ll do. You’re lucky I’m a nice guy.”

He tips an imaginary hat and saunters out the door. She watches him walk down the lane, his shadow stretching like daddy-long-legs behind him. Her head begins to nod. She can’t keep her eyes open but feels ill when they’re closed. The drug is pushing her down, like a diver too far below sea. Panic bubbles in her chest and subsides. The baby has fallen asleep against her. She moves towards the bed swimming in cool light, slips under the covers pulling the baby close, anchoring herself against the rocking room. “Shh. Shh.” She hushes the silent sleeping boy. The moon stares down in the blackness. She burrows her nose into the baby’s soft hair and drifts on the scent. Vanilla milkshakes. Sugarbabies


© Stephanie Sinclaire

I first met Lola, her reflection in the polish of the table, mirage eyes linking with my own as I pass. A Munch-like beauty. Dark hair. Cloud. Narcotic eyes. I ask J. if he thinks she’s beautiful. He turns and peers beyond her at the clock. “Not really.”

I strain to hear her. She talked a strange rambling talk, her voice rising easy from her solar plexus: “For much of my life art has been a refuge…it has offered me a way into a different realm akin to first blush fast fade new love. From the time I anointed my father’s paintings with the disused syringe from my tetanus vaccination…from the time I spoke upon the stage and became more than my life was.
She saw me staring at her. She looked away but her volume increased. This was a communication. J. spoke, obscuring. I caught snatches between his words: “spirit…expression…marketplace. I must sculpt a profound statue out of nothing—
Like poetry. Like glory.” She quoted the Bird of Benin. I was transfixed. I longed to shout Bravo! and clap my hands. “Are you all right?” J. asks. I drop my eyes. In the end you are exactly what you are.

I thought I dreamed her. I enjoy myself desiring. I long for her like a sister in the glass. My anima incarnate. An absurd perfume assaults the senses, the piercing reverie which lances.

An earth slapping mantra my feet thrust out before me. I nearly knock her down. Silence. Remarkable blackness her eyes. She and me. Me and she. There never was any doubt. I would be the ear. Would listen, listen to her mesmeric undulating tones, sparky rambling and in love with themselves. The sounds transport me while I stare at pinky lips curve over crooked teeth— eyebrows mobile as sparrows wings and wonder how this odd confusion of features could mean so oddly much to me.

We fall into step, drink Retsina on park benches, dance a mean Bossa Nova, a somnambulistic saxophone tearing the dark. Knocking back the sharp pine sap, walking hand and hand by dawn, talking until our thoughts float wordlessly on mist, the sun clocking time by grass blade, rearranging reflections.

My nerves are open to the wind, vibrating a non-negotiable energy. With a languid burst she says, “There, sunset tree-frogs, Tiny Amazons sailing through grass fire. Here, the people of the land found their spokesman and erected arguments for his sake and still one can be found atop the Wrigley Building in Chicago. Up on top.”

I knew then that I loved her. Complete and irretrievable. I press her to me. Caress. The life in our skin flies like tiny Amazon tree-frogs sailing through grass fire. Such a giving and a mixing. We made a statue out of emptiness. Poetry. Glory. Shudder bitter liquor I weep inside her. My heart sees dark winged eyes that walk over all things but hear me not. There is a sky blooming within her. Soundless stars I cannot reach to touch.

I ask her to dinner to meet the family. I had to. I’m perversely drawn to the potentially catastrophic. It all went wrong, of course. She became a coarse mannering baboon in anticipation of disapproval. She disagreed with everyone, madly quoting, making things up. Mother paled. She spoke flirty of insects with filamentous appendages at the posterior end of their bodies. Father thought harlot trollop tart. She wrote an apology –

Dearest, Forgive my hot flash but you see I am upset by fathers. Thrust willy nilly backwards. Burdened with double vision (somewhat different than second sight).
Love, Lolalalalalalalalalala
P.S. Was interested that your mother recorded relation to intense response on part of parent accelerate participation and communication on part of child (you) and observed effect of early trauma with same sex and opposite sex parent, especially father – absence.

Oh, Lola. Mater Dolorosa. Deep sadness. Dark eyes. I drink her tears. Like Lucifer, the light bearer, she held the perfection of suffering beauty. Vanquished, fallen, transfixed by the eye of God which froze her in its demand for supremacy.

Kiss my sweet back porcupine. Suck the pain with my syringe and anoint the painting of her limbs. An offering. I always forgive her. Always.

She woke up in a sweat. Yellow diamonds on taut skin. She said the moon had come in the window. It won’t be long now. She said.

I wrapped my wings around her glossy head and cooed. She wrapped me up in forms geometric and profuse. The edges of the skin dissolve to the fanfare of hearts beating thud thud drum beats on the ear drum, the streamlined howl of white wolves weaving in the sylvan birch beneath the Colorado moons, wet slippered silver dollar pussy willow swallow me. Turn me on like the bright blast circle soaking the window-pane. An electric box floating … becoming me.

“It won’t be long now.” She called me Kitty man.

I had Lola finally. The need was equal. Balanced like Philippe Petit upon a wire. Impaled on the sheet like a butterfly. How many angels?

It was February paralysis. We stopped drinking in search of the sublime. We watched telly. She grew paler. I (she) gave all my money to bums. We drank gin and bitters at seedy bars. Her radar is a magnet. I tell her dusky coloured that I love her. Rune maiden evoker of the alive and the dead. I try to make the words immortal. I cup her shoulders. I kiss her square on the lips in front of the regret mongers and the scallywags, the whole blooming bar. But nobody sees. Least of all her.

Then the rain came. She walked numinous below the ribald moon, a delicate filigree her wet hair coiling on her cheek, her dress sodden and transparent. The rain fell and would not stop. We huddled. Babies wailed. Church bells clanged. Danger makes a din. Danger makes you pray. The night was bright with lightening curling on rooftops. Saint Elmo’s Fire. The earth was unearthly bright. Geysers rose from sewers, manholes clattered gunshot, shattering the pavement, slashing the spring flower at the root. The people swelled like mushrooms in damp rot. Pale translucent fleeting. Wooden doors swelled and cracked. Door jammed white flash muscle tense blue current rings on fingers shrunk to tight metal straps on the electric chair and then the buildings toppled metal fire-walk mangled among the stone. The melt of limestone statues wash the streets. Rivers belch corpses and ivory keys. A bloated hand. A soggy loaf. A holocaust of fog, a petrified forest, a glowing haze, a hum of prayer.

It won’t be long now.

She had grown in the night. She was transforming. Replacing pain with wanderlust, so hard to conquer. She said, “ I feel like a pole of electric light. Radiating, expelling, gathering.”

We walk outside. The air is cool and clear. Humans, always happy in a crisis, were rebuilding. She threw her arms around the passers-by. She began to tremble, her pupils dilated. I began to explain myself with an accompaniment of jerking hands. I expel an acrid odour. I renounce my personality, become plain, pared to the bone.

She says, “ The planes and colours and shapes of paintings. The image. The vision. The spirits of Huarakan, Kukulan, Gukametz. Earth, tempest, nebula, thunder, lightening. Oxygen. Hydrogen.”

I cup her face and kiss her for an eternity. I know she will not turn back. I have become invisible. She sails through the air. A magnificent airborne ship.

The ulcers of divinity swell my belly. My blood red heart pumps the music, a jamboree moon my soul cannot reach to rip. Now I understand the vacuum in your love, the acid in the belly waking up with you, waking up without you.
I am already one with the dust swirling in the shafts of the afternoon light. I light a cigarette and blow myself away.

A letter comes.

Kittyman – All I know is morning sun time comes down slow low on pigeon coo brow.
Spun sun filters through tree tops. Blind yellow sun cuts red gold water path. Light bathe water. Sun lathe cuts across sand stranded desert dune mind. No longer human dance. Lost sailor song washed clean. Broken empty shell bleached white. Earth bound shell loosely used.
Over back and down to earth regress.
Dark wood splendour cut glass light.
Morning sun drips syrup S

No return address.

Years later J. hands me my coffee and says, if dreams come true they’re not dreams anymore.

The magic tricks of your tongue. The way you navigated space.
Lol. Lol. My.



“Shall I come before him with burnt offerings …
with ten thousand rivers of oil?
You know what is good and what the Lord requires of you –
Do justice and love kindness.”

The Book of Micah

With great love for my father Howard
and my daughter Katey
and for Dan


I first got to know Stephanie through a home cassette course which I was running on the nature of dreams. It did not take long for me to realise, however, that I was not the only teacher, for Stephanie, with her inherent sensitivity and perceptiveness, taught me far more than I was ever able to teach her. It took little time, as well, for me to perceive that I, one who wrote a little poetry, was in the presence of a poet. There is a world of difference between the two.

On sending these poems for my perusal, the last thing in Stephanie’s mind was that of publication. But so impressed was I with their haunting myth-like quality and the subtle barely-perceptual spiritual undertones, bearing a gentle message for all who read them, that I ordained it a criminal act should they not be shared with others.
I hope that you will enjoy these poems, which have been succinctly arrayed in such a way as to tell the story of a life journey, as much as I have.

John Crowe
Golden Eagle Publishing


Let me take you to the blue place.
River of dreams. Tigris Euphrates
of a pale life where long
winds blow ceaselessly.

A small dot. Bluebeard. Sister grief.
Winding sheets. Flesh is soft.
I take it off and lay agog
just for you.

The reverberations of the skin will
read a song a needle will release.
A fiddle-de-dee for a girl
with soft dark hair.
Komm mit mir. I’ll take you there.

A dustbowl train track. A train flies.
Tumble-weeds house-sized.
Sand in the eyes children cluster.
A cigarette bug that comes alive.
An amethyst ring for bribes.

Hands that freeze.
Catatonic night.
The cats have gone.
Someone wanders from room to room
opening and closing suitcases
switching on and off the light.

A man is there lurking in the dark.

A small girl squirms and freezes
ice princess eyes saucered laid out on the bed.
Part of her stops there, is dead.
She pulls at the black night.

Stars stare.
The frail tinkle of bells.
There’s no stopping him.

A hurricane has come.
A harpy soul in flight pulls the hats
right off the houses.
Windows whistle. Candles dance.
Swimming pools disgorge their bounty.
The howl will never stop.
The earth has popped her cork.
Children cow huddled thrilled.

There is a boy his tongue in my mouth.
There is an elevator in my knees.
There is a cut that never heals.
A mouth that does not speak
but will disgorge whole humans eventually.

Head’s in the dinner
an Italian smell.
Smart-ass spaghetti-face eats slow.
Cool as hell.

There are fishes gold and turtles three
called Winken Blinken and Nod
and always a cat.
Talismanic gods sleek as Cleopatra
litter the life
and a very large woman with a knife.

A walking Kali goddess
part Godzilla and part Marilyn Monroe.
Hot fertile shimmer a hallucinating
volcano fond of White Horse and the whip
who once sang like an angel.

She says I’m pretty she says I’m not.
She’s quite keen that I can say
but distressed I have no wit for quips
for I’ve gone mute of late.
She says my father’s Bonanza’s Hoss.

She’s a walking Hitchcock movie.
Her laser eyes see though doors.
There is no hiding.
She’s riding for a fall
taking us all.

The children watch cartoons on telly.
Roadrunner. Tom and Jerry.
They think the characters are real.
Downstairs there is a fantasy.
A death deity
beats a blue baboon.
Howls and turns him red.
He plays an accordion.
A snazzy tune-topper in a tux
with a taste for delicacy.
All his clothes are on the porch.
The crockery makes a snide mosaic
running pretty with rivulets.

There is a house decrepit and musty.
A gelding named Eagle who flies down lanes.
Two goats Sodom and Gomorrah.
A hotrodder drives.
One dies in my arms.
They take him away.
The children cry.
By night a woman gouges paint
and fills the marks with gold by day.

Las Vegas is an astronomical delight.
The planets and the stars reveal themselves
in all their neon glory.
Joe Louis is a sulky daddy.
Silver dollars shimmer on the walls.
Louis Armstrong blows his horn.
Gabriel hands. Banyon trees.

Naked ladies glitter.
One-armed bandits tinkle
Wiley croupiers sliver
skilled in the art of tricking you.
The children are distracted.
The Bluebeard plays his tune.
The Kali doll devours her young.
Casts a rune.
Life goes on.

There is a refuge in books and the
crooks of trees
oak willow yew.
Carve a hole down through the sea
to China and out the other side.
A tiny astronaut with a black-eyed gut
floats beside the cheddar cheese moon
watching Earth swirl in her energy soup
a million miles away.

I decide that I will marry God.
It seems reasonable under the circumstances.
I will sweat red bullets.
A calling card.
Be carried through clouds.
Ascend in front of the community
where spidery widows congregate
rollicking fat on the fill of their mates.

The blue place. Locked room tipping the stairs.
The half-life is in the blood 250,000 years.

The crack that rides upon the air
imprints a hand.
Spins my head a whirly-gig.

A fancy dancing totem pole
which spins and squeaks and speaks a certain fallout

Speaks my face small not proud.
Tinny bibbles in a mushroom cloud.


There’s something in the ear beating out a tune, a bold
tattoo, a battering ram. There’s something in the eye
gleaming at the edge, a star-stabbed sky.

There’s something in the blood: slow moving sulphurous
lead. There’s something in the back causing it to crack.
A skeleton. An Adam.

He says you can’t carry a tune in a bucket.
White worm features hazy defined by telly green glow.
An Italian man, pope in his pocket, slayer of women,
arms and the man.

All those years asleep in my memory.
Giggling at dawn we put eggs in your pants.
You roll with the crunch. Abhor violence
but marry my mother, a pistol packin’ mama.

There is a snake that eats its own tail.
Accordion player.
Insidious invisible man you coax your box to sonic cadenzas.
Devour your daughters.

Leave them wingless, pulled off at the root.
Their ghosts shell whisper still upon the shore.
One floats sceptre-thin.
Another rides headless hell-bound after hounds.

And we,
the borrowed ones;
salvation had its price.
A kingdom of riddles.

A yammer shrills along the gutters of the brain,
I cannot translate.
A rhythmic evangel eddies out of reach.
The tongue is torn.

Silence is complicity
Fury mutilates the earth
A mute Har-magedon.
The bells are sounding

notes of stone.
Goliath does not fall
but sways gently as trees

A hand
a hundred weight
scours a landscape
speechless frail.

A false priest performs last rites buried in the night.
A hooded dominus, mask impenetrable, says nothing
but sings for its supper.
A whore you are, the mothers say.
Freud too. Co-conspirators.
Judith got her way, beheading Holofemes.
Salome danced with beautiful John his head upon a plate
and all those gods they sacrificed castrated thrown to sea.

And then the frozen ones.
A statue of sea shells swirls on the sand.
Bloodless maidens. Silence is consent.

He is within and won’t wake up.
He is a devil circling my bed.
He climbs inside.
Takes a knife
and cuts me top to tail
A red pupa emerges and sits on the edge.

I sleep for years.

There is a dream: A third child is a son.
And another: a man, golden haired.
His shirt is pink
His heart is rose.

He strokes me kind along the the side.
I curl a petal to his wing,
pull close.
A warm land undulates soft and hard enfolds me.

Sweeps me sonorous.



Dear Sir,
If I may call you that.
I have a bone to pick. A rib
to be exact.
You thought I’d comet for you.
Burn bright.
Perhaps expire early.
Wash you in translucent light
for which you longed.
Which so eluded you.
Smoulder, I call it quits.
Pronto, I’m singeing, an ember.
Pallid. Giddy.

Yours sincerely,

Taffy Apple

Dear Ms. Apple
I know nothing
of which you speak. I eat heartily
of the lotus fruit, languorous
honey-sweet. Perhaps I could recommend.
I can’t help you.



Dear Sir
Light-seeker. Winged unluminous
worm. The wingless glow
Lucifer green. No hood-winking
The blood is spirally never-ending
swirling – waters of Charybdis.
I know you loved its red blue sheen,
found it yours.
Loved the way the black eyes gleamed.
Glistened overly so like your own.
There was a contract.
No turning back.
I shall be your bright Chimera for
all eternity and you my Bellerophon.
Hound-dogging me.

Yours sincerely,

Scylla Black

Dear Ms. Black
I dine with Polydamna I must
confess. Partake heavy and continual
the banish drink: Sorrow. Care.
Sorry to disappoint but I’m finding
this irregular. Out of order so to speak.
just isn’t on the menu.
If you’re out of your mind I warn you,
it’s no longer fashionable.



Dear Sir,
No, but I have misplaced it.
You see, I said I’d be your card but
it just won’t do. I’ve given you
several readings on the spot and I fear
I’m becoming you.



Dear Fool
Please, it’s past
the time when these things may safely
be attacked. There is a whole new generation.
new. Full of undamaged promise ready to be
gleaned; I’m just gob-smacked. Attention wanders.


Dear Sir,
You don’t remember?
I promised I would be a very good
looking glass. Not like that impertinent one,
that silly ass who told the wicked queen
her beauty is surpassed. No. I comfort you.
Mirror your quirk, efface it.
Witness your brightness.
The way you problem solved. The way you
memorised the whole Encyclopaedia Britannica,
edition 1968. The way you slam-danced figures.
Roots, squares, you name it.
Mind mind mind.
And there was heart there too. A little
screwy but loving in a deeply tentacle way.
I would be your oracular bird and you my
scared king. Hold your soul for all eternity
when you were finally brought to sacrifice.



Dear Crow

If you are referring to Uranus, sacrificed
by the woman in his life, I do see your point.
You must be Cyclops whom I cast into hell.



Dear Sir,
Sky father heaven, if I may call you that.
Now we are getting to the point. What is malice?
That Underworld. Chaos. Darkness. Away from
earth, light, day. Was it something I said or didn’t say?
I’m afraid I can no longer dance attendance.
I no longer dance. I’m afraid I must dislodge you.
You’re rather awfully stuck in my throat and
I just can’t breathe.



Dear Electra,
I don’t know who you are.
I thought you were a god once.
That must count for something.
Don’t dramatise so. What will the
neighbours think? Look at the doughnut
and not the whole.
Don’t forget, Pegasus sprang from the
blood of Medusa. You should thank me.
Get a grip. Set goals. Shape up or
ship out. Remember Murphy’s Law.
Prepare for the worst.



Dear Sir,
I have taken your advice and set sail
immediately. I shall leave you forever
with your man-eating mare. I shall dance
at Lupercalia and marry Pan again and again.
I shall sail to Eleusis. Shed my skins.
Watch the night corn grow. Prepare for the best.
I will become something that is not you –
not shadow, you won’t ever see me, ever know.
I have burned the book and it cannot be
restored for all the gold in your kingdom.
You will have to forge your own path.
Please don’t call.
The warmth of your voice hurts my ears.



Dear –
I’m sorry, but I have forgotten your name.
What was it … Circe? Please,
Don’t be such a hambone.



My soul is a hollow-haired Caribou.
The time clock of my unborn
is a magnet pulling me
across the icy flooded treachery
of the Porcupine Rover
past enemy wolverine and coyote,
to the unsheltered serenity,
the geometric hell-blast of tundra
to bear my calf
below vulture and whooping crane.

The raw receptor of unprotected
nerve ends finally dulls.
The uncensored river
of discordant images
begins to move to the metronome.
The tick tock of flesh resounds.
Louder than the whisper
of timelessness.
My hands and feet are tied now
firmly to the wheel.
My teeth chatter and clench
down to the cobblestone streets
of birth and death.

My heart is a stag.
Reindeer antlers sprout from my crown,
fantastic gnarled trees.
I am a proud sylvan bull
hoisting the grand sculpture of my horns
across the frozen northern route,
past grizzly bear and ice pit,
to meet with the herd;
to mate in the rush of spring
by the Arctic Sea.

I become jaded.
The earth becomes small.
I allow people to die
in India, Uganda,
in starvation,
by torture,
in knife fights in dark rooms
on the Lower East Side.
I look after my own
and no longer try to save the world
save by touching those around me.
The imminency of death at last
becomes irrelevant.

Urged by the sting of wombat and botfly
we move to where the bulls wait.
My calf is ailing and trails behind.
I linger to prod;
a coyote is circling, to prey on the weak.
With a leap wolf jaws clamp.
With a gush
of adrenaline I rush to the herd.

In my bones are many pockets
stuffed with hot rocks.
Press the trigger and they explode.
Scalding gravel rains through my muscles.
Some will splatter foolishly
searing those to whom I speak.
Some will cool and harden, become
dark pregnant clouds that
loom in my dreams, drift away.
The rest will jangle softly.
Loose change
in the shadows of my recollection.

We pace restlessly in sea breeze.
The stags are approaching.
We have reached our destination and
dine on alpine flowers blooming furiously.
Young males dance against the underbrush
to slough the velvet of new antlers.
The air is sultry with musk
and the scent of summer coming.
Bucks vie for leadership
in gargantuan tussles,
locking and clashing
the monolithic limbs of bone
that tower from their skulls.
Calves gambol about
gorging on snow blossoms.
We prepare to return
to where we began.


“Painting shall free me from fear” Kandinsky

When I painted
My mother
(A lovely girl
in the garden)

I followed the curves
(A sepia photo)
And as my hand
Brought forth
The image

My anger
In the flowers
My sadness melted
In the yellow

Blue and peach
(As I stroke
her cheek)
My hands

Her hands
Round hands

By dark eyes
I forgive her
Back at me
Dark eyes


The days I walked the earth
A folded lily, calla arms
The arms I opened up to everyone
Sinners saints and thieves
And gave my flesh
An offering
Those days are gone

The years I travelled
Around and round this place
And arm to arm
The strangers
Who could not love me
But protected me from harm
Those years are gone

The months I longed for refuge
For long shadows on cool floors
For refuge
In the arms around me
Who thought of me as currency
Who could not save me
Or even cap the agonies
Of my desire
Those months are gone

The hour in the darkest
Night when lips
Finally gave name to
When I reached out
A sleepwalker
No one there
No one there
Those hours are gone

The minutes that raced around
My face like seconds
In another world
Thoughts of an over-active
Mind unfurled
Mad morning glories in the sun
Tumbling forward one on one
Those minutes are gone

Now all thoughts and hours
And days are merged
As sapling creek to sea bed
Flows and I relax, relax
No longer following my nose
In a circular dance

The whirlpool is outwitted
The arms are my own.


For the moment all is quiet.
There is no fire under skin.
Me heart is quiet as the grave.
My eyes are tired, tired.

My soul a poet-priest who sails
Away from me.
I am chaff.
Hulled. There is no pull.

This healing denudes me
As I become another

Who is myself

As I shed each year
Back to birth and farther.
Shed glamour glory

A somnambulist Aurora

Who walks but will not wake
To claim her crown.

A hedge of thorns
The blind is down.

Blinders off
There is still
No clarity in seeing.

There is a painful slow

Plain, true.

A small fresh flowering
Calendula or

A fading siren
In soundless blue.


We met in an airport
(You entered scar-faced vibrating singularly)

We met in a pub, the King’s Head (like ‘The Deep Blue Sea’)
You leant towards me.

We made love in a strange bed
Daniel in the lion’s den (Lioness you said)

We made home in a shared bed
(It’s been all these years now)

It looks like we’re in it for the long haul
(And you still don’t know who I am)

But somehow we really get along
(Who ever you are).


Do you remember?
When you called me

By your first love’s name
And I called you by mine?

It was then I knew
We had a chance this time.

It was then I knew I’d got
Beneath your skin, and you mine.


I read the poem he handed me.
A bit of a doggerel,’ said he.
‘Oh no!’ said I, ‘It’s simply great!’
He smiled quizzically, scratched his pate.

‘I want to see you more,’ said he.
Said I, ‘That would be fine by me.’
Said he, ‘Once weekly without fail?’
I smiled weakly, turning pale.

I thought I’d better play his game,
Whilst conjuring means with which to tame.
So to my fate I marched bravely
Knowing I was one of three.

In no time flat I loved completely
And doing so did not deplete me.
Though I knew there were two more
He only knocked upon my door.

Though I made no attempt to censure
He through their portals ceased to venture.
Though he still maintained his right to do so
Our conversation turned to trousseau.

A while before we tied the knot
I put my troubadour on the spot,
For though he sang of chivalry
In theory I was one of three.

I said, ‘Though I pledge my loyalty,
There may be something to remaining free.
Do you think our bond would be more true
If I exercised my freedom too?’

He noticeably blanched. He nearly choked.
It was a while before he spoke.
He sputtered, ‘Me for you and you for me’
And now there’s one instead of three.


You offer me fidelity. A gift. A prize.
A box containing Snow White’s heart
softly beating just for me.

Let me lift the veil from your sweet eyes.
I pick the lock and with a start
a pig’s heart beating there I see.

The love I need needs no pledge
to hedge its bets or tie it down.
It flies upward to the highest place.

A phoenix or a turtle dove.
From muddy earth snow white roses will emerge,
their blood red hearts will speak of love.

Lions in love true lovers are.
They need no oath, no pact or boast.
A different code they heed.

The hunter and the hunted merge.
The union that they wanted most.
A fierce and flooding rush of blood

Turns to touch as soft as ash.
Beneath your hand a rosy blush.
A glistening bloom a golden hush.

Soft fruit grows from bitter seed.


Outside I am a looking glass
Silver peel
I mirror you
No wit

Inside I am a circus, 3 rings, more
Geometric spinning out to space
Each an instrument of being
A tarot pack, The Fool
Hanged Man

Bearded woman
They’re all there

The trapeze artist
Loves me most
Though I tire of no net
No fun, she says

The lion tamer cracks his whip
I jump
Through fire rings
Each one shouting

As I whiz
Singeing tail and mane
Dutifully, dutifully

It’s all show biz
But really
How can I stop?
If I bite his head off
I will drop

What you see:
A silver pool
Drop a coin and
All your dreams
Come true

Inside I scorch and
Pop, a witch’s
Steaming pot, a molten core
Burning through
A desert Magdalene

Don’t fear
I’ve thrown the key
She is unthroned
I am serene
Marry me


O happy puppet am I
Just pull the string and I smile smile smile.

I clean the house, advise and support,
Do all I can to maintain a rapport,
Your everyday dimestore madonna whore.
You can even dress me in style.

Make sure not to spoil me.
To do so would soil me.
“Give her an inch and she’ll
Take a mile mile mile”

I’ll be like a nun and forsake any fun
So that you can keep building your pile.
I’ll never complain. How shockingly vain!
I’ll just quietly choke on my bile (& smile).

You can be sure I won’t
Cut my wrist, and if I
Do, I mend in a tryst.
I should be here for a while.

My world grows smaller, it fits
In my chest. Yours revolves
Larger at your behest.
I haven’t the will to beguile.

I shan’t forget that you rule the roost.
Cock of the walk. A butter glazed goose.
What can I say?
Zeig Heil!

I’m heading for a fall
Like Humpty Dumpty.
I’m running on empty and
I’m not very happy at all.

(A bereft and horrible child am I
The author of my trial am I)

I long for the landscape of a caress.
I want to shatter the hourglass.
Fie to the world and all the rest.
To hell with the petty dog eat dog race.
Just for a minute a timeless embrace.

O for an angel gentle and mild
Forever tender and wild wild wild.


I have no doubt there is a kind of love,
A fire for me in you, but it’s not

The kind of love which I aspire to
(Don’t you?)

It’s not the fire
Which sets the heart aflame,

Hot purity which cannot retaliate
Or contemplate deceit or shame.

It’s not the balm in which two souls
May be reborn when lovers touch.

(The memory of your cheek within my palm,
No sacrifice too much)

Your love for me feels hooded, masked,
Rooted in a borrowed sheath of fickle truths

Where hidden lies the ruthless bitter bruise
Of childhood enmity.

Your armour is so strong
Protecting you from vulnerability.

Mine is loose.
The cataclysm of my life

Has moved it like a geographic plate.
I lie there just beyond, fragile and exposed

But stronger still and in a place
Where no false word can compensate.


I locked the door
because I felt locked out.

There is no in
to your locked heart.

A leaden box
withholds your grail.

One thousand tiny wounds
deflected by its metal frame

read a braille message
I cannot reach to get in touch.

A restless phantom
from some distant plane.

(One thousand tiny words upon my heart
leave me buckled and ashamed)

I locked the door because I knew
a real person of flesh and blood

would say, “What’s wrong?”
or “Let me in!”

Would speak, would seek,

But no, just an icy
turning of the knob
barely discernible
above the wind.

Only words will unlock this door.
You can’t come in.


My love for you is infinite, infinite.
Infinite, it echoes bright the light
Which spills from stars in empty space
To flood the night, the hungry place

Where sprites unbidden gnash
And weep, raise the hair
upon my neck,
Toss me in a restless sleep.

My love for you is endless, endless.
Endless, it echoes bright the light
Which seeds the mountain, tree and
Bloom and leaps upon the river’s back.

A silver sliver bleeds a trail across
The land to feed the field we reap
To feed the world, the golden leaves
Which shiver in the hand.

My love for you is painful, painful
Painful, it echoes bright the frightful
Thoughts of loss which gild the lily
With a poison gloss, suffocating as it

Shimmers in the light, dancing like
The bones of ghosts upon my grave,
The soundless clatter in my skull,
The mindless chatter

Clutters up my brain,
The fragile life, the flicker flame,
Crackle, splutter, hiss, I whisper
Love me ever, leave me not.

I stand before you, a tiny castle
Made of bone. I appear as solid as
A stone but I am not, I am an echo
Of an ancient sound, a light which

Spills from cells in empty space to
Dance upon a river bed, a bluish
Sliver trailing deep within my skin
To glimmer red beneath my cheek

When you are near.
I am a hum, a light,
Mercurial, a wave.
I can disperse, disband the electric

Magnetic energy which holds me fast,
A living memory of a primeval blast.
With one command
I turn to sand and

Slip through your dear fingers to
Leave a hollow place, an empty hand
To cup your face when you are free
Of me at last.

But with a kiss I reappear.


PussPuss sits atop the cupboard.
His large eyes gaze upward.
Contemplating the universe no doubt
Or communicating with passing angels.
A checkerboard Buddha
His paws pressed together.

Katey imparts visions:
A man becomes sunflower.
A silver girl wafts down
On air with floating leaves
To crouch beneath a speeding car
Then rises from a shining pool
Head glowing like the moon.
Her large eyes gaze upward.
Tigers hiss, prowl a wood.
Giants loom.
Her delicate hands hypnotically weave.

A drunken saxophonist liberates
The night.
A whistle repeatedly pierces.
A clackety incantation.
A discordant duel.
The church clock strikes twelve.

The pub spills its children
Roaring and mewling.
Secret lovers.
Jolly fools.

Small oracle, Katey glistens.
PussPuss and I intently listen.


PussPuss appears to float on air.
He has crooked himself between the panes.
Settled on the cross where cool air swells.
Black as a rook cloaked in blue.
Not precarious but curious.

Half wedged under glass,
White rabbit legs like Wonderland.
One white-tipped paw drapes languidly
The surrender of saints by Raphael,
Marlene’s elegant ennui.

PussPuss strikes an extraordinary silhouette
Coal black against a blue sky sea.
I stare at his configuration
Until diamond light dissolves
And flashes verdigris.

He was a bit of a pin head as a boy
But his proportions are exemplary now.
Whimsical like a faery in the Dream.
A perfectly contained wildness.
Cobweb or Peaseblossom tumbles down,

A slinky waterfall from window, chair to floor.
He springs to my side with practised ease.
A small black prince inquisitively peers.
His coat of earth. Eyes the green
Of Greece.


PussPuss does his morning
Hosanna to the sun glistening

In the light.
Then a little bath.

Contortions more exquisite
Than any Kama Sutra.

He sniffs the air
Eyes half closed in ecstasy.

A little snooze
It’s time for play.

PussPuss grows more holy every day.


PussPuss shone lavender this morning
Hallow hallucination, a purple hue.
A silent song unto itself.

Ideal glory
Refracted fleeting grace.

Luminous electric violet.
Soft halo amethyst or flower.
Praise song.

A vibratory wonder-note
Heard by the eyes.
A summons. A signal.

Hallucinatory PussPuss.
Tiny boxcar set on eternity.


His sleek black arcs and drifts
Undulates surprise of white.

Each perfect movement
Flowing a river.

He is very nearly a god now.
The meditation is complete.

It is the life.


I float above
The covers swell
Below my legs
A muffled sound
The black cat’s breath
Rise and falling
With my own

The sun sneaks in
And smacks your cheek
A cheeky ingenue
I love you more
Than any other could
A silky thread
A threat binds me to you

You slash the sheet
Emerge gold-pocked with light
A treasure trove of heart
And sinew rope
A sheath of flesh
The sour cloud
Of sleep on skin

I roll the cat
A tumble bundle
Black on white
Twin peaked
A wizened Nefertiti head
Half mast wink and
Needles pricking

The sun departs to tease a leaf
A gilded flicker
Clucks the caps
Of smog-wreathed trees
Imparts a fleeting
Glitter dress

You look upon my smile
And think –
If would she could
Love me a little less.


Your panther hand upon my knee
Upon your face a panther’s smile
Within your chest Pandora’s box
Leaks the secrets you revile

The tom tom of your panther heart
Beats above the gentle hush
The time has come for opening
Risk the fierce volcanic rush

Your panther hand upon my cheek
Your panther heart beneath my hand
The gnash of geographic plates
Form jagged cliffs from gentle land

Time will wear the landscape smooth
And lashing rains and slicing winds
But in the stillness will be heard
The mocking jig of skeletons

Dancing a riddle upon your feet
Confounding you when all is well
Searing those who come too close
Delinquent flames of buried hells

Your panther hand upon my knee
Upon your face a panther smile
Within your chest Pandora’s box
The lock is rusting all the while.


There is a shadow
The rooks are emerging
The ground is shifting
Rocking gently beneath my feet.

The fire is out
The sky draws in
The clouds are diaphanous
Winding sheets

Ice is falling
In ten-pronged white genetic flakes
There is no edge
As I fan out to endless space

Shadows fly through me
Grey light
Through glass plate
The ground see saws below

There is no anchor
They enter me
You will find me
Floating boneless in the snow.


There is a crack from sternum to
Pelvis, from labia to tongue
It leads to rooms and hollow spaces.
The key can be a touch,
An echo, voice, hypnotic litany,
The way you’ve looked at me,
Certain smells or places – and
I descend the ladder rung by rung.

Shadow people live here.
Uninvited guests who feed.
Black lung, silver liver, heart.
They like the organs best.
The gnawing has a rhythm I can tap a tune to.
A rapid whirling dance, I skip, I dart.
There is no rest.
Insatiate longing mothers greed.

There is a garden; the trees are mariners.
Prehistoric creatures rising majestic, clearing
The air, light-dappled, broad-backed, limbs waving.
They are breathing for me.
Their sap defies gravity ascending fleetly ring on ring.
On the root is carved a pact.
I will find my way there.

There is a teacher at a pulpit
Smacking a baton, thud on thud
Falling upon the seat of sensation:
Medulla oblongata, cerebrum, cerebellum.
The organ of thought.
Nerves alight, St. Elmo’s fire:
Sometimes the pokes provoke a sudden inspiration –
A lightening bath, a panic storm or flood.

I am Noah’s ark –
Amoeba, fish, reptile, ape.
As ontogeny recapitulates philogeny
Finally human begetting human,
A river of flesh, a sheath, a flame,
The hope of light.
But what seed is rooted in the progeny
And how will they be shielded from the rape?

Devoured from within
The earth is shrivelling beneath the sod.
The bells are howling in the steeples.
It is a glittering repast presided
Over by cannibals designed to self destruct,
less humble than the loping beast and small.
Who are these people?
What is their god?

I am a large wolf-spider, a water bear.
I have an extreme impulse to dance,
A malady or spinning prayer.
Your speech is percussion.
A lashing tarantella,
The meaning is lurking, a germ in the grain.
I navigate the blue to find the deep veridian lair and
Watch the sway of light on prickling leaves advance.


I wake to this curious
Disconsolate pain.
I turn in bed as if the grave.
Laid out – Lazarus
Waiting for the touch.

The seducement of dream
Is pulling me back,
Pushing down on chest and limb,
Interring me
In a soft embrace,

Returning in shards a picture puzzle
Forming distant lands
Of jagged rock like Montserrat awash
With light spilling shadows
Alizarin and deep on emeraldine.

A feather drifts and shudders on a breeze.
The coasting shadow of a massive bird
Weeps over me.
In a claustrophobic room a woman changeable
As wind speaks of one who mocked me.

How can these strangers enter me so deeply?
John says walk the middle path.
All will be well.
But I am waylaid in a poppy field,
The road unseen and
Emerald City still a dream.

A trumpet of light dazzles my eye.
You disappear in a tingling haze –
The line of your cheek luminous
And the turn of your nose
All that remains.
The blast is swallowed
By cloudscapes in lazuline skies
Returning you – carved by cool
Hands in shades of
Lavender and grey.

I awake again and far too late,
The fingers of noon light
Strike laser sharp,
My heart calf-keening
As if this journey

Of 10,000 miles
Hadn’t moved me from this place
Or shucked a husk of
These small insistent hells.
But I still rise.


She is wild like I was
Despite the fact that I have been subdued
These long years,
Nothing peeking at the edges.

It must be potted in the genes
Or my mother’s oath come true:
I hope you have one just like you!
Forgetting I was just like she was.

No amount of tying down or
Locking up dented her will –
She bolted at the first

To sing in bars and marry men.
Her vast knowledge of flora and fauna
Lost to high notes
And tender kisses.

But still, the reining in
Is a putting down,
A suture that festers,
A time bomb in the blood.

(Or are we just plum crazy,
Set to ignite?)
From mother to mumchance
Embalmed in this masquerade.

I would like to free this one.
Let her fly.
Break the chain
Of exploding women.

Rocketing their feverish pearls
In timeless sprays,
The uncollected clusters falling
Across strange lands of another’s devising.

And so I bite my tongue
During this mad stacatto dance.
Small fine limbs akimbo and scarves winging,
A multi-coloured leap, a swoon, a banshee rite.

The shrill cries pull my skin but still I say
Shrike! Pipe! Grow large and utter forth
And if the vase should drop,
Let the pieces lie.


Do I recall the name or face?
I am more of memory than of now.
I remember feeling, then I feel.

I drink my coffee and coffee-coloured
Quarter-horses come to mind, on mountains
Where silver birches speak in tongues into the wind.

The madman with his knife against my throat –
The way he moved the watercolour off the bed
With reverence and gently tugged the lace.

I remember running down a flowered hill in
Stockbridge, in a floral dress, the wind is
touching like a demon lover –

There is the great oak where witches swung.
This I knew before the telling –
Healer, midwife, poet, sister.

All the lost ones gathered there
(I have been back, their shadows roam
there still and mine among them)

There is the boy who remembered any utterance,
Its hour and date, collecting lost pennies from
Pittsfield to Lenox to to buy a propeller –

And the beautiful Irish lass whose brother
Was her lover, (who had been killed in Vietnam)
Who gave herself to everyone to quell her grief,

Then sold herself; the whore of Babylon, Long Island,
Woozy with potions of forgetting.
I had brushed her hair for hours –

(For what are hours to the lotus eater or the
seeker of the lotus in the crown?)
I had brushed her hair for hours and listened to her song.

And Bill who spoke ten languages but could not speak his
Mind. His eyes feverish with volcanic clusterings as
A drawing by Schiele, his gun beneath the pillow,

Swooning on October Mountain burning his arms with
Cigarettes to distract a larger agony –
And the albino who loved Diane and boxed her ears

In Central Park, made life-sized plaster casts
For company and killed himself.
These skinless ones, their terrible tenderness

Too searing to survive or wear the masks
which melt against their heat like wax.
Their yearning drives them –

Daring to bare what will be pierced and pierced
Again, for the world will not countenance a reminder –
These who cannot muster the ambition

Or volition for that which time will
Make a joke of –
Will we laugh and walk away?

The realms of present tense and past are merging
And the geography of life and death is
Separated by a narrowing path.

The world is not a solid place.
I will shed my skin still further –
Will you laugh and walk away?

And further still –

Until I am red and throbbing and all grace.


Come my child, dry your eyes
And walk the earth with me;
Not to seek but to speak
Of kings and fools
And everything from thumbnail frogs
To Bariboussa Indian hogs,
The rapid wing beat of the hummingbird,
Cleopatra’s Needle and the Sphinx.

Shall we walk into the ruby sunset
Until the horizon drops us on a cloud
And make a cocktail of your tears
To sprinkle on the tigerlily, marigold and rose?
Watch your phantoms evanesce
In ochre and vermillion light?
Speak to flowers of their purpose?

Let me tell you of the things of worth,
Your fawn plumage and your radiating smile,
The circumstances of your birth.
More blood and water than the doctor had ever seen.
A deluge, a flood, a large fish slippering through,
A creature almond-eyed, alert, amused and
Wise as visitors from distant planets in
Close Encounters Of The Third Kind.

As you sleep beside me
I am gripped in the primeval jaw
Of transforming forces beyond my ken,
Become lioness to guard you
From treacherous winds, wild
Unknowns and death
And I at last becoming mortal
As you grow beneath my hand,
Your heart beat gently tapping,
My ear countless times descending
To check the flutter of your breath.

All those February dawns
Of your first month,
The earth beneath the crust,
The sky as white,
The black trunks piercing like confessions overdue,
The pines snow-heavy above mosaics
Of bird print and of fox,
The cat’s jealousy of you and
Silence, silence, silence.

Your chuckling glint, your straight true gaze
And I, a walking crucible,
Full as moon and round,
The rhythm of your cries merging night with day,
Causing surges like the tide
As all that I had known
Rises sceptre-like from secret files
And the hourglass explodes.

Let me tell you
How I wanted to protect you
And to guide but could not avoid
indelible patterns surfacing
Linking generation upon generation
With incantations long forgotten,
Confronting the leers
Of all that I would hide from you
Risen to face me in the mirror.

Though this may be of some importance,
Is it more so than the sailor’s jagged song
Or the laughing of the kookaburra, hyena and the loon,
The mushroom spore, the chimney smeek,
The elliptical trajectory of the moon?
Teasing with its skirts of buttery light,
Transfixes poet, lover and the madman with the knife.
Reflecting and eclipsing,
Engineering our surrender.

Surrender, surrender as we journey
Piercing to the core, surrender
Reflection, reaction and remorse
Until the seraph is awakened.
I should tell you this and so much more,
But there is no knowing in the telling.
The world is shifting from the fairy tale,
The myths and ancient lore,
Disregarding and discarding,
Shedding sheaths, exposing us unshielded in extremes
As edifices crumbles and the scientists reveal what
The mystic always knew: the carpentry of atoms but a dream
And it seems at last that I know very little.

So, it is time, my child, to walk the earth,
Not to seek but to be and to speak of what we see –
The church’s copper bricks startling against the
Slate grey sky, its shroud of winter trees attending,
The deepening violet as chimes strike five,
The bobbing of the crimson rose, its drifting petals
Revealing buried treasure of fuscia and of peach,
Its scent distilling childhood memory.
The prickling romp of the cat, his inky silhouette and
Silky undulations, the gold fish in their dish enflamed.
This last lance of light unfurling and the shadows it addresses,

The resonance of the your small guitar
And the rhythm of your dance …


I’m in love with Dicky. It came over me all of a sudden. We’ve only known each other a short while but it’s real deep. Whenever I think of him a whoosh hollows out the centre of me and I have to sit down. I feel like it’s my little secret, but you know, I think Boo knows. Boo is my boyfriend. He is one of those macho types. You know—still waters run deep? Sometimes I think stagnate.. Well, the truth is, underneath all that carefully positioned hard-assed armour is a baby pink throbbing little heart of gold. And some dam keen intuition as well, which he calls in-three-ition. Boo is dam near psychic though he never admits it and calls all mention of the invisible realms pansy crap.

I think Boo knows about Dicky ‘cause he’s been so nice to me of late. Trying, anyway. The trouble with Boo is that he’ll only go so far. He’s always holding something back. A little piece of rock wedged in there. So, whenever I get real soft and mergey-like and ready to go for it in a big way, he’ll suddenly get on the ‘phone or have to work on the car or something. I’ll just sit on the sofa and quietly congeal like a dead jellyfish, all hopes for the big romantic stuff dashed once again. Don’t get me wrong. He’s passionate. He’s just afraid of the soul spot. Control freak. You know the type. Afraid of losing it. Of course he’s never admit it. He likes to think he’s practical.

Not like Dicky. That Dicky’s a wild one. Wild and free. And he’s got me noticing where I’m not so free in my life. In fact, since I met Dicky I couldn’t car less about a lot of things. I can’t focus on the papers and just skip over major events like Nelson Mandela and stuff that I would formerly avidly read. Even local murders don’t interest me. I’ve completely lost my sense of time and things that seemed quite important no longer do. I don’t give two hoots what people think of me and I even look quite different. My features are smoothing out and my eyes look really shiny. I don’t fix my hair anymore and happily mismatch colours so I look like a collage or a combination of Christian Lacroix and a New Age traveller. Boo doesn’t notice these things.

When Boo comes over sharpish, like he can do out of the blue, I used to get quite tough myself. I can be quite a little hard nut if I choose. Now I just cry. I know that is disgraceful but I just can’t help it. I just think of Dicky. Dicky. Dicky.

Boo and I went away for the night. We went to a bed and breakfast in Shipton on Wychwood. We went to a nice restaurant. Boo was reeling me in with niceties, that’s how they lull you into falso security. It’s like the cobra hypnotising its prey. I chose a moment to bare my heart about a certain niggling concern and then he jumped on me like a ravaged dog. I fall for it every time. (Sometimes I think he’s got a real love/hate things towards women. His grandmother was really suffocating. She used to dress him up like Bonnie Prince Charlie and make him do a turn for the aunties. I think it scarred him rather deeply). So, I thought, here we go again. We’d been on the smooth slopes of small talk and suddenly he’s volcanoing all over me.

We flapped out of the restaurant like two bats out of hell. And then he says, after sitting two stony faces in the car, he agrees with me. When I say – not suprisingly, YOU AGREE WITH ME????, he comes out bitchy as anything and says, anything wrong with that?

It’s the old ‘I’m right you’re wrong regardless’ technique. Well, thank you very much. And another thing. I wasn’t going to go back in there and sit through a fancy dinner at the Lamb Inn and pretend to be civil to all those people snickering down their collars at our untoward behaviour. YOU TRY LIVING WITH A MANIAC!!!!, I had felt like yelling at the skinny blonde matron with the ‘I know your type’ sneer plastered all over her goony bird face. So we sat in the car in silence, fumigating. My eyes get teary. Then, wouldn’t you know it, Boo starts his apologising routine. This is his favourite part. He has demolished me and now he can rescue me. George and the dragon rolled into one.

Well, finally, surprise, surprise, I gave in, in time honoured tradition, even though I knew he just wanted his dinner. I was a little embarrassed to go back in. A little ember assed. But hell. Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke. The poor pink cheeked chap who’d seated us earlier and who’d seen us fly through the door seem mortified he had somehow offended us—We said he hadn’t and he was nice as Howdy Doody throughout the whole meal with one of those ear to ear smiles.

I think Boo is misbehaving ‘cause he knows about Dicky. Knows in his bones. You see, Boo really does love me, but it’s me who does the loving. In other words, his love is a noun and mine is a verb. The next morning Boo woke up all chirpy. He stood by the door stark bollocks naked and asked if I was ready to go down to breakfast. There he stood in his not inconsiderable glory and it was quite a lark to imagine the look on the stuffy manager’s face. The funniest thing was Boo trying to make this joke. I mean he thought it was really, really funny. Underneath that nasty old Doberman barks a chirpy cocker spaniel. A little Cock Robin. When he said, should I go down like this? I knew he knew about Dicky. He was trying to win me back. That’s why I had to laugh.

Well, let me tell you about Dicky. He’s a long tall drink of water like Boo. His skin is silky smooth and he’s got bright eyes and a mischievous grin. He’s not educated in book leaning but he’s got a lot of innate intelligence. A gentle heart. A diamond in the rough. Trouble, I’ll bet you’re saying. And you’re right. He is a bit unstable. A bit not-centred, as it’s put these days. This is partly because he’s quite young and partly because he’s caught in a male tussle. One of those Oedipal things. You know. With his uncle. Not his father. Same difference. Younger male challenges older male to assert his position. You know what they get up to. Just can’t help themselves.

It happened on holiday. Without Boo. He never comes. Doesn’t like to break routine. There I was, peacefully enjoying myself. The beach was lovely. The mountains rising up ancient , linking Jordan, the Sinai, Saudi Arabia and Israel, oblivious to the disharmony of its inhabitants and concerned only with the echoing footfalls of King Solomon and shimmering their reds and greens. The water was cold and clear as a bell. There’d been a south storm the day before which had parted the Red Sea before my eyes, sweeping the waves sky high, the little children dancing wildly on the shore, waving their fragile little arms like seaweed fronds.

I had watched Dicky and his friends in the distance. There I was snorkelling happily, watching the shifting clouds of silver fish. A violet jelly fish translucent and hovering. An anemone covered anchor jutting out of the sandy floor. I was feeling just like Brooke Shields in the Blue Lagoon. Suddenly they’d come crashing through. Dicky and his friends. Circling like mercury. Like acrobats. Like Busby Berkeley water ballerinas. Show offs. The effrontery of youth. I was entranced. This went on day after day. They never said hello, but after all, they didn’t know me from Adam. I was content to watch. First on the sly and then unashamedly. I would just hang in the water while clown fish darted through coral and zebra fish wiggled beside fish of bright cerise, magenta, chartreuse—painted with flicker strokes from God’s elemental corner shop, while they practised.

There was a lot of gossip about them on the beach. I heard a lot about Dicky before I ever laid eyes on him. His aggressive behaviour was notorious and he was considered by some to be the bad seed of the bunch. Well, being with Boo for so long, none of this daunted me in the least. Intrigued me in fact. I looked forward to it. I heard him before I saw him that day. He just started singing out of the blue. Sweet as Gigli, no kidding. Those high notes whacked the back of my head and soared out my forehead flipping my pineal gland like a pinball machine. I felt pedestrian by comparison. But then I saw him staring at me and I just started shivering like nobody’s business.

He stopped singing and watched me. I pretended not to notice, madly scrutinising scuttling sand crabs way below and boxy fish that abruptly turn to stone. Suddenly there was a sharp tacking pinch on my back leg. I spun around and there he was, grinning. What a cheeky bugger. I laughed, choking on salt water flooding into my snorkel as I swam to shore.

The day before I left is when it happened. I never would have believed it. I’m not the type. There I was doing my mermaid routine when Dicky arrived. I thrilled involuntarily as he steamed right by me and smiled, leaving a trail of silver mushroom shaped bubbles rising through the water like tiny UFOs. He then sleeked right up the side of me, skin to skin, stood there in the water gawping at me in the face and then he leaned over and grabbed my wrist in his mouth. I kissed him. I hugged him and he turned on his back and pulled me through the water as I held on to his middle. My heart opened wider and wider until it just swallowed me up, top to tail. We continued like this for ages. Waving through the water, sleeking each other. I lost track of everything. I barely recorded it in the old cerebellum but it’s etched on my skin forever. The circling. The silk touch. Wet softness. Hardness. Bright eyes. Kisses. And then he was gone.

I waited all the next day but he never came. I never saw Dicky again. I didn’t care. Not really. I knew it would never work. The age difference for starters. And I do love Boo. But Dicky changed something in me. He did. Opened me up. Shifted some sand. I knew I wouldn’t stand for shallowness any more. You know, it’s just plain lazy, really, and I wasn’t going to have it. This is what’s got Boo all edgy. He’s not one for change.

I don’t drink much but Boo thought I should have some wine to settle me down. He said to me quite loudly, WHY DON’T YOU HAVE A DRINK??? The subtext being, for all within earshot, she’s the deranged one— if we sedate her, all will proceed smoothly. Well, one glass of wine followed another. I didn’t count. Before too long I was telling him all about Dicky!! I couldn’t help myself. ‘In vino veritas’ and all that. It all came flooding out. Everything. The heart-yelping intensity. The mad gibbon water whirling. The whole nine yards. I mean it wasn’t like I was unfaithful. Not really. But he was shocked right down to his piggies. He knew I wasn’t going to give up my life and go live with a dolphin. But he wasn’t 100% sure. No, not at all.

Since then he’s been real gentle. Last night he was so tender he took my breath away. It won’t last of course. As for me, I’m becoming more and more spontaneous. I’m paring down my life and getting sleeker by the moment. Just doing what feels right – right now. Just like Dicky.



Performed at the Kings Head Theatre, London March 2004
Directed by Grainne Kelly


I, Lucifer, speak—
King of darkness
The light bearer
Son of God

There is more

I am that which God seeks
The mirror in which he admires himself
I am not that shape and sigh that has been a
Assigned to me by earthly minds
I am simply reflection
I have taken a step of my own volition and
In that moment one is two
And from my dancing feet the dance is born
I am duality. Duality is choice. Choice is awareness.
Awareness is unity. Unity is God

The game –
Darkness that defines light.
Effect which reveals cause
The illusion of shape and form
By which comparisons could be made.
From which analysis is born
From which you could be free to hate and
Fear that which was not you
Until the barriers finally fall into the dust
When the heart is finally broken beyond defence
And illusion vanishes like a
Shadow in the mist
And there is only one heart
In a thousand chests
If only for a moment

When you no longer have eyes to see
So tired are they
They close as heavily as the dead
And the inner eye opens
And shows you a world of rivers on the air
And a breeze from another place
Enlivens you
And when you open your eyes again
A vista has appeared
I am that longing that urges you forward
I am the fear that paralyses you
I am the devil in your desire
I am the desire in your dream

I am not separate from your heart or your soul

I am the path to awareness itself
To consciousness of grace.
When you recognise me
As you
One journey of struggle is complete
You will no longer gorge on bitter fruits
You will no longer feed on your grieves
And find succour in sweet sorrows
The challenge of balance distracts you.
The juggler’s dream begins


You have done well my child
You have entered the juggler’s

To begin with
The birds in your heart will cause windows to break
And hearts will break
And doors will fly open
And you may lurch
As you acclimate to a new gravity
And all that is unsaid is finally said
Until the words scorch your throat and the
Unsaid thoughts have taken wing
And you are empty and newly full
As the moon
And earthly ambition
Has fallen away
And is replaced by the ambition that
Will take you and shake you
That will lead you to places
And leave you spare
Clean and to the bone
On one clean river

Then you are truly my child
For I am not the author of your pain
I am the author of your choice
But not your choosing


The folly of earth dwellers
Who fear the devil and run from their own shadow
Like mice

As long as you see
Me as your enemy
Suffering will reign supreme
And your experience will be one sided
I am your mirror, too

For we are all God

When you see clearly in the mirror a spell is broken
The atoms part
Glass flows to air
And you may walk through

On the other side there is one path and one door
but your horizon now extends into infinity

You have simplified and not narrowed
And through simplicity you will learn power
And through infinity you will learn openness
And through openness
You have regained paradise
And paradise is your own ability to imagine
And make real what you see

You pull down through your right side and
Push out with your left side

You clothe your desire in atomic cloth
Until there is no push or pull
But a rush and a wave
Tools come to you by magic
By courtesy of airwaves
Precious cargo on the river of your dreams
And the eye at the centre of your heart
And you see clearly
The hopes and fear
The weights and tears of others
And you must hold them with compassion
If you would not break your gift
And resist the desire to feast

Then see the devil as the bringer of dreams
The scales of balance
The scales which fall from the eye of your heart so that you may see
The harder you press me down the higher I will spring.
You are now my child and the code is silence.
Speak only true words
Not man-made truth
But deeper and more courageous.
The true words are few and take you far

Falcons to insect clouds

Your journey begins to interest me.

The dams are down
And the nature of energy may now be understood.

Balance is harmony
Compassion is non-judgement.

The electricity that permeates and connects is God’s blood
And I am Its body


The lead coins that weighed your eyes are turning
In the crucible of your own heart and mind and body and soul

You take me by the hand and together we walk
And rivers form bridges and waters part
And all that you touch will turn to gold
You are an open door through which
Mountains may walk and suns may be born

I am ready to learn from you

You have moved beyond thought and
Understand that the nature of energy is un-containable
Supreme thought permeates the air
Surrounds you and fills you
Animates you

You have come to your senses
And discovered the key –
Through the gifts of the body
True nature will be revealed
It will not be through words
But through touch

Energy will speak to energy in a vocabulary so vast
In a language so complete
That words will lose meaning
And the world will be seen to be drowning in them
A sea of words

But words will have a purpose your key will unlock
They are a vehicle for exchange
Small batteries on which a current flows
Whose intention is to hold or to free from fear

And the quality of that energy
Qualified by choice
Will be the message that you hear

And those who touch deeply will move like
Psychic surgeons through the wall of flesh
And atoms will part like red seas

The dream of flesh will roll softly
Flickering like a neon sign
From light to form and back again

And to touch will mean to read
And to read will mean to know
And to know will be beyond knowledge
And the certainty of connection will be established
And all murder will be known to be suicide
And all mockery will be known to be the pale thorns of the afraid

And from this knowing you will see
That there is only you

And that the you that you are
Has no beginning and no end
And always was and always will be
And takes shapes and form
Which are shadow and smoke

And you will be called the devil


Shadow walker
Dream weaver
You make people afraid

You create the new
Weave matter
To your own song
Refuse to give yourself away

You break the rules
And men bow down or run in fear
Or threaten you with fire
And the memory of crosses

None of this concerns you

You may hold the mirror and
They appear as paper tigers
Frenzied children
Frankenstein monsters who would kill the
One who made them
Kill themselves

Look a moment longer
Open the heart’s eye and see
The reflection in your eyes

You are on your own now
You may never again allow another to be your master.
For if you do
You will turn to stone

If you pity
The alchemy reverses
And mastery is lost

Honour the choices of others
But turn away
Unless the current speaks to you

You walk a knife edge now
I am that knife and the blood of your feet is sweet


I am Lucifer
The light bearer

I pull you right to the opening and conspire to throw you
Back so that you do not dissolve
Before every story is rung from your cells
And you are a clear conduit
For the stories carved in stone
And the bird’s language
And the whispers of the wind
And when you have told those stories
Without shame or fear
The stars will speak of what they know using your mouth and hands
And only then is it possible you may begin the return to your origin

You are empty now
All the masks have fallen away
There is no God or Devil
And there is no
Love or hate

There is no path and no goal

But you are not ready
There is action in stillness and stillness in action
Your story is complete
You radiate

You are the doorway to the mystery
The opposite contained within its opposite
The paradox
The knowledge and understanding of perfection
The ability to see only perfection
Without qualification
Or definition
The ability to enter the mystery

There is nothing to be attained
Nothing to give or to take

You are thoughtless headless
All heart
And the heart is the water you walk on

And when you begin again
You will sink like a stone
Into my embrace


I am the devil
The creator god
I have made you what you are and I will lead you to becoming

I am the bitter mother liquor
The crack of the whip
The saviour who will hold you in shadow until you remember
That you can only save yourself

You mock the devil and define yourself
Not knowing that definition is a bloody fox skin of my own making
You are wearing me
You look out through devil eyes

The flute song of your key note hovers on the air forever just out of view
Your ears are not yet fine enough to hear your own sound
So full of recrimination are they
So full of my tricks

You are insincere and full of hate
A tasty brew

You have received the judgement of others
And lost your power
And clatter like a clucking hen over slights real or imagined

You hear the words of others come riding on the breeze
You are not ready to forgive
When you are called devil or jezebel
By someone who is frightened of you
And does not understand that you want nothing
But cannot easily remove yourself from this river which pours from your heart
And wants to move you
And move through you

You let this sour in you like a sickness
You have cast a graven image
And the truth beyond images is lost
This man is your teacher
He is teaching you to beware
How easy it is to be trapped even now
He is showing you the cage he has made of words
And the boxes he has made of concepts
You pride yourself
That you see beyond boxes
Yet you have jumped right in
Your anger and hurt validates his definition by way of acknowledgement

I am Lucifer, the light bearer
And I come to bear you closer to the light
But you are afraid
The light is formless
And without edge or barrier
So you have created this polarity
To hold you fast

You are not ready to be free

You are holding on to the cliff by a hand


God is a vampire
Who sucks you dry
Takes away your spirit
And masquerades

Dividing man from man
And heart and mind
From body and soul
Supping on the spoils of war
And human sacrifice
Always on the side of the right

God is a jailer
Who monitors your words and thoughts and deeds
And loves only good

God is a bastard who kills small children
And makes a lullaby of shrieks and cries
And blesses the righteous
And rewards the virtuous
And seats you near him when you die.

This is your God.

My God is a carpenter of atoms.
He has no face or name but his names are many and Lucifer is one.
She does not love but is made of love
And gives her blood
To build electric castles in the air
Or war or famine or delight

Who holds a mirror
Until the truth is seen
And we may walk through the looking glass
To a world with no rules save the ones we make

A place where we are free to create a different dream
Full of music and dancing and wild beauty
Where we are not afraid to feel pain
And feeling deeply, release it
So it cannot catch us and cloud our reflection and
Trick us into recreating itself again and again
A place where we are not afraid to feel love

A place where our own true nature is revealed and its expression called sacred
And intimacy is found in all shapes and sizes

Desire is the friend of the will that speaks for the soul
A place of no tomorrow or yesterday
The present
The keyhole to eternity
The endless gift


I am the tiger lilies in the jar
The star gazer whose scents beguile
The bridge
And its crossing

I am the vice that crushed your skull
with the weight of the dead
The wounds which coloured the air around you
The fires that parched your womb until she lay charcoal and inert
The hands that squeezed the knife against your throat to pierce the
Screams which never sounded

The agonies and its relief

I am the low down voice singing the blues
The rhythm in the room that rocked like a ship
The river

I am the path that brought you to the hands of others
To enter a harmonic sea
The dance of healers
The sorcerer’s intent
The source

I am the flight that traverses time and space
The thought which travels from mind to ear
A golden flow without attachment
The mirror, the hooks, the fear

I am the exquisite varying terrain beyond the veil
The jewelled colours
The place you could not see but still remembered
That filled your dream with longing
Whose distance lengthened from you with each step
An oasis which glimmered and flickered
A mirage
Always just out of reach
Beneath your feet

I am the secret name you called for
The purpose and the path reconciled
That which is revealed and that which is hidden
The treasure hunt

I am the promise
And you are the beginning.

Once again

With a difference

You have wings



A brilliant evil informs my life.
It lingers in my bones and in my cells.
It is my own arthritic castle made of hell.
It clings to me like a damaged wife
Fire. Fire Fire. The house is burning down.
Ring the bells.

I come in the night and I touch her.
I explore the soft peach fuzz.
She doesn’t move at all.
I stick my finger in the juicy centre of
My little sleeping doll.
She doesn’t move
And we never speak of it.

In the night hands divide the dark.
In the night I am divided
By a child eating shark.
He tears me in half when he does it.
My muscles go rigor mortis.
My arms and legs held tight.
I am sliced from helm to stern.
My bones burn.
My bones will be frozen for decades
And my mouth sewn up with fright.

I pick her up and carry her to the rubbish heap of life.
I press her face in the mire.
She is my golden jewel.
I drool on her. I suck the life from her life.
I’m a vampire of the spirit.
She sets me on fire.
I am all powerful near her little chicken legged self.

I am a raggedy genius.
My IQ is 182.
But there’s a man with a white worm penis
Who’s torn me right in two.

When a man is dead inside
He’s got to get his life from somewhere.

Have you ever noticed the clouds?
They are so beautiful.
There’s Cumulonimbus with anvil
And Stratocumulus
And sweet liitle small Cumulus
And clouds called Mama that look like udders.
They are udderly beautiful.

I would screw her but I’m Catholic.
Her mother makes me small.
My cock gets hard when I touch her
And I feel ten feet tall.

He comes in the night and he breaks me.
He takes my breath from my soul.
I freeze and I’m still frozen.
I’m always always cold.

Why must I hit her?
To you she’s sweet and small.
She bit her little sister
And she’s riding for a fall
She’s so cocky she makes me seethe
She is a terrifying life taker
There’s not enough to go around.
Do you pity her?
Don’t be fooled by the little faker
She takes the very air I breathe.
She’s too vibrant and must be cut down.
She is mine, after all.
My very own clown.

There is Nimbostratus
But my favourite is Altocumulus progressively
Invading the sky
And where ever I go there’s that eye.
The homunculus.
Get that uncle off my back.

She’s very smart this kid.
I don’t mind that.
She good with big words like
But she asks too many questions.
How do I know why the sky is blue?
Do you?

I ask her questions but she won’t answer me
And then she screams when yes or no would do.
She’s very big my mama.
Her hands come out of the blue.
They smack me and thwack me and whack me.
My legs and my back. too.
My head twirls on its stem.
My back is black and blue.
Get them out of me.
The man and mama
Get them out of my bones!!!

She’s a daydreamer.
She dreams and dreams and looks at clouds.
She’s a lazy good for nothing.
A Queen Bee. So proud.
I’m going to brain her if she doesn’t do the
dishes. I’m going to knock her from here to Broward County.
I ‘m going to disown her at the very least.

I want to watch this movie
My very life depends on it
But she’s making me do the dishes.
She won’t let me finish it.
She’s such a bitch.
Stopping me is her favourite thing.
All my favourite movies
It’s my only escape.
And comic books
And fantasy. The movies in my head.
That’s one thing she can’t take away from me.

Do the fucking dishes.

She’s drinking her Cutty Sark.
I’m gonna get a bruisin’ for Hitchcock,
But he’s worth it.

I know this looks bad
Yanking her by the hair and bashing her head
It looks so bad I think she’s dead.
She won’t cry, the hussy
Too much pride
I’ll send the man in

She is still breathing
But she’s floating outside of her body up
Near the ceiling
She a helium balloon now.
We’d better take it easy

She’s spoiled rotten and I’ll break her if
It’s the last thing that I do.
I’ll use the tools God gave me
The hand and the belt and the shoe.

It’s nice up here by the clouds.
My body looks broke and bereft.
It had a life in it once
But there’s been a terrible theft
And there’s nothing left.
There’s nothing left.
I tear at my hair
And the tears flow
But there isn’t anyone out there.
No one sees.
I’ll become a cloud.

Her body is like a dolphin.
She’s long and lithe and thin.
She can’t carry a tune in a bucket
But she can dance on the head of a pin.
Her father’s rich and makes me feel small
But here she lives on peanut butter and spaghetti
Pop tarts and the odd meat ball.

Anyway I’m a fairy
But don’t tell.
I live off the nectar of flowers.
The drop at the end of the stamen
Like the little ball that rings the bell.
But don’t tell.

I still love her father

When is a house like Treblinka?
When there’s no sanctuary anywhere
When you fear for your life at all times
When they’ve even taken the air
When is a house like Treblinka?
When your flesh is meat for the beating.
When your flesh is good to eat
And there’s nothing they don’t dare.

I never ate her, make that clear.
I came in the night and touched her.
Just explored like
A navigator over virgin territory.
Walked the undulating dunes beneath starless nights
And split her open with my fingers.
She has no rights.
We do with her what we like

The old lady psychiatrist in Milwaukee
Who said she’d been through the camps
Said I was a survivor just like she was.
What a champ that I wasn’t crazy.
She said I should be schizophrenic
Or maybe take my life.
She said I’d never really come right.
I said, no
I will fix this.
But it’s so many years later I can’t breathe
And I can’t think straight
And my skin crawls and my head spins
And the clouds are descending
And the air thins
And there is no kindness anywhere.
Kindness is the greatest wisdom
and death
The greatest kindness.

We didn’t want to kill her
But she was a kind of thing to us.
A plaything.
She could be quite amusing and she told good jokes
And young girls like sex.
They want it
Doncha know?

He sang like an angel the man did
And he warned me when Mama was near.
He made me think that he loved me
And then he filled me with fear.
Could he really think I wanted it?
I didn’t. I didn’t even know what it meant
To mortificate.

This survivor is kind of charming
Full of vim and very alive.
I know she is my first born
But only the strong should survive.
We’ll lock her up and send her away
And definitely drug her.
That’s what you must do at
The first sign of excess emotion.

Inside me there is an ocean.
There are good things as well as bad.
I’m tender and full of devotion
But everyone is scared of me
And they all want to kill me
Or drug me or think I’m a nag.
No sanctuary anywhere
Mind sizzling
Electric chair
A man who’s kind
Hate underneath
Muscles are tightening
I can’t breathe
My daughter’s going
A mutiny in my head
There is no tenderness now
I’d be better off dead

We’ve been telling her for sometime
That she has a special destiny.
She won’t quite listen and thinks
Maybe she’s crazy.
These guys can’t give her what she needs.
She has a big heart
Only God can give her endless love like sunshine.

Come on,
My mother is crazy
But she taught me to write poetry
And she sees the very best in me.

want to have a special destiny.
God calls but so does Dionysus.
I need revelry.
My blood runs hot and cold.
Death and life
Call in equal measure.
Peace and hawk.
War and dove.
100 paintings
Boxes of poems
Short stories, plays and screenplays.
I want to get to heaven where they say there’s love
But I’d like to finish life properly.
I’ve always been a good girl.

But when she was bad she was very very bad

And you know what happens to bad girls.

Thick altocumulus in a single layer.
(That’s the one that looks like sheep).
Lenticular altocumulus look like UFO.
Dense cirrus from cumulonimbus.

Cirrs progressively invading the sky.

© Stephanie Sinclaire



For the Beloved Herself

For Mark, Debrah and Sion who gave me great Soul gifts
in the sacred Spring

For Allison Camille, Mermaid sister

For Janet, her poetry, friendship and warmth

For Dana, Curtis and Jeremy, teenage Masters

and to California, its brilliant flowers, its mountains and waters,
its Spirits
and all its Kingdoms

April 7th, 2000

Beloved Mother of the World
Sister of my Soul
My own True Self


My heart breaks open
As you pierce the veil
and anchor Your Presence
more and more deeply within me.

The Silver Sword of
Your Divine Love
split the Giant Rock at Joshua Tree
announcing Your Presence to the world.

Take that Sword and pierce my heart
dissolving what is left of me
That there should not be
one thought between us
and We should swim together
in the ocean of bliss,
the original sea.

Beloved Flower of Fire
Who shines through my eyes and
smiles upon the world,
smiling a light that radiates a lantern
in the dark,
feed Your children.
Let them drink from Your fountain
igniting the gift of Self.

Dear Soul Song Sister
who flows from my hands
kissing the brow of the ill or weary,
cooling and healing,
allow me to comfort.

Dear Mother of Dreams
who presses in on me
until the vessel is finally broken
and the last remnants
of my imperfect self
flow back into Light
and I melt finally into You
and remembrance of Our eternal Union.

Mother of My Heart,
my Sky, my Heaven,
Eagle-winged angel of my Soul,
soaring me higher and higher
as You draw me near.
Hold me in Your deep
embrace until the end of time
and the restoration of Eternity.

Let Your Rainbow Light
flood through me now.
I will be Your Hands
and Heart and Mind and We will
fill the world with Your song of Creativity.

Show the world Your many facets
and faces.


The hidden implicate nature of Being.

Sun Song. Walker among the Stars.

Beloved Holy Mother.
Queen of Heaven.
My Love, my Dove, my Darling.

Your winged Lion stands by me ever
in remembrance of You.

I surrender to You.

Maker of my heart as close as my breath
Blood Song Sister flooding my veins
like a river in Spring.
There Is no time I did not know You.

No time my cells ceased even for a moment
To sing a song of praise and admiration.
No time the pumping of my heart
Did not beat for You a silver drum song.
The deep rivers of my blood turn gold
with Your touch.

Sometimes You are stern with me, Dear One.

When I forget the Truth and you must remind me once again.

But then suddenly You are so tender
And the air is filled with the soft blanket
Of Your Love and the gentle depth
Of Your embrace, the exquisite wing delicacy
Of Your Love’s hold.

You shower me with rose petals
like the sweet scented kisses of True Love
opening me further and further
until I become dizzy and gasp for breath
and the flood pours through
and my eyes rain
and I become swallowed up.
I become all Heart.

Let me tell you my gratitude
For all the beloveds You
Send me to remind me over and over
of Your nearness and and the bottomless Grand Canyon
of Your Love.

For Your precious Light
who kissed my hands
and touched his forehead to me
and spoke such tender poetry of You.
I thank You.

For our sweet stubborn St. Clair
who prophesied this river I am flowing In.
I thank You.

For the lady of the cards
who saw the path laid out,
I thank You.

For the kind warrior, my brother who helps me
And serves You.
I thank You.

For the black haired priestess at the
‘I AM’ house of St. Francis in Temecula,
who shared our feast of fire, sinking deeper and deeper
into each other’s eyes, watching feature films of other lives
lit up with silver and gold; a celestial cast
including You.
I thank You.

For most Beloved Kwan Yin,
exquisite expression of Divine Mother
Who took me by the hand
Who guides me to my destiny.
and led me back to You.

My own Heart.

Waiting patiently for me with arms outstretched.

Waiting to remind me of a Love borne in a place
far beyond time or space
when earth was just a twinkle
in the eye of the divine.

I thank You.

And for Sananda, sweet Sananda,
Marrying You within me again and again,
Preparing each cell to be a chalice,
A loving cup filled to the brim,
making me tremble with flames, my heart on fire,
the Flame of God’s Heart,
all longing gone.

All of me finally received
in this Sacred Dance.

None of me turned away.


This dance of fire and light.

Fearless and complete.
The Divine Marriage
an electric song my cells
are singing.

My edges fall away
and spread out into space
becoming stars.

The star light of Your Eyes.

Dear Child of my heart.
My Mother.
My Sister.
My Self.

Teach me how to speak.
Teach me how to dance.
Teach me how to sing.
Let me be a child with nothing more to do than
celebrate, create, play, share and love.

Let your rainbow Light flow through me
in all the shapes and ways Your
magnificent Imagination
can conceive.

Seed me like a garden.

Water me with Your tears for this world.
Let the flowers bloom forth.

Let the fruits hang heavy
upon the tree.

Let the secrets of God’s gift be known.

Let the creative nature of Divine Love be shown.

Dragonfly, swan, falcon, dove, winging from
Your heart across the sky.

Seed the imagination with the electric whispers
of Your Breath.

Awaken the children of the Kingdom.

The Golden City is at hand.

We are in the Garden and never left.

You are the Rainbow Bridge I fly nightly
home upon.
You are my Oasis in the day.

O Mighty Archangel of God.
Guardian of sleeping souls encased in clay.
Chalice of the Ascended Host.
Holder of the Matrix.


She Who wove the Light Garment
for the Beloved One and held Your focus
without failing and holds it still
until He is born in every heart.

Your Child. The Collective Messiah. The Collective Christ.

My forehead is throbbing magnetically.
My spine is rushing. You are burning my heart
with Your Love revealing, at last, the sacred core.

Together in the woods
You dazzle me with color.
The translucent Violet of the merry bluebells,
the new green of spring leaves, the green-blue feather
light rushing of the sun-warmed brook.

You show me the beauty of the clouds that I
may never be alone. The shapes and reflected
Lights, the dance of mist, luminous cotton candy,
swirling, ominous, bursting with sun.

And the fuscia, magenta, golden yellow, peacock blue
of your Kingdom. The opulent florabunda of Your design
reminding us of God’s Abundance and desire for Beauty.
The nature spirits springing from You to sing
the cloth of creation into being,
weaving Your atomic Love into living atomic lace.

When You send me on a mission
I feel Your Strength.
I become unwavering, an arrow pointed to Your goal.
My mind quiet and steeled in chaos, quieted by Grace.

Your mission of Love to the women of India,
the young man from Kashmir,
the man who died in the embrace of Our prayer,
the heart-filled young people
at Giant Rock who prayed with us aloud
for humanity, each of four prayers a magnificent, sacred song
of the True Self.

The children of Egypt
and the beautiful man
who held me in Your arms
by the dolphin sea, rocking me to the music
of the waves beneath the star-filled sky
Holding me and rocking me.

And if I am ever too tired to listen to you
and carry Your love to one of Your children,
You are so quick in forgiving me
just as I am long in forgiving myself.

O Mother of the World.
My own Holy Mother, Who places Her crown
of rubies upon my head.

Your little sister.

Hold me tight. Let me not falter.
Take me into Your deepest embrace
this night. Let me gaze upon You
with the eyes of my Soul.

Pull me into Your Heart.

Fold Your wings around me
that I may touch Eternity
through You and be fed on Light.

Dissolve me in Your play of rays,
fuscia, rose-pink and emeraldine.

An orchestra of Light weaves the
Sweet Music of Your Love, carrying me.
The way is soft now.
There is no burden.
God is spilling Grace and laughing with delight.

All that is left of me is the one keynote
fanning out a prism of delicious color into space.

There is no future, there is no past.


Holy Mary, Mother of God.


I am ready now at last.

April 8th, 2000

O Beloved One.

Take me deeper into Your bliss.

My heart is melting with wild fire.

My body is blooming like wild flowers.

Like morning glories at first light.

Blooming roses scarlet, magenta, lemon yellow and dove white.

My womb is filling up with stars.
My solar plexus pulses like the sun
which is setting in my heart.
Warm peach and deep rose shimmer in a pale turquoise
and lavender sky, flowing from your fingertips of fire.

Flowing plum blue sea into Carmel Bay
where Robinson Jeffers wrote of the
man-destroying beauty of the dawns
sparking wonder, reverence and hope in me.

I have closed the door on the world for now.
So we can play.
So we can be together, dear One,
just You and I.

This morning We danced and I brushed Your
Hair and plaited it with roses.

Tomorrow I will paint with You.
The colors will speak of Our devotion
and We will fly.
You will hold my hand so delicately
and I will adore You with colors.

O dear One,

You make me a candle in the day.

There is so much light, the edges blur.

This evening I saw You shining from the eyes
of children.

Shining from the eyes of men and women old and young
walking hand in hand and side by side, gathered by the
water on the sand.
Your gentling Presence glowing in their faces.

More and more are blossoming in You.
A profusion of brilliantly hued flowers
multi-petalled and unique.

Your inspiration water falls
and quickens all the hidden places.
Two become one in the Union of Your Light.

I must be careful not to give myself away.

But just quietly share Your radiance
permeating the air and the words You say.
I am learning, dear One.

Your left Hand holds me fast
while Your right showers me with gifts.

I am like a child in Your garden awaiting my
next surprise. Each one revealing new eyes
with which to see.

On Sunday You dressed me as if for church
in a white gown and a crimson shawl,
and took me to a sacred place.
A holy place of leaf green rolling hills
and pine and cypress trees bent over
in the wind. The dazzling sigh, a church of green,
a violet sky, plump clouds blown from
Your sweet Breath, Matisse-like in shades
of lavender and white.

Long shadows caressing russet cows and
sharp sprays of sunlight making gold glass
of shiny leaves. Mercurial creeks bubble and cascade.
The wind and the breeze sing a harmony of Your
love for my brother and for me.

Up above three hawks soar and glide.

Hawk-hearted Lady of my dreams.

I am so sad when I am tired and lose sight of You.

I feel bereft when I can no longer feel Your embrace,
No longer see or hear You.
No longer feel Your tender kisses on my face.
I feel You have left me and I am as lost as any child
in the dark a long way from home.

But then I find You again and in my delight I
remember Your promise.

We will never part.

We draw closer and closer with each breath.

As what is left of me falls away to reveal the
core where You reside and I become
again and again
all Heart.
We have all time together to paint and play
and re-enchant the world.
There will be no death and we have all
Eternity together in sacred bliss.

To think I ever turned You away, not recognizing You in my
temporary human blindness.

Falling for the cliche.

How foolhardy I can be!

My gratitude for Your patience in those dark
years is endless and floods from me to you
in rainbows.

And to suddenly remember, like waking from sleep,
that if it was You who stood by my bed in
the midst of un-nameable childhood terrors.

It was You Who made me know I would survive.
Know I would endure.
Know I was the strongest of the strong, as courageous
as any knight in shining armor.
And You Who whispered over and over the mantra
that tempered me like steel,
“your strength is as the
strength of ten because your heart is pure.”

O Holy Sister, could there be any greater sweetness
than the feather touch of Your Light pulsing in me?
Concentric circles radiating me out to space
with every breath I take.
I am swimming in Your Grace.
Even this cold night holds me like a lover’s touch
when You are near.

There is no greater gift than You.

Hold me tight. Do not let
me lose sight of You, dear dear One.
Not even for a moment.
That’s all I ask.

Each task is not a task in Your devotion.

We are a golden river.
A river of God.
Day and night have disappeared.
The song of sadness finally ends.
There is no fear.

Divine Begetter of the Sun.
Emissary of the Source.
Sacred Sorceress and Sorceress’ apprentice are We.

Universal Artist. Maker of galaxies and daisies.
Magician of Love shaping the electron in an ecstatic dance.
The world awaits Your master tutelage
turning its face to You like flowers to light.

Your inspiration unceasing,
luminous silver rain,
a soft cloak of Majesty free for all.

Dear Friends Who guard this sacred dance:

Sananda, Michael, Lanto, Paramahansa Yogananda and Kwan Yin.

Press me ever deeper into Her Heart tonight.
Dear Mother, hold me like Your dearest doll.

Take Your weary child into Your arms.
Make Your dreams my dreams and my dreams Yours.

Take me nestled in You to warm my bones in the
Flame of God’s Heart.

Let Your Light be my drink and Your Fire be my food.
Hold me in the Highest Place that I may bathe in
colors never seen on Earth before and wake up in
Your tenderness renewed.

My eyes are heavy, but like an excited child, I cannot sleep,
so restless am I for the new day when we can play.
When I shall channel Your Aurora Borealis
through my insignificant hand
until my hands are as electric as a Moray Eel
and my heart flutters like a hummingbird.
My eyes becoming beacons.
Torches of Your Light.

Beloved One. Sunlight Sister of my Heart.

Good night.

April 9th, 2000

Holy Mother, I have followed your Light to this
far off place.

I am now without husband or child.

I have left everything for You.

Sometimes my bones ache with tender longing
for my little nest and our trinity.

Yet I know in my heart
there was not enough room
for You to grow in me.

It was the place of my becoming
and miracles were sustained there.

But once the door opened so wide,
the bird demanded to be free.

I closed the door.
Held tight my loves
and watched the Light
flow out of me.

Somewhere in space there is an urn
that holds lost dreams, visions of love,
plans, hope, laughter, tears, tenderness .
and passionate grace.
A warm breath in my ear at night,
an arm wrapped around me like a wing.
My brilliant daughter’s golden face.

Two beings I reveled in giving my heart to
and adored.

But all urns begin as clay pots and some time
on the turning table I pressed my thumb too hard.
The wobble became an earthquake
that seemed to reverberate in me alone.

A wobble that took me by the hair and shook me to the bone.

Long ago I married Don Quixote.
I was his Dulcinea, oh so fair.
He built a statue of me out of roses,
and ran his tender fingers through my hair.

How can the heart bear it when true love dies?

Three bears built walls against the storm
delighting in their coziness.

Now one lone eagle drifts and circles in the sky.

The truth is true love never dies, but changes shape.
New flowers blooming furiously the vase can’t hold.

Old flowers turn to paper.
Petals drift by on which are writ
the stories of our lives.

Me, in St. Ives, in the tiny St. Nicholas chapel
on the hill inside the gale, bracken and brush
flying on green air like witch’s brooms.
The waves pounding in tune with my heart
as I vowed I would marry my love
again and again.

But in my head I heard clearly, “ten years.”
Was that You, Dear Mother?
Laying Your claim on me even then?

When he came that dear day and dropped
his suitcase as I floated into his arms,
we married so completely.
Ours was a great love!
To rival Tristan and Isolde or Romeo and Juliet.
An electric orchestra of praise notes.

A symphony, a shepherd’s flute song in the dawn,
the poignant lament of reveille.
All emotion was there. All caring and excited talk.
Carving us deeper and deeper.

True love healing as it fills.

Filling us to the brim. All longing gone.
Two halves become whole in sweet fire and bliss.

But there is that thumb print.

The point where true love kills.

Two halves can no lovers be if their hearts are
demanding they be free.

He built a statue of me out of roses
and ran his tender fingers through my hair.
Now, when I reach across the pillow,
there’s no one there. No one there.

How I long to hold him now, just tenderly.
The tenderness that is as seductive as passion.
His warmth relaxing me.
His heart tap tapping against my skin.

He’s like a six foot leprechaun,
fair of face and limb, with twinkling eyes and
a mad wit. An eccentric gentle giant,
a lanky grizzly bear with manic energy.
Noble and strong and gallant.

And my daughter, a lioness.
Stormy and willful and wise.
With a willowy Amazon figure, an exotic beautiful face,
full lips and almond eyes.

Holy Mother, hold them to You.
Keep them close.
Protect them always.
Let them not long for me
as I dissolve in dazzling Light.
Pray for them ceaselessly.

Bring them riches in the day and
comfort in the night.

Little one, my dearest daughter, all my
years of love for you float above, filling clouds
up in the sky, haunting me in sunlight, calling to me
when the breeze is high, rattling the leaves of trees,
rattling me.

Now that you are grown
so fine and dignified, I treasure those rare moments
when you allow yourself
to melt into my side. Holding each other on the sofa, or lying
on your bed and listening to music .
or your startling poetry.
Delighting in the insights of your agile mind.

You are tall and strong now and have begun to grow away.
I respect and admire your own fierce desire to be free.

And my dear husband. We still flow like a river.
My heart still opens at the thought of you
and sings when you are near.
This is the hardest kind of parting.

I long for the sweetness and familiarity of England
and the theater life we shared.
Our little cafe in a square.

Were we Mr. and Mrs. Darling?
Or Wendy and Peter Pan?

Our child is flying high
and I am on a course east of the sun
and west of the moon
far away from Never Never Land.

If dreams live in our bones,
what becomes of marrow
when dreams crumble into dust?

Will I ever find the courage to tell you
I am truly gone, as I know I must?

There you are, as sure as sunrise, hustling and bustling
around the theater, putting potions into a pot: actors,
lights, words with wings that make magic on a stage.
There is a shadow of me there even as I sit here far away
beneath this cypress tree burning the book of my life
page by page.

On this page is our wedding, me covered in flowers
and Victorian silk and you dapper and sparkling
in top hat and tails and little Kate, a golden doll
in a wee ball gown, looking at me wide-eyed and asking,
“Are you my mother?”

On this page is Venice. Crumbling frescoes and gondola’
canals. Our heated tremulous touch and insistent

On this page I give away baby clothes,
crying that anything should leave me that has
the imprint of you, my darling girl.

On this page is the moment of your conception
when I named you Kate, after Katharine Hepburn,
St. Catherine and Katherine the Great.

Katherine, meaning pure and unsullied,
like the white wizard fire of your truth seeking
passionate soul.

On this page we drive to Oban, husband and wife,
the land laid out like a bride beneath the plum and azure sky.
We drink Scottish Whisky and vow we’ll be lovers life after
life and never hurt each other.

O sweet impossible vow!

On this page there is thunder and lightening clashing on your
face and mine is raining tears. On this page we are
dancing in Liverpool, you are kissing me in
the middle of the road in Chinatown,
Katey is singing ‘Lily’ on the Adelphi stage in a white
satin gown. Days are melting into years. You are
reading baseball, I am in a rage,
I am having visions, you are always near,

Katey’s in love, the pub is spinning ’round, smoke
and music travel up the stairs, faces swimming, strangers
and dear friends, shows, premieres, beginnings, ends.

And all the maybes piled high.
The could’ves and should’ves reaching as high
as an Oklahoma elephant’s eye
nestled up near the ‘if onlys’.

If only, if only.
If only I hadn’t needed you so much.
If only my skin hadn’t burned so beneath your touch.
If only the look in your eyes
hadn’t pierced me to the core.

If only two fathers hadn’t been so hard on a girl,
especially when the blood father is so bitter the blood
runs cold and ice splinters form in a young heart
blowing cold wind the coal fires in winter could
not penetrate.

Blowing in the doll’s house walls I had carefully
assembled bit by bit.

But that father is the author of her strength
just as the second one fostered her
integrity, her artistry and wit.

As for me who has experienced everything
between the calm of heaven and the fires of hell,
riding my life like a wild horse across silver sands,
dancing and singing and loving with sinners and saints
in many lands. I finally burst the pumpkin shell,
as sacred and dear as it will always be to me.

I commend my sweet loved ones into my
Holy Mother’s Hands. They will always be in my heart
enfolded in my deepest blessing.

I walk alone this beautiful new land where men once
lusted after gold.

The gold I find is in my soul. Now and forever I am free.

I am married to my creativity.

April 26th, 2000
Dear Beloved Mother/Sister, guide my hand

My path has taken an incredible turn and I have understood
something anew about choice.

The day before Easter, I prepared my white clothes.
I felt like I was going to a wedding.
I was a bride preparing to be wed.

The night before Easter I prayed with all my heart and soul.
I prayed as deeply as I could pray.

I surrendered my Soul to God, once again.
I surrendered all of me.

I prayed for my highest possible destiny and I knew that I must
give up everything.

And I did give up everything. Every dream—even that which I
knew the Beloved Mother was preparing for me to fulfill my desires
out of her love for me.

I gave up everything.

In the morning I put on my wedding dress and went to the Agape
Interdenominational Service where they were celebrating Easter
and Passover and everything in between. It’s a beautiful gathering
with a jazz band, a huge choir, solo singers and great speakers.

My mind is wandering and I am enjoying myself, but I experience
no great transition.

A little miracle occurs, if miracles can be big or little.

A beautiful woman sat beside me, a healer.
I thought the Beloved had sent her for me, but I hear,
“the other way ’round.” I take her hand and let the Divine Mother
Energy flow, felt the blast as my crown opened up,
felt it waterfall through me into her.
We spoke later and she invited me to speak to her Art class
at an inner city school. The Beloved has been guiding me
to young people and I have agreed. When you say Yes! to the
Beloved, She does all the work!

Well, that was a nice day, ended near the roses with a dear friend.

But then something unexpected.

That night my Holy Mother says to me, “you have surrendered so
deeply, you have surrendered as deeply as St. Francis did.

Your mission has now changed.

Your essence was:


Your essence is now:


I am the kingdom?


She said because of my surrender I was now married to God.

And I knew that it was good. And I slept. And I dreamed.

We all travel in our dreams and many of us work.

In this dream I encounter a family on the multi-dimensional
inner planes. I spoke with the mother.

There were children to-ing and fro-ing.
And then a young man stood before me and said,

“How curious, you are completely free. You are so clear. Look
how you stand so strong. There is nothing attached to you.”

And he made other comments related to his perception of me.

And then I went into a room to look into the mirror to see
what he saw.

And I saw the most extraordinary thing.

There was lightening everywhere and reflected in the mirror.
My face had become something indescribable.

The edge of light around this face was so intense and
deeply concentrated it was like another substance.
The face itself looked made of an ore from some
far off planet.

It was charcoal and silvery and compact
and the features practically indiscernible.

It was a face of sheer power. Immense power.

It was the face of the Black Madonna.

The Ground of Being.


It was solid lightening.

I awoke and slept again and dreamed.
This time a young man stole and I took him with me
to replace the items and explained the dance of energy.
He became united with a large crow who accompanied us
and swore he would not steal again.

I awoke in the late morning and when I looked in the mirror
there was so much light I couldn’t see.

May 3rd, 2000

Once again life has brought me to my knees.

I have lost myself. My emotions are crucifying me.

Each human encounter another nail.

The hammer mocks. Alone Alone.

I stand alone. No sanctuary. Alone in my Mother’s Light
until Eternity.

Home is where the heart is but this heart has flown. One blow
on top of another.

But the Beloved has sent beings to the rescue.

The fearless girl doctor from Indonesia and my mermaid sister
with the light-filled eyes. There has been a healing and a promise
that sanctuary will one day be provided for me.

Today, in the beautiful St. Andrews church, the prayer field
lifted me up.

My longing for my Divine Mother overwhelmed me, but there
were no more tears.

The well was dry. I was wrung out. I had left a trail
from Pasadena to LA and back again now evaporated into mist.

I knelt before Her and the Light poured in until I felt I would
float up.

I went to rise. She said, “Stay!”

I knelt down. And She said,

“You are My Child on Earth and there is nothing you receive
that I have not given to you and there is nothing taken away from
you that I have not taken away.”

She asked me to bring pink roses tomorrow, Her favorite

I walked around the magnificent church and knelt before
the Pieta-like statue of my Mother holding the Christ. Her look of
love so tender, concerned and complete. And I prayed again that
She would hold me always and never leave me.

And again, when I went to rise, She said, “Stay!”

And I knelt down. And She said,

“Just as Yeshua was crucified and then Ascended, so shall you
Ascend. And it will be soon.”

And I knew the time is drawing near when I will never
feel separate from Her.

Ever again.

The rest of the day was lovely.

My friends looked full of light that day
as they giggled on the stairs ready to float up to the ceiling
like the tea party in ‘Mary Poppins’.
And I hugged them and they hugged me
while Phoebe the cat went through her ballet positions
on the stairs.

Every where people looked shiny and transformed.

The red-haired girl crossing the street, the people eating
in the Good Earth restaurant. The soft music like silk
and the waterfall, my friend gone dreamy with light, the
waitress with her satin skin glowing and face like the

And I thought, even when I am hollowed out and
the future is uncertain and forbidding,

Life is good.

. . .to be continued

June 25th, 2009

I danced with Christ in Bali
On a deck before the sea
All lit up with sunlight
The Christ did dance with me

He appeared before me
In a cloak of shimmering green
He took my hand in His hand
And we danced before the sea

I’m dancing, I’m dancing
I’m dancing round and round
I’m dancing, I’m dancing
My feet barely touch the ground

He took my hand in His hand
He bowed His head to me
I smiled at Him through a veil of tears
And curtsied graciously

He took me by the waist
And turned me round and round
My heart opened up like a burning sun
My heart made the beat of banging drum
The whole world heard it pound

I danced with Christ in Bali
On a deck before the sea
All lit up with sunlight
The Christ did dance with me

He appeared before me
In a cloak of shimmering green
He took my hand in His hand
And we danced before the sea

I’m dancing, I’m dancing
I’m dancing round and round
I’m dancing, I’m dancing
My feet barely touch the ground

He took my hand in His hand
He bowed His head to me
I smiled at Him through a veil of tears
And curtsied graciously

He took me by the waist
And turned me round and round
My heart opened up like a burning sun
My heart made the beat of banging drum
The whole world heard it pound

I’m dancing, I’m dancing
My feet just touch the ground
I’m dancing in a sea of light
I’m spinning round and round

He took my heart in His heart
And a beautiful light appeared
He took my heart in His shimmering hands
And all else disappeared
All else disappeared

He put His heart in my heart
I felt a super nova form
A galaxy in eternity
And a universe was born

I met the Christ in Florida
He caught me by surprise
I felt my being flood with love
As He looked me in the eyes

I proclaimed my love for all to know
In a rapturous litany
The words poured out in an endless flow
As strangers looked at me

I love You, I love You
I’m spinning round and round
I love You, I love You
I’m spinning upside down

I met the Christ in Yosemite
His peace took hold of me
I heard the birds sing songs of praise
Beneath the Sequoia tree

The stones sang, the butterfly sang,
The waterfall sang, the deer sang, the trees sang
Praise and love to Thee
My cells sang a song of peace
As You merged into me

I’m dancing, I’m dancing
In a bridal gown
I’m dancing in a sea of sound
One My feet just touch the ground

We married in a moment
Through all eternity
I gave my life to be your wife
And you gave birth to me

I’ll take a human lover
And hold his cheek to mine
But my deepest heart
Is in Your heart
And my deepest soul is Thine

I’m dancing, I’m dancing
I’m dancing home to You
I’m dancing in a sea of love
To the One I will be true

I’m dancing with the sun
That animates the sea of life
The first child of the void
Energy, light, colour, sound
The playground and its toys

I’m dancing, I’m dancing
To the One I will be true
I’m dancing with the All That Is
The One that is Life in me
And the Life in all of you

© Stephanie Sinclaire