Posted in Society

Creativity Versus Copyrights

It’s a difficult subject. On one hand the artist who deserves recognition, not to mention money, for the work they do. On the other hand, how can you own an idea? In art history I learned that the early artist was employed for spiritual purposes. The sculptors and painters made works of art to please the spirits and teach rituals. The writers would have been speakers, reciting prayers and poetry for ritual and teaching. In each case their tribe would have given them food and shelter in return for their service.

In today’s world the artist has to become a salesmen/ lawyer to get paid. Yet to the spiritually devoted, self-promotion and legal technicalities are incompatible. Lucky are those who have promoters separate from themselves to help.

I struggled many years with this problem as I wrestled with wanting to share what I have learned. But I am no lawyer, nor salesperson, after eight years I realized the only choice I have is to share or not, to speak or be silent. Eventually I decided telling my story was more important than making sure I got paid. 

What it is worth depends less on me and more on you. True artists should be open and sensitive to the needs of the soul, to the spiritual and cultural needs of their community, but how can they when they are constantly pushed to be marketable, profitable? You can see the cost in movies and shows that are overdramatized or have unnecessary violence and sexual content put in just to sell it. Do you think it’s right to make artists sell themselves or is there a better way?

 

Advertisements
Posted in Dark Dreams

Blue

Blocks of blue ice, I knew they weren’t real. My mind had created them, to ease my discomfort at there being no ground, nor walls, nor ceiling. I was standing on ice, too blue and smooth to be natural. Otherwise, only mist surrounded me, mist and dead people hanging there, suspended just above the blue ice. Frigid cold it was. How was it misty yet so very very cold? I kept expecting the mist to freeze into ice, sleet or snow, maybe then I would be able to count the bodies, the dead if this fog would just go away. But it wouldn’t, it didn’t. It just hung there like the dead suspended, unmoving.

Even she didn’t move, the one who’d called me. She was an older woman, somewhere between forty and sixty. She wanted me to get a message to her daughter.

She’s waiting at the airport.

Airport, then you were in a plane crash?

Hope flared up, I was so tired of meeting dead people whose story I couldn’t verify, but plane crashes were often in the news.

Tell me where you died, I begged

Her head turned and looked at me with staring eyes. “Frozen,” she whispered. “Frozen on a plane.” The sentence seemed to echo around me, as if all the dead were saying it.

Okay, I thought. Your plane crashed somewhere and you froze to death, where did the plane crash?

She turned away, silent, but I could still hear a murmuring around me. “Frozen on an airplane.”

Alright, I tried to reason. If the plane crashed somewhere and they froze to death, then they probably were in some mountains and didn’t know there location. I tried again. “Where were you going? What mountain range did you pass over?” I looked around frustrated by the mist and blue ice. It didn’t look like anyplace on earth. In fact I couldn’t escape the eerie feel that we weren’t on earth at all. The woman didn’t answer, so I went up to another passenger to ask my question.

His visage frightened me. He looked so shocked, I could feel his terror. He wanted to move but couldn’t because he was frozen. His lips were blue. I started to shiver. All the others looked the same, blue lips, icy white skin and frozen terrified expressions. I couldn’t stop shivering.

“We didn’t land,” the woman finally got the words out. “We didn’t crash.”

“Wait,” I asked her, “you mean you froze to death, in an airplane, in the air?!?”

Almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

At the time, I had never heard of such a thing. The echos of “Frozen on an airplane,” began again around me. But now I just wanted it to end. I shut my eyes, shook my shivering head and asked her, “Please show me your daughter.”

As her daughters face formed in my mind, my body felt warm and stopped shivering. I opened my eyes and saw a woman worriedly looking out at an airport runway. It was so wonderfully warm there, and looked and felt like a real place, not middle eastern, but somewhere close. I sighed in relief. The woman looked at me but didn’t see me. Still, she could feel and hear my presence. Go ahead I told the dead mother. Her mother entered my astral body, and used my living energy to say good-bye to her daughter.

I don’t know why it works but it did work. Her daughter nodded in understanding, a tear spilling down her cheek. The mother passed on, peacefully. For a moment I wondered if I should try to help the others and shivered.

No, I never wanted to go back to that blue ice. I was worn out.

For years I remembered that dream and the voices saying “frozen on an airplane.” Then one day, years later, I heard a news story of an airplane where there had been some kind of leak or seemingly insignificant damage to the plane, but it had to do with cabin pressure. It had caused the plane to become icy cold in the air. It was Helios flight 522 and with all 121 killed, was the deadliest for Greek aviation.

Posted in Fate, Spring 2016

My 9/11 Finale

September 11, 2014

Dear  ________,

Now, my friend, comes the part about you. I know you are shy and would rather I did not mention you, but I simply can not. You are the key, the thing that made it all right.

As I said before, even after my dream of meeting God and realizing both his infinite power and his own self inflicted limit, I was haunted with guilt. When I painted those red letters, when the voice warned me, was I somehow responsible for the deaths that occurred on 9/11? What about the war that followed? Common sense may say all it wants that there was no connection between the events. Common sense would say it was coincidence, but I learned too long ago to look beyond common sense. I do not believe in coincidence. I believe that things happen for a reason. I believe that the only limit on God is the free will we have been given. I painted those red letters of my own free will. The voice warned me that people would die, I did not listen. So I can blame no one else. My only defense was my lack of faith.

The acceptance of faith left me with two seeming contradictory problems. On one hand was God telling me he was disappointed that I did not use the gifts I was given and by the same token I felt paralyzed fearing that my misuse of those gifts had already caused such death and destruction. Even today we are at war still, and for years when I ask is there any good that came out of this war? One one answer, a whisper really gave me any hope of redemption. It was the whisper that “wasn’t there a group of people who were being murdered by Saddam Hussein.” I honestly knew little about it and chided myself that I was looking for excuses. When I dreamed I met God, I told him I can not forgive myself until I get a clearer sign.

Then I met you. I met you at a bus stop. My son introduced you as his friend and I knew when I heard your name that you were special. There was a glow about you and I knew you would teach me something important. When you told me you were from Kurdistan, I had to look it up online. The Kurdish people were the ones Saddam Hussein had been killing.

Still I had to wait for you to say it, I could not bring myself to ask. It took months, but eventually you said it. You said how Bush had helped your people. You said your mother was murdered by Saddam Hussein’s helicopters. I wish that I could tell you, show you how grateful I am for those words. I felt as though you were washing the blood from my soul. Those words, at long last, allowed me to forgive myself. But that was not all.

You met my severely autistic son. You became his friend. You treated him with respect. Though I have difficulty believing it is possible, you said that in your culture when there is someone like him the community works together to take care of him. You said that the members of the community work together to help him until he is better.

I was taken back to the moment before I decided to write those red letters. I remembered lying, crying on the floor, praying to God to know that somewhere on earth there was a place and a people who would accept my son and allow me to work with him. It was just after that that I decided, in despair, to put my son back in school and, in protest, to paint those red letters.

At long last it all was clear. My prayer had been answered. In you, I had found a spokesperson for the people that I had prayed to know existed. A people who at that very moment were fighting for their survival. When I painted those red letters, the voice warned me, but God was there too. I meant what I painted, “Give me liberty or give me death.”

When the school bus took my son, I surrendered my liberty and his. Death had to follow as inevitably as rain must fall. All the souls that gathered to me from the graveyard dream and all the dead that haunted me before and after that dream were released with my surrender. For I can not do both, hold the dead in check and give up my liberty. Unto the darkness they were bound and caused as much destruction as they could. For this is still the desperate need of the dead, to force the living to feel their continued presence. But my lord saw to the path they took, such that I could not mistake the truth and the meaning.

I thank God for bringing you to me. I hope you and your people fare well. I pray for their protection. But I know that free will is still the first law. I dare not tell why you are such a blessing. I dare not explain about the dead and demons nor about angels and God. You are Muslim and though I can see your heart is good, I do not think you are ready to accept such things as I speak of, yet. So I write this letter to a future you. Someday I hope you will understand the miracle it was we met at all.

How I wish I could share with you what I have learned. Little acts of kindness and symbolic acts of defiance can be more powerful than bombs, it depends on you.

Carolyne

(This is the fourth and final part of My 9/11 posted the last four fridays of March 2016)

Posted in Why? Wednesday

Why Moon Children Hear Voices

Today being the full moon (sap moon) I thought it was time to share a little moon magic.

When the voice in my dream told me that I was chosen because I was a moon child, saying the others I had suggested were star children I didn’t know what it meant. First I thought of astrology but I decided that could not be what it meant. While those born in the sign of Cancer are called moon children, I had never heard the other signs called star children.

It was a poem that brought me my first inspiration.

The night has a thousand eyes,


And the day but one;


Yet the light of the bright world dies


With the dying sun.



The mind has a thousand eyes,


And the heart but one:


Yet the light of a whole life dies


When love is done. – Francis William Bourdillion

When it mentioned the life dying with the sun. It reminded me of how the Egyptians thought that when the sun went down it traveled to the land of the dead. Looking at the poem a second time I felt a little sad that it made no mention of the moon. Like a bolt of lightening, I got it. If you imagine the sun going down to the land of the dead and then the moon comes rises shining bright. Though the moon shines bright, it does not shine with its own light. The moon reflects the light of the sun, even when it is on the other side of the world.

The sun is a star, a star so close and so bright that in the day no sun can be seen. That was what was meant by star children. Star children are people who shine brightly with there own light and while that brightness makes them likeable and easy to understand and get to know, it also blots out the light of other entities around them. Entities like the dead.

But the moon child is shy and deep and seems moody. The moon child appears to brood alone. They are never alone. They hear voices and see things and if they chose to reflect them, they can shine with the reflected light of other people. It is natural for other people to be confused or feel uncomfortable, to call the moon child moody. The moon child is often confused too just more comfortable with it as they likely have always been this way.

As to astrology, just a few years ago while doing my chart, I found I had Mercury in Cancer. Mercury represents the microphone with which we speak to the world. However when Mercury is in Cancer it can switches from a microphone to a receiver and hears what others can’t.

But I ask no one not to question my sources, it is ever my intention to inspire others to question and listen and find their own truth.

Posted in Texts Tuesday

What Can You Steal?

You shall not steal- Exodus 20:15

I was having trouble deciding how to approach this because in looking up the meaning of the word steal, I saw that it meant to take without permission or legal right without any intention of returning, and I had to think about what that really means. First there is taking without permission and that for me suffices for stealing. But legal right and without any intention of returning made me think of the Native Americans on whose land I live.

As far as I am concerned it is their land, still. I’ve asked the trees and the wind and the rocks and the dirt and they all tell me, it is so. The Native American spirit was so in tune with the land, they breathed as one. They are still as one, listen and you will hear the whispers.

Then yesterday in reading The Testimony of the Human Soul, I was reminded of why I had to start this blog when I did. As I wrote in Woman, God made it clear these continued sex crimes are extremely damning. But the truth is I have downplayed it because what I know is so controversial.

As sad as I feel for the victims of sex-slavery, I feel even worse for those who commit the crimes. I am a survivor of sex abuse, and I refuse to see myself as a victim. I know that no matter what has been done to my body, my soul remains whole.

The souls of the perpetrators are ripped, maimed and disfigured, and cannot begin to heal until they are forgiven by those they raped. I feel like the most effective way to stop these crimes is to publicize this fact. It is not worth your soul!

Sadly, in many countries, pornography is substituted for sex education. So to many it seems we glorify sex and condemn rape without admitting there is a connection. For example, one thing I have learned from my years of celibacy, is that my own culture sees celibacy as wrong and unhealthy? And I am a middle-aged woman! I feel truly sorry for all young men and women who are not fortunate enough to be blessed either with an equal and respectful intimate partnership or a deeply fulfilling spiritual awareness (as I have) but must chose between suffering the lonely ostracizing of a world that equates sex with happiness or worse being coerced into having sex in unequal and disrespectful situations. 

What does this have to do with stealing? Too many people think that once a woman has been raped her virtue has been stolen, she is damaged goods, forever crippled, and irreparable and would be better-off dead. I disagree, vehemently. No one can steal your virtue. However anytime a man or woman coerces another person to have sex against their wishes, they are surrendering their own virtue and one way or another will have to make amends.

Taking anything without giving back, is a spiritual impossibility. Everything that is taken must be paid for. Only that which is freely given can be freely taken, and enrich both giver and taker. It is not only true of those that give food and shelter but also of those that give pleasure.

Posted in spirituality, Spring 2016

Pain

Life is pain, anyone who says otherwise is selling something. -Cary Elwes as Westley/ The Dread Pirate Roberts/ The Man in Black in The Princess Bride.

I woke up with this in my head and it took a good half-hour for me to remember where it was from. I remember feeling like it stuck out in a movie full of the ridiculous, and romantic true love always wins fluff, this kernel of truth spoke to me.

My father taught me to accept pain, not to medicate it or hide it, but to learn from it. If your body hurts, listen. That’s why I love Yoga. I never had a guru but I got Richard Hittleman’s Yoga 28 day exercise plan when I was ten and still cherish each weathered page. Each day had a thought-for-the-day that let me in on a slice of the philosophy. Mostly it focused on thinking of your body as the temple of the soul. It also emphasized the importance of spending time just focusing on your own personal connection with your body.

This quote seemed especially fitting since I finally was able to stop taking my narcotic pain medication last week. I had been taking some most nights since I broke my shoulder last November so I had been worried I might get hooked. I had tried to stop taking it once before but the pain became too much when my therapist insisted I move onto rotations (rotating my shoulder) and not just stick with the up and down stuff my doctor wanted.

I am glad she did, without being able to rotate it I would never be able to throw a ball again, as well as innumerable other tasks. My doctor had been content to say that I might never have full use of my shoulder again, but my therapist and I showed him. It still hurts, but I’d rather this pain than give up on the full use of my shoulder.

 

Posted in Dark Dreams

The Sword of the King

Time shifted in the fog between a modern tour group and the besieged castle. I had fallen asleep contemplating the history in Braveheart and wondering who were my own Scottish ancestors. Floating behind the tour group I remember reading Scottish ghost stories of men having run from the ancient battles only to have their progeny sucked back in time upon returning to the battlefield. I do not know what caused my Leland ancestors to immigrate first to Ireland and then by serving in the British Navy to be granted land in Canada’s Nova Scotia (New Scotland) from where my father’s father came to marry my German grandmother in Massachusetts.

Just as in the ghost story I found myself pulled back to a battle fiercely raging about a castle. Though I wanted to run, curiosity kept me at the edges. They appeared to be different clans judging by the tartan kilts and the castle seemed poorly defended. The outer wall was barely manned. As I watched, while most of the men attacked at the front gate, I noticed a small group head off around the side.

Following, I found an unwatched portion of the wall had been broken through. The wall must have been built badly there and hole had been made through. The invaders had carefully built a ladder and scaffold to the breach and were sneaking through the hole in quiet groups to take out the castle defenders from within.

Suddenly with loud and blood curdling yells fighters sprang to the hole to defend it. One of the gruff warriors jumped out to the scaffold and knocked each of the surprised invaders to the thistle grown moat below minus heads and arms. Roaring, he frightened many young soldiers to the woods. That was where he saw me, standing at the edge of the trees. Over the first surprise, a number of older tougher invaders climbed to challenge the valiant champion. But his eyes remained fixed on me and it was time for me to go. Outnumbered and severely wounded the guardian gave no ground until I had climbed safely within the castle wall. As I looked back an axe clove his skull. Yet I could tell he was at peace, having guarded my passing. As soon as I entered the hole closed up. Night had fallen and men with torches quickly mended and reinforced the breach. Sometime after midnight, the wall almost completely fixed, a small and solemn party came to the hole. They spoke too softly for me to hear but in their minds I saw a desperate plan.

They were terribly outnumbered and the hoped for reinforcements had too far to come, but the leaders had a plan to inspire the men. Rumor had spread that the king was dead and thanks to a band sneaking through that hole the day before, the rumor was true. As soon as they knew it was truth the men were sure to lose what little fight they had left in them. So it was decided to circulate the story that the king had escaped and gone for help. That was when I noticed that as they had been speaking the body of the king had been placed in the very wall they were mending. It had to be hidden so none would know he died. Each of the men took an oath then and there that none would speak of what they had done until the kings own heir came.

As the body was walled up, I returned to modern times. The tour guide droned on saying how the castle had been taken, all the defenders killed but their king never found.

It remains a mystery to this day,” he said, “what had become of that king.”

As the tour passed by the patched wall, I felt the wall call to me. Gently as I could I placed my hand upon the spot. Cracks ran all about the wall until the concrete broke and fell away. There I saw the mummified king, he had been placed standing, crown upon his head, sword in his hand. All around me I heard the whispered voices of the king’s men. The king himself looked at me and called me his heir.

Come take the Sword,” he begged. “I have held it too long.” I shook my head at first but then bowing, I wordlessly offered my service. Relief filled the whispers of tired souls about me.

At last, the heir has come. “ Slowly, I was ever so afraid to damage the mummy, I reached out to take the sword . . . and woke up.

Posted in Fate, Winter 2015 - 2016

When the School Bus Came

At the end of the summer 2001, I surrendered. I put both my sons into school against my own better judgement and wishes. I cursed the world for allowing my ex-husband (and all the others involved ) to keep me from doing what I knew was right. My severely autistic son did not get taken right away. The school district had to arrange a special bus to pick him up. I prayed that bus would never come. But eventually it did. The bus came and picked him up sometime after 8:30 on September 11th, 2001. I regretted it the moment the bus pulled away. I went inside and screamed and cried and inside; died.

I don’t know how much time passed. It can’t have been long, before my mom (who watched the news every morning) called and told me about the planes hitting the towers. It felt like it had been hours and when she told me. I didn’t care. I hated the world so violently at that moment. Eventually, my body still shaking with fury, I turned on the news and watched the reenactments of the planes. I knew I should feel bad but I still couldn’t care. I remembered the voice warning me of this when I wrote the Red Letters but I didn’t care. It wasn’t until the towers collapsed, the shock of seeing those buildings crashing down, finally my fury abated. I still felt dead inside, but my hate was gone. Sorrow and a sense of mourning took the place of my hate .

As the days passed, guilt and hopelessness came to be my close friends. My sons drew away. My sons cried. I knew they were being hurt at school. But I was paralyzed, unable to help. My ex-husband came to the school meetings and blamed everything on me. I was too tired of fighting to argue. I put on fake smiles at the meetings and cried at home as I watched my sons lose their way. As the years passed worse things happened, I eventually tried to kill myself.

But the voice was still there. It told me I would not be allowed to die. I could continue to hurt myself but death was not allowed. I had a job to do and it was still waiting for me . I guess I believed it because I called 911, went to the hospital, choked down charcoal and got better.

The guilt never left me. I know it seemed silly to believe that me writing those Red Letters actually made 9/11 happen, but that was not the first time that the voice told me something would happen and it did, nor has it been the last. In fact I eventually had to admit I can not remember the voice ever telling me something would happen and it didn’t.

For a long time the question of how could my feelings matter so much plagued me, I would imagine a person throwing a single small stone. Most places it wouldn’t matter, but what if you were standing on a mountain and you threw the stone on a pile of others stones and set off an avalanche. Eventually those stones would have fallen anyways but the triple connection, first the prophetic  graveyard dream, then the voice and vision and last that the time so perfectly coincided with my son being picked up by the school bus, I could not shake the suspicion there had to be a connection.

So what is the sane thing? Science can neither prove nor disprove God. In the end, I decided it didn’t make sense to not listen simply because the “voice” couldn’t be explained. So I listened more.

Posted in Fate, Winter 2015 - 2016

Red Letters

My neighbor started out by complaining about what my boyfriend had dumped in the compost. But it turned out that was only the tip of the iceberg. It turned out my neighbor had a long list of problems with me.

I was okay with her list until she got to my son. My severely autistic son. I had already lived through two years of hell because my ex-husband blamed me for everything that he saw as wrong with our children. Like all sociopaths he was a gifted liar. The stories he told got all kinds of people to call protective services on his behalf. I must have had five visits already. Two of the visits had been thorough to the point of leaving me feeling violated. I submitted to a psychiatric evaluation, I opened all the cupboards to show I had nothing to hide. No charges were ever filed but always the threat loomed.

The real reason I knew was because I believed homeschooling was the only ethical option for a parent whose children can’t speak for themselves and when the teachers available were either not trained in working with autistic children or not able to use their training due to the schools administrative policies (as I had learned was the case in at least one classroom I had visited.) I had been trained in an intensive therapy I believed in 100%. Son-rise is its name and it recommended that parents not only take an active role in the therapy of the child, but also direct the child’s therapy at home according to the needs of the individual.

Unfortunately the homeschool laws of my state and the fact that I had two autistic sons made for an even greater challenge. Still the improvement of my younger son was tremendous, he had been totally transformed by the therapy, his violent outbursts became rare and short lived. My older son improved more slowly, he was more severely afflicted from the start, but he also had improved. My older son was vocalizing more, he spoke his first and last sentence that summer. “Maaaom neee eeeeat,” he looked right at me when he said it and I knew he wanted something to eat but was too busy playing in the sand to get up and show me as he normally would have done.

The thought that now my next door neighbor would now harass me too was unbearable. As I pulled my sons into the house I couldn’t help saying to her. “Of all times to do this, the Fourth of July is next week.”

“Yeah!” She replied, “You should be cleaning up your yard for guests.”

I stood there stunned. Not sure whether to be more shocked by the ignorance that she didn’t realize that never throwing parties in my own home were part of the price I paid in order to give my autistic sons as secure and stable environment as possible to do their therapy or the lack of her ability to see Independence Day as anything more than another reason to party, I shook my head and pulled my sons inside.

As I lay crying on the bathroom floor that weekend, I counted off the closed doors, social workers, teachers and doctors had all been crossed off when my case worker had explained that they had no choice but to call protective services even though none of them actually thought my children were in danger, because they had to protect themselves. In my state, any professional could be sued and loose their ability to continue their career if a child came to harm and they didn’t call protective services. I certainly didn’t want to ask anyone to risk their career to help me, so “Slam.” That door was shut. Friends, that door had shut years ago, I had none. Family, they were too busy with their own lives, not that they understood autism anyways. My ex-husband and his new wife called me up to tell me that they think this is all my fault.

“Autism isn’t genetic,” she insisted, “You must have done this.” So no help from the father.

Hardest was my own boyfriend on hearing my ex-husband’s threats. “Your going to have to do what he wants, this fall,” my boyfriend warned me. And now my neighbor, she called protective services, I know it was her. Who else would complain about our cats having a cat-door as if that was a health violation?

I lay there and asked God, “is there anywhere I belong? Is there anywhere that a mother like me would be respected for sacrificing so much for her children instead of being made the villain?”

“No where you can go now.” I knew the answer already and I already knew I was going to give up. But my fury required an action. Something to show the world, the whole world, God willing, the fury of a mother denied the right to protect her children from hate and harm. Alone though I seemed, I knew I was right and they were wrong and if only I’d had one person to stand beside me. I would never have surrendered.

It was just before the Fourth of July, I took some red paint and painted the windows of my front porch with the Patrick Henry quote, “Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death.” As I began to paint the last word, I heard the voice clearly, “Stop or death shall come to remind all the price of liberty.” And in that moment I knew that if I finished those words as I had written them that a terrorist attack would occur against the United States that autumn, before snow fell and the attack would shake the nation.

For a moment I paused. I did not want to cause death. But then I shook if off, I needed an outlet for my fury. Terrorist attacks were happening all the time. What reason could there be for my red letters to matter? I finished the letters. I hoped someone would read them and understand the most dangerous enemy is the lone, meek and cornered, for they are most likely to feel they have nothing to lose.

I had forgotten the graveyard dream. I had no idea that I could possess the power of more souls than just my own, no idea that the action of writing those red letters could awaken a demon of titanic stature.

(This is part two of a series I wrote last fall called “My 9/11 story.” Part one I posted last week as Graveyard Dream.)

Posted in Why? Wednesday

Why the Civil War Lasted So Long

Everybody knows the American Civil War was the war to free the slaves right? No, it wasn’t. Until I watched the full Ken Burn’s documentary last fall with my son, I had not realized how long it took for Lincoln and the rest of the North to pass the Emancipation Proclamation. The War began on April 12, 1861 but the slaves weren’t freed until January 1, 1863 and was clearly passed to be a punitive measure against the Confederate states for rebelling, since it only freed slaves in Confederate states. So for almost the first twenty months the American Civil War was not about slavery but about preserving the Union. Had the war been won then, as I learned it easily could have, the slaves would not have been freed.

“If slavery is not wrong, nothing is wrong . . . And yet I have never understood that the Presidency conferred upon me an unrestricted right to act officially upon this judgment and feeling . . . I claim not to have controlled events, but confess plainly that events have controlled me.”- Abraham Lincoln

While my son repeated over and over how sad it was that the war did not end that first year as it could have, had McClellan actually tried to win. I sat amazed to think what if we had won then? Would we have ever abolished slavery? Fortunately McClellan was such a failure it is a wonder that he was not tried for treason. He, a General of the Union Army, was so against the war that he ran against Lincoln in 1864. McClellan, himself saw slavery as a right guaranteed in the constitution. In running against Lincoln, he promised to end the war and negotiate with the Confederacy.

But his failures as a General helped the antislavery movement. Determined to win the war Northern Republicans, suggested emancipation as the key to undermining the South’s manpower. It encouraged slaves to join the Union and even to join the Union army. It also ended the likelihood that Britain or France might aid the Confederates since both countries were against slavery.

From a spiritual point of view I couldn’t help thinking it was fate that kept McClellan blundering about, lengthening the war, until the Emancipation Proclamation had been issued. Of course by that time both sides had dug in to the point neither could have an easy victory. Still looking at the cost in human lives, while 620,000 soldiers died in the American Civil War, this number is tiny compared to the estimated 2 million slaves that died in the middle passage. Just getting to the Americas was murder on an astounding scale. I do not think we are done yet, paying for these crimes. But I like to think we are beginning to see that what seemed like cheap labor at the time was incredibly costly to our spiritual growth and dignity.

I have rarely felt so certain that God was there, than when watching the documentary and seeing how the North failed again and again to win battles and reunite the Union without facing the issue of slavery. I can not believe anymore that wars are won with weapons alone. In the long run the pen is mightier than the sword and the heart more powerful than the fist.

Posted in Texts Tuesday

What God Hath Joined

You shall not commit adultery- Exodus 20:14

adultery |əˈdəlt(ə)rē|

noun

voluntary sexual intercourse between a married person and a person who is not his or her spouse: she was committing adultery with a much younger man.

ORIGIN late 15th cent.: from the obsolete noun adulter, from Latin adulter ‘adulterer,’ replacing an earlier form avoutrie, from Old French avouterie, likewise based on Latin adulter .- New Oxford American Dictionary

This would be easier to discuss, except I have in my life had to question more than once, “what is marriage?” What makes two people married? I thought I was married until my husband started telling me that he considered our marriage nothing but a piece of paper. Our marriage was legal, but as he said it like that, I felt deeply certain that we had never really been married. We never shared the same idea of marriage. For me it was a sacred vow made not only to each other, but to God, to think of ourselves as one. No hurt nor joy should affect one that did not affect the other. That was my belief, and I had contorted myself out of shape so that I barely knew who I was trying to make our marriage work. Yet he was ever poking me, prodding me to prove I loved him. In the end, I came to feel the only way I could keep my marriage vow to God, to always put his happiness first, was to divorce him, since he had made it so inescapably clear, he would never be happy with me. As for me, our marriage had been a lie, for I could never accept that married was ever meant to be merely a legal status.

But at the beginning of creation God “made them male and female,” for this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh. So they are no longer two, but one. Therefore what God has joined together, let man not separate.” – Mark 10:6-9

Before I dreamed I met God, it was enough for me to believe that these verses were to teach us not to get divorced. But after, I saw a whole new meaning. I saw God as the matchmaker for us all and intangible as it seemed, that our true spouse is the one who makes us whole, the one from whom we can not separate, in our heart, from ourself. But as ever free will means, no matter how well God sets us up, we can still ruin it by refusing to listen to our hearts. That is why when I looked in God’s eye I saw such tremendous sorrow. He tries again and again to help us find that one to make us whole. While we screw it up with our insisting on following the rules of man, for marriage, letting culture, class, age, religion, even gender (physical as opposed to spiritual) keep apart those that God made to be together.

As for adultery, that’s when you let someone else come between you and the one who makes you whole. It is when man (or woman) separates that which God joined together.

Posted in Dream Masters, Fate, Winter 2015 - 2016

Graveyard Dream

Ever fall asleep in a graveyard? I used to go there to get away from home, I had no friends. I would lay in the sun, my thirteenth summer, in the afternoons listening to the crows caw, wishing I could stay on that grave covered hill and never go home. Drifting off to sleep, I had no idea the change I was inviting.

I preferred  that graveyard to home so much that I began to dream about going there even when I slept at home. This is the dream I had many years ago. It was the first dream I can remember in which I was “called” by a powerful being. The being was so powerful that I was afraid to look at it as I felt it beside me. It called me to a graveyard where I looked in a shallow grave and saw tarot cards.

I could hear voices from the cards speaking to me. I could feel their frustrated souls crying to be set free from their prison. But it was not the cards that imprisoned them. It was their own regret, bitterness or pain that was keeping them from moving on. They called to me to speak for them to help the living to hear them, to ease their troubled souls. I did wish to help them, but when the presence told me I was “chosen” to do this, I balked.

I can not speak for them. I can not even speak for myself. People already treat me like I am crazy. No one listens to me, they only laugh,” I argued.

If you refuse, this is what will happen.”

The spirit pulled me up to the clouds. Flying though space and time it showed me a huge city full of skyscrapers. New York I thought, having seen it in many movies. I watched as two planes flew toward the tall towers. I knew they would kill many. I wondered why. That was when I saw the monster, a “Godzilla” like creature as big as the towers. It was making it happen. I could see the minds of the men flying the planes were blinded by the monster which had filled their thoughts with hate and numbed their hearts. Looking closer at the monster I saw faces and recognized the souls from the cards in the grave. They were darker, angrier and more twisted. They had given up on redemption and passing on. Instead, since the living continued to ignore them, they had bound themselves together with thousands of other lost souls to make the living notice them the only way they could. Through murder and destruction. And the more they killed and the more fear and hate they spread the bigger they/ it (the monster) would become.

Then the spirit lifted me again and carried me in the opposite direction and further forward in time. I found myself looking down upon an island. I saw people that looked asian near the waters edge. Again, the “Godzilla” creature came. Out of the water, it roared, pushing a mammoth wave ahead of it. Bigger than before, fed by all the deaths of the past. I could not imagine anything, anyone could ever stop its ravenous craving for death and destruction. And more people would die, oh so many more to feed and fuel this monster.

I refused to watch anymore and the spirit took me back to the graveyard.

That is what will happen.” It repeated.

Again, I argued. “I am not the one, chose someone else,” I begged. “Chose someone people like to talk and listen to,” I thought of all the people in my life who others listened to without ever getting called weird or crazy.

No, they are star children,” the spirit informed me. “You are a moon child. You are chosen. If you do not accept it these things you have seen will happen. Then you will know, absolutely, you are chosen.”

I did not trouble too much over the dream. It was just a dream. I wanted a normal life, if I could have it. I told no one of the dream. I told no one how real it felt. I told no one how I worried that the dream was important. I wanted a normal life, I wanted to be a normal person.

But I did not have a normal life. Nineteen years passed by. I had too many other problems to think about dreams. Nineteen years passed. In the summer of 2001, I learned to hate. I had never truly hated before, but that summer I hated like I had never hated before . . .