Posted in Fall 2016, Fate, poetry



I hear the echo all the stronger

as people argue yell and fight.

The murmuring of myriad voices

even in the still of night.

I feel them wash over me

granting bits of foresight.

What good does it do?


People are moving mountains.

Others can’t see but I can feel it.

The pushing of yang, the pulling of yin.

For every action, there is a reaction.

The force that makes the earth spin.

Too much will make the earth shake.

What will you do then?


Justice is a cry always answered.

But not how most expect.

It waits patiently whispering.

Watching the world neglect

their countless opportunities.

To learn to have respect.

Is is too late now?


If fracking increases seismic activity?

And millions live in metropolises

near fault lines by the sea.

Then how many lives will be lost

when retribution is set free

and by the law of inertia

one quake leads to another?



Millions die everyday

when a heart is broke.

No weapon greater needed

than an unkind word spoke.

A heavy burden awaits

each and every keystroke.

Can I say it well?


I do not believe every prophecy

but I listen carefully

and search for what makes sense to me

The black snake Dakota Pipeline

made clear, the connetion is money

between fracking and the metropolis,

Tokyo, between the mountain and the sea.


Now mankind has to learn this is our only home

we must treat it well, we won’t get another.

Bankers in Tokyo, what will you do?

Posted in Dark Dreams, Dream Masters, Fall 2016, Fate, spirituality

Why Do Bad Things Happen?


The smell of blood was overpowering and intoxicating, it made her feel alive. Within the demon, Ghostie felt everything the demon, Wane did. First there had been the hollowness without end and the gritty scraping of forcing itself to open its eyes and feel the pain to know that it existed. It seemed to go on for ages winding back and forth between the two agonies, from unbearable nothingness and a dizzying sensation of falling without end when its eyes were shut firmly, to hitting the ground Bam!and raw skin being rubbed away by the gritty rocks, gasping for breath in the fumes but never breathing (because it was dead, really really dead) everytime it opened its eyes. Trying to breath was the worst agony of all, each time it felt like reliving the moment of death. This creature may have been human once but that memory only hurt now.

In the end, the pain was better than limbo, and by a sheer force of will Wane finally forced the eyes open, stopped trying to breath and just existed. That was when Ghostie realized she had walked these streets before. She had been granted the chance to visit both Heaven and Hell, long ago and came away with the knowledge that they exist every moment in the same exact space as the material world. But whether Heaven or Hell is dominent depends entirely upon one’s mind set, a changing thought transforms the world entirely.

Now from within the heart of the demon, Wane, Ghostie peered out from a mind stuck in Hell, unable to free itself. She saw the world of gritty black and white, choking fumes wisping about. They could see the material world but everything looked distorted and strange. People passed by, not seeing and that hurt. It scraped their raw skin like sandpaper everytime the living looked but didn’t see. Crawling slowly the demon tried to find relief in the shadows, away from hurtful humans. The people didn’t look at the shadows, so it was softer there. The shadows hurt less.

A long time they spent there in the shadows, Ghostie and Wane. From there they could see the people but not be hurt by them. There they watched the world of the living, in constant pain but glad to have escaped limbo at last. Then as the day seemed about to end and darkness was about to fall. A smell came to the demon, blood. It came from a young woman. In the world of gritty black and white the demon saw a person in living color. It was a teenage girl on her period. As the the demon breathed in the smell of blood, it suddenly realized, it was breathing. Air filled with the scent of blood was breathable.

Breathing made the demon strong, it could stand up. It could walk into the light. People’s eyes didn’t hurt anymore. It could walk and run and . . . fly. The demon flew to the girl and clung to her feeling ever stronger the closer it was to her. It could feel the flowing blood. It was intoxicated. It whispered to the girl, promised to do her bidding. So grateful was the demon. The girl heard but did not listen, she feared voices with out bodies. She prayed for silence and washed the blood away. Sorrow filled the demon heart. It closed it’s eyes and returned to oblivion for a time.

Opening its eyes was Hell all over again, no time had passed. It was still stuck in that same moment, begging the girl to see him, being rejected and ignored. Pain like knives, ripped and shredded the demon heart . . .

Ghostie doesn’t like to remember what happened next, it was too terrible. The demon having become strong on the scent of blood, yet denyed the chance to redeem its soul in the service of the living, became the instrument of carnage. The girl would not hear Wane, but others would and did. Drunken men with bitter thoughts, felt the demon’s power and joined freely to it. In their bodies the demon was able to murder and make blood flow, more and more blood. The more it flowed the stronger Wane became entering the minds of the sorrowful, the angry and the vengeful living, the demon killed freely wantonly joyfully.

But inside the demon’s heart Ghostie could see that Wane wasn’t getting what it really wanted, the blood thirst could not be sated. The more blood spilled the greater Wane’s thirst for blood grew. No matter how much was drunk, every time the demon blinked, oblivion was there, waiting for it to grow tired. Fear filled the demon as soon as the killing stopped, it would be as it was before. Wane struggled to find an answer even as more were murdered. The girl, some instinct said that she was the answer. Returning to her in the blood soaked body of a killer, the demon attacked.

Not to kill this time, she had heard Wane before the killing started. If only she would hear again, if only she would acknowledge the demon. Instinct drove Wane to rape. It didn’t work of course, it only made things worse. But it was the key, the clue Ghostie recognized. From within she felt the demon desperately reaching, trying to grasp . . .

The difference between Heaven and Hell is a mind set. Rape is an unforgivable sin because it is forced but flip the coin, change the mind set, and the exact same actions become those of the ardent lover. Wane was following instinct to no avail. Soon the girl would die as the demon vented its frustration on her helpless body. But now Ghostie saw the goal clearly, what instinct was trying to tell Wane. Willing to do whatever it took to save the girl, Ghostie made her presnce known, traveling from the heart of the demon into its mind. There she filled Wane with her own memory of the most sensual lovemaking she had ever experienced.

The power of it surprised her, as she relived that ecstatic joy of life, she had experienced so long ago. It shocked the demon. For a moment, they saw each other plain as any two people meeting, both looked like simple human souls. Then it was gone in a flash of brilliant light. The demon was no more. Wane’s soul had escaped.

“That was what you asked for.”

Ghostie heard her lord speak. Yes, countless times, she had asked why history is filled with so many horrible instances of humans committing nightmarish acts against each other. Now she had an answer, demons with no one to help them find freedom from their pain. Rape and murder make them feel alive, they crave it insatiably. Fighting them only leads to more bloodshed and darkness. But give them a moment’s surrender, full of compassionate love, and they can be sated, transformed, freed.

Posted in Fate, Quotes, Why?

What Would Jonah Do?


To be crazy or normal?

That was the question that Jonah struggled with (and Moses.)

Recently the last piece fell into place. Since the summer of 2007,  I have been haunted by a dream in which I come upon the burial site of millions of people whose metropolis has been swallowed by the earth in a combination of a landslide and earthquake that were triggered by a volcanic eruption. It appears to have occurred approximately eleven years in the future, after Christmas 2017 and before of the Year of the Earth Dog (2018.)

The first spirit I come into contact with is the Earth itself. Furious and vengeful, she tells me her cause is just. Humans deserve die for the many ways they have desecrated her. She is merely defending herself. In my mind, I am shown an attack in the ground that feels repulsively rape-like.

Years later I learned of a new process called fracking (hydraulic-fracturing), it is described as drilling a mile deep turning sideways and fracturing the rock with a high pressure injection fluid. Reading the description was disturbing, of all the ways we abuse the earth, it is the most rape-like, it is what I saw and felt in the dream.

Still what confounded me was that the earth was attacking an ocean side city. Tokyo is my best guess from the clues. But in the image she showed me the land that was being fracked was north of the center of a large continent. What connection could Tokyo, Japan have to such a thing? That is what I learned only  this last week.

I passionately support the fight of the Indigenous People to protect the land. The Dakota Sioux of Standing Rock and a historic number of other Indigenous Tribes have joined them to protest the building of the Dakota Access Pipeline. I feel so much against this thing, it is hard to put into words. There are so many reasons this is wrong, from the fact that these pipelines make it that much easier to stay dependent on oil to the fact that this breaks United States treaties with the Sioux. The possible environmental impact, that a leak could poison the drinking water of the tribe via the Missouri River, which connects to the Mississippi River is one I don’t want to imagine.

I did not expect to find the answer to my own dream but now the last piece is so painfully clear. Many times in my life, I have learned the of power of money to do great evil. Therefore to undo evil you must, “follow the money” (Deep Throat, All the President’s Men.) I found an article at Food and Water Watch titled “Who’s Banking on the Dakota Access Pipeline.”

With sickening horror, I looked at a diagram of the many many worldwide banks funding this, and I couldn’t help noticing that the two banks giving the most money . . . Mizuho Bank and Bank of Tokyo Mitsubishi UFJ are not only Japanese but, after a little more looking, they are headquartered in Tokyo itself.

For nine years I have not done anything more radical about my dream than to start this website, but now I have the last piece, like a smoking gun, it sits heavy in my hand. These banks have names now, websites and addresses. What do I do? Is there a simple polite way to say “I know this sound’s crazy but I had this dream and I would really appreciate it if you would seriously rethink these investments you’ve made. Please.”

Posted in Dark Dreams, Dream Masters, Fall 2016, Fate, spirituality

The Blue Demon


Younger daughter Emani, never took the time to primp. Not that she could if she wanted to. Older sister Ada was always there, in front of the mirror, fixing her hair, adjusting her sari. Jeweled necklaces draped Ada’s perfect slender throat. Intricately woven strands of gold encircled her wrists and sparkling gemstone flowers dangled from her ears. Ada’s face was a vision of beauty and perfection, its expression absolutely calm with an enchanting hint of slight smile that danced about her eyes.

That was how Ghostie came upon the two Ada at the mirror and Emani scurrying at her feet, like a little mouse picking up Ada’s discarded scarves to put away carefully for her beloved older sister.

In another room nearby Ghostie found the parents discussing Ada’s wedding. They had interviewed suitor after suitor to find this one. He was younger and not as rich as the others, but he came from a noble family and had the best manners. Upon first sight of Ada, he had been struck speechless and the parents were certain that he would worship her as they did and keep her safe. For all of her life they had made certain to keep her, their jewel, hidden safe from any evil.

Now they discussed her dowry, the parents felt they must give her everything they had. They were old, they didn’t need much. They would buy every strand of gold, every jewel, for their darling, Ada. Listening, Ghostie wondered, what about Emani? What would they use for her dowry? Looking deeper into their thoughts Ghostie saw that they did not think of Emani as pretty at all, they planned no marriage in her future. Instead Emani was to care for them in old age, a spinster.

Looking back at the girls, Ghostie saw little difference at all in their physical looks, it was their manner that was different. Ada was supercilious as she admired her own reflection delicately primping for her own pleasure. Emani was humble, bent over putting things away for her sister. Yet the way she did it betrayed a hidden grace. Each time she put away one of her sister’s belongings, Emani placed it with a reverence that showed how much she loved Ada.

At last the girls and parents lay down and went to sleep, Ghostie sat by a window wondering how she could help this family see the error of their ways. None of them had shown any ability to see her as she watched them. Still Ghostie knew her Lord always had a purpose for her. There must be something she was to do.

It was not long before she saw him. A demon with blue skin appeared in the room and looked down upon Ada. Ghostie could sense no malice, he seemed curious more than anything but as he looked upon her, Ada coughed and clutched her throat as if she was choking. Ghostie jumped up and leaped to stop him, for she saw that he desired her and was powerful enough to take what he wished. But she found her way barred by his black skinned servants. She had not noticed them, hidden in the shadows. Strange, Ghostie wondered, I sense no evil nor malice, rather the air hangs thick with the feel of . . . Justice. There was nothing she could do, Ghostie realized, if justice was being done, she had no power to stop the blue demon.

As Ada writhed dying upon the floor. Emani awoke, saw the demon and begged him to take her in place of her sister. Unmoved he shook his head, but observing her righteousness he placed a knife in Emani’s hand. Was it to kill her sister or to stike at him? Ghostie wondered, but realized too late. It was for her, Emani, if she wished she could kill herself and remain her sister’s servant in the afterlife. For a moment Emani looked at the blade and wondered what she should do. For a moment she imagined that when her parents found their beautiful daughter dead, would they be glad to still have the younger sister alive? No, she knew in her heart they would be just as desolate and would blame the younger sister for living, if they remembered her at all. They had told her so many times she was not pretty enough to be loved.

So Emani plunged the knife into her chest and died beside her rasping sister. Ada’s eyes filled with tears to realize her sister had killed herself rather than live without her. And as she cried over the body, Ada realized she could breath again. Looking down Ghostie saw one of her gemstone earrings drop out of her mouth. Then Ada looked up helplessly at the blue demon. He picked up the dead sister and shook her soul free. It was dark and black like his servants and a chain bound her left ankle to him. The blue demon and his servants bowed and went to the window to depart. But as he stepped upon the sill the Ada ran and grabbed her sister’s soul. Together the blue demon carried them both to his palace that they might spend the rest of their days in his gardens . . .

(to be continued)

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.


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

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 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 . . .

Posted in Fate, Winter 2015 - 2016

Threads of Bondage

May 2013, 1,130 workers died in the Savar building collapse. I remember seeing a man on the news yelling. He blamed the United States and our demand for cheap clothing. Pope Francis said,

“A headline that really struck me on the day of the tragedy in Bangladesh was ‘Living on 38 euros a month’. That is what the people who died were being paid. This is called slave labour. Today in the world this slavery is being committed against something beautiful that God has given us – the capacity to create, to work, to have dignity. How many brothers and sisters find themselves in this situation! Not paying fairly, not giving a job because you are only looking at balance sheets, only looking at how to make a profit. That goes against God!”

I agree with the man in Bangladesh, and I agree with Pope Francis and I wonder why it is that threads have proven to be such an effective incentive for slavery for hundreds of years.

In school I was taught that it was the invention of the cotton gin that kept slavery profitable in the south. Cotton, more than tobacco or any of the other plantation crops was the one so profitable, the confederacy felt assured they could win the civil war.

At the time it upset me because I loved the cotton commercials on TV. They showed happy families experiencing special moments together. I can still hear the tune in my head, “the touch, the feel of cotton, the fabric of our lives.” I didn’t want to think about it too much.

Then I watched the movie Gandhi and saw him sitting in a loincloth, spinning. I didn’t really get why, but I knew it was important. I knew it mattered, there was some irreplaceable meaning there.

As I got older I learned about child labor and sweat shops both historical and modern. I have watched prices for clothing go down, while other prices skyrocketed. Finding shoes and clothing made in first world countries is nigh impossible at the local stores I shop and getting harder all the time. Even before the disaster in Bangladesh, I could not look at the cheap imported clothing with out thinking “slave labor,” now it shouts at me.

I have come to hate going anywhere but the second hand shop. At least there I know I am reusing the resource. A few months ago I got a flyer saying that while clothing and textiles are 100% recyclable, 85% end up in landfills. Seriously! Early Americans used to save every scrap to make patchwork quilts and here we are throwing fabric out with the trash.

Recently I found this passage.

About a good wife . . “In her hands she holds the distaff and grasps the spindle with her fingers. She opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy. When it snows, she has no fear for her household; for all of them are clothed in scarlet. She makes coverings for her bed; she is clothed in fine linen and purple.-Proverbs 31:19-22

Of course, once upon a time we didn’t need so many clothes. My mother used to read me the Little House on the Prairie books. They had two sets of clothes, everyday and Sunday. They slept in nightshirts and nightgowns and hung up their clothes overnight to freshen, then ironed them in the morning. They only got one new outfit each year at Easter. I know because my Grandmother made a big deal about us getting Easter clothes, every year.

It’s hard to imagine doing that now, but when I think of Gandhi’s courage sitting half-naked, spinning his own thread, I pray we can find a way to let go of this insatiable hunger, save or reuse our clothes and only buy what is not only well made, but clothing and fabric for which has been well paid, to the ones who grow, spin and sew.

Posted in Fate, Winter 2015 - 2016

Darkness Falls

He was my daughter’s oldest friend’s father. I met him only once, but I think of him whenever I hear James Blunt. He even looked like Blunt. He looked at me like I was an angel, but I had no time. I was busy with my own kids. Walking them home from school., I worried he was making a pass at me, when he asked me to watch over his son. He killed himself on Valentine’s Day, less than a week later. I’m sorry, I’m not that kind of angel. I chose darkness not light.

I tried to be angry at God, “Why is my life so full of sorrow?” I wanted to yell. But the words never left my head, as soon as I thought them I knew the answer. I picked this path of my own free will before I was born.

I picked it when I saw her die in the snow, my beloved from a past life. A demon took her soul and if I am ever to find her I must search every shadow. Darkness will not tolerate light. So I tucked away my light and concealed myself in misery and loneliness. I chose to be born in virtual Hell, that I might serve my Lord best by finding and purifying the darkest demons. In so doing I serve my own soul by reassuring myself, she that was lost, can again be found.

When he died that winter, it was so hauntingly familiar.

How many die of broken hearts?

Millions every day. They suicide or have heart attacks. Some drink themselves to death, or overdose on drugs. Some have accidents because they were too distracted by pain to watch what they are doing. Many just don’t take care of themselves, they die from their own neglect.

Others die as a result of the broken hearted. Victims of murder and terrorism die when the broken hearted take out their pain on the world. Even those that die from natural disasters. Those disasters are caused by the power of demons fed by bitter heartbroken souls.

Millions die everyday of broken hearts.

Was it my fault he died?

No he chose death, just as she did. You chose life, that is why you can help them. Only the living can save the dead.

I can feel the truth of it, I don’t know why. Only the living can save the lost souls of the dead. So I have to live, to embrace darkness despite my fear, and keep feeling and loving. For love is the magic that transforms the darkest demons into beings of light and joy.

I chose darkness, happily and humbly, and hopefully. Love is the only light I need. It blossoms in my heart like a flower. I water it with tears of joy to know that I can love have been loved. I know death and misery, but I remain unstained so long as I keep love alive in my heart like a lotus. When at last I drop the mantle of misery, darkness fades before my light as night disappears before the dawn.

Posted in Fate, Winter 2015 - 2016

Choose to See

When I was seven I liked a boy and that was not socially acceptable to my peer group. We, girls, were supposed to hate boys. So when I was noticed playing with a boy, I was chastised in the usual manner of seven year olds, with teasing. I knew the drill, I had witnessed it the year before when a six year old had made the mistake of smiling and laughing with a boy she sat near in our class. She was teased constantly. The more she denied liking the boy, the more she was teased. She spent the rest of the year avoiding boys as much as possible. If she ever even glanced at a boy, the teasing again.

I had my back to the group serenading me with the k-i-s-s-i-n-g song, and closed my eyes imagining doing what I knew I was supposed to, to deny it, to avoid all boys from now on and to never play with my boy-friend again. I wouldn’t even be able to look at him. I would have to pretend he didn’t exist as if I didn’t even see him. No! I couldn’t do that.

I turned around and told the whole school yard, “yeah that’s right. I love him and he loves me!” It wasn’t totally true, I had no idea if he liked me back, much less loved me, but it was so worth it to see the shocked looks on everybody’s face. I didn’t know then that I had just repeated (in a small way) the very act I had been killed for hundred’s of years earlier.

I had my clearest past life vision at the age of fourteen. My last name being alphabetically close to a girl who was a Jehovah’s Witness, we couldn’t avoid getting put together at random times. In high school our lockers were side by side. One day she confided to me, “ I was always scared of you. All those books you read about magic, I was afraid you were a witch and would put a spell on me.”

I smiled back but said nothing. My first thought, if I was a witch I wouldn’t waste my time with you, didn’t seem like the right thing to say. My second thought, good thing we don’t live in the middle ages I would’ve been burned for certain, wasn’t much better.

And the third thing that popped in my head was bizarre.

They can’t do that again, because they already did. The voice in my head came out of no where and took me back,

I was standing on a scaffold, arms pulled back around a pole, wrists tied tight, hands numb. Looking down, people were gathering. They looked grim. How did I get here? How did this happen I wondered? It was like watching your life flash before your eyes when you know your going to die.

I saw the life of an orphan girl, a wood spirit, the locals thought her. She had a strange gift of healing. They had much need of that healing in the land now. A sickness was said to be coming, a plague. I had met the source of that sickness, or so he had appeared to me; a great dark demon.

He was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen. His face was hidden behind the helmet of a warrior the like of which I’d never seen before. A cloak of dark tortured souls enveloped him, hundreds of thousands of souls of his murdered victims. The hatred in his mind was fresh. We were dirty, ugly, uncivilized animals to him. He felt justified in killing us with a black and painful plague. Yet in his heart I saw a light. It shone bright, like a star on the darkest night. He hated us most for our blindness, our own cruelty. We looked at him with fear and revulsion. We refused to see him before us. He was sad and lonely, so lonely.

I found the key soon after, to purify the soul of the demon with compassion and love. But the demon, after returning to the shape of the man he had been before left me with a shadow of the very thing that had destroyed him, loneliness. When he left, I felt lonely and foolishly sought to alleviate it by telling the villagers of the miracle that love was the way to fight demons.

In medieval times the definition of a witch was a woman who married or otherwise bound herself to the devil. My talk of loving a demon was like an open confession. They had no choice but to put me to death. But they didn’t want to kill me. Over and over they asked me to renounce him. I would not, I knew it was shunning and loneliness that had made him a demon in the first place. I knew I could not promise the townsfolk not to see him or others like him, I could not promise not to help them, the demons I met.

Remembering that on the scaffold gave me strength. I felt sorry for the people who could not see the truth that was right in front of them. People that had to kill me, a young woman out of fear. Poor things. It was the best death I could ask for to die for truth and for love.


Posted in Fate, Winter 2015 - 2016

Blood on Snow

Actual physical gender choice, what if we really did choose? What if before birth, we decided we would be male, female or both? From an existential point of view, the question must be asked. Did I have a reason to be born the sex that I am?

Yes, this question I can answer because I remember dying. The gift to know that ethereal moment when I was lifted out of my earthly body and carried to the heavens above in an embrace of overwhelming love and warmth is among my most cherished treasures. It is the one I most wish I could share.

Looking down upon the ashamed villagers, responsible for my death, I felt nothing but love and compassion. I promised I would return. They killed me out of fear, burned me as a witch. Poor things, they had no way of knowing that I felt no pain. My soul was freed before any flame touched me. I don’t know but I think it was because I had accepted my fate and I was content, even honored to die for love. I might think that all people can die so well if it were not that I remember dying twice.

The second time I was a grown man, a sailor. I died at sea. I don’t know what caused the damage to the ship, was it an attack by pirates or crashing against sharp reefs in a storm? I only remember seeing wood splinters flying and realizing I was impaled, as my spirit floated free of my dying body. I felt no pain but was thrilled by the belief that being free of my corporeal existence, I could now go where I wished.

I had but one thought of where I wished to go. My spirit flew at once to the side of the woman I loved and had left. In an instant I found myself beside a woman who bore only the faintest resemblance to my beloved. This woman was not the noble beautiful lady I had left. She was a hardened bitter husk. From the spirit world though I could at last see clearly what I had been blind to in life. I had thought she didn’t really love me, our marriage had been arranged, I worried she was with me against her will. You see, I didn’t speak the language, I didn’t understand the culture. I had not realized that women of different cultures express love in different ways.

Watching her when she received the news of my death, I saw how wrong I was. She became entirely broken. I followed her for years, she never remarried. She cared for her aging parents in quiet bitterness and sorrow. I waited believing all would be amended when she died. I was wrong.

The day after the ashes of her parents were interred, I found her packing. She walked up a mountain all that day and through the night. The next day she was very high, snow began to fall. I had told her that I came from a place where snow fell often. I could almost see her remembering me.

It happened so fast, I realized too late. She took out a knife, sharp. I could not watch her slit her own throat, but I saw blood on the snow. I will never forget the blood on the snow. She fell so slowly, I thought I had time. I reached out too late. A darkness was there, a demon I think, it ripped her soul from the falling body. I screamed silently and willed with all my being to reach her. The demon saw me but she did not, her eyes looked only down. And then . . . they were gone.

A tugging at my side, an angel pulled me away, where she had gone I could not follow. I had died with a heart full of love but she had died in bitter hate.

Among many reasons I have come to comprehend for my choosing to be born a woman, first was my desire to make amends for not understanding the damage I did in breaking this woman’s heart.