Ancestral Healing, The Shadow-Side of "Light Workers" & Predications For Humanity

I seldom lazy-share the ideas of people in the so-called spiritual field. But there's so many things I want to say and it takes a lot of time. So sometimes, I think it's ok to share the thoughts of a person you admire. Someone who doesn't simplify anything. 

Like right now for example. I'm listening to Teal Swan in a beautiful interview about Ancestral Healing, The Shadow-Side of "Light Workers" & Predications For Humanity. If you're tired of the humbug of ... well ... many things. This interview is worth its weight in gold.

Petals

Everything you want will come flowing in.

If you ask for it. But be careful.

If you want love, you cannot make a list of the traits you wish a partner to have. If you want money, you cannot think that hard work or losses, much more important than money, is also on the horizon. If you want health, you got to do the work that a healthy body and mind demands.

Everything you want will come flowing in. But wishing is not a shopping list. There is a price to every gift. The price may be high if you haven't thought it through.

What do you really want? Are you willing to pay the price? Is your wish pure, devoid of pride and petty return-to-sender sidenotes

Then, and only then will everything you want come flowing in, slowly but surely like petals moving gently on the water surface.

Petals by Jeffrey M Fletcher

The We'Moon Calendar 2024

Opening We'Moon calendar - Gaia Rythms for Womyn is like re-meeting an old friend. 

This is supposed to be a review but unfortunately, after that introduction sentence I have had the hardest time to continue. 

We'Moon is an old friend. A very old friend. When I started using it I just loved to have a calendar that celebrated the rythms of the earth wheel, the cycles of the moon and an array of pagan holidays. It was extra fun to bring this calendar to meetings of a more so-called mundane world. It inspired interesting questions to say the least. That was a long time ago. Another life you might say.

For the last couple of years I haven't used the calendar. Life hasn't really lent itself to the luxury of an inspiring and beautiful book of days and months. Or, so it has seemed to me. So, I managed with adecuate though somewhat boring calendars. Mostly to remember what month it was.

When I published The Echo World I did reviews of  We'Moon year after year, struggling to come up with new adjectives to avoid being redundant. I usually ended up focusing on the years particular theme, always well chosen and presented.

Theme of 2024 is Luminations. A beautiful theme and artists, poems, texts and illustrations are as always exquisite. 

What strikes me most, however, trying to write this review, is the persistence it must have taken for We'Moon's creators to hold this wonderful project together, to stay true to its purpose and at the same time evolve and keep going. Hats off for this and if I didn't say, the actual calendar for 2024 is great. With a spark of the product of visionary, brilliant and persistent women to light up my planning again I expect there's a good year ahead. You can find the 2024 edition HERE. Happy winter solstice.

Prayer for Any Crossroad

 Great Spirit

Save me from my own stupidity.

Release me from my fears - known and unknown - so I can take true part in Every Day.

I will be all here and do my parts, always present, always ready knowing that:

"What you are seeking is also seeking you."

I give thanks to my allies - visible and unvisible alike. I am alive.

I told many stories. I will tell many more. I will flow like a body of water in the River of Life (rocks and boulders eventually wears down.) I'll walk in Turtle strides. When you walk very slow you get to your destinations so much faster.

Idun make me young again in heart and mind. Lifeforce flowing freely,

until it doesn't.

So mote it be

Stage setting for Wicked, Saenger Theater.

Mid Life Prayer

 I'm working on a prayer. A prayer for now, to put up on the fridge so I can see it every day.

A prayer is important writing. Or, can be. If you use it right. So far mine includes the concept of turtle (the slower you go the faster you get there) and Idun, goddess of youth and immortality. As expected, it's becoming quite complicated. Or not. The best prayers are usually simple. 

It begins with: "Great Spirit, save me from my own stupidity". Or, something along those lines. I'll see where it goes.

Writing is fun and also immensly difficult. Especially when the writing is a prayer that is in itself a deeply magical way to use words.

A house of its own, just outside French Market

Creating Routines Is A Mighty Task

 Creating routines is a mighty task.

Finding routines that work is not something boring and tedious. It's what hold us together.

The real bravery then ... is to face who we are. Not who we were in some nostalgic past,. We are that too, but not right now. 

Not who we might become. We will always become something, maybe better, whatever better is. Maybe worse, whoever would have the right to judge what is better or worse.

We are what we are. To face ourselves is the bravest task. To create rotuines that holds us together, perhaps even bring some joy, that is a mighty, mighty task.

Windowshopping for present Self.
Royal street, New Orleans.

The Gift Is Time

To be thankful (here in America we do - for whatever dubious cultural background, presently celebrate Thanksgiving. Or, many do. It's present in the streets, in the movements of our neighbours, in the ads that play watching a movie through YouTube).

isn't hard at all.

I am thankful for many things. And even though I skip the turkey and the mashed potatoes and even the gravy (I have no need. I had those treats in several settings, for which I'm truly thankful. These treats were associated with people - sweet, lovely human beings. I'm thankful for the memories we created. "A sample of different kinds of Thanksgivings," said my love. So it was).

I am thankful for the most precious gift of life -

time. 

        Time to be.

Turtle time. From journal.

Thankfulness

Thankfulness

is a funny thing.

Cannot be forced, like too cold icecream

you swallow too fast

                      to make someone else happy.

It can feel tricky to muster,

In the middle of the muck, the almost impossible, 

difficult to even lift your foot over,

 challenges.

Though sometimes,

it just flows,

                     breathes,

                                  (because you can breathe)

pulsates in waves, in the slow moving pulse 

of living that can never, ever be captured by any camera, or recorder, or even the craftiest of artists.

It's just felt. It can never be static.

It moves when life moves in the right rythm.

I'm thankful.

Yemaya by the offering tree, Louis Armstrong's park, New Orleans.

The Land

The land. The ground under our feet. The land, its people. Its people are the land. The land can carry many people. We come. We go.

Social fabric. So silly, so surface. 

It is on the surface,

                                  only.

 In the rocks, in the trees, runs the land's steady energy. Like a slow heartbeat.

It cares not about games. If it's not childrens' games. Or better yet, adult children still playing hide and seek.

Hide first, then seek.

The land,

                 the land,

                                 the land.

A morning walk

Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat

"Curiosity didn't kill the cat. It gave him nine lives."

I found this sentence,

in my own journal,

drinking morning coffee.

This is one brilliance with journal writing. You can write messages for yourself to find. You may not even know what they mean when you write them. These messages are special. Specially designed you might say. Just for you. You talking to you. Absolutely brilliant, is it not? 

"Curiosity didn't kill the cat, it gave him nine lives."

Then comes the question - what does it mean? What did I mean?

I have no idea to tell you the truth. But I'm surely curious to find out. 

A good way to start the day for sure.

Photo- courtesy of Pexel

Weaving Story

I'm weaving a story now - of my life. It's nice. We need stories, to make sense of the world - and ourselves. Sounds egocentrically perhaps. It isn't. It's the most important story of all.

Walks - Roots

You have to be careful though, it so easily gets kidnapped. Cause others want to make sense, of your life - too.

Sometimes with the best of intentions, sometimes not.

Journal - Dreaming Elf

I just realized my watch stopped. It's a silly watch found by my love on a street in New Orleans. A silly, golden, pretty, wonderous thing. It's easy to get a little freaked out by watches stopping - if your a symbolism nerd that is. We all know what stopping watches and broken clocks usually mean - in storytelling through the ages; time stands still, something is lost, or the like.

Walks - Pretty things on the side of the road

But I don't think there's anything to worry about. Or, perhaps that's exactly what it is. In the best sense of the word. One life ends, another begins - with all its worries, struggles and wonderous, wonderous things to see, to be, to live within.

Travel Tales From Unknown Realities - Chapter 4

A boy, a family, a pony, a seemingly ordinary day, and then, a very mysterious encounter. This encounter gave a mark for life. Storytelling time continues. Michael tells tales. Chapter 4 of Travel Tales From Unknown Realities.

Sacral Chakra, Sex Chakra, Holy Creativity

 

Love of the Creative Chakra or,
Holy Creativity

Autumn Equinox Changes

 I had a dream. Colors were muted: greens and browns. I was holding a bowl. In the bowl was time. I was panicking, that time that was running out.

In the morning I had a message waiting for me.

"Happy Equinox," wrote my Love.

I felt a little silly, beacause I had forgotten, the Big Change Celebration.

Journal - Autumn Equinox Dream

It would be easy to see changes as new, new, new. Or feel overwhelmed, or feel only loss. That is why we celebrate the holidays I think. To stand the pressure of change, To allow ouselves to feel what's gone. To honor and move forward with as much grace as we can muster.  Or, at least, move at all. 

Changes are often in company of chatter, even around roaring pagan fires,

"When one door opens, another opens."

Oh yes, it will open allright. That is not the predicament. At all.

Just because we don't dare to feel deeper range of emotions, doesn't mean we're wise.

The challenge is to walk, and feel, and not stumble. Our ancestors were wise. They knew it took a ceremony for this act.

It's easy to be overwhelmed. 

"Time, time! That never will come back," we can shout, clutch our hands over our hearts and wring our hands in agony. Or, we can dream something similar.

Overdrama, catastrophising and being overly sentimental isn't wisdom. ... either.

A step, a step, then one more. A moment, some moments, to feel the Fall Equinox flow through your heart and wet your toes. That's one celebration recipe. That's the celebration for me this year. I wish you a calm transfer. Take your time and lift your feet. Don't stumble on the threshold. But if you do, there's remedies for bruised toes.

Happy Fall Eqinox.

Travel Tales to Unknown Realities, part Three - Embalming Bodies and Restless Ghosts

Travel Tales to Unknown Realities, part Three. Listen to chapter three of the Travel Tales. You will hear chilling stories of a child forced to embalm bodies in the midst of a storm, about dead bodies sitting up and about ghosts that refuse to rest. With Halloween creeping closer, it's a great way to cozy in. Told by Michael Peter Langevin, who is the child in question. 

To Share Your Story

I have finished edited a collection of ghost stories and finally made it into a coherent story. I took some time. Writing tends to take time and editing even more so. There are so many levels to it. I also started to reach out to publishers. I think the stories are worth reading. I will find the right forum to share them well. It's the least I can do. They are not only my stories after all. They are voices from a multitude of beings in the in-between. They have voices of their own, however fictional.

To write is a joy and also immensely difficult. It's giving the world a gift, every time. It really doesn't matter if it's a story of your life for the family to read - your grandchildren will salute you and so will the great, great, great ones in hundreds of years from now - or a story that puts everything we think we know on it's head or educational or pure entertainment - entertainment is a lightness not to be taken lightly. The words reaches someone, or many, somewhere and changes their lives. They make connections, an intricate pattern in the weave. Our stories are never just our own. 

To dare to write is an act that takes courage. Are we any good? Do we have what it takes? Do we have anything to say? To share it takes even more. Fictional, autobiographic, non-fictional; there is nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, parts of our truest self will shine through. This is scary. But whatever the loud, insistent voices tries to convince us, they are only repetition. We have AI for that.

To tell intricate, complex stories worth telling, stories that says something about life, now that is worth it's weight in gold. You know what Galadriel says, 

"Even the smallest person can change the course of the future."

Chairs and Crutches - to Listen so It Matters

If you want somebody to talk, all you have to do is listen. Listen in a way that matters. For just a moment. 

If others are just cardboards, for your words to fall on, for your anxities to be absorbed in, you may just try another profession.

You may not be told what you want to hear. There may not be a view of life presented that you like. It's ok.

To listen is an artform (not in a terapeutic kind of way. Being the proffessional, pretending to have answers, enjoying the role as the smart one. Freud became obsolete a long time ago. To be a smartass helps no one. Send out the memo, just in case.)

If you want to listen in a way that matters, you have to to begin with falling out of love with your own voice. If only for  moment. 

You also have to dare not have the answers. Try out what it is like to be defensless. It's scary, I know. But don't worry. You're opinions will most likely come back. They usually do. If they don't - good riddance.

Words can be crutches. To walk without them stregthens the muscles. Precreated answers are convinient chairs to sit on. Only sitting is not good for your back you know.

If you need rolemodels in this difficult art listen to the mothers. Most of them know how, because they had to. Because, they have to. To make people grow there has to be some room for exploration, as we all know.  Thanks to the brave mothers, there are still some architects for evolution left.

I think it's so difficult to listen fully I only do it on rare occations these days. I have to spare some energy for other tasks. 

To listen for real, if that's what you chose to do, you have to walk without crutches. But first, you have to stand up.

Every Morning

 Every morning I bend up my body.

Cat and cow, cat and cow, cat and cow. The frogposition is good too.

Every morning I straighten my brain. Silence, a path, a new map for braincells to follow. 

A worried mind grows old so fast.

Every morning I seek, and find, a place for my soul. That's the hardest one, what it needs forever changing.

Soul room: a candle, a stare (gorgeous view, oak trees, birch trees, and my sisters garden), kindness towards view, reflektion back to Self.

Every morning ... ... ... ... ...

Some posion in softness

Travel Tales From Unknown Realities - The Poem

There are tales. Tales we wonder about. Tales that makes us ponder, what is possible? Michael Peter Langevin has not only written such a book, but also started a podcast series telling the stories of unknown realities. To not miss a beat, you can follow him HERE.

So get cozy, sit back, and start with an introduction poem. If you want the first part that introduces Travel Tales from Unknow Realities go HERE.

Enjoy Your Self.

Black Is Also a Holy Color

 Black is also a holy color,

Even though.          It's no color,

at all.

But a void,            a blanket hiding

That there's nothing                    to see.

Or, perhaps there is. If we feel the shape. Rather than use our ever worsened eye sight.

Lost Voice

When did I loose my voice?

That's an easy one.

When I realized that what I had to say wasn't of interest, or boring, or just plain wrong.

It's been a long time.

Words, it seems, should in general be used for light entertainment. Or possibly a sobstory. Tradegy can be popular. If it's not to complex. Preferably with a handkerchief and a therapeuft involved. One in each hand.

Sayings are also ok,

                                 but - heavens no - not your own. An ancient asian guy's saying (exakt country and location uninteresting) is fine, for a facebook post. As long as he is far removed enough, geographically and timeline wise. He would most likely be inconvinient. Would he be here.

I learnt how to blabber now. Blabbering is like a drug. Gives some release perhaps, hold real things at bay. It grows old - pretty fast.

So I will take a walk. Quiet breeze around.

And then, I will edit a story, that doesn't fit any cathegory. Somewhere there, a lost voice might be swimming around.

In Spite of It All

 In spite of it all. Mother nature keeps changing, the earth keeps revolving.

Field on morning walk

Shit Happens

Madonna mural, Malmö

To accept that

                         the world is not fair.

That is growing up. I'm surprised it took so long. It's so easy to see; ask any refugee, or victim of famine or beauchratic, lazy glitches.

To accept that we are fully responsible for our lives. That's growing up. However late, however hard (if its any consolation, most people never do. At least not in this broken world divided in winners and loosers. Now, that's mature.). For certain things. For the temperature of our own will. For the things we do have som power over.

Shit happens. Sometimes a seemingly endless array of shit happens, one thing after another. Simoustanly. This is not a small matter; people die you know.

But there are steps; small, ludiocrucy stubborn, steps that we might be able to take. That we might choose to. It's a gamble if anyone will applaude you.

Walk anyway.

Cloudy, my sister's garden

Whatever You Do

Whatever you do you will die.

To remember that would be my sagely advice,                    if l had any.

Which I don't. Of course, I don't. Enough of self-appointed life coaches around. If they know how to tell someone to live,

bless them.

Whatever you do you will die. That is not an advice. Or, a metaphor, for that matter.

It's a truth. One of those absolute truths, that can be good to keep in mind. When you make choices -

be kind.

There are many broken people, who could need a smile without a demand for one back. There are those striving for perfection. Pity those. They cannot win. And remember,

                    remember,

                                        remember,

We will all die.

We Are All

 

In bloom. My sister's garden

I had a rambling in my head,

about choices, and fate; about misfortunes and adaptions; about boredom and safety. It went on and on. It could have gone on

             forever.

I wrote a chaper about having a conversation with Frida Khalo once (l wrote several, not being able to help myself in such a grand company, however imaginary.).

Nothing spectacular. Perhaps pretentios. But inspirational. For myself that is. The main thread was the wounded creator.  I named it Goldpowered Bloody Monster, a simple reference to the accident that broke her column, her back, in pieces, while golden powder rained over her, from a tablet of an artist that was in the same accident. Or, so the story goes, the myth ... such drama.

I was rambling in my head. Until l stopped and reminded myself that "empty heads are happier." But one thought couldn't help but slipping in, in this sorting game of situations and efforts. The thought was simple. Whatever path we choose, whatever we give up, whatever happens to us, or we draw to us. To be here. Just to live in this world:

We are all goldpowdered bloody monsters.

Water in evening, Malmö

Water Day

Water purifies.

Trauma get a hold in the body,

and can therefor be released through the body. 

"Vanity is my favorite sin," said the devil.

In which case his very far away, 

or very close.

Water is soft, and bend around. Seeks 

the lowest places. Waits while the world pushes on. A rolemodel, simply. Or, a transforming element. Or, just water, blessed by its own essence.

Water day; soft, bending, purifying. My favorite, as far as elements goes.

Always Home

 Be with Spirit whereever you go,

this is not a rehersal,

this is not a commercial.

If you have people who cares for you deeply, you are the lucky one.

If you have people who love you sincerely,

you hit the home run.

Then there's nowhere you need to go,

apart from heart,

                    to heart,

                                  to heart.

You are always home.

Gamla stan, Malmö, Sweden

Empty-heads

Emptying my head

I'm glad simply,

to be alive,

to move, and move, and move (though I have a hard tim remembering.    that particulat Tai Chi movement). Never mind.

To move

              to move 

                             to move

There's so much to cherish.

So much

               so much

                              so much

Empty-heads are happier.

Morning photo

Michael Tells Tales of Unknown Realities

 The book Travel Tales from Unknown Realities is available on Amazon. If you are curious to know more, go there and read the first pages. Or if you want to listen to Michael presenting his adventures on Wendy's Coffeehouse CLICK HERE.

Michael at Isla de Mujer, Mexico

There's a Price

I will spend the rest of my life,

healing myself. Everything will be a pain, will be a joy. 

It's better than numbness. Not yours but my own. There's a price.

For the rest of my life I will fight, 

for the rest of my life - pain. 

For the rest of my life, missing out.

Missing in            just step by step            in.

For the rest of my life I might fall.

But couldn't we all,

couldn't we all?

Virgin of Guadalupe and Snake

It's Easy

 I'm thinking of those, that take a hit,

            after hit,

                        after hit,

Until they can't get up,

anymore.

The beauty of summer eve

When wonderful, wonderful, risk-free life;

Feels like a dream. Is a dream.

A dream,

            a dream,

                        a dream.

Of course, it is.

Or a happy ending,

is nowhere to be seen.

Of course, it isn't. There is no such thing. The only ending we know - is death, and even of that, we can't be sure. Maybe there's something undone, after the end.

I'm thinking of those, that can't get up anymore.

Walking on Air

When light as air, 

            then you can come home.

Be light as a feather.

To let go of anger, of offence,

in small matters,

is not being good,

it's being lighter.

Doodle: Walking on wind

Only in Very Big Things - those that matters, is anger allowed. Only if it it fuels the engine of your so-called inner child, or daemon, or soul. Only if it defends the other creepers, toddlers, fallen black angels, that tries to learn to walk. Again. Or, for the first time.

Then let it out.

Till then, I'm practicing

                                          to walk on air.

Older

 As people are growing older            and older,

the quest doesn't become long life, as the days are running out.

It becomes meaning,

            if they're wise.

If there's only more days, drained of meaning,

life becomes

            unbearable.

Photo by Ravi Kant

Fortunately it seems,

most people think,

that squeezing out a couple of kids, or attain power, or just be part of any

powerplay (as if the very act of reproduction, or pulling other peoples' strings, or meddle where they need not           is quite enough to, not soak in perhaps, but get enough moisture, not to die of thirst.).

Bless their hearts.

!

Self portrait: with Spirit

But for the rest of us; the tainted, the tattered, the broken            the worried minds,

the answer can never be that simple. Or, we simply can't reach that far (it's difficult when your arms are lame or sinkhole gripped tired.)

Meaning is elusive

can never be owned (for the power people it's as irritating as love. In the end you cannot fake it, however hard you try).

We have to be very imaginative,            or very simple

For now, the highest meaning in my own Self,

is being with tribe (when energy allows)

being alone with Spirit (when need arise)

and the goal supreme            worth every strife

is making pancakes for embodied Love.

Sun as in Sunflower

Sunflowers follow me, over the world. Or, they're not actually following me as in trodding behind me on spindly roots. Rather, they grow where l stay. Perhaps l'm dtawn to sunflower people. Being one myself.

In my sister's garden

From Magic land in Virginia to a city plot in New Orleans. Over the Atlantic to Sweden, in my parent's garded, in my oldest sister's garden, there they are: sunny faces, explicitly oversized. Life symbols -determined to make things right.

Cleaning Day

 If you don't know what to do, you can always clean your room,

or your laptop, or your wardrobe, or that place under the sofa that we don't want to talk about.

If you don't know what to do, you can always exercise your body,

it needs attention too. Mine is hardly a temple, but its a sweet shack,

for the soul to dwell, to experience the world. 

Use small words. Words are a threatened species: overused, overblown ... words can get tired too you know. Save the big ones, for another day.

This is not sad. If that's what you believe you haven't experienced sadness. Your simply a spoilt brat (Hey, I' talking to myself here ... you know).

Live long, be wise, stay strong ... and,

if you don't know what to do, you can always clean your room,

Spirit Can't Be Forced

Spirit can't be forced

     just listened to

        reeled in

            playfully

Aboriginers do something creative every morning

first thing

If only a line

    in the sand

I was told

to show the Creator    

                they are willing to be creators too

If I remember it right. Doesn't matter. It's a great idea,

        reeling in Spirit first thing, in the morning

transforming dreamtime to creating time

         very softly, throughout the day

Over the abyss - journal

The Joy of a Finished Book

Editing is a glorious thing. To have a text, see what the author aims at, and take up the brushes - figuratively speaking - and get to work. Sometimes you need a knife - also figuratively - to make the story, big or small, shine through. Never is it as satisfying as when you can do it for someone you love. Therefor, I got a big grin on my face and a soft feeling in my heart, when l read the dedication in Travel Tales from Unknown Realities.

My husband's tales

There is an added tingling warmth through the heart area, when l personally know the journey and the hardships we both been through to get these tales published. With no further ado, if you are curious, you find the first chapters available on Amazon, as well as an online version, if you don't want to wait for print, which is in the process.

My beautiful husband

Lightness Altar

Lightness. Wind and air. A precious memory of ocean; seashells l found in my handbag. Faerystone and weddingrings; from a roadtrip, from lives of commitment. The most humble of altars can hold many things - embedded in a makeshift arrangement.

Lightness altar - until l need the brushes

 

Kicking Angry Spirits

 Angry spirits

       woke me up

whispering my ear.

I wonder what they want.

When l drink my morning coffee

I wonder what they want,

when l brush my teeth

I ask them. They scatter round,

and whine. As only angry spirits can whine.

Morning sun

I hit at them solely. Not at anyone else.

In the garden, on the grass: l hit one,

with a Tai Chi arrow. Another with a yoga kick. There are no such things you may say. But there are, there are.

Thai Chi crossbow stance create perfekt arrows. Yoga moves can floor, the most obnoxious spirit., in an ultrarapid speed.

Smack, smack, smack.

Little spirits gliding down,

alongside tree trunks     grass straws     

the side of my cheek

                    Good riddance

Morning Yoga Prayer

 Mother earth, mother sun. Thank you for the ties that bind. Keep me solid on the ground. Keep my feet strong and sound.

Sister wind, blow me free, like the rustling through the trees. Father sky, lift me high. Forever stretching, lean and high.

My parent's garden

Lonely Tree

Thank you world ... for today

Lonely Tree

Little Altar for Soul Need

 When the Soul cries; in need for something grand; in need for that famous meaning; in need, in need, in need ... l sometimes need, the smallest altar to comfort me.

Bird head, flowers and glass

Little Summer Joys

 Reading again. Slowly. This small novellet has just the right size.

The Garden Party