Thursday, July 28, 2016

Visitation

I am not comfortable with this eyewitness account rather I am so deeply a part of it, that the totality of my five senses has been redefined.

And we begin…

Knowing that the day trip would be once in a lifetime, my daughter and I boarded the train from Cardiff to Salisbury, Wales in anticipation of a spiritual connection.  We were going to Stonehenge.  The scenery passing was familiar; countryside, pastures groomed by the thousands of sheep.  Village church steeples defined each pocket of row housing with the occasional farmhouse, well kept and manicured on the in-between spots.  There were community gardens where you wouldn't expect them and natural hedges overgrowing the attempts at fencing.

The two-hour journey landed us at the station where we connected with our tour bus.  The prerecorded audio guide highlighted the history of the city of Salisbury as our bus headed to the second pick up point in the town centre.  Learned about the commerce industry and of course the brutality of public executions (all too common a theme though out the United Kingdom).  For me, personally, they could have left that part out.

Stonehenge is not visible from the road.  Signage is minimal and all efforts to film the approach were thwarted by the sudden appearance of the car park and visitor's center building.  There's nothing but fenced pasture for acres upon acres in all directions.  City life has encroached the perimeter and hikers with burdensome backpacks and staffs traversed the fields without care as to the neolithic stones nearby.

We waited on the bus while the driver submitted paperwork to the staff of the National Trust and soon we were on our way.  There were options, walk the mile path or take the shuttle. Option 2, please.

Up a short incline, cameras at the ready, we stood at the world heritage site in a non-ceremonious manner.  Most visitors were busy selfie documenting their arrival or taking advantage of a stranger's help to photograph themselves there.  Some just stood. We did a little of both.  Sometime in the seventies, direct access to the stones had been stopped.  Special requests by guided astrologists to visit at dawn are still viable.

We circled the path and headed back to the shuttle queue which was well orchestrated by staff who counted heads and directed lines to each awaiting vehicle.

The shuttle back was much quieter.

Time for snack or memento shopping.  Snacks please.  Fifteen pounds for muffin, hot chocolate and juice.  We spotted seating at the counter along the outer edge.  Found two seats and sat and then I found myself up and asking a person in costume why they were dressed that way and what they were doing.

Initially, I thought "a theatrical troupe"; maybe a monologue or a guided tour of the sacred places.
I was up for it.

My life changed, right then. . . at THAT moment.  She said, "I am the Shaman."

Without revealing the intimacy of our encounter, I will say that I've never been on a journey of that caliber ; solely of the mind and heart.  I learned how to redefine the universe and it's not what I learned in school.

Once in every lifetime, the opportunity comes to step outside of your personal comfort zone; to open your mind to possibilities.  I am not who I was and I am grateful.

Seeking for answers lead to an unplanned reveal. I didn't know it, the universe did. It has been confirmed since my return, by persons who study the metaphysical, that my journey there was not by chance.  It was not just another day trip in a two-week itinerary across two countries. It was my destiny.

How I go forward and live out my remaining years, months, days or hours has validation. I understand
that the intricacies of my daily existence are not mundane. They are amazing gifts to share.

My life changed when I least expected it; 4,000 miles from my front door. I will revisit this place; this mecca for those who are seeking truth beyond all understanding.  In the meantime, I will ponder
the teachings and begin to connect with my Archangel Ariel who revealed herself to me in the person of the Shaman of Stonehenge.






And the sign said...

Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  It happens more frequently than you might expect; especially given that the sign is owned by the catholic church in my neighborhood.

Seems the Almighty has no message for the faithful or the occasional person stuck in traffic along the highway where the sign can be viewed. After all the expense of its installation and the removal of its outdated predecessor, I would think that this larger than life message board would be more productive; at least announce weekly sermon topics.

I am an inquisitive woman and just might wander up the street and into the church office in an attempt to solve this mystery.

There are several possibilities for the lack of advertisement. You may come up with your own, but here are my top guesses:  Lazy priest. Lazier office staff. No authorization from the Dioceses which governs the church. Possibly the faithful have been overly dutiful in their obligatory visits, that they are not in need of direction or inspiration.  Or perhaps…

The messages no longer apply.

Actually, they never have.  My separation from organized religion came just recently.  I am no longer relegated to weekly chastisements or annual celebratory routines.

My connection with the universe is without boundaries.  I now live without fear of repercussion from one who believes himself or herself in charge of my soul.  How do others live completely and freely through the narrow restraints of religion? My quest is open-ended. There is no "reward" for a life lived
purposefully and lovingly.  There shouldn't be a reward, just the conclusion of the experience.

I am seeking.  I have time now.  At least I think I have the time.  Contradictions abound for I have been sent the message that I will teach and heal.  I missed that sign along the way.

Signage may be as old as recorded history and for the most part, the human has come to rely on it.
I suppose the directional variety was born out of necessity. The advertisements and inspirational
group came later. They're a fact of life, almost global now, multilingual and multicultural.

Still, the church sign remains blank, message-less. A small victory for me and the thousands of would-be readers who have better things to do. With the limitlessness of the internet, the parishioners could opt for messaging: text, twitter, facebook, email, talking watches, etc.  For the generation which prefers
snail mail, there's that choice as well.

I understand the need for advertising, it's basically survival. Even the places of worship
are competing for business. That's not news; but is it a necessity?

I do not need reminders that my soul is in jeopardy. It's not. Never has been.  My journey is continuous.
The signs I choose to read are not the ones brightly lit, blinking and invasive. They're not the ones
vying for my attention.  They are the ones revealed in the quietness of my life, concurrent with the
path I am destined to follow.










A Moment in Time

She remains unchanged; forever 23, red hair, deep green eyes, still and timeless. The portrait of my mother speaks to me of another time when dreams were still possible.  My grandmother commissioned it the year before Mom married Dad.  Wish I could have known her then.

I barely remember if she told me the details of her life at that time.  I have scrapbooks and photo albums which leave the questions unanswered.  It's not fair.

In six year's time, I will be the age she was when she died.  Those details are forever in my heart. I won't tell you, other than it was awful and unnatural and chaotic and merciful.

We may be alike; I have an appreciation for music and fine art.  I love color in my home and garden.
My house will always have at least one dog and there is nothing more perfect than chocolate.
She knew the importance of friendship and secrets. I have a handful of "besties" with whom I am completely devoid of judgment.

I am missing her.  Hoping she will come to me in my dreams, I talk to her portrait.  When I am home at her gravesite, the conversation is always fraught with sadness, but my mood as I gaze at her likeness is light and joyful.  Thankful?  Maybe.

Or perhaps it is guilt.  Her dreams vanished when I came along.  She self sacrificed out of respect for Dad. Perhaps it was the proper thing or maybe the expected lifestyle.  In 1956, 2.8 children were the norm.  In 1959, we had reached 2.0 and I don't know how to explain the omission of the eight-tenths of a child. Maybe that's where the family dog(s) came in.

She was not happy parenting; she didn't know how.  Dr. Spock was her go-to reference and if the pages in that book couldn't address the crisis, Grandma was right next door. Once my brother was adopted (as it had been with me), that sage advice didn't apply as frequently as Mom had been an only child.

Nature vs. nurture... .an uncomfortable internal dialogue.  I could argue either side. Upbringing certainly helped to mold me.  Nature, on the other hand, eludes all current quests.  Although,
on this point, I have had recent insight by way of messages from beyond, but that's another story.

If you follow my blogs, you will conclude that I am in flux.  The spirituality which flows from those who channel my connectivity from the universe to my soul has me disquieted. Don't misunderstand me.
I am not questioning. I am seeking validation…that which defines me as having purpose.

Where is the logic behind my being the daughter to this particular woman? Whose decision was it?
Did the decision lay within the wisdom of the universe? Was it predestined?

The answers will not be forthcoming.  It is unimportant.

Her portrait honors the woman she wanted to be. I see it in her eyes. I see it in the shyness of her smile and the softness of her shoulders. She aspired, she hoped, she dreamed. Her "fork in the road" came abruptly. Her purpose was redefined. Her dreams vanquished.

The next time I pause to gaze upon it, I will whisper "Thank you. It is because of you, that I still have time to realize mine."