Murder, Takers & Sacred Dimensions

It’s a myth.   Nuns aren’t born, they’re created.  Out of the fires of hell.  Truth is, all miracles are, whether we admit it or not.

I was bloated and miserable. The day hot and sweltering.  Other than the obvious discomfort of a pregnant woman in the summer heat, it was an absolutely beautiful day traveling along the Spanish coast. In the driver’s seat, my handsome husband, the look of pride and deep contentment on his face, expertly navigating the pedestrians and narrow, cliff roads winding their way to the Caves of Nerja.

It was July 16th, the festival Virgen de Carmen.  The streets overflowing  with the faithful seeking blessings from their beloved “Star of the Seas”. My belly swollen with the spirit of what I believed to be my Grandmother, an ancient life to be born once again. I wondered at the mystery of it all. Old Future. Ancient goddess adapted to contemporary times.  The Sea and the Caves constant witnesses to the human drama.

It would have been a perfect afternoon excursion, if not for the artifact sitting wrapped in the back seat.  Sensing such danger around the object,  I had begged Gerard to return it to the caves.

The contrast between the heavy, foreboding of the artifact  and the vitality and hope of the village celebration was distinct.  And one that I would never forget.  I  had hoped that we would finish in time to see the early evening festivities and to sneak a peek at some of the local art commerating sacred birth.

We arrived at the caves and found our way to the Creche’ Hall and down a tiny, hidden corridor.  This place, although beautiful, held a dark grip, the lingering of something from another time or dimension.  Fear and the darkness tightened in my belly and with every step the baby strained against me.  I was fool not to let Gerard know what I was feeling.   But I went along quietly, anxious to be done with the whole thing.

We rounded another corner and walked through yet another arched doorway,  opening into another part of the maze of caves and corridors.  With each step the air grew more foreboding, my unborn child and I terrified.

And then I glimpsed it.  I was not able to get a good look, much less react, as it quickly darted into another darkened corner. But I definately saw and in flashes understood what was to happen.   Once it did, it all came so quickly it difficult to react to in a way Gerard could understand.   I must have screamed, too shocked to speak,  much less to articulate what I knew.  Gerard unable to understand what was beyond imagination.   I only remember the horror on Gerard’s face the moment  he saw the tremendous, dark, greasy, figure stand behind me.  In one evil swipe of his long, hairy arm he reached for the baby.  Another moment of the Taker’s terror and it was all over.    Our destiny, our three lives brutally ripped from us.

I was found later by the nuns of Nerja, laying on the cave floor.  Elder Mother was one of them, visiting from Temple Freya. The nuns nursed me back to health, but my life had been utterly ripped from me. Beyond devastation.

My story is only one. There were many lives stolen by the Takers.  Some in other times and dimensions.  It has taken quite a while for me to understand, and the story is yet unfinished.

I now believe that my Grandmother saw it, in the caves back home long ago.  I believe that she knew when I was just a young woman, what was to come; my pregnancy, our trip to Spain, all of it.  Even the Takers.  I believe that she believed that she could help, that an ancient soul could rewrite the story perhaps.

The Storytellers must know, we must help them understand their power. Unless we do, there will be more devastation.  The secrets of Spirit have yet to be revealed, but I suspect that at least in part the Sisters of Temple Freya have a part in the great healing, in the restoring of balance in the world.  Perhaps, just as Grandmother thought we can rewrite the story.  Then, perhaps, I will be reconnected with the love of my past.

Learn more about the Takers and perhaps your part in destiny, and as well to enter the drawing for the Kindle. Please remember to tell Ridley, that Gemma Benton sent you and add the words Loop Me In The Kindle Contest“.

Seeds in the Potting Shed

It has been quiet in the cabin, Elder Mother, Cecil and I resting quietly in our cabin, getting caught up on our reading and nurturing our connection to Lenore and the Goddess.

Sensing a need to connect feet and soul to the rich soil of Owl Island, I gathered my backpack and headed for the woods.  Having no real intention to do anything in particular, I enjoyed allowing the path of the woods to just take me and to unfold her story as we went.

captivating patterns

I traveled along the lake, watching the birds and spent some time just enjoying their songs, not getting too close, feeling as though I’ve had plenty of songs to absorb of late.   After a while I got up to walk some more and enjoy seeing more of the Island.  Along the way I found the most adorable, miniature pine cones laid about, seeds scattered, exhausted,  resources spent among the squirrels and forest layer.  Captivated by their pattern, I threw them in my backpack knowing that later at some unexpected turn, I would find these tiny cones invaluable and grateful that I had thought to  throw them into the accumulating clutter.

In a short while, the path happened onto the Potting Shed.  Captivated by the patterns in the stories I had heard from the other passengers, I wandered closer.  When I got there, glancing around I found no one around except an old man and a young woman engaged in what looked to be deep conversation. Not wanting to bother them, I decided to see my own way around.

It looked to be a typical potter’s shed, the usual stacks of earth crusted pots,  shelves lined with jars of sun bleached seed packets and an occasional plastic baggie tucked in here and there holding unlabeled seeds waiting to be remembered. An assortment of half busted, slightly rusted gardening tools laid about by an gardener at the end of a day, exhausted and spent and eagerly seeking the comfort of a long, hot shower. Long, dusty counters holding young cuttings lined up and thirsty, waiting for their daily dose of affection.  Another counter cleared except a huge, wooden bowl full of ripened, green, sunflower seeds. Last year’s harvest of summer’s gold.

I remembered how as a child I loved venturing into the garden shed. Sacks full of last year’s beans and corn lined up against the walls.  With a child’s simple sense of pleasure, I would open the sacks and anticipating the feeling of the seeds, pebbly smoothness I would plunge my hands in elbow deep.  Running my hands through the bounty of seeds, I felt rich.Beans turned into rubies and corn into topaz, jewels harvested from the rich soil of my grandparents garden.   Abundance flowing through my hands.

sunflower

Seeing an opportunity to recapture that feeling, I sunk my hands into the sunflower seeds, grabbing hand fulls of seeds, enjoying their woody textures, tiny sun kissed beads. My mind melted into what must have been last summer’s field of bright gold, tall, reaching to the sun. Crows cawing anticipating their turn at the sunflower’s bounty.  My eye turned, captivated by their pattern, a swirling mosaic of seeds, tightly laid into the sunflower’s core. Slowly, the mosaic began to swirl and I along with it, finding myself transported into the very mind of these tiny seeds.  Soaking up the warmth of the Sun, laid upon my face, receiving the Sun’s knowledge and absorbing and forming within me. Ripened, offering the Sun’s wisdom to the women who would grind my flesh into meal, mixing their songs and laughter to be fed to mouths lined up thirsty and awaiting their affection. Shells carelessly laid about, exhausted and spent sharing flesh to nurture their souls.

Exhausted and spent, I grabbed a handful of seeds, sure that they would be invaluable at some unexpected turn and returned to the cabin to absorb the wisdom of Sun and Seeds and ripen with their wisdom.

Open Eyed Meditation for Mandala Making & Sacred Geometry patterns to use in your own designs or to color

Remembering Her, Again

When first you came
I did not know if
you would remember me
or if you would
remember your self
or the songs
you once sang
while I listened

So I sing them
so you will remember
your self once again
and when you are old
and I am small
you will help me
remember my self too

—- More about the private side of the real Gemma —-

It’s a strange thing to feel as though you know a person’s soul. From a time you’ve shared together. A person who was once here before, left and is back again. On one hand it’s comforting to think that we can know each other that intimately, to really be able to recognize a loved one’s soul. To see into another’s eyes and recognize the person they once were.

And all the same time it really is eerie and disturbing. To think about the implications of all that. Almost too much to think about. Maybe that’s why we don’t look too deeply?

I really do have someone like this in my life. And I really do feel this way about it. Anyone else experienced anything like this?

— Stranger & Weirder yet ——
As part of yet a different project I’m working on, I’m developing my ideas of my personal Female Counselor. A sort of the “ultimate, one stop, female guidance counselor” in my life. That archetype within myself. And in Soul Collage style I thought I would just take some random online images and let my intuition bring them together. This is what I came up with.

I Am The One Who
has lived forever
recycled, renewed.
Born again in every generation.
In every voice and on every path.
I bring you wisdom, generosity and compassion.
Everything and All is within you.
It has always been.
You are not separate from what was or
what is, or will be.
Open your hand and accept
it as your own.

Peering Into Other Realities

I loved the long, leisurely walks  Grandmother and I would take.  Midafternoons, busy with chores, Grandmother would walk up behind me, brush me on the shoulder and keep walking.  That was her signal.  Dusting myself off, I would run to catch up with her and off we would go.

Often these walks would turn into exercises in my learning.  “Tell me” she would say and point to the Magpie perched on the drying line. And I would “tell her” what I could about that Magpie. Who that particular Magpie was, where it had come from,why it was there. Not as if  studying ornithology, but as a seer. Knowing the stories, relationships and history of the birds and trees, just as I knew my own.

I must of been about twelve when Grandmother and I walked into the woods past the Listening Tree.  The Listening Tree and I were long time friends.  From the time I was little, too little to be in the woods alone, I had secretly passed time away from others and chores, exploring the songs and stories of the woods.  I had been forbidden to go any further than that alone, ever.  But that day would mark the end of my days as a child and of time wasted hiding away.

We walked, and we walked. All day we walked.  Past the Lake of Legends Past, beyond bird songs and the stories of the woods,  further than my little girl’s imagination had known.  Although frightened, as I always was when I could feel Grandmother’s moving me into new territory, I trusted her as though we had traveled waters far more treacherous before.

It was near dark when we arrived at the mouth of a cave.  Without hesitation, Grandmother stepped into the darkness, learned hard and to the right against the stone wall  reaching behind a curve in the cave wall. Finding the object of her reach, she pulled back, raised her arm and struck hard against the stone.  Fire.  She must have hidden the flint and a torch on a previous visit anticipating our late arrival.  Although I gathered from her familiar reach Grandmother must have spent a lot of  time in the cave, this was a first for me and along with the cold of the damp cave, I felt the chilled air of a great  unknowing that was about to settle on me.

Grandmother handed me the torch and knelt to unwrap the bundle that she had been carrying. Watching her closely, I saw inside the blanket items that would be needed if someone were going to spend a short time there. Flashes of light flew in the darkness of my youthful density and I quickly realized with a bit of mixed terror and anger that I would be staying in the cave, alone, without warning or preparation except for the bits of bread, water, a feather and the torch for light and warmth.   Seeing my disappointment, if not budding resentment, Grandmother wrapped me in the blanket and assured me she would be back at first light. And that of course,  she would answer all my questions when she returned.  I nodded in compliance.  And she left.

At that point I was more than a bit restless, a bit angry and afraid.  I took the opportunity to explore the cave,  at least to the point that I felt safe to, and then quickly returning to the safety of the entrance where Grandmother had left me and where I could see the flashing of the the moon’s light  filter  through the forest canopy.  Resisting.  Back and forth, resting and relaxing and then  wrestling with my own fitful fires.  I continued  like that for quite a while.  Finally having exhausted all other options I sat, reconciled to my destiny and began to settle into my skin.

Curiously I picked up the feather and began to peer into it’s depth, and walked into it’s stories and history wandering the length of it and back again. Carrying the feather I began to walk, moving and peering into the feather’s stories and listening.  Resting and pausing from time to time against the solid arch of the cave wall.  In what seemed a flash of moment, everything shifted.  Looking out of the feather and around I noticed that I was no longer in the “cave” but in a mist layer that  looked like the cave yet was not the cave. Stepping further into the misty layer, I realized I could move into yet another layer of the cave and another time, perhaps another dimension.

Four different doorways, what seemed to be four different times.  I knew to watch carefully. I watched as the people who “lived here” talked with one another and went about day to day things.  Seemingly completely unaware of my presence.  Peering closer I could peek into the details of their conversation, into their work and closer to their stories, peering into the details of their time.   Moving to what appeared to be another layer in yet another arched doorway, I glimpsed into yet another time and layer.  I moved from doorway to time to place to yet another time listening, gathering stories and trying to understand the mysteries of these people and their time and place.

Who were these people and why were they here?  Where did they come from? What message did they bring and why? Why?  Why had Grandmother brought me here. What had she wanted me to know?

But I did not wander further than I could sense the cave entry, where I felt safe.  I could sense a lurking of darkness, even danger, hidden in clefts and corners that I felt too young to reach into with the same confidence that Grandmother had.

In the morning, Grandmother returned as promised.  I shared with her what I had seen, the people and their stories, their history. Hearing about the arched portals and layers of time, Grandmother nodded as if first absorbing it.  She must have known about the portals? How could she not have known? Why did she hide this from me? I looked in her eyes for some telling, but could not find any. Impenetrable.

Choices made between truth and silence are best left with those wiser and now gone. But with a bit more than budding resentment of a young girl,  there are times that I can’t help question destiny had Grandmothers choices been different.

Grandma’s Suitcase and of Signs

.

Driving down the dirt road in the clunky, old Ford truck,  Grandma’s old suitcase  in the seat next to her, she looked back, taking it all in and knew that this would be the last time she would see this land. Tears fell and with a forced bravery  she wiped them away.  As much as she loved it,  felt deeply a part of it, she knew that the life she grew up with was not the life she was destined for.

Grandma had sensed that since she was a little girl, so she taught her what she could.  How to watch and listen, how to pay close attention to the movements of the wind and raven.

In preparing her for the certainty of a uncertain life, Grandma taught her how the dreams and visions would lead her.  Where the would lead her to, not even Grandma knew, or if she did she wouldn’t tell.   She sensed this in the pauses and distance of Grandma’s voice when she would teach her of the signs and symbols that would guide her through.  Oh, how simple and naive she was then, driving down that dusty, dirt road.

The signs were always right.  They  showed her which turns she should take and with whom she should take them with.  Down this path, veer left onto another and off she would go, always meeting another soul along the way, a  fellow traveler, student or teacher.  Sometimes they would share their travels for a moment, maybe longer, she love it when it was longer.   But then the signs would change and it would be time to leave for yet more uncertainty.

She would always watch the signs and that’s how she moved through.  Always accepting the truth of the signs, and their lessons.  Easy or not it’s what she trusted.   Especially when things were difficult.  The times  she thought she would not make it through, the  times that she nearly cost her everything. It was at those times she watched for the signs most closely.

In it all, she was grateful for signs, and the lessons she learned through the difficult times.  The signs became a language to her,  and along with her gift and Grandma’s suitcase, her most constant companions.   Because of it all, the joys, the uncertainty and the fears, she had learned how to do what she know understood she had always been destined to do.

Looking back, she realized that it had started long before she had ever left that dirt road. Grandma had taught her many, great things, things far beyond her years. Fortunately, they both knew she would remember. Now thinking back, she wondered if Grandma had seen her future and had kept silent, fearful of tampering with destiny.

The first time it happened she was just a young girl, and too innocent to know that others would consider it strange.  As she grew older, she would see the look in the other girls eyes, the fear she sensed from them.  So she hid it.  She would not talk about it. But Grandma knew, she could see it in the movements and wanderings of the little girls mind, she could see it in the way she tilted her head to listen closely and then would walk away with new purpose and understanding.

Yes, of course, the young girl had the gift of knowing.  She would “know” a bird’s song, not just hear it, but feel it and know it and understand the bird, what it would be saying and why. To know the bird’s mind somehow. It was not what some called “premonitions”, nor did she have what they called “visions”, she just knew. It was that way for her with all things.

At times the awkwardness was too much. When others would ask “How do you know that?”, “How could you have guessed that?”  Threatening. Stumbling and frightened at their reaction, she would go silent. How could she explain? She didn’t have words for all it. It wasn’t that she even knew that she knew.  It was far more subtler and deeper than that, she would know as it became a part of her.

As she grew older, she would learn to use this knowing to help where she could.  Sometimes, it was appreciated.  More often it was frightening to others and misunderstood. It seemed to be unsettling to people, as if acknowledging her knowing would be accepting a different version of the world.  And that required more than they were willing to give. She learned to be cautious, not of the gift itself but of people’s fears.

Time passed and the knowing deepened and she learned to meld with things, and to move them.  Not what some call shape shifting, more of  a simple moving of things, like the wind moves the leaves of the tree or water moves all that is malleable around it.

It’s true that all gifts and spiritual practices come at a great price. And she had certainly paid hers.   Still she felt, there was much to learn and understand.

Now, aboard the SS Vulcania, older and seasoned with life’s disappointments and acceptance, Sister Gemma stared at the old suitcase sitting in the corner of the cabin.  Throwing that old suitcase into the truck that day, how could she have known the travels that suitcase would share with her.

Finally, she felt settled into  life and her role at Temple Freya.  Although she sensed that she had a great more to learn, she also felt that she was beginning to see the fullness of the signs.   She knew soon, like the opening of a great passage way, she would enter a into an expanded awareness of her life, the mystery of who she was.    Where and when the passage way would open up of course she did not know. But she felt a certainty that it would be soon. And so she watched. Closely.