Today,
I want to tell you a story from the subconscious about spirit and migration.
Here as you lay softly and quietly at peace,
Find your breathing.
Trace your breath and follow the rivers of oxygen and life flowing through your body,
Cascading with the rhythms of your ancestors' sweet hymns and hums.
Allow things to be quiet.
Allow rest and rejuvenation to take over your entire state of being.
There is no need to know.
There is no need to understand.
There is only a desire for you to be completely relaxed,
To feel centered and grounded in the truth that you are deserving of love and sweet nurturing.
On this day,
At the end of an astrological era,
You may feel this ending somewhere in your body.
Perhaps it shows itself as a repeating line in your mind.
The old world is falling away and now something ancient,
Something ancestral,
Deep within you and deep within our collective consciousness is embracing new life.
In the heart of this portal,
In the ocean of our subconscious,
Spirit is crafting for us a rebirth.
In order to enter into this new state of being,
A new form of existence,
There is nothing to do.
Just find peace.
Find peace in your surroundings.
Feel peace in your life,
In the way things have worked out.
And form peace in the space left behind by the things that have fallen apart and away.
With the relationships you have and the people you still dream of meeting,
Find peace and gratitude through your ability to let go and your dance with surrender.
Discover peace in your humanity.
What you need will be given to you.
What you desire will shift and change over time because desire,
Much like life,
Is fleeting and does not reflect your truth.
The truth is that you are a spirit born from endless love.
And in every movement,
In every breath,
In every sigh and every awakening,
The love within you extends into the world around you,
Into the people around you.
And you become connected,
Reconnected,
In a way that brings us back to our origin and our beginning of oneness and completion.
The initiation into existence required the sacrifice of wholeness.
Life required a splitting into,
A division of,
A chasm.
And out of one came the individual,
That which lies within division,
In-dividual.
Single spirits,
Single stories,
Children from darkness,
Who are becoming specks of light,
Bursts as stars,
Guiding us through the entirety of beyond.
You are one of these stars.
You are a wish spirit didn't even know they had until you came to be.
In taking a moment to examine the truest and most loving manifestations,
You will see that their manifestors did not know it was them who would come into fruition.
On their own,
These mages dreamed of something else.
Something that looked sort of like what they wanted,
But was missing the sacred touch of darkness.
It was when these magicians,
Much like you,
Surrendered,
Handing their hopes and dreams over to the divine,
To be held in the hands of spirit,
That divine realization occurred.
And a fantasy became the greatest gift,
The most incredible surprise,
The aspect of life we all call miracles.
Miracles are all unknown to us until they make themselves known.
Because the deepest love comes from trusting in the possibility.
The deepest love comes from the subconscious,
From the ancestor.
A love and a gift inherited from the all,
From nothingness.
A reflection of our long longing home.
Lostness can be sweet when you realize it extends the gift of constantly getting to rediscover the most comforting and generous and loving existence a being can desire in this life.
Lostness grants us the gift of the act of remembering.
To always be able to experience the rebirth of distant memories.
To have them return with gentleness.
To remember where you come from.
The aliveness within you.
The blessings of the darkness.
And the sense of safety within the unknown.
Lostness helps us to remember the meaning and how it is and always has been to love openly and unconditionally.
So I am going to tell you a story and perhaps it has already begun.
And as you drift softly into the subconscious,
Allow your presence to flow wherever it needs to be.
You can follow my voice or you can take your own journey through the subconscious realm.
Remember that you are safe here and everywhere you go.
Within the darkness,
Waiting for you is a loving embrace.
For you are the great grandchild.
The descendant.
The wish that a thousand stars have waited to come true.
A blessing and a reminder of possibility.
Now the story goes that there was once a little girl for whom books would always fall at her feet.
No matter where she went,
They would come to her.
From high off of an old shelf or the back of a pickup truck.
Between the hands of a stranger or sliding across a slanting table at a library.
A book would fall at her feet.
They would arrive to her from the mysterious direction of the wind.
And these books would always be the same.
They would be the same story.
Though they would go by different names.
And there would be different characters.
And the author would be a different person every time.
This little girl would read the book that had come to her feet.
And the story would be the same as the last and the one before that.
She read hundreds of books in the hundreds of languages.
All different words ascribed all different meanings.
And yet what she was left to understand was always the same message.
This little girl would get tired,
Furious even.
And she would say,
Why do these people continue to tell me the same story?
Doesn't anyone have anything unique to say?
I want to read a different story.
And so this little girl would go to the bookstores.
She would go to garage sales and she would ask her friends for recommendations.
She would try and find a new book,
A new story.
But she could never find a book that caught her attention.
Nothing ever seemed interesting to her in the stores.
She would go to garage sales and look through piles of old books collected by other strangers,
But nothing really stood out to her.
Her friends would give her new books they love and said she might love them too for her birthday,
For holiday celebrations.
But she could never get around to reading them.
It just didn't feel right.
Truthfully,
She just didn't feel like it.
The books that continued to fall at her feet always pulled her attention no matter how hard she tried to fight it.
They would always look so enticing.
And they reminded her of something.
So she would pick up the book.
And she would gaze the cover and read the synopsis and try to get a glimpse of the book of what it would be about.
But the descriptions were never really that informative.
So she'd guess that there was no other choice but to take the risk,
Open it up and begin reading the book.
She'd spend all day.
Sometimes it would take her weeks to get through these stories.
And she would read the entire thing front to back,
Sometimes twice over.
And at the end of every story,
She would think she would try to decide how she felt about this book.
And she would come to the same conclusion every time.
This book is the same as the last.
The same story again and again.
Why won't anyone write anything new?
As time went on,
The little girl became a young woman.
And still,
She would be followed by mysterious books carried to her by the wind,
Tethered to her through some invisible string.
It was as if they were drawn to her.
And while she couldn't just help,
But be drawn to them too.
But why?
She would think.
It's the same old story again and again.
She had learned by now to not trust it would be different.
And so she had decided sometime between being a little girl and a woman,
That she didn't have enough time.
She didn't have as much time to read all the books that came to her feet.
So she would pick and choose.
She would start some,
Finish it halfway,
Put it down and forget about it,
Or give it away.
She would complete others.
And she would completely ignore a few.
Some she'd passed right by and almost missed them.
But she would always pick them up.
She'd bring them home and put them away somewhere.
But when it came to reading them all,
There were just so many books,
Too many to count.
And she just didn't have the time.
I'm a woman now,
She thought.
I've got things to do.
And even if I did have the time,
I'm not going to waste it listening to the same story again and again.
At night in her room,
She would talk to the books and say,
Don't you have something better to do?
Don't you wish you had a different story to tell?
I know I'm personally sick and tired of hearing you all say the same thing.
So what is the point?
No matter what language you speak,
The meaning is the same.
No matter how many times you try to sell me this story,
Even for free,
My mind won't change.
I know this story.
I know it well.
Even the very first of you books came to my feet.
The very first story.
I knew it as soon as I read it.
Old stories,
All of you,
The same story.
I'm reading a book I have already read.
I might as well have written it myself.
You need help.
She'd fall asleep reprimanding her books during those witching hours.
Keep them safe in her home and constantly on her mind.
The books never answered back other than to tell her their story.
They would sit peacefully along her desk,
Strewn across her floor,
Hidden in the corners and shadows of her room.
Some even placed a book upon another book,
Upon a bookshelf that she had made special for them.
Her books were her life.
They made up most of what she had in this world.
All of them given to her by some elusive spirit.
For the ones she had given away,
They would somehow make their way back to her.
Friends returning a favor,
People regifting a gift she wanted to give away.
And she would store them in her closet underneath her bed and behind her desk.
She would joke that she could build a home out of all of her books.
And that she could burn the world with the fire set ablaze from the pages of all her stories.
A single story,
She might add.
The woman continued to live her life.
And soon she would find herself as a mother to three young daughters.
With her children,
She would read to them the stories of her life.
Thousands of books filling up the spaces in her home.
She would pull one each night and read just a chapter or two from these books to her children.
And they would beg her to go on and on.
On some nights,
She would oblige.
Telling them stories again.
Diving deeper into the tales of these magical worlds.
Sharing the message they once shared to her when she was a little girl.
And at the end of each book she read,
She would ask her daughters what they thought.
Whether they enjoyed it.
And if they were not sick of hearing the same story.
As her children grew older,
They would laugh and say these books are not the same stories.
Even when you read a book we read before,
It is not the same story.
These books are magic.
You begin them and you don't know what they're saying.
You make up your own stories.
And you tell them to us as if the author wrote them.
Then you ask us if we aren't tired of this single story.
But again,
These are not the same stories.
And as the daughters grew even older,
Into women,
Now with a pearl of wisdom gifted to them from the spirit of a thousand tongues,
They would say to their mother,
This is the world of your imagination.
And it is rich.
And it is colorful.
And abundant.
And we love it.
Just as we love you.
We've grown to love these stories too.
It wasn't a very hard thing to do.
They remind us of you.
And of the truth.
And the woman would look at her three daughters and could not understand how they could think she created these stories.
How they could think these stories were all hers.
And even if so,
She could not fathom why she would be writing the same story again and again.
Tell stories,
She thought to herself.
I only ever read them.
I received the books.
And I read them.
And it told me the same thing again and again.
One day,
Her daughter,
Born between the eldest and the youngest,
A mother now too,
Asked the woman,
Her mother,
What it was that these books told her.
What was this story that she continued to read again and again?
What was it about?
And the mother would say,
I cannot remember.
It's an old story.
One I've heard time and time again.
Too many times to count.
One I'm sick and tired of.
So tired,
My mind,
Body,
And soul have no more room for stories like these.
Like this.
The woman's daughter laughed and thought to herself.
And then said quietly to her mother,
Perhaps these stories came to you to remind you that it's time to write a new story.
That it is time for you to go from the reader to the writer.
Why would you continue to read the same story again and again if you know more is possible?
And the woman said,
Yes,
My thoughts exactly.
But these stories came to me.
They were gifted to me by the wind.
By strangers of fate.
And so her daughter said to the woman,
You once told me a story while reading one of your old stories.
A story about fate,
Karma,
And life.
And how they are sisters.
How they show us the patterns that map our inner worlds and outer world.
How they collide with past worlds and past lives.
And how they show themselves,
Arrive at our feet in a moment of much needed reminder that it is time to think of the future.
You said,
The story said to remember that we are not just beings living at the hands of fate and destiny.
We are magical creatures,
Free to roam and go wherever we like.
Free to become who we want to be.
Free to break away from the patterns of life.
From the stories of fate.
And create a new one.
And don't you see,
Mom,
How you've done exactly this?
If you had lived your life entirely by the rulings of fate,
You would have read every book you received.
And to your children,
You would have told the same story.
But after a while,
You must have gotten so tired of hearing that same old message again and again.
So tired that your spirit vowed to never read it again.
Or to tell it again.
So tired that you began to pick up these books and speak to the empty space within them.
The potential.
You read between the lines.
You played pretend to find something new for us.
You imagined.
And to us each night,
You would tell us a new story.
With the fate of the old one always in your hands.
You would teach us how to dream beyond our circumstances.
Beyond what can be seen.
Beyond what is written.
From sheer boredom.
You would reach into the stars.
And pull new light into the shadows of an old world.
And like that.
These books would never be the same.
You have taken what you have been given.
And created something new entirely.
Like our ancestors have done.
Like we all do.
Every time we choose to come to life again.
Sure,
Maybe you read that same story again and again as a little girl.
But I think that these books did not come to you by the many hands of fate to teach you to accept this story.
Perhaps these books came to you to push you into motion.
Into rebellion.
And into the unknown.
Perhaps the fates wanted to make your spirit so desperate for some new expression.
For some creativity.
So that the only logical action for you to take was to have a revolution of your own mind.
So you could use your own imagination.
And speak into existence.
Speak over those old worlds.
Of these old books.
And give them.
And tell us.
A different story.
For your children but also for yourself.
And you didn't even realize you were doing it.
Those books in your hand made you think you were reading them.
But you stopped listening to those words long ago.
You've been speaking your own language.
A language of your spirit.
And so the daughter said.
It seems the only thing to do now.
Is to burn the old worlds.
Let the old story go up in flames.
As it was intended to do.
These stories came to you because they needed a spirit strong enough to let them go.
I think you were the only one to do it.
They knew since you were a child.
Fate.
Life.
And the invisible string said to those books.
Go there.
To her.
She will help you.
She knows alchemy.
She remembers.
That death is not an end.
But a new beginning.
She will see you.
And see that you are stuck.
In this same story.
In a world full of only a single story.
And she will feel that this can't be.
She will refuse it.
And she will burn you.
Destroy you.
Free you.
And give you the grace.
Of becoming something new.
And so they came to you mother.
And you did just as your spirit intended to do.
Just as the three sisters knew you would.
You welcomed death.
And her ways.
And you allowed it to kill any desire to remain unchanged.
Out of your welcoming.
You gave birth to new life.
The daughter said.
And so life.
Went on.
And the mother.
Once maiden.
And now crone.
Came to her home.
On the first day.
Of the last season.
Of her life.
She arrived home to collect her thousands of books.
She did not stop to read the pages.
Once more.
Or to remember the story.
She had read a thousand times before.
She only gathered.
And brought them out.
Into her backyard.
Into a pit.
Where they would burn.
Her granddaughter joked.
That it was a curse to burn books.
And her grandson said.
It seems more like a curse.
Will be lifted.
She smiled.
All the while.
Understanding now.
That she had learned.
The lesson.
Of these stories.
And that they had given.
Her.
A wonderful gift.
Their return to spirit.
Through alchemy.
Through fire.
Was the final gift.
She could give them.
With all of her family surrounding her.
She lit a match.
And set flame.
To the massive pile.
Of a single story.
Together they watched it burn.
And felt the spirits within them.
Dance with revolution.
Liberation.
And in celebration.
Of the dream.
That had been restored.
Of the story.
That was now over.
For good.
Time.
Would go on.
And the crone.
Would mourn her books.
Mourn her life.
And find peace.
In her descendants.
Her truth.
And when it was time for her.
To return to spirit.
Her children.
Her grandchildren.
And great-grandchildren.
Danced with the ashes.
Reclaimed.
By the earth.
They sang with a resonance.
That heralded new beginnings.
And new tellers of stories.
Wake up.
