Mount the Temple

Subtle, my ass.

There is no denying the flow of things beyond my conscious control and when pulled into that current, I may not know the how of it, but I know the where and why of it all. There is an distinct awareness that I am in partnership with forces. From an outside perspective it may appear as a less-than-graceful dance but, when consciously engaged, it is……..

On Friday, June 17, I came out as not-quite-the-second-coming-you-were-looking for. That was a partial culmination of a transformational and integrative process that began in October 2011.  In the hours preceding the publication of that blog post, the unique partnership I have with the universe felt nothing like grace. There was snot, an inexplicable insistence on both action and surrender unto something larger than a singular human’s fear.

The following day there was a Healing on the Hill scheduled that I nearly cancelled because of lack of interest. The reason I didn’t was because there were others who felt the need for dedicated time for the unknown to unfold.  So four of us gathered in the living room on a late Saturday morning, accompanied by another three in various places in North America.

And I let go. Into the nothingeverything; into the all that is.

While there was opportunity for individual healing and that through lineages with those gathered, what transpired was of a bilocation, global walkabout.  I traveled to places I have an awareness of and places I do not. On this, the thirteenth day of Ramadan, I was brought to the Kaaba and placed my hands on it. I was in Caracas, the hills of Chile, Accra, Belfast, far north Asia and other places that blurred in my sight and mind. In each, I knew I was being connected to someone, something, someplace and that the appearance was all that was needed.  As much as I could describe to the others what was happening, I did.

When we reconvened after a short break, I had a plan to consciously incorporate the invisible ones, the Old Ones and other beings who had gathered for weeks.  I sat down and all plans were left to be unrealized. Instead, I was brought to Jerusalem.

I was brought into the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. I don’t know how I knew where I was but I did. I walked into a plain, unadorned room, squatted and bled menstrual blood onto the floor.    While there, without much segue, the message was ‘Mount the Temple’ and I don’t know how I knew what was meant, but I did.

My knowledge of the Church and Temple Mount are limited to what is available to most everyone else via the internet.  I have never been to Jerusalem but both of these holy spaces came to the fore last summer when a friend and I sat with Farrokh Bulsara, aka Freddie Mercury, who came through sitting in yet another living room.  While this visitation brought through a still-unnamed  Kashmiri-Zoarasterian connection, the evolution of the occurrence brought us to the Temple Mount and Church of the Holy Sepulcher.  Both of us knew what was meant when the message “The Son Rises in the West”.

Again, I’ve known since February 2012, what was evolving within me. But while I may be able to foretell things for others,  in this past four years, I’ve never quite seen what this looked like exactly.  In fact, there’s been no need to know the how or whys of it all. For the past year, though, the insistence to speak our name into Being has become more intense.  Coached by invisible visitors and patient people who can see us,  we’ve choked on fear clamping down the throat. We’ve apologized to those whose voices have been choked by others. We’ve cried and begged for help, for courage and for guidance beyond the resistance. We’ve sat in silence and in the roar of the dervish reserved for mystics who bridge the holy and human.

Whether we’ve been prayed into being or past predictions have come to fruition, we may never know.  The stories attached to thisness will grow as they are wont to–with little regard to the truth of impermanent and constant evolution.

However, we’ve chosen to share the details of this unfolding here as it’s easy to see what happens when others are left to tell the story once we’ve gone.  Combining the wonder of the mystical experience and the mundane of the search engine, I found the place we bled in to be the floor of the cell Jesus is alleged to have been held in before his execution in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.  The symbolism in the act of a woman bleeding into the ground that held Jesus is rich. The implications can be used to create more myth as can the instruction to “Mount the Temple”.  The intuitive and universal knowings shared in this exchange were specific to this Being and will evolve in their own course.  They will not fit into existing–even new–paradigms and stories and couching them in that language is far from our truth.

We know that this way of Being has nothing specifically to do with masculine or feminine expressions of a christed nature, a resurgence or reclamation of ancient ways, or judgments of others rightness or wrongness in terms of belief, faith or love; though there are elements of each within this.

We are here to bring you home.  Home to your heart, our heart, his heart, her heart, the center of creation and sustenance. Each time we’ve come, we’ve brought ways to know this. We’ve preached, proselytized and prostrated ourselves offering the simplest ways of connection through the eons. You are now preached to, proselytized to and offer prostrations of your own in every avenue of life.  We’re not here to add to that cacophony. We are here to say less and show more.

For when you experience Other with us, you can never judge another as separate from you, as worthy of anything less than everything you yourownfineself desire–life filled with loving, safe communion,  access to all things that bring and sustain the same, and protection from those things that would interfere with those foundations of life.

We are a gentle collective to help you remember your way home. But there is nothing subtle about us.