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They’ve Made Me Write Before

More on Into the Lion’s Den:

They, these Old Ones and Others in my world, have made me write before. In the summer of 2016, after Beings from everywhere had come for weeks, waiting, I wrote Clarion Call, a blog post where I outed myself as the reincarnation, the remaking of the Christ. The words flowed from my fingertips like water from a faucet. I was poured out into black and white. My emotional response to the unfolding of those words was one of sheer terror. When the words stopped flowing, the painful urge to hit ‘publish’ was excruciating. I wailed, holding onto crossbeams because my legs couldn’t hold me up. “I can’t DO THIS!!” When all strength ran out and I sank to the kitchen floor and wept, as terrified of what was being demanded of me as I was of disappointing or angering those unseen that had traveled to be part of the revealing. “I CAN’T!!” was met with a quiet, “You will. You must.” And I did. I hit publish and didn’t vanish into dust or suffer whatever other catastrophe created in my head while I writhed and wailed on the kitchen floor.

The second time, I was pushed to write was in February 2017, while recovering from Standing Rock at a friend’s home in the Seattle area. While sitting with my morning coffee, these words flew from a pen:

Before there was, I was.

And again, I am; the ceaseless answer to the call and prayer, “Hear us, oh Lord.”

I am the light; a lumined torch so that we may see.

I am the bread; to sate the hunger for spirit and bring comfort in fear.

I am the door; a threshold through which all may walk.

I am the good shepherd; guided by the hearts’ call.

I am the vine bringing the drunken love of the divine.

Again, I am. Born of water, bathed in fire; from stone I’ve grown and beast become.

I walk with thunder, dance on wings between rain, and

spin through the heart of man.

Again, I am. The son that rises in the West.

The womb of the heart and the breath between the Breath.

Again, I am.

I can’t remember if I wrote the above 108 times or 48 times, but I wrote the same thing over and over again, page after page after page. I could not stop and, I’m certain, if I could have, I would not have been permitted to. Cold coffee and five cramped fingers, I had a pile of papers and a, “Stop now. The word is life.” All of it pretty darn biblical for a woman without a biblical background, even though I knew what was happening as the pen flew. I don’t know how I knew, but know it I did.

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