Somewhere Between Heaven and Earth

Yesterday, I gave a phenomenal reading, percussive shamanic clearing, sound/energy healing and soul retrieval (so say my clients). The better conduit I am for angel communications, spirit guide messages and healing energy medicine, the better channel I am as a performer. At least, this is the theory. We shall find out shortly if this is actually so.

My singing feels different, liberated like wild seaweed frothing around in salty riptides. Sonically, my perfectionism has given way to a much looser ecstatic celebration of imperfection. Optimism has sprouted and bloomed bunches of fragrant cacti in my proverbial desert garden set among jaded rocks scooped out ages ago by the movements of sea and ice. The bats of sundown have left the sandy soil better than they found it. Mineral deposits in former creek beds contain bits of quartz and agate that shimmer in the moonlight. Nothing purely intellectual or overly fancy can grow in the heat of the noon day sun. Materialistic hunger and lovers of shallow terrain cannot survive where inner reservoirs are required.

Where there has been loss of self, caught in weirs by fine wires and wandering amid the cemeteries, tarrying at history's flashy altars, I have stumbled and hid. I have lain at the bottom of the sea in a clown suit with my face in the sand, menstruating and playing dead in shark waters. I have shed my skin with loofas, pumice stones, and cheese graters, burned my hands on stove tops until I am bloody and raw, until alchemical processes of transmutation kicked in. I have played matador with the Minotaur. Serving papers I have divorced, condemned, condoned, officially and unofficially, signing off, signing out and signing in again. Somethings have been carved out of me, others have been torn away, some have broken away, some I have drown. But through all of these changes, I have discovered what is left.

Futures and children and investments have come and gone like an eroding cliff tousled by stormy seas at time lapse pace. Through a trip to a menagerie of porcelain fortune tellers behind glass in a Victorian penny arcade, I have seen the kaleidoscope of the past, present and future. On the steps of a fun house on the longest afternoon in eternity I have seen myself oblong and tired with shadows for tears. Inside the Musée Mécanique, I have been hypnotized by the Laughing Lady, chortled at the Wicked Wizard, and fallen madly in love with the Belly Dancer on Her Day Off. And in a moment when time stood still, I shrunk to the size I wanted to be remembered by, and entered into the dollhouse, waltzing and humming. My self a curiosity. My nosedive vision contained all the color, beauty, blood and horror of a jungle writhing with the stench of carnivorous plants, coy wildflowers and unapologetic orchids in heat. Floral pollinators buzzing, on undulating and aching flowers beneath the battle of men who disrupt and ignore the omnipresent lovemaking and insectual feeding frenzies all about them.

My inner punk rocker has grown a pair of maracas, uses her claws to aerate the soil, wears hawk and eagle feathers for mohawks. The feminism that inspired me to rebel against the misogyny I encountered early on is still coursing within me and royally pissed, but she's graduated. She's not throwing full rubber-made Luna Cups at misogynistic movie makers who enjoy killing and degrading women on screen. She's not leaving used homemade abortion kits in the expensive cars of neoconservative corporate think tank shills/devil worshipping prolife proGMO eugenists. She has found alternate modalities, methods and non-ordinary realities. My inner child grew up and grew wings. In some ways, we are living inside the wardrobe, or through the looking glass. This time I am wearing an apron and my hair is in a dignified bun. This time, my goal is to protect the orphans and angels incarnate. It's to collectively work to raise the vibrations of this planet and perhaps even help save humanity from its undoing.

The thing is, for a long time, I thought I had to put my creativity on hold to cultivate my healing practice. I'm glad I did. I wanted to steep myself in the natural and spirit world like the priestesses of Cybil and Minoan Crete. I wanted to lose sleep over it like a backpacker mountain climber, sweaty, stinky and suspended on a hammock hanging off a precipice a mile over the known world. Alone. Channeling most of the night and mornings away, devoting most of my brain space to the metaphysical explorations and paranormal investigations.

Despite the fact that being in service fulfills my soul on a deep level, I have long felt something was missing. Helping people to find their sheer bliss and explore every facet of themselves doesn't ring quite right when part of you has lurked on a furthermost back burner for years. Sublimated. Rationalized away. How will people take my psychic work seriously, if I also like playing characters? (I may be allergic to the word acting.) My whole adult life has been a journey to be as authentic, un-indoctrinated, free-thinking, honest and naked as possible. After dying inside as a child, and being overcome with profound sadness so young, I built up a lot of layers. I was a painfully shy child, but also longed so much to shine and try to endeavor to deserve life.

The truth is would you want a psychic who has no life experiences to draw from, who has no personal creative outlet, who lives through the dreams and manifestations of others, who is ready to project their own limitations onto others? Or, would you want someone who is trained in all the arts, who dabbles in everything, and can look at circumstances and situations from many points of view?

I have been preparing for my selkie role by visiting the sea with my family. We were twice blessed by visits from migrating seals. In fact, I had some almost other worldly encounters with two of them and the angels. My sister selkies liked the dancing I offered them in gratitude for their presence. They stayed just off shore for about an hour. I fancy we had a good conversation, or exchange of ethos.