Fibonacci Tales: Mother Tales 2u45j

FIBONACCI TALES

Mother Tales

eLBe

Copyright © 2016 by eLBe.

ISBN: eBook 978-1-5245-5659-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only. Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 11/03/2016

Xlibris 1-888-795-4274 www.Xlibris.com 750827

Contents

Chapter 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

Title Becoming Unforgivable Prairie Diamonds Small Degrees of Silence The Thing about Addictions The Barren Wife What We Must Not See Freedom’s Fire Works Girl Talk Council Talks The Angel Garden The Mark of the Master

Father Needs You

My teaching Sister said those words to me today, and I was so proud. I was quite certain that Sister (who likes me best of the whole class) told Father what a good student I am and how much I know about God and the church and so he wants my help. He’ll probably want help doing something important, like writing his Sunday sermon; I know Bible stories really well. I wonder how Father knows I write. I try not to smile or swing my hair or flip my skirt as I leave the classroom – but, everyone knows that with the right number of can-cans on, that is bound to happen – to go help Father. I know too well what it feels like when Father invites someone else to help, and we watch the chosen one leave. I’ve studied the seven deadly sins, and I’m pretty sure what I feel when Father calls someone else is the sin of envy. Today they feel envy. The sin I bear today is pride. I love Father so; he’s the smartest, kindest, nicest person I know and, well, I don’t really know Father… I’ve seen him watch me though, and I think he likes me best. I’m glad Father watched me and now I’m his chosen one. I will serve Father today. Mother will be so proud when I tell her.

***a*fine*reward***

The boy groans and bows his head to his desk when he hears those words. The eyes and surprise of classmates pin him where he lies prostrate, and their wordless question requires swift assent, for the judgment of classmates is a curiously worse gauntlet to run…

The rare appointment of the boy to West Point after completion of primary school came through as and when promised, and silence again covered the land.

*****all*in*the*family*****

That’s the way love is in some families. That’s what father says when he comes at night, and uncles when they come drunk and clumsy and care-less; and… , brothers when they wake up hard and come. They say what they do is love and it’s not sin as long as I can’t have babies. They say I’m a virgin until then. I want them to stop while I’m still a virgin, so I need to know when they must stop. I asked mother how to know… , and she slapped me and cried I lied to hurt and make her jealous. Now she will not talk to me or tell me how to know things so I can make them stop this hard, hurting love.

*******do*you*know*******

If the child is not present when the accusation is made – often excluded to protect the child - a priest is not required to report a claim of abuse to the police.

Prairie Diamonds

“Bitch,” he spits. Surprise flashes across the woman’s face followed instantly by offense, then a small swift smile. “I believe that the human personality is like a precious stone formed and cut by the pressures of life, and able to reveal the true beauty of its inner nature only when the perfect facets for that stone have been cut. She paces before the man and continues. “Life and the experiences of it cut facets into the personality to best reveal the inner nature of each of us. “I have a bitch facet – as you noticed.” She reports as disionately as one might provide inventory details. Her delivery is classic Mae West, with a titillating smile to freight the words with a hint of peril as she sweetly suggests: “Don’t stand so close to the bitch facet that it’s the only one you see.” Surprise erupts on the man’s face watching an inner instant replay of the exchange. He considers his options. She doesn’t blink during the time he ponders possibilities. He man locks eyes on hers, takes a smart military step back, clicks his heels, and plants his right foot beside the left, and aborts a ritual salute in its arc to his brow. Surprise blossoms on the woman’s face as she contemplates and comprehends the implications of his act. Glee giggles from her belly to ho, ho, ho from her mouth until the oueue of shock falls from her face. They were friends for a while after that.

Small Degrees of Silence

He did not take my power from me… , for at first I gave it in small degrees of silence

He’s in the basement, imagining revenuers won’t find his still there, won’t smell rye whiskey on the air or on his breath when he talks bold of the rights and the gifts and power of his family in . Old ways and powers protect him, he tells me loud and angry. More likely the liquor he gives blinds them and lets them not care – or maybe even dare. Ancient powers don’t hold the same force in this land still flush with new promise and opportunity. Liquor, now, that makes a difference as I see it. Things change when men get drunk together. Sometimes he seems old… , and I young beside him, ill matched in age and vision. Perhaps we are not equally yoked. On our wedding night he told of carrying a bag of dirt from the old country, and said that when he filed the homestead deed, he came here and sowed that dirt from his bag over the land, just as he sows grain on the land each year since. He won’t say why he did this thing. If I press to know, he says I should know; that if I were his true mate, I would know. What I do not know. Then he closes up harder than a black walnut, and does not speak for days. The plains are a vast and lonely for his small degrees of separation. Still, a wife has a right to know why her man does a thing, especially a thing as peculiar as sowing dirt on dirt. He even threw dirt on the land where this house now sits. The house is sturdy though, and even grand, but not so fancy as to make neighbors bitter. It’s a fine house. Yet it aches in silence, and weeps at night the way houses do when a strange sorrow haunts them. It is a strange sorrow that haunts a wife wanting to know why her man carries Rhineland dirt half across the world to sow it on his lands same as precious

grains of proven wheat. He told me this thinking I would understand what he did and why, believing I would know what I do not know. I will never forget his face shifting from adoration to betrayal, drained of hope for us and our future, a future so thoroughly shattered no words, no love, no time, no truth, can redeem his love and win my redemption from this purgatory of isolation. Still I do not understand, and that pains me. If I knew, I could help. Each time I would share his pain he falls deeper into anguish, each time a fresh betrayal, another solitary descent into torment; and I… , I do not understand, and cannot stop asking what it is he may not share with me who shares his bed. I am required to keep my peace and so I do and have… , until safe silence is my life habit woven new each day until it cloaks the truth of me from head to toe. Lowered eyes are the veil worn by women of my faith to prove obedience. Yet the veil slips and will not hide my seclusion where I fade into naught. The plains are too big and empty to encom and contain the primordial habit of separation sealed fast by shuttered silence… , and only a fiercely persistent mutinous wind to give it voice.

The Thing about Addictions

It’s a controlling belief in powerlessness And an operative faith in the rightness of that belief You are not alone – most of the world’s people share that conviction Only the defenseless must continually compete to demonstrate the presence of their own power to the outer, and apparently greater, world The physical form(s) through which Spirit expresses is, was from the beginning, and always will be finite The Spirit inhabiting and expressing as the ‘self,’ with your name and history, is and ever was, infinite, and, infinitely expanding and eternally in at-One-ment with Source, which is Infinitely and Eternally Omnipotent In Truth, Power is one of the Twelve Powers given to man by Jehovah God in the formation of the Divine Idea of man in the One mind of ‘God,’ a name that, along with Source, Divine, the Infinite, Great Spirit, Allah, and so on, are among the thousand(s) names of God Your own Good Book reveals the names commonly used in your Faith practice As an Infinite Essence that I AM, man might question if a thousand names is an operative upper limit on the possible names of the Infinite Eternal Expanding Presence Addictions arise with the conviction that you have no role to play in the transformation of mankind foretold by prophets and foreseers across all the time of man on planet Earth They are invoked with the paralyzing awe that you do play a fundamental role in the transformation of mankind through the re-membering of human consciousness with at-One-ment with Source

It’s the (dis)functional fear-faith that there is no possible return to Source because of sins against Source Consider that ‘sin’ is an ancient archery term meaning ‘to miss the mark’ Assume that the ‘mark’ – your life target – is at-One-ment with Source, then every choice, behavior, action word and thought can be measured against that mark Your ‘mark’ can only be found in the still small place of Source in your heart center Come soon Consider that the electromagnetic energy (the attractive force of life) of the human heart center is five thousand times more powerful than the electromagnetic energy of the human mind/brain Here’s how to use that knowledge, my Conscious Co-Creator. When you have an idea that inspires you, hold it in your conscious mind exploring it for what you like and what you don’t like about the idea. Now, shift your conscious mind awareness of your idea to your heart center and be there with the concept Notice the idea elements that come with an emotional charge. Sense the ‘flavor’ of the emotions. They are alerts, like ones from the control of your auto, to beliefs that no longer serve you Paradox exists in form. The prudent co-creator considers opposites while crafting an action plan for manifesting an idea/concept from the infinite formless into finite form Functional awareness of the Truth of Oneness guides the conscientious cocreator to make wise and even enlightened choices leading – without conflict – to manifestation from the formless into form Consider that an operative faith in Oneness obviates separation anxieties and the consequent sin(s) of separation Go and sin no more, my Enlightened Ones It’s the anxiety that you may be the Change Agent you see in your highest visions of yourself and the world and its people – a disbelief that you play any role in ‘re-formatting’ life on Earth into the next highest expression, the Next Gen (generation) of what humans came to be and thus to do

It’s the fear of being viewed by others as ‘special’ and the potpourri of human judgments that attend ‘being special’ It’s a reluctance to encounter your own fears – and the fears of your Ancient Ones – they are all your Ancient Ones, and that distresses you too – until you again with the Truth of Oneness that both you and the Ancient Ones are and always were One (with) Source Energy You naturally embody the fears of your Ancient Ones – otherwise, you would lack the capacity to heal Ancient Fears – all fears are a variety of separationfrom-Source anxiety If you are alive now, you came to restore Spirit to life – begin with your life – which is all you can change It’s the fear of owning and allowing your Truth, the Truth of what you are and what you came to life to be and to express into life and who you continue to be when your human body no longer serves you It’s the dis-ease that may accost you in moments of clarity and Oneness when you envision a world in shift and consciously re-member again with the Divine potential in all of mankind and in all of life It’s the ‘possession fear’ that overwhelms you when beholding visions of who you are in Truth, of the gift you came to bring to life, of your intuitive knowing and ownership of abuses of power by the Ancient Ones Until you own it, you are powerless to change or manage it It’s yielding to the fear of surrendering utterly to a power so much greater and vaster than your highest hope for mankind. It’s an abiding faith of your own unworthiness and in your personal incapacity to do any worthy and great things It’s the ancient fear that others will find you out, and they will judge you… , even as harshly as you do It is lack of self-respect and the rejection of its companion, self-love You can esteem and love others only as well as you love and respect yourself Without self-respect, iration for others is delusion, a fool’s fantasy

Without self-love, love of others is fantasy freighted with a steadfast faith in separation and judgment Change your mind, change your life, my Enlightened Ones It’s a lack of awareness that there are always and forever an abundance of positive options and outcomes available to the conscious co-creator It’s a ivity around making mindful choices about how you’d like your life to show up for you It’s the E.G.O. (Edging God Out) conviction that you are powerless . . . , just as you were born It’s the conviction that you are vulnerable and at-risk if/when authentically expressing your Truth

Thus

You

Stay

Small

And

Vulnerable

And

Powerless

The archetypal Victim awaiting… , sometimes hunting for… , an Ab

Sometimes a hunter stalking the hunter

Sometimes the Victim, eager to grant even the ultimate forfeit simply for the chance to experience the redemption of love…

. . . Among mortal gods

Sometimes the addict forever pursuing the substance of choice

In Truth, Love is a gift already given as one of the Twelve Powers, yet not fully received by man Arise Prometheus-man, break the bonds of servitude to the sins of separation and return to at-One-ment I await you here, my Beloved One

The Barren Wife

“The Daughters should have a say in what’s done about Father,” Hester says. “It’s our children too who are spoiled by his randy love. The mothers should have an equal say in protecting our children.” “And the Sisters… ?” Hester flashes a lopsided grim grin, “The Sisters got their message to Father soon after our pregnant nun ‘retired’ to the nunnery. Our sons and daughters came at risk then.” Jacob nods amiably, “the Daughters have as much at risk as the Knights.” He looks away, irritated, then snaps: “And, Father would not have itted the problem in the presence of women. Nor would he have freely been part of the solution. We didn’t leave much but agreement for Father to contribute.” Hester steps away to refresh their coffee keeping her eyes averted. Firmly replacing the pot on the back burner she says “he never… ,” Her frown is rigid, “Father didn’t do anything to our boys did he?” Jacob chortles, and when Hester looks up he beckons her back to her chair. “ when I invited Father to come bless our herd, and I just happened to be castrating a yearling when he arrived?” Hester nods; Jacob continues, “Well, they say a picture is worth a thousand words, so I gave Father a picture so crystal clear that he did not need one spoken word to take my message.” Jacob’s eyes dance, “The boys were helping with the gelding, and when Father saw me with my pliers, and both boys helping with the castration, he went a hideous bilious yellow, and excused himself until we finished. “As Father left the barn he assured us that our new steer would get a special blessing when we were done. Our sons’ eyes blessed me when Father left us to our work; and we shared an openly conspiratorial clucking, crowing, bawling laugh.” He nods agreement, “Unrepentant… , to the man.”

Hester studies her husband and murmurs “You planned that? You gelded that bull for the sole purpose of demonstrating to Father what he puts at risk if he doesn’t keep his pants zipped when performing his priestly duties.” Jacob nods agreeably and says: “With intention, planning, and premeditated aforethought; yes, I did.” He appends an apologetic: “I feel bad about the bull though! He’d have sired many fine calves to the herd.” He winces and moans “and brought in so much money in stud fees…” “Husband, you are disconcertingly like your father when you have decided on a thing. You are one eyed and uncompromising to the end.” she grins despite herself, “and unlike him, you do it with ominous innocence.” She is silent a moment then asks: “What if Father had not gotten the message? “Wait, Jacob, on second thought, I don’t want to know that. I am deeply grateful that you are on my side.” Chuckling softly she says: “Instead, tell me what happened in the Knights’ meeting with Father.” Jacob frowns, then slides a hand over hers. “Father itted that he is a randy son who winked at the vow of celibacy and took the penitent’s path of frequent confession and ‘purifying’ self-castigation. Knowing that complicity inspires secrecy Father made it an honor to be chosen to ‘help’ him on the altar, and always stressed the need to keep their secret safe forever, and to never tell anyone.” “Jacob, stop! Hester gasps; “you must not tell me this! “I too know how to use your special pliers and I am sorely tempted to use them for an altogether other purpose other than growing meaty beef for the table. This man is our parish priest!” Fighting a grin and failing, she revels in glee “It would not do for a Daughter to castrate her Father, and throw his balls… , into the sea, I suppose. Our parish is far too small to house that mighty myth, Jacob. “Tell me about the Knights’ solution instead.” “Hedda Geis is a Daughter isn’t she?” Hester nods with brow-arched curiosity. Jacob sips coffee. “Well, as it turns out, Hedda loves Father – her words – according to Reinhold; and she will happily serve as housekeeper and cook, and

take care of his physical needs while she’s there.” Studying the steam curling off his coffee Jacob murmurs surly sour stoic “So that Father can keep taking care of the spiritual needs of his parishioners.” His last six words come out as a tearing throaty growl. Hester inhales sharply, and whispers “Hedda’s barren!” Jacob nods. “What did Reinhold say about this?” “I quote. ‘She’s barren. She loves sex. She’ll take care of me before, and after, she takes care of Father. I’m retired. The extra income will help.’” “He said it that disionately?” Jacob nods. “That is painfully cynical.” “Or purely practical.” Jacob defends to the jury in his cup, then adds “Words don’t change reality, Hes. Perfect solutions are of God’s realm. They are as rare as hen’s teeth where man lives. Human plans can’t anticipate all the ways an issue shows up in life.” Sliding a hand over hers, he adds “life is imperfect, wife-mate. At times only an imperfect solution meets the need.” Hester sighs “I know. Still, I want to protect Hedda from what she knows is wrong, and wants anyway!” Lowering her eyes she its: “I have a personal ion to punish Father for the harm he’s done the people he came to shepherd and to shield. “Why not ask the Church to assign him to another parish, or to another role in the Church?” Jacob numbers the reasons on his fingers “That moves him to other people who don’t know his problem any more than we did. That is avoidance, it is not a solution. There is nowhere else to move him. He’s too young to retire. And, we are a small parish, insignificant to a global church with past Popes who took the name Innocent to declare their blamelessness for being born the son of a Pope!” He clicks his tongue and hisses, “I’m not over that yet. And it’s only been centuries since the last Innocent Pope! “We either resolve the problem with Father, or we keep living with the outcomes and adapting to them because ignoring the truth does not work! There is no perfect solution, Hes, but this one works.

“Hedda and Reinhold will make it work,” his fierce eyes meet hers, “with, or without, Father’s help. Reinhold agreed to the plan first to protect the children, and then for Hedda,” he shakes his head in awe and perplexity, “for her good love for Father; and then for the parish, and then for the community.” The couple silently studies the order of the willing Knight’s advocacy objectives. Jacob speaks. “Sheriff Ben was there. “The Knight in him goes militant when talk turns to the pregnant nun… , and it did. Ben wants to go out and strike the head off a serpent, or dethrone an archdemon, or some other-worldly worthy deed.” “I think Father ed my special pliers because he glanced my way, and quickly assured Ben that when he became a priest he believed he could be celibate, that he could manage his urges by censure, denial, prayer, and penance. Now he knows better, and he willingly accepted the Knights’ solution.” “Did Father tell the truth, do you think?” “Truth is more a journey than a destination, Hes. When Hedda prepares the favorite meal of a guest, she will eat with Father and his guest. Father will not ever again call children from the school to ‘help him’.” Jacob scratches his palm vigorously, “My hand still aches to use my good tool on our bad priest.” He sobers sipping coffee, “Maybe Father heard the truth this time and let it set him free to be the priest he always hoped to be. He’s not the first to feel shame for his physical needs and act in guilty, shameful ways. Did you know Father was zealous about mortification to discipline the body into obedience? I’d hate to be his dog.” He grins mischief, “Maybe not, for I certainly would bite the hand that feeds me. “Father owns some fiercely punishing beliefs, Hes, and he has scars to tell the power of those dangerous dogmas.” “Scars?” “Before Father arrived; and after the Knights were sworn to confidence, Reinhold told us what Hedda told him about going in to clean Father’s office and finding the good father dishabille with a student.

“Hedda also told Reinhold, and he told us, that our good Father once held a boy’s mouth closed with a ‘fiercely ionate kiss. ‘Hedda’s words’, Reinhold assured… , and not his.” “Oh like any of us Knights would ever imagine Reinhold could ever string the words fiercely ionate kiss together in one sentence? Not! “We let the bad boy tell his tale to his own tune and in his own time. “But I thought you would go there,” he grins, “we Knights certainly did. “It turns out that Hedda sometimes prepared and served a favorite meal for Father. She quickly realized that each special meal she prepared was actually the favorite food of Father’s guest. “One day, Hedda asked Father if she could prepare her favorite meal for him and be his guest to eat it. Before Father could think to speak, Hedda softly, meaningfully, and confidentially confessed to Father that she was barren. She could bear no child. And she really liked playing between the sheets. “And… , the cherry Hedda put on top of all of that sugary sweet for Father was that she had always loved him dearly and well. “’What man could say no to such an offer?’ Reinhold’s words, not mine. “Reinhold rather proudly reported the understandings Hedda has with Father around the when, where, why, who, and how many for each meal; plus all and any dietary restrictions or requirements.” Jacob chuckles, “Hedda will charge Father by the head fed, the cost of the food, and the time needed to prepare each dish, serve the meal, clean up afterward; and she gets to take home leftovers. She gets safe strange and a personally pleasurable way of earning walking around money. “As it turns out, the Knights learned that Hedda’s favorite meal is Father’s favorite meal, and soon we were calling it a ‘shake and no bake meal’; and that rampage continued until our watch Knight came to warn that Father was on the way and we should settle down and be knightly before he arrived.” “You planned this? The Knights set a watchman?” Hester’s stunned face betrays

a tickled grin. Jacob nods solemn as a judge, “Indeed we did. “We Knights did not intend to need Father’s forgiveness before our meeting with him began. “The unexpected blessing of spending our irritation in high camp is that no Knight took down the ceremonial sword and rebuked Father into a gelding before our meeting with him even began.” Hester tips back her head and inhales fully to create inner and outer space for the opening, the allowing, the easing, and the healing laughter that must wing clear and free as an eagle or she will burst. Jacob watches her as she laughs relief, release, and resolution. He takes her hand in his, strokes the gold band on her ring finger, looks into her eyes and weaves his laughter into the spritely music of hers. “It was an uncommonly dramatic evening, Hes,” Jacob tempers his upwelling glee long enough to soberly add: “It was, without doubt, the singularly strangest Knights meeting I have ever attended.”

What We Must Not See

Sitting on the hood of the car, back against the windshield, the girl delights in the bliss of an abiding sense of Oneness with Source, and with all expressions of life appearing on the physical plane. She hears the murmur of the evening breeze playing through grasses and the sibilant laughter of leaves tossed and tickled by the cooling air. She listens to the chirps and twitters of nesting birds and the busy buzz of bugs and feels her awareness shift and expand until all earthly sounds resolve into one sound, one point and counterpoint to the cosmic harmony in the symphony of the stars. Miles away a car door slams and good night calls convey the resonant grace of everyday life in town. These homely sounds are underscored by the song of iron on rails foretelling the rumble of a train still too distant to hear; and through, over, and above it all resonates the soothing music of Mother Earth as light galaxies echo the harmony issuing eternally from the infinite heart of the universe. An imminent peril shreds the girl’s serenity as the survival instinct focuses and diffuses her eyes and awareness. She becomes more deeply one with the indivisible energy pervading all of life. Securely enfolded in Universal peace, the girl peers into the dark shadow by the house with a lively curiosity holding the power to quell the quivering dread that is forever awakened in man by encounter with the mysterious unknown. By practice of ancient origin, the girl focuses her left eye into the darkness while shifting the right eye up and away, and there she sees a deeply more profound blackness crouched in the ebony shade cast by a rising harvest moon. A wolf . . . ? The silent words are both curious question and devout denial despite the question mark that follows the words. Darker than night… ? Here? Impossible! Wolves don’t live on the plains. Their food isn’t here. The calm assurance of logic dutifully numbering impossibilities comforts the girl and she is not afraid.

Both denial and dread hold the power to reassure and to debilitate with equal efficacy, yet unlike caution, denial is a powerful act of conscious will that denies that physical world appearances and temporal illusions have any power over life whatsoever. By its gift denial awakens the dormant aptitude of Power that trains the mind, promoting both physical and extra-sensory perceptions to a complete mindfulness that exposes the true nature of energy and opens the inner ear to sub audible sounds. Sounds such as the sultry silken slaver on eager breath that grates keen against her inner ear alerting nerve endings throughout her body to prepare to fight or flee. Sliding from the car she stands facing the ebony shade in the deep shadow and intuitively knows that neither flight nor fight are viable options now. Held safe in a calmly comforting presence, the girl activates a long-eyed objectivity that suspends all faith in “reality,” and seeks instead her Spiritual core housing the essence of faith in the power and presence of One Source of life on all planes of existence; and she knows no fear. Following guidance and curiosity, the girl tracks electric impulses through the brain of the beast, coming to know the impossible intruder as thinker, observer, and actor. Her heart stutters as she grasps the truth that all its forceful energy is focused solely on crossing the divide between the physical and metaphysical planes of life. She cloaks the inner light. Now her mental with the beast is instinctive, intuitive, pre-tactile, and it stimulates a bloom of unexpectedly alluring savors and flavors in her mouth. She feels the metallic weight of blood on her tongue and the hot the lustful thirst for the warm pulse of it in her mouth. She is stirred and pierced by a violent possessing ion that paces in her howling for a maleficent purge of destruction that clears space, catalyzes regeneration that forever inspires rebirth and renewal. The power of the beast in the gloom of her conscious mind voice wails, he will drain my life energy into himself believing then that he will live long and hold and wield a power he never dared nor dreamed. She feels more than hears the soft sibilant snarl that binds and enthralls her in succulently exposed terror. Her conscious mind, fully armed and loaded with facts, figures and data points

of the physical world, rides to her rescue, bracing and cloaking her in reason and assuring her the vision is only that, a captivating creation of her imagination; and guiding her to simply imagine something else. Braced with reason, the girl intuits that a dire darkness in another dimension cannot harm her. So long as the shade remains in another dimension, on another plane, she reminds herself, I am safe. She tips a half-mouth sober sour grin, presently however, I face an open portal into another dimension, and the dedicated dire wolf pacing there. The beast probes me for vulnerability, fear, the blink of an eye, anything that allows him to leap into this plane… , but that aside, I am safe from harm. Like stalemate is safe… Casting a quick glance to the door of the house, she mentally sees all inside, connecting anew with the lights, the shadows, the familiar sounds, and with the peaceful spaces of the enduring harmony of nighttime inside the house. A sibling snaps at another, a parent pacifies, and the house settles again into a familiar harmony and the girl is comforted yet troubled that her family is nesting for a quiet night peacefully unaware that dire wolf lurks near. For the peace within, the girl forfeits her king. Why are you here? Her sharp silent demand arises from deep within, surging forcefully from a nameless knowing that the Beast must faithfully reply – transparent and true – to the voice of power.

In the Mind of Separation

She sees me! That is impossible, I am shifted. Human eyes cannot see the shifted… , unless the Shifter wants to be seen. The beast strides a tight track of internal reason, then bares a toothy grin, except for those with the Sight to see… They said she had the sight, the old ones. Even Papa said it. Yet this one does not know her inner light, a curious incapacity for one with Sight. And thus, she hides safely in plain

sight. A pity no one with Sight thought to guide and train her. Maybe they too didn’t see… The scent of anxiety wafts to the shrewd shade and the instinct of the hunter power of Wolf infuses and alerts him. Defenseless in her power. His grin is toothy and careless of the drool that slow slides between teeth and over his lips, he tenses sinew and muscle as he turns hot red eyes on the girl impaling and immobilizing her – as he knew it would. In times like these the smile of a wolf induces terror that by ancient mesmeric power immobilizes the victim. The leering beast glories in its mystery, its power, its dire reality, and cannot help but gloat. I am here tonight because thoughts create, niece-s-s-s-s-s-s-s. “Niece . . . ,” the girl thinks, curiously indifferent to the puzzle knotted in the word. The wolf leers at her, head still, eyes locked, body pacing, tail whipping, leering, snarling, snapping and salivating dramatically, knowingly feeding her fear fuel to heighten the drama. I am both the spirit and the nature of your inmost terror on this dark night of your soul when your precious God has abandoned you to a power that is beyond and outside the scope of its authority! Scrupulous in the use of words, the girl quibbles, nothing is beyond the scope and authority of God. Not even you… , soul sold cheap. Her thought words as soft as a caress, Not even you are absent from the eye of God. Now her words are scalpel sharp and sure slashing away false and diseased words. Even my eye sees you and the ways you have wasted the gifts of the Father even as the Prodigal wasted his. Yet the Father forgives, and loves, and welcomes home the lost lamb, restoring him to abundance, and to One love. The girl paces a tight figure eight countering the path of the wolf, a wise and knowing smile lighting her eyes as she consciously uncoils the track wound by the wolf, gently exposing it to the core. You are not willing to do that. Even now. To you reconciliation is weakness. Instead you pig headedly slurp slops even hogs won’t eat, all the while mumbling like a mad vicar that God, not you, is responsible for your self-abasement. You’re just a brat baby in a big body, whining over the exact same consequences of the exact same choices you made

before, and over again, ad nauseam. Slapping the car hood of she demands. Why are you here? I want in, the compelled wolf snaps thrilling terror, to that plane where you are, its eyes slit on hers pinning her like a moth to a board. You are my entry portal to the plane where I want to be. Knowing the beast wants to thrust its ravenous lust for power into the physical plane where she and her family create a life and live is wholly unacceptable to her. Knowing that should the beast enter this plane through her, she would no longer be, although her body mind and brain would continue to exist: the essence of her would depart from this plane and be exchanged for a soulless vampire in possession of her body while feeding itself fat on the life force energy of others. She looks to the house and back again to see twin arcs of molten fire blaze from the eyes of the wolf to arch a livid red bridge across the gap to where she stands stunned stupid yet again, by the impossibility that is leering appearing in the shadows by the house. I am too young for this . . .

The Goddess Speaks

No! Timeless power rises bold and defiant in the girl evoked and invited by a tiny timeless goddess who rises up within and through her. Without instruction or thought she, or the goddess, instinctively blocks the energy of the hot red arcs and the instant leap by the unthinkable across dimensions to seize and use her as its own. You will not return to this dimension through this portal. The tiny goddess weaves warding sigils over the girl’s aura and disappears in a wink. Safe as a stalemate is safe… The girl thinks.

Unfinished Business

Scarlet eyes and red molten bridge glare at the girl from the gloom as animal instinct and will re-focus, recalibrate and probe the unproved will and skill of youth. Tasting the air for fear and its opportunity, the beast hunts for a drift of focus, a moment of distraction, a tight grip of fear, to allow completion of the arc to allow the leap, and the lusty draw of life energy to feed, to heal and to enliven him. The still human part of the beast comforts the girl, and itself, that when he is healed and whole again he will tend and pamper her, nurture and nourish her, and do all things in his power to do to shape her into his own beloved forever one. One he will not kill, nor allow to die a slow and lonely death as his father had done, as his death would be without the infusion of the girl’s bright spirit. Possibly, the man in the beast covets only one to tutor, to prepare and to train to use his rare gift of power to fulfill the deathbed oath made to his father – to complete the unfinished work of creating a safe place for his people to live where they need to hide and shelter only from tornados and never again from angry men with fire and grief mad mothers with kitchen knives and head bashing pans and pins. This one is the promised one, Papa. The wolf thinks. This is the one with the power to make your vision reality in this bare hard land. It was none of those you chose and sired and trained and turned to your purpose. This one, hid by Jacob and Hester in plain sight, in your house, on the land you set apart to shelter people like us. Your fear of death blinded you. You feared dying without a successor that you trained and fed, and fed on. But I wasn’t good enough for you. I was not even good enough to be sent to the priesthood as a third son is, as mother begged you to. I wasn’t even worth being your food for life. Why could you not love me? The wolf whines, head hung low. You feared betrayal, he growls, because you betrayed before any could betray you. Dead men cannot betray anyone you always said. Your fear led us here. Only I was willing to be your successor, willing to learn from you to use power as you did.

But I am a third son, unworthy of inheriting land or power. Nothing to you except a food source. I loved you anyway! I did your will, I obeyed you. I learned to think, drink, talk and behave like you. Even unconditional love is inadequate to fill the hollow howling sink hole that is the heart of you. My brothers rejected your heritage, Papa. They turned their backs and walked away to another life far from your creation and plan. Both sired serfs and peasants keen for sowing and reaping and preserving the herd and the land, unwilling to use their gifts of power, let alone to refine and to perfect them. You were so determined to have a successor before you died that you trained and anointed some without gifts, some who could never prepare this land for those who wield the power of life and death. You knew that too, even then. You invested your faith in quantity and took that as a fair exchange for quality. With no one in your life, there was no one to help you, no one you let get close enough. Not even I, who was willing to feed you, was enough to fill your greed. I, an unworthy third son, unfit even for the priesthood. You opposed giving a priest into your church, or a son to be your priest. You should be here to train your hesitant heir, Papa. He sighs, but your spirit has left this fallen land. It falls to me alone now. I, who can no longer heal flesh wounds without trace as once I could.

The God of Science

The minor deity called ‘doctor’ names it “cancer.” Wolf man says. I will die of it. Of course I will die of it. Your ceremony in the Cellar guaranteed that, and your greedy feeding advanced the guarantee. What is not known is if I hold any power at all to train your successor for the work of making this land as a refuge and a haven for those who shift. Would that any other of Jacob’s peasant brats had the gift and not this contrary wary one who casually blocks my energy; and knows that vigilance alone secures her.

You would not teach me, Uncle, the Spirit girl taunts. You would drain and shape me to your will so I become a puppet you control, and then take the gifts that are mine to wield when it is my time to use them. The wolf smiles toothily. Telepathy is one of the gifts by which our people are known. This one uses telepathy with untutored mastery. Her will is a strong shield – for one too young to proficiently wield the weighty weapons of mind. The girl is the one, Papa. It is she who secures or destroys us. Anger rips through his animal throat in a menacing snarl, Luck is a fickle mistress, niece. The girl gasps, the shield wavers, the beast leaps.

Charge of the Calvary

Both Jacob and Hester hear the psychic dissonance in the same instant. Without raising eyes or showing alarm, they send out exploratory thought probes that quickly converge in the shadows by the house, and on the coiled muscle and covetous consciousness that lurks there. Uncle… , brother… , Jacob’s thoughts scratch like fleas at the mind of the beast. It snarls warning, and intensifies focus on the girl’s growing fear. He hurls paired arches of livid energy at the exposed child. No! The voiceless command packs authority, and the livid energy arch spatters impotent against the shield she raised. She is too young to command this power alone, Papa! In a vortex of time, an ebony tail whips and futile dominance discharges impotent rage. “Girl… ? Oh there you are. “Why are you stooped down beside the car like that?

You’re frightened! Is something by the house?’ Hester pushes the screen open, tips her head and casts awareness into the shadows, feeling more than hearing the preternatural snarl. “Is someone there… ?” She demands. Silence. She smiles, “Uncle, is that you?” Stretching, tearing pain whisper hisses from the shadow, the girl’s eyes widen in dread as she watches the dark shadow puddle soft and shapeless and then shift with agonizing snarls onto the feet and into the tedious substance of a human form. The sibilant wolf growl morphs into the sound of a human throat hawking phlegm into a shadow garden. It is, in its own way, a solemn and sufficient reply. The girl wonders dimly if she will ever again find the kitchen garden a safe and sunny place, or nighttime a peaceful and wholesome unity. Hester rebukes the shadow “when you come upon one of the children at night you will make a noise, Uncle, so that you do not frighten them as you have done tonight.” It was not an order yet the words and tone left no hope of mercy for any breach. “Come child, it’s almost bedtime; let’s have a cup of tea before we sleep.” The menace of evil dissolves in the shelter of a Love that understands, yet does not fear the dark uses of Power. As the girl slips by her, Hester cups her cheeks and gently brushes thumbs across her temples to ground her. Centering deeply, she puffs a soft kiss of forgetfulness against the girl’s third eye, when it blinks, she seals it closed with a thumb as she intuitively repairs and patches torn memories to restore only recall of a tranquil, star-filled night with no hint of separation, nor any basis for it. Uncle is gone when the sun rises. The girl does not fear the night nor does she see the shades that sometimes loiter in shadows, for she can no longer see into the infinite and multi-dimensional space between the formless and the formed.

Freedom’s Fire Works

Freedom stops in her tracks on her approach to Smithy’s forge. She blinks. Three times, actually. Still her mind will not grasp nor comprehend what she sees… , perhaps her mere mortal mind cannot comprehend what her eyes see. The left window of Smithy’s General Store holds a series of white painted wooden boxes of varying heights. Atop each stands one of Freedom’s fired glass pieces. The center box, taller than the rest proudly presents the bowl Freedom created with twelve colors, each representing a color associated with one of the twelve apostles, and strewn with a brilliant fiery galaxy of pave diamonds. RO’s bowl. Freedom’s mind slowly absorbs the placement of RO’s bowl, then, like cold asphalt in summer sun, she begins to melt and to face the totality of the profoundly artistic display of glass pieces she formed while working at Smithy’s forge. Something in Freedom’s heart breaks. The break completely sunders her habitual defenses, her small self-awareness. Her customary poor self-esteem shatters into a million little pieces not unlike a carelessly dropped light bulb. She cannot go back. She takes one step back. Viewing the display as a totality now, Freedom smiles at the simple, artistic arrangement of the pieces. Her smile widens with new confidence. If I can’t go back… , then the only choice I have is to go forward. Forward to what? This is the same exact moment in which Freedom sees the whole picture, including the metal sign gently swinging above the window, and realizes that the words cut from it read: Freedom’s Fireworks. My way forward is written in the sign. She smiles and self-corrects: Our way forward is written in the sign, for I am one among many; and as I become whole, others must also shift too.

The message of Freedom’s Fireworks is bigger than me. She smiles, eyes sparkling like exploding fireworks. Freedom rings for all! She accepts that. It fills her full with the power of understanding. And so it forever must be, Amen. If I am here to change the world, let the change begin in me. Her smile is a knowing, willing surrender that sunders naught beyond her small selfawareness. She inhales fully finding spaces in her lungs that may not have known the presence of oxygen let alone the fullness of it. She experiences her first oxygen high and spreads her arms like a bird opening its wings to collect the healing rays of the sun. She finds stability and renewed confidence in that simple avian act of self-exposure to everyday reality. I feel reborn… She owns with a smile that rises from within her lighting every cell in her body, mind, and brain earth suit. Welcome, Spirit! Welcome home again. Freedom inhales slowly, deeply, inviting the transformation of light to infuse her, allowing it to spiral from her, to ooze through and out from the pores of her. Eyes closed, she experiences the enthralling expanding radiance; but does not allow herself to open her eyes to see it. One ought not to look too close with human eyes at the wonders of Spirit, for only the inner eye can see that radiance without being blinded, shattered, and sundered to naught. Freedom’s Fire Works, she muses absently, who’d a thunk it? Who but Smithy! She amends with appreciation. And the lady RO. I can almost feel their two heads tucked together in a conspiracy to create something far grander than anyone ever imagined before. “Well what do you think of it then?” Freedom jumps, startled by the unexpected barrel chested voice at her elbow. She turns to see Doc standing proudly by her side iring the artistic window display and the cut metal sign swinging silently above them as though it were his own most excellent surgery work on display behind the glass. She grins helplessly and its: “It’s amazing. It’s artistic. It’s beautiful, it’s… breathtaking. I’m speechless.” Doc grins and quips: “Any chance that becomes contagious like a new disease vector?”

Freedom giggles like a birthday girl teased for her gifts. “Which part would you like to be contagious, Doc, the ‘speechless’ part? And would that apply to men who are doctors, as well as to ordinary human beings?” Doc harrumphs, “That’s too much to ask for, wouldn’t you think?” She eyes him sidelong, squinting, assessing, then challenging in the end. “I cannot imagine why any human would ever even think to wish that another human become mute… ,” she grins, “unless they were asking for something any faint fool would tremble to ask in fear that the silence sought would fall like a dark pall… rather than a peaceful, starry night. Like the one we’ll see tonight… ,” she motions upward, “if we look up… , instead of focusing only on the dirt covering our new shoes, and failing utterly to appreciate that we actually do have new shoes.” She is full-tilt scolding now; and Doc’s not sure whose being chided. He’s not entirely uncertain as to why. He shrugs it off, imagining it as one of those perplexing complexities of the creative mind free to roam and soar beyond the limits of the physical world into areas of thought and reality not often revealed to or seen by mere mortals. “O-o-ouch!” Doc yelps like a dog with a stepped on tail. “Sorry, Doc,” Freedom pats his arm amiably, “but you probably never lived a day as a slave, so you have no inborn sensitivity to how dehumanizing that is, how utterly irrational it is for one human to be owned by another like they were nothing but cows or toe sacks with no independent life or will of their own! “You have no idea what it does to people to be ordered about, to be used shabbily, to be sheltered in shanties with leaky roofs, holey walls, no insulation, too little food, and no chance to get yourself or your kids any education, let alone a good one that can give you and them options beyond dragging a toe sack around ever living day from rising to setting sun. You have no concept of what it means to not have any right to not be physically, emotionally, or mentally violated without permission, nor even a polite ‘by your leave’. “That is no different, Doc from fucking a cow where she stands tied for milking simply because her eyes are deep, wide, brown, curious and she has tits and a uterus, and the man is hot and horny, most probably because he beat his wife bloody and she’s in no condition to ‘share his love’ . . .

“For the most part, a man is indifferent to anything but his own need. It doesn’t even cross his mind. So, is this white/black abuse, or merely male dominance long gone twisted and touted? What exactly is dominant or noble about being fiercely heavy-handed with any person smaller, poorer, or more powerless than you?” She cross her arms across her chest, stands militant, and fires: “Humans set curious examples of humanity among man. “And you, you entitled white man, you cannot possibly know that slaves are given only toe sacks for clothing, last year’s unused hominy and already rotting potatoes, and not one stick of wood for a fire at night. That is how ownership of humans by other humans shows up in life, a lot like vampires leaching life from others. That systemic abuse is a forever punishment for the victimless crime of being born black, or poor, or disadvantaged, or female, white women get black eyes too. And Doc don’t say boo.” Freedom falls silent a long while beside Doc, then pats his’s arm comfortingly: “We can only be indifferent to the pain of others when we have hardened our own minds and hearts to injustice. That separation from Source anxiety cannot be healed with pills or powders taken orally… , and so we behave like fearful docs who dare treat only the symptoms and never dare look at the real cause of the illness. “And it is a sickness, a whole body human disease vector that no one ever even acknowledges because it cannot be treated with man-made drugs.

Shawn Gallaway: When I Let Go

“That dis-ease can only be healed with love, understanding, and just bloody giving a shit about other humans regardless of their history or skin color or superficial entitlement!”

Doc tips Freedom an off-sided grin and asks: “So, can I take that to mean that I can be absolved because I have no pills or powders able to prevent racism and human injustice; and I have no eye drops to make the human eye color-blind?” Despite her simmering snit, Freedom gives a grim grin. She snickers softly behind her hand, then chortles, then throws back her head in a full throated belly laugh. Doc s her. It feels good! It feels healing, and whole again, newly reborn into wise self-awareness and a keen perceptive innocence. When only their grins remain, Doc asks: “can we do this more often, you and me?” Freedom smiles: “I’d like that. Maybe sometimes we’ll argue in the heat of Smithy’s forge so that it burns away the dross in us, leaving only a clear and molten beauty.” Doc nods skeptically, “Oh yes, I can see myself sweating away the dross in me in the heat of Smithy’s forge, all the while arguing with you about seeing truth, and whether it can even be seen.” Freedom’s laughter sings like glass chimes dancing in a gusty breeze. “You are such a wimp, Doc! Com’on,” she grabs his elbow, pulling him in, let’s go see what Smithy has done inside that isn’t showing from the window. “Is this amazing or what?” she asks motioning to the display of glorious glass she first forged in her mind, and then in Smithy’s fire. Doc agrees. What’s a guy to do? He smiles an inward smile, secreting what he already knows… , that he is the only utterly dispensable actor in this improbable impromptu celebration of art, birth, life, and the irrepressible human urge to rejoice in the living of it.

It’s a walk on role at best… Doc muses with definite indifference. After all, I am the perfect actor for this small yet indispensable role in our ever spinning play of life. True celebration of life is rare in humans. Rarer still are the number who can act the small parts in ways that are not small at all for they gently emit a pervasive quality of uncommon grace into the drama. The play of life changes then… Actors in the play of life cannot know their role, but can anticipate how the impromptu play of life may evolve into ‘reality’ that can be changed at will. Willfully, through the power of Will, or heartfelt through the power of Understanding. The actor’s choice may benefit from knowing that one cannot make a wrong choice in the ever-evolving play of life… , but there are consequences. It is interesting to note that the Power of Will is represented by the color silver, and the stone diamond. The Power of Understanding is represented by gold, and the stone amber, which is not a stone at all but is formed as fossilized pine tree sap. Understanding means standing under the weight of the physical world and holding it up to Spirit with the expectation of Divine right outcomes. The Master said: ‘get thee first understanding,’ for he knew the right order of invoking the twelve Powers of man, thereby inviting and inducing divine right outcomes even in the face of oppressive suppression. Still, the psychological abuse that left no outward marks on Judas impressed him deeply with the force of mental and emotional abuse that paved the way for his betrayal of Jesus, born as it was from his tormenter’s lust for earthly power and willful a blindness to the right use of the volatile power of Power. Nor had the mercenary militant man even an iota of the true gold power of Understanding. Caught up in his musings, Doc bumps into Freedom who stepped into the common room and stopped short. Looking up, Doc understands. He grins as noisemakers of every sort, including a kitzy kazoo whirred by a man in a white rabbit suit, erupts in the room along with whistles and huzzas aplenty. Of course, Doc thinks quizzically, there would be a man sized Easter bunny in Smithy’s common room on the Fourth of July… He shakes his head hoping to reengage some sense of logic and reason in the face of the scene before him. It

doesn’t work for him. Doc gives a why not shrug, throws back his head as a giggle erupts from his belly to bubble up through his chest due in small part to the fact that a wee green sparkle-eyed fairy has blown a coiled noisemaker into his face tickling his nose with the pink feather at the end. Alice… , where are you? If you are still looking for the white rabbit, he’s here, my dear, come, our Mad Hatter’s tea party. No fine china cups though, more’s the pity. Doc grins irreverently: Besides, Smithy’s coffee has been in that pot since dawn when he lit his forge, and it’s black enough to stain even a stainless steel mug. Doc peers into the depths of his thickly steaming cup and shrugs: These cups have what might be called the ‘patina of age’. I would not let Smithy into my surgery on a bet. Still, it is the nature of his parts supply and his forge work that he lives and creates comfortably in spaces that are not clean only because there is no point doing it. A casual wind blows through Smithy’s. The overhead fan stirs the air and dust motes that dance golden in the sunlight streaming through the newly sparkling windows. Doc smiles. All is well in Wonderland. It’s why I like coming in to Smithy’s when farmers and tradesmen are in for parts and supplies and to do what’d be called gossiping if women were doing it. Men, he grins, they’re just getting down and dirty and telling it like it is. Life gets real then. And when it does, you can’t hate a man. Any man. Even though you don’t like him any better you did. Plus, farmers carry rifles and shotguns. They don’t carry six-shooters like cowboys, and they don’t practice their quick-draw every damned day of the year! That’s a good thing. Farmers like making things grow, they like taking care of winged things and animals, domestic and wild. The good ones kill humanely, and only after asking the animal if it is willing to serve as meat and clothes for the winter. I’ve never heard tell of an animal that said no when asked to serve and be served. Once when I was young and didn’t know the wisdom of asking permission to take a life, there was the deer I drew a bead on, and I meant to kill. I could not because I knew from her eyes, and the shape of her stomach and hips that she was female carrying babies. I smiled at her… , and she at me. Her mate

appeared as silent as a breeze from behind a copse of trees, his rack held trophy high, muscles fluid and relaxed, his pair of three round eyeballs pierced mine. There were no words. Not anything remotely like words, just fleeting three part images blowing through my mind changing swift and fluid as quicksilver. In that moment I experienced the last five days of the deer pair as though they were me and I was them and there was no separation.

Shawn Gallaway: The Source

I felt a joy uncommon and far too transcendent and heartfelt to resist. I breathed joy, experiencing the shape, the weight, and the worth of it. I came to know and to feel that joy is the highest octave vibration, and that all humans and all of nature responds positively to the vibration of joy.

With clinical precision, I started to analyze the joy factor again, and again. I was all in my head over joy. That is not where joy is found! Man’s mind is not where joy abides. I wanted joy back! I wanted Freedom’s fireworks to flare inside me, in the hot core of me, in my heart. This is a new concept for me. I determined to cultivate a habitual expectation of being in joy every day. Slowly, I began to realize that when my thoughts are cranky, fussy, or buzzy busy, my joy factor is low. And what does the opposite of cranky, fussy, and buzzy busy feel like? It feels like joy! Of course! Choice point, Doc. Freedom’s fire? Or same old same old for the rest of your life? A man can get comfortable with the same old stuff. So comfortable he never see the SOS, the same old stuff he emits with every breath, every thought, every subtle patter, and every expectation. A man can get so stuck in his SOS rut deep dug by force of habit born of his cultivated beliefs about who he is, what he knows, what he does, and about what’s expected of him, by himself, and by others, that there is no other way out of being what others have come to know of him. He can no longer be another self; and if he tries, he dies in their eyes. I’ve seen it happen and the man wither away in weeks. There’s no other way out because… , oh God… , what is expected of me, by me, is reliability, conformity, predictability! Just keep on being an old man stuck in

the same old rut. Its source is my small self-consciousness. My own personal slave consciousness… , never made a slave, yet still living my life as thought I am one, doing what’s expected of me by others. I am a subservient slave o my own conformity consciousness. I am shame-faced. I am stunned stuttering stupid for the small self I have shoehorned myself into being, all the while assiduously assuring myself that other people expect it of me! Thus, I am not responsible! Que tonto! Que totalmente estupido! That is not enough! That is so not good enough! Freedom’s fireworks… The message of that sign gets me to thinking that perhaps the time has come for me to just let go of who I think I am. A time for me be set myself free enough to forge myself into a wholly new person than who I currently think I am… , and do all that without stepping into the flames of Smithy’s forge. The surgery is plenty hot for this Doc. I will leave Smithy at peace with his forge and his firework. I could, however, create whole new self who also happens to be a small town doctor still making house calls to rural neighbors. Doc grins to himself: Now that’s some small town stuff. Well then, Doc, who is the new me that I will now choose to be? And what freedom fireworks will I set go off in me to light my way as I become new and whole again? An interesting thought to ponder. What is the nature of the new Doc in the old Doc? Way over my head. Angels… , Help! I’m calling all angels.

Shawn Gallaway – When I Let Go

Looks like me and Freedom are on the same journey.

Wonder if Freedom’s called her angels? And, if she hasn’t, can I do that for her? Doc is silent awhile, internally and externally pondering the likely outcomes of his intervention, and, of course, he considers the proper remedy and the right dosage… He stops mid-thought and changes course. A remedy… ? To be applied by a doctor who is not minding his own business? Not on my watch that’s not happening. Back, bad Doc! Back to your cage. Doc was never obedient. His premise being that the Divine One gave man free will and therefore clearly does not, expect obedience from us. But he does expect compliance. With quiet and firm determination Doc unlocks the door of his self-made cell knowing that when his small self is healed, released and set free, there are no boundaries left to limit him.

Shawn Gallaway – The Artist

Freedom’s Birthday Party

Freedom stops abruptly inside Smithy’s common room, and Doc, following close behind bumps into her… , again. He frowns at Freedom’s uncommon inconsistency, and at his deep feeling of discomfort at touching her – again! She’s not even a patient of mine! What has gotten into this woman? She’s usually quite sane and composed… , in everything she does; and now she’s banging about like a bat in a box! Start, stop, start stop, start, stop… , it makes me crazy. “What’s gotten into you, Freedom? Why did you stop again, so sudden that I’d run into you… , again?” Doc is in a snit. Freedom can feel it oozing off him like dark, sooty shadows. Freedom is silent a long moment, then, without word she points up at a sign hung from the wall of Smithy’s common room. Doc follows her finger up to a banner sign that reads: Happy Birthday, Freedom! Doc gets it. All of it, including the likely conspirators. He grins at the speechless Freedom and says: “Every girl needs a birthday… And personally, I believe July 4th is the perfect birthday for a woman named Freedom Rider. “My hat is off to the man, or the woman, who came up with the idea.” He steps around Freedom to face her and adds: “Just between you and me, I’d look to the Lady RO and Counselor as the likely co-conspirators.” Then Doc can’t help it, he throws his head back and gives a full throated belly laugh that is contagious, in no small part because no one has ever heard Doc laugh before, and the surprise delights each and every one of them. The adults at least. The children, mostly unaccustomed to displays of affection and exuberant joy from their stogy old parents are taken aback, stunned silent for the first time since forever. “No one’s even drinking wine,” the older twin puzzles. “Nor schnapps, for that matter… , the short-cut to stupidity. Face it, sister, our parents have either gone slap out of their minds crazy, or… , maybe this is the

new normal.” She shrugs with exquisite indifference and adds: “Could happen.” “Let’s make it happen!” the other twin entices, “you and me. We both know they will give us whatever we ask for. Let’s get beer, one for you, one for me, one for Mom and one for Dad.” They do high-fives. “Bring me a beer too,” Doc suggests as the girls dance away as though he’d not spoken at all. Doc shrugs, turns to Freedom and says: “Let’s you and me go get a cold beer, and then let’s find a place to sit and talk about what those twins are likely to be conspiring at.” “How would I know anything about that?” Freedom asks genuinely perplexed. Doc cocks a brow at her as though she’d itted and demonstrated, congenital idiocy, and, as straight faced as a bored cow, says: “We’ll make something up, silly girl. You’ve seen the twins in action, it is simply not possible that we can make up anything that is not in the realm of probability for those two. “And, we will like the outcome, whatever it is… , because they are good girls.” Freedom eyes him askance, and Doc feels it even if he doesn’t see it. “Counselor and Lady RO are devoted, attentive parents. They have every reason to be proud of, and to have confidence in their girls. Even when they are behaving like wild hellions.” Doc grins, “Consider that toe-tap dance lesson they gave the boys,” he gives a full-body chortle and notes: “who were boldly too sure and too fresh. They had that lesson coming… , and it was a pleasure to watch the girls deliver it.” Freedom giggles at his description and explanation. “I guess we can’t do the wrong thing then.” “No… , we can’t. But we can do something. Something right is what I’d prescribe.” “What ya got in mind, Doc?” “Love. “Just love.

“Nothing else amounts to a hill of beans.”

Shawn Gallaway: I Choose Love

Freedom cocks a brow at Doc wondering at the value of a hill of beans, and wisely, doubting that she even wants to know. ‘S probably not worth a hill of beans to know the answer anyhow. Best let it go.’ “So, Doc, that wine’s not coming to us… , best we go get it ourselves, and then find a table where we can watch what happens, and make up good gossip about it.” “What is good gossip?” Doc sniffs stuffily. “Stick with me, Doc, I’ll learn ya some stuff you didn’t even know you wanted to know.” “In exchange, I’ll teach you proper grammar.” Freedom chortles, “Oh, so you’ll teach me to talk like a white girl?” Doc’s eyes narrow on Freedom. He hisses: “No. I will teach you to talk like an intelligent girl, a girl with a good mind, a good vocabulary, and with no need to use nigger slang, nor to talk like you are small and powerless. “Talk like a black woman if you want to, you are one. But do not talk yourself down in any language, at any time. “Play dumb, and you’ll be treated like a dumb woman; and when it comes to selling your art glass, you cannot afford the luxury of playing dumb. Creating and selling art takes nerves of steel and a mind as sharp as a tack that doesn’t miss anything, and cannot be conned into selling art at craft prices! “Sometimes I don’t ire you at all, Freedom Rider. You are smart, an amazingly creative artist, and you talk about yourself like you are still a slave! I could snatch you bald right now, Freedom, and I doubt that anyone in this room would raise a word of protest because you’re hugging your slave consciousness like it’s your greatest treasure and gift. “You’re buying the next two glasses of wine.” Doc snaps setting his empty glass down hard on the table. “Slaves don’t buy wine they will drink. Slaves fetch and serve wine to their masters. So, you will buy the wine and serve me as your master ’cause I’m white, or you will stop hiding your brilliance under cover of your poor little black girl shtick and start behaving like a gifted creative artist.

“Serve me as your master, slave… ,” Doc hisses through jaw locked teeth, “or sit with me as your friend and equal; but one way or the other, get off your damned fence before you come back to this table with our wine. “And you’re buying.” Freedom rises, feeling dismissed and diminished. She is crushed, her mind frozen by the frost of Doc’s words and the icy chill of the word ‘slave’ as he spoke it… , like spitting acid before it burns his mouth. She wants to cry like a scolded child… She will not cry. Freedom turns to buy the wine, eyes blinking fast to distribute her tears before they fall and shame her. I don’t even know what kind of wine Doc likes. Hell, I don’t even know what kind of wine I like. She approaches the bar nervous and anxious over all she is not, and all she does not know. When she looks up she sees a bright smile of recognition on the face of the bartender. “You must be our artist in residence, and toast of the town, and if that’s true, the Lady RO and Counselor have paid your tab for the evening. What’ll you have?” His smile is so open and iring that Freedom can marshal the nerve to tell him the truth. “I don’t know what I’ll have… Do you know what Doc likes?” Pulling up a high-ball glass, he shakes in an inch of ice, no more, no less. “Black Jack Daniels, on the rocks.” He reports as he puts the glass on a napkin and slides it over to Freedom. “And for you?” Freedom shrugs expressively and says: “I have no idea, not a clue.” The bar man grins, pats the bar, points to a stool, and says “sit.” She does. “I’ll take this to Doc so he don’t get apoplexy waiting, then I’ll be right back.” “Do you like wine?” He asks when he returns to the bar. “Most ladies prefer wine over hard liquor.” Freedom grimaces and shrugs eloquently, and says not a word. The barkeep studies her a silent moment. “Do you like grapes?”

“Yes.” “White or red?” “Both.” “Which do you like best?” “White, I suppose, they are crisper than red grapes.” “Alright. We’ll start with a white wine then.” He pauses, studying Freedom intently, then hesitantly asks: “Do you like angels?” “Yes.” The barkeep smiles, eyes merry, and asks “Ever call angels?” Freedom nods, the barkeep smiles. “Ever call all angels?” Freedom nods again more slowly now wondering what question he’ll ask next. He smiles, reaches into the ice filled wine well and pulls out a bottle, turning the label toward Freedom. She smiles as she touches it. “A wine named ‘Calling All Angels’ . . . , yes, I think that is exactly the wine I want to try. Do you like it?” “Love it! But I’m a barkeep; and I don’t discriminate based on white, or colored.” He can’t stop himself from giggling merrily and Freedom, caught up in his glee, is laughing too. “Seriously now, I may drink white, or red, or both. At a formal dinner for example, I’ll drink white wine with the appetizer and salad, and red wine with the meat course.” “Oh,” Freedom smiles impishly, “When I still worked at the Master’s house… ,” she giggles, “I used to serve wine that way.” “Go ahead, it it now, you drank leftover wine while you were cleaning up after the party, didn’t you?” Freedom didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. She didn’t even blink. “Oh… ,” the barkeep moans softly, “You didn’t, did you? Are you are a wine virgin then?” Freedom nods. He studies her like a specimen under a microscope. “It never even occurred to

me that I would – that I could - ever meet a wine virgin. “And here you are, a near famous artist who’s never had wine!” He places his hands gently over hers and asks: “May I… , will you allow me… , to introduce you, gently, and most respectfully, to the wonders of wine? Oh, I would love to do that for you. And I promise you on my mother’s grave, that I will never… , hear that… , never, ever allow you to become a wino. Not on my watch! That will not happen.” “Um… ,” Freedom pulls her hand from under his, pats it gently, looks deep into his eyes and says: “Do you suppose you could just pour some Calling All Angels for me? Would you do just that, please?” “Oh! Now there’s a worthy request, don’t tell me, show me!” He chortles as he pours angels into her glass. Then he pours some into his own glass and offers a toast ‘to the wonders of wine.’

Shawn Gallaway – A Call to Joy

“Okay, Freedom, you are the guest of honor at this birthday bash, go, be with your friends and family.” He feels her hesitation, smiles sagely and says: “And, if you don’t count these people as family… , well, shame on you, you narrow minded, scared half silly, artist!” The way he says it does not make ‘artist’ sound like a compliment. More like a complaint. I have so much to learn… And that’s the good news!

Girl Talk

The girl comes to Hester in the kitchen where she knows she will find her mother. She steps to the lower rung of the kitchen stool, arms flat across the cushioned seat, leans back carefully slow and attentive to the point of balance on two legs of the stool, and with a grin of glee balancing herself weightless there. Yet the inviolate law of gravity applies, and the stool drops with a soft plop – as the rule allows. “What do you do when you’re not with me?” Hester asks. The girl is dancing again on the point of grace of a kitchen stool disobedient to the inviolate law of gravity. Her smile is a glittering glow of faith grace that dwarfs mortal rules and faint faith, and poises her stable on the inviolate laws of gravity, and on her fervent faith in love’s grace. “I talk to God.” Hester is gob smacked watching the girl balancing weightlessly on nothing more substantial than an improbable point of faith. How does that work, D.O.? I’m in uncharted territory. Help. “What do you do when you’re not with me?” Hester asks, ambivalent as to how much she truly wants to know the answer. She stirs the stew of stuff she’s preparing and waits. “I talk to God.” The girl’s answer is certain and sure and holds no degree of doubt nor dissembling. Hester is gob smacked and stirs the steaming stew in the pot, all the while truly stirring the small hot pot of doubt and denial that’s scorching and bubbling over inside of her. I don’t want to go there. I don’t want to be here. Why is this happening to me? Is it happening to you? Or is it only your self-centered slight awareness that wraps ripping tight around

the axel of your small faith that subjects you to this dreadful test of faith? Or, is it a fiercely tender love meant to lead you, by your nose ring if it takes that, into your own intimately personal dark night of the soul because you have an atypical child, and you can’t come to grips with that? You are not the first woman to tremble in terror at and for the child she bore, and then to rise up on weightless wings of faith to seize the true gold ring offered by angelic grace. And, you are not the first mother to freely yield all fear to the silent, inscrutable will of The Unknowable One. Oh, and the Divine One gave free will to man will which means the D.O. does not expect blind obedience… , but She does expect compliance. Mary chose to comply with the impossibly improbable promise that her son would be a game changer in life, and that through fulfillment of his life mission, he would change the status quo ante of world mind, and shift it into a new living, breathing reality in human consciousness. What if you had Mary’s faith? What if you willingly surrendered your human will to the will of the unknowable unknown, and formed within yourself a new inner space where the implausible, and the improbable are housed and held as key articles of faith? What if your kid really is a game changer in the play of life? What then? What if angels really did come singing odes of joy and wonder at her birth, but the inner ear of your heart was full clogged with delivery pain, life distractions, and your typical small self-awareness? What if you, in your unyielding personal will, simply could not hear their pealing odes of joy? Tell me true, dear heart, what frightens you so about the girl? Hester’s hands flail against the weight and mass of her anxious anxiety and her human will of not wanting to know. The girl is not… normal. And I don’t know how to deal with that, I don’t know if I am to fix her, or to be the wind beneath her wings.

Do you often try to fix what’s not broken? Hester grins a wry nod of ission. Was Jesus normal then… , do you think? How about the Buddha? Krishna? Mohammed? Was the virgin mother Mary normal? Que tonto! Que totalmente estupido! The D.O. snaps clam closed, full silent in restfulness. No. But I don’t how to protect and preserve her innocence, as a true mother must do. Call angels. The D.O. quirks a quick off-sided grin and adds: I’m serious. Take me so, for the Master taught: ‘you have not because you ask not’; and also said: ‘ask and you shall receive’. Can you muster enough to faith to simply ask? Can you surrender your wavering will to my will enough to create an inner sacred space where you are one with me, and safe to receive and cherish the grace that free flows through the girl? That’s big girl stuff, Hes. That was big girl stuff for the virgin mother too. Her child was destined to be a game changer in life; and life rarely swallows bitter healing medicine with either dignity or grace. And that is where grace comes into the picture. Grace is freely given in abundance, and rarely fully received by humans bound in the mortal coil, and fearfully obedient to the never-enough mantra of faint faith. Separation from Source anxiety.

And that really pisses me off because I gave man free will, and man squanders it on fear and faint faith. If I had meant my creations to be obedient, I would not have given them free will. Que tonto! Que totalmente estupido! Instead, I gave man the gift of grace. I gave, and give it, freely, and upon request. The Master did say: ‘you have not because you ask not’. So, my hesitant Hes, are you at choice? Are you fully and freely willing to be compliant with my will, and ask for the grace you need to mother this child wisely and well? Are you willing and able to surrender your wary will and receive grace without fear of the invisible unknown? Are willing to yield your small self-awareness of who you are and why you are here? Are you willing to let go and yield to the will and the way of The Unknowable One? Are you full-out willing to let go and be the Divine Mother of a game-changer in life? I AM. Send grace angels STAT; and open and fill in me a space of grace for angels to succeed and hold sway.

Shawn Gallaway – When I Let Go

Hester slips silent again into the gentle gift of grace and the presence and of angels galore, faith light shining in her eyes. She asks the girl who’s poised on an infinity of faith grace on a stool in a country kitchen: “When you talk to God, what do you talk about?” “Whatever is going on”, the girl says in uncommon candor: “About whatever’s happening.” “Did you talk to God today?” The girl lowers her eyes suddenly shy. She nods once. Hester sees her hesitation and wants to know, to understand the surreal uncertainty stirring sluggish slow with the small spoon mouth pursing the girl’s lips and guarding her eyes. Baby spoon small, Hester thinks, too tiny to hold and chew the tough meat of her apprehension. What’s that about? She wonders, frown clowns frolicking across her face. “Come,” Hester says, lowering the flame to simmer high, “let’s have a cup of tea and talk about talking to God.” She tips her head and declares: “I believe that you can teach me some things about talking to God that I don’t already know. “You don’t want to tell me what you talked to God about today, do you?” The girl shakes her head. “Why is that?” The girl snorts, face and eyes glittering hard as a pair of ice blue marbles. She opens her mouth to speak, snorts a glad giggle, grins and its: “I didn’t really talk to God today.” Her grin twists into laughter, “I yelled at him! I told him what I wanted him to do, and to do it now!” “Really? How did that work out for you?” “I got what I asked for.” Her grin is glee, her power is patent faith. “And that was… ?”

“To send angels to protect and save our garden,” she decrees with candid candor. “NOW!” Hester is stunned stuttering speechless and in that surrender, she hears again what she did not hear a moment ago, the sub-audible shock of the sound barrier shattering. Of course I didn’t hear that! But I felt it. Oh my, this is a game changer! “And then we would starve!” She snatches her hand away from Hester’s, elbows out and up, fists curved like a belligerent pugilist, and primed to punch; eyes fierce with unrepentant will. “I didn’t ask.” Her grin is disturbingly grisly and grim. “I demanded.” “I commanded the Divine One to send angels to shelter, shield, save, and cherish our garden. “I asked,” She says simply; “and I made myself big enough inside to contain a living, breathing, thriving miracle of grace.” Her eyes pool with tears but they do not fall, “And angels came…” “Let’s go look at the garden shall we?” She says taking the girl’s hand. “Today’s duster was fierce and forceful enough to have uproot everything we planted there and the plants will need tending loving care.” The girl grabs her mother’s hand stopping her short, and says: “Look at The Angel Garden.” Hester looks, but does not see. Not a thing, not even the vaguest glimmer of a hint of green nor the gate, nor even the chain link fence. Interesting… , but not very funny. Okay, D.O., I am blind. I cannot see. Lead me. I surrender to your will and your way. Make me your instrument full true to your will.

Light my way as I go, for in fear I stumble in darkness when I do not hold your hand. Take me. Choose me. Use me. Make me your instrument… What’s a good God to do, but to be a good God?

Shawn Gallaway – I Choose Love

Hester just lets go of her fears and all her daunting doubts, and, shift happens. She sees through her inner eye – and her human eyes too – into one transparency overlay holding and illuminating this holy infinite instant of time, and space, and matter. And none of it matters. It’s only matter… , the substance of Earth Mother. Not a whiff of it is worth a tinker’s dam if truth be told. But a miracle working kid? Now that is a whole other matter, even for the mother of a whole tribe of one-off progenies. Most of them don’t own and allow their pain so can that it be forgiven and can be healed. I don’t own and allow my own fear forced torment… , and yet the Master said ‘you have not because you ask not’. I ask then. Hester bows to grace and welcomes it home. Give me your grace. Make me your instrument. Use me, make me to sing your truth joyful, clear, and whole forever and a day, every day, starting now, in this perpetual one holy instant.

Shawn Gallaway – In The Balance

Hester rather likes the balance. She delight in the poise and grace of universal equilibrium dancing on a pin prick point of time somewhere within the boundaries of endless eternity. Shift happens. She looks down at the girl as she looks up at her. They share a smile. They bond again and anew in the infinite eternal equilibrium of grace generously given and willingly received in gratitude. “So, shall we have a look at the garden?” The girl looks down and away, “First you have to know some things that are hard to hear. And even harder for you to believe.” Hester nods agreement and says: “I think I need you to hold my hand please.” The girl gives her hand with a smile shining bright with unconditional love and gratitude. “And, I think I need to be sitting sound grounded on Earth Mother lest the thunder of truth sunders me to dust in the wind where I stand. “You can take it I do believe – and I cannot.” They drop Indian style to the dry powder dust that blankets the land. The girl takes a deep breath, takes her mother’s hand, and begins her tale of the furious, frightful, and knowingly willful fall of Archangels that shattered peace in The Angel Garden. Where to begin when you don’t know when the beginning began. She dives into the perpetual pool of possibilities, and begins the tale where she lands. “The Archangels, I suppose, is a reasonable place to start a never-ending tale that has no beginning and no end.” Hester is captured and captivated before the girl speaks again. “The Archangels in The Angel Garden are Michael, the D.O.’s first knight; and Gabriel, Michael’s strong right arm.

“Except the ‘Gabriel’ in The Angel Garden is Gab-re-EL. And she’s a bitch on wheels. There are a host of other angels in The Angel Garden and they serve as the struts that the dome of The Angel Garden. “Michael’s assignment is to be the strong center pole that upholds the core of The Angel Garden dome. “Michael is A.W.O.L., manic in his separation from source anxiety and his fixed, fixated rage over being given an assignment that, to him, is an unwarranted demotion from his original role of First Knight in the D.O.’s war against the fallen angels. “He thinks he’s been demoted and can’t see anything else. He’s a one-eyed myopic octopus gazing at his navel seeing only a deep twisted hole with muck in it. Michael is twisted in self-righteous rebellion against the will of the One. And he’s a pain in the ass. “And then there’s Gab-re-EL who is seriously, and serially, not handling her gender identity issues with grace. She’s pain in the ass number two. She’s not a nourishing, ive, helper, healer guide that Gabriel is! She is so fallen from grace she’s fighting with Michael like an angry cat under attack and intent on ending it once and for all. Que tonto. Que totalmente estupido! “The First Knight and the Second in Command, are fighting tooth and nail, and yowling like a couple of cats in a territorial spat. It’s nothing more than a furious food fight to them, and it’s laying waste to The Angel Garden and everything in it. “It’s no wonder Bam White stripped the un-angelic angels of their knightly armor. Bam rightly named their conduct dereliction of duty.” “I’m not sure I want to know: but what are they wearing now?” “Nothing but cuts, dirt, and bruises. Otherwise they’re as naked as jay birds at birth. “That is not a pretty picture.” Hester chortles and agrees with the girl without saying a word. “And then there’s the dragon.”

“The dragon?” Hester asks, her eyes full round with dismay. The girl nods. “Oh my! That is unexpected display in a series of curious events. Say on, tell the dragon tale tall and true.” “It’s the dragon Bam rode in on.” “Bam rode into The Angel Garden on a dragon?” Hester asks aghast. The girl nods. “Oh my! A curioser tale I have never heard – and Bam himself tells tales tall and true.” “Um - what is the dragon doing in the garden now?” “Turning her belly flop landing into a giant Lilly pond.” Hester whimpers faint faith in the face of amazing grace; and then she just lets go. What’s a girl to do when hearing an implausible tale told tall and true? “A Lilly pond… , I love that! I want that! I can’t wait to see it! Tell on, tell on, time’s a wasting!” The girl is silent and earth bound grounded for an instant infinite moment as though listening to a sweet still song of amazing grace. Hester s her there. “Do you believe?” the girl asks softly. Hester is silent, feeling her way through the question as though the answer lies lost or hidden in a dark daunting jungle tangled and twisted with hanging vines, or are they snakes in disguise? Vines I can climb. Serpents I cannot. What is the hidden mystery here, D.O.? What is the jungle you have lost yourself in? Where is the serpent within? The D.O. poses. Man disposes. Hester replies: The serpent is the sense consciousness mind of man. The longing of unspiritualized man for sensation. Sensation is the state of excited interest or feeling resulting from stimulation of the sense organs. Spirituality lifts up this divine creation and restores it to its pristine beauty.

Oh my, Hester thinks alive with amazing grace. By cultivating his spiritual nature, man’s sensation is crowned with purity, and the son of man becomes light-filled and aware of God’s presence in his body as life, power, love, and joy. Oh-h, Hester sighs recognition, acceptance, release, and surrender, I get it now. It’s a joy job! Oh what fun it will be to play the joy game with Thee, and to be one again with Thee in healing The Angel Garden and the fallen ones within. Serpent man seeks satisfaction through the appetite, the D.O. reminds, and thus he, in creeping, slithering slow increments, binds himself mesmerized by the forked tongued one. Subject to this, man falls to his lowest estate, and from there into his free fall from grace. And there’s a dragon in The Angel Garden. The D.O. reminds, and you need to know some things about Basilisks, the ancient name for wyverns of all ilk and kind. The D.O. imparts some mind-altering wisdom: ‘Dragon’ means a guardian is with you. The appearance of a dragon means that new realms open before and around you. Dragon fire protects creation by helping man manage and control emotions that are too hot to handle. Dragons only act from balance and self-control… , unlike man. Um – so what do I do? Ride the dragon into The Angel Garden. That has to come next. I thought the dragon was already in The Angel Garden! How am I supposed to ride a hot-wired wyvern into a place where it already is, and where I am not? Linear thinking. It’ll get you in trouble and trial when you try to apply it to multi-linear things. So, do you think The Angel Garden is linear, or multi-linear?

Hester listens in silence for the One who speaks in silence before she replies. It is neither. And yet it is both. It’s more like a Mobius strip, or even better, it like the M.C. Escher print of stairways going up and down but never connecting the floors anywhere on the page space of his most famous work. And that means it must be both; and equally logical that it must be neither. Hester exclaims: And that means there is a point of power in The Angel Garden. Interesting. Where do I go with that, D.O.?” Into the dream.

Shawn Gallaway – Into The Dream

Tell me what you see of The Angel Garden. The question surprises Hester. She keeps her lids lowered, hiding the doubt clouds heaped tall and deep in her mind, inside who she thinks she is, her tentative hesitant powerless sense of self. Her victim consciousness. She knows the first optional answer is a locked and loaded defense of her E.G.O. that avidly and eagerly edges God out of her awareness at every chance, and willfully self-blinds her to Truth. Hester surrenders. She let’s go of all her E.G.O. shams, knowingly opens her third eye, and invites the D.O. to see in and through her, and lead her to the whole truth of that lies hidden under the opaque dome of The Angel Garden. Stunned stuttering stupid all over again! She bitches into the ear of the D.O. who hears in silence the steady pushy pulsing beats of Hester’s head hung low heavy heart. And when a wise one has owned and allowed a thing and named the truth of it, what then does the wise woman mother do? Be willing. But get thee first understanding. Will, you see, is represented by the Apostle Matthew whose color is silver-gray, and whose representative stone of power is the diamond – that dances fire off its facets when it catches and refracts rays of sunlight. Humans value diamonds for their clarity, cut, and carat. As D.O., I don’t give a flying rats butt about any of those things, for I am the breath of life, I am life eternal, my voice is the wind. And practically nobody listens! Except Bam. He hears. I am the gentle whispering wisdom of water laughing and singing in playful glee for the freedom of its fluid flow and the rippling washing of rocks and rubble as go. I am the water of life. I am the engrained wisdom of a tree deep rooted in earth mother Truth.

I am the fluid fire of sun. I am the watery mystery of moon. I am the voiceless whisper on wind. I am the deep rooted tree of life held firm and fast in Earth Mother’s allencoming, ever embracing arms of love. I AM that. I AM that I AM. Can you walk with me, daughter of mine, and let me lead the way. I am the Divine Mother. I do what all devoted mothers do, I love without condition. The question is: can you love your gifted game-changer daughter without condition, without reservation, without doubt? Are you capable of willingly surrendering your hovering human will to my will even if you don’t know what my will is? I’m looking for compliance here, not obedience, Hester. While I do have an infinity of time in which you could do that, The Angel Garden does not. The Angel Garden needs your eager . It needs it STAT. Shit or get off the pot. Do it now. Um… , there’s a dragon in there. No there is not a dragon in The Angel Garden! The D.O. snaps. There’s a dragon out here where you are. She points out the obvious. And you are going in, on her back. Deal with it. Get thee first the true gold of Understanding! Then, and only then, invoke the power of Will. We have one chance to do this, daughter a mine, and we will do it right. Tell me what you see of The Angel Garden. “Yes, lets,” the girl agrees assuredly, for she has eyes to see the miraculous, the mundane, and everything in between with understanding, grace, wisdom, love, and with great gratitude that her mother does now see the gate, the garden, and the vivid vital vegetables growing there too. Because there’s still the fallen Archangels, and the other angels, and the dragon, and a boundless leap of faith ahead of my meticulous methodic mother, and it’s

not yet noon. Shift happens. This time borne on the sinewy wings of a flaming fire drake with ion to spare, and the flash dash flair of a Mamma Drama Queen dressed in bad boy drag. “A dragon? Really?” Hester doubts with fickle faith in amazing grace. The dragon drops like a space rock seized suddenly in gravity’s net. The girl silent shouts “NO!” Time warps, and wings back to before Hester’s fickle faith doubt doubled down the fire drake’s risk of death. She wants to be angry with her mom – but she’s only sad that she’s too guarded to find peace. She stops where she stands. He mother stops, and turns to look at the girl. “What is it?” “There’s more. There are things that you can’t see, not because they aren’t there, but because you doubt. “Doubt is spiritual death come slow and silent on padded skulking claw toed feet. “Spirit is inside The Angel Garden.” She says with a fire fierce look on her face and in her eyes. “Doubt is the fierce fire dragon of doom and destruction, and,” she drops her head hiding her eyes, “the fire drake of doubt is fierce in you. It’s a hard doubt that’s sour angry enough to scour from The Angel Garden everything that’s good, wholesome, and healthful in it.” The hurt in Hester’s eyes howls silent dry tears for she knows the truth, and she is just not bloody ready to swallow that bitter pill and let it heal and set her free. D.O., help. STAT! What is your dearest fear?

Dearest fear? Dearest fear? what cherished fear do I hold most dear? She doesn’t get it. She’s obedient, dutiful, diligent, hard-driving, and self-sacrificing! What more can be expected of her? Two quick points to consider: First, since I gave you free will, how can you actually believe I would ever expect you to be obedient? Que tonto! Que totalmente estupido! I do expect compliance though; and obedient people are utterly incapable of compliance, mostly because it’s not punishing enough for them and their daily dozen dirty deeds. A Master I sent told all and everyone: ‘Judge not lest ye be judged’. You are the judge who judges you. You are a notoriously punitive punishing judge, jury, and executioner. Self-sacrificing, now that’s an interesting claim for you to make because obedient people are not self-sacrificing. Obedient people are always pugnaciously punitive. They can be bought, like a packed jury is, like a partial penal judge is, like an over-eager executioner is, like a doubter of amazing grace is. Who is the judge, jury, and executioner of your amazing grace? Take your time, we are two in one instant, eternal, omnipresent moment of boundless time. And, it’s privy to you and me.

Shawn Gallaway – The Dream Lives On

When the dream is done and still lives on inside her, Hester gives her answer with certainty, calm, and deep peace. My most awesome amazing grace is that I am here to mother The Angel Garden through its infancy, it’s toddling talking walking singing dancing and doing stages, and into its maturity, through its great yield, and through the annual degeneration and decay that leads to its resting, renewing, and refreshing season beneath a blanket of snow. The D.O. nods agreement. The girl called it ‘The Angel Garden’, why is that? Open your eyes, all three of them, and see. Oh, Hester smiles, I see. There are angels, arched like struts of a dome, arms linked where they meet to form an air hole. Their angel hair, coiled like dreadlocks, stand upright like porcupine spines, to filter the persistent pushy dirty wind like dust collector windsocks. Ingenious. Angelic. Hester salutes the D.O. What else does your inner eye see? Oh! Well, that’s not good. There are two small dark angry Thor wanna-bes in the dome. They’re throwing lightning bolts and thunder at deep bruised looking clouds at the top of the dome; and whatever possesses that deep shadow of pain, it’s not releasing any rain. The angels are in pain, but that’s no excuse for dereliction of duty. They are angels, aren’t they? Archangels, to be precise. So, who are the first two Archangel names come to mind quickly? Michael, and Gabriel. She is silent awhile waiting for the other shoe to drop. What would the Divine Mother do with two sons both trying savagely to be the first son?

Hu-u-u-m. I take your point. But I’m not their mother. You are the mother to The Angel Garden. The fallen angel pair are in the garden. Why do you think I sent them here? Oh, I see. You sent Michael to be your strong right arm in The Angel Garden, to be the center pole in the hole of it. Michael is in the cloud on my right. You sent Gabriel to be the healer, nourisher, protector, motivator, and inspirer of everything in The Angel Garden. Gabriel is on my left. She scans the garden rows of growing things, and they are surviving but scarcely so. What’s up with that? Look at the cloud on the left that’s throwing Thor’s bolts and tell me the energy of that belligerent. Gabe… , Gabriel. She frowns but her name is Gab-re-EL this time, and she’s in a right pugnacious pissy hissy fit too. What’s that about? Both Archangels know why they’re here. Each angel knows the assignment I sent them on. They know why I sent them to The Angel Garden; and they think I am slighting them. My two first knights think I am punishing them. They believe I have abandoned them. They have fallen so far. Look at their wings. Look at their auras. The D.O. moans: they’re nothing but piss-ass pin heads; and I made them so much more. They have fallen, Hester. My first knight, and my second, have fallen far in the fury of their fear. They need healing. They need the healing love of the Divine Mother. Don’t even ask them. Don’t tell them. Their protective armor has rusted and encrusted into the skin of them, their helmets corroded into their heads, and deep into hands feet body hair and scalp. It’s not even armor anymore, they are imprisoned in their hard false faith. Help them.

Oh… I think that assignment is way far above my pay grade. Maybe you need a demotion then. Just do it! “Angels,” Hester calls in the voice of calm composure. “To me! Now!” “I am getting really tired of this!” Michael growls grouchily and falls gracelessly to the floor of The Angel Garden. Gabriel falls with him landing by his side. Hester does a double-take. “You must be Gab-re-EL, then? Was that a good guess?” Gab-re-EL glares with a soft, slow, tearing, menacing growl. She gives no other reply. “The two of you seem to be as naked as jay birds, what’s that about? Where are your clothes?” “Back to you, Michael. A wise man once observed: ‘doing the same thing all over again and expecting a different outcome is the definition of insanity’. Are you insane? “Or are you just insanely jealous?” “Jealous?” Michael snaps: “What have I to be jealous of?” “Being a useless first knight? “Being on an assignment that does not need a warrior? “Being on an assignment that feels to you like a demotion, and that wounds your pride. “, dear Michael, ‘pride goeth before the fall’.” Hester looks him up and down and snarks: “It looks to me like your pride fell hard and fast. It even blew your angel wings and pure white gown right off your body.

“But, assignment to The Angel Garden does need a man of honor. It needs an honorable man. “So tell me, Michael, how well have you performed your work of ing The Angel Garden? Self-evaluation is an important part of the transformation process, and,” she shrugs, “awareness precedes choice. Choice precedes change. “Will you effing choose NOW! How it is that you want to change the fiercely pugnacious petulant prurient putrid energy of you; and bring instead the strong, upright, noble, and dedicated energy of the First Knight to The Angel Garden. Your choice, Michael. Make it now.

Shawn Gallaway – Choice Point

She’s right. Michael knows it. He’s aware of that. He knows the changes he wants to make. And, show and tell is more demonstrative, and needs fewer words. He owns the tower of power that the center pole truly is. He owns the fire of the sun that enters the hole. He is the air that comes through there. He owns the earth that holds the pole upright. He is the water that enters the hole. He is the earth. He is the wind. He is the fire. He is on his mission, and wants a gold star. “Name it and claim it!” Michael shouts as he uplifts his joy sound until it resounds in the dome like cathedral bells played powerful true and ringing through with odes of joy. “Well, Gab-re-EL, how well have you performed your work of ing The Angel Garden?” “I wouldn’t get a gold star on my grade card, if the D.O. even keeps one.” “I think your greatest faith is that the D.O. is judging. “Demanding. “Vengeful. “That he keeps score.

“That he takes names and kicks butt. “Really? “Que tonto! Que totalmente estupido!” “You should be ashamed of yourself, trying to sell your pile of bull shit as the will of The One. How far you have fallen.” Hester falls silent poised on the point of judgment. Judge not… She hears. She doesn’t go there again. “’Healer, heal yourself first’ a wise one said. You are a healer, Gab-re-EL.” Hester’s smile is teasing, testing. “How would you rate your performance so far in The Angel Garden against the mission objectives the D.O. gave you before you choice fully fell into the mortal coil, and twisted and twined yourself tight around your axel there? She sighs exasperated: “Tell me something, why is this space called ‘The Angel Garden’?” “I never thought about it.” Gab-re-EL shrugs indifferently. “I thought you were deeper than that Gab-re-EL. Gabriel certainly is. Is this Gabriel/Gab-re-EL dichotomy a gender-identity issue for you? No answer then. “You are an Archangel! I thought you could see through the dross of the physical plane, even when it feels close up and in-your-face personal enough to be real. “How far you have fallen! Get over yourself! “Re-member again with the wisdom inherent in your healer gifts. That your faith in healing is, in Truth, housed in your heart, and not in your head. “I thought that Archangels would always default to the heart, and never the head. What is the deal with that? Is this a gender identity thing? “Well get over it! “We have work to do.”

It felt familiar, and comfortable, that someone with higher authority tells Gab-reEL to ‘shape up or ship out’ in kinder and firmer and clearer words than she’d ever heard before. Hester’s clarion call rips through Gab-re-EL like an angel trumpet left behind for a reason she can no longer name. Maybe because I felt no joy in this assignment. I felt no honor in it. I knew no just cause for it. I felt no joy. I felt judged unfairly harsh and punitive for no worthy reason. I judged my Judge, and I fell stunningly from grace. “I heard that.” Hester smiles. “Can you forgive yourself a fall from grace?” “Call it a swan dive”, Gab-re-EL snaps sourly. “Better still, call it riding astride a most dire dragon in a plummeting free fall into infinity.” Hester counters. Gab-re-EL is breathless. She knows no fear. She is at a choice point. Dragon is expressing through Gab-re-EL as the fiery searing soaring ion of the indwelling spirit of knowing and enlightened transformation. Dragon has nothing to do with faith. Dragon has everything to do with the hot cleansing fire of truth. Can I ride truth and let it set me free? As though in answer a dragon appears below Gab-re-EL’s feet. She is crouched on its wings like a jockey on the high shoulders of the great glittering gilded beast. She holds the wyvern whisker reins of like she’s done this very thing for forever and a day. And they’re off! The D.O. announcer shouts and the crowd goes wild. Gab-re-EL knows no fear, no dab of dubious doubt, no searing sorrowing shame, for Gab-re-EL is at one with the divine I AM. She is living without edges, and blasting herself sightless and true into infinity and beyond.

Shawn Gallaway – Living Without Edges

Into Infinity and the Faraway Beyond

And, Gab-re-EL is Hester, and Hester is she. The Divine Mother, made manifest as one in three. The girl is there… , as she must be… , subject to the Divine Law of three in one. As One in three, the girl is sundered and surrendered to the Holy Trinity of three that forever rings true and is perceptively at peace with the Divine rule of One in three, and its correlate, the three in One manifest in the Holy Trinity. Trinity, the alternate, living definition of three in one; and the vibrantly alive and powerfully potent power of One Eternal Infinity of trinity. So, the three of me is me, my mother, and who? The Divine One, dummy. I didn’t give you a mind for the sole purpose of filling the vacuum inside your skull, and stuffing it with useless junk food form from half-truths, innuendo, and outright lies! Get a grip on reality will you, damn it! I’m just a kid, cut me some slack already will you! No. You will not transform yourself into a slovenly slacker. Not on my watch you won’t. You asked for The Angel Garden. You stomped your foot and demanded it. I sent angels. You ignored that gift of grace, and you fumbled the ball shot put right into your hands! You hid your face in your hands and fumbled the ball! I AM not a happy camper right now. And your mother! You’ve left your mother dithering in doubt without your strong right hand to uphold and her. Your mother is the reason you are

daughter to her, dumkoff! Do you imagine mothering is a one way street, or is your delusion that daughtering has no part to play in manifesting the Divine Right Outcome? Que tonto! Que totalmente estupido! I thought better of you. I made you better than that. Get off the dime and call some effing Angels, dammit! Do it now! Order the fallen angels to straighten up and fly right! Use your command voice that brooks no delay, nor any second guess of anything beyond complicit compliance with the full faith and credit of the D.O.! The girl giggles a glorious grin and says: That might be fun, and fulfilling too. I like it. Angels! To me – NOW! I am getting really tired of this Michael grouses as he falls threadbare of grace or garb onto a spot lit stage newly formed in the tight twisted space inside The Angel Garden. Gab-re-EL falls sullen and aggressively soundless at his side. And, Gab-re-EL is as unknowingly unaware as a new born babe of the probable outcomes of her malevolent and maliciously, and willfully furious swan-dive from abundant states of grace.

Shawn Gallaway – If I Could Find A Way

“Are you tired enough to stop being insane? Tired enough to try compliance? Tired enough to own and allow why you are here, that you are here in a mission to save The Angel Garden? Well that’s better!” she grins glee. “Look at you now.” They look at each other, blink thrice, and inhale the grace of transformation into angels of uncommon grace. Thank you…

Council Talks

The setting sun fires golden light rays up the sky painting towering cumulus in incandescent colors of a rainbow. Dark hued clouds shelter shadow in sharp relief against the light. Sundown is Bam White’s favorite time of day, for sunset is a time to own and allow what is, and what is still unhealed within him. Sunset is a time Bam sets aside to consciously release the edgy energy of his self-imposed separation from source anxiety that shows up in him as a tight fisted grip on thoughts and things that truly no longer serve him. Sundown is Bam’s time alone with the D.O. seeking the true center where there is One who forever seeks the Way into a place of inner harmony where he can let be, where he can let go of who he thinks he is, and create an inner space of ing that all is well… , in Spirit… , forever, no matter what’s happening on the physical place of being where his body, mind, brain earth suit exists and has its being. Stepping from his cart and a step beyond, Bam crosses his feet at the ankles, and drops Indian style, face forward into the fiery furnace of the setting sun. He prayerfully raises hands palm up and overflowing with the weight of his cares and concerns, for his people and for this fallen land laid barren, bare, and uncovered by avarice and greed.

Setting the Stage

You cannot un-ring a bell. Bam reminds himself. What’s done is done. It’s ‘forward ho’ now, for there is no turning back for me. The D.O. made that clear… , and loud too, truth be told.

As Bam surrenders all of that, and all his random worries and woes, he lets go, and, sight-unseen, makes a leap of faith that yields him willingly to the will and the way of the One. And it feels good… , in the way the rending agonizing uprooting of an abscessed tooth feels like a blessing when it’s done for the restorative muted emptiness it leaves behind. Bam pokes his soft tongue tip in the empty space exploring the hollowness there. He takes delight in that empty space now opening in the core him like an unfolding rose of many colors. You are a wondrous god, my God, my Love, my Source, my Inspiration. May you live long and endlessly prosper in the garden of my heart where Love ever lives and blooms in infinity. Becky snorts, tosses her head, and coms to a sudden stop where she stands face forward, stiff-legged, rigid eared, and mulishly rooted in place. That gets Bam’s full, focused attention to the space outside of him, without a flicker of inattention to the inner space where the D.O. dwells. Bam rests his mind in an insideoutside Mobius strip of peace, listening in the silence until he hears the still small voice sighing in the silence and speaking of the pain of The Angel Garden, whispering warnings of the serpent of sense consciousness and the desire of unspiritualized man for sensation. By listening to the serpent of sense, man falls to his lowest estate, the disembodied voice instructs, then warns, the serpent of sense abides in The Angel Garden brought inside in bits and pieces on the soles – and the souls – of people who come here. What do I do about that? What’s my role here? Healer. That is why you brought your guitar by the way, I know you were wondering… Music has the power to heal the savage beast, even the Basilisk you recently rode on. Do you what she told you about dragons? No. And how odd that I don’t, yet I do recall riding the dragon, he smiles, and the fine dragon rider clothes I wore riding her. Now I . She told me a dragon guardian was with me, and that new realms would open before and around me because dragon spirit is in me.

Now Bam’s voice is filled with wonder as he recalls: She said my life work this time around is to heal and protect creation; and to learn to manage my emotions so I don’t react, but act only from balanced self-control, like when I was riding the dragon at warp speed and not falling off. So what are you telling me here, D.O.? That the serpent of sense currently resides inside The Angel Garden. Into the expanding silence the D.O. adds: And you are a dragon rider. It is your gift, and your work, to gentle and comfort the dragon; and then to ride her back to her home. How do I get back here then? The D.O. shrugs indifferently and replies: Tractor beams. The same way you got back to earth in one piece when you rode the dragon eons ago. Only eons ago you think? Bam demands. A divine brow arches divinely, the D.O. proclaims: Man’s perception of time is linear. Mine is not. Deal with it. Here comes the dragon now to carry you back Home On Mother Earth, home . . . , do you get it? Bam rolls his eyes thinking the D.O. cannot see. He does. Bam knows it.

Gathering in the Garden

As the regulars trail into The Angel Garden without rhyme time nor reason, they invariably stop two steps in to see a stage set up with orderly rows of chairs facing it.

Though they have grown accustomed to unforeseen and even astonishing alterations in The Angel Garden, this one is a poser, a stumper, a flash mob fire inciting chin-wagging speculation and innovative innuendo. What an icky energy… , the girl thinks, nose wrinkled against the sour scent. It smells bad too, like rot and mold and ammonia stirred into one reeking witch’s brew that fouls the air, stains the soil, and saps plants of life energy. That is so not right! As she walks deeper into the dome she finds the prickly energy universally resident in The Angel Garden. Was this a gradual change so slow in coming that I didn’t see it, didn’t even feel it? Or did the change come too soft and slow to truly see, in the way one might not see green mold even as it grows daily before their eyes? ‘Accretion’ . . . , yes, that’s the word I’m looking for… Perhaps the change was a seeping slow accretion of dark energy that was introduced by man…; and not at all by the Beast. ‘And now, I have the inner eye to see. ‘And I want to see the dragon! Dragon, the girl calls silent in her mind, ‘attend me. Now!’

Shawn Gallaway – If I Could Find a Way

Dragons, and angels, descend, called to earth by a heart harmony they cannot deny nor ignore. In the end of their unified trauma drama exposition, what does an angel or other mythical magical beast, do but follow the call and lead the way? It is so simple! But not easy. The girl feels that. She feels the infinite, unknowable mystery of truth that cannot be denied, nor diminished, nor even deterred, by the will and the ways of man. Nor even by the will of mythical beasts who live eternally present in the lore and of yore of man told tall and true by campfires lit bright and light to keep inner beasts away and at bay. And still they come. And yet they abide… , because the Beast resides inside, just like the dragon does, Bam thinks in an awakening, third eye opening, ethereal moment of choice and will that bridges that which lies between what is, and what is not.

Shawn Gallaway – Cross That Bridge

The next thing Bam knows is that he’s inside The Angel Garden and it’s like his first time ever. And it is his first time ever. After all, every moment is a virgin moment all over again. Factually, in fact. But that detail is practically irrelevant to the plot of this twisting, twining tale of fiction, fact, and fantastical fantasy that is presently cork-screwing through Bam’s brain. Dang it is good I brought my guitar with me. Who’d a thunk it? Other than the D.O., that is. Looks like the whole place could do with a powerful uplift of hope, and spirit, and will that is infinitely inspired in man from his first breath of life unto his last gasp of release into infinity. Looks like The Angel Garden too is nearing its last gasp of hope for healing and wholeness. That’s not good. When did that happen? Bam thinks puzzled and annoyed, until he’s distracted by the sight of a small stage with orderly curves of folding chairs ready to receive the butts of those who come and take a load off, inspired and incited by curiosity and novelty. Not unlike busy buzzing bees spreading gossip like pollen over flower heads new opening to the sun. It is precisely at that moment that Counselor and lady RO enter through the garden gate to mount the stairs to the stage platform where a pair of comfy wing chairs eagerly wait side-by-side for the warm weight of their arrival and for their cozy comfort. Neither the girl, nor Bam White, successfully stifles their rampant wonder at the ways and mysteries of life, nor how it unspools itself, nor how neither man as the unit, nor man as a whole, can ever perceive the purpose of it, nor grasp the outer boundaries of it. God is a circle whose center is everywhere, and whose circumference is nowhere, The D.O. whispers silent and sweet into the inner ear of their hearts and minds, guiding them safe and sure along the way to the fire at their core where the infinite peace of eternity sways gentle and true like the pendulum

arcing inside the infinite and eternal mother clock of time. Mother has a long memory. And slight patience for the dirty details of life and the living of it. People, Mother thinks, bitch too much, too often, and to too little purpose. Mother’s bark is not unlike that of a pugnacious Pekinese defending territorial turf from all comers, large and small, friend and foe alike. Like two peas formed in one pod, neither Mother nor Pekinese, ever contemplates collaboration and cooperation. It never occurs to them. Yet, each and both, whine and moan and beg and try to bribe me to tell them why they have no friends, not even any virtual ones most readily found trolling social media sites. Truth be told, the Divine Mother never genuinely ired the hyper-active, yapping Pekinese. And, the Divine Mother never got the irony of that, not a single sniff or whiff of it! So, here she is, uninvited, yet inside The Angel Garden, ionately snap yapping at all and everyone while distracted, picking and choosing the very best front row seat from which to see and to be seen. Why is the D.M. here anyway? The girl puzzles perplexed and perturbed. She’s never been in The Angel Garden before; and her energy is just as pleasant and as welcome as the serpent was in Eden’s glen. So, D.O., who is it that’s being tested here, the D.M.? The Archangels? Us? Or all of the above? All of the above. The D.M. because she has not been given recognition and honor for eons. Mother is mightily miffed at being persistently marginalized by the male offspring of her universal womb. ‘Pompous priests and prattling prelates’ is what the D.M. calls them… , when she’s being polite that is… , and that is a rarity in itself.

The Archangels too are being tested because, between the two of them, they have raised petty squabbles over nits and tittles to an art form, and because they’ve been smarmy and bitter and war-like; and lastly, because the fallen angels rebelliously tarnished and tainted their demonic conduct raising neglect to an art form – while they abided in The Angel Garden to protect, to nourish and to sustain it. The D.M. is not amused. ‘Us?’ you ask me. Yes, the people are being tested. That said, there is no /fail grade system in the game of life; but there are logical outcomes that naturally flow from choice. For example, the choice to throw a ball against a wall logically leads to the rebound that follows. You? Yes, dear heart, you too are being tested because it was you who called me and demanded I send angels to protect and save your garden that was not yet known as ‘The Angel Garden’. So I invited the evil in? No, you didn’t. Not in your heart nor in your mind. Yet there is duality in life, of good and bad, dark and light, up and down, and in and out, that, like the breath of life flows in and out of your body like a playful wind through leaves leaving trees and busy buzzy bees singing songs of life and love. Did you know that wind represents life currents that arise from within and surrounds and envelopes the whole being? Wind also represents the executive power of man’s mind; and wind opens the way to higher states of consciousness and awareness.

Shawn Gallaway – The Wind Is Always

Did you know that the body, mind, brain, the earth suit of man remains inanimate as dry clay until the first breath inspires the life of Spirit into the infant and it exhales breath in its first cry? That cry is its first deliberate wind of change, and that first breath alone empowers the infant to interface with life in a vibrant and meaningful way. Did you know that the mind is the origin point of every act, thought, and feeling? Did you know that the mind is the natural meeting place of God and man? Did you know that God cannot be described in human words? Do you know that man can only say: ‘I am mind? I know God/ God is mind? He knows’? The girl is shaking her head so much she gets tipsy dizzy and giggles that way too. So, the girl poses: what can I do to heal the energy of every living thing in The Angel Garden?” Ride the dragon in… Bam’s on his way back, and at warp-speed of a dragon, he should arrive… now! The girl and the unseen D.O. watch the gold fire gilded wyvern wings down in a descending spiral to alight lightly at the gate to The Angel Garden. She is intimidated. One free falling dragon scale would squash her like a bug. Do I have to ride the dragon in? Oh, absolutely. No other option that has even a scintilla of hope of success. What is ‘success’ . . . , to you, D.O.? Divine right outcomes. And how does a dragon of that ginormous size even get inside The Angel Garden

without smashing it and everything and everyone inside to smithereens in the first three seconds? Easy, the dragon rumbles, I shrink to fit. I’ve never heard the words ‘shrink to fit’ used in a positive way, Dragon, she frowns quizzically, how do you do that? Watch… The wyvern whistle shrieks like a deflating balloon with the neck stretched tight. The girl covers her ears with her hands and sees Bam’s disapproving glare. She wonders if that contributes to the too sudden deflation of the colossal dire dragon into wee wyvern worm. Adult to infant in five seconds flat! What’s that about? “Bam”, the girl snaps, “what’s gotten into you that you are badgering a fine dire dragon into a small self-consciousness that stuffs the whole it into a body no bigger than a garden lizard?” “I – I – I… ,” Bam stutters to a stop, dropping his chin to his bony chest. He turns away shame-faced, draws three slow, deep breaths exhaling each to a count of ten, then turns back to make his confession. “That’s what I done to myself, if the truth be known. “All of my life in fact, if I say the whole truth of it. I took perverse pride in being so small that I could hide in plain sight and nobody’d ever see me. “Riding the dragon and living to tell about it is the only fine thing I done my whole life through. “I did not want to share that with anyone, not even you, girl.” “So what you’re saying is that you will not share your one true joy with anyone, anywhere, at any time. “Why is that, Bam? Do you think there is an operative upper limit to the gifts of Spirit so if anybody else expresses those gifts, then you are being deprived in some way?

“By the Infinite? “By the Eternal? “By the sole source of all and everything throughout all of infinite time? Que tonto! Que totalmente estupido! “Uh… , I understand Spanish, you know.” “Good, because even nasty true things sound sweet and still real in Spanish; and that makes the healing medicine the D.O. isters go down easier.” “So, how big you want the dragon to be?” “Why ask me? Ask the dragon what she wants! It is her body, her mind, and her brain; and all of God’s creations are inspired with Divine Spirit, and given free will. Honor that, dammit! “Consider your mule Becky who is, was, and never will be obedient. Yet she is always compliant and willing. That is free will made manifest before the eyes of any man willing to see Truth.” “Well, then,” Bam allows, “I reckon the damsel dragon will make up her own mind about the size of her when she goes in The Angel Garden. “And, the dragon lady wants you to ride her in and not me.” He announces. “I can respect that.”

Shawn Gallaway – Living Without Edges

The girl grins with Bam as she climbs aboard the dragon like she’d done it forever and a day. Still she is surprised at how easy it is to stay aboard while flying at warp speed over an infinite void to drop gracefully into The Angel Garden where chaos reigns supreme and unremitting. All hell’s broke loose! She hears Bam think with dismal dismay, even as the wee wise wyvern spirals the dome descending with gentle grace and powerful poise. The girl watches the squalling squabbling scrapping pair of archangels’ freezeframe in mid-swing to gaze gape-jawed at the glittering gliding dragon ing overhead, and at the girl who rides like she was born riding dragon kind. She feels the dry dreary ache of stunted plants withering under a hot quarrelsome sun of anger, spite, and neglect. Spite candy never tastes good, she thinks absently, No wonder the plants wilt, wither, and slow die. That is so wrong, on so many levels… Enough already! Dragon, she thinks, you are a healing kind. It is the wisdom gift of the dragon to make peace where you cannot find it; and your eye is keener than mine… if you can find peace here, please make it grow and glow like heart fire when it’s fierce, and wild, and ravaging hot! But don’t burn anything, okay. Especially that stage humming strangely strong with truth and the power of grace; now or any of those ranks and rows of chairs curiously arranged in perfect order as if awaiting something pure and true that isn’t yet there. What do you know about all this my wise wyvern? Counselor comes… , and the lady RO. The dragon speaks slow and pensive as though feeling her way through what she does not know and into what is revealed to those with eyes to see. They will sit on the chairs on the dais. And the ditzy ditherers and the curious curmudgeons who come today, will push and tussle and spit and spat over the best seats in the house, and that will continue until Counselor bangs his gavel to call order to the

gathering. He’ll wait patiently, the girl observes, RO will not, and RO doesn’t need a gavel bang to call order to a meeting of wayward wandering curio seekers here only to collect and spread gossip ‘sharing’ with any who have ears to hear. Without RO, the gathering will be the tower of Babel amped on steroids by all those busy buzzy gossip mongers taking the regulars for marks easily dazzled by quick told twisted tales threaded through with innuendo and insinuation, but without a shred of truth in it. D.O., why don’t you ever tell it straight and true like it really is? Am I up for this? The D.O. smiles fondly at the girl, pushes a stray strand of hair out of her eye, and replies: Yes. For this you were born into life in this family, in this place, in this barren land; and for this work, you were given the gifts of healing and abundant grace. Plus, there’s the dragon who guards and guides you, who opens new realms before and around you, who protects your creations, and teaches you to control and manage the fierce fire of your soul’s ion. In addition to all of that, the sure-footed dragon teaches you balance and self-control… , and you will need that before this day is over and done. I’m not scared now… , and I was before, thank you. I AM with you always… , since before time began… , until long and long after time ends.

Shawn Gallaway- Shining Star

Invasive Species

Bam guides Becky careful and true through the turbulent vortices of power that shake and shatter the stability of earth, wind, water, and fire, his ears as upright, alert, and attentive as the mule’s own trajectory through the turbulence that surrounds and unnerves both of them. Wish I was ’bout as calm and sure-footed as you are, mule a mine. Something evil this way comes… , and we both know it… , even though we both don’t know what it is, nor what to do about it. All we can do is ask, and give thanks and praise for the presence of angels to guard and guide us. The angels in the garden don’t guard and guide us, Becky brays boldly. They are little more, nor any less, than vampires with soft feathered wings instead of the gnarled black leather ones that clear show their vile, ravenous reality. Vamps in drag is what they are, if you want the truth of it, Becky brays belligerently. Sure am glad you are my mule, Becky. You keep me on the straight and narrow way even when I’m lazy and slow to do what is mine to do. So, mule, what do you believe it that is mine to do? The mule is mute for fifty paces or so, and then brays boldly: Heal The Angel Garden, of course. That’s a tall order for a small man, mule. How do you speculate that I will do this healing thing? How does a small man who’s stubborn as a mule, with a bite like a bull dog, ever do any impossible thing? Find your own answer to your question for yourself, mere mortal, with an inbred habit of small self-awareness, little faith in self; and equally little in the D.O. who made you.

The D.O.? The ‘Divine One’, you ass on my back. Ouch… , oh great testy one. The mule grates glorious glee in a hee-haw, see-saw voice, and Bam surrenders his prurient pride to Becky in giggling his own bold braying harmonies with her. Whole healing most often happens when no one is paying any attention at all to anything but springing joy. It is a good day to be alive, Bam sighs deep contentment in the voice of the whispering wind.

Shawn Gallaway – Healing Happens

Snakes in the Garden

Bam’s in the healing bliss zone, and, mostly oblivious to everything else. Becky’s not. Her foot long ears flap frantic as wind socks thrashed by a nor’easter’s gale. Storm’s a comin’ . . . , she thinks, I already feel the pushy edgy energy of the tempest. I already feel it coming on powerful as a locomotive with a head full of steam. I already feel it lifting off the tracks of the physical plane and launching itself willy-nilly into a formless destination in the great unknown. What’s the deal with that anyway? And my clueless human cargo isn’t even reading the warning signs! Becky brays brashly, her eyes razing his. Huh! Nobody home. What a surprise. And humans call themselves advanced beings because they have bigger brains than beings they call ‘beasts of the field’, or ‘beasts of burden’ depending on the mood, or whim, or fancy, or whatever! Hum-m-m, Becky observes, we’re heading straight for The Angel Garden… , and I don’t think my human cargo is even aware of that. Interesting. I hope it’s not snakes. I hate snakes! But there are snakes. Most of them are in human, or in angelic, guises, but serpents they are. One of them is a winged thing, a dread dire dragon, profusely propelling fire and suffocating smoke into the spoiled space under the dome of The Angel Garden.

That is so wrong, on so many different levels, Becky snorts. Better wake the human cargo right now! Becky turns her head around to Bam’s vacant face and bellow spray brays ‘he-haw, he-haw, he-haw’ into it until he blinks himself awake again and back to the real world. Navel gazing again, she snorts, her eyes flashing fire-cracker snaps from her eyes until it gets Bam’s full attention. “What is it Becky, what’s wrong?” She tosses her head toward The Angel Garden in mute reply. Bam looks up, blinks three times orients himself in the real world, then whispers gape-jawed: “Is that The Angel Garden?” he breathes with wide-eyed dismay. “What the hell happened?” You wouldn’t believe me if I told you… , so, human cargo, you tell me. Bam’s already gone there and answers from his own inner knowing: Snakes in the garden! He frowns, then puzzles: Is the dragon I rode once upon a time in there? Becky bobs her head. Has he gone all dire dragon on me? Becky bobs her head. Any idea why? Becky bobs her head. And I’m guessing you can’t tell me? Becky bobs her head. Can we get closer and be safe? Becky bobs her head. “Well then, if it’s ours to do, then let’s get ’er done mule a mine. “I thought you were scared of snakes.” I am; but if you don’t look your fears straight in the eye, they always seem more powerfully pugnacious and punitive than they do after you eyed them down – for then you can see them for what they really are. That, by the way, is the exact same reason the dragon you rode in on is so

pugnaciously punitive and punishing to The Angel Garden. Becky waits an expectant moment, then clarifies: You care about The Angel Garden. You love it, you love the very idea of it. And, the power of love is infinitely greater than the union of anger, fear, and separation from source anxiety. ion is the power of love in drag. You’d look good in drag, by the way. Don’t even go there, mule. So, what are you going to do after you have arrived inside The Angel Garden, defined the problem, numbered the probable causes, identified the scope of it, its most effective cures; and decided what you’re going do to heal it? What do you mean by ‘you’, mule? You know damn well I ain’t hardly grounded when I’m not around you. Besides, I ain’t nowhere near as wise as you, O Great Long Eared One. Bam’s giggling glee from his belly and infecting the beast before his final salute is full out done. It’s a dynamic duo. And, mule a mine, you always help me smell and taste the soil to learn what’s lacking that needs to be there, what’s there in unwholesome excess; and what to add to nourish and heal the soil. In addition to which, mule manure is top of my list of good things to do to make a garden bloom and yield aplenty. Bam steps from the cart, pulls off Becky’s harness and halter, rubs her ears and the star between her eyes, and says: You ready to go in? If you’re waiting for me you’re wasting time, Becky brays and clops smartly to the garden gate. The first thing that catches Bam’s eyes is the fire gold flash flaring of an overheated, over-amped, flame throwing fire dragon. You – dragon a mine – here, NOW! Bam’s arm slashes down to the earth at his feet.

As though throttled and leashed to the man with the mule, the dragon drops like a rock. The weight of the crash-landed dragon crushing a cavity deep into the dry packed soil, steeling the wind from the wyvern’s lungs, and from of his wickedly wrenched wings too. He flaps feebly three times, then bench-presses himself panting and sweating up and out of the cavity. “Well, look at what you’ve done, you sly serpent. You pressed the perfect place for a Lilly pond in the center of The Angel Garden. Do you see it? Don’t you completely agree?” The dragon huffs and puffs and prepares to blow Bam into next summer, minimum; but, he overlooks one crucial fact. The dragon’s crash landing slammed great gobs of oxygen from his lungs and there simply isn’t enough left to fire. The dragon does blow smoke though. First through its nose, then out its mouth, from its tears, and its ears, its nose, and its throat. Its head’s in the dirt, its tears are muddy, its wings bent awry and twitching feebly. It pretty much all goes downhill for the wyvern after that. Bam leans over the downed dragon, peers into its unfocused eyes, and pleasantly asks: “Are you ready to be part of the solution, or do you need Becky to kick your butt some more?” The muddied beast hesitates a moment too long. Becky does the honors and kicks the boorish Basilisk into a sandy place where only prickly spiny things with barbed hooks grow. I reckon it’ll be awhile before the weird wired wyvern gets his basilisk balls out a’ that sand trap, Becky brays gleefully. Meanwhile, human cargo… , we got places to go, people to see, and answers to find, like: Are angels’ sorta like people after they fall? Or are they something else altogether?

Shawn Gallaway – The Shift Is On

Bam considers options and says: Let’s go chastise a pair of angels while we ponder that poser. I’m in. Lead on. Bam cocks a skeptical brow at Becky, she brays boldly. What’s a tickled mule to do? Bam yields to the mule’s witty wisdom, and leads the way into The Angel Garden. He is gob-smacked. When Bam imagines the Armageddon it looks nowhere near as dismal and disheartening as the searing sizzling space under dome of The Angel Garden. It even smells of rot and decay, the whole space of it, Bam moans, hands to his cheeks, eyes round in alarm. Dragon! Bam bellows hurricane gales of fury and commands: Here, he spears a finger to the ground at his feet: Now! The worried wyvern falls like a rock. Again. I’m getting really tired of this, it muses even as oxygen deprivation steals its mind away. Again. Bam doesn’t miss a stride after KO’ing the basilisk contender, but he is sidetracked by a brand new stage with rows and ranks of folding chairs arranged before it. What the hay? Curiosity hooks Bam like a fish, and he is gamely reeled in by the clue collecting prospects presented by the arrangement of the new and novel addition. He hears a clatter overhead that is amped up from there. He peers up to see a pair of squabbling, squalling winged things going throat to throat with the other. Curioser and curioser, he muses unamused. “Hey!” he barks, and silence falls. He talks to it. “Who are you, and what are you doing up there?” He exhales noisy exasperation into the silent void that follows. If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem, he reminds

himself. “To me, now!” Bam commands, pointing at the floor at his feet. Two wide-eyed winged squabbling things fall as one, embracing each other like a pair of cats locked to death in a biting, clawing, territorial spitting spat. They hit two splats in one. That should a’ took the winds out of their sails. Becky brays itching to kick them where they lay. Look, they got wings… , reckon they’re angels, or demon-kind? Bam ponders the poser, nods and says: “Let’s ask ’em and see what they have to say.” Can I gut kick ’em if they lie? Bam grins and turns back to direct a command into the dome. You! He points up, attend me! Now! He slashes his arm to the floor at his feet; and the winged things free fall like a comet. Some ancient atavistic survival instinct saves the fallen ones from a substance shattering stop. I don’t know about you, Gabe, but I’m getting pretty damned tired of being ordered around by mere mortals! Michael snarls snappishly. With you on that one. What the hell’s the mule here for? I don’t even want to know the answer to that that, Gabe. And I’m pretty damned sure we’re going to find out anyway. ‘Damned’ is the right word, Becky brays belligerent, golden eyes flashing bolts of lightning to underscore the thunder rumbling through her silent words. Thunder, you see, represents the perfect mind, the complete mind. Thunder is represented by Zeus, the Thunderer. It is a feminine power. Thunder is loved for bringing life.

Thunder is hated for bringing death. Thunder was before creation, thunder moves in all creatures everywhere. Thunder is Omni-present. Thunder is the voice of the Divine. Thunder is the voice speaking softly in silence. Thunder dwells in the quiet mind as perception and inner knowing. Thunder is the true voice crying out to everyone; and they recognize me, for a seed of me indwells all and everything. I AM awareness of the Father, I know the hidden thoughts of the Eternal Mystery. I AM Protenoia, the trimorphic primordial Consciousness of the infinite, eternal Divine One. You cannot escape me, for anywhere you are, I AM. The question is, why do you want to escape me? What is your separation from Source anxiety that lets you utterly reject the Truth that there is only One; and you are One in the One? Let’s start with you, Michael, name and claim your separation from Source anxiety that enabled you, commander of the army of the D.O., to so stunningly, stupidly, fall from the grace of One. You’re next, Gab-re-EL, so don’t get cool and comfy while Michael is sizzling on the grill. I’m – I’m – I’m… , I AM a warrior! Michael snaps with clam tight fury. I am the Commander of God’s army! Why the hell am I in The Angel Garden, why am I here? You tell me. Protenoia counters. Do you actually entertain the benighted delusion that the D.O. totally fucked up when he gave you your assignment to The Angel Garden? Um… , no. Then why are you here?

To Michael’s hands flail his dismay at owning the true cause; and the devastating depth of his willful fall from grace. He begins again: I am come to The Angel Garden, to hold it up like Atlas upheld the world and everything in and upon it. Protenoia smiles beneficently on Michael and says: Welcome home Michael. As a special reward I share with you that ‘home’ stands for ‘home on mother earth’. Welcome home. You’re up, Gab-re-EL, why are you here? Gabriel was always a quick study, Gab-re-EL is too; so this is a cake walk for her. I am here to heal, to nourish, and to in all ways, the whole ecosystem of The Angel Garden, the earth, wind, water, and fire of it. And I get to do thunder, it’s a feminine power. Welcome home, Gab-re-EL. Now, get to work doing your thing… , you pair of priceless princely angels. Nice threads, by the way! The angels look at themselves, then at each other, and as one, sigh an angelic harmony of joy.

Shawn Gallaway - Surrender

The Timely Arrival of Counselor and Lady RO

Counselor touches RO’s arm and nods toward the double doors open wide for a gathering crowd, and asks: “Was this here before?” “No. “Nor were there ever before so many seat-pickers trolling the rows and aisles for the best seat in the house, and the most socially supercilious seat mates. “If you hear with the inner ear, it sounds like the Tower of Babel in the moment before it, and all in it fell sundered to shreds to be swallowed up in dirt, dust, and detritus of the fall.” Counselor listens, and he hears a familiar call he’s never heard before, a call spoken in silence, and heard in silence as well. He surrenders who he is and who he thinks he is, and yields only to the voice that soft speaks the truth into the heart of him, into his inner ear, where the voice soft forges heart, body, and brain into the true gold of Truth.

Shawn Gallaway – Infinite Love and Gratitude

“Why do you suppose the stage is here?” Counselor puzzles absently indifferent. RO grins and poses: “Did you notice there two nicely upholstered wing chairs on the stage?” Counselor looks close, squinting a bit to adjust his eyes. He sees them and nods. “And, you did see, and feel, the energy of the aggressively gregarious posers picking their seats” Counselor nods once and waits. “That chair pair is there for us, for you and me, spouse a mine.” Counselor cocks a brow askance and poses: “What are we two supposed to do?” “Kick butt and take names.” “Really?” “Not literally, dear. Figuratively. We’ll baffle them with bull-shit like we always do; and then, we’ll leave them hugging their sore sides and giggling glee when we go… , like we always do.” “You are a most excellent life partner for me, wife a mine.” Counselor coos with a warm smile as he tucks her hand into the bend of his elbow, and whispers: “I couldn’t have made a better choice even if I’d known then, what I know now.” RO gives her well, of course not!, girly grin and reminds: “Don’t forget to tell the gathering that you are not here to give counsel, nor to serve as counsel, nor as attorney-at-law. “Then tell them that we, the two of us, are here to call a Council Session for everyone to tly develop an action plan and to develop and recommend daily devotions to ease and heal the pain of our collective separation from source anxiety. We are here to heal this barren land.” Counselor smiles on RO and says: “Oh, you are good! Wife a mine” “Yes, I am.” She winks winsomely at him, then points to the stage and asks: “Do I have to race you to those two seats?”

“Nah, that’s not classy. And, for in some in our midst, not classy practically predictable. There is no benefit in encouraging folks of that ilk, it’d be like feeding stray cats. “Just do your jinni nose wiggle thingy, and beam us on over.” And so RO does, and there they wait on stage – not particularly patiently, for someone to look at and actually see them. Counselor is not that patient. He bangs his gavel three times, stands sharp and tall, and bellows: “I call this gathering to order.” He hears bickering babel abate, but it’s still a noisome nuisance. He bangs the gavel again, barking the order: “Now!” Stunned silence descends. So does a pair of rebellious angels snarling and snapping, each intent on doing serious bodily harm to the other winged thing as they plummet, then drop like a rock and ricochet off the stage like a flash mob gone mad. “That had to hurt”, comforts Lady RO, gentling the fallen ones like a divine mother coolly cooing caringly chosen comfort words crooned in rhythmic humming soothing tones. The fractious ones melt like wax in a flame. “Do you feel better now?” RO asks solicitously. Michael bobs his still bowed head, for he now knows beyond doubt, that he is the dire dragon drake snake that’s wormed its way inside The Angel Garden, and he, rode the dire dragon in. “Even an Archangel can’t un-ring a bell, Michael.” RO reminds gently. “If the serpent within you is now in the garden because you rode him in, and you are somehow responsible for that, as you say, then you are also logically responsible for the aftershocks, and the probable outcomes of them, and, you are responsible for healing the rifts you’ve rent. “But, because you can’t un-ring a bell, Michael, your only viable option is to change the outcomes in the future. Either the dragon isn’t in The Angel Garden

in the future, or, you have become the fully engaged dragon master from this holy instant through the end of time.” Michael is eternally silent a moment, and then he knows. It’s so obvious it is mind-stunningly brilliant. I am a dragon rider! I have always been a dragon rider. And, I have always known that no mortal can ride a dragon and survive. I have known one do that and live to fly again… , me. Michael roar calls: ‘Dragon, come’ and the dragon comes, spiraling down with a weird wyvern grin and golden rays of fire in its eyes. She drops with elegant grace at Michael’s feet. I want a do-over, dragon a mine, and I want to live to tell about it.” You are an Archangel of the D.O., Michael, Archangels are eternal… , just like the D.O. is. The D.O.? Divine One, dummy… , don’t you know anything about Archangels? Now, are you ready to ride? Ready, willing, and able. Dragon a mine, let’s fly! There is a sub-audible shuddering sound as dragon and dragon rider shatter the sound barrier and vanish like a flash into infinity. Gab-re-EL looks up into RO’s eyes and whispers: “what just happened?” “Healing happened.” RO replies. “You… , and Michael, allowed healing to happen. Michael released and let go of everything he already knows, and willingly surrendered all of that to the will, the way, to the One who knows. “That is the sub audible sonic blast you ‘heard’ when Michael and the dragon broke the sound barrier. It is the sound of infinity shouting ‘Yes!’ That sub audible shattering surround sound sonic blast is here, pervasive as the wind, and within The Angel Garden – it’s a game changer.”

Shawn Gallaway – Let It Loose

“The first shift came when the two of you became one with the energy of the wind,” RO continues, “for wind is an element of Earth Mother love that is sometimes stern and unyielding. “Yet, the very nature of wind stirs up, activates, and energizes those life currents that are vital to man, and to nature. Wind is a pervasive vitality that envelops and emanates from within the whole body electric of man, body, mind, and brain. Wind is where the Twelve Powers of Man abide electrified and alive. Wind activates the executive power of the mind and leads the way to higher states of consciousness. “All of this, mind you, occurs in the conscious mind… , where your small selfawareness dwells. “Mind is the origin point of every act, thought and feeling, “Mind is the common meeting ground of God and man, and yet in Truth, man can only say: ‘I am mind. I know God. God is mind. He knows.’ A collective sigh sowing stillness whispers gentle and leisurely slow through The Angel Garden and all and everything in it, and falls like comforting, healing, nourishing, refreshing spring rain. Inside and out, it rains, soft and gentle, sweet and slow; and shift happens inside The Angel Garden in an infinite instant of endless time. The hard packed threadbare soil drinks deep and is refreshed, nourished and enlivened by the healing rain that now falls copiously from the eyes of two newly redeemed angels winging singing songs of praise and odes of joy. Shift happens. “Dang you’re good wife a mine!” Counselor declares. “You say that like you’re surprised…” “Not surprised, dear heart. ‘Amazed’ is the word, see it in my eyes?” RO sees and smiles somewhat surprised, and pleasantly so. “What’s next?”

“We call this gathering to order.” RO lays her left hand over Counselor’s right, and they merge into the one coned in the infinite, abundant, nourishing, healing power of unconditional love. When Counselor speaks again, he has no need of a gavel, his right hand raises, and palm down, he pump presses it toward the floor in the universal sign language for ‘Tone it down’, or, ‘dial it down’, if you prefer… , it’s all good… , if it works. It works. “Welcome, ladies and gents. If this is your first time here in The Angel Garden, raise your hand.” No one does. Except Counselor. He slowly raises his hand high for all the world to see. “Many of you know me as Counselor because I am an attorney at law. I give advice in law. “Some may know me as judge, for I do that too. “I am not here as Counselor. I’m not here as judge. “I am not here to give any of you advice on legal matters. “Rather, my sole and singular objective is to call a council meeting to order. Each and every one of you quacking like gabbing geese, will to come to order. Now!” The sound of a gavel banged forcefully down shatters sound, and silence descends. “Thank you… ! For being participants. “I call this Council session to order; and I thank all of you for your willing participation. “The agenda considers the following question: “What happened to The Angel Garden? “Why did it happen?

“How did we contribute to the private dust bowl devilishly devouring the Angel Garden? “What can we the people do to moderate, to alleviate, and to reconcile our singular separation from Source anxiety that incites, inflames, and its chaos into The Angel Garden?” Into the profound soul searching silence that descends, Counselor inserts himself gently: “This is a discussion group, it’s a talk freely space: and out of our individual respect for others, it is a place where never is heard a discouraging word. “Discouraged words are allowed, and even honored, because when we own and allow our flaws, our failures, and our imperfections, we create a space within us to honor and respect the good, the bad, the ugly that comes with life, and honor even the deep repressed fear of actually being the uniquely awesome and amazing human being we know we are, every one of us. “Hum… ,” Counselor muses, I believe Nelson Mandela said it best, and so I will use his words: ‘Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate… ,’ “’Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.’ “’It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.’ How many of you does that fit? All of us, I see. “Mandela goes on to say: ‘As we are liberated from our own fear our presence automatically liberates others’. “Those are kick butt, mind altering words, people. Words carrying the power to waken our inner sleeping dragon, and to ask and expect it to guard and protect all of creation. It is time to ask the dragon to open new realms of reality in and around us. “It is time to act only from balance and self-control. “It may surprise you to know that one in our midst has actually ridden a fire drake, and lived to tell the tale. If you’re interested in hearing that tale, clap your hands.”

They do. Every one of them; and they whistle, stamp their feet and shout too. It’s all good. Bam is a bit abased though – he’s become comfortable – being invisible in the midst of great groups of others. He doesn’t yet know how the in-plain-sight Bam shows up and behaves. That said, Bam is an entertainer, seen or unseen, visible or invisible. He never knows how anyhow.

Dragon Tales

Bam takes a slow walk up the aisle feeling for the energy of dragon, opening himself to hear, and to feel the silent sound songs the dragon whispers telling him the elements, and the twists and turns of their dragon flight from her eyes. From her perspective. She wants to sing song Dragon Tales in her wyvern voice whisper, wants him to hear and receive it like the still small in his inner ear. She wants Bam to tell the dragon tale from her perspective. She wants to tell her vision in her voice, from her lady dragon perception. The wyvern’s whisper is a heart ion plea for dreadful true tall tale telling. Bam feels the fire of her ion radiating off her like a noon day sun. The weight of her ion heavy on his skin. The weight of her vision is heavier still. Bam is daunted. “Buck up boy-o, she slaps Bam’s back and snorts, I got you covered, man, I got your back. I even have a script writing itself inside my head. All I’m waiting for is you getting enough gumption and guts to ad-lib with me! “Plus, it’s up to you to pick and play and strum while each of us tell of our dragon tale – you in your voice – and I in mine. Just do it, Bam! Ad-lib with me, please? The wise wyvern knows a dose of inspiration will revive and revitalize him, and

so he says: Your job in the tale telling is to twist and coil the story upward – because you are the human cargo that rode me up. From my back, you had an eagle’s eye view of the whole big picture of what was happening inside and outside The Angel Garden. Only you can tell your dark dragon tale from liftoff to safe landing. This part of Dragon tales must be told in a descending spiral with the focused intent of bringing it down to earth so human ears can hear and know, in a voice they already trust. Plus, it takes a true good man to redeem a fallen angel, Bam White… , and there are two inside The Angel Garden that fit that bill of particulars to a T. When it’s my time to talk, then I will tell the same story from the dragon’s eye view, for only I can tell it true and make it feel real. I am the dragon who snatched you from death’s greedy grip and winged you speedy away to safety. Only I can tell that true and real. Shall we ad-lib then? Bam asks. Is it possible to tell two tall twisted twining tales without ad-libbing? The dragon grins big baring all his shiny sparkling pointy teeth. Bam feels faint. Hop on, the dragon invites, extending a paw to grip Bam’s arm and raises him up in his dragon rider pose and clothes. Bam notices that with a smile. It is short lived. We’re going in. The dragon commands with the cool indifference of Huey pilot giving ops updates before entering a fire storm that is certain to come. The dragon drops in a descending narrowing spiral that accelerates and unwinds the tight fight in Bam and gives him room to breathe easy, slow, and relaxed in the present faith that he still lives. He still breathes, and he still has worthy work to do.

Shawn Gallaway – I Can Do It

The sound barrier breaks as serpent and man blast into the dome of The Angel Garden. They circle like guardian healers scoping out places where the blight of separation from source anxiety is clear, plain, and painful where it encroaches like bind weed that deep shadows spaces where sun, and rain, and life, and vitality once lived and propagated and thrived. Invasive species! The dragon snarls blowing dark rings of irritation through his nostrils. The Angel Garden smells of decay and corruption, yet still the willing, willful wyvern spirals down as slow, and as indifferently graceful as a feather pirouetting on a restless breeze. Who’s the invader that brought the seed? Bam poses. Something evil this way came… It entered into life energy here the way an invasive species does, small and slow at first, pretty even. But it is pervasive, persistent, and heartlessly callous to the ways consequences hurt and harm the whole of earth, wind, water and fire…; and that, is a working definition of ‘evil’. No wonder they call your kind ‘wise wyvern’, Bam says, dismay and reassessment alive in his voice and eyes. So, human cargo, let it go! Let’s go kick butt and take names. I’ve been wanting to go inside The Angel Garden for eons now, and finally it’s here, and I am too, so now I can. Oh, God is good! Bam chortles and leads the shrinking dragon to the garden gate, and then inside The Angel Garden. “What’s your name?” he asks. I am dragon. I need no other name. Bam laughs and says: Well then, Nameless One, let’s go kick butt and take names. You are shrinking by the moment, by the way, why is that? The weird wyvern replies: So I go in with a small body and do no harm to The Angel Garden, nor scare the shit out of all the people who are there.

A lot of people? Yep, an auditorium full of ’em. There’s an auditorium in The Angel Garden? When did that happen? Why? When? The dragon moans a wretched sigh: It beats the hell out of me! And I do not like that even one iota! If this continues, you will never again call me wise wyvern, and I do not accept that! It is personally unacceptable to me, and that is not happening! Not on my watch. Prepare for landing, human cargo, we’re going in. The sound barrier shatters as the dragon and her human cargo erupt into the space of The Angel Garden, Bam riding her like a jockey on a full out fast horse, leaving the pack in the dust, and charging full hearted for the finish line and the garland of red roses waiting there. It will come as no surprise to the attentive reader that the dragon sports a wreath of roses as she enters and lands with weightless grace inside The Angel Guardian. Stunned silence prevails for an infinite instance, as Bam steps down from the glittering beast and mounts to the stage. “Not that I’ve got your attention folks,” Bam smiles, “It’s time for me to pick and grin and sing and tell the dragon’s tale tall and true of the reason taht wise wyvern brought me here – as human cargo by the way – and flew me into The Angel Garden at warp speed. “How many of you heard the sub-audible boom when the dragon entered The Angel Garden? “No one. Interesting. How many of you felt it?” Hands raise, slowly at first, and in the time it takes to break the sound barrier, all hands in the auditorium are up, and smiles of delight light all eyes and shift happens.

Shawn Gallaway - Unify

Bam turns to the stage where Counselor and the lady RO now sit in the matching wing back chairs placed there for them. “You’re up Counselor and my dear lady RO. Hit it!” And so they do. And they hit the ball out of the park if truth be known, but that comes later.

The Dynamic Duo brings it Home

“Bam,” Counselor says, scratching his chin like a puzzled man after a fresh shave, “I hear you tell you rode in on this wise wyvern – and this dear dragon is patently too small to carry even your skinny butt, let alone break the sound barrier doing it – how does that work for you? “Well, sir, that is dragon doing, and explaining that is way above my pay grade.” Counselor beetles a brow, and Bam knows he’s not going to be peaceful and quiet about not hearing the dragon’s tale told tall and true so he quickly appends: “Let the dragon tell the tale.” Both of Counselor’s brows arch high above his skeptical eyes and he asks: “How will I, or any of the rest of us here, understand dragon speak?” His eyes show white all around, his pique plain. “Well, sir, she’s actually multi-lingual, most dragons are, but that’s beside the point. The point is that she doesn’t talk, she purrs and whirs, and that’s all the human ear will hear. But she is clairvoyant, claircognizant, Clair audial, and clairsentient, and she talks into the mind. “Dragon a mine, come show this cynical counsel what I’m talking about; and… , you can do surround sound all around The Angel Garden, can’t you?” Piece a cake, human cargo. Titters, giggles and guffaws erupt with Bam’s dragon rider name.

You really should be setting up your instruments, plugging in the microphone you’ll need when you sing, and the stool you like to sit on when you’re picking and grinning. The dragon grins. It is a disturbing sight to see. Bam turns away from it eagerly, and wordlessly sets up for his impromptu performance after dragon’s one man show. Before my show though, the Dynamic Duo will bring it home, inspiring all within The Angel Garden to live on purpose, in harmony, and in one love again with life and the living of it. There is a sub-audible rumble when the wired wyvern appears on stage showered in brilliant light that sparks like jewels off the multi-colored scales of her hide, and oh, my, when she feathers her wing plumage and flexes them in the liquid light the crowd goes wild. The dragon never could resist a spotlight. This time’s no different. She poses lightning fast, and syrup slow, supple smooth while bulking muscle and tightening hollows like a prize fighter running through a sophisticated warm-up routine, and, not at all unlike a belly dancer teasing tipsy patrons into a bigger tip, or a yogi master dancing on thin air. She shines. She knows it. She likes it. Want to see my absolutely favorite dance routine? Every head in the house bobs, Good, then I’ll play my very favorite dance number.

Shawn Gallaway – Wake Up America

When the dragon is done demonstrating all the silky smooth moves of her muscular dance routine, she has achieved her mission objective. The people are smiling now, they breathe deep and easy, they sit or stand upright, they are energized and fluidly flexible. The dragon smiles contentedly and sighs: Mission Accomplished. Shift happened. There is no going back. It is at this infinite moment that Counselor and the lady RO manifest on stage sitting in the matched pair of wing-back chairs positioned there. They wait peacefully until the shock of the novelty of their coned appearance wears off, and order is restored in the audience – out of insensate curiosity if nothing more. Counselor plays into it. “You may be wondering why the Lady RO and I are up here on this stage. “I’ll start with me. I am an attorney-at-law, a licensed legal counselor. “I’m not here for that. I’m not here to give any of you legal counsel, in any way, shape, or form. If you think that’s why I’m here, you’re dangerously delusional… Get over it! “As counsel, I give legal guidance on personal problems or issues. I’m not here for that. “As a counselor at law, I give advice and guidance in matters of law. “I’m not here for that. Counselor pauses for a breathtaking moment, a smile lurking in his cheeks and lips, and lighting his eyes with a brilliant golden flaming fire. All see it. The dragon feels it. She smiles wisely and opens the flow of dragon fire truth spilling it with careless grace over the aura of the Lady RO and her Counselor mate. Shift happens at sonic speed; and it impacts the whole atmosphere and ecosystem of The Angel

Garden, everything in it and beyond, most especially the human cargo she has learned to love, the dragon rider named Bam White. So, back to Counselor and the Lady RO. There the pair of them are, seated in a matched pair of wing-back chairs, dazzled, and being dazzling by, the brilliance of stage lights. RO knows drama, and the art of using and applying it wisely and well. “Angels, she calls in a voice that is not command, yet brooks no delay in driving for compliance. “To me!” She jabs her pointed hand like a spear at the floor at her knee: “Now!” And angels fall with grumbling gracelessness to the floor of the stage. I am getting so very tired of this do-loop of a ion play of our fall from grace, Michael grumbles gracelessly. Now it is Counselor’s turn to double-team the fallen angels. “Why are you here?” “Why are we here?” Michael snarls, eyes snapping snarky spite, “Oh like we had any choice? “We were ordered here!” “And how’s that working for you?” “Being a pole for a circus garden?” Michael’s brows arch nobly. “That is not working for me at all.” He snaps closed tight like a clam under duress stress. Counselor is silent for a pregnant moment of infinity, and asks: “What was the mission the D.O. gave you when he sent you here?” “D.O.?” “Divine One… , fool. “Fool… ,” he observes impartially, “A man who has fallen so low into the fiery hell of separation from source anxiety as to have wholly, and willfully, dised the clear, plain, whole truth of who you are!

“You are an archangel, Michael. You are the D.O.’s first in command, yet you are one who has defiantly, willfully, and knowingly, chosen to become a fallen angel, and to wreak the rage of your furious disappointment upon The Angel Garden. “Why did you do that?” The question is curiously and disionately alert and engaged. “I… ,” Michael stops, head hung low even when he its: “This assignment was a demotion, a reduction in rank… , and I didn’t deserve that! “Maybe. “But maybe the D.O. gave you that precise assignment because you were his first knight. Because he knew you were the only one of his legion of angels who could complete the objectives of this specific mission to the nth degree of perfection? “What then? Into the silence Counselor poses: “What if the D.O. knew – from before the first instant of time – that you would meet, and face the dark night of your soul inside The Angel Garden? “What if there was no accident? What if there was no outcome, nor even any viable options that were available to you… , other than the will of the Divine One? “What if there never was a way for you to hide from the will and the way of the One… , whose will must be your will! Que tonto! Que totalmente estupido! “You are the D.O.’s first knight, Michael; from before the beginning of time. Can you really imagine – except in dire delusion – that your assignment to The Angel Garden was a demotion? Into the stillness, Counselor offers: “I’ll slap you upside the head if that will help snap you out of your navel gazing narrow-minded blindness to Truth. “Or, you can just get over yourself and make room in your currently closed mind, to entertain alternate outcomes.

“Why did the D.O. send you here?” Counselor barks in a voice that echoes alive with the power and the weight of a gavel sealing a pivotal decision in a vitally important case. Michael is humbled… , but not enlightened. Even archangels are imperfect and fallible when torqued and warped into the ether of earth mother where the push and pull of duality forever holds hypnotizing, seductive sway. Delusion happens. Counselor bangs his gavel snapping Michael back to the familiar version of certainty that he knows as ‘reality’. “This court has neither infinite time, nor an adequate supply of patience, to continue to entertain, let alone allow, or suffer, your patent blatant intolerable insolence in refusing to answer the reasonable questions of this court! “On your knees, knaves!” Counselor orders. “Not again!” Michael gripes while slow-mo dropping into a boneless heap on the floor. Again. Gab-re-EL drops with him; but her company is little comfort to Michael since their stunning fall from grace in their rebellion against what they assumed were unwarranted, unjustified, and professionally humiliating, assignments to The Angel Garden. “So,” RO suggests solicitously: “tell mother what frightened each and both of you so thoroughly that each and both of you lost your wonderful wings. What is the deal with that anyway?” When the answer comes, it feels like a confession – yet it isn’t. Gab-re-EL takes a deep dive into the dark unknown, Michael following like a tail gunner on full alert, ready to fire, or to speed at the need. They are one on one purpose with one objective, and one end-game; the celebration of oneness with the one Source of All that is, all that is not, and all that lies hidden, pregnant and waiting, in between. What wills to be birthed in me?

Shawn Gallaway – On the Fence

This time both Archangels know that there must be a provocation so in-yourface that it cannot be ignored nor denied. That must be redressed and made right and whole again. As first knight of the Divine One, it is Michael’s place, and his duty, to redress, and to correct, the penalties arising from their willfully spectacular and destructive fall from grace. “Lady RO,” Michael drops to one knee, head bowed, “I am the D.O.s first knight, I am his strong right arm. I am his first warrior.” He raises his head, eyes locked softly shameful on hers, “and I thought it was a demeaning demotion that I did not deserve! Pride goeth before the fall, and that, my wounded pride would not abide. I rebelled, and in that, I fell again, and again… “Same is true of me,” Gabriel its as she drops to a knee. “And I know what comes next, so I will begin with my answer to your first question.” She exhales a slow sigh of surrender, stands tall and fully exposed, and begins her tall truth telling tale. “I came… ,” She closes her eyes to blind herself to the purging pain of her selfreckoning that surges and purges her prudish pride like a dragons breath of fire that burns away codswallop she’d accepted as the whole of her silly, senseless, small self-awareness she’d clung to, and willfully worn like a tarnished helmet too small for her head. Gab-re-EL raises her head with a smile glowing in her eyes and radiating from her face, “I’m Gab-re-EL, I am a healer, I am a flourisher, I am a nourisher; I am the Earth Mother in humanly angelic form. “And I took a fantastic and fatal fall from grace – because of wounded pride. A wise one knows that pride goeth before the fall… , as in pride has its puffed up prickly will while paving the way for a spectacular fall from the grace, because I was deflecting, dodging and denying the likely outcomes of my fall from grace. I was willfully self-blinded to them. I was neglectful of them because I was not rightfully using the power of will, nor any of the other twelve powers of man. I was an archangel, I was above that. “Yet how far you have let yourself fall, Gab-re-EL.” Lady RO murmurs: “yours

was a spectacular willful, fall from grace. How do you do that, Gab-re-EL? You’re the Archangel of healing! You are a nourisher, a sustainer, a protector… How’s that working for you, and The Angel Garden?” Gab-re-EL raises her head, a brilliant smile on her face, and invites: “Come see for yourself.” And they do. Gab-re-EL glows like a gentle sun lighting, cleansing and purifying the space. The Angel Garden is thriving, vibrantly alive, and flourishingly abundant. It shimmers and glows in the radiantly alive vitality of tender loving care that follows after and from true self-love. A gently abundant rain falls freshly fluid from the dome of The Angel Garden. Everyone looks up to the source, currently in the angelic form of Michael who’s proudly upholding the dome while weeping copious tears of joy – the highest octave vibration – and joy heals all and everyone. Even the dragon is purring warm placid pleasure that is not unlike a cat lapping cool cream.

The Angel Garden

It all began the day a duster blew through the plains only a few weeks after Hester and the children had planted their vegetable garden. The duster pushed and pulled at the tender new growth, uprooting them with the force of the dust laden wind. The girl watched, horror-stricken, tears welling in her eyes.

She didn’t think, but rather surrendered to the survival instinct. We will starve! She silently shouts to the One with a thousand names, help us! Help us… , send your angels to help us now, before it’s too late!

Separation is experienced not by choice… , but out of fear.

What is your fear?

The girl is silent for a long moment, only her eyes still seeing the uprooting plants, but inwardly unaware of them. What is my fear? What is it that I fear, in truth?

That we will starve? That’s not big enough to be my true fear.

What then do I fear, in Truth? Help me see and know that.

What is it that I’m not seeing?

What is it that I’m not feeling?

A voice blooms in her mind asking: Who do you think you are? Start there.

A nanosecond encoming days, months, years, and eternity blossoms in the girl’s mind, brain and body leaving her unchanged yet holy whole and new again. New again. I like that. Calling all angels… , attend me! She cries with confident joy. She feels the presence of angels within and around her.

Help me be new again, and please help me own and allow how I came to make the world a better place.

Shawn Gallaway –

The girl smiles while listening to the tune, in her mind seeing the truth of the ever present presence of angels. She opens her heart and invites the angels in to abide in her everywhere, body, mind, brain and spirit. In quiet joy she feels their presence in, around, and through her, making her whole again, and familiarly new again too.

Will you help us?

Who is the ‘us’ you wish us to help?

The girl is silent an infinite moment. Her third eye opens reluctantly slow. She doesn’t see pictures so much as she observes the feelings that come with the colors that flow through her like healing waters in the infinite instant of her third eye opening.

The infinity es galaxy slow through the girl’s silent moment, then it spirals out to resolve itself into patterns, and then into cohesion… , where she finds the answer.

I choose to heal the earth, the sky, the water, the wind… , and the people. I want to help us heal. And I want to feed all the people that we can…

I cannot do that without your help, and I can’t do it without the help of your angels. We all live and thrive in the infinite presence of your grace. That is my wish. That is how I wish your grace to flow and show through me, infinite, eternal, everywhere present, ever healing, and always helping, for that is how I

choose to be. That is the ‘I AM’ that I know I am.

Your grace, please! The girl silently shouts her overwhelming joy: In an abundant, ever present flow that lets me never, ever forget that isolation is experienced not by choice, but by fear.

How true – how tellingly true. Her inner crone thinks, I choose love. I choose infinite love and gratitude.

Shawn Gallaway – Infinite Love and Gratitude

Silence falls slow and deep like the grace of rain when it begins its gentle and tentative descent. The girl feels it, smells the ozone sharp scent of rain, yet she sees none of that beyond the window. Beyond the window lies only the restless, relentless, ruining weight and press of the dust laden wind; and the devastation it throws like Thor’s quick bolts against the house, the windows, and the tender, tentative vegetation in the garden.

The girl closes her eyes that she may not see the physical plane and be captured by the savage ruin that eats like termites at the garden plants, at the trees, at the cattle sheltering in the barn, heads hung low, bowing to the lee side door slid part open to it air into the dust dancing space.

Infinite love and gratitude… , I choose that. Again… , and always.

So, what am I grateful for right now?

God is here. The girl touches her heart; then rubs it soothingly, consciously easing the pain of the fear that shelters there. God his here! And God abides only where love lives.

Ergo, I Am love.

I must be Love, for the indwelling, inspiring spirit of the Divine One is Love, infinite and eternal Love.

Without the inspiration of Love, Spirit, the body, mind, and brain is nothing more than an inanimate, insensate, uninspired Earth suit. Dead men walking.

Not dead… Only mostly dead, the girl amends, as though she already knew those words, already knew where she’d heard them for the first time. She didn’t. Not then.

Only decades later, when the girl had evolved into the woman who then transformed into the crone, would she hear those words again. This time she would hear them with human ears, and she would smile, recalling the all too tender girl, and the wounded woman she’d become back to the home of her mind, and to heart, where healing always roots, grows, and thrives.

So much hurt… So much healing already done. Yet still, so much healing yet to come.

Livin’ Love

The girl concludes on the spot that it is the crone who will choose when and how the healing tales are told. It is she who will spin the spiraling twists of the tale into the weave of each tale told in words of light and dark… , words that can be touched and felt, words commanding the power that invites, inspires, and initiates transformation.

Shawn Gallaway – Livin’ Love Tonight

Meanwhile, back on the home planet Earth, a duster blows tender shoots and roots, and all is not well. The girl returns from her inner walk with the Divine One knowing that she is decades away from the healing power of the crone that awaits her in a misty nether-world she may not yet enter nor even yet know in her conscious mind. She surrenders. What’s a girl to do?

That’s when the screeching begins, at first soft and subtle, then, growing with the mass and weight as the dust laden wind, shifts into a subtle, insisting, demanding, a sound that will not be silenced nor ignored. The girl claps her hands over her ears to shield them from the screeching, shredding sound that threatens to rend the earth into naught. The sound is inside her and she is surprised to find there. It emanates from her as though she were the Source of it. The origin of its angry, fierce, determined, and as subtly willful as a choice she’d already made, and it was too late to change.

I surrender. It is all the girl can think to say, and she doesn’t understand the weight and worth of the words that bloom like mystical magic spells in her mind and brain. I surrender, she whisper thinks, to Your will; and it is done. Amen… , and so it is.

The world shifts on the instant. The heavens shriek open with a rending, tearing sound, and angels descend. The girl sees them… , she blinks, dumbfounded. What’s a girl to do in the face of the momentous magical miracles that oft arise from answered prayer?

God is… , the girl thinks, and all is well.

The angels descend in a golden spiral to alight in a circle around the garden and

beyond. When their circle compliment is complete, the now ginormous angels link arms, and spread their wings, using them like baffles and foils to allow feather filtered dust-free air to flow freely into the garden. The tender plants perk up a bit with the infusion of wind and air, but dust pours into the circle through the spaces between the heads of the angel. Gabriel – she knows it is Gabriel – looks up, getting the attention of the other angels, he smiles, they smile too. As one, the angel’s hair dreads itself into tight coils that rise and intertwine to form a perfect filter to clear the dust from the air that enters the angel garden.

Angel garden, the girl thinks with a smile provoked by the fresh flow and fruit and vegetable smells and flavors that bloomed in her nose and mouth with the thought. What a perfect name.

Water… Plants need water to survive and to thrive. What is the source of the water in an angel garden?

The thought no sooner radiates from her brain than she hears the sound of angel’s weeping tears of anguish, and of joy. Joy? Really? The girl imagines herself squatting Indian style on the floor of the garden surrounded by the thriving plants growing there; and there she is, looking up, and being spattered by gently refreshing tears of joy. She gets it! And she receives it, just as freely as a plant receives rain, just as the soil does, in a never-ending, whole-earth dance of symbiotic harmony.

Plants need earthworms to thrive and to survive; and at the thought, there are earthworms, avidly aerating and enriching the angel garden soil while eating their way through their daily diet of dirt… , the earthworm’s bread of life. Ah, God, you are a wondrous creator God. Thank you for the angels, for the garden, and, thank you most dearly for the earthworm wisdom that faithfully produces new growth.

The Magic of Faith

It doesn’t matter much what you believe in, I don’t suppose. Bam thinks. What does seem to matter is to have faith that there is something vigorous within you that is greater, truer, and more powerful than anything that goes on in the physical world outside of you.

The Master said ‘You have not because you ask not.’ I’ll take him at his word; and I will ask in every instant. Not from my mind though, only from my heart. See, the mind wants to line things up like birds on a wire. If I ask from that linear state of the conscious mind, I might drop a bird or two before the rest fly away. The effort is not worth the outcome.

The heart though… , the heart calls soft and sweet like a nightingale, as alert and vibrant as a meadow lark, as joyful as a robin bob-bob-bobbin’ along, and as improbable as a hummingbird winging joy into the heart simply because it is, it exists, and thrives solely on the love that inspires and animates it.

I grow wise with my years, Bam muses. If I hadn’t been a bronc buster when I was young, and if I hadn’t thought I had to dominate the blessed beast just to tame and train it, I wouldn’t a broke so many a my bones in so many places. They still ache and pain me to this day, Bam unconsciously massages muscles torn and twisted in the falls he took while ‘breaking’ broncs. Broke myself instead, I did…

I learned my lesson. Though it took most of the rest of my life until I finally got it. I hope I finally got it.

Shawn Gallaway – Choice Point

The body, mind, brain is simply an Earth suit that remains inanimate, lifeless, until the breath of Spirit inspires it and brings it to life. I get that now.

The Spirit of horse teaches me to be disciplined in all my efforts, not just the big and ‘important’ ones. Disciplined enough to choose the journeys that are worth taking… , like the horse I’m training for Caleb. The man himself is not worth the effort… , but the horse is.

Bam’s smile beams on Caleb’s horse. It raises its head from its grass grazing, tosses it in an exquisitely graceful arch, then canters uncalled to Bam’s side, nuzzling him gently as though exploring the pain in his broken bones, his torn ligaments and stretched cartilage, knowingly easing them with its velvet soft nose, and then snorting them out and away from Bam’s body with its warm wet breath. Bam smiles and rubs the horse’s ears and nose, palming a peppermint candy for the horse to eat as a treat, then takes one for himself, then he laughs because the horse noses his mouth open and takes the mint for himself. “It’s always the same with you isn’t it, horse? You’ll have your peppermint and mine too, every living day of the week.” Bam scratches the horse’s ears, around its eyes, and massage slow and deep down the sides of its face until the horse nickers with pleasure, lifts its head with a whinny, turns, and canters away to graze grass in the open meadow fenced with wooden rails so the horse won’t scratch or scar its hide against barbed-wire. Wish Caleb had even a clue as to how brilliantly unique you are horse. Then I wouldn’t feel so bad, so sad… , because once you’re full trained to bridle and saddle, I’ll have to give you back to the foul Beast in human form.

And you wouldn’t be a slow learner would you? That’s not who you are my fine wise horse. You were born to stretch your wisdom and power and make it visible to anyone with eyes to see.

Even Caleb will see it. And the inner Beast that masters him will necessarily beat that out of you simply because it’s not something he has nor, finds within himself. You will be utterly alien to him.

Caleb must have been an abused child to be such a profoundly abusive man. May the Spirit of Horse abide strong in you forever, my fine horse… that belongs to Caleb; and does not belong to me. Tears well in Bam’s eyes. He blinks them away and eases himself off the fence stretching and flexing muscle groups as he climbs down to fill the horse trough with fresh water. Hope Caleb re to do this for you.

In truth, Bam is not at all hopeful.

And then… , there’s the perfectly improbable Angel Garden that I cannot see, but that I can feel, and smell, and even taste when Hester has more than enough produce from the hidden garden that the girl calls The Angel Garden. Yes, the girl does talk with capital letters, and all it takes to hear them is a good ear. One ear is enough, but two is double the pleasure for the same attention.

Wonder why I can’t see The Angel Garden… ?

I asked Hester about that last time I was there. It was a long while before she got up the guts, or the gumption, or the words, to give a true answer… , for Hester never lies, even when she knows the whole cloth of lies the asker wants to hear. Even though she knows exactly what the asker does not want to hear. She’s a truth taller, that one.

Hester confessed to me that she couldn’t see The Angel Garden either.

And then there’s the girl, who doesn’t talk much, but when she does, she tells the whole truth as candidly, frankly, and disionately as a news reporter. It can unnerve the un-initiated to her whole truth-telling. Happened to me when I asked her why I can’t see The Angel Garden. She looked at me long and long not batting an eye, not even the third eye I could see in the space between her brows.

You don’t see because you don’t believe, the girl said without meeting my eyes.

Shivered me timbers, it did, all the way to the bone.

Suddenly, I wasn’t in the least bit sure I ever again wanted to hear truth speak from the girl. Still, it was too late for me to not have asked… , a man can’t unring a bell. No more than I could take it back with a quick ‘never mind, pretend I didn’t ask.’ She’d see straight through me, and deep into my profound fear of facing the truth of why The Angel Garden is hidden from me.

Yet The Garden called me, it beaconed me to come to it, to enter into it. Hold on now, D.O., if I can’t see it, how can I enter it?

Ask. The inner voice responds.

“Angels,” I called in thought, “is it possible for me to enter The Angel Garden even though I can’t see it?” I felt a group angel smile, but I heard no reply.

Except in my heart, which does not hear through human ears. It simply feels its

way through the facts, figures, and data points of the physical plane, then lets them free-flow and weave into the sage wisdom of the heart where and there the Power of Wisdom co-habits with the Power of Love.

That felt like a ‘yes’ to me, but still, I wanted the girl to know what I was up to before doing it. I knocked on Hester’s screen door hard enough so it would bang against the door frame and she’d hear it. I saw her come to the kitchen window, see me, and raise a curious eyebrow before she turned to come to the screen door where I stood hat-in-hand, like a beggar. Then she is there opening the screen and inviting me in for a cup of the ever-hot coffee she keeps on a back burner of the stove.

We sat at the table, she in Jacob’s chair, and I in hers, so I was on her left, her intuitive side. Busted already! Is what I’m thinking.

And, truth telling is what I’m here for – because seeing truth is why I’m here. I take a gulp of Hester’s hot coffee thinking it would open my eyes and brace me up to speak my whole truth and nothing but the truth. Instead it was like taking a great gulp of liquid fire.

It was a minute or two before I stopped weeping, and longer still before I could un-coil my tongue to speak. Hester brought me a large tea glass of water with lots of ice in it. I sipped and savored that water. I sucked on the ice like it was the water of life and I was mostly dead before drinking it. Probably both are true, I reasoned, then thought: that is probably true of all men, and of all spiritual mysteries.

I return from my scalding reverie, and look up into Hester’s mother loving eyes. Definitely busted! May as well man-up and answer her question complete and true. But – where does that story begin? What’s the middle of it? What are the

twists and turns it takes before I come clean and full at the end?

“Bam!” Hester slams the bottom of her now empty cup against the table top snapping me back to the present where I tensely live and breathe and have my being, and where a lovely woman with angry hazel eyes stares me down while snapping me awake to the real world in a way her afternoon coffee never could, no matter how long it steeped and stewed over a slow flame.

“Why are you here?” She demands without pause, her eyes still shooting anger arrows across my bow when I try to turn away into weak whys and hidden ways.

Her eyes brook no nonsense and make it painfully clear she’s already given enough of her time to me… , and I still haven’t gathered the guts to ask the one question I came to know. I bow my head like any boy does who’s been righteously scolded, and justly so.

“Do not bow your head to me like I’m the goddess of forgiveness, and you merely a penitent beggar, Bam White!” She snaps again, “I’ll have better from you, or you’ll not come to my door again!” He sees the gun in her right hand where before there was an empty cup. Bam looks up and away, and sees the gun grip peeking from under the pot holders above the stove.

“It’s your choice, Bam, tell me the truth now, or bear the consequences. Make it now.” She smiles gently, yet her eyes spark sharp, cold, and brook no nonsense, plumb worn bare of patience with him.

Bam studies her a moment still hoping for an inspired reason for being here without ever telling the real reason. She’s got a gun, Bam White, and she knows

how to use it. She still has her one silver clad .22 caliber bullet in the chamber.

Man up! Talk truth now, or walk away. Bam wraps a hands around his cup but does not raise it to drink. He looks up to meet Hester’s eyes, and speaks the plain truth. “I want to go into The Angel Garden.”

Hester freezes, empty coffee cup raised to her lips to hide the smile that quivers there. After a moment she says “tell me why again, Bam. This time, make it compelling… , make it true.”

“I want to go into The Angel Garden.”

“Tell me the truth,” she repeats.

“I want to go into The Angel Garden.”

Hester nods kindly, then its: “I want to go into The Angel Garden too. And I’m afraid to. I am afraid that my doubt will break…” She falls silent, eyes downcast.

“Break what?” Bam asks, inspired, “The wings of the angels?” He can’t hid his grin, nor silence the snort that blows through his nose while awaiting her absorption of their common predicament.

“No, it’s not that. I am afraid my being there will break the magic of The Angel

Garden.

“Still, sometimes when I walk close by, Bam, I hear the angels singing, and crying. I hear their tears fall on tender leaves, and on the soft, rich soil, the smell it awakening to new life. I feel the plant roots web out into the soil. I feel their rooted connection to Earth.

Breathlessly, she continues: “I hear angel tears falling on the plants releasing the fragrance of each one; and I want so much to go in and to touch them, to tend them, to talk to them every day until they know my voice and my energy… , until feel my tender care…” Tears pool in her eyes.

“I want to go inside, I want to tell them how proud I am of them because we should do that for plants we start from seeds, and I want to extend that same loving kindness to the plants we didn’t start from seeds, but got from cuttings, or from bulbs shared by neighbors after thinning beds.”

She sighs a deep release and surrender, then rises from the table and steps confidently to the door and out to The Angel Garden. Bam follows a wary step behind so that when she stops, he walks into her, off-centering her. She stumbles gracelessly into The Angel Garden where a diminutive angel smiles up as she catches her before Hester smacks into a tree fruiting pears and apples and pomegranates.

Fruit trees? We had none before… We couldn’t give them enough water to be healthy, let alone to produce fruit.

Doubt! An angelic voice roars in rage. How dare you, faithless one? How dare

you enter this place clothed in a stingy, starving, faithless consciousness, and pollute the air, the wind, the water, and the fire, that we angels created within this space you so brazenly name ‘The Angel Garden’? How dare you!

“Uh,” Bam intercedes, “that would be my doing. My failing… , not Hester’s.” He feels the angle’s hard-eyed punitive glare turn like a brace of klieg lights onto his shrinking, shriveled soul, leaving him with nothing left to hide, and nowhere to hide it anyway…

The angry angel is silent an agonizing timeless moment, then, with genuine curiosity and an open-hearted desire to better know, he asks to understand these human charges who are now his duty only because they are inside The Angel Garden, which Michael considers his own, being first in command under the Divine One, the D.O., or God, and commander of the angel currently ‘on the scene’, as it were.

Are you experiencing Separation from Source anxiety, Michael? Hester thinks, fascinated.

Michael grins an ission, then descends in a graceful flurry of form and feather to ask with an open smile: “Something I can do to help here?” Uriel is bowing like a submissive dog at Michael’s feet. The dog angel does not growl, but the doggie protector, bite first, think later, instinct is ferocious in him.

Force did not win the battle with the fallen angels. Michael muses. Uriel hears the pointed words strike home in his heart. Wisdom won that war, Michael notes. Wisdom, and Love’s unyielding comion. With those two Powers, the fallen ones surrendered, either freely loyal again, or driven bodily into the depths of Hell where the hounds harry and harass them into renunciation or resurrection. Their choice.

Michael studies the woman and sees the Mother energy strong, energetic, and bright in her. He eyes the male intruder, seeing a small, powerfully built man with a life-long habit of knowing himself as a small man with a big heart, and no perceptible separation from source anxiety.

Perhaps, Lord, these two mostly dead ones can be made whole again? Can be reborn as enlightened, wise, Sons of the Divine? Your Master did say: you have not because you ask not… , Michael smiles winsomely and no one sees but the Divine One who hears the heart. No eye sees him drop to a knee, holding his unsheathed sword like a cross yielding it to the Creator. None see nor feel him open and surrender his heart to receive the singular and infinite blessings of free-falling grace. Angelic!

Perhaps none of that ever happened in ‘reality’. Yet ‘reality’ is frequently as quicksilver fluid, and as infinitely surprising as grace. Only man will, at times, claim the grace that as his due by birthright.

So I ask then, Lord, Michael prays, looking up at an infinite expanse of sky deep studded with dancing stars… , on behalf of these two fallen ones who have wandered into Eden’s glen; that you grant them the grace to be redeemed and made whole again in Spirit. He grins an evil grin and says: But if you need me to spank their butts, just ask. I will be most happy to do that for you.

Michael hears no words, yet knows that it’s time to put aside his silver sword until he no longer serves as the lodge pole for The Angel Garden.

Fall then it is, Lord. I always enjoy fall on Earth. It’s a time for reaping, harvesting, collecting, gathering, and preserving the bounties of summer and

fall.

Who knew I’d so much like being a gardener? Who knew I’d so enjoy keeping a garden, an orchard, and a vineyard? Yes, yes, and yes!” Michael shouts readily. Bowing his head he whispers: Forgive me. I was overbearing. I was very much looking forward to rebuking and chastening both the tresers.

Yes, Lord, I hear you reminding me that pride goeth before a fall… , and I concede that I fell smack dab into temptation. How can I make amends?

Shawn Gallaway – On the Fence

Michael can feel God smile long before the hears words falling on his ears like amazing grace: You amend by making The Angel Garden even more lush and productive than the Garden of Eden was… , for there were only two in Eden’s glen. Here there are many; and, there is The Angel Garden.

And here there is a whole community who will survive and thrive because of The Angel Garden.

You ever keep a garden, Michael?

Never, Michael its, gazing into the face of the Divine, but I am a quick study.

God chortles. Gabriel will help. For this appearance, Gabriel is a mother angel. Her name is: ‘Gab-re-EL’.

I can’t wait to meet her! Can I gig Gabe unmercifully? Silence falls so profoundly it echoes into infinity.

You can actually ask this of a merciful God? The Divine One snaps. Que tonto! Que totalmente estupido!

I thought better of you, Michael…

You will again. Michael giggles with exasperating insouciance.

The Good Lord fades into light to mask a glad and goofy grin.

Michael hasn’t been in command since the battle against the Fallen Angels. The D.O. thinks.

God chortles, head thrown back: Now Michael is second in command to Gab-reEL, who will show and teach him what it means to be a true domestic diva.

The time is the right for the Mother’s return. And with Gab-re-EL guiding the change, the shift is on…

Shawn Gallaway – The Shift is On

Tresers in the Kingdom? Or Healers in Dirty Clothes?

His great silver sword sheathed, Michael is… , well, Michael is missing his warrior que cards that tell him clearly what to do, how to do it, when to do it; and even reveals the why of it.

He ponders the tres of the interlopers. He imagines what he might do about that that does not involve the unsheathing, and the expert application, of his silver sword.

Michael notices the shabby clothes of the two intruders wonders idly how his sword could possibly improve the condition of their clothes in any event.

What is your problem with ‘shabby clothes’? The Divine One poses presciently.

Define the issue for yourself.

Then, tell me why the condition of their clothing even is an issue for you, the Divine One poses with boundless indifference and an infinity of time to abide in peace while awaiting a reply.

Michael feels the D. O. smile on him good-naturedly. He feels the infinitely indifferent love of it. Shall I be an angel Transformer in my consciousness then?

God chuckles. Yes, he replies. Do that. Imagine, and then re-image who you think you are, so you are empowered to transform yourself into who you are when you’re not a warrior fighting demon angels.

These ‘intruders’ as you call them are mere mortals with human flaws. Yet more vitally, they are open-hearted survivors of tragedies of life, in their case, the Dust Bowl. God mourns the things man does while caught in the net of Separation from Source anxiety, and, the SOS call for help is never sent.

A Master I sent said it clearly and well, Michael, ‘you have not because you ask not’.

These common, poorly dressed, yet faith filled people did, and do, ask!

Actually, the girl asked for them. For all of them. And angels fell to Earth, you first among them.

The Divine One muses a quiet moment, then expounds: That is reason the girl demanded that I send angels to save their garden… , so her family and their neighbors would not starve, but could survive, and even thrive, for there is food in abundance in The Angel Garden.

The girl’s work is done, Michael. Now the work belongs to others. It belongs to the Mothers. It belongs to the Daughters. It belongs to the elders. And, it belongs to the fathers and to the Knights when strong arms and uncommon willingness to do the impossible is needed… , as it always is at harvest time.

After the harvest comes the threshing, the cleaning, the paring, the preparing, the cooking, the canning, the preserving, and the freezing. Just imagine the number of jars, the number of pressure cookers, and the number of burners that will be needed to harvest and preserve the produce of The Angel Garden.

Hester is needed for that reason. That is why she is here. And she needs the of the Daughters for the work to be done as I intend it be done. That is why Hester was allowed to enter The Angel Garden.

As for Bam White, he is naturally friendly, highly versatile, visible, and so practically predictable, that he is an unschooled master in the art of transparency. Bam is visible, yet rarely seen in his Truth. The Divine One smiles, and clarifies: That makes Bam the natural coordinator and communicator of plans to complete the work that arises naturally from The Angel Garden produce. And that is why Bam was granted entry into The Angel Garden.

The Divine One is divinely silent an infinite eternity, then asks pleasantly: Can you accept what I have done, Michael? And accept the reasons why I have done what you appear not to approve of in the least?

Michael drops to a knee, bows his head, lowers his eyes, and slaps his shield with an open hand. I am your servant, Lord. Use me as you will, and grant me the strength and power to do your will, your way.

Shawn Gallaway – In The Balance

The Divine One smiles on his first angel knight who freely surrenders his will to His will without condition and without withholding his fiery independence nor any of his unique gifts and powers. You are my chosen one, Michael. Your willingness to lay down your sword and to take up the good fight with only love as your weapon, shield, and armor proves your value as my chosen leader on Earth.

Now is time to change the world, Michael, and we do it by being here for the people who cannot see us, yet need us, and trust in us to lead them on the great red road of life to the good fight that heals the land, and the people who tend it and live upon it.

It is time for a new Eden’s garden, my first knight; and it is time for you to meet Gab-re-EL.

Gab-re-EL? Michael is gape-jawed.

Yes, she’s the female version of Gabriel.

And, my dear Michael, there is enough testosterone in you alone to cover all the manly things that need to be done by angels and man inside and outside The Angel Garden.

Gab-re-EL will inspire and guide the Divine feminine that is the native energy in women. It is females who will do most of the hell hot work of canning, preserving, sharing and distributing the produce of The Angel Garden. And

here’s another plus, Bam White already knows Gab-re-EL – although he pronounces her name ‘Gabriel’, and not correctly as she does.

God sighs, humans are so predictably unpredictable!

And I made them so. I gave them free will.

Even God can’t un-ring a bell.

Shawn Gallaway – Breathe a Little Magic

Michael grins, I will look forward to meeting, and getting to know Gab-re-EL. And she’ll probably show me up too, just like Gabriel usually does.

Do they show you up? The D.O. challenges… ,

Or do they grow you up?

Ouch! I needed that. Michael grins, I guess it’s time for this angel to lose some of his militant male energy and rediscover some of his fluid feminine energy.

It’ll make you a better dancer… , and a better swordsman too, the D.O. assures.

Wait until you see Gab-re-EL dance with a sword, it will transform your sword work; and Michael, you will love the transformation that flows into your sword dance with a newly enhanced physical and metaphysical awareness you will ‘catch’ from Gab-re-EL.

When do I meet Gab-re-EL? Michael asks eagerly.

Now. In this holy instant. Call her.

And prepare for battle, God grins, wild-eyed and madly gleeful.

Am I read for this?

Too late now… , here she is.

Michael, you old coot, it’s good to be with you again. Gab-re-EL’s voice rumbles through her barrel chest with a, melodious, and irresistibly lilting musical melody. Michael is taken aback, even as he is drawn in.

You ready to rumble, dude? Gab-re-EL calls with toothy, hungry grin.

Michael smiles off-sided, and its: Yes; but now I don’t know whether to hug you or shake your hand.

Why choose? She asks extending her right hand to shake, and her left arm to pull him into a bear hug, and leads backward into a dance. Michael follows her lead, and then he leads. It is seamless.

Now Michael senses both of them are leading, and both are following, and it’s working remarkably and gracefully well. Who’d a thunk it? He muses with an ear-to-ear delighted grin. Using his left hand to halt their motion, and his right to open a space between their bodies, he gazes deep into Gab-re-EL’s eyes.

Do you know what we’re doing here? What we are both here to do? What is our mission?

Don’t know; but, here we both are, inside The Angel Garden; so I’m guessing our mission is here, or, it at least begins here. Do we even know why we’re sent, or what we are sent to do?

Michael frowns puzzlement and asks: But you weren’t here. Not before you weren’t one of the angels that fell to Earth to dome and protect The Angel Garden. And you’re here now…

It isn’t a question, yet that’s what Gab-re-EL hears, and she hears a deep and formative need to know.

She feels Michael’s compelling ion to understand this fallen land and know the ways and whys it came to be laid bare and then exposed, first, before black sky swirling swarms of locusts, and then to the daily dusters that burdened the sky and tore away plants and roots and shredded healthy dirt into a powdery, pervasive, persistent, and into a hauntingly barren noon-time darkness.

How does even an archangel explain the inexplicable? Gab-re-EL wonders, then surrenders her separate self-awareness to the power of infinite love and gratitude.

Shawn Gallaway – Infinite Love and Gratitude

Would before, during, and after images help you understand? The Divine One asks.

Maybe. Michael shrugs, and then adds: It couldn’t hurt. He smiles, I think I’m ready for show-and-tell again too, but I want words plus images because they push a powerful mind-eye coordination. I’m in need of that right now. He points to the dirt at their feet and quips, I imagine that I am seeing the big picture almost as clearly as that blind earthworm there is.

Gab-re-EL smiles warmly and says: Yes, but its whole purpose in life is to eat tunnels through dry dirt, and then to poop it out its backside, making the soil loose and rich.

Are there earthworms in The Angel Garden? Surely God didn’t forget them…; and I certainly didn’t them. God’s right hand man, indeed!

Gab-re-EL chortles gleefully, narrows her eyes and spits: Oh yeah, the Divine One totally fucked up when he made you, didn’t he?

And how demonically retarded must God be then, to make you his standard bearer, and equally irrationally, to gift you with your great silver sword, and your gilded armor studded with the twelve stones of power and formed to the shape and size of your body! When you’re wearing one, that is. She grins a wicked, wanton woman grins, and quips: and the body you’re currently in is one hot boy bod!

Gab-re-EL… ! Michael gasps in dismay and falls stuttering, stupid silent.

I know, I know… Why isn’t your boy buddy, Gabriel here? The guy who is your strong right arm, who never crosses nor challenges you; but obediently and attentively follows you around cleaning up all your messes and near-misses.

Gab-re-EL! Michael stares at her as though mortally wounded by her razorsharp words.

Worse than that, you are a devoutly devoted drama queen! Gab-re-EL snaps with a sniff and a nose wrinkled as if smelling rotting meat.

The Angel Garden is as midnight silent and alertly wary as the angelic tension within the domed space. Sparks static and tiny starbursts that tzist, tzist, tzist in wild ricochets bouncing angrily around the space. As the snapping, crackling, and popping slows to a fade, the empty sound of silence expands, then fades into a subtly sub-audible snicker muffed with a palm over a mouth, followed quickly by a stifled giggle… , and everyone knows how successfully upwelling laughter is stifled by a hand.

A deep, disembodied voice in the space whines like an inflated balloon when it’s stretched tight below the lip, it squeals and screes forth like farts held in too tight too long. No one within the space looks at anyone else. Even the volunteer daisies with puffed black faces and joyous yellow petals look away.

As if previously scheduled by agreement, the tension breaks, and all the bonds and constraints are loosed and fall away; and joyous laughter runs riot among the flowers and plants that raise their heads to receive the light that comes eternally

from within the One Source within.

Gab-re-EL catches Michaels eye from across the space, points to him, points to herself, then turns to point to the small, lush, and apparently ancient grove of fruit trees, and in mute invitation, bobs her head to the grove. He follows her, an oddly puzzled smile on his lips.

They pick one each of their favorite fruits and seat themselves, backs against a broad nubby barked trunk, legs outstretched.

What’s our plan? What’s our process? Gab-re-EL asks, gazing into distant depths of a star newly in nova in another space and time. What a delightfully creative God you are! She thinks, how sweet are the fruits of your word… , but, why did you do this?

Because the girl asked. The Divine One shrugs vaguely, then amends with a cheesy grin, Okay, she demanded. Yet did it in a way that was not demanding, but was prayerfully and powerfully compelling.

She commands a commanding faith, Gab-re-EL. Perhaps in answered prayer, or in something else altogether. Perhaps simply because she still re when we were one and there was no separation among us. Or, because she still re that there is, only and forever, the great yield, and she wants that great yield now, for her people, her community, and for the plants and animals.

Gab-re-EL, at the end of the day, it was the girl who demanded my help, in the unshakable faith that I would hear, that I would answer, and that I would answer yes. What’s a good god to do but smooth the way when faith has the power to

move mountains and to make the impossible prove real?

Shawn Gallaway – The Great Yield

Why are both Michael and I stationed here in The Angel Garden… , where quantum weirdness abounds, and angels fall from the sky to enclose, to conceal, and to protect it?

The Divine One shrugs with eloquent indifference and challenges: You tell me.

I hate it when you do that!

And it irritates you when I don’t. What’s your point? The D.O. barks.

The open question is: Why do you think I stationed you in The Angel Garden?

Into the extending silence, he poses: Why do you imagine, did I station Michael there too?

What is your common purpose? What is uncommon about the mission you are both assigned to?

Dance, Gab-re-EL. You find clarity and grace in dancing. Dance through the twists and turns of your logic and reason so you come again to the throne of grace, and know without knowing, the power of the ion that calls to you. Embrace and celebrate the calling, for the calling names and claims you.

Shawn Gallaway – The Calling

Gab-re-El allows her eyes drift closed and flows with gentle grace through the blocks and hazards of life when appearing as an angel on the physical stage. I’ve done this before. Not just in the battle against the Fallen Angels. I’ve been here often. Before, I came as the Gabriel, bearing a sword I was very good with.

But, never before have I been on Earth as Gab-re-EL.

That is an interesting and novel awareness…

I wonder why gender matters. To angels anyway, since angels are both gender free, and genderful.

Maybe my mission here turns on the sound of my spoken name.

Interesting… , ‘Gab-re-EL’ . . . , with the name of God spoke in the last syllable. Oh, I can so work with that.

So, if I am EL on Earth, why the EL am I here?

What did EL come to do?

What is my mission and my purpose for being here? It’s got to be bigger and more compelling than eating from trees and plants in The Angel Garden? Why

am I here?

Let’s dance… The familiar voice beside Gab-re-EL is deep, and slow, the tongue sliding across the ‘a’ drawing it into a breathy ‘ah’. A hand appears before her cupped to hold hers… , if she takes it.

She does. it’s Michael, after all. The last time she danced with Michael it was a war dance. This should be interesting, she thinks as she steps into his arms and into a torrid tango that owns the floor that is new and presently solid beneath their feet.

Their eyes meet as one in a whole other relationship than they ever had before. Interesting indeed!

So, what do you think we’re here for? Michael poses, what did we come here to do?

I think we’re here for a common purpose. But I believe that our objectives here are not the same. The Common Denominator is our purpose… , we have the same purpose.

Michael spins her in the dance – a basso nova now – and stops her spin with a firm hand when she faces him again, he smiles. But our objectives… , and our methods… , are not the same. Yet we are sent as a team, a team of two, in one. He grins and notes, not unlike the Double Mint gum twins… , although that is a singularly disturbing thought, so never mind.

Pretend I didn’t even say the Double Mint thing.

That will be my unqualified pleasure. Consider it already done. Do not ever go there again!

Wow, he grins, that was enlightening. Seeing her look of puzzlement, Michael amends with a wry smile: We’re not twins. Even when we aren’t on assignment… , that suggests that our assignments are different in nature and in purpose; but our objectives are the same. We are not here in completion, nor even in collaboration. This time we are here as independent agents who a common cause.

The dance continues and the angels cannot tell which of them leads, and which follows, mostly because naming ‘the leader’ and ‘the follower’ never amounted to a tinker’s dam for either of them. Their eyes meet in the balance; and time is temporarily suspended and set free go outside and play a new game.

Shawn Gallaway – I Am Love

What’s the common mission, do you think?

Michael is silent for a holy instant, then inhales fully, and replies: To heal this broken land.

What is your assignment, do you think?

It’s not a what. It’s a ‘who’.

Then who?

Bam White.

Your turn now, Michael says.

Gab-re-EL soft chortles a knowing laugh, and replies: I have the same mission as you… , to heal this broken land.

My assignment, though, is to heal the people, to restore their spirit, and their patent present ion for healing, nourishing, restoring, and cultivating the barren land.

This may sound curiously odd to you, Michael, but Bam White is also my ‘who’.

But it is Hester that I came here to help and to heal.

Hester is twisted and tormented by a deeply repressed internal conviction of personal inadequacy. Her greatest faith lies in her ‘not enough-ness’, and that opens the inner space just enough for possession by another, an ‘other’, an alien presence.

That space is currently occupied by judgmental demon who answers to the name: ‘Imperfection’. Said demon has his hooks deep in Hester’s heart, corkscrewed into her mind, and strategically placed to best block and stop the growth of healthy self-esteem.

I’ve been in Hester’s mind; and plumbed the depths and breadth of her heart center. Her faith in her own imperfection and inherent inadequacy is systemic in her, it came with her.

From other lifetimes, do you suppose?

By necessity, yes. She grins. Yet one single lifetime, even a harsh and punitive one, is inadequate to inflict that depth and pervasiveness of inadequacy consciousness.

When I look at Hester askance, her energy appears and feels like a deeply and tightly webbed decades old overgrowth of bindweed. Gab-re-EL snorts and

speculates: There must be a whole gold chariot of karma carried in the telling of that tale.

You up to it? Michael asks.

Nah, I’ve learned to let sleeping dogs lie, and to address their aggression issues with them when they wake up, and they’re well fed. Animals are far more tractable after they’ve been fed. Even human ones.

Are you saying then that you are up to the task… , or that it’ll take more time to complete it than you expected? Michael asks.

Gab-re-EL gives a ‘what’s a girl to do?’ shrug, and replies with confident certainty: On the physical plane? Yes, absolutely, and beyond any doubt it will take a more time than I expected. Yes, I am up to the task; and I am profoundly grateful that you and I are co-partnering this Earth Mission for the Divine One.

She pats Michael’s cheek, it’s always more entertaining and engaging when we problem-solve together; and who a thunk we’d find each other and discover our common mission lies inside The Angel Garden?

So, old friend, let’s talk mission objectives, yours and mine. Let’s discover and discuss which of our individual mission objectives run along parallel, or mutually ive lines.

Do you suppose it is possible for a pair of archangels to get a really nice glass of

wine in The Angel Garden? And where do you suppose a padre vintner is when you need one?

Um-m-m… , Michael hums awkwardly, right behind your left shoulder.

May I suggest a chardonnay? Says the wine steward at her elbow with a prim, proper, and perfectly bland face and bearing.

He has got to be a demon, Michael. Only a true Hell’s spawn could appear so quietly, and be so offensive, so quickly, and with such focused virulent venom. She takes a taste the wine he pours into her glass. Her face s pleasant surprise, it’s quite good actually. She grabs the bottle in the steward’s hand and turns it to read the label. She giggles goofy pleasure and turns to Michael. Guess its name.

Michael eyes her levelly, studying her for hints and clues. He sees none, not a clue. Tell me.

Calling All Angels.

Michael raises his glass to the attentive steward who faithfully first shows the label, then pours wine into his glass, and judiciously wipes an errant drop from the neck before tucking the bottle into the sweating silver bucket to turn silently away and disappear before he is even out of sight.

Not a talkative chap, Michael observes acerbically… , yet, he goes straight to

the heart of it, and that’s what matters.

This is becoming a really nice wine bar… , you have noticed that we’re no longer lounging on the grass, but are sitting at a rather nice outdoor café table? And have you also noticed that there are bunnies, eating, and trimming the grass; and they are not eating vegetables? That is quantum weirdness…

Or the presence of angels… What the heck is quantum weirdness anyway?

Are we having our first argument?

Let’s don’t, we have plans to make, coordination to take, and a cake to bake…

Really? Where’d that come from?

From me. Smiles Hester as she s them at the table bearing a still warm chocolate cake, thick clad with fudge icing, and adds. Bam’s on the way with pad and pencil. Soon as he gets back, we’re calling this a coordination council, and calling our meeting to order.

Gab-re-EL looks at Michael who looks at her with wide-eyed wonder – both conjecturing as to who decided to convene the council meeting, who will call it to order, and what items are on the agenda.

Shawn Gallaway - Threshold

How many people are you expecting to come here for the meeting? Demands Michael, trained to take action according to a plan, and self-correct only when prior plans are changed suddenly by somebody without authority!

None of that is happening here. Uncountable unknowns filter into The Angel Garden to set up tables, cover them with butcher paper, and lay out a feast fit for a wedding on top of that along with napkins, paper plates, and cups for hot and cold liquids.

Uh… , what’s happened here? They exchange a look. You’re clueless too? She nods. That’s comforting… , but not good. We’re quickly becoming accessories after the fact while it’s happening. What do we do?

Call angels.

Michael is dumbfounded and it shows, Gab-re-EL grins cold comfort. Isn’t The Angel Garden already filled with and formed by angels? Michael nods. Then take a chill pill. Neither your war cry nor your great sword are needed to call the angels, they’re already here.

You are as cold as ice!

You’re hot as fire. What’s your point? We make a good team because we aren’t the same. As a team I’ve got your back and you have mine; and neither of us are in the face of the other.

Like you are not in my face right now?

In a flash of spirit insight Gab-re-EL gets it. Michael is out of his element. He knows how to give and take with Gabriel, they’ve known each other since before time began; they fought and played together as toddlers, trained together as boys, and fought and drank together as men. Between Michael and Gabriel, who’s first, and who wins, doesn’t change anything for either of them.

He thinks he doesn’t know who I am, and that he doesn’t know how to play with me, let alone play nice.

So, Divine One, I’m just guessing that a whole lot of healing of separation from source anxiety must take place both of us, before it can be healed between the two of us individually.

When did you become individual?

When we were born, when the inspiration of Spirit inspired and enlightened both of us… , individually.

Exactly.

I don’t re-do anything.

Nor anyone.

I do only wholly new make-overs of the body, mind, and brain, of those ready to en-soul again into an entirely new and original expression of who they were; and with an enlightened and inspired knowing of who they are, who they were, and who they always will be in Spirit.

As a logical outcome of my hands-off approach to re-ensoulment of Spirit into expression, The Divine One sighs remorse, and release, and continues: and of my unconditional gift of free will, I don’t expect obedience! Que tonto… ! But I do expect compliance.

Even of my Archangels… , and you are one.

And you are Gab-re-EL!

Why are you being obedient?

Because I certainly don’t see compliance.

So, ask yourself, Gab-re-EL, what would compliance do to remedy your current quandary?

I have an infinity of time to wait. However, The Angel Garden has a ‘best by’ date of one growing season. The Angel Garden is not eternal. Nor are the people

inside here… that you now want to kick out.

All the while persistently pursuing your own re-making MY image of Michael!

And of Bam White!

And of Hester!

And of the girl!

The girl?

Yes. It would do for you to study her. She girl is not obedient. I didn’t make her so, I gave her free will… , and the consequences of choices. But she is compliant. The Divine One chortles at the memory of her demand, re that she would not take silence nor ‘no’ for an answer.

You see, Gabriel, the girl has unshakable faith in the words of one of my many Masters taught: ‘You have not because you ask not.’

The girl asked.

She stormed the walls of the Kingdom to reach me… , to make me hear… , to

demand that I listen, and that I save and heal this wounded land and the people who tend and nourish the land, and do all in their power to make it sturdy, vibrant, alive, and fruitful.

She persuaded me that it’s not survival instinct that inspires and drives her or her people, but that it is their pure and whole-hearted love of the land and of everything above, below, within, and upon it.

Once I watched the girl escort a mouse out of the house so they wouldn’t have to kill it.

After that she took the table scraps rodents, and over time, she discovered its family. She talked with her mom about that they decided to relocate the mice to the birthing room in the milk barn where it’s warm.

I doubt Hester ever told the girl why she agreed, nor why she suggested that space. But I knew. Cats like cream; and cats like rodents. The birthing room was an ecologically sensitive solution.

Do you still want to transform her from a farm girl without a sprout of doubt, into your own ideal image of her as… ? What is your image of the girl, Gab-reEL, and why is that your chosen faith?

Shawn Gallaway – The Wave of Love

I do believe I have had my first transformation experience! Gab-re-EL announces with a smile, and it didn’t hurt at all. I feel so much better now.

Better enough to be nice to Michael?

Better enough to be nice to me, and to everyone and everything else too. Your problem is that in truth, there is no ‘else’ out there anywhere.

Now that’s angelic Truth Talk. You two ready to beam back into The Angel Garden?

I am… , but I didn’t even know that we were gone from there.

The D.O. sighs. You were making The Angel Garden an unhealthy environment. There’s no future in that; so I put you in Neverland where you could play Captain Hook and feel and experience that feeding, bleeding energy.

Neverland is my Get Straight program for angels with repressed control freak tendencies.

Gab-re-EL giggles – she can’t help it. Now she’s come again to The Angel Garden for the first time ever, knowing in her heart that it is already more than it was before.

Plus, Michael’s there, and Hester, and Bam, and the girl… , the girl’s Divine assignment grows there too. Time to make The Angel Garden thrive, and not merely survive.

So, D.O., am I safe now to go into The Angel Garden?

You were always safe in The Angel Garden.

Rather, it was The Angel Garden that wasn’t safe from you. Because your separation from Source anxiety came in with you, sort of a modern day spin on the tale of the snake in Eden’s garden, don’t you agree?

So, Gab-re-EL, what is your irresistible temptation? Name it, and claim it.

Gab-re-EL is silent an infinite moment, then answers from her heart: Control freak tendencies.

The Divine One smiles, nods once, and asks: What are you going to do about that?

Get out of my conscious mind and get into the great mind that lives in the heart center.

Now, tell me why you will do that? Get your mind out of the way and tell me the truth of your heart.

Gab-re-EL’s smile beams. She throws her head back to make room for the joy springing up within her like a fertile fountain fed on awareness of the potent power of the heart. I shed copious tears of joy because now I see the Light – the light of Your Will – and I am willing to do that, willing to be that.

From now on I feed and nourish The Angel Garden so it produces abundance to feed and nourish the people who live on, nourish and love this land with ion enough to heal it and make it whole again.

’Bout time! Michael growls, I was nearly plumb tired of carrying the weight for both of us, plus crying all the tears needed to water the plants in The Angel Garden, plus being the center pole for The Angel Garden. Welcome back, Gabriel in maidenly form. He tickles her tummy until she giggles out all her small self-awareness laughing from the core her true, accepting all the quirky gifts she brings to the game.

You can’t do anything without my help can you? Gab-re-EL growls.

Michael’s brows dance a curious askance dance, his eyes are roundly puzzled. Why should I? He demands: That is what side-kicks are for!

Gab-re-EL grins. So, side-kick, what’s our action plan?

First we’ll define our objectives, identify our long-term goals and how we’ll accomplish them, then, scope our goals, next, we categorize the action items, identify who’s best to implement them, and outline the order of implementation,

and lastly, by inspiring the people, thus we transform vision into reality.

Wow! You make it sound easy… How long will it take, and how long will the job last?

That’s not our job, Gab-re-EL. Michael places a palm on her forehead, takes her hand, and in word/thoughts of slow surrender and refreshing release, he guides her gently.

Take a deep breath, hold… , release it gently now, in a slo-o-o-w exhale.

Permit your breath to moan. Let it wail if it wants.

Breathe deep and slow, and simply allow the breath to find and follow its flow. Let it flow as free as water in a stream, bubbling, alive, and laughing its way along glorious in wind and sun.

Michael is peacefully relaxed in the silence. Gab-re-EL s him there, feeling her energy merge into his, still seamless and distinct. From there the pair free fall flow into silence and their common cause.

Tell me now – how’s your inner pushy bitch?

Don’t know. Can’t find her. Can’t feel her.

Take a deep breath, fill your lungs to capacity, and hold it gentle as you would the breath of Spirit.

Now, find your pushy bitch.

Gab-re-EL grins, then giggles, then chortles a full belly-laugh. She’s still here; but she’s going with the flow, she’s not fighting it or needing to control it. She is me and I am she. We are twin on one purpose.

Now tell me, Gab-re-EL, are you a control-freak?

No. But I am big on order and process. I’m a lot like you in that regard. So, instead of naming myself ‘control freak’, I have repented; and henceforward will say: ‘I am objective driven’.

They are laughing together as they re-enter The Angel Garden.

Shawn Gallaway – A Call to Joy

Healers in Muddy Clothes

“Anyone who thinks they can plant and grow a garden without getting dirt is delusional. Those people are not in with reality. They have allowed themselves, to become so utterly disconnected from truth that they have become dangerously delusional.” Hester pauses to let that sink in.

“Including… , perfectly perplexingly to me, the angels among us.

“Most of us are Knights, or Daughters. We are faith sworn to help everyone and anyone in need. Unlike angels apparently, sworn Knights and Daughters cannot discriminate, we may not withhold, and, we will not judge, for the Master who showed the Way and leads us on it, taught: ‘Judge not lest ye be judged’.

“That said, I personally do not believe that the Divine One exempted angels from His commandments, nor from his commands.

“There are angels among us. These angels have, both inside and outside The Angel Garden, competed viciously, and avariciously, over earthly power and control of The Angel Garden…

“Really?

“These vagrant angels have failed utterly to reveal even a whiff, or scintilla, of

the spirit of collaboration and cooperation that is native to farmers who work the land to provide for their families.

“It is the farmer’s nature to produce more than enough during the growing season so they can give gifts and non-monetary tithes directly to people who are struggling just to stay alive on this broken land.

“For those who doubt me, Bam White is our distributor.” She smiles and asks: “How many of you know Bam?” She counts the hands that are not raised mostly because it’s easier… , there are only two.

They are both Angels. They are both discomfited by that difference.

Hester hides a secret smile and continues. “For those who don’t know Bam,” She points to Bam, motioning him to stand while she sings his praise in question/answer format.

“Bam, tell us what you have done, and what you currently do to earn a living for you and your family.”

Bam stands up to tell his tale turning in place as though talking with each person individually, meeting their eyes, and sharing their smiles, all the while he’s waving weirdly like a Homecoming Queen.

Creepy, Hester thinks with a grim ghoulish grin.

When Bam has finished all the tales worth telling and received all the applause he can stand without his fiddle tucked under this chin, he eases himself gently back into his chair.

When all faces turn again to Hester, she smiles awkwardly, a bit uncertain, then its: “It appears that I am a fly in the angel’s ointment… , I am a free agent the angels squabble and fight over to control.

“Just like Bam, neither of the visiting angels knows me. I’m a wild card in The Angel Garden, like Bam.

“If you thought the Angel war that led to the fall was the last angelic battle of wills, you are wrong.

“I was too.” Hester sighs standing head bowed, eyes lowered. “I sincerely believed… , no, I had unquestioning faith that the angels who came in response to the call of the girl, had come to help us, and they must be on our side.” She is silent a moment.

“I also believed without doubt that the angels came because the Divine One did send them after the girl demanded angelic cover to save the garden, to heal this broken land and all of us who live on it, love it, tend it, nourish it, and even talk to it.

“Have you ever talked with an earthworm?” She sees the sly smiles and shy nods of agreement. She giggles relief and says: “thank you for that.

“So, how many of you believe that the ‘attending angels’ have helped you, or someone you know?”

She sees bowed heads and lowered eyes. She sees Bam with lowered lids looking around at the people in the room and seeing only lowered eyes. He stands slowly, carefully, and announces: “The answer to your question, Hester, is ‘none’. Not one of us, nor anyone we know.”

“Well then, what can we do to redeem our two fallen angels so these fallen ones can willingly do the will of God who sent them?”

“I’m guessing that spanking them on the courthouse lawn isn’t the idea you’re looking for…” The silence is profound for an eternal instant. Then, there is a suppressed giggle, swallowed too fast, or too slow, to catch and hold the opinions and emotions, too long held suppressed, now urgently demanding release.

As if on que, someone farts a loud one that is remarkably reminiscent of schoolboys blowing raspberries at grades on their report cards.

The raspberry effect on the assembly is practicably predictable.

The effect it has on the angels is a whole other matter, and it is completely unexpected.

The angels are gape-jawed, stunned stupid stuttering silent.

So are the people now.

Even Hester… , and that’s saying a lot.

But Gab-re-EL, while gape-jawed, and wide-eyed also has a wide open third eye. That is a whole other kettle of fish…

Gab-re-EL has been an angel since shortly before time began, and in all those eons of angelic life and human intervention, Gab-re-EL has never been rasp berried. She’s humbled.

But she is not humiliated.

She sheds her silver armor, taking on a blue chambray shirt, rolled up sleeves, striped bib overalls like a train engineer wears, and high topped lace up boots. The uniform of choice of the farmer. She quickly discovers that she does not walk as she did before. That her body has utterly forgotten how to do that.

Gab-re-EL’s wings are gone.

Her halo too. She’s wearing a garden hat in place of that.

Who-a thunk it?

On the thought, Gab-re-EL is back inside The Angel Garden, tending the plants, picking off cut worms and grasshoppers, giving the plants water and whispering encouraging words into their heads.

Perhaps most surprising of all, Gab-re-EL can see the plants growing upright and strong while the girl whispers praise reports into their pores. She feels a presence at her side and looks down, still smiling, and into the face and eyes of the girl.

The girl looks amused, and pleased peach proud. “I’m glad you came back.”

“How did you know I left?”

The girl studies the toes of her shoes awhile then replies: “Because you were here with me before… But you weren’t a lady angel then.”

Shawn Gallaway – The Real More

Gabriel… , I was Gabriel then?

The girl grins, cocks a brow, and says ‘duh’!

“That was unkind!’

“You earned it. Deal.”

“Do you talk to the plants that way?” Gab-re-EL demands.

The girl turns, shifting her weight to her far leg, knee and foot. She looks up at Gab-re-EL with a stone sober face and says: “No. Plants may be dumb . . . , they can’t speak; but they are not senseless. They feel energy, and they wilt like spent tea leaves every time you come near them.”

Gab-re-EL looks at the plants, and under her eye, the plants shrink, wilting weak when her eyes fall on them. She covers her eyes and spins away saying: “Lead me out of here.”

“No!” The girl snaps. “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say, and you’ve set the stupid bar really high ever since you arrived.

“The plants thrived when you were gone from The Angel Garden. You walk

back in, look around, and everything your eyes fall on wilts and withers. There is something seriously wrong with that; and all you can think to demand, not to ask… , is to be led like a blind cripple out of The Angel Garden. “Que tonto! Que totalmente estupido!”

“Did you say what I think you said?”

“You’re blond, Gab-re-EL… Does being blonde dictate to you that you are stuttering, stumbling stupid?”

“Doesn’t work that way for you.” She says eyeing the girl’s multi-color blonde hair. “Ergo… , not for me.”

She looks down at her spotlessly white gown and delicate lace-up sandals, then at the girl’s get up. Denim jeans, a long-sleeve blue chambray shirt not tucked into the jeans, a straw hat, and her lace up boots that Gab-re-EL silently called ‘clodhoppers’.

Shawn Gallaway – Keep Getting Up

Gab-re-EL throws her head back and laughs an open-throated belly laugh, startling the girl to turn in round-eyed staring silence. The girl is not looking at the plants now… , but Gab-re-EL is. And she’s wearing an open-faced look of wonder. The girl looks too. Together they don’t breathe awhile… , and then Michael comes to save the day.

“Breathe, ladies and angels.

“Bodies in human form need oxygen, just like plants do.

“And, plants need carbon dioxide, which people and other embodied forms release when they exhale. Breath is part of the cycle of life… , and exhaling is part of the cycle of breath. Exhale!

“When we are in fear, we are anxious for something, and we are holding our breath. The Master taught: ‘be anxious for nothing’.”

Michael smiles as he asks: “What is the ‘nothing’ that makes you anxious? Gabre-EL?”

“I – I – I…” She hides her face in her hands, her body shakes and shudders in silent sobs, her copious tears splattering down on the unattended plants. She gasps a breath, raises her head and says: “That… , I am . . . , unworthy, unprepared, unhelpful; and that my presence in The Angel Garden will ruin it. Will spoil it! Will destroy it!” She wails.

Until she feels a small hand in hers, tugging demandingly her attention. She opens her tear stung eyes and looks down into the eyes of the girl, she sees her smile, and then she sees the delight in her eyes.

“Look, she says pointing to the plants… , don’t you see… , the plants in The Angel Garden like angel tears. Look how big and strong the ones grow that were spattered by your tears. Look at the ones you didn’t cry on… , they still look under-developed and immature.

“Cry, Gab-re-EL, cry. Get up high in the sky and fly and cry over all of the plants in The Angel Garden. Do it today, and tomorrow, and the day after that… Repeat often as necessary.

“You don’t know it yet, and probably aren’t ready to it it: but that is the reason you were sent when I demanded God send angels to save us. Because you could save The Angel Garden. Because you could make the plants flourish so abundantly that there is plentiful food for now, and an excess for later.

“Enough so that the Daughters will spend weeks together doing little but cleaning, preparing, canning, and labeling all the produce. That’s why Mom is here, because she’s a Daughter, and a leader the other Daughters willingly follow.

“And, Daughters are women! Women make one plan together and expect it to change on the fly, because that is how life flows.

“And that leads to the reason Bam is here,” she smiles, “Bam is our delivery agent, and communication person, the man who can disappear in plain sight, and make things happen that no one ever sees.

“Michael, where are you?” She calls.

“Umph!” Michael grunts, pulling his head free enough to speak, “Up here… , being the center pole of The Angel Garden.”

“Oh!” The girl says, looking up to find his face. She smiles. “Thank you for that. Do you suppose you could cry angel tears simply because you are bearing all that weight… , just like poor old Atlas did?”

Michael knows a comeuppance when he hears one, and he is taken aback at the nerve of the girl. He’s stunned stuttering silent. She never takes her eyes off him, and her eyes twinkle amazed amusement.

She’s baiting me… !

She’s doing it deliberately, and without a shred of remorse or second thought.

She’s a brassy one then…

She’s also right. In part. Yet, I feel a giggle bubbling up like a strong spring, and it sounds and it feels like irrepressible joy!

Oh, it is so time for my joy dance! It has been way too long since I danced just for joy.

The girl asked for tears. Michael smiles toward the heavenly sky. I will release and spread my renewed in-joy-ment in the form of tears that will laugh and giggle and tickle and tease as they fall.

My tears of joy, falling with Gab-re-EL’s healing ones, will make The Angel Garden vibrantly abundant.

Come fall, the Daughters will be very, very busy.

He feels Gab-re-EL beside him, smiling. She reminds him: Hester is aces at organizing and running a healthy kitchen.

She and RO are best buds going way back.

RO is the President of the Daughters of Isabella.

The D of I has a commercial kitchen in their meeting/banquet/party room.

The Daughters love cooking and canning, every one of them.

The president of the Knights is Counselor… , RO’s husband.

The Knights have trucks and trailers.

Knights are accustomed to driving trucks and trailers after dark.

They claim they know the roads so well they travel at night without lights to extend the battery life.

Michael shrugs: I don’t buy that either. But it is amusing, and, tall tales ought to make you smile. There are other reasons for running without lights at night that are the more likely, like just for the fun of it, or for the thrill of daring death to come and living to tell about it.

They’re bored farm boys, give ’em a break already. Snaps Gab-re-EL.

Michael looks deep into her eyes and asks, perplexed: How do you do that? How do you run through those remarkably wacky riffs of yours without ever hearing how funny they are?

Without hearing how funny you are?

You are the prototype drama queen, and you don’t see that! You are as blind as a

bat hanging in your self-made batty belfry, pretending you’re normal! Bogus!

When did God ever make ‘normal’?

You’re an archangel, Gabe! Archangels are not normal.

How could you not know that? How could you so thoroughly delude yourself that you are normal?

Close your mouth, he slaps her chin, you’re attracting moths. Very not archangel-y. Demonic, actually.

Shawn Gallaway – If I Could Find A Way

So, Gab-re-EL, tell me why you believe that the Divine One, who made you unique across time, expects normality of you? Es tonto! Es totalmente estupido!

And why you have so totally wrapped yourself around your ‘be normal’ axel that you have utterly and willfully chosen to repress and deny that you are angelic in a way that is unique to you, across all of time!

Have you been here before?

Yes you have.

Are you different now?

Well, du-oh! Of course you are. Your mission here and now, is different than when the two of us battled to win the war against the fallen angels.

So is mine.

And, just like in the war we fought together and won, we are here today and now, to fight a whole other war… , a war that does not need us as militants.

What’s our battle this time? Why are we here again… , without weapons or armor? He pats his bare chest, head, arms, and where his silver sword would

hang if he had one. He opens his hands palms up.

Gab-re-EL mirrors him pat for pat and turns her palms up as Michael has done. She is silent for an infinite moment, then replies confidently: We’re here to heal this barren broken land, and the people who love it so systemically that it cannot be uprooted from them, nor them from it.

Her face crumples, tears form in her eyes, but do not fall. We do it for the people… , and for us… , because Archangels are leaders, and leaders are in front leading… , they are not behind pushing.

Michael smiles and pulls her into a warm embrace. She relaxes there, smiles with him, then looks up and into his eyes and say: It is time, don’t you think, to make our hearts rumble like thunder under the dome of The Angel Garden, and ignite the power of lightning bolts to shatter doubt and fear; and release in us an infinite rain of healing tears.

Infinite? You sure?

Are you asking about infinite rain… , or a rain of infinite healing?

Ah! Michael grins, that make, a difference. Well then, let’s do a rain dance together in The Angel Garden, knowing that the rain of healing will fall according to Divine plan.

Does that work?

Yes, but…

With you there’s always a ‘yes, but’.

Gab-re-EL grins and says: Then you are not taken by surprise… , that’s a good thing.

What’s your ‘but’ about?

But . . . , we cry tears of laughter and joy, knowing with confidence, that the D.O. will handle the scope, and the logistics of where our tears fall.

And there’s another plus, we know with certainty that The Angel Garden will never flood, no matter the copious quantity of angel tears we shed.

Ready to rumble angel tears?

Yes, with a wee modification… , let’s dance a joy jig to get us warmed up. And then a polka, I hear the natives simply adore the polka.

The polka? Really?

You really do need to get out more, Gab-re-EL.

But… , I need to be in The Angel Garden!

Haven’t you heard? Angels are inherently Omni-locational, or, everywhere present, if you prefer.

I do prefer that. Inside and out, and all around about. That works for me. Let’s rumble, Dude!

Shawn Gallaway – Living Without Edges

Thunder in the Garden

“Mom – why is there no thunder in The Angel Garden even though it’s raining all the time? How does that work?”

Hester pauses to feel for the source of the girl’s question, to find the outer boundaries of it. Otherwise she’ll get twenty more questions for every answer. “That’s a good question…; and I don’t know the answer. Shall we ask the angels?”

The girl looks up into the dome of The Angel Garden and sees only falling drops of rain, she does not see the two angels she knows are there. Are you hiding? The rain stops suddenly, and the girl hears the soft sound of ruffled feathers. Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, so never mind.

How come there’s no thunder in The Angel Garden, no matter how hard it rains?

During the consultive silence, Hester and the girl pick cutworms off the tomatoes, spud bugs off the potato plants, and corn worms off the maturing ears of corn. Then to pulling up weeds by the roots everywhere they appear.

“How long does it take for two angels to answer a question?”

“How long is a piece of string?” Hester asks without looking up from weeding.

“And it’s not raining… Do you suppose the angels went A.W.O.L. because they can’t answer a question?”

“They’d answer to God if they did. Even angels can’t hide from the One Who Sees.”

“It’s getting steamy hot in here too, there’s not enough air flowing,” the girl worries aloud.

Hester smiles beneath her sun hat. She knows the feeling. “Well then, do what you did before. Stop asking me questions, and ask the One Who Knows.

“But let me ask you a question before you do. What if it is your faith that is being tested? And what if the absent angels are part of the test?”

“My faith? My faith?” Her face crumples, her body shakes, and tears pool but do not fall. “I’m the one who asked… , I’m the one who demanded that God send angels to save our garden.”

“Hum… , did you ask for thunder?”

“Thunder?”

“Yes. When you asked God to send angels, what happened?

“Angels came.”

“Before that. What happened before the angels came? Do you ?”

“I . Did you hear it?”

“I did. What was that sound like?”

“Thunder… , ripping the sky open so the angels could come down.”

“Doesn’t thunder come before the rain? Isn’t it thunder that cause flowers to bloom, and not just rain lilies, but all flowers… , like the flowers that form on plants before they make fruit?”

“Thunder makes flowers bloom? I didn’t know that. Why?”

“You and your ‘why’ questions… , they are the reason you get answers! The answer is that thunder happens because lightening shattered the clouds and that released great amounts of nitrogen that causes flowering plants to bloom. Think of thunder as God’s watering system.”

“Is that why it’s not raining anymore, because there is no thunder in The Angel Garden?”

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t the squabbling of the two arrogant angels thunder enough?”

Hester looks up at the girl and asks: “Was it?”

“No.”

“Do you know why?”

“No,” she its balefully.

“What would the Master say?” She smiles, “What did the Master say?”

“You have not because you ask not.”

“Then I will tell you a bit about thunder.”

“No, Hester, that’s my job. That’s why I’m here. Come over here girl, and sit with me while we talk, you too, Hester.”

The girl sees nowhere to sit that’s not taken up by wilting plants. She follows RO as leads them into a hidden glen – that wasn’t there before – where there is a table and stools to sit upon; and pretty cocktail napkins awaiting their orders. I think we Daughters will have some wine while we talk,” she lifts a finger, and a seriously sober waiter steps to her side pad and pencil poised to take their orders. “Hester and I will have some wine… , what do you recommend?”

A small smile forms on his lips before he replies: “Our most exquisite wine is ‘Calling All Angels’, I’ll pour a taste for you… ,” he says as he pours a taste in RO’s goblet, and waits attentively for her assessment.

RO sips, she savors, then she curls her tongue to gently inhale the wine pooled there with a soft bubbling sound. She blinks, smiles and says “Oh this is excellent, and simply perfect for the occasion of our visit.” She pauses as he pours, then says: “The girl will have a Virgin Mary, it’s her first so make it special.”

The waiter bobs his head, and replies: “Special is all we do here.” He walks away leaving his bubbling chuckle to follow in his wake.

“Who’d a thunk it?” she muses.

“What’s a Virgin Mary?

“It’s a lovely blend of tomato and fruit flavors that’s not too sweet, not at all sour: and, it’s served with a celery stalk standing in it for stirring, and eating. Best of all, there’s no alcohol in a Virgin Mary so you won’t get drunk.” She pats the girl’s hand comfortingly and adds: “You can save that for later, when you’ve matured enough to be called a woman.”

The girl nods agreeably and reports: “I can wait. But Mom… , can I have a taste from your glass of ‘Calling All Angels’?”

Hester smiles and extends the glass to her while she takes a sip. The girl casts a glance at RO, curls her tongue, and gently pulls air over the wine bubbling it on her tongue. She blinks. Three times. “For the first time ever, I can’t wait to be mature, that has a nicer sound energy, than ‘growing up’ does.”

“Oh, yes, my dear, and that keeps being true no matter how long you live… , take my word on it.”

“I like the Bloody Mary though… , I like it a lot, so I’m a happy camper.”

“Where did you hear those words?”

The girl shrugs and says: “No idea. Not a clue. Maybe I never heard them before you ordered this one for me.” She wrinkles her brows in puzzlement and asks: “does it matter?”

“Not at all, dear one, it matters not a tittle nor a whit.”

Hester puts a hand on RO’s arm, smiles knowingly, and asks: “Why are you here, RO?”

RO smiles and replies: “to talk about thunder… , of course. And you didn’t knew that because you haven’t owned, allowed, and claimed your thunder. And that’s a problem. You cannot teach what you do not know.” She grins with toothy conviction and adds: “I know thunder!”

As if they were magic words RO spoke, Thunder booms through The Angel Garden and spears of lightening flash from the sky.

Michael and Gab-re-EL, spitting and caterwauling like angry cats, stop. They just let go. And when they do, they see what they didn’t before. It is Gab-re-EL who sees it first actually, she bumps Michael’s elbow with her own, points downward, and whispers conspiratorially: “Michael, let’s go get a glass of Calling All Angels and talk with the nice people sitting down there.”

“I’m there.”

And then they are. Sitting on the two empty seats that appear between the girl and the two Daughters, with perspiring glass of Calling All Angels sitting on cocktail napkins before them. The angels smile as one, and, as one, raise their glasses in toast.

The Daughters, and then the girl raise their glasses for the toast. A tingle of unexpected knowing shudders through the five pointed star of them as it

replicates its iridescent colors on the table below, each point pointing into the five where they sit.

“Um – RO, I think we’re here for you.”

RO’s eyes round large and anxious. Gab-re-EL sees that brusquely assures: “not that way, RO! Get a grip! We’re here for you because you can do something needs to be done; and no one else but you can do this one thing that must be done!”

RO bobs her head and asks: “And what is that?”

“Make it thunder.”

“What?

“Are you mad?”

“No. Not even angry.

“You do know how to thunder, RO. Trust yourself… , and trust the One who made you for this work, and now calls you to it.

“Let go of what you know, and open a space for what you do not know.”

“Oh…”

“Good work, RO!

“Now – make it thunder.” It’s not quite an order… , but RO doesn’t take orders anyway. She is compliant though, and that’s all the D.O. wants… , so it’s all good.

“Tell us how to thunder, RO, then tell us why to thunder.”

Embraced in the confident assurances of Gab-re-EL, RO slips the bonds of what she knows, and slides effortlessly into what she does not know. She embraces it. And it embraces her and speaks to her in voice and language that is not verbal at all.

Thunder is the native voice of the perfect mind, the complete mind. It is the voice of Zeus, the Thunderer, it is the voice of feminine power. Thunder is loved everywhere for thunder brings forth life.

Thunder is hated everywhere for bringing death.

Thunder existed before creation, it moves in every creature, even in human ones.

Thunder is the voice speaking softly, saying: ‘I dwell in the silence. I am perception and knowing. I am the real voice.

I cry out to everyone, and they know me… , because a seed of me indwells them.

I am the awareness of the father… , the hidden thought… , and I am a mystery.

I am Protennoia, the triple-formed primordial consciousness that was before the beginning. I continue beyond the end… that never comes. I am everywhere in between. There are no gaps where I am not.

I am thunder!

It is raining. Hard. RO looks up with a frown, and a snort of irritation. She points into an indeterminate overhead space, snaps her fingers, bobs her head once, and a large umbrella opens above them sheltering them all.

Even the fierce-faced waiter carrying a fresh bottle of wine, and smiling a subtle off-sided grin. He looks around the circle of friends and asks: “May I you?”

No verbal answer is given, but a stool appears between the girl and Hester, and the waiter sits there with a warm smile.

He is facing RO, who is thinking: What’s his role here that he has a seat at the table? Vintner extraordinaire? If an angel garden needs a wine maker… , there was none in Eden’s glen.

RO feels Hester’s hand cover hers, and hears Hester think: Maybe the reason the waiter is here is equally as obscure and unknowable as the reason you are here.

Or me…

It appears to me that one does not need an ission ticket to get a front row seat in The Angel Garden. She nods upward, even our wayward wandering angels prove that.

Into the silence, Hester pops an off-side grin at RO, maybe all that’s left for us to do is thunder like Zeus.

“Oh, let’s do! Please let’s do.”

“Them’s purty powerful words you’re saying here, ladies. You a truth speakers or sumin like that?” Bam waits at the table for his chair to appear as he knows it will.

“Bam White, why are you talking like you have no teeth; and no respect for words either?” the girl snaps with furious eyes and No Nonsense signs flashing all over face except the eyes. Her eyes are not masked.

“Are you here to thunder, Bam, or are you leaving? Your choice. Choose now.”

Bam is a man of few words, and he has lost every one of them.

Without taking his eyes off the girl’s, Bam pulls up a stool and takes his place at the table. He does not blink. Until the girl does. And then, Bam thunders. That’s who Bam is.

Shawn Gallaway – Shining Star

No one smiles. No one laughs. No one even grins. Everyone absorbs the thunder rumbling through their mind, brain, and body. Everyone feels the golden descent of the star into their crown chakra, and into the third eye chakra. Starlight abides and expands in them awhile as they watch the star continue its graceful downward spiral. As one they slip as easily as grace into the radiance of the star that brings clear light to all the dark twisted and tangled places inside them.

When all have drunk their fill of grace and glow with it, RO slips seamlessly into her wise woman self, and shares wisdom, for heart-wide-open sharing is a signal characteristic of the wise. She can’t help it any more than a mother can choose to not feed her children, even when it means she will not have the food she needs. My children need the wisdom of the star… , and I have enough and more to share.

“The star… ,” RO begins, calling the attention of all, including the fallen angels who are presently A.W.O.L. within The Angel Garden, “represents man’s first awakening before man realizes his Christ wisdom and power.

“The morning star heralds the coming of light and the glory of the sun.

“In the same progressive unfoldment, our mind has its own star of promise, and that leads first to wisdom; and then to man’s final glory in the sun of righteousness… , the Son of God.

“Now, we all know and love the Master who was called the Son of God, and yet he was a prototype of all of us… , the Son of God abides in each and all. Our indwelling morning star is always and forever rising in each and every of us.

Shawn Gallaway – Love’s Feast

“Angels! Get your butts down here – now.” It’s not a polite request. It’s a command brooking no delay.

The angels fall; but they are not happy campers. Their shared snit is evident in their hard-set faces and slit narrow eyes. RO sees that. She is not amused.

She is motherly though, and she knows there’s more than one way to skin a cat, even those with warped wings and hazy halos.

She stares them down… , and they will not go down without a bloody brutal battle of wills. A cat’s not skinned without a fierce fight; and flayed angels are never agreeable, just as are the fallen ones.

Shawn Gallaway – The Longing

A new longing falls like blessed rain on the angry angels soothing, softening, and dissolving their hard, pugnacious, crusty shell, for it is the nature of rain to outpour Spirit and to refresh and enrich the thoughts of man and angel. Rain is the descent of potential ideas into substance, and it “watereth the earth” with the love of God that comes into mind when summoned and needed.

RO summons.

Hester feels it. So does Bam. Both come willingly when they hear RO’s call. Each one stands close beside a fallen angel, Hester by Gab-re-EL, Bam by Michael. Being the friendly fellow he is, Bam extends his right hand to Michael. Michael ignores it, pretending it’s not there.

There’s more than one way to skin a cat, Bam thinks.

He steps close to Michael, taking right hand into his own and clamping it there. Michael wills his hand free.

It doesn’t work for him. Bam will not allow Michael to pull his hand free again and coil it back into a fist., After all, he can stay on a bucking bronc long enough to win the rodeo blue ribbon, and thinks: Breaking a bronc without breaking its spirit really has to be easier than breaking the spirit of an angry archangel. But is that the right thing to do?

Lord, Bam silent calls, eyes heavenward, I need your help here. I truly believe that breaking the spirit of an archangel simply has to be harder than breaking a

bronc.

And, Lord, something inside me cannot abide the thought of breaking the spirit of an archangel.

Yet, Michael is the snake in The Angel Garden.

Gab-re-EL is too, she just slithers different.

So Lord, tell me why the terrible two of them are inside The Angel Garden? Why did you let that happen?

You tell me.

I hate it when you do that.

Well then, avoid what you say you hate; tell me why they are there, and why I chose that.

Do it as an experiment of your understanding of me… , I won’t bite you, if you’re wrong. You are a co-creator, and I gave you free will – meaning I don’t expect obedience. But I do expect compliance.

Comply with me, Bam. You are a story teller. Go in The Angel Garden and tell the people – and the angels – the tale of why the acidic angels are there.

Acidic… , acidity… , soil needs sharpness, it needs to be acidic, in order to be rich and fruitful.

The D.O. smiles warmly and says: I can’t wait to hear you tell that story to the archangels, it will help them to forgive, and then to change.

You’re going to be in The Angel Garden?

Always was. Always am. Everywhere I AM.

Are we taking the archangels in?

No, Bam. The archangels are already there. I dispatched them to The Angel Garden, ?

Now quit stalling, unless you truly want me to drop-kick you inside The Angel Garden.

Bam walks eagerly back inside The Angel Garden. What’s a compliant man to do?

Shawn Gallaway – White Eagle Soars

Bam’s Pugnacious Angel Tale

As Bam approaches The Angel Garden – which he cannot see – he’s mentally planning the Pugnacious Angel tale he has come to tell. Bam doesn’t know the whole story, he’s sure of that, and so with each breath Bam feels into the heart of the still shy tale.

It feels like a deer, head up, uncertain, shy, and more than a little bit mistrustful of the upright two legged one who is in her mind and before her eyes. The dear doe doesn’t know what comes next any more than Bam does.

Bam pauses mid-stride, then comes to a slow full stop. He smiles. He can’t help himself. Bam adores deer. Always has, always will.

It is the Indian in me that the deer recognizes and reflects back to me. The deer will give its life for me – if I respect it enough to ask, and then tell it why I ask.

Or I can take it. She knows that too. She’s sizing me up knowing I’m doing the same of her. Bam drops Indian style to the ground, bows his head and petitions the D.O. for grace in this moment and in those yet to come. He looks up to see the deer doing the same, and sees the recognition in her eyes.

She sees me as brother! He gives the deer a heart-open grin, as he thinks: and I see you as sister… Welcome home to my heart. As he speaks the welcome he opens his arms hug-wide and steps toward her even as she steps toward him. They meet and merge in infinite space at the center of the heart.

The deer smiles a whole body beam, and she raises her head-up in an aura glow shimmering gold and white. That must be the aura color of infinity, Bam thinks.

The deer snorts, getting Bam’s full attention, and bobs an energetic confirmation. She smiles. He smiles. Bam walks toward the deer, and she toward him. They merge in the middle where they are one in the color of infinity. I will guide you and speak through you as you tell The Pugnacious Angel tale, she says.

Shawn Gallaway – It’s My Time

Bam’s step is sure and lively as he walks into The Angel Garden.

He stops in his tracks. Holy frijole! He thinks. Where’d all this come from?

How did it get in here?

And most curious of all, how does all of it fit in here?

There was some powerful angel mojo to make all this happen since yesterday.

Or Divine intervention.

Or the girl. She’s little and she’s shy, but she punches some powerful spiritual mojo.

That, and she can hide in plain sight.

“That bother you much Bam that you can’t see what’s in plain sight?” Her voice is disembodied.

Yes, it does.

Why?

It makes me nervous.

The Master said ‘be anxious for nothing’. Try being compliant with that for a while.

Are you going in The Angel Garden? Bam asks.

I’m already here. You’re the one who’s not.

Come, me.

us.

Shawn Gallaway – On the Fence

Fence rider… , Bam thinks, puzzled, when did I get on the fence? More important than that, why?

You’re a people pleaser. And, you constantly and invariably put others ahead of yourself.

But… , I’m a helper, girl. Helpers help others.

Or… , the girl counters, one brow high arched, are you a panderer? Because you never put yourself first?

How can I do both?

God does. The Divine One seamlessly abides in you, and at the same time, is also and always, abiding in others. You see that when looking at animals, but are blind to it when looking at people. Why is that?

She’s not looking for an answer, she already knows it! She’s looking for my answer… , and I don’t know it.

What do you love and ire about yourself, Bam?

Oh now that’s a stumper!

Because you neither love nor like anything about yourself. Okay, same question, new words: What does God love about you?

Oh now, that’s a sea-change for Bam’s consciousness. He’s finds himself suddenly adrift in a coracle sans sails to catch the wind, nor oars for navigation over an infinite sea to a distant shore. And Bam can’t even see a shore – on any horizon. His options narrow down to one, surrender.

In surrendering who he always thought he was, Bam is promptly restored to conscious at-one-ment with the One, and to all the expressions of the D.O. into all of life. Self-esteem awakens in him, perhaps for the first time ever in this unique expression of the Divine formless into form.

Oh! That’s the ticket then! When I let go of who I think I am I necessarily make room in my conscious mind, where my internal thinker/decider lives in tight twisted coil… Wrong!

My internal thinker/decider no longer coils tight in my mind. Now it has become a fire dragon who’s ready to take me on a ride into a whole other self than who I think I am.

Okay Dragon… , just looking at you I’m thinking I mustn’t ride you like I’d mount or ride a horse. And, just looking at you, I’m thinking that won’t work for me either.

So, wise wyvern, teach and train me how to ride you. And I, personally, will

deeply appreciate it if you also teach me how to stay on you when we’re airborne and flying at dragon warp speed.

You do do warp speed don’t you?

The wyvern lifts its head tips it back and loosens its jaws into a dragon’s toothy grinning grin that, for Bam, is both terrifying, and curiously contagious. Bam is infected. Laughter is a bonding energy that eases and heals the hurts, fractures and breaks in man’s relationship with the D.O. You’re not riding me in your clod-hopper clothes.

Clod-hopper clothes? Really? What would a wise wyvern expect a farmer to wear? Is it my boots you don’t like?

Dragons can cock one eyebrow, Bam didn’t know that before. Still, he did not expect the dragon’s answer. Nor the sharp snap of it when it came.

Of course not, you silly human! Dragons are above such patent pettiness. If we weren’t, we couldn’t rise above it and be capable of flight.

Now the dragon’s grin teases, his eyes dance fiery glints of glee. That is disturbing too. You, Bam White, are not dressed like a dragon rider.

Until you are, you will hurt me, and I will throw you off.

And know this, Bam White, your bronc busting skills are wholly incompetent to escape being blown off when I shift into warp speed. A dragon is flying at warp speed in under 60 seconds of take-off.

Plus, my reputation is on the line. I have never lost a rider. I’m not starting with you. So… , change your consciousness, Bam White. Do it now, the dragon orders knuckle popping Bam’s third eye.

That is a sea change for him. Living water unexpectedly slow flowing into the parts of his inner spirit garden that have never been planted, tended, watered, nor even fertilized occasionally with uplifting thoughts and affirming mindfulness.

Well now, it appears clear that it is high time for me to get plumb down off my dear fence, and have a close look at what’s on both sides of it… , even if is there is no other side. ‘Other’ can only abide here Bam taps his head… , where ego abides. Love knows no ‘other’. Love lives in the heart.

Okay dragon, check me out now, is the new and improved Bam White ready to ride?

The wyvern smiles sagely into Bam’s eyes, then begins to scan him from head to toe, side to side, then back again and says: Yes, yes, I believe you are.

Before Bam can complete a smile relief, she points out placidly: But you are not dressed to be a dragon rider. Your clod-hoppers would twist and tear my stunning shiny scales… , and that would make me very cross. We do not want to go there, Bam White.

Bam giggles, he can’t help it. The wise wyvern chuckles in harmony and in time with him.

Their laughter changes something – systemically. The change begins in the soil that gently envelops immature roots and holds them gentle and deep, then the mystery sigh-sings in the voice of a refreshing wind blowing life into the cleansing water that collects and reflects sun fire to purify and light the way for all with eyes to see.

The change is also overt, Bam’s body is now clad in a stylish Mylar flight suit, in a color that becomes him. He wears soft soled, knee-high suede leather boots, kid leather gloves, a stylish leather aviator cap, the strap comfortably snug under his chin; and sporting retro-looking aviator goggles. He perches atop the dragon, feet comfortably planted in the hollows where the wyvern’s wings to its neck.

Nice threads, dragon, thank you! Can I keep them?

First, you are most welcome.

Next, no you may not.

That said, you will wear them when you are a dragon rider, or you’ll not ride. And we plowed that field already.

Now is the time to let the crop grow and ripen to harvest. We’ll be back well before then.

The dragon rises to his feet, stretches his neck to nearly twice its usual length and whips it like a snake caught in a duck’s bill. Then, the weird wyvern lashes its tail like an angry cat to ease out all the kinks and wrinkles.

When his aerial dance is done, the wyvern whips its head from side to side until his long black cheek whiskers dance before Bam’s face looking for all the world like the wayward reins of a run-away horse. Bam catches them by body instinct and by training, then drops into his jockey’s butt-up pose, face into the wind, riding his thighs and calves like shocks absorbers on a on a bumpy road. Exactly like he would ride a fleet footed racing horse around an oval track on Earth.

Where’re we going, dragon dude?

Dragon dude? Really? The dragon is silent in flight, soaring high above slings and arrows of cruel fate.

Bam is quiet too. An eon or two in in the blink of an eye, and still the dragon flies, as purposeful and as tireless as infinity.

Where are we headed, dragon? He asks, this time more forcefully, for Bam knows that any timeless thing has time/space challenges when asked who, why, when, and where questions… , questions related to time and space. Eternity doesn’t grasp linear time any better than eternal creatures like dragons do.

Don’t know.

How do you know you’re going in the right direction?

The dragon shrugs eloquently, and Bam staggers inelegantly, but does not fall. He re the dragon’s one rule: Thou shall not fall from the dragons back.

Or,” if it’s easier for you, “thou shalt not fall from a dragon’s back because then you will go bump and spatter yourself to smithereens upon God’s good green earth.

And that is not happening. Not on my watch. I told you that before. Do you have an attention deficit disorder, or having a senior moment – already?

You’re not on this flight as a sight-seer, Bam White. You are on this dragon flight to prepare you for your work you came to do. You have a mission, and during this flight your sole task is to prepare yourself to do that work knowingly, willingly, and well. That’s it! I’d ask you if you are up for it, but that’s why you are up here in the first place.

However much healing mojo as you’ve got in you right now, Bam… , isn’t one iota of enough to heal this broken land and the people who live… , and sometimes just barely survive, let alone thrive.

These are your people, Bam. The D.O. told me you have a role to play, and sent me to prepare you to do that; or, if you can keep on being a bull-headed block

and not even trying, then you will become a named demerit on my angelic record, and then it will be eons before I’m allowed to come back.

Wow! Bam says, gape-mouthed. He giggles increasing glee, and asks: What did you do to get those demerits from the ever-loving D.O.?

Why are you poking your nose into my business like it was any concern of yours, or made any difference to you whatsoever?

It is a concern of mine, dragon fine! You see, he says, rubbing his chin, you were dispatched by the D.O.to help and guide me. To guide me, specifically. That suggests to me that your own unexamined failures practically predicts the failure our mission… , our t mission. Bam leans forward so he can peek into the eye of the dragon and watch them change.

And that truly is a concern to me personally, and professionally.

The dragon drops her head until her whole self is prostrate below him in an appeal for understanding, as a worm, as a wyvern; and most importantly, as a winged warrior in the D.O.’s air force.

D.O. got an air force? I didn’t know that.

Why would you?

Whatever is written in your Holy Book, nothing in it even hints that the D.O. has an air force.

That said, Bam, all Holy Books speak of angels descending with open wings in a nimbus of gold light; and free will is given to you; you choose – ultimately – what you believe in. It is yours to choose, yours to decide, where your faith lies; and when to do, seek out and discover all in you that represses faith from springing forth singing praise songs, instead of loud lamentations.

It’s your choice, Bam, make it now. And then never look back. : you can’t un-ring a bell.

But you can evoke a more harmonious sound from your personal instrument of life.

Now, Bam White, I believe there is a whole crowd of angelic, and common folks, who’d enjoy hearing you make music and tale-tell in song what you have learned while we traveled together. The dragon descends in a narrowing spiral until she lands in perfect grace before the gate opening into The Angel Garden. Welcome home again, Bam.

You’ll see the D.O. inside, but He may not be seen by mortal eyes, He/She is most often seen with the third eye.

The dragon lashes out its tongue so it slaps sharply against Bam’s third eye. The shock of it opens Bam’s inner eye wide exposed and infinitely attentive.

Bam sees deep into swirling dance of infinite dimensions of possibility that he never before saw. He stands amazing-gazing at the cosmic dance of life. It’s all there, yet nothing is there, it’s all still brand new and unformed and indefinite, the future is always and only potential.

I’ll have to dance you know. Silence follows, and echoes into infinity. Bam hasn’t time to wait. He steps into The Angel Garden confident in his mission, and in his gift to complete it with astonishing success.

The space he enters is soft snarling alive with discord and disharmony. The plants, always most susceptible to negative energy, starkly expose the angry energy that steals life from them.

Bam can see the dark energy of it. He can feel it, but he cannot see through the muddy energy of it and feel what it is. Still, Bam’s gut tells him that the serpent has entered The Angel Garden.

And that it has been invited in.

Negligently perhaps… , still, the negligent indifference of serpent energy now abides there. And it wasn’t here before. The snake in Eden’s glen, I hate how often serpents come up for me.

Why is this happening to me?

Where’s your sense consciousness right now? Be honest… , with yourself.

Are you being in sense consciousness?

Are you experiencing the desire of unspiritualized man for sensation?

Are you seeking satisfaction through appetite?

By listening to the serpent of sense, man falls into his lowest estate.

In your case, Bam White, you have fallen face down on the dry dusty floor of The Angel Garden while two very fractious and petulant angels are presently fighting over which of them gets to hit you first; and which of them gets to throw you out when they are done with you.

What have you done – or not done, that sometimes works too – that you find yourself in this situation?

I came into The Angel Garden on the back of a dragon… , maybe that’s it.

And why did you come back on the back of a dragon?

Bam drops his head until his chin rests on his clavicle, and after a long moment, whispers: I was running away. I was leaving here, and I was never coming back. Not for any reason.

What were you running from?

Fear.

Nah, the dragon waives Bam’s word away, that’s not it, it’s not even the truth. Try again; what is the real reason you chose to run away? Speak your truth this time.

Silence begins and slowly expands until the emptiness of it becomes painful against the eardrum, even dragon eardrums.

Bam, did you ever hear the myth that dragons are patient creatures? That is a myth, Bam, it isn’t true.

WHY DID YOU RUN AWAY? The force of the dragon roar blows back Bam’s hair and strikes his skin with sizzling hot potency.

I couldn’t… , I couldn’t… , I could not do enough to help enough people who were hurting… , Bam nearly sobs, I couldn’t help them.

How did you abandoning The Angel Garden serve them? How could that help them?

Not another infinite silence, Bam! That doesn’t help you now. What helps is to speak your truth.

I was afraid.

Of what?

That The Angel Garden would produce too abundantly, for too long, and then nosy noisy people would start snooping around, and before long there’d be wholesale buyers coming to buy produce from The Angel Garden… , and it was too much, it was simply too much for me.

The dragon studies the hunched and torqued body of the small man before her, no more than a feather’s weight to her own. She sees his navel gazing fixation with the smallness he perceives inside himself. It tickles the dragon, she can’t help it. She giggles. Softly at first, but in mere moments, her laughter bubbles irrepressibly up from her belly and erupts like a spouting fountain of spring water.

The dragon wants to be in the fountain that’s now springing up inside of Bam; and, knowing that she can bi-locate, she dives in. Bam doesn’t notice her absence, but he does notice her presence.

I know it’s hard for you to imagine, let alone believe, Bam says, but I saw this with my own eyes. I saw the dragon inside the eternal spring that fountains overpoweringly from inside dragons, and that same surging spring was inside of me… , inside the heart of me.

It looked kind a like a Mobius strip come to think of it.

I ed the lady dragon, splashing in the spring for a while. What’s a guy to do?

Shawn Gallaway – Let it Loose

So, Dragon Lady, What’s my purpose? What’s my objective?

To heal what’s broken inside you.

And, I’m just guessing here, but you are not talking about the bones broken bustin’ broncs… , right?

Right.

And there is a practice that will help me to find and heal what’s broken inside of me, right?

Right.

Hum-m-m-m, Bam ponders, and this spring we’re splashing in is inside my heart, and it’s also in The Angel Garden, right?

Right.

Bam looks up into the dome of The Angel Garden. It is just as dark, just as oppressive, and just as persistently, pressingly prevalent as the Black Sunday duster was. Did I bring this darkness in here?

Right.

Bam moans a mournful sigh as he faces his Truth. He sends up a heartfelt prayer of gratitude for the unseen angels that surround him, including even the two that spit, spat, and shriek like mad banshees under the dark dome of The Angel Garden.

Well, that is simply not acceptable angel conduct!

Bam bows up. He slowly fills his lungs to capacity and more. He releases the breath within his lungs, exhaling it in a thundering command: Angels!

Here! He points to the ground at his feet. His eyes brook no delay. Now!

The shocked angels fall. Bam’s wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even polite.

In all of eternity the angels have never been spoken to in this way. They have never been given an order.

Bam’s eyes are hard and unblinking. He points to the ground where they stand and says: Kneel.

Not like a Knight, you asses!

How dare you impersonate a Knight, you pair of infantile, insolent, insensitive demon spawn? His words sear the fallen angels like acid. They scarcely dare to breathe.

Breathe! Bam demands. Inhale slow, inhale deep, fill your lungs to capacity. Hold it. Bam slowly counts to ten, and exhales into his words: As you exhale, let go of everything that no longer serves you.

You don’t have to know what that is… , just let it loose.

Shawn Gallaway – Let It Loose

The fallen angels weep copious tears of contrition that fall like quick spring rain on everything and everyone inside The Angel Garden.

Lady RO frowns and snaps her fingers, and a copious umbrella appears overhead covering them all. A stiffly formal waiter appears under the cover to serve adults glasses of Calling All Angels wine, and rigidly placing a Virgin Mary with a celery stir stick before the girl. He turns to go. He stops. The rain. He turns back to the table and asks pleasantly: May I you until the rain abates?

Will you leave us then? Lady RO asks, querulous brows dancing over her eyes. Besides, she says, patting his hand and pulling him into a seat at the table, if you are good company, we may want you to stay.

To refresh our wine, of course, she flashes him her hostess smile as she adds: and to tell us things we don’t already know. That is what new friends are for. You do know that, do you not?

So, new friend, tell us why you are here, why are you inside The Angel Garden?

As friends do, the waiter answers without aforethought: I’m The Angel Garden vintner.

He points at some indeterminate space within The Angel Garden and adds: There’s a vineyard back there. I’m glad you enjoy it, he says re-filling wine glasses and refreshing the girl’s Virgin Mary like a pro.

So, why are you here? He asks like a curious new friend; let’s start with you, girl.

Tears pool in the girl’s eyes but do not fall. When she answers, it is a confession. She knows already the penance price of her reission into The Angel Garden. I called the angels here. I demanded God send them, and he did. She whimpers, tears threaten as she its: I am the reason the angels are here.

But I am not the reason those two fallen angels are spitting, and scratching, and snarling like wrathful cats on warpath. The angels brought angry energy in with them. They itted it into The Angel Garden.

The girl looks down at the angels now prostrate at her feet and asks: Tell us what you two will do now to heal and purify The Angel Garden atmosphere… , its air space, to angel kind.

There is a moment of profound silence before Gab-re-EL speaks, creatively, on the fly, off the cuff, and from the heart. She has Michael’s undivided attention: Water has many aspects that cover a spectrum from weakness, negativism, cleansing, mental potentiality, or to life, and vital energy. I contend that water represents all of those aspects.

Sorry. I have been too contentious of late; and I choose to let that go. Gab-re-EL smiles, relaxes, and agreeably amends: I am here to celebrate with you all of that water represents in humans, and in nature. Humans are keepers of the garden of life. Angels are the guardians, the keepers, if you will, of humans.

But we the people of us, including us angels, are not experiencing and expressing the vital activity of water. We only spew the weakness and negativism water also represents. That is why there’s no water here, because we have not loved water utterly and unconditionally, nor honored nor celebrated it.

So what are you going to do about that, Gab-re-EL?

It’s because I do I choose to love everything that is, everything that is not, and everything in between, all of it, the good, the bad, the ugly, and all else too. For then I must cry healing tears so that The Angel Garden is rehabilitated, and prospers, and thrives. That is what I came for, that is why I’m here.

I’m on it, it’s already a happen’ thing. Gab-re-EL frowns fiercely and demands: Can’t you feel it?

I can, confirms Michael who now stands at her side wearing an inspired angelic gown that flows fluidly in its own inner dance of power and truth.

So, Gabriel announces authoritatively, now all of you know that Michael and me are here to rain tears of joy down on The Angel Garden, and now the question becomes: ‘why are you here?’

One by one, and take your time… , she looks around the totality of The Angel Garden taking in the people currently in it, waiting, somewhat patiently, for the first to take the challenge.

Uh, Bam its bashfully, that would be me. He smiles; and being me, I will play a tune and sing words that we all can apply to each of us as one, and, to all of us, as One.”

Shawn Gallaway - Unify

The Mark of the Master

Jacob pauses at the door to the common room hearing familiar voices. He inhales, holds for ten counts, and on the exhale, lets his inner and outer eyes adjust to the dark interior. He expands mindfulness into the store. Finding the familiar energies, he explores the energy of the man the woman called ‘master’. He feels the power of the voice, its command of oratory forms a base line for the lyricism of his words. He hears an insecurity rare among orators. Interesting. Shedding his cap he inhales, and steps inside to hellos. He extends hand to the stranger: “I’m Jacob. You the driver of the Rolls outside?”

“I am the owner of that fine auto,” the man affirms firmly. “Before, I was the driver,” he pats a pocket, “now, I own that fine vehicle.”

“And the woman?” Jacob tips his head toward the window where the cocoa woman silently sulks.

“I own the slave too.” The man misses the edgy energy his assertion arouses. Interesting, Jacob nods to all, then to the visitor, and asks: “How does one man own another?”

Counselor rumbles amiable interference, “Jacob, you came at the right time. The man was about to tell those things, pull up a chair and sit.” Turning to the visitor he invites: “Step to the center of the circle so you can see, be seen, and we all can hear you.” He does, rises to his toes and spins, meeting the eye of each man. He tips a nod to Sheriff Ben – the uniform, Ben thinks – pauses before Jacob – the skepticism, Jacob fancies. He turns to Counselor with a bow mostly reserved for gentility.

“It’s a pleasure to tell you folks how these things happened. The tales twine, so I’ll tell ’em as one adding humor where I can.” He supple snakes his tongue up his throat carrying his words to all who hear. I own the Rolls Royce because the master never learned to drive. He ired being delivered to appointments and festivities. When our time together ended, he gave me the auto for he could not drive nor maintain it. The carpetbaggers stole him blind. He had to send me on my way to the great American west.”

Counselor murmurs, “Never before have I heard such an extraordinarily generous act. Surely the master knew the Rolls Royce Company would assign and send a new chauffer at his request?”

The raconteur sighs dramatically, “Yes, he did know that, and he and gave me the car anyway. The master is a saint, or will be when he dies, may that day be many years from today.”

“How does your master get to his appointments and parties now?” Sheriff Ben asks, lids slit narrow.

“The folks back home love that man and will do anything for him. They’ll get him where he needs to go.”

Ben frowns at the double edge sharpness in the last five words and “Why would even a good and godly a plantation owner rely on the kindness of neighbors to get his business done when he could use his own car and his own chauffeur? Why would he allow a departing chauffeur to even use his car for a long trip to… , where’d you say you’re headed?”

“I didn’t. I don’t rightly have a destination, for I never had I a chance to see this great land. I’m starting a new life, I will drive into the sunset ’til I find a place with good folks, settle awhile, and head off to see what’s around the next bend in the road.”

“Sounds like a drifter to me, Ben growls to the circle, “except for the car.”

“What’s a drifter?” The visitor asks anxious.

“Someone ing through with no contribution to make along the way.” Ben smiles friendly, agreeable, insincere “Here on the plains, drifters are about as popular as carpetbaggers down South.”

The visitor eyes Ben evenly and he says “The old master assured me he could take proper care of his business without the auto before he gave the title to me.”

“A remarkably generous act,” Counselor reiterates redundantly imposing calm courtesy.

“Tell us how you come to own the woman outside,” Jacob prompts.

“The master gave her to me so I’d have someone to take care of my needs.” The orator is oddly unaware of the edgy energy aroused by his last words.

“Does taking care of your needs explain the mark the woman bears?” Jacob growls tap-tapping his neck with two fingertips, “The one she calls my master’s mark?”

“Dang, Jacob,” Ben growls, “here I was thinking the woman was his sex slave.” Turning back to the guest he asks pleasantly. “Tell us how you come to own the woman, and about your master’s mark on her.”

“I got her ownership paper” the man defends, slapping his breast pocket, “the master gave her to me legal and true. She’s mine, and that Rolls is mine. I can do what I please. It’s no never mind to anyone.”

Jacob growls, “Why would a plantation owner give a healthy young slave to a driver leaving his service and taking his only vehicle?”

“The master is a good man, I told you already that.”

“You did, and we heard what you said,” Counselor cautions casually. “Jacob is asking why even a good man would give a healthy slave to a chauffeur leaving his service.” Silence extends into prickly points prodded by the steady tick tock of a wall clock. Turning to Jacob Counselor says “while our guest is auditing his ing, bring the woman in so we can hear her story and have a look at that mark.” Jacob comes with a woman the color of sweet cocoa and eyes round with doubt, dread and dismay.

Counselor is the comforter “Thank you for ing us, young lady. I know this is not easy for you.” Her eyes dart to the orator and back to Counselor robed in black with a curled white wig. She blinks. Jacob lays a hand on her shoulder

giving courage for the challenge ahead. “Come, sit by me, child.” Counselor invites moving his chair to one side as Doc moves his to the other. “Somebody, bring a chair for the lady.” The orator snorts, but holds his tongue for Jacob edges close on a deviant path to his chair.

“The man on your left is a medical doctor,” Counselor informs the woman as she sits between them.

“Jacob tells us you wear the mark of your master.” Doc invites. The girl nods but doesn’t meet his eyes. “Will you let us look at that mark?” Unaccustomed to respect in matters of her body, the woman dashes a glance to Jacob who nods assurance. Holding his eyes, she releases the shawl letting it fall to show the mark. An inhale silences the room yet none but Counselor hear the words between Doc and the woman. She nods, eyes wide with dread as if she’d just agreed to jump without a rope from a towering bluff and into the infinite heart of creation. And so she has.

“This man,” Counselor motions to the dandy, “is he your master?” The woman nods but speaks no word of ownership by another.

“Did he put this mark on you?” Doc asks with professional detachment, her head bobs. “When did he put the mark on you?”

“Five, six weeks ago.” She sighs, “I forget things like the time, the date, when I ate last, and when I last had a good night’s sleep.”

Doc nods and murmurs “Does he – urr – penetrate you in – urr –other places?” The woman locks eyes on his, cocks a brow as one might to a village idiot, then

turns away. “I’ll take that for a yes,” Doc says behind a hand hiding a grin at his silent comeuppance. He assures the woman, “we can heal that mark.” She studies him, eyes slit thin with wariness born of neglect, misuse, abuse, and of primal terrors come savagely alive. Too pale, she thinks. His hope of redemption is like tea when the ice is melted in the glass. Yet thirst blooms in her and she dares not ask, know, or trust, so she simply lets go and receives hope like a cool breeze over a blistering field.

“We’ll need the Daughters for the healing work, Jacob would you… ?”

A chair clatters into a fall calling eyes to Sheriff Ben snatching a chair from a fast fall. Casting Jacob a grin he says “I’ll go, Jacob.” Stepping to his side he claps a hand to a shoulder, locks eyes, and bares a toothy grin “You know, Jacob, he, he, he, the ladies always come when I call.” Jacob tips his head back in a chortle his eyes never leaving Ben’s. “Stay by the door while I’m gone.”

Jacob nods. “Good speed, Ben, the healing art of the Mother/Daughters is soon needed.”

“What is your name young lady?” Counselor asks the woman by his side.

The woman is silent, “I – I never had a name given me.” The orator’s head snaps up but he doesn’t look.

“Indeed?” Counselor eyes her solicitously. “Tell me how it is that you were never given a name.”

“My mama was a slave. She was taken by a guest she wouldn’t name. She was shamed and blamed by her people for not saying his name. She wouldn’t tell about the night I was conceived. She didn’t accept me. Maybe for her, or me, but always because of the shaming. Other slaves say mama was bright, happy and loving before me, but not to me. She saw to it I was clean, fed, and clothed, but she had no joy left.” Words fail where memory holds no key nor cause nor reason but only nameless loss.

Counselor silently studies the evidence and turns to the orator. “What is your name then, young man?”

Caught off guard, the orator stammers “I – I. The master called me James,” he says tucking his head. “James, I have an appointment, bring the auto, James, get the door, James, my guests have arrived; serve the drinks on the veranda, James.’” The orator stammers to a stop.

“And your given name?”

“I… was never given a name that I know of.”

“Two strangers in our town in one day and neither with a given name. What do you make of that, Doc?”

Doc brackets his chin with thumb and fingers, broods awhile and says, “Beats anything I ever heard.”

“Well, young man,” Counselor cautions, “the transfer of property, chattel or slave, needs the name of the transferee to be binding, and since you have no name, I don’t see how it is legally possible that you own the auto, or the woman. Let me have a look at those papers for you.” He extends a palm until the papers are there, studies them, then raising eyes to the orator, he rubs his chins. “The line for the transferee on both of these documents is blank.”

“Can I see?” The man gazes intently at the papers, colors, and shoves them back to Counselor meeting his eyes, “would you show me what you’re telling me, please, Sir?”

“This is the auto title,” he says extending the title. “See this word? That word is ‘Owner’, the name of the master is entered here. This word,” he says, is “Transferee,” it means the name of the person the item is transferred to. The line beside it is blank. That means the title to the Rolls is not in your name, the master still own the auto.”

He shuffles the papers, points to the second: “The Transferee line on the slave document is blank. The Owner is her master of this woman who bears your mark.”

“He don’t own me?” Shrieks the woman punching air at all the invisible indignities that rise like ghosts to dance with her in intimations of the intimate injustices imposed on her. She paces, a cat in a cage in a rage, gulping gouts of air in a battle to find herself amidst the revelations of the day carpetbaggers came to take away the life she lived. In the safe hole again, she hears the cool reception of the intruders, their snapped sharp words, the shoving, the scuffling, the grunts, cries and protests, feels the impotent futile fury of the master’s effort to protect his home, family, and his people. How do these men not know the wrong they do to this family? How can they not stop, not go away after itting it was all just a jolly jest, purely a punkish prank played for foul fickle fleeting fun. The man in the safe hole with her claps a hand over her mouth,

pressing a blade to her throat as the mistress cries out. She hears the stumble, her fall to the floor, she sees the woman as helpless as she trapped in silent safety. An agony of hours later the house falls silent. She is safe. As safe as one is subject to the whims of an eager sinner in the hands of an angry god. Memory ghosts dissolve to dust and she allows the dots of today connect with the old ones of the raid. She balls her fists, inhales sharply and howls “can I kill him?”

Michael’s Mark

The orator shrinks from the fury of the woman and turns to the faces in the circle, seeking sympathy, shelter, , security. Finding none, he shifts. Jacob sees energy at the edge of the man’s body flicker signaling a shift. He surrenders his will to the indwelling infinite Source of life. In no-thought Jacob feels a familiar dissolution of self and inhabitation by a greater power that instinctively meets and matches the transformation. As watcher, Jacob sees the visitor’s clothes drift to the floor, a dark shadow take to the air wing for the door where he now stands immersed in the energy of Michael the archangel clad in shining armor. “Welcome,” Jacob thinks before his mind falls as empty as the orator’s clothes.

It is good to be in form when the foul sin of separation, the original fall from grace, takes a favored form of Satan himself. Jacob feels his teeth bare into a grin worthy of the grim reaper on a mad bad night. The master of lies, deceits and deceptions returns to stalk earth where man walks. Thanks for keeping your body in shape by the way, Jacob, I like working in you, I like working with you. Jacob feels an angel smile rise on his face as a son of man willingly blends his service with Michael’s fierce fiery grace. As one, Archangel and man step choice-fully surrendered into the endless ever-evolving multi-dimensional sinuous supple wondrous springing will of the Infinite Eternal One. The game’s afoot!

The speed of light that is the Truth of Being, Michael’s eyes track the flight of

the bat across infinity through the slit in his visor. A spiraling gold wheel set with diamonds and pearls and centered with a heart shaped hiddenite stone adorns his helmet over the third eye catching light and spinning an ever evolving reel of rationality onto the flat physical plane reality. In the blink of an eye, the wheel reverses to rewind reality across time until no trace of it remains at all. Interesting. Dislocation overwhelms as awareness, thought, and ego, weaves into a fully present lucid mindfulness of the startlingly fluid frontiers between what is and what is not in the eye of an Archangel. All will, judgment, strength and order ever applied by man using the twelve powers to change the physical plane hold no sway where Jacob resides inside an angel peering into an infinity where a bat flies and a slave bleeds.

Michael inhales deep and touches the jewel at the bottom of the seven set in his gold breastplate from.

Ruby, the stone of nobility, the star fire of purity, imparts vigor and ion for life, it protectively leads to vibrant visualization, clears negative energy, and promotes dynamic leadership, strength and ion for life. Ruby is an abundance stone stimulating wealth and positive ion for life and a bold state of mind. It heightens focus and awareness, amplifies enthusiasm, stimulates power, and shields against conflict by focusing mind and heart on desired outcomes. Ruby is the resurrection stone that overcomes martyrdom, suffering, anguish, and turmoil, for ruby holds the power of beginnings and endings of all that is, was, or will be. Ruby promotes expansiveness on the spiral stairway to enlightenment, lifting creativity from the base chakra to the throat letting man direct life from higher awareness guiding to wisdom and comion. As Michael touches the Ruby he is filled with courage, power and life force energy to neutralize negative energy in mind and body. Luke’s words of bloom in his mind: Take heed therefore that the light which is in thee be not darkness. Luke 12:35. He knows the darkness within him sees and recognizes it in the bat/man. Releasing darkness into light, duality melds polarity and opens to infinite possibility. Thy will be done, Michael surrenders and is one with the Divine.

The ruby is the stone on the breastplate of the high priest associated with the apostle Judas who was scrupulously devoted to life as it appears on the physical plane, and especially zealous about its principal form of money. He held the purse of contributions by Jesus’ followers, and he was purse proud! More than any other apostle, Judas believed without doubt that Jesus would escape any attempt to capture him as he had done before, that Jesus would face no risk of death. He believed so firmly he was blind to the willing will of the Master. He bet on the run, and the thirty pieces of silver the plotters added to the pouch of contributions Judas carried to feed the followers listened to Jesus tell Truth in parable form. Judas also knew without doubt the truth Jesus spoke, that death was not an ending, but a beginning, that Jesus would resurrect, and he had to die in the flesh to demonstrate the truth of what he taught. Through the power of in the ruby, Judas awakens to the call of the risen Jesus and is regenerated into Jude, with the surname of Thaddeus. Michael strokes the ruby absorbing the power of the stone enough to awaken a healing regeneration to animate the resurrected Judas manifesting in Michael.

Michael strokes the Jasper and is grounded by the truth of the self of Source bridging mind and body dualities and imparting tranquility and wholeness. The protector stone grounds and inspires shamanic journeying. He dances balancing dualities in mind, body and brain with the etheric realm and knows the assurance of if conflict arises. Absorbing the energy of jasper Michael opts to inspire, nurture, renew and realize tranquil balance in the form of the man in bat drag winging from consequences of past choices. The decision neutralizes duality, reunites unity and opens a way to bring idea into form.

The apostle Simon the Zealot is associated with the jasper inspiring right use of the power of zeal and enthusiasm, honesty, imagination, quick thinking, organization, and enthusiasm to boldly come to grips with problems and transform ideas into action. Michael strokes the jasper and is filled with the power of zeal and enthusiasm to scope, resolve and heal issues, blending polarized energies as complimentary opposites and quickly transform ideas into action. Michael studies possibilities for the man bat winging across infinity on a date with destiny. He yields to the Source destiny in for the man and the woman

Michael strokes the Topaz and as the stone flares a pure yellow gold light he enters the abiding place of substance setting him on the path and inspiring wisdom and judgment, the twin powers of the shaman wise elder. He feels an empathetic flow of energy soothe, heal, stimulate, promote mercy, light the path to goals, tap inner resources to center him in being not in habitually doing. Clarity stirs generosity, abundance joy, love and good fortune, releasing hidden pools of tension and a continuous flow of spirit energy. He can’t not smile, nor resist a silly-boy grin at his ion to teach and enlighten that is the problem solver healer path of the warrior. This path is an awakening for Michael. He taps assets to find his inner problem solver to focus ion and in manifesting Good God on Earth. Exhaling like a Zen master he opens to love and good fortune and knows the Truth that all is one, and the One is good.

The apostle James, the son of Zebedee and brother of John, who expresses the twin powers of wisdom and judgment bringing him into the abiding place of substance as he re again with truth that Judgment day is every day the effects of the body/brain choices of man and angels is revealed in life. He smiles knowing Spirit choices reveal ideas and inspiration and wonders if the duality of life prompts evil or only paradox. James applies the twin powers on the physical plane so he can be rather to do desired results. As the topaz on his breastplate flares he senses ever renewing awakening of wisdom and judgment and knows his with the stone inspired a spark of fire in the one on his sword scabbard.

Michael strokes the Emerald, the stone of enlightenment, inspiration, infinite peace, and life affirming relationships, love, bliss and loyalty and is filled with grace. He finds he has misplaced his separate sense of self and is flooded with unity enhancing love and balancing relationships. He knows negative and positive energy, and balances polarities across his meridians and up and down his body. Consciousness soars, and only positive results, decisions and actions are possible. Michael knows he has the strength of character to overcome the trial before him and regenerates bringing wholeness to the wounded ones. Michael intuitively accepts all who wittingly or otherwise, play roles in the

unfolding bat man drama.

The apostle James II, James “the less,” the son of Alpheus, is associated with the emerald and with the power of man known as order and processes. Those powers demonstrate that man cannot exercise true dominion until he knows who he is. Emerald imparts strength of character to overcome misfortune by applying the process aspect of order to heal and regenerate negative emotions. James demonstrates the process by expressing order into external life by the three step process of mind, idea, manifestation. Michael surrenders himself to divine order and process trusting in divine right outcomes. He touches the emerald on his breastplate and it flares, exciting a flash of greening of the emerald on his scabbard. Words bloom in his mind: To whom little is forgiven, the same loveth little. Luke 8:47. Perception reveals that the orator gives little, loves small, and lacks ability to see need, or believe in the grace of God’s love. He has lost himself and been cast away by his own judgment born in his own unforgiving mind and heart.

Touching the Blue Topaz on his breastplate, Michael feels a rolling energy sweeping him into vitality and heightened consciousness of life in which all receive inspiration and an infilling of seed ideas. He calmly accepts a higher order of self that is forceful, energetic, objective-driven, and enlightened, and taps into inner resources before taking action. Transparency activates trust in the universe, promotes clarity, self-control and development of wisdom letting man see the macro without losing the micro in the matrix of life. The stone evokes love, good fortune, inner wisdom, and attainment of goals. Michael sees visions of a higher order of man who is self-aware, aware of others, and intent on applying Spirit resources before physical solutions. Michael is embraced by angels of truth and wisdom who welcome and him on his mission to change the world in positive, dynamic ways. He knows his mind is a subset of Divine Mind.

The blue topaz is associated with the apostle Bartholomew who represents the power of imagination. The man Nathaniel fell asleep beneath a fig tree and

imagined/dreamed through his third eye to see a new vision of who he is newly awakened as a man named Bartholomew, which signifies a field plowed and ready for seed. The awakened man is keen to see, hear, experience, and follow the Spirit call to attend a master he has not met, and rises to find and follow Truth in the form of Jesus. Eternally fired by imagination and the enchanting light of the blue topaz, Michael touches the stone knowing its twin on the scabbard sparks and flares its blue flame dance. The dance in the battle with fallen angels is gone leaving focus, peace, and the grace of a shaolin master facing a skilled rival with zest for the test.

Michael touches the Sapphire and feels of joy and peace of mind that opens intuition, dreams and ion to wisely evolve ideas into the physical world. The stone arouses collaboration at a cellular level and res him with truth that when you change your mind, you change your life. Willingly yielding his militant mind-set, Michael focuses intention and joyously manifests idea/thought into form. The metaphysical realms yield esoteric principles of manifestation that expands intuitive knowing. Sapphire infuses him with the serenity of faith that when in service, spiritual attainment is accelerated. Claiming faith power, he peers into space where a bat wings fierce to exit from a physical place briefly appearing in time and space. Interesting. The mystic music of Sapphire pulsing through Michael he the Sapphire and is electrified to hear: the spiritual path is not a destination, it is a journey. He is a peaceful warrior.

Sapphire is the symbol stone for the power of faith physically expressed positively by the apostle Peter when walking on water in utter conviction that if Jesus said he could do the same impossible thing, then he could do the same impossible thing, and more. And Peter did! First known as Simon, he was given a new name to better show his spiritual progress to truth. Simon means ‘hearing’, or receptively listening to Truth with an open mind unsealing the way to the next degree in the divine order, faith. Peter means rock, or faith that is strong, unwavering, enduring, and the foundation for building spiritual awareness and receptivity Truth and expression of faith. Without the foundation of rock there is changeableness, the capacity to deny Truth. When storms of fear, doubt and faint faith plague Peter he denies Jesus. His perception plunges into a foreboding faith in the power of hostile physical forces. Peter thrice denies

knowing his master. Thus, Peter shows a stronger faith in physical world things. Taking responsibility for thoughts, Michael yields to faith and hears: “Faith never knows where it is being led, but it loves and knows the one who is leading.” - Oswald Chambers. Touching the sapphire flares it into a dance of stars on water. His dance is the grace of gazelle running in pure joy of body in fluid motion.

Alexandrite is a stone of regeneration that enhances rebirth of inner and outer self, expediting change in the world by producing expansiveness, creativity, awareness in manifestation as art setting the standard for bringing Divine ideas into life on earth. The stone expands joy in connecting with nature, aligning mental, emotional and etheric bodies. It attracts good fortune, stimulates neurological tissue at a cellular level and amplifies healing of body, mind and spirit. The Apostle Philip, whose power is power and dominion, is associated with the alexandrite. The power center of Power is the throat that produces sound to emit vibratory energies of the body. The stone is an open door between formless and formed worlds of vibrations expressing as sound. Michael assertively brings Divine ideas into reality.

The Ancient Adversary, Archangel Michael leers from the silver helmet sheathing Jacob’s head, still imagining he can be separate from the Creator. Still enthralled by the mad delusion of isolation from Cause, and more besotted still, willfully embracing Beelzebub’s lie that a bat, man, or angel, will one day, gain more power than Source and be thus be enabled to overthrow the One. Fool! Still besotted by the delusion of separation, and the arrogant conceit of thinking it is even possible wrest from Source more power than Source has, and thus overthrow the One. Delusional! Battle fury engulfs Michael. He tiptoes on a needle point of control, past drunk on the thrill and fill of battle fury and an impatient ion to extinguish the original sin of separation from Source. Gulping great gasps of air, he is overwhelmed by an oxygen high that melts his mind and rushes through him until he is the heat of battle, he is a lust for death and devastation, Michael is the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Cool it, Michael, comes Jacob’s command. What this situation does not need is two uncontrollable men, while I am stepped back making room for you in my body and mind. Or, if you wish, I can tell everyone that a man in bat form terrified an Archangel into senseless stupidity.

I’m not afraid! Michael snarls.

That was not a request, Michael. I allow you in; I can let you stay, or I can boot you out, your choice. Make it now. Even the Eternal can’t make physical time stop forever. Jacob grins toothily and adds, Fear isn’t the only thing that makes fools of angels and men. One wee bat can make a fool of an archangel too caught up in the past to clearly see what flies before him today, and what can now be done today to create a better world. Kill one bat, you’ve killed one bat.

I don’t like you sometimes, Jacob.

Mutual. Check the course of bat man.

Sighting through the enlightened stones on breastplate and scabbard, Michael checks the progress of the man bat winging through space and time. Judas unredeemed, he snarls; capable of comprehending personal, worldly power in its enchantments and illusions. The Ancient Adversary, still thinking it is possible to be separate from the Creator, the first Cause of all that is and all that is not. More besotted still, willfully embracing Beelzebub’s lie that he can gain more power than Source. Ancient enmity boils through Michael. Jacob feels his ion rushing slow like molten lava to curb and cool the archangel’s ecstasy that blinds him to the wisdom of the stones. Riding his polarized ion like a surfboarder over sweeps and swells of the battle fury that owned Michael during the fall from grace when he fought the angels who sought more power than Source. Fools, skunk drunk on delusion of separation from Source and of a ion to

seize all Source power and more. An arrogant affinity for separation, Michael snarls.

You got a wide streak of separation from source anxiety yourself, Michael. Curb your temper. Zeal, not rage, is one of the twelve powers; and rightly used, zeal can heal you and the bat man. Light the other stones, we’ll need them soon. Do your sensei master fight dance this time, I like it. Good rhythm, beat, fluidity, dazzling footwork, who knows, maybe the bat will stop to watch.

Next time I come I’ll bring you a sense of humor. Michael snaps.

Bring two you’ll need one yourself, Jacob replies evenly. The physical world needs comic relief more than a militantly dogmatic archangel still fighting fallen angels from eons ago. Time to adopt cooperation and collaboration, Michael. The sapphire is the last stone you touched. Short memory for a semi-divine being. Michael stiffens, eyes wide with exasperation. Pushing against the resistance, Jacob forces his lungs full intentionally pressing the archangel against ribcage and spine. He holds the breath on a slow count of ten forcing angry rigidity from the archangel. The champion does not go down easily so Jacob begins his slow ten count again.

All right already! I take your point. Inhale so I have room to breathe again.

Still overtly crabby for a semi-divine being. Still punitive and irritable. No wonder the Good Lord doesn’t give you important, world changing assignments anymore; and on that note, what are you doing here?

Michael is silent, breathing slowly and rhythmically until his heat cools from

volcanic intensity to mere driven purpose. Memory of his mission returns to his awakened mind. Thank you for your strength, and for your wisdom and good judgment in calling me to task for backsliding to a time when my sword could be unsheathed in anger and vengeance. He sighs a long release, and its: and for pushing me beyond the past and back into focus on the present, and my mission here and now.

What is our, your mission this time?

I am to save two lost souls who are gone in their own human minds, but never lost in the mind of God. I would have failed without you, Jacob. I know that. I how you persistently pressed the angry vengeance out of me and held me fast, Michael chuckles, until I blessed you. In truth, it was you that blessed me, and I’m glad it didn’t take an all-night fight this time.

Couldn’t. Jacob replies, we don’t have that much time to complete this mission.

We have all the time we need, Jacob, all the time we need. Turning attention to the five unenlightened stones among the twelve jewels on his scabbard, Michael levers the sword grip down, tilting it to cross his body like a guitar. His dancing feet lead as he strokes a thumb over the un-lit jewel above the ruby.

The Garnet flares, filling Michael with cleansing, revitalizing, purifying, balancing, energy and inspiring love, devotion, courage, fortitude, hope, expanded awareness and mutual assistance. Garnet dissolves habit patterns and byes self-sabotage by obsolete dysfunctional beliefs. Michael reforms error thoughts so they produce happier outcomes and eliminate the dark ones that beguile him to believe that what shows up in the physical world is not true in Spirit. Michael denounces and denies delusion that anything made by and from Source could ever be separate from Source. Illogical. Michael hears the words

“To whom little is forgiven, the same loveth little (Luke 8:47). He wonders if the man in bat has forgiveness issues for always receiving small. Except horses, they gave with no holding back, interesting. He never found that with people.

A russet red flame quickens as Michael rubs the garnet lighting chakras and opening mindfulness so he feels and experiences the harmonies of the springing, inspiring ion that animates life. He can’t not dance. Pointless. Michael yields lead-footed ingrained patterns that no longer serve, to tap around resistance, inertia, and self-sabotage. He stomps out dysfunctional ideas, antique inhibitions, a closet full of shoulda, woulda, coulda, faith in primordial enemies, and ancient taboos he picked up cheap at a rummage sale. His dancing feet step lively with joy.

The Apostle Thaddeus, with the given name of Jude, modeled the power of Elimination and Regeneration by open-heartedly releasing error thoughts and ideas that no longer serve, and inspiring hope for a better self and a more loving life. Thaddeus is known for comion and the restoring power of being rather than doing, and for liberal use of soul healing that instantly transforms discord into unity.

Michael strums the apple green Peridot gem that flares at his touch filling him with the strength and courage of the apostle Andrew that flows mighty streams of life, love, substance and intelligence. Andrew masters the art of asking and giving thanksgiving in the same breath knowing what is praised is increased and quickens the law of attraction magnet. Andrew has his being in reverence where he holds dialog with Divine Mind to attract God thoughts from universal mind, the positive pole of life.

The power of Peridot flows through Michael releasing old baggage, vibrations, and negative patterns. He accesses new frequencies, views new destinies, spiritual purposes, and the gifts in past experiences. Springing on the energy of Peridot, Michael its mistakes and breaths confidence and composure in

spiritual purpose and destiny forever forming. The Archangel is filled with clarity, confidence, assertion, and a fiery ion for spiritual truth. He knows people can have lived on the sense plane until they are animal in nature. In a flash of insight he knows the man took on the small self-serving nature of bat. Interesting. Releasing thoughts that no longer serve makes space for ideas from Universal Mind and gives thanksgiving for the healing to come. His eyes are prismatic projections of the nine powers already invoked. He takes another look at the spiritual truth of the man bat and the woman who bleeds and sees a shared destiny that lead both to this place and time. Interesting. Whatever happens to the bat happens to both of them. It’ll be grand learning the path the Divine prepared for these foes and for us! Jacob knows confident ion without aggression. Maybe I won’t kill him then, Michael muses.

There’s an idea whose time has come! Jacob encourages moving to strum the next stone. Before he can, Michael touches the Carnelian and is filled with life force, vitality, motivation, and creativity to stimulate acceptance of what is while inciting ion for resolutions that enrich all. That is creativity in action. His touch activates acceptance leading to release, resolution and re-visioning of what is yet to be. Michael smiles his true smile as love and comion fill his angelic mind, body and brain.

Carnelian is associated with the apostle John the Baptist is the apostle of love and comion applied to all of life and every situation in it. John signifies a wise perception of Truth, yet one not quickened by Spirit and a mind that is zealous for the rule of Spirit. This outlook is not spiritual, but a perception of spiritual possibility and a ion for creating conditions in which Spirit rules. ion strives with evil as a reality rather than a transitory condition. John knows culture does not make people honest nor evoke their virtues. The power of love washes away sins of separation from Source and gives birth to the inner Christ reborn in one aspect of the One. Love is the essence of life that weaves the human family, the universe, and all in it into Divine harmony. Divine love is impersonal. It loves for the sake of loving. It is not anxious with what or who it loves nor with any return of love. Love, like the sun, finds joy in shining forth its true nature. Comion is love driven by an understanding heart. Comionate people see error, but don’t condemn. “Neither do I condemn

thee: go thy way; from henceforth sin no more. John 8:11. Michael finds empathy for the fear-filled man in bat and for the woman who thinks she’s a slave. He opts to find creative ways to harmonize dualities and create resolutions that enrich all involved.

The Diamond, imparts the clarity to focus life into a cohesive whole and brings love, commitment and attracts abundance. It amplifies and harmonizes the dual poles of form to clear and purify emotional pain minimizing fear and creating space for opportunities. Diamond stirs imagination, fearlessness, invincibility, fortitude and inventiveness, binding intellect to higher mind and leading the soul to spiritual evolution. The stone links the intellect with Divine mind.

Diamond is associated with the apostle Matthew who represents the will faculty in man. Matthew (originally named Levi) was a tax collector who became a disciple of Jesus and was regenerated by the process of controlling, directing, teaching and disciplining the faculties of mind. Levi had to withdraw from his mercenary occupation and material ambitions that absorbed time and attention and dedicate himself to the master Jesus, who said: Verily I say unto you, there is no man that left house, or brethren, or sisters or mother or father or children or his lands for my sake and for the gospel’s sake, but he shall receive a hundredfold what he has left behind. In choice, Levi made a new choice rejoicing in a deeper, purer relationship where love expands and possessions multiply. He demonstrates that the power of will always makes the right choice to expedite openness to truth. Before touching the stone, Michael feels a clarifying, aligning power infuse him, imparting dedication and clarity. In choosing a deeper relationship with Source Michael strokes the stone and is filled with multi-faceted visions of possibilities. He sees only light and a path to new beginnings for the man bat and for the woman who thinks she’s enslaved. He is powerful, fearless, invincible and valiant. He has nothing to prove and nothing to lose. Wise and willfully dedicated to divine right outcomes, Michael names and claims his true desire: I AM the strength to hold a space for people to return to integrity without shame or blame. In the diamond Michael sees paths that don’t serve anyone. Useless baggage! Michael moves with the light patterns that spangle a mosaic of life opening a way where everyone heals, grows, and blooms. He dances a joy jig.

Amber is not a stone but fossilized tree resin strongly bound to earth and serving as a grounding stone transmuting negative energies into higher outcomes linking everyday self to spiritual reality. The stone stimulates a drive to achieve, promotes a sunny disposition respecting tradition and easing opposition, encouraging peace, developing trust and wisdom. Amber is associated with the apostle Thomas whose power is understanding, the ability to know, perceive, comprehend, apprehend and ask. Understanding and will function as one and will is tempered by understanding. The Master showed the relationship between will and understanding when he honored Thomas’ demand for proof of His identity knowing that enlightened empathy s the right use of will by his choice to believe a dead man resurrected as he said he would. The power of understanding has a physical component (prove it), and Jesus asked Thomas to put his hand into the wound to experience Truth and initiate a right use of understanding to open the door to the kingdom by awakened mind. Will makes it happen. Understanding finds the path to well-reasoned and joyous outcomes.

The one unenlightened stone is Peridot. Before touching it, Michael sends his mind into the stone and receives spring green and its cleansing, energizing power. He releases toxins from body, mind and brain, plus old baggage and outside influences, and opens himself to higher power. He releases dysfunctional vibrational patterns, and moves in easy grace to release jealousy, resentment, spite, anger, fear and stress. He receives poise, confidence, and motivation to evolve on mental, emotional and spirit planes. Reviewing life lessons Michael knows that forgiveness of past mistakes empowers rebirth of hope, faith, and unity with all of mankind and with all of life.

The apostle Andrew, brother of Peter, represents the power of strength and courage. Andrew is the strong man with the power of mind to rejoice in the inexhaustible Source of strength and exclaims “We have found the Messiah.” Reuniting with his brother Peter, Andrew weaves the power of strength into the power of faith and is propelled easily through adverse experiences.

Michael strokes the Peridot and is filled with faith and the courage to rise to the challenge winging his way. Rejoicing that the man in bat and the enslaved woman are already reborn to Oneness as Truth. All stones of power now lit Michael walks the path of power into a continuum where the horned one in bat drag speeds across the void hell-bent on fleeing the outcomes of unenlightened choices through one small door in space and time.

“Touch the hiddenite stone on your helmet over your third eye,” comes Jacob’s calm command. The angel commander complies. At the touch Michael feels a sweet softening like the tender unfurling of new leaves that lengthen as they grow. The iridescent green of the stone seeps into him linking him to knowledge from higher realms to heal error thoughts and focus awareness. He knows people who grew up fast are hard, crusty, and mean, for the early loss of innocence. Having another peek at bat he knows the innocence of the boy in the man was too soon lost, gone, and never redeemed. As he brushes the white striations of the crystal he knows the cocoa woman put on a brave face too soon and too often for want of knowing the confounding connections among the humans in her small world consisting of a kitchen and a hen pen. The hen pen had a kinder, more lucid energy about it. The wounded child became slave to the whims of folks bigger and more powerful, and that she was not clever enough to please, nor be invisible. Interesting. Michael absorbs the healing of the green and the clarity, wisdom and insight of the white patterns of the stone. Thank you for that, Jacob. I trust you experienced it too?

I did. Jacob nods their one head and adds: I’m ready, are you? Prepared and ready. Have you felt the changes to my war dance? I have indeed. Good, aren’t I? We are, Jacob grins a minor course correction. Sensing the shift before it shows Michael flows effortlessly to meet the ancient adversary and joy floods him until it bubbles out in lilting laughter that if heard by a human ear might sound deranged. “When thine eye is evil, thy body also is full of darkness.” Luke 12:34. Combat ecstasy erupts in Michael. The power surge disorients the bat pausing it mid-flight. I didn’t know bats could do that. Something new every day in your service, Lord, what a great and awesome God you are. I will not destroy

what you have made Lord,” his reaper grin is back “but in Your Name I will incapacitate the serpent of deceit so the man may live free again if he chooses. Without effort, Michael is where the bat flies at bat-Mach speed into the sword in Jacob’s hand in the gauntlet of Michael’s armor. For an instant the bat sizzles on the blade, then molasses slow slides to plop to the floor. Michael’s sabaton pins the bat before Jacob’s mind gets the signal his body has moved.

Ben enters the room at a run, skids to a stop beside Jacob, and grins eyeing what lies pinned beneath his foot, “Good man, Jacob, you captured a man in a bat suit,” he cheers, clapping a hand on Jacob’s shoulder. Wincing he pulls his hand back, lamenting, “I never to not clap you on the shoulder when you wear armor. You, my friend, are downright prickly when you go Archangel Michael on us.”

Jacob’s laughter reverberates in the silver helmet and carillons through nose and eye vents, he cocks an unseen brow. “I need three pieces of silver,” he orders in angelic voice, “what have you got?”

“A pair of buffalo nickels,” Ben grins holding them out, “and I already know where these buffalo roam.” Dropping to a knee by the bat Ben slides a buffalo coin face up between the elbow of a wing and the spine of the bat, then places other buffalo between the elbow and back of the other, and turns to rise.

“I’m in for a silver eagle quarter,” Counselor raises the ante by flipping the coin to Ben who catches it on the rise and drops again to place it prudently on the breast of the beast.

“A life was once sold for thirty pieces of silver;” growls a voice at the door “surely a man in bat drag needs at least four pieces of silver to be saved, if saved he can be.” He swaggers to the bat, “I have a Walking Liberty silver dollar, and

just like Ben,” he elbows him aside “I know exactly where it goes.” He stoops, rests a finger and thumb on the chest of the bat, then touches the head, sensing a moment. He looks up and announces, “The bat has a heartbeat and very slow brainwave activity. I think it is safe for you to remove your silver shabaton from this insensate creature while I place my guard on it.” He edges Jacob’s foot away; “and change into your regular clothes please.”

“It’s always a pleasure when you arrive, Luke.” Jacob replies stepping back into bib overalls, chambray shirt and work boots, then bends to watch Luke.

“Counselor, I’m moving your silver eagle to put the Walking Liberty on the bat’s breast. Lady Liberty ought to infuse the heart of the beast with the truth that liberty’s light is an innate right of every being.” That done, he carefully places the silver eagle in its new place and Jacob exclaims: “Oh, son, that is just so wrong!” Luke giggles light bright delight as he coils up and away from his mission.

“Jacob, what’s Luke done with my silver eagle?” Counselor queries cautiously.

“He put it face down on the bat’s groin.”

“Oh. Ouch! It’s enough to inspire a man to comion for the man when he is conscious again.” Casting the sentiment indifferently aside he asks “Will he shift shape before he comes to again?”

“Probably. Usually, and, as his body returns to the size of a man, the coins grow with him.” Jacob shrugs, “it’s something in the magic of Michael that I do not fathom.”

“Oh.” Counselor nods knowingly, “the magic of Michael. I should have known. Remind me to never give you reason to be fractious with me, Jacob.” Turning a sharp eye to Luke, Counselor adds “as for you, Light Bearer, you have a shockingly dark side to you for one so young.” Luke bobs a bow with an affable grin and takes a chair in the circle while Counselor bites a cheek to check a chortle.

Pain Eater

“Here come the Daughters now” Doc crows the rising light.

“Led by my lovely wife in her fine regalia,” beams Counselor in obvious iration.

“May I always cherish my Hester as you obviously do your mate, Counselor,” Jacob declares.

“May you always be sane enough to give praise for, and to, your mate, Jacob,” Counselor counsels.

“May I always be in awe of your wisdom,” Jacob replies with a puckish grin as the ringing and singing of dulcet voices fills and cheers the room and stills the sidebars.

Hester neither leads nor follows. She enters the common room sweeping her

eyes to see the silver studded bat, the crumpled clothes, and the woman rising in round eyed recognition from a chair between Doc and Counselor. She bears a distinctive two-hole mark in the curve of her neck over the carotid artery. Hester swallows a cry as her world implodes into the time her untainted sense of self was assaulted, desecrated, and left abandoned without hope. Surrendering herself she consciously expands awareness to embrace only the two of them. She knows two are needed to forgive and two to heal the separation from Source that enables one to feed on the life energy of another. Two to do the sin, two to heal it. It is her final thought before yielding to a higher power that flows and heals through her. Fixing eyes on the woman, she lifts a hand to touch two fingers by the paired scars over her carotid artery in the place where enflamed punctures leach color and life from the woman.

The woman shakes her head, yet hope rises like the first dawn on the first day. She breathes “how?” She yields her ion to know endings, and gives an unconditional yes. She let go of that. She just let go.

Hester reads the silent question and responds by opening her heart to receive the pain shackling the spirit of the bowed one and time is suspended for she has slipped mortal bonds and fallen headlong into the infinite and eternal space between the formless and the formed. Thy will be done her heart sings. Thy will be done through me. Joy uplifts her as time twists and warps and does not behave well at all. No one minds for all know that when one is healed all are whole for all are one when all is done.

Pain punches Hester with the force of a blow as the cocoa woman falls boneless to the floor. She chuffs out air, then in greedy gasps inhales, force feeding oxygen to her body, mind, and brain. She exhales a soft slow sigh, eyes lancing into those of the fallen woman willing her strength and courage and hope and hope and hope. Tears flow but neither knows who first cries, who first dies, who first lives again, who finds Lazarus fresh awake, stiff still and awkward from being too long dead and separate from Source. Lazarus is not the only one who can be resurrected and live anew. The promise is given through him even as it

was given to him. The bowed woman hears Truth Words for the first time and inhaling with Hester fills her lungs gently full with oxygen. She holds the air while blood delivers the breath of life through her body brain and mind. A smile plays on her lips knowing her resurrected self is outrageously, unexpectedly, and brilliantly gifted to be the amazing self she sees in the eyes of the woman lifting her up on love across an infinite realm of time.

Hester pulls the breath of life to fill her lungs and bronchia to capacity. She relishes the self-induced euphoria of an oxygen high and holds for a count of ten. Pumping breath like thunder through her heart Hester fires the power of love turning it to molten liquid life light joy. Exhaling to a slow count of ten she allows pain to flow and resolve to its level in the purifying ion of love. Thy will be done, she gasps a greedy gulp of air directing it to her heart to fuel ion knowing, loving, surrendering to what comes. On inspiration she touches her chest above her heart and is startled to feel the shape and texture of a felt rose its petals arrayed like an open tea rose. The woman’s eyes round. She smiles at what cannot be yet is. Fingering petals she turns them knowing they reshape into the upright American Beauty rose.

“Breathe,” Doc softly coaches the woman, “inhale deep, hold, exhale slow, relax, do it again three times, breathe deep, hold, exhale slow, relax. Pant now like a dog fresh from a run, pant, pant, pant,” Doc chants a new rhythm of life song from before time began and the woman loses herself to the pant chant and surrenders to at-One-ment with the Source. Hope springs eternal, but faith is a power to be earned, learned, and won. No word is spoken, yet the woman hears Hester’s gentle asking when and why she accepted herself as slave. Shocked, the woman defends that she was born a slave. As was your mother? Yes, the silent woman replies. Did your mother think of herself, or behave, as a slave? The woman blinks at the astute depth and fractal facets of the question. She knows she cannot deny or hide her truth. No, she never behaved slavishly. She always had the dignity of one born free. If your mother did not behave slavishly but always conducted herself as one born free though owned by another, how did you come to deny the truth your mother knew? How did you come to think and behave like a woman enslaved by another? The woman moans under the unyielding weight of a truth she could not accept, and cannot now deny. My

mother never loved me. Hester laughs delight, and the woman knows the silliness of what she said. Hester probes Did you have healthy food to eat, clean clothes to wear, a warm dry place to sleep, a chance to learn things you didn’t already know, a safe place to play and friends to play with? Yes, the woman its sensing that the freedom she denied was never denied to her. When did you begin to feel and believe you were disempowered and powerless? Hard questions, woman, why do you plague me? Why will you not face me when you accuse me of tormenting you? Who cannot own power over you when you denied it is yours alone to own and wield? Is your power available to anyone you can project blame on who will not defend themselves? Ouch! You are hard, woman! Facing one equally hard in her self-enforced separation behind which she hides to casts darts of blame for consequences of her choices. I did not choose this! The woman protests in impotent rage. Hester shrugs calmly: ive choice counts. Which brings us back to the question of when you denied your own power and began behaving like someone outside you owns you and determines your fate? You won’t let up will you? Hester’s smile is genuine; do you choose to be healed and whole? Or do you choose to keep on slavishly allowing others to use the power you freely give daily? The woman juts her lip petulantly and Hester interjects Jesus always asked two questions before healing anyone, what were they? A sullen moment of silence es, and she replies: Do you believe you can be healed, and are you willing to be healed. Hester nods, Faith, the power of Peter. Will, the power of Matthew. Both men used fear-based power before using it rightly. Like you, Peter revealed faith in human power and denied the man he called master. He used his power rightly by stepping from the boat into a stormy sea to walk on the water toward Jesus.

The woman across from her frowns and says: But he fell in! Hester nods. The storms of life often drop faith filled people into the hard liquid reality of life in physical form. Is that what happened to you? The woman pauses then sighs: If I ever had that much faith, then yes, that is what happened to me. Hester cocks a grin, perhaps your faith was not invested in a higher power, but really was an outwardly safe dependency on the humans you thought owned you. The cocoa woman will not meet her eyes. Hester continues her silent lesson: Matthew was a tax collector. It worked well for him by physical measures, yet he willingly chose to give that up to follow the master. Right use of will led him to riches on spiritual and material planes. Can you surrender your false security in dependence on physical world sources, yield yourself to a higher power, and

have faith in the promised rewards of that? What security have I? Someone else to be responsible, someone else to blame, the false sense of security of dependency. What do you know, you white faced judge, thinking you can put me down because you are whiter than me. Hester studies the woman, then opts to answer her security question, but not her white bias charge: You have the word of the Most High God. The same security Peter and Matthew had when faced with the choice of reality bites or taking a leap of faith.

Extending a hand Hester invites: Come, step out of the boat you built to keep yourself safe. Leave the false security of the pretenses you submitted to and receive the promise of a better future, even if you don’t know what it feels like to be free or be full to overflowing with peace and joy.

The woman discharges the pains, slights and assaults of a life no longer a part of who she is and wills herself to stand firm and tall. “You have been very kind and I thank you, but you must stop now.”

“Stop?” Hester blinks, refocusing her eyes to see the woman in her physical form again.

“Yes, stop. I tried to block the pain you took. I sent mean thoughts to you about you.” She huffs crossly “that did as much good as dropping a rock in a river; the pain flowed right around it. You are a Pain Eater,” her face crumples for being freely given more than she can receive.

Hester smiles serenely “I am that, I Am.” Then she frowns puzzled, “Why do you weep?”

“What you eat you become!” The woman cries, “You must not do this, you must stop now!”

Hester nooses a giggle into a small smile, lays her hands over her heart, and says “watch this.” Gently opening her hands like wings around her heart she invites “follow the flow of your pain, and see what becomes of it here,” she taps her chest alive with heart center energy. Many in the room know what the woman sees, and watch charting her path through the implausible sight of an enflamed joyous heart encomed in a nimbus of light, willing to freely give any essential assist. The woman’s instincts are true and guided, she gasps, then pants like a dog fresh from a run. She does not look away nor take reprieve from the terrible tender anguish but inhales a breath of longing as purified liquid pain pours into her heart and shapes and forms into dazzling crystals of astonishing color, cut, clarity and size. Seeing the jewels formed from pain in Hester’s heart, the woman sanctions her own cauterizing agony and intuitively eases the pain in the man bat craving freedom to enslave. How small, powerless, cowardly, helpless, angry and hopeless he must be to sink so low. Thank you God that his has not been my fate for all my failings, fears, faults and frailty. Use me. Use me as you will. Use me.

After an eternity of healing the woman sighs “I want to do that.” Her words are longing, surrender, a dropping of defenses, a willing yielding to a higher purer power seldom known on the physical plane in body, mind, and brain of man. “Will you teach me?” she prays pleas into Hester’s eyes.

Hester laughs surprised delight. “You already know how to be a Pain Eater. You are one. You have not accepted that yet, but owning that truth is all you lack.”

“I am a Pain Eater?”

“You are that,” Hester nods an assuring grin. “Touch the mark on your neck.”

The woman obeys, blinks doubt, and jerks her fingers away to see the tips not red wet but only clean dry skin. She touches again softly exploring the healed dry scars like those on Hester’s neck. Tears sting her eyes, “Does that mean I can eat pain and it turns into jewels in my heart, like happened in yours?”

Hester nods, “I’m sure of it. Would you like to try?” The woman kicks a fear habit and nods. “Ben,” she smiles the name “will you come to me please?” Ben obliges warily wary. She adds as Ben approaches, “As you see from his uniform, Ben is our peace keeper.” She tucks a hand in his elbow. “Keeping the peace is surprisingly more challenging than enforcing the law. Keeping peace means Ben eats a great deal of pain doing his work effectively.” She smiles fondly at Ben, “I think he is mostly unaware of the pain he eats to find and forge peaceful outcomes. If Ben agrees, are you willing to try your hand, and your heart, at absorbing the pain of another?”

The woman looks at Ben who grins, shrugs, nods anxious ambiguity, and a querulous heh, heh, heh. She grins and confesses, “I don’t know what I’m doing either, Sheriff, if that’s any comfort to you.” Ben nods, she bites her lip, and casts a quick plea to Hester. “Will you stand by me? To me?” Smiling, Hester quickly moves to stand by the woman facing Ben.

Ben chuckles uneasily “I’m feeling a little alone here right now.”

“I’ll stand by you, Ben” calls a sweet voice borne on the nimble step of a natural dancer gliding to Ben’s side to slip a hand under his elbow, smile up at him, and say “I’ll stay right by your side.”

Tipping back his head, Ben chortles, “I don’t know if I’m more comforted, or more challenged by that.”

The dancer grins, “It’ll be fun finding out won’t it? Pay attention. I want you to tell me exactly what it feels like to have your pain eaten.” Ben cocks a dubious brow at the dancer, then turns to face the woman willing to eat his pain. Hester steps behind the woman placing her left hand on her spine level with her heart, her right hand on the woman’s right shoulder. Inhaling fully, she slips into a trance to guide and feel the woman follow her there. As one the two inhale and exhale to ten heartbeats.

Those watching see the woman raise up in power, trusting Source to guide her in its correct use. As she exhales, they see her heart open to reveal its true ion and welcome it home. As one, they feel pain ease and flow, and as one, experience resolution and restoration in the crucible of love, each holding fast to the essential truth of wholeness in body mind and spirit. The dancer feels and yields to Ben’s surrender and the melting closure that weeps from him. With him she receives the reviving breath, the measured treasured exhale, and the uprightness of body with the next breath of air. He bows chin to chest surrendering will and yielding to Spirit to release his burdens while time stands still to watch the silent prayer play with vital vigilance.

To Ben, each pain tormenting him is at once alien and as familiar as a twin, as fully known as another self, as true his own breath and the body that breathes it. At times pain racks him ’til he thinks his body will rip to sundered shreds as repairable as Humpty’s shattered shell. All the while a guardian voice chants: Breathe, breathe, breathe, all is well, all is worthy, all is whole, breathe, only inhale and exhale.

In the way a coming storm changes temperature by tens of degrees in seconds, Ben’s pain cools to be a strong element in his blood and body as health returns and possesses every cell and atom of his body/mind/brain. He finds whole health

and respires in the giddy glad gratitude of irrational joy. He opens dewed eyes and smiles thanks into the ones across the circle.

The woman blinks “I did it,” she whispers amazed. “I ate his pain.” The statement as like a question. “I am stronger than I was before,” she crows her joy. I am a healer!” she sings sweet surrender, “I didn’t know that about me before;” she smiles serenely. “Now I know who I Am.”

“Part of it, dear heart, only part of it, there is more for you to learn, accept, master and know,” Hester assures stepping around to embrace her with a mother sister smile. I’m a pain eater! The woman mouths into Hester’s ear and the two of them share a coming home joy laugh.

Shawn Gallaway – The Light of The Flame

Fight Dance

“Well, bat man is a dud for entertainment value,” grumbles a dancer toeing the static form on the floor. “You sure he isn’t dead, Luke?” Luke bobs his head in affirmation brows arched in petulant pique. The dancer shrugs, “Let’s do something then. Let’s make something happen while we wait for the dead to arise. Or not,” she says with innocent indifference.

“What do you want to do?” Luke asks giving her the attention she craves.

“Fight dance!” She shouts with an infectious cheerleader jump and smile. Some see crepe paper pom-poms fluttering though none are there.

“Fight dance?” Ben and Luke harmonize the puzzlement of all.

“Is that anything like the Schottische?” someone asks playing silly. Some chuckle, and all lean back to watch the theatre of the weird that is certain to play out.

The dancer is pleased with the spontaneously evolving theatre of the weird. “Not like the Schottische at all;” she refutes, and gives an impish grin “but it could be part of a fight dance if Schottische steps and moves were put into it,” she demonstrates, improvising fight steps as she twirls about the circle slapping toes and palms where a shoe might stamp a Schottische step. “Who wants to learn the fight dance? It’s no fun dancing alone,” she whines

“You’re making this up as you go aren’t you?” Ben asks circling opposite matching her step and form as she moves. Eying and matching him she clacks imaginary castanets casting them to nearly snare Ben in her web. He shreds the web as she explodes into a back flip to snap up beside him reaching behind to slap the backs of his knees throwing him off balance, and with an impish grin nimbly back flips away.

“Okay, I’m getting the hang of this. I see how it works,” Ben chuckles his signature heh, heh, heh, “All I have to do is stay on the other side of the room from you two and I’ll be fine.”

“Will that work for you” She coos from behind him light-fingering his handcuffs from his belt clip, “do you think?” she grins jingling the cuffs in his face.

“How do you do that?” He growls.

“The first, and perhaps the only, rule of Fight Dance is always keep them guessing, unsuspecting, surprised and off guard. Do you want to participate in this dance, or is complaining enough for you?”

“Sure,” Ben snaps, snatching his cuffs away, “I’m teachable,” he shrugs, “and I got some time.” She twirls around him slapping the bottom of his baton with the sole of a foot so it leaps from its holder at his waist to arch over his shoulder where he catches it in astonishment.

“You won’t be needing that,” the dancer smiles, pushing him to his chair. “Leave

the gun, the handcuffs, the knife, and the shoes under your chair. Everyone, make the circle bigger so the ladies can sit too, or,” she entices, “can the dance.”

“If you show me how to get Ben out of his weapons,” the dancer’s young sister coos as she glides into the ring, “you can teach me anything else you want, Sister dear.”

Luke clears his throat stepping lightly between the sisters “Start with what makes it a fight dance since no weapons are allowed, except, it seems, your fast feet and hasty hands.” He grins a spin out of reach.

The dancer smiles executing a twirl then lighting fast, extends a shapely leg to clip her sister’s knees lifting and rotating her into a full body flip in the air. She lands with a solid “whoop” of ecstatic triumph.

“Okay, that taught me how to flip, now teach me how to make someone else flip.” Her grin is deeply wicked on such an angelic face. “Oh wait,” she smirks down at her astonished sister not sleeping on the floor by the slumbering bat “I just did that didn’t I?” Her giggle is strangely sinister and oddly infectious.

Luke leads with his toes slinking around the sisters eyeing them with devoted intent and a disarming smile. “Tell me about the fight dance, and since it is a dance, where’s the fight? If it’s a fight, where’s the dance? And perhaps most important of all, “who leads?” He circles and spins to, with, and around the girls whirling one into the other in the grace of their improvised response. Smiling the light he bears, he thinks: what fun if we all lead and follow, all for the joy of sharing with no expectation except to discover infinite opportunities for unexpected expressions of Truth that all is One Infinite and Expanding Whole, Wholly, Holy, and Here, and Now! It is good I don’t talk out loud much.

The sisters twin themselves to mirror to move counterpoint with Luke and with each other and are aware as one when Ben steps back into the swirling circle, moving with and challenging all of them “if the fight dance is a competition, what is its purpose? What’s the objective? What’s the prize? If our only goal is to show muscle and style and form, that is far too easy, we’d be bored before the hour is up. “What we need is a challenge, a goal, an objective to stretch us and to keep us engaged, here’s what I propose.”

Ben circles them like a kindly interrogator, playing the drama to the audience as he engages each in his play of powerful grace subtly enticing them into the circle. He grins bright delight, “By ancient Inca tradition the winner of every competition is honor bound to teach and train those he has defeated until each can stand against him as his equal. Teaching and learning would make this fight dance of yours a pastime worth doing, watching, and deserving of the time taken in doing it.”

Jacob rises with a grin to the circle “I ire that Inca tradition, Ben, but I propose a change.” He tips a nod to each in the circle, “I will teach you hard and well, and one day,” his grin a wicked challenge” you will stand with me as my equal.”

The dancer slinks a step toward him “Next year, Jacob, next year. This year, I’ll be teaching you. If you are focused, and practice daily, you can complete your training in a year’s time,” she smiles up at him, “and then be able to stand against me as my equal.”

“Oh-ho-ho, show me, little girl, don’t tell me, else I’ll put my money on you being a skillful politician and not a collaborative Spiritual warrior.” The dancer snorts at Jacob’s back that hides the mischief in his eyes. He meets raised eyebrows, turns his hands palm up and feints bewilderment at their reaction.

“You are such a pot stirrer, Jacob. What can you add to the fight dance idea that makes it an enjoyable pastime – other than hot air?” a watcher poses.

Jacob shrugs a grin, “I don’t know yet, I don’t know the rules, or even if there are any. My bet is on the Inca having rules, watchers, and trainers, all we got so far is words, and some appealing dance moves.”

The dancer huffs again, “then I shall be forced to teach you the toe slap dance.”

“Oh, I am so in for that” cries the sister dashing to her side.

In the toe slap instant the bat shifts into his human form. “Oh look, the man in the bat is back,” a sister observes. “Fortunately, its skinny naked body is tucked in the natal position so we can’t see it.” She studies the bat with a frown. “That silver eagle laid where it was before the shift might cause a body to curl into that protective pose.” She nudges the man with a toe as her sister had done the bat. “It’s still breathing,” she observes, “and that is still all that can be said for its entertainment value.”

The wall clock strikes two chimes. “Time’s a ing,” Jacob grumbles, “who’s going to tell us what this fight dance looks like?” He claps his hands like a coach hustling his players to attention and focus, “what are the rules, what does it take to win, are there teams or is it every player for herself, are there style points, are you making this up as you go?” He demands of the dancer.

She grins, not apologetically, and shrugs, “well… , yeah! Everyone’s sitting here

like a bump on a log and that’s as entertaining as watching a bat nap. I thought bats hung upside down in caves to sleep.”

Jacob winks an evil grin “I think the man didn’t expect to be unconscious just now, and his long sleep is no reason for you to propose something just as dull to time until he wakes up.”

“Jacob, Jacob, Jacob,” Ben intervenes, “in addition to rules, every good game needs at least two teams, some good players, some fair referees, a bunch of enthusiastic fans, and few critics. You obviously are not a player, nor a referee, nor even a fan, you, my friend, are a critic. You belong on the sidelines,” he prods Jacob to his chair pushing him firmly into it, “where you can be as cantankerous as you please.” The circle erupts in hoots of laughter. “Sit. Stay.” Ben orders turning back to the dance.

“Okay, we had some good action going before our resident critic gave his review, let’s make this fight dance competition worthy of watching and doing. “You, dancer, what are your favorite elements of a dance competition?” Caught off guard the dancer gapes drop jawed. “If you’ve lost your tongue and can’t speak, show us!

“Come here, little sister, your elder needs some vision. Show us what you got while she evolves beyond the mouth-breathing stage.” Ben narrowly ducks a toe slap to the head but is bumped off sides by the swinging hip of the slinking sister. He, he, he, he chortles triangulating himself between the girls.

“Luke, you showed us some good moves before, is that all you got?” Ben gripes provocatively. “If so, go lie down by the man in bat drag. You can be as dull as a lump of coal over there.” He narrowly dodges Luke’s jump kick to his head who then spins away to catch Ben’s ankle with a foot to flip him airborne again.

“Woo-hoo! What a great move, Luke! What else ya got?” Ben goads.

On a silent cue the sisters’ dance in to separate the men mischievously inciting their competitive routine and introducing their own gymnastic gyrations to the evolving dance. Musicians among them improvise a driving beat, lilting tune, and sublime harmony to inspire the dance and the dancers. Wise elders watch and give points for style, originality and performance perfection. Soon the circle is filled with leaping, weaving, thrusting, pulling, shoving, tumbling, spinning, jumping, and laughing youths who break out to watch, cheer and take a breather while choreographing new moves for the dance of cosmic silliness before returning to the sphere of jubilant gyration. None recalls laughing so deeply and well for as long as they . All cherish this time as a favorite memory for as long as they live.

Shawn Gallaway – We Dance

The Awakening

The chirping cries of a bat issue from the unmoving man in the natal position drawing eyes to the still form. Softly the twittering sounds evolve into tormented moans from a human throat that grow louder as the weight of the silver presses and burns.

“Anyone hungry for barbeque?” someone quips and is quickly silenced by glares around the circle, the dancers scowl and step away, the musicians lay their instruments aside.

“What have you done to me?” the searing man whimpers.

Doc leans back in his chair extending the soles of his feet to the man, “why son, we have given you one more chance to answer Jacob’s question and tell all of us how one man can own another human.”

The man moans “we’ve been through that and you took the word a slave over that of a free white man.”

“Huh! You don’t look free to me,” Ben observes caustically.

“I mean I am not a slave, you dolt.”

“’Dolt’, I haven’t heard that discouraging word since I was knee-high to a grasshopper.” Grinning amiably into the face of the prone man, Ben sing-songs “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” Seeing a human face shift to the face of evil is a disturbing demonstration, the hissed words of the silvered man are more unsettling still “your laughter is a sign of your ignorance.”

“Well that was plumb mean,” Ben pulls back with a grumble, “and me just trying to add a bit of levity to this unfortunate situation.”

“There is nothing funny about this situation,” the man snaps.

Eyeing the naked man livid with poorly contained rage Ben nods amiably and observes “that is a matter of perspective, son. From the angle of my ignorance the situation in which you find yourself, captured as a bat, allowed to shift to human form, pinned to a dusty floor by silver coins, and on top of that your impotent bullying, well, son, that is just plain rib-tickling ri-dic-ulous.”

The pinned man growls “if I could get up, I’d…”

Ben’s brows arch expressively, “bite me?” he growls. The man looks away with a sullen scowl as Ben’s eyes narrow to a hard line. Reaching into a shirt pocket he pulls something out letting it drop into his palm, “I’ve carried a token for most of my career thinking someday I’d find someone I’d want to give it to. Today’s my day, and you’re my man.” He tosses the thing so it lands lightly on the man’s shoulder.

The man shrieks and writhes away and the token falls to the floor beside him, “a

silver bullet,” he yells, “you insensitive brute!”

“This from a man who enslaves and feeds on the life blood of another? It is plum hard to feel fairly judged by a man like you.” Ben stalks resolutely to the prone man who flinches away. “I’ll have my Lone Ranger silver bullet back since you obviously have no appreciation for the finer things in life.” Ben’s grin is devilish as he turns to his chair.

The silver studded man eyes the faces in the circle and finds them relaxed, alert, aware, and fully present without expectation or judgment. There is one outcome they anticipate and await. This is chilling to the man whose key talents are manipulation and control. They have no stake in this, not one of them. Yet there is an outcome they will have, and will accept no other. It rankles him, these nobodies without status, entitlement or authority binding him and deciding his fate with meticulous, merciless comion. In face of the steadfast serenity he centers his considerable focus on life, liberty and the pursuit of freedom. Happiness, he has never known and discounts it as of little value.

Across the room an awakening sense of self-determination shreds habitual bonds of submission in the consciousness of the cocoa woman leaving her in a disconcerting clarity that she was always free to choose her own fate and thus to bear the consequences. Freedom and fate war in her as fierce as mythical dragons each bound till death to oppose the other. The winged serpents swoop, swirl, and spit fire, each intent on annihilation of the other and of all she knows and believes until the space of her is too narrow to contain their conflict, and feels herself hurled into a void beyond space and time. Doc senses her absence though she sits beside him still. He reaches to her and she yelps suddenly elevated on an impossible trajectory from her chair, her left foot rides something unseen, her arms propeller in pursuit of elusive equilibrium. All feel the jolt of balance as her right foot is ed and she rises like a shot through the roof newly supplanted by infinity and its eternally spirited silence.

“Dragons . . . ,” comes an awed whisper.

“Who are you?” The rider in another dimension asks to know.

“Fre,” replies the serpent beneath her left foot,

“Edom” says the other.

“What’s happening?” The awed woman cries.

“Perspective,” breathe the dragons in one word thought. “You were too close to your small human self to clearly see your options and make a wise choice so we spirited you away.”

“Options?”

“Yes. Fear is a human habit that practically predicts outcomes because fear always precludes options. What was the choice before you when we came for you?”

“Freedom,” she pauses pondering, “or fate.”

“Which would you have chosen?”

She groans “Fate, I suppose, fear habit. Doubt.”

“Name your doubt,” demands one.

“That I can be free to do what I choose, and to know that I can survive and even thrive on that.”

“Self-doubt.” Breathes one, “Is it possible the man you are with is possessed by the same fear?” The infinite thrives in timeless silence and the dragons soar, spiral and spin in endless exuberant space beyond time, until the woman owns and allows the truth she denied, and the dragons return her to the chair where she began her quest. Doc lays a comforting hand on her wrist, silently reading her pulse and finding its rhythm and pace curiously more composed than before she left on her wild ride.

“Let the man free,” The woman directs and expects it is already done.

“What?” The circle demands as one, all mouths agape.

The woman withdraws behind lowered lids, mourning the blamelessness of slavery and life at the mercy of a mean man. She understands the margins of being owned, she knows how to resist, how to win, and how to survive. “Slavery is not for the slow, the slight, or the submissive,” she thinks. “Only the brave survive slavery.” She eyes the man and speaks to the circle, “Look at him. The shackles that bind him are not the silver coins. He sold himself cheap before the Archangel dropped him where he lays.”

The man struggles feebly to rise to her level. “Remove the coins,” she snaps an order. “And give him his clothes. None deserve to suffer the shame of his nakedness. Especially him.”

“Point taken,” Luke agrees gathering the worn gaudy garments, dropping beside the man and lightly taking and pocketing the Walking Liberty coin and laying the jacket on the man’s chest. The man gulps lungs full of air, his eyes wide with relief, doubt, and something oddly akin to fear. Next Luke removes the buffalo nickels that instantly return to their normal size and weight and flips them to Sheriff Ben. He takes the Silver Eagle quarter, then drapes the tros over the man’s groin and legs and sets the shoes nearby. That done he graciously returns the Silver Eagle to Counselor’s palm.

Revelation and Reckoning

When he is dressed the man looks at the woman and asks “Did – did you ride two dragons in – in space – like it looked like you did?” The woman nods and the man bobs his head with her, eyes wide. “I was afraid you’d say yes. I hoped you wouldn’t. I never saw anything like that, not even on a bender after clearing the glasses after one of the master’s shindigs.”

“You drank the wine his guests left?” the woman asks incredulous. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

The man shrugs indifferently, “it was that or throw it away and that seemed a prissy waste.”

The woman eyes him with a perceptive smile. “The master’s car, tell me about that.” He turns away and she crosses her arms cupping elbows in her hands, posing the patience of Eternity.

“You changed… ,” he offers an alternate telling.

“The car first. After that comes your time to ask questions.”

“They didn’t find us.” He snaps. “I said they wouldn’t find the safe hole and we’d be okay there.”

She frowns at the memory, “did the master or the mistress know about the safe hole?”

Shaking his head no, he adds “I found it the day the lady had me clear out the canning room and throw out old fruit and vegetables to make room for the jars of fruit and vegetables harvested that year.”

She smiles remembrance, “I’m thankful you threw the old food in the direction of the slave quarters. Even old vegetables and fruit in winter are better than none.”

“And I thank you that the jars and rings were clean when ye brought them back for the next canning, it saved me a caning. The mistress could be a hard woman at times.”

“Civil war… , was there ever a war that was civil? And looters on the front porch make even generous folks tightfisted and mean. The mistress was a good kindly woman before the war.”

“She was that,” the man agrees.

“Could none of the family be saved? The girls, the young boy?” The woman implores.

The man shakes his head quickly, “They knew how many were in the family, even the number of servants and slaves; it was dangerous business trying to save anyone let alone a whole family.”

Her eyes narrow, “How did they know how many were in the family?”

“Looters. They kept their liberty by stealing and turning in the ones they stole from. When some of master’s horses came up missing from the far pasture, I knew what was coming next. Men stole horses to sell to blue coats, and sold information about plantation owners and their families to carpetbaggers. Hungry people cannot be trusted. A son who stayed behind to run the farm was branded a Union man. Neither the yanks nor the Rebs had money to feed hostages, nor medicine to treat the wounded.”

The woman watches him thoughtfully a long while and asks “why was no one but me and you in the safe hole big enough for the whole family?”

“Too much risk, I told you that,” the man snaps clam tight closed.

“Too much risk for who?”

“If they’d come and found nobody in the house, they’d have searched first, taken what they wanted, then torched the place, watched while it burned, and shot anyone who ran from the fire. Everyone would have died then, is that what you wanted? This way at least you and I lived.”

“You and me.” Her eyes are clear solemn sad, “The master, his wife and children, the servants and slaves were taken away and everything of value including the contents of master’s safe and the lady’s jewel case. The safe hole was big enough to keep them safe too.”

“I’m telling you the carpetbaggers knew how many were in the family, how many slaves, how many horses and cows, if I’d tried to hide the family we’d have been at risk even in the safe hole.”

“How did they know? Carpetbaggers never came that far south before. The master and his family were good people, they cared for the slaves and the servants, horses and stock animals. That’s rare in the slave owning south. Someone turned them in for money, or freedom.” her eyes narrow “Someone who knew when they’d come and had time to hide before they arrived. “Someone who didn’t tell the raiders about the Rolls Royce and the one slave you hid with you. Tell me why you did that.”

“I did it for you,” he protests peevishly.

“You never did a thing for anybody unless you got paid for it. Why did you hide me and no one else?”

“You’re like a daughter to me,” he says softly serious, “a daughter I never had.” He pleads into her eyes and she knows he speaks his truth and she does not understand nor believe a word of it.

“So, you think it is okay to feed off another human – a daughter – so long as you fancy they owe you?”

“No!” He protests, “It’s not that at all! I owe you.”

“Why?” She crosses her arms, and waits.

“You were born because of me.” He its in a whisper. A hush falls over the room. Even the wall clock waits without tick or tock for the remainder of the tale. “Before you were born, the master held a posh party and invited plantation owners and families and an old bachelor that couldn’t keep a mate if she was deaf, dumb and blind. I owed a gambling debt I couldn’t pay. The master wouldn’t help, said he’d not countenance an employee gambling let alone lend or give them money to pay a gaming debt.

“The man I owned was at the party, horny old devil. He fancied your mother.” The woman’s eyes and mouth round in silent dread. Heedless of all but himself, the oblivious orator continues “the horny old wolf said he’d forgive the gambling debt on the spot if I arranged for him to have time alone with your

mother during the gala. I said no, of course; and he threatened me, saying he’d see me in debtor’s prison until I rotted unless I did what he wanted. When I hesitated he vowed to get me fired unless I made the arrangements that night. What’s a man to do but what a man has to do? I told your ma a guest wanted to use the master’s study and she needed to go there and make sure the master’s papers were locked away and the room well cleaned. She’d cleaned the room that day, as always, and told me the study was spotless and that the master’s papers were locked away as was his constant habit. The butler manages house staff so I ordered her to go and wait until I came to get her, which I did not do until the randy wolf returned and gave back my token.” He mutters “You were born nine months later.”

The woman, eyes round with shock, whispers: “I am the child of rape! My mother was raped because of you, who had charge of the wellbeing of the servants and slaves? Raped by a randy man she hated so you’d be excused of a debt you owed? How could you save yourself from the consequences of your ravenous lust for ill-gotten gains by betraying all the house slaves to satisfy your venial vile greed?”

“Only her!” the man defends dimly, “None of the other slaves were ever touched.”

“None?” The woman cries, “Do you imagine no other slave was effected by your betrayal of duty to the master? Can you even imagine the other slaves didn’t know what happened, didn’t know when mother began to show that they too were at risk of betrayal by the very person the master entrusted with their wellbeing? You are a despicable human being!” She spins away screeching, “Can I kill him?”

Counselor places a calming hand on her arm, “he may deserve a quick death, but you do not; and our Sheriff Ben would be duty bound to arrest you for murder, and I, bound to hear your case and sentence you to prison for premeditated

murder.” Counselor allows time for reflection on the facts and evidence, then adds: “It’s a hard sentence for you who have been through so much to be content with the sharp slippery pleasure of killing a man who wronged you and your mother.”

Her eyes weep into his, “Mother could never love me,” she wails, “She could not be mother to me. I was an orphan though my mother lived and breathed. The slaves shunned and punished her believing she went willing to the covetous man. She suffered that indignity alone and silent in her shaming.”

Sheriff Ben clears his throat calling all eyes away from the stricken woman and to the drifter. “Tell us how it happened that you left your master’s service.”

Welcoming the relief, the orator reclaims his place at center stage. “Well sir that is a powerful curious tale in itself, and one I’m happy to share with you. As I said before, the carpetbaggers came and looted the house taking the master and his family away. I was able to save myself and this slave girl.”

“And the Rolls Royce,” Ben adds.

“Yes, the car too.”

“Why didn’t the carpetbaggers take the master’s auto?” The woman probes regaining composure.

His smile is laudatory, “That’s because I drove the car to the gully back of the

house and covered it with brush so they’d not find it. Those greedy bastards would take that fine auto if they found it.”

“Then you knew they were coming and had time to hide the car and prepare yourself?” Ben observes.

“Yes sir, that is a true story, and it was right clever of me if I do say so myself.”

“How did you know carpetbaggers were coming?” the woman demands.

He pauses before answering, “You may not know it but gambling always involves hard spirits that loosen tongues and one of the gamers said he heard carpetbaggers were coming South looting, killing, and taking anything they could sell for liquor, so I prepared myself for what was to come.”

“You prepared yourself by hiding your master’s auto?” Ben asks conversationally and the orator nods agreeably, “and by taking the car title and one slave document from the master’s safe?”

“Well sir, the way you phrase that is not kindly at all. It is downright unfriendly if you ask me.”

“Which I didn’t. My question had to do with intent, relating to that car outside, and this woman you brought with you who bears your mark.” Ben softly hisses the last two words.

“Now see, that’s just plain discourteous and judgmental the way you say it.”

Ben cocks a brow coldly, “I’m in law enforcement; I’m not paid to be polite when questioning a suspect.”

“A suspect? Suspect of what?” the orator demands.

“Theft of an automobile, theft of a slave. Selling out your master and his family isn’t against the law in this state, but such treachery is reprehensible to good folks everywhere.” The orator lowers his eyes but can’t hide his unease at the direction the discourse is taking. Watching close by nature and training, Ben observes the orator casting about for an escape route, looking toward the door by which he entered the room. He feels more than sees Jacob’s casual vigilance and winces at the thought of Michael’s upright sword. He casts the front door option aside seeking a back exit and, for the first time sees the burly man standing like a wooden statue with a proprietorial air near the counter by the door leading to the back.

“You haven’t met Smithy have you?” Ben asks tipping his chair back on two legs. “Smithy is a legend hereabouts because if he hasn’t got the part you need, he’ll forge it for you and it will fit better than the original. That Rolls need any parts before you take off again?” Silence resounds. “Since you will not answer my questions, I believe the lady has a question still unanswered. Do her the courtesy of giving her your answers while you consider your options.”

“She’s no lady,” the visitor snaps.

“You don’t treat her like one, but that’s a whole other measure altogether, and by

my lights you are a far piece from measuring up.” Ben uprights his chair with a crack that echoes like a shot causing the man to jump anxiously. “Let me refresh your memory, the lady asked why you didn’t save the master and his family. She asked what happened to them when the carpetbaggers came and took them away.”

“I don’t know,” the orator sullen snaps.

“You don’t know? Or you think it’s safer to ignore the question?”

Hester steps to Ben’s side laying a calm hand on his shoulder, “perhaps I can be of help Ben.” She says pleasantly, then turns to the man. “Tell me about the master’s family, were there children?”

Her conversational tone is disarming and the man readily replies, “yes, mam, he had four kids, three girls and a boy, he was right proud of those young ones.”

She smiles “how old are they?”

“The boy was nine or ten, I guess, the girls were seven, five, and three, fine looking kids they were.”

“You speak of them in past tense, why is that?”

The man starts, “because they were taken away with the master and his lady, I’ve

not seen them since.”

She nods “so in your mind they won’t have aged in the six months since you left with this woman?”

“Well, yes, mam, they will have aged six months since then.”

“What do you suppose happened to the family after they were taken away?”

“The carpetbaggers are beasts of a nasty nature, they’ll have sold them as slaves is my guess.”

“Slaves?” The cocoa woman gasps, “You sold them into slavery?”

“I done no such thing! I ain’t responsible for what lawless carpetbaggers do.”

Hester rubs her chin thoughtfully and observes: “I notice when you speak to me you use proper English as I imagine a butler at a plantation house might do; but when you speak to this woman you brought with you against her will, you use common language, why is that do you suppose?”

“I – I didn’t notice.”

Bobbing her head she observes “yes, I have detected that pattern in people who only respect up and always disrespect down.” The woman catches Hester’s eye and gives her a shrewd smile. Only Hester’s eyes smile. She turns to the man in aged brocade. “Why do you think the family will have been sold?”

“They are used to eating well when they’re hungry. An army moves on its stomach. The Yanks pay well for fresh food, the greys have nothing but confederate paper,” he spits the words. “Soft potatoes with roots are worth more than a whole box of confederate money.”

“I see you make it a point to be well informed.” The man nods eagerly. “You said you thought the family was sold into slavery, who would purchase a family of soft plantation owners as slaves?”

“Uh –well – there are men who like fresh meat, and the master’s girls were pretty young things.”

“Oh, my poor sweet babies,” the woman moans into hands shielding her mouth and leaving her eyes unmasked to clearly see the horror of the man’s words and deeds.

Doc eyes the man as he clarifies with fierce candor “not just the girls, dear heart, the boy too.”

“No-o-o-o!” She wails a supplication and denial. “No, no, no!”

Doc nods his misery “and the mother, and the father as well.”

“No!” The woman screams. Jumping from her chair she stamps both feet and yells “can – I - kill - him?”

“He’s not worth it, woman,” snaps Counselor taking her arm and pulling her back to the chair indifferent to the tears now staining his jacket.

“Ben,” Jacob inserts from across the circle, “maybe you could let him make a break for it and then you can shoot him trying to escape.”

Ben grins “tempting, but it’s not happening on my watch. Keep the Archangel on alert though.”

“Oh like he ever sleeps?” Jacob grumbles grinning.

Hester rolls her eyes and turns back to the visitor. “Tell us about the car and the one slave you saved, why did you chose to do that?”

“I needed the car, and,” he winces “the girl mattered to me, I care about her and her safety.”

Hester can’t make her brows not arch, “Safety? To have her blood sucked by a man who stole her, claims to own her, yet calls her daughter? Curious kindness you offer your kin. How much money did you get for selling the family to the

carpetbaggers?”

“What?” The man snaps.

Hester shrugs indifferently, “I’m curious by what motivates a man like you, who claims no integrity nor morality, yet pretends to be a good and thoughtful man. Were you ever an actor?”

“Yes,” the man smiles broadly “how did you know?”

Hester’s brows bob in surprise, “Mother always said I was psychic,” she says dryly, “perhaps that’s it.”

“Could you tell my future?”

Hester replies in solemn exasperation “I don’t think that’s a good idea today.” A giggle arises in the circle followed by a chortle, then a guffaw and soon the circle is laughing and slapping their knees in glee.

“What’s so damned funny” the orator demands red faced.

“You, that’s what.” The elder sister growls as she rises from her chair to stand before the orator. “Any fool can tell your fortune today and safely predict that you won’t like it. Hester’s no fool, fool.”

“Well I ain’t talking to you am I?”

The younger sister blasts from her chair to leap defensively before her elder. “Don’t speak to my sister like she’s a slave!” Her eyes menace, “or I’ll bite you and I’ll spit your blood in your face. Maybe you can use your bat tongue to lick it off and drink it.” She hisses. “It may be your last supper.” The orator turns a bilious green before her scalding threat, and searches the circle for a friendly face or a pair of soft eyes. Finding none and possessed of a consuming ion to be anywhere but here he calls plaintive to a nameless god who, surprisingly, comes to his aid in the form of a dragon sweeping him from his chair and into an infinity beyond the roof of a local Feed and Grain store.

“Well, whoda thunk it? Another dragon rider!” Settling back in his chair the man says, “Let’s give points like this is a rodeo and him a bareback rider.”

“He’s got no experience riding bareback. I’ll give him two minutes tops before he’s dropped in the dirt.” Ben growls, “Smithy, when are you going to sweep this floor again?”

“When a dang bunch of farmers quit tracking in plow dirt and grain dust, when I ain’t busy all day fixing broken parts or forging new ones because your trucks are too old to have replacement parts, when…”

“Okay, okay, Smithy… ,” Ben grins behind a hand, “don’t get your dander up, I’m just asking.”

“Smart ass-king if you ask me,” Smithy growls a surly smirk.

“I didn’t, but thanks for sharing.” There is a chortle, a giggle, then a snort, and soon the circle is laughing and hooting until Smithy can do naught but , his barrel chest blaring like a blast forge. When the circle settles to return to watching the dragon flight, and calling points or penalties but no one keeping score, someone asks: “when you plan to have my transmission repaired so I can drive my truck again?”

“Repaired? Your truck is so damn old there are no parts to fix it anymore so I’m having to forge you a whole new transmission. Ya otta just get a new truck,” he grumbles sotto voice.

“Hell, I’ll do good to pay for the transmission rebuild let alone a new truck.”

“That’s what keeps me up nights worrying.”

“You got a forge?” The woman asks short-circuiting the staple squabble.

Smithy looks around the circle for the voice and finds it in the face and eager eyes of the cocoa woman. “Course I got a forge, that’s why I’m called ‘Smithy.’ I had a real name once, but I plumb forgot it. Why do you ask?” he looks into the eyes of the woman and gives free rein to his puzzled curiosity.

“Do you think… , I mean, could I… ?”

“Spit it out, woman,” he says with feigned vexation.

“Do you think I could make glass in your forge?” she asks in a rush of words.

“Glass? Why on Gods earth would you want to make something as common as glass?”

The woman flushes lowering her eyes timidly, then inhales and raises bold eyes to meet his. “Because I want to make beautiful things out of glass, and I need a kiln to do it.” Her lip juts determinedly.

Smithy’s curiosity flares like a heated forge and he asks as calmly as possible, “why?”

The woman blinks puzzlement and has no reply. Smithy shrugs contorting his face into perplexity, then rephrases his question “what do you want to make in glass?”

“Beautiful things – I already told you that!”

Smithy’s head bobs and his eyes go round. “What kind of beautiful things do you want to make?”

“Oh,” again she is without words to speak her dreams. Her face wilts, her eyes well for the weight of an idea that will not be cramped into words. “Have you

any shop paper?” She asks instead.

“Shop paper?” Smithy repeats baffled.

“Yeah,” she frowns, “brown paper you wrap things in when you sell them.”

“Of course I do, there’s a roll of it behind the counter.” She beams a smile, jumps from her chair to dash behind the counter. “Did you ask if you could use some of my shop paper and I missed it?” He scratches the back of his neck to hide his mischievous grin.

He hears the woman’s hands plop on the counter. “Can I please use some of your paper, Smithy?”

“Sure, how much you need? And what do you need it for?”

“I don’t know how much. I will use it to draw things I can’t say in words.”

Smithy’s eyes round and his brows raise. “Oh,” he says to a circle of grinning curious faces. “Reckon you’ll be done by the time the stranger returns from his dragon ride?” he wonders.

“Don’t know. Why, does it matter? You got some charcoal?”

“Charcoal? I got a forge, woman, of course I got charcoal.”

“Would you show me where it is?” Smithy laughs the way a father might at a trying daughter asking too many questions without answers. Rising he es the counter waiving a brawny hand to the woman and hears her scampering after him. “Daughter, whoda thunk it? And me without a wife.”

“I reckon you’ll wants sticks of charcoal if you’ll be drawing things that can’t be explained.” She arches a brow and tilts a grin. “And I reckon you’ll want hardwood charcoal so it don’t break unless you want it to. You know how to tell hardwood charcoal from soft wood, like cottonwood?”

“I sure do,” she replies studying the charcoal sticks “hardwood burns slower than soft wood and is more black than grey like soft wood is,” she says fingering a grey stick that crumbles at her touch. She then touches a black stick and picks it up with a brilliant smile. “This will do for now.”

Smithy reaches into the ash pile to pick out more black sticks tucking them into a paper bag and handing her the bag. “Just in case you have a lot of things you can’t tell but can draw.”

Her smile is brilliant, “Thank you, Smithy, you’re the best!” Raising to her toes she plants a kiss on his cheek and turns away quick so as not to see him blush. “Ready?” she asks pulling him along in her excitement to draw imagined beautiful things. “How about chalk, you got chalk?”

I might just follow you anywhere you lead, Smithy grins, then laughs and says “I got chalk too.” Back inside the girl woman scampers behind the counter and

begins slashing flowing curving lines on the sheet of shop paper totally losing herself to the heart and art of creation.

Curious at her focus, the Regaliaed One rises and walks to the counter to see what she draws with such power and purpose. Despite herself she sighs a smile disturbing the woman who stops mid stroke to look at her. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you, but this is stunning. I couldn’t contain myself. Finish dear, please finish. “May I watch if I promise to remain absolutely silent?”

Across the room Counselor chortles, “My darling wife, I have come to believe that it is utterly impossible for you to remain silent for any length of time. You even sleep out loud.”

“Oh hush! Telling bedroom tales in public, shame on you.” Though her tone is severe she makes no effort to hide her smile of shared pleasure with her husband. “Wait until you see the birthday gift you will give to me.” Turning back to the woman she asks “you can make this in crystal can you not?”

The woman grins. “I can if Smithy will let me use his forge to make glass and blow the pitcher, will you?”

“That I will,” Smithy agrees readily. “You do know how to use a forge don’t you?”

“I sure do, Smithy, and before you ask, I know what I’ll need to make glass, all of which is easily found, sand, soda, and ash, the ash can come from your forge.” She grins impish “Can I have some of your ash, Smithy?” The room erupts in glee as Smithy’s face reddens but not from laughter alone.

“Let me introduce myself,” the watching woman smiles, “I am the Regaliaed One.”

The woman blinks doubtful and says, “Your name is Regaliaed One?”

“Yes, dear. You would have to know my dear departed mother to understand such a curious name. It’s not worth telling. Call me RO, like everyone else does.” Touching a corner of the page, RO asks “may I?”

“Not yet,” the woman blocks her hand, “it isn’t finished.” She smiles caressing chalk onto the paper pulling highlights on the round bowl and pouting the lip of the pitcher.

When she is done fixing and finishing she nods and RO takes the page and turns to walk to Counselor saying “Look, darling, at the birthday gift you will give to me.”

Counselor studies the charcoal and chalk drawing for a long while and the woman holds her breath through the silence. “That is exquisite in its gracefully simple lines, it is no wonder you like it, but my dearest RO, could you lift and pour from a pitcher made of crystal and filled with your lemonade?”

RO strokes his cheek fondly “well, darling, if it’s too heavy for me, then you will pour for me won’t you?”

Counselor smiles up at her “I would walk to hell and back for you my dearest,” he says. “Yes! I will pour for you, and I will pour making certain each guests has a clear view of your exquisite pitcher and they will be as envious of your birthday gift as they already are of your luscious lemonade.” Hearts soften in the circle seeing the unabashed affection shared between the couple, and each silently pledges to love their mate with more genuine warmth and good humor.

“I must see the drawing” Hester says rising from her chair to step behind Counselor and peer over his shoulder. She is soon ed by others who also do not speak but smile in silent wonder.

“ it around so all of us can see” demands a sitter.

“No way is that happening!” RO replies. “It’s drawn in charcoal and chalk. If someone blurs even one line or shadow I will have their head on a platter.” She grins cheekily, “just like Salomé. I’ll bring the drawing around so everyone can see.”

As RO steps away, Counselor rises from his chair and walks to the counter. He leans across to whisper: “What you have created with charcoal and chalk on paper is not only functional, it is art. Although the piece is utilitarian, your work will command the price of art. When you have completed this piece, you will make my RO’s birthday gift. I will set your expectations by paying you the price of art for both pieces. Thereafter, I will teach and coach you so that all of your glasswork is sold for the value of art.”

The woman stares at him openmouthed. Fatherly now, he pats her arm, “The next thing you make for RO will be even more priceless,” he breathes, “It’s a thing she’s wanted a long time and could not find. It will be a one of a kind.” His eyes follow RO with an adoring light, then turn back to the silent woman to add,

“RO had no way before today to have her vision made manifest. You can do that, and as God is my witness you will be paid its worth. Even if I have to work another decade to keep my word to you.” He grins and pats her hand, “It is already done.” As Counselor returns to his chair, Smithy hears the woman pull another sheet of paper from his role and smiles a heartfelt smile. Whoda thunk I’d probably have a profitable glass forge instead of a make-ends- meet metal forge? The wonders of the Lord are boundless.

Return of the Dragon Rider

In the midst of the milling circle of friends, the orator plops unceremoniously to the floor from which he was swept puffing mighty bellows of air into and out of his lungs.

“That was quite a ride you took there, fellow.” Ben comments, “For a while I thought you’d fall plumb off that dragon and be lost in space forever. Catch your breath and tell us about your ride.” Eagerly the milling group returns to their chairs and settles in again, expectant eyes fixed on the returned rider.

“Well, sirs and ladies; that was indeed a unique experience and one I fondly hope never to again have.”

“Was it bad?” the cocoa woman asks, concern gentle in her voice.

The orator studies the one he cruelly used and sees nothing but sincerity. He shakes his head smiling. “Only at first when I was hanging on for dear life and knew that dire dragon was doing all in its daunting power to unseat me and ditch me forever on some god forsaken planet. Which he did do, in fact.

“The first sunrise on that petite plain planet, the dragon chastised me right proper for abusing animals so callously. His words. I defended myself for I was the master’s horse trainer, many of his horses won championships, and brought extra income from stud fees. The master had an eye for spirit power in horses; that he did. I was an important part of his success. Well that dragon filled its lungs, I feared, to shoot flames at me and burn me to a carbon crisp. Instead, he just thundered at me. Have you any idea what a roaring dragon sounds like in deep space? My ears hurt just thinking about that bellowing voice. My heart pains me ing the lecture he delivered into my face at blow your hair back force and power. That daunting dragon demanded to know whether I had trained the master’s horses with equal insensitivity to the body, mind and hide of the animal or if I had somehow, simply forgotten how to be sensitive to other living creatures than horses. Singed my hair ends it did, gave me a dark leathery tan in seconds. The dragon demanded I say honest and true if the only thing that mattered to me was the way my training showed up in the obedient body and mind of the animal; and, well, it was.

If something else mattered to me, the dragon demanded that I name what it was, and why it counted for me. Well that got my back bowed up and I informed the brute beast I was one of the best horse trainers the South ever produced. Thought I was bragging that dragon did, demanded I prove it. That set me to thinking about some of the horses I’d trained and recollecting the ways I talked to a new horse while I fed, petted, ired, exercised, groomed and curried it. I’d tell the horse all the amazing and lovely things I saw in it, and when they were preening and proud and eager, I’d set them to a run or another task to test and prove the speed, grace and pace. I did the same with the dragon as I talked, and soon enough all its scales were unruffled. I threw an arm over the dragons back while I told of doing the same to a horse to let the animal experience and practice the new and strange in a safe way. I scratched it soft where muscles connect, palming over the smooth shining hide and the long muscle of the legs; and just when I thought the dragon and me were bonding, real snotty like, that demon dragon demands to know how I can make such claims having torn a dozen of his finest scales from his back and shoulders. When he let me on his back again I did see not one damaged or dislocated scale on the bitter beast. He’d made his point though. And I proved mine or I’d not have been allowed on his back. Fine

beast that one is, scales the color of morning sunshine and moss in a deep clear pond, with eyes of red and gold. What they say about dragons spitting fire from their mouths, I never saw that, though his eyes spit fire that burned through my heart and down into the roots of my soul. Made me weep. When the dragon saw my tears it gentled a bit and demanded I tell how I could tame horses to reins, saddle and rider, yet could not ride a dragon without ruining its fine precious scales.

“Well you don’t have a saddle, or reins that I can see,” I snapped back defensive and just as snotty.

“Oh like you’d have noticed anything but yourself?” the dragon snarled. That took me plum aback. I was speechless for the first time in my life. “How?” the beast demanded again, so I told him everything I did with a horse before I ever lay a blanket on its back as gentle and tender as a mother covering a sleeping babe, all the while doing the same with the dragon, whose heart is touched, I can tell. Now I know that dragons have hearts just like every other living breathing thing on God’s green Earth, and on other every living planet and star beyond it too. It all made me smile, but that wee planet was as cold as hell is hot and my cheeks was plumb froze to ice. So I talked to the dragon warm and gentle and sweet just like I did the master’s horses I trained to ride and race. That dragon took pity on me and puffed up his chest and cheeks, and I thought I was about to be scorched as hard and brittle as a lump of coal. Instead, that gold and emerald being puffed damp warm-hot air down on me and my wee planet until rain fell and grass sprouted and bushes and trees full with fruit hanging ripe and heavy on its branches, and rivers sang and splashed and played in an atmosphere much like other planets close to the sun, all warm and balmy it was.

But not a hint of game anywhere on that whole new Earth. Well, folks, I do like the taste and chew of meat so I complained to that dragon that evening. When he came back the next day, and every day thereafter, the dear dragon brought fresh meat of small birds and game, gutted clean as a whistle, and that marvelous monster carried them in its great mouth where they baked and broiled to

succulent perfection in its juices. Thought I might like to stay there, but the dragon had other plans. I slept on that small paradise for seven nights, and every sunrise the dragon came to set me on an errand for the day and to prove it, I was to bring a token. Each sunset the dragon came for dinner and a chat.

“You weren’t gone more than 20 minutes,” Ben protests suspiciously.

“True as that may be, sir,” the teller grins, “still I spent seven mornings and evenings on that island.”

The room silently puzzles the teller’s tale against Ben’s fine point of time. “You seem to know a bit about the first Book of the Bible,” Ben allows. “Tell your tale. There’s a storyteller in you, and maybe you don’t know that yet.” All eyes return to the tale teller.

“Where was I? Oh yes, my first day with, or actually without, the dragon. We had a nice brunch, fruit, berries, tubers with grains and herbs, and we talked friendly like. Then without so much as an if you please, that brute beast grabbed me up in its claws and flew me up and away, dropping me in a small round boat without sail, mast, oars, or rudder, in the midst of an ocean with no horizon and only a hazy half-light to see by. Of course there was nothing to see, that being the first day of creation. At sundown the dragon came with food, and asked me to tell about my first day and what I’d learned, so I told him about the boat, which bored him angry, he seemed to think I was a complaining ingrate.”

“Imagine!” The woman says politely.

He gives her a narrow look and returns to his tale. “I told of my day, not

mentioning the feather; and there was little to tell without the boat and the endless sea in the tale.” The teller grins impish, “So I’m making up stuff that might have happened but didn’t, to fill up the hours from sunup to sunset, and all the while not mentioning the feather. The only interesting thing that did happen. At that moment the feather poked me in the head in protest for being ignored, or worse, forgotten.” He laughs ing the squirming impatience of the dragon over the forgotten feather.

“Unfortunately, I still don’t know when to leave well enough alone,” he can’t suppress a giggle. “I baited the dragon until it wanted to bite my head off but there was the feather flashing fascinating contraries in delightful designs and he didn’t want to damage the feather. He wanted it as his token of the day, and he wanted my experience of it. He didn’t want to bloody it and gross it out.

“I live and breathe solely for the reason that I am to strongly warn everyone I meet against ever baiting a dragon.” He shudders a shivering snigger ing that he got away with not giving a token to the dragon and lived to tell the tale of seven sunrises and sunsets with the dragon. “As you know, on the first day, the Creator separated heaven from the earth and divided light from dark. Source made duality that day. That’s it! And he saw it was good because without opposites things don’t show up in physical form. All creation was ideated that first day, including that wee boat without oars, sails, or rudder where I found myself adrift on a sea without horizon in an infinite silence that echoed and reverberated with no sound at all. Silence whispers into the omnipresent ear of infinity and the dragon nowhere in sight. Though calm, I had a hazy foreboding of a forgotten mission needing completion by sundown and the niggling notion of a token I am to give the dragon at sunset. Since I had nowhere to go and no way to get there, I set myself to grasping the Divine Idea behind dividing light from dark and the essential duality of energy inhabiting physical form. The very idea of life in form invokes duality into creation inspired by the idea. That must be the lesson the master dragon wants me to take from his already stupid game of days.

“As I ponder alone and adrift it occurs to me that duality is essential to the physical world but isn’t to the Infinite. The infinite has polarity, but not duality. But what’s the dragon token if duality is the message of the day? I ask myself and fall into deep thought so focused I don’t see the feather dancing, spinning and weaving about and above me and my boat, one half black, one half white each with a dot of the other, one at the top, one at the tip. As the apparently white feather danced and twirled it caught the light of day and the dark of night spinning and swirling the opposites into endlessly shaping possibilities of form, design and delight. The dragon token, I think. At my thought the feather shrank away, a ghostly ghastly ghoul howl of black horror and fright white. I couldn’t help myself, I laughed out loud, and that flustered the flighty feather whose India ink black feathered part bled into the white of its pattern.”

“Well then,” I said to the fuzzy feather, “I see you have costumes to fit your mood. You change the pattern with your mood. I’m curious, what do you wear

when you decide that you are a simply precious one of a kind creation, you love that, and you think it is perfectly true and suits you just right? If I could have been in any one of a dozen different universes to see and experience thousands of new and wondrous things, I’d trade them all for watching that feather fluff her stuff in crisp quick mosaics of black and white. ‘Oh my!’ Is all I can say and she is suddenly shy. “You are the most brilliant thing I have ever seen.” I’m thinking I’d found the perfect dragon token and I say: “The dragon will love you and prize you as a fluid flawless emblem of the first day of creation when God separated light from darkness. You are light and darkness in molten motion, a worthy token for the dragon on the first day of re-creation.”

“It’s all about you isn’t it?” The feather sniffs turning away and showing mostly her dark side.

“You too,” I retort. You are a feather after all. Nothing more than that either if no one ever sees you to appreciate you and your magnificent mutable manifestation.”

The feather flutters into other possibilities, then poses pleasantly “where do you suppose your dragon pal might wear me? And do you think he will let me find my own place to ride his hide?”

“I think the dragon will let you find your own proud place so long as you make him look good at the same time. This dragon would wear you proud and display you as art. Dragons live forever you know. It is good to have a way to be your most amazing self, and a forever place to show yourself proud.” Well, that about settled it for the feather drifted down and corkscrewed itself into a curl of my hair. Yeah, I know my hair has no curl, but then it did, and I’m telling you what happened, nothing more.

At sundown that day the dragon came and we had tea and talked of the day. All the while the dragon is studying the feather in my hair more than listening to me, so I commenced making up words and talking like I had something to say until the dragon caught my eye, raised a brow, and says “You are talking stuff and nonsense; and it offends me deeply that you think I won’t notice.” He sniffs his snit and thunders “What did you learn today, and where’s my token? In that order, if you please.”

“On the first day of creation, God called for light and saw that it was good, then God separated the light from the darkness covering the surface of the deep and called the light day and the darkness night. It occurs to me that Spirit, first cause is without form and is forever integrally whole and therefore must have little functional awareness of being in a separate habitation the way a human has a sense of being in a physical body. Spirit just is. That is enough.

Except it’s not. There is no experience in beingness, it just is. People need things to do, goals to achieve, things they can do to make the world a better place. They need understanding and will to deny habitual responses so better experiences show up in life. That’s why Spirit created a shadow self that is capable of facing the polarity arising from inhabiting a mind with a conscious awareness of self that is separate from everything ‘out there.’ Everything is intrinsically at-One with Spirit, but man has ego mind that’s wholly convinced that it is and forever will be, separate from everything else, including The One That Is.

“My dear dragon, the feather is the token of the day. And, she wants to find her own place to adorn your great scaly physique. Are you okay with that?” I demand letting on I wouldn’t give it to him if not. It was a dumbfounded dragon that heard those words. The small skull beast could not comprehend a thing, anything, wanting to make it beautiful. Dragons may be magical and wise, but they are not smart. Well, finally, after a flighty flirtation by the flying feather, the dragon succumbed and let the feather find its place and enthusiastically welcomed it aboard when she suggested she perch on the ridge above its third eye and swing down before his great eye to show him all the options and both

sides of decisions. I will make you known as the Wise One among dragon kind for you alone shall see what I show to inspire wisdom and understanding in every decision, choice and change that comes. And,” she hisses “the one before you will see only a white fluttering feather, you cynical skeptical serpent.”

The dragon apologizes profusely until the feather appears appeased and takes its place, then popped a few sharp poses, cocked me a brow and asks “How do I look?”

“Well, folks, sore tempted I was but I didn’t grin or laugh. I wrestled both grin and giggle into a sincere face with a mouth saying in earnest awe: “you look magnificent!” The posing dragon freezes, cocks me a brow over a blasé eye and snaps “I always look magnificent. How do I look with the fabulous feather?”

“Even finer than before, and I thought that would be impossible,” I said with a sincere straight face.

“Don’t make that mistake again,” the dragon drones dreadful, and I obey then and forevermore. The short story is that the dragon got his feather for a token and decided to be simply delighted at the idea of the feather choosing its place of adorning, beautifying and flattering, yes, he liked all of that, such a powerful and provocative serpent. Thus day one ended in peace and happiness.

“The dragon returns the second sunrise and after breakfast, sets the day’s task for me, which is to understand and apply the Truth of what God did on the second day of creation, why God did that, and tell how that applies to me and my life, and, oh yes, bring back a token of my day’s enlightenment. Then that sinister scaly serpent caught me up in its claws to fly far and fling me into the free floating coracle on the formless sea midway between never and forever. On the second day of creation, God separated water from water and set an expanse,

between the water above and that below, and he called the low expanse water, and the firmament he called heaven. I could tell the water under my boat was liquid because my boat floated on it and it made my hand wet. I knew the water above was atmosphere, air, because I could breathe it. That got me to thinking that the water below represents the expressed capabilities of the subconscious mind which cannot think, but can ideate. So, the subconscious mind needs the conscious mind to decide on the idea and then to will and declare the word of it, thereby directing the idea to the subconscious where it can evolve and be made manifest. Something like the dragon marinating meat in its maw until it is cooked perfectly for eating.

So there I was the afternoon of day two with the idea and with no clue of a dragon token. I let that puzzle stew in my mind just like the first day while I had a wee nap in the boat and dreamed that a single drop of water coalesced from the sky above and fell into my boat at my feet. I sat there looking down at that drop of water and I saw an ocean in the drop. It surprised and delighted me and I spent a small eternity lost and contentedly adrift in that ocean in a drop.

“Until that danged dingbat bird came cross and cussing about some feather she lost the day before. Real calm like I ask the bird to describe her lost feather thinking it’s a white feather because every feather on her body is white. Sure enough that dull bird said it was a white feather just like her other ones. I know she lies, but play along to see where she’d lead. I told her true and sincere that I had not seen a white feather before she arrived brilliantly full feathered with the ones she sought after. I said that if she was missing a feather I certainly couldn’t tell because she looked perfect and perfectly handsome to me. Well that set her to preening, but I could tell something wasn’t right with the bird and it wasn’t physical, she was lying sure and clear. Why though? I decided to play her out and ask her to describe the missing feather in detail; and, as a kindness to me, to tell me why she would even want a missing feather back since she was perfectly, stunningly beautiful just as she stood. One more feather, I said, is redundant, it would spoil her peerless perfection. She pouted anyway, silly bird. I ask her again to describe the missing feather so I could tell the dragon about it and to tell why she wanted that feather so much. Which she did do, in dreary detail, not saying a thing about anything but a white feather.

“I was really wary now. Enough that I forgot all about the dragon’s daily token and pulled my newly narrowed eyes from the gift potential of an ocean in the drop to the cawing bird flying stationary above me. “First, you must describe the feather to me in detail, and then explain to me why you are being so simply rude to me who never did you one single harm in all the moments you have known me! Well I may as well have hit the bird upside the head with a two by four for she commenced gasping, flapping and squeaky cawing screeching until she plumb run out of wind and fell like a boulder into my wee boat squashing the ocean in a drop, the way eons of heat and weight and time will do to a diamond. That transformation of substance was hot enough to blast the bird off and into the sky with such force the hot rock dropped from her thigh and into the ocean sinking into the infinite blue.

My dragon token of the day was gone, beyond reach and recovery. Dragons don’t forget. And they have no functional grasp of linear time. When the dragon came at sunset, he met the mean bird and heard her criticism. The wise wyvern cocked brow, set a cold gold eye on her, and asked why one missing plume was so important to her she’d beard a dragon in its den for a solution.

The wise wyvern knew she’d lie. And if not lie, she’d at least not tell the truth, nor even drop a hint she knew the changeable nature of her feather.

“The… , the feather is… , um, white, all white.” The white bird titters nervous and shakes a wingtip at the feather suspended over dragon’s third eye. “Like the one in the middle of your head,” she tries not to snap her beak but snap it does.

Dragon eyes up at feather, gives it a private grin and thought whispers good job!, then turns his wicked eye and a grim grin on the fat foul saying with a sad shake of his head “I’m afraid I can’t help you, I have seen no pure white feather such as the one you describe.

“There’s one on your head, you doltish dragon!” the hot hen retorts, losing her mind and jeopardizing her head in the bargain.

Dragon’s eyes narrow and he purrs his in a way that sounds scarily like hissing “why do you want my feather which you sorely abused by dumping your dark angry thoughts and feelings into this one tiny little feather; and now you say you want it back? So you can abuse it more than before?”

The bird blinks owlishly three times in a futile attempt to process what the dragon said and the effect of it. It doesn’t compute. “Oh!” she flaps wings in exasperation, “you don’t get it do you, you myopic monster. What you see as abuse was me honoring her among all my feathers by preparing her to live well and prosper in the physical world where she will go, but I will not. Have you any idea how long it takes pure-as-the-driven-snow me to gather enough negative energy to make even one small dot of black on a feather? Oh, that won’t have occurred to you will it, a wee small head on a gigantic body can’t hold much brain can it?” The bird is teetering on the edge of insanity lost in the story behind her tightly coiled anger and the giddy power of finally having a place and an occasion to say it.

Sounding miffed the dragon snaps back “there’s no need to be cruel or to say offensive things about someone you never met before.” Leaning an elbow on a knee the dragon rests his chin in a paw and invites, “So tell me, why you went to such effort to collect dark energy? What will you do with it?”

“Easy for you to ask, you have enough darkness in your small claw to create massive black holes housing dozens of eternities.” She peeps at the dragon whose jaw still rests in a paw, his maw set in an amused but patient smile, waiting for a reason, watching her feather flash mostly black into its third eye, and the bird takes another tack: confession. “The truth, you see,” she says, “That

one feather of all my brood has a dream of living on a place called earth that she says God will create on the fifth day but I’m just a mother so I don’t know these things. My fine feather wants to be a bird God will create that day to fly above the earth and to sing joy songs every morning and evening.

“Well that’s a noble cause,” the dragon notes, “perhaps I can help.”

“Help? You? How?”

“You can have some of my darkness. As you said, I’ve more than enough for one infinite dragon lifetime to feed your, oh wait, it’s my feather. My forward looking feather that already has enough darkness to live long and prosper on the earth that God will make. What’s an earth, does anyone know?”

“Read Genesis. You’ll get the whole story there.” The bad bird barks.

“Acting superior always makes me cross;” the dragon hisses, “and I’m already annoyed enough with you for abusing your feather, to broil you whole and eat you for dinner.” The white bird goes a ghostly shade of pale and shivers in her pins as the dragon lounges into a more comfortable position and orders: “Tell me about this Genesis story, especially the fifth day of it, and I will forget that you were mean to me.”

The bird swallows hard. Three times, to finally get what she really wants to say back down her craw. She takes a deep breath, hits the high points of the first four days of creation, then tells the riveted wyvern about the Great One creating hoofed, clawed, and winged things on the fifth day, the day her feather would fall to earth to be a bird. Sighing a satisfied smile she ends her tale in rare peace

and silence.

“The dragon’s eyes narrow in thought. The dim bulb bird thinks it’s all about her like she’s the center of the universe and all in it so the narrow eyes must signal anger with her. The bird shivers simple silliness. The dragon rumbles: “Why don’t you be bird that goes to earth on the fifth day of creation?”

The dumbfounded bird needs a moment to process that she’s not on the dragon menu before she can process the idea the dragon presented. “Me?” she peeps, “Me go to earth as a bird?”

“Why not you? If not you, then who?”

“Oh. Well then, what sort of bird would I be?”

“A patio pigeon?” offers the dragon dryly.

“What’s a patio?”

“I propose you become a parrot” I interrupt before the dragon can answer the patio question.

“What’s a parrot?” the bird asks squinting in an effort to imagine one.

“I smile, I can’t help it. I reply: “Parrots are magnificent birds with feathers in any color you can imagine and long bright plumes on its wings, tail, and head.” Seeing her uncertainty I add: “It’s better than being insipid snoozing snow white like you are now.”

“I’m a beautiful white!” she protests petulant.

“Until the dragon puffs hotly “who put all her own darkness into this one small feather!” He inhales to cool down and adds sweetly to the bird, “If you’d kept it all yourself you’d already be a fine pigeon!”

“Don’t ask,” I order the pigeon, “you don’t want to know.” I assure before she puts a foot in the dragon’s mouth. Her bird brain processes the sight of a mostly grey bird with bits and starts of black and white. She discards the image and the impetuous idea of perplexing a petulant dragon. That ended that.

The dragon took the white bird as his token for the second day naming her his assistant in mother his feather, and practicing its duality wisdom in preparing for the fifth day of creation and her debut on earth. The day ended well, but the petulant parrot wannabe would do naught but cluck over the trials of tending a feather she couldn’t reach without being perilously proximate to a dragon’s maw.

“On the third morning the dragon came with broiled game and we had our breakfast feast with fruit and grains I’d gathered the evening before and when we’d had our fill, the dragon asked me to tell about the third day of creation, so I told about the Divine One dividing water from dry land and causing earth to produce seed bearing plants and trees each seed according to its kind. The dragon nods agreeably, then clutches me in its claws and wings me back to that coracle adrift on a sea now separate from land and drops me there. That fine boat charts its course and soon lands me on a beach where honeymooners will one

day go to begin their together lives in idyllic bliss and beauty. Before I set foot on the beach I knew that green is God’s favorite color because every bush, tree, herb and fern were alive with greens of every shade and hue. Seeds are the third day gift of creation and the dragon’s third day token.

“The abundance and variety of seed bearing things stopped me stunned. How do I know and learn the seed for each seeding thing? Some are in pods, easy enough. Some in tassels of grasses, some cloaked in plump fine fruit, some nested deep in the earth among the roots of that green seeding thing? How do I collect and carry them? As thought staged this way, a woman gowned in green rises effortlessly and steps from a moss lined pool to move on a scented breeze to where I stand. She smiles and confides, “You ask the plant to reveal itself and all its power and vitality to you in a way that you will clearly know and the truth that each plant willingly teaches when you hear and speak its unique language of love. Do not be concerned over how you, in your puny mortal mind, will all the Wisdom I teach you. For the way I teach is by entering into willing oneness with you and you with me so that all my wisdom is already your wisdom. Your training is only, and vitally, to guide you in finding and loving the relationships of your life, to help you again with the truth of why you chose those interactions this time in which you live and the problems you came to find and heal in your walk of life on earth. Look around you, choose a plant that appeals to you, first with your eyes to see its shape and drape and the quality of its colors and the way it catches sunlight and rainwater, what it smells like when you’re close and when you are far. When you are surely in love with the plant and honor its gifts and values, only then ask about her seed. When you love and value her seed much as she does, she will gift you with her seed. As is true with first love, in an abiding way, it is always first and for forever even though you will love another one plant and her seed, and then another. Each love is always first and forever for a plant and its seeds. You will easily and quickly collect the seeds you need for the dragons cache. Plants have short memories, lots of abundance consciousness, and an excess of love. Each mother will give you the perfect carrying pouch for her finest seed. All you do is ask and receive with gratitude.

“I gave praise to every seed and root, and to the mother plant that gave it

because the third day gift was one any man in his right mind would receive with humble and effusive gratitude from his sister wife on their marriage day. And so, the dragon token for the third day of creation was prepared, packaged and given by earth mother herself. When the dragon received and then explored his third day token he was squirmy pleased as a puppy being praised and given treats. When he left as the sun sank sanguine into the sea, I imagined that acquisitive dragon would spend his time visiting and seeding distant planets with his fabulous mother gift. The tale teller smiles reliving the sunset and imagining the dragon creating and attentively seeding lover’s beaches with scented sensuous scenery and delighting in gratitude for the judiciously generous Earth Mother.

Into the celebrating silence the young dancer softly says with an infectious giggle “I saw the dragon seeding the beaches, and raising and planting mountains to gather and share life water with the Eden gardens he imagines and makes real.” She adds with a shy girl grin “I spent time on one dragon beach, and a cabana boy brought me a lounge chair and fruit drinks whenever my glass was empty. I want to spend time on another dragon seeded island with maybe the same cabana boy.”

“Daughter!” Counselor cautions, “you do understand your mother and I will go with you do you not?”

“Me too!” Says elder sister rushing to gush with her giggling sister, “but I want my own cabana boy.”

“Daughter! Counselor restates to the elder dancer daughter. “Why did we have children, RO? Remind me again for I have forgotten and cannot name even one persuasive reason to have…”

“Don’t say it father.” The girls command in unison each clapping a hand over his

mouth. “You mustn’t say the words you were thinking, even in exasperation with us for imagining something wholly new and pampering, I haven’t been pampered properly since I was a baby, daddy.” Now she grins wicked, “In addition, you’d have to buy the tickets anyway.”

Counselor chortles daughter delight and notes “The power of the purse, I still hold that… , for now.”

“We love your generosity, Dad, we delight in the ways you please yourself by pleasing us, after mother, of course!” They roll their eyes, smiling all the while. “We wouldn’t trade you for any other dad.” The girls lean down to plant a kiss on each cheek. “Look, he blushes, that is so cute.” Giggles one, then the other, enticing everyone in the circle to the fun, even Counselor. Returning to their seats a dancer prompts the tale teller, “Day four… , hit it.”

Grinning, the orator returns to his tale, “On the fourth day of creation God formed the greater gold orb and the lesser silver one and placed them in the sky along with all the firmament of stars, and then God divided light from darkness. He did that so he had a place to put the sun and its bright light, and a space to put the moon whose silver light reflects the sun’s spiritual light into the night here, where humans abide, where the ghosts and goblins of our fear come in, and out, to play. See, the great gold orb of the sun is a symbol of spiritual light. Mother moon represents personal human intelligence, the intellect of man that can only reflect the light of the sun, or the son, either word and meaning works. The silver moon most intimately discloses Truth to mortals in our darkest hour, for only there, can the bright light and truth of Spirit be safely revealed to man.

“The star represents the first awakening of man when he apprehends and expresses the wisdom and power of the indwelling Christ Spirit. Just as the morning star heralds the light of the rising sun, so does the star of the mind first reveal the way to the wisdom and glory indwelling the son of man son of God. I got silver a star for mastering that fourth day lesson, it was dropped into my boat

when the evening star first appeared, and that would be the dragon token for the fourth day of creation. That dear daft trivial dragon was by then so ornamented with bling things, feathers and trailing plants, that he went into a wardrobe tizzy just to deciding where to sport the star token. That great goofy wyvern was beginning to look disturbingly like a boy scout wearing all his merit badges.

“The dragon returned at sunrise on the fifth day wearing all his tokens (except that batty bird, which I sincerely hoped he’d basted and we ate, but I dared not say so) and when our repast was done he set me to my task for the day, and, as unceremoniously as ever, dropped me with a plop into my wee coracle that promptly spun about and headed for a distant speck of land so tiny I wasn’t sure it was land at all, but maybe a mirage you see over water, or ghost dancing over land so flat you can see the curvature of the earth.

“Well on the fifth day of creation the Creator made the water teem with living creatures and created birds of every feather to sky wing and sing the sky and the trees and to my absolute delight my coracle delivered me with a soft thump and slide high up on a beach while I was caught up in a wave raised by a giant dolphin that caught me when I fell overboard and dove me deep in its fins breathing water as easy as it breathed air above the waves.

“Me? I was in utter that grew apace with each fathom the dolphin until we reached the deep floor of the ocean where the dolphin dropped me to walk about with the same ease as walking on land and breathing air, and not water. The ocean is a rich fertile place teeming with food of the sea that lives in a circle of life knowing that the one who eats is at one with what is eaten and what is eaten is assimilated and eliminated as the ideal food for another thing living in the sea. Assuming I needed a picture, Sea Mother spun her wheel of life showing a moving picture of one of the wondrous ways Sea Mother lives and thrives on manifesting abundance. It probably helps that Sea Mother can just as easily raise hard harsh energies that roil through and above her waters while she clears away a clutter of overly exuberant life forces accosting Earth Mother, and wresting from her what she willingly, and must, give freely and of her own accord.

“Mother knows man who cannot receive cannot give and is destined to take, and in some measure, to take by force and with anger. Guiding man through polarized dualities of the physical plane reveals the symbiotic balance of the Divine Law of polarity. It is a ion purpose of Sea Mother. More than anything she wants to teach the high heart art and key of receiving generously from a heart teeming confidence and forever full with delight. She wishes more ionately than anything, for man to find within himself in abiding consciousness of abundance knowing beyond doubt that all giving and receiving is meant to be equally sweet and joyful.

“It was Sea Mother who introduced me to the dragon’s token for the fifth day of creation when she dropped me into a crab hole where I not only got my toes snapped but also found a hermit crab in my hand, looking up at me with round blue eyes (I didn’t know they had blue eyes), like it knew me, like it knew I was the one meant to receive and to deliver its message. Before I could get proud for being a chosen one, the suddenly not-so-retiring crab informed me I was its delivery boy, not its messenger. Let me just tell you now, you can’t out-crab a crab. After a mini eternity with the contrary crab I finally got it! My job, the hermit persuaded me, the one and only thing I was to do, was to take the confounding cross crab to the doubting dubious dragon and give it as my dragon token for the fifth day of creation.

“Faced with no alternatives, I opened a vest pocket invitingly and held it for the retiring one until it tucked itself securely in a pocket corner at the very instant I was whisked up and out of the water, into the coracle and slapped into a seat just as the boat rotated ninety degrees and zipped away toward a wee speck against a pulsating sunset with light rays shot like a great golden fan across the horizon.

“Much to my surprise the dragon was not pleased with my daily token and bellowed full blow at me: Were am I to suppose put another fine ornament on my already exquisitely jewel encrusted, feathered and vined body? The dragon leaned down eyes are level with mine and hissed: Did you ever think about me?

About how time consuming it is to deal with all these gewgaws and gems you bring every blessed day of creation?

“Well, ladies and gents, you will be proud to know I kept a straight face, biting the inside of my cheeks bloody so they couldn’t move to betray me. I kept my eyes down like I was well chastised so he wouldn’t see my mirth. I was doing fine until my chest began to heave with the force of repressed laughter. The dragon asked: “Are you crying?” duly anxious and unsettled. That did it, I giggled, chortled, cawed and I croaked my glee so he could not see. He did see. And hear. He was not amused. Demanded that I explain myself, which is a very demanding role even for an experienced actor such as myself.”

He catches and returns grins around the circle, then, with a palm up shrug, he adds: “I told the dubious dragon exactly what I thought of its consciousness. I intimidated the daunting dragon.

“It is unlikely that anyone ever had the temerity to grab the dragon by the whiskers, look him in the eye, and demand his gaze and attention. What if,” I snarl soft, “you did everything you did with a keen sense of how it might affect people and trees and crops and streams around you when you did it?

“One day they’ll call a space of a consciousness like yours a slash and burn or ground zero, and survivors will report the number of deaths that occurred there.

“You, my dragon pal, are not here to create a ground zero. You need a shift in perspective. What if you stop being controlling and let the token of the day choose where it would like to lodge in your commodious hide?

“Let me tell you what’s in it for you, witless wyvern. That will help you decide that you do want to let the hermit crab choose its own place to hide. Hermit crabs like not being seen. You have no room to display a hermit crab properly.” The dragon is dubious so I add the piece d’resistance, “They eat fleas.”

“Crabs live on sand, what fleas… ?”

“Sand fleas.” I snap, “Hermit crabs love them. Dragon fleas are probably not that much evolved over sand fleas, although you totally deserve bigger, hungrier, and meaner fleas than other creatures. Now shut up and watch.” I hold the hermit crab on my palm moving it close to the dragon’s chest, slowing as it moves to my fingertips. When they’re level with the dragon’s heart the sand crab jumps off to wiggle and tickle below a dragon scale over its heart where it finds a momentary fill of its favorite fulsome fat fleas. The dragon purrs like a kitten evidently approving his choice to let the shy crab pick and choose the then current site of its Movable Feast.

“I love this crab,” the dragon declares, “It’s the best gift you have yet chosen and given to me.”

“What if you offered the same comion to yourself? What might change if you could say with equal sincerity that you love yourself? How would those changes show up in your world? The dim dragon didn’t get it so I shouted at him like a very disappointed dragon rider and I might never again ride a dim bulb beast that couldn’t stop navel gazing long enough to connect some dots that go beyond his belly and crusty hide.

“I demanded to know why a real dragon never applied the power of Imagination, or the gifts of the Divine Feminine to see, share, invite and inspire her evolving vision into the Divine Masculine. How else do you expect to excite your

masculine aspects and choose and will to evolve and give birth to one loved and inspired new outcome?

“The light still doesn’t come on in the dragons loft so I say preacher like, “It is a simple choice. Would you prefer being an uncommitted, know-nothing toothless dragon, or a dragon who has and does choose and serve its rider at the need?”

The dragon blinks a long silent while then says “I never thought of it that way. So how does this work, who teaches who what?”

I frown fierce and fiery “We teach each other and we do it spontaneously and respectfully, or it doesn’t happen. You can go back to whatever pit you hole up in, just take me home first.”

The dragon leers a grin “where’s home?” He frowns, “Why do you want to leave before sunset the last day of creation? It’s all the time we have to master ways to ride the wind as one being in two bodies.

“Home is here the heart is, I guess. If I ask you to be my wing-man do you know what I mean?”

“That I am your eyes, ears, and senses for what you cannot see, that I guide guard and protector when we go where you cannot safely go without me. Do you know what it means to be a dragon rider?”

“That I am your eyes, ears and senses for what you cannot see, that I go where

you cannot go, and that I do for us all the things I can do but you cannot do. And, I do not live with you.

“Deal,” the dragon slaps his hand on a rock narrowly missing the sand crab, “oh there you are my little hungry one. I didn’t mean to scare you, I didn’t know you’d jumped off me, here let me give you a lift, show me where you want to stop and burrow awhile.” When the crab is settled in, the dragon yawns and stretches, “I and the little one will be off for the night, sleep well, we’ll see you at dawns early light.

“At dawn the dragon returned and after we ate and chatted, the dragon sidles up to a boulder, settles itself, and tells me to climb up on the rock, which I do. I’m standing high enough to step over and onto its massive shoulders where the wings connect. I see my boots are new, soft leather soles and uppers to my knees. I hoped the dragon would let me keep those fine boots I’m still wearing my butler’s shoes. Disappointing. Where do I step aboard?” I ask the dragon.

“Watch,” the dragon replies commencing to raise and lower the elbows of its wings until I see the foot sized spots hollow on either side of its spine. The dragon looks at me with a full scale grin – disturbing – and invites me aboard. I step on and get the feet feel of his muscles as he raises and lowers wings, and rotates his head. Without him telling me to I drop my hips and ride his moves on my thighs like a jockey crouching in the saddle to ride balanced over the stride of the beast.

“The dragon steps away from the rock so I can feel and ride the muscles that move him over land. When that great beast began to raise, lower, tip and tilt its wings like it was flying I whooped a glee giggle. The dragon ran, flapped its wings and leapt into the air, waggled its cheeks to raise his black whiskers and slap them into my hands. Soon we were at cruising speed. I thought that. Until the dragon told me a true dragon rider would use his feet to guide the dragon to what he wanted and where he wanted to go.

“Oh,” I say and gently heel my right foot into the right wing control , leaning right, lifting the right rein and, as the winged wonder raises into the sky. Curving my right shoulder back and up, I suck rarified air into my lungs, let out a whoop of wonder and joy, and in that instant the dragon s me. I could feel the rumble of his laughter through the soles of my shoes.

“On the morning of the sixth day I got see my options for the day, and I heart chose the precise place where the big butt bird shaped a diamond and dropped it into the sea. My feet told the dragon where I’d go, and when we arrived, the beast shrugged me off its back and I fell headlong into the sea where a laughing dolphin caught me on its back, turned a wise eye on me, and plunged us into the depths below clicking, clattering and chattering me into a calm state of wondrous wonder at the bounty and teeming beauty of Mother Earth in her role of Water Keeper.

“I thank Water Keeper for letting me breathe liquid air and for the wise guiding company of her dolphin through my fathom fall through extravagant abundance of color, shape, form, and motion. The dolphin took me into a cavern shaped like an open clamshell. In the distant depths of the grotto a pearl glowed. Except it wasn’t a pearl. It an open mouthed clam that held a pearl glowing from its core with iridescent light.

“Before that moment my hand never wanted a thing but my palms ached to cup that pearl inside them. I raised my eyes from the pearl to the eyes of the clam, old, wise eyes that spoke to me in feelings and thoughts reading me through and through. Why this pearl? Why you? Mother Clam posed and for a time I knew no answer. She knew it. She swept me up into her eyes so I could see me clear from her mind. Disturbing. And just the disturbance I needed for forever and a day, for I always thought of myself as not measuring up, not being enough, always lacking, always a day late and a dollar short.

“The man I thought I was had no right to touch this Pearl of Great Price and know the true value of it. Humbling. The son of man must follow the path of the Son of man and meet the death of all he holds dear to create a space where he loses his EGO and regains true Life. The man I’d become returned the gaze of Elder Mother Clam and asked what makes the pearl so brilliantly clear and iridescent?

“A diamond,” she sighs. “It fell into our sea the second day of creation, and I took it up and swallowed it. It didn’t suit me. Irritated me cruelly. I did what clams do against irritants, I sheathed it in nacre layer by layer day by day, every day of my long life.

“Uh – it’s the sixth day of creation – you ate the diamond no more than four days ago.” Her wise eyes are wise to me and do not appreciate what she sees. Even the dolphin turns away like he never knew me and had nothing to do with my being in The Grotto of the Clam Queen.

“That is assuming the seven days of creation are 24-hour days.” I add. Her eyes are withering. I whine like a punished pup. “Please, continue your tale, I see no less than a quantum of layers of luminous nacre on your pearl of great price.

“The clam leers a withering grin and probes “what will you pay to take my pearl?”

“I – I – I – have nothing,” I say turning my pockets inside out.

“What makes you believe that things can purchase a pearl of great price?” The Mother Clam drifts into Dreamtime where time does not matter, and I go there

too. There I learn the true worth and purpose of time lies in not putting linear limits on it. When I’d served my time and otherwise proved myself worthy of receiving, I told Mother clam that if she chose me, I would receive and deliver the pearl of great price to the dragon.

“Turns out Mother Clam knows the dragon and spewed the pearl into my hands in her dying breath. Humbling. I had my sixth day token for the dragon, all I had to do was get back to that far island where the dragon would meet me at sundown. The cheerfully devoted dolphin chattered a traveling chant, lifted me on its spine, and wave rode me back to my wee lush island to await the dragon and present my sixth day token.”

The Tale Teller bows his head in profound silence awhile, “The dragon didn’t come at sundown. I sat by my small fire in the solitary dark, dispirited, bewildered and bereft, now a Dragon Rider with purpose and no dragon transport to ride to its fulfillment. I rage and wail and moan, and in my angry tears I meet my father again yelling telling that I’d never amount to a damn, and that as lily livered as I am, I am no child of his; and I am small and powerless and alone again with my inadequacies. “What is the function of a dragon rider without a dragon to ride? I wail bereft into the eternal still silent empty void of who I think I am, and as I sit abandoned alone watching puddling stars. They lean close and sing to me.

Shawn Gallaway – Shining Star

As stars sing and I re-member. I forget who I think I am. I plumb forget, not a memory thread left. Maybe who I think I am simply doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe all my data points of self no longer connect into a scenario where I keep on being who I always was. Whatever the source, I had to start living like I want to be and express my true I AM. With stars listening close and playing a healing air, I’m thinking how I’d like to be, who I’d ire being, and why I’d ire being such a man.

“With no prelude at all, I am that man. I do ire him. On the Holy Instant of getting that functionally, I decide I will. If I am being given a chance to revision and reinvent who I think I am, I am taking it.

“At sunrise on the seventh day a spot crosses the face of the rising sun. With no data points to apply and nothing else to do, I wait to see what came of this odd sun spot. I see wings of the serpent emerge from the sun-shadow-spot, riding rising ray waves of light on its trajectory to me on my once again idyllic island. At the call of the dragon I respond, but not from my head. I leap on a nearby sunbeam, dance along it awhile, then quick step left to an adjacent ray and stride confidently from ray to ray until I meet the dragon in the heart of the sun on a new day of creation. We were One for the first time all over again. We speak of feats and deeds and dramas of the sundry paths and detours we see, choose, and walk in each and every One Holy Instant of time. The dragon asks “Who do you think you are?”

“I am breathless as a newborn and remain so until my body is bereft of air. The body itself must inhale to live and so I do. Over and again. That gave me a kick start of oxygen to ride on, and I choose wisely and responsibly now. I follow the Code of the Dragon Rider – which I somehow know by heart – to do with faultless faith in the One Source of All Life, everything that comes before me to do this day, even the acts and deeds that are preposterously beyond my ability. In authority of truth I know the answer and I reply with calm confidence. ‘I AM a

dragon rider. Your dragon rider. I came to change the world. I cannot do that without you because without you I cannot return to the world to be able to change it. Will you carry me back to the Feed and Grain?

“Sure thing.” The dragon agrees, “Seventh day breakfast first. I brought a special treat for you, you will be pleased. It’s something you cannot live without.” The dragon pulls from his mouth a splendid small crystal goblet without a stem that catches and arrays rays from the rising sun. Turning away, he pours liquid into the cup, turns back with a ‘Ta-da! Your favorite treat,’ and gives me the crystal chalice.

“I smile at the deep red richness of the wine and in gratitude, raise the cup to my lips already pursed for the first sip, and I gag, I retch, I puke, I spew, I hack and cough until my nose spouts like Spindletop before it was capped, until there is nothing liquid left in me. With seeping red eyes I take a gallant look at the piquant liquid and retch again until I cannot breathe and fall boneless to the sand. There I unleash and release all the tears of my life that I never cried before. I crawl to the surf wanting the odor washed away and there I collapse and heave more until I am gulping as much sea water as I’m spewing puke. Before I drown the watchful wyvern hooks a claw into the waist of my pants and drags me from the surf to sand still wet with my tears.

“When I can breathe again, I bawl and blubber over the EGO lies I believed and lived over my span of years. The agony of my sins of omission and commission and my obstinate fall from grace, my error thoughts and their outcomes, all are ghosts of the undead rising to dance with me while the dragon watches.

“When I recover and heal from boogying with my boogeyman bad guys, I lumber up, shake off the sand, and sit to talk with the dragon about the song of the stars and what I learned from it. After I confessed my sins, the serpent gave me the penance of practicing atONEment with my sins. He informed me that sin is an ancient archery term meaning to miss the mark, in this case, Oneness with

the Source of Truth.

“AtONEment?” I sputter and the serpent launches into actually, a rather good lecture on the evil men do under the sway of accepting as true that they actually could fall from grace and could never recover. Grace, He explains, is an eternal gift eternally given and forever actuated by the asking. There is no qualification, not one, of deserving, winning, or earning it. We exist and have our being in grace, yet we are more truly accurately, innocents unaware, caught in the fast hands of an angry god.

“Did I say this all happened at sunrise on the seventh day?” Several in the circle nod. “The sun tarries awhile to watch what follows. I had to tell the dragon how every one of those mean petty nasty small thoughts came to serve me. “Serve me?” I shriek.

“Indeed they do. How?” The beast settles serenely into an easy slouch, lays its head on a paw to wait and to watch until I solve his puzzle.

Well folks, dragons may live forever, people don’t. That is a vital thing to when working with a wyvern, particularly one who is probably a Sensi master warrior dragon or ascended master with no concept of space or time. I set myself to the dragon’s task and a trivial eternity later I parse out all the good things about everything I once thought was bad about me, my life and the whole world as I knew it. The dragon then set me to the task of making all the things I named ‘bad’ come out of me and take a form so I could see and talk with them, and they did that!

Real stern like I ask each of my bad actors to tell me exactly how have served me. The short story is that every one of them said they came to protect me from the things I feared might, could, would, should, or ever had hurt me. They came

to protect me from what I believed was true about me that I denied and repressed. I ponder the mission for a brief eternity, then thank my inside actors for their wisdom and service. For that loyalty, I gave each of them their freedom as a parting gift.

“They protest that they do not want to leave because there is nowhere else for them to go, they were formed from my mind, my beliefs and my fears. They are mine. They live in, always have done. I pretend to consider this and soon I feel their anxiety, for it is their fate of ‘freedom’ or ‘protective service’ I’m deciding. I rub my chin and I say ‘if I let you stay you must tell me how you will serve me in future’. They huddle awhile, and ask if I’m willing to experiment, to try thinking of as like dials and gauges on the dash of an auto. They are not there to alarm the driver, but to give alert to what should be done to keep all things working silent and smooth.”

“Well done,” the dragon professor approves. Sitting erect now he asks “Where’s my sixth day token?”

“I give the dragon the glowing orb, and this time the enamored beast does not complain about excessive adornment but sets about placing the pearl on various parts on his body, head and paws, and liking all of them. With wisdom in my journey kit and no time for a navel gazing dragon, I hop on it like I always knew how to mount a dragon, and I ride that mythical worm like I always was a dragon rider. This darling dragon is, and becomes part of, my own self.”

In the profound silence that follows the dragon rider tale, the cocoa woman murmurs timidly, “What was in the crystal cup the dragon gave you to drink?”

Tale teller emits a bilious burp “blood.

“Human blood.” They a share look of horror and without thought, the healing woman eats his pain, tasting the weight and hate of the daily dramas of his history, his story. She knows why he came to feed on the blood energy of others. Silent she asks to know why he came to see himself so needy of what lies outside of him that he blinded himself to the wealth that lies within. He is blinkered. His first semi-sane thought is: I am a dragon rider! And you are dead on to my habit of quick offence and harsh defense. Retaliation in small doses. He scowls tasting the gall of his bitter bile, istered with a hard heart, fast fingers, and deniability. He knows she heard. Nothing changed. Except the pain is gone, almost as if she ate it. You did eat it. She nods a wee wise smile. “Teach me,” he whispers, “I really want to do that.”

The woman starts back protesting “You didn’t ask me to stop, or to know what happens to me when I eat your pain. It’s all about you. You have no spare thought for any other being, man nor beast.”

He eyes her, cocks a brow and replies, “If you taught me to eat pain, I would gladly eat your hard habit of thinking of yourself last and projecting your everlast belief onto others. Then this conversation never happens because we have no pain left. We’d be holding only sweet and joyful memories that would weave into our mythic tales. That is my only hope when I’m back home fes to my Truth Ghosts,” he grins, “while you stay here doing good, right and beautiful things. Yours is a better story.”

Her smile is thoughtful and slow as she says “Maybe I did teach you to eat pain because I have none left. I am free as a bird and high as a kite. It’s all good.” She eyes him long and asks “what changed?”

Tale teller wells with emotion, sighs, and replies, “It was the star’s song, Shining Star, I could not feel alone, nor even imagine being separate from anyone or

anything. It felt so good and right, so true, and real, that I chose to believe that, and on my will, I changed. Listen… , and you will hear…”

Shawn Gallaway – The Wind is Always

Into the silence that follows, Time says, “I’m supposed to give you something from the dragon,” he places a fist sized pouch in her hand, from which she draws a crystal goblet with no stem. The newly confirmed woman releases the anger reserved for the Great Deceiver that housed in the small hard heart of the man who would be Time. “Thank you,” he says softly. “You should know that the dragon requires, and I will, go back to recover the family and their possessions, and return the Rolls Royce.”

Across the circle the dancing daughters huddle and whisper, both sets of eyes round on the tale teller, “let’s go see what’s there,” they nod agreement, rise, and walk to bend before the man, who squirms under their inspection. “I told you there was something there.” “I told you,” the other counters.

“What’s there?” he asks covering his nose reflexively until a dancer slaps his hand away.

“It’s a star. Wee, pale and indistinct until you ed again with the saving grace of that sixth night when the star shone, twinkled and glowed like the first star, the leading star, the way shower star. Anyone knowing your star brand will clearly know when you fake truth or fiddle with facts or figures. I suspect the star looks like a mole then, a cancerous one.” She gives him a pointed petite pout.

“Or,” the elder options, “you can obviate that whole cancer scare by deciding to just let go of the script for your mean man self, stop investing your bright mind and light energy in creating more separation. Choose instead to just be and become a better man who is worthy of a living a good life. That means amending for the rapacious greed that led you to us in this place and time.” She grins, “Oh, do to apologize to the dragon so he doesn’t singe your tail feathers when next he sees you.”

The eyes of the slapper sister narrow on his. “Think again about telling us the star song and the dire dragon drilling you with questions, and your responses to the wise wyvern. Just think about the feelings you were having and everything you were ing and telling us. See, there it is again. Oh, how sweet, what a divine tattoo, and how telling too, for a clever tale teller.”

“Oh,” Jacob’s head pops up, “I forgot to give you Michael’s message that he left his master’s mark on you. Said the mark was on the place where your bat body first made with the upright silver sword, and by this mark every man with eyes to see would know you and the truth of you.” Jacob scratches his chin, “It seems that the way people see and know that truth proof could produce better outcomes, depending on you and your choices right now. So tell me, tale teller, will Michael’s mark be an insignia of you and who you are, or an ugly abiding warning to be cautious in your company?”

The tale teller masks his nose and mouth below high arched brows, slides his hand slowly down his face and chin, re the man to whom the stars sang sad and soulful and sure and sure, he turns smiling eyes on Jacob and replies, “Well, sir, I do hope to meet that dragon again, as friend and master rider, not as piteous penitent; and I’ve a road ahead to travel that’s littered with wrongs to make right, and rights to be won and celebrated. None of it can be done by the man I was. I’ll be wanting to stay on Michael’s Mark” he grins, “to best do, and to best undo, and all of that.”

Into the hallowed silence that follows a voice calls: “I’ll buy the master’s slave,” Smithy tips his head to where the woman stands, “and the tale teller trickster can take that money to the master too.” He turns to Counselor “I reckon you can make the purchase legal?” Counselor nods, “and then, can you prepare her manu-mission document, did I say that right?”

“You did, I can, and I will do all that is needful to make her free as the good Lord meant her to be.”

“Well, former slaver,” Ben teases, “I can help with the dragon’s requirement that you see your master and his family restored to their home and life. I’ve been talking with the local law in Mississippi and they tell me the plantation house and barns weren’t burned, some horses came back, some slaves returned and keep care of the house, farm and animals. When you go back with the gold and jewels you took and stowed in the boot of the Rolls. Of course I looked, it’s my job to look!”

Ben grins, “it occurs to me that you can play the returning hero role and maybe get your old job back. “It is my personal wish, and I’ll take it as a personal favor that you do all you can to persuade the master to legally free the slaves to leave – or to stay and be paid for their work.”

“I’ll your kindness Sheriff.” The tale teller tips back his head to laugh at the curious turns life takes while you think you’re managing it. “I’ll call the master’s horses along my way, you see I taught them to untie themselves from tie lines, to free themselves from stalls, and to come to my call. Never knew why I did that, but now I feel downright farsighted. I take it as my personal mission to win my family’s freedom and see them safely back home again.”

“On that note,” Ben informs, “I’ll give you an escort out of town and set you on your way to Mississippi; I’ve lined up mates along the way to keep watch over you and give you good speed.”

“Thank you, sir, that’s mighty fine help you give. In return, I will tell your mates along the way all the good news I find, and when I’m home I’ll good news to the locals and ask them relay it to you.”

“Deal.” After they shake on the bargain, Ben asks, “What is the name that dragon gave you?”

“Time Turner, and I aim to live up to it.”

“Good deal!” Jacob rubs his palms rapidly, “As you left on your seven day dragon cruise Smithy’s clock chimed two bells.” He nods to the clock, “Smithy’s clock still says it’s two o’clock. While you were out gallivanting around, we learned at least a dozen new dance steps, discovered an artist, saw her work, commissioned some of her art glass, and Smithy agreed, though not out loud, that the artist could turn his metal forge into a glass forge. Despite all that time consuming entertainment, Smithy’s clock still says two o’clock, the sun still casts two o’clock shadows, and I for one, am six o’clock hungry. Would you kindly demonstrate for us what a Time Turner might do in an unlikely situation such as this?”

Time studies the unassuming face of Smithy’s Big Ben wall clock, shakes his head and says “that’s not the clock in need of righting.” He turns away to longleg across a nearly nearby galaxy to stop before a clock so towering tall it appears to curve back on its spine to ire an infinite blue sky puffed with cotton candy clouds and peppered with plump birds twittering and tweeting. The hands of the clock show two hours, same as Smithy’s Big Ben. Interesting, Time thinks. Stepping to the cabinet he pulls a key from a pocket, fits the key in the lock, turns it, hears the click, and watches as the drawer slides open with a whispery whoosh and out steps a crane. The kind with wings and feathers. Disturbing! “What floor please?” the crane asks. “All the way to the top,” Time replies and I does not know why.

Arriving at the heart of the mechanism he sees that it is broken in shatters and shards, and he does not know why. He asks, and the heart of Time responds: “I

am Time,” she wails, “I am infinite, everywhere present, even in the void where nothing is. Yet I am required by man’s small concept of me to only move forward!” Time whines, “I’m the grandmother who lives too long in her estate while heirs and relatives impatiently await, or perfidiously plot, her sudden death. I am the temporal equivalent of white noise!” Time whines through her chimes. “I am used, scheduled, clocked and measured! I will not be proven!

I am Time! I am eternal, without boundary, form or dimension; my essence cannot be held in thought nor confined in concept. Ideas, now, ideas are formed by a brain firing neurons that have no shape or mass and no functional use for time. Ideas turn my key, they transport me, inspire me, give me utility, character, and cause; I can work with that. But,” she glares, “I will not die! Nor will I be man size small! I took a work stoppage. It’s an idea that will catch on. Until then, Time is functionally dead.”

“Houston, we have a problem and it’s bigger than eternities of neglected grandmothers. It won’t be fixed by a crew of space techs, and while some ascended masters might help, there’s nary one in sight.

“That’s when I my name and I ask myself, what would a Time Turner do in a case like this? Well, I imagine such a man might sweeten the bitter tea Time’s prepared for her solitary detention, so I start talking about all the things I ire about clocks and timepieces, the fine wheels and gears made of copper and other shiny metals, and how all hers need is a bit of cleaning and a nice oil rub. All the while, I’m doing what I’m telling her, so when she sighs a smile I ask “doesn’t that feel better?

If you take a quick peek inside here you’ll see how much better you look too, why in no time at all you’ll be humming, whirring, and tolling like a brand new clock. Listen to you, already purring like a contented cat. When I’m done here I’ll polish your fine case and its fittings until you shine like sunrise on water.” When Time chimes her next interval, she sings, intones, resonates and rings like

a divine diva.

Shawn Gallaway – It’s My Time

Oh, look, now Smithy’s clock tick tocks too at exactly two past two.

A Naming Convention

“You got a name, but I didn’t,” the cocoa woman praises and pouts in one expression.

“You got a name,” come encouraging words springing on Luke’s light feet.

“I did?”

“You did. But it’s not a christening name. It’s the name of who you are. Your secret name known only to you and the One who gave it. Even though you don’t it, you do know it.”

“I do?”

Luke wears an assured smile for his dance around the one who does not know. “The dragons you rode spoke your name, do you it?” The woman shakes her head as he light toes round her. “What are the names the dragons gave you?”

She scowls, squinting, “They told me their names… , not mine.”

Stopping his dance with a toe slap before her, Luke eyes her down, “Stop thinking of a name suitable for a christening. Tell me the name of who you are. What name tells anyone with ears to hear what you came to life to do?” The woman blinks thrice, and Luke enlightens, “Tell us the names of your dragons.”

“Fre, and Edom,” she scowls.

“Say it as one word,” Luke coaches.

“Fre… , Freedom!”

Luke’s smile is brilliant, “What did you do on that dragon pair?”

“I rode them.”

“So you are… ?” She eyes him silent. “Think role here,” he jabs a finger at her, “not baptismal name.”

“Freedom… Rider?” she measures for fit and beams, “my name is Freedom Rider, I love that name!”

“It is a name that will go down in history.” Foresees Counselor. “Let’s make history then. Time, you have a new name, one you have already proven, one that

speaks well of you. Now that we have both names, we have documents to prepare and for you to sign.”

“You’re going to write these documents with a pencil?” Time asks aghast.

“It’s a step up from charcoal,” Counselor grumbles beneath a scowl. “What would you have me use?”

“You got ink?”

Counselor shrugs “Yes, and Smithy’s probably got some, why?”

“Well, sir, if I can talk the owner of the fine geese keeping the sidewalks clean out of a feather, I’ll cut and drill a quill pen for you to use preparing those very important papers you’ll write today.”

“No.” Snaps RO. “You will not have one quill from my birds. You will need at least three. Will you trade me a quill pen for three feathers?” Time nods. “Come, time’s a wasting, let’s go pick quills, I’ll introduce you to my girls.” Time’s eyes go saucer size as he mouths ‘girls?’ then sprints after RO to pull quill.

“I gotta see this,” Freedom says scurrying to the door, “it could be more fun than a calf scramble and a horse race in one rodeo.” Cheerful voices trail her outside where RO and Time collect quill. When three are chosen they politely ask permission of the bearer birds to have the feather, and RO deftly plucks them from the air as they feather to her, one tucking in one hand, another in the other,

the third twining itself in a curl to waft and wave stylishly as she moves.

Time smiles stepping lively with her and asks “the large sturdy goose feather, that’s the quill I will cut for Counselor, correct?” RO nods. “The peacock feather, that would be to make a quill pen for you, am I right?” RO and her feather nod again, grinning now. “The third feather who’s that for?”

“Freedom Rider,” RO replies, “any great artist needs finer tools than chalk and charcoal, although they have a place among fine art media. She’ll need at least one good brush too, can you also make brushes by chance?” Time nods, and RO smiles “what would you use for brush handles?”

“I saw some bamboo growing in the back yard of big house and if you know the owner, and she agrees, I’ll come at the lady’s convenience and collect a stalk or two for pen handles.”

RO chuckles, clapping Time on the shoulder, “Somehow I think you know the bamboo is in my back yard,” she grins, “and the lady agrees. Shall we cut it now? It needs time to dry a bit before the bristles are set in. Shouldn’t the bristles be sable, do you think?” Time nods. “Good,” she grins. My fur has been years in need of redesign, and now my dear conservative husband has good reasons to spend the money.” Time tips his head back in glad glee as a regaliaed woman guides him safe along his giddy grace.

With ink loaded quill pen in hand, Counselor proudly prepares to prepare identification papers for the ones with new names. Freedom first, he thinks, collecting the money to purchase a healthy slave from Smithy, transfers her ownership to Smithy, then prepares her manumission document for Smithy to sign. “What a fine pen to work with,” Counselor praises, “and what fine work to do with it. Time, you’re next, for identification documents right?”

Time nods, clears his throat, “That’s right, sir; but I got to thinking about games of chance the master and me ire and that some of them have time limits when the time keeper calls “time!” and rings a bell. It also occurred to me that the master won’t know me as Time Turner and,” Time grins “he values and manages his time so well that he would not ire having to learn a new name for me. I will take the name my master gave me, James Butler.” Counselor smiles and sets quill to parchment.

“Well, can we call you Time while you’re here? We just got used to the name.” Ben grouses.

Time grins, “That would please me well, Sheriff.”

The Scrying Bowl

“Well, energy sucker, Smithy said the forge would operate exactly the same way it does when he’s forging metal, it just has to be fired at the right temperature to melt sand soda and ash into a molten liquid. And, Smithy said the tools uses for shaping a crystal bowl would not need to be different nor even used differently than for forming a bowl out of metal.

“Why you talking small-self talk to me? Like you’re trying to make me feel small and powerless so you can bully and push me around like before. I think you pulled a fast one on that dense dragon pretending you no longer can feed off the life force energy of others, all the while swearing off only the blood form of it. Why are you coming at me like my whole internal committee of doubting ghosts trying to scare me out of being strong and whole and powerfully truly me? Why you bullying me, new born into a new life, with ghosts of an old life

and your abiding faith in what I don’t know and how small and powerless I am? Why you feeding off my life energy this way acting like you’re not getting high on it same as drinking my blood? You pulled a fast one on that dragon but I am not fooled. You’re an energy vampire. Curled up like a pill bug with your hard scaly side out, looking at your butt hole, and telling me it’s mine you see.”

The former Time titters, chortles, snickers, then its, “You’re right. I spent a lifetime hiding behind the role of butler and doing everything right so I couldn’t be corrected, even if my motive was bad.” He tips a lopsided grin, “and, it’s also true, Freedom, that when the Mistress had a broken glass or bowl, she asked me to repair it and if it couldn’t be fixed, to liquefy it and reform it into a new bowl, glass or vase.”

He looks to RO, “I never put gemstones into the molten crystal of a thing I formed, and never stroked jewels like wet paint into the design of a bowl, I want to see that done, I want to help do that, I want to be part of making that real. If you’ll allow it, I’d also prize having a good peek into your finished bowl to see what I scry. Can I please help make your bowl, can I? I won’t stop until you say I can help…” RO’s silent stare stops him mid breath. He knows that she masters greater power than he, she uses her power more comionately; and she does not suffer fools.

“I take your point, Ms. Rider. It is ROs bowl, her gemstones, her money that pays for making it, it’s hers to decide if and how I can help, and if I get paid.” He turns to go and pauses, “Thanks for letting me figure that out for myself, and for the kindness of not telling me what I should do, like I’d have done.” Freedom smiles and waives him away.

“It seems you have had some experience in forming crystal objects and in heating and firing a kiln to the proper temperature to achieve the desired result.” RO’s voice turns him back, “Perhaps you can be of help, and there is a condition you will agree to before I accept you as one of my helpers. The condition is this:

Freedom is a free and independent woman, trained and gifted with skills you do not have; and she is a woman. If you assist in this art I will do through my assistants, you will be compliant wholly and solely to the call and to the command of Freedom.

“Know this: you will be required to amend and atone for the persistent and pervasive domination of women by men, the utter submission of self that is required by men; and, for the physical, mental, and emotional abuse imposed on women by men. Furthermore, you will knowingly and willingly submit to this requirement as a personal atonement for the abuse you ruthlessly inflicted on Freedom. You will serve only at her request, you will perform ably, willingly, well, and always obedient to her direction to the smallest detail. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, abundantly clear, and that changes the proposition doesn’t it? Freedom could be hard on me and justly so. She might punish me and give me paid for what I have done to her, and rightly so.”

He studies her and her look of patient observation, feeling her energy of waiting without expectation, to see what comes next. Powerful, he thinks, smiling at who he sees from behind Freedom’s clear tolerant eyes. He searches for the words: indifferent, to outcomes, but not to the process.

Holding smiling eyes on her, Time inclines his head toward RO, “I freely submit to Freedom’s direction for it will come from her heart and then from her head, where vengeance, and ion for perfection, dwells. I promise, Lady RO, I will do all Freedom asks the way she wants it done with everything I have to give.” Time chuckles, “Freedom should have been the one giving orders all the while I knew her. I’d have been a better man for it. But then, perhaps I wouldn’t have met the dragon and learned how, and why, to consciously co-create a better world. Plus, I’d have missed the song of the stars, and the despair of knowing the truth of what kept me separate and mean; and I have been less the man I am

today.”

Shawn Gallaway – The Sword and The Shield

“Well, that’s settled then.” RO says, “Smithy, will you turn your forge into a glass kiln heated to properly fire and form crystal while there’s still enough daylight to get the job done?”

“Yes, I will, Mistress RO,” he grins mischief, and gets an arched brow in exchange.

“I will want the help of our resident Crystal Master,” RO continues, “and she will require from her assistant, Time, and, Time, please do what is needful to soothe the Eternal Mistress of Time so every step in this creative process is completed in order, and my bowl is ready to receive pure water before the moon rises tonight. Come, Smithy, lead the way to your forge and make it hot, hot, hot.”

The man once called Time falls in by Freedom and whispers, “she didn’t even ask if it could be done, or if the Mistress of Time would even cooperate.”

Freedom rings true delight, “in part that is because you already met and charmed the Mistress of Time, but more so because RO could always manage time to a tock and a tick. I suspect there is a Magi under that fine regalia she wears, and,” she backhands him on a shoulder, “I bet you the Lady RO was a time turner before you even met the Infinite Clock, found the broken Heart of Time, shined, timed and tuned the box and clock and everything in it until the Heart of Time was a thing of beauty joy in the multitude of ways her theatre of infinite multidimensional time is magical.”

Shawn Gallaway - Surrender

Time is mute at the elbow of the wise Master and willingly follows her path to whatever she will do to create a stunningly magnificent and mystical Scrying Bowl for a woman who doubtlessly ed more lifetimes as Magi than as a mortal. The next man to tell me it is right and proper for a woman to be meek and submit herself to her man, I am going to hog-tie him and drag into Smithy’s to meet Mistress RO and the Lady Freedom. If a tea time with our mad hatters doesn’t set his mind right, he’s not worth spit. Meantime, we got a magical bowl to make and I’m not missing one fleeting moment of the making.

Shawn Gallaway – All Shall Be Well

Smithy’s forge is a transcendently enchanted place when the Crystal Master and her helpers step into a jubilant space emergent with an energy potent in power, transformation, and radiant fullness. Smithy, as Forge Master of epic fire and power directs by thought and eye, the shape, height, width, color and heat of each tongue of flame licking the caldron red gold in its fiery fervor to be a place of regeneration and transformation. Fire of the Sun, Father Sky, bless and receive this offering prepared for you to thank you for making our work of transforming common elements of Earth Mother into crystal pure, clear, translucent and true with the pure ion of your love for Earth Mother.

Earth Mother, mother of wind, water, fire and earth, we bless and thank you for giving of yourself to guide us in transforming a vision into a thing of weight, shape, form, function, and great beauty and grace. Thank you for the gift of vision and for your inspiration of Father Sky to lend his volcanic heat to make flow that which is fixed in elemental form. Bless us richly, deeply of your graceful eye and guide our hands as we shape this transparent liquid of you into a crystal bowl of power, beauty and grace.

We thank you already for guiding each of us and your Lady RO in flowing and forming the twelve stones of power into a crystal flower of twelve petals each of different hue. Lady Earth, use us to form a bowl of far-sight, beauty and power worthy of your own hand and eye. Thank you Mother. I feel your presence, I see you flow slow stir the glass, I see the dross ebb away like water into sand. I see the crystal clarity of you settling into the infinite indefinite space between water and sky. My heart is full with your grace, and my forge never looked, smelled or sounded better. Thanks for that too, from me to you.

His invocation complete, Smithy steps to the right, extends a hand to Freedom inviting the Crystal Master to step into her role in creation. She gazes into the pot luminous with liquid light in a color with no pigment, yet holding all shades and hues. Inhaling long and being in joy with the moment and those to come,

Freedom exhales sub-audibly slower still, and when empty of air, she extends a hand to Time to them at the forge. She smiles at RO facing them to her left across the forge and feels the flow of strength and confidence coming through her. It is already done, she smiles, and it is beautiful.

Those working the forge act and flow as three minds in one with six hands devoted to one purpose, and one vividly evolving vision of the art of glass. As one they know when the shaping is complete and they step back to gape and smile giddy like parents of a new babe and it the only one.

“Lady RO,” says Time, “if the bowl shape meets your approval, it is ready to receive and embody your twelve stones of power.”

“Oh! I don’t know if I can do this. I’ve never done anything remotely like this before, oh… !”

“Mother! Stop dithering and just do it, or you will never have a thing you always wanted, and is now within your grasp. You’re playing small doesn’t become us! We – and you – are worthy of better.”

RO pulls herself erect, “Thank you, Dear. You’re right, of course, how silly of me.” Reconsidering, she amends, “how utterly human of me. I rather like being silly. First, my team, Smithy, you are my forge master who has found the perfect flame to shape and form my bowl.” She pats his arm, “you will find and hold the temperature of the glass so it’s pliable yet firm while we spell gems to feather fluid along the center ridge of each petal. Thank you my dear friend, for being the rock you are for me, for all of us.

“Freedom, you are my artisan, my art glass master in the making, you will be my other self, outside and apart from who I am and from the role I play in the life of our town. Will you the energy of your art with Smithy’s fiery power, and fuse it with the art of mine, as together we do this thing that’s never been done before?” Freedom beams her willing will.

“Time, we, Freedom and I, need you to keep the wheel rotating at the precise speed that best s the flow of our work over time. Be at one with us as we meld this act of creation into form.” Time nods willingly into the bow of a knight submitting to an oath by sword in of a higher cause.

“Counselor, dear, you have the pave diamonds?” He nods, pats a vest pocket, and smiles at her artful application of order and process to create the space for new possibilities and outcomes evolving into a firmament within a bowl of crystal tinted with the twelve colors of power and light.

Resplendent with twelve succulent petals of color etched to catch reflect and reveal the power of the other stones is strewn with spiral galaxies of pave diamonds. When the basin of far-sight is alive and poised atop the placid dais of Smithy’s kiln and filled with rainwater, the full moon rises.

Moon beams reflect dancing patterns of pure silver light across the water revealing only sights and scenes evoking soft sighs and smiles. Perhaps most blessed of all, the bowl of truth foretells only mythic futures where even the bad is good and the only outcomes perceived and seen are holy and whole for the sole body of One. The Master smiles pleased, and lovingly caresses His Master’s Mark into the heart of each one.

Shawn Gallaway – All Shall Be Well

The Angel Garden Reunion

The meeting room of The Angel Garden is set up with two rows of tables ranked behind the podium at the point where the center aisle meets two columns of chairs with aisles on either side. It is an unusual set up for a Daughters of Isabella meeting and each Daughter entering the space notes the odd setup. They shrug for this is not the first D of I meeting to be unusual because by nature, women are daughters, mothers, and sisters. All Daughters know that Mother Energy is essentially different from Father Energy. Ergo, if both are here, both are needed, though no one knows why.

Yet every Daughter knows that RO called this irregular meeting. All know RO is President the D of I. They also know RO doesn’t waste time, hers, nor theirs. Daughters, you see, are never obedient. But they are compliant. In the case of this special meeting, they are curious, and curiosity always gets the cat. Plus, it’s an excellent time to gather and share gossip and speculate on unknown outcomes, like the purpose of the two rows of tables flanking the podium.

Anything new and novel is worth speculation. It’s a guessing game for women who discuss the possible outcome of the various options available. Sometimes women even wager on them. Some men, they imagine, may suddenly change and be attentive, helpful, and devoted life mates instead of…

Everyone knows what’s not said. They’ve seen bruises make up can’t hide. They’ve seen underfed children, they’ve heard the bourbon bottles in the trash at houses were the wife is not seen.

None of that’s happening this evening. The ladies put their handbags on a seat,

reserving it for when the meeting is called to order, then return to the wit and wisdom of their sister Daughters. ‘What do you think the special meeting is about?’ and ‘What do you think those tables are for?’”

“I’m curious about the purpose of this meeting President RO called.” A Daughter says to another. All nod agreement. “RO doesn’t do anything without a reason. And her reason is always a good and helpful one.

“That means that the Daughters have a key role in determining the final outcome of whatever purpose it is that this D of I meeting was called. Anyone ever play ‘Clue’?” All Daughters nod with fond smiles.

“What clues do we have?” All Daughters shrug, palms up. “Oh look, RO is here at last, let’s take our seats and learn what’s going on.”

RO steps to the podium and welcomes all to the meeting. “I called this special D of I meeting so I can tell each and every one of you things that you will not believe.” She waits for the Daughters to deal with the paradox of duality and then, one by one, to slip back into their unity as Daughters of the One.

“I know all of you are wondering about the tables behind me, and why they are here, so I will tell… No.” RO amends abruptly, “I will show you what you will not believe without seeing it, not even when you do see it. ‘Believing without seeing’ is a core D of I practice. Tee, hee, hee, there is a Judas in all of us.

“Ladies and gents, what I am about to show you is impossible. It cannot have happened.” She gives her Wise Woman smile and adds: “Yet there is physical proof that the impossible did happen.

“My question is: Are you willing to accept proof of miracles?” The Daughters nod as one.

RO raises a hand, snaps a finger, and smiling men enter the back door carrying baskets brimming with fruits, berries, vegetables, tubers, and herbs. They put them on the tables and fade into the audience.

“Can I – can we taste of what’s there?”

RO giggles and says, “Not while I’m talking, dear. Every one of you would be chewing and smacking your lips, and not listening to me! That is not why I am President of the D of I.”

She looks at the Daughters, at the Knights, then Bam and Melt White, without whose help The Angel Garden project would not succeed. It wouldn’t even get off the ground.

What a lovely tight devoted group of people you have brought together, Earth Mother. We must swear them to silence. You know how obedient daughters are, and their husbands, sons, uncles, and cousins.

All of us are necessarily involved. Lead us through this twisted twining way of secrecy so your objective is achieved, and remains secret in our hearts long after our work is done.

RO smiles, invites everyone to take a seat, and when all are seated and attentive, she begins with a question. “How many of you are wondering why I called this special meeting of the D of I?

“Are any of you wondering why Knights are invited to a special meeting of the Daughters?” All nod.

“It is because we need you. Every one of you – to help with a special project.”

“What’s the special project?” Someone calls out. All nod curiosity.

“First, let’s discuss the confidentiality requirement for this meeting. What we talk about tonight, the votes we take, and what we will agree to do, will be held in the strictest confidence within this group. You will tell no one who is not here tonight about this meeting and the purpose of it.

“And, you will tell no one what happens afterward. Are there any questions?”

“I have one, and I think I speak for everyone when I ask you why the secrecy, what are we protecting?”

RO eyes him levelly, inhales fully, and replies calmly: “We are protecting a miracle.”

“A miracle?” It is a single question gasped as one by Daughters and Knights. It’s

awhile before everyone re that RO won’t talk again until all of them are listening.

A command and control figure in the group shushes everyone, tells them to sit down, to breathe deep, and just listen, “or the meeting could take all night.” Curiosity always gets the cat, and curious cats always get quiet to watch and listen, just like the perplexed people do. Peeps are curious cats too.

RO smiles as she looks around the room catching an eye and sharing a smile with everyone in the room. “A miracle”, she whispers. She smiles when all are silent and listening close. “So what miracle are we protecting then?” She asks each person there. No one has an answer.

RO smiles: “We are protecting the miracle of The Angel Garden, and to do that, we need your help. Every one of you.”

“Then The Angel Garden is the miracle we’re g up to protect, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“For those of us who don’t know, what is ‘The Angel Garden’?”

RO smiles, “I thought you’d never ask!”

“Well”, the man grins, “I like to help out where I can. After you tell us about The Angel Garden, then you will tell us what we can do to protect the garden, is that right?”

“I love a skeptic! It makes a dialogue so much more vibrant and engaging. Any other skeptics here?” RO grins and looks to the doubter and says: “You are in good company, as you can see.”

Without looking, RO reaches back, feels for a basket, reaches in and grabs a red bell pepper, holds it up and tosses it to the doubter. She looks around the room and asks: “Any other doubters?” All laugh and raise a hand. Bam and Melt a fruit or vegetable to everyone.

It it’s not quiet for a long while though no one is talking. The sounds of flavor savoring fresh fruits and vegetables fills the room, and oohs and aahs are the most discouraging words heard in the room.

“Any skeptics left?” RO demands with a smiles for everyone is shaking their heads ‘no’.

“You may wonder why Counselor and I called this t meeting of Daughters and Knights.” Most nod, some recall and but wait as the impossible tale unravels itself into the whole unit of one. RO shrugs. “I told you we are here to protect a miracle. And that the miracle is The Angel Garden.”

“Can we see it?”

“Not today, dear. But the last item on the agenda for our meeting is Bam and Melt telling true tall tales about The Angel Garden, and maybe best of all, they brought their instruments. Anybody up for some pickin’ ’n grinnin’ and some tall tale spinnin’ when we have finished the meeting agenda?”

RO grins. “Otherwise I will have to call Counselor up here to keep us on our agenda. None of you want my husband to have to come up here and be snarky with the lot of you.”

Counselor stands, turns, and reports: “Where reason does not rule, faith is simply an incredible blessing that gives over and again. That’s where we are folks. That’s our choice point.

Shawn Gallaway – Choice Point

“Among humans, faith is at war with reason. Fallen ones like us, still fall from grace because we do not ask. The Master said: You have not because you ask not. The girl asked.

“Heck, as I hear tell, she demanded God save the garden, or they and their neighbors would starve. Her faith produced the abundance you see. You are her neighbors. She asked for you too. Every one of you.”

Counselor grins amiably and adds: “I am asking every one of you for your help. I know you’ll find this redundant, but you will swear as Knights that you will never speak of what you know, or what you will come to know.” He pulls a forefinger and thumb across his lips and raises his hand in oath. All the Knights zip their lips and raise their hands in oath binding. The Daughters do the same.

Counselor turns to face RO with a smile of encouragement. He knows what comes next and that what comes next is impossible. It is simply unreasonable to think it could happen.

He knows that if anyone can sell a bunch of skeptics on believing in the impossible it is his lady wife RO. Plus, she’ll make it fun, and laughter always softens the hard places inside a man. “You’re up, RO.”

“Don’t dither, Mother,” a smiling daughter cautions RO. “Make us proud. Again. Like you always do.”

RO laughs, looks at the Knights and Daughters, turns her palms up and asks:

“What’s a mother to do? We need loads of volunteers to help in all sorts of ways. We need truck drivers with tarps to pick up The Angel Garden produce and bring it to the D of I storeroom.

“How many of you have trucks with tarps and are comfortable driving on country roads?”

She counts hands, looks to Counselor and says, “Looks like there are enough to rotate drivers by week day so we don’t set a pattern to makes people curious.” Counselor nods.

“Drivers, stay on country roads where you can, and don’t stir up dust. Real farmer’s always drive slowly on country roads just to watch things appear, change, and disappear again. They see the curvature of the earth. They feel the sunset melt them like ice in a cup, and they learn and know that when a man melts he free flows again.

“How many of you have pressure cookers? Oh, lots, that is so perfect!

“How about canning jars with rings and flats?”

“Canning jars we have,” a Daughter offers. “And we have canning rings. But most of us don’t have flats. We used them last time we had anything to can.”

“We need to buy flats then, Counselor. How do we pull that off without spilling the beans that we have something to can when nobody else does?”

“Hum, I take your point. Okay, who has any ideas to offer?

“Well,” Bam White says, “Me and Melt both can be practically invisible, and we both haul ‘junk’ for folks all over five counties. I reckon we could trade some boxes of flats here and there without anyone getting curious enough to ask why. Most stores that carry canning supplies got nothing to do with ’em but dust ’em. They’ll be glad to pay us in inventory they can’t sell. We’ll trade for fresh flats when we can.”

“Oh,” RO exclaims, “That is so perfect!

“We’ll be canning produce from The Angel Garden in the D of I kitchen. Who likes keeping kitchens clean and washing pots pans, jars, etc.? Oh, lots, that is so perfect! Thank you God!”

“Who’s going to pack The Angel Garden produce for the drivers to pick up?”

RO grins and asks: “How many of you wondered the same thing?” She doesn’t count hands. They’re all up. “Well, I will tell you what you will not believe, and it’s true. Archangels pack the crates, baskets and boxes and put them on the loading dock. They’ll help load your trucks too.”

“Loading dock? Archangels!” A wide-eyed man nods quickly and says: “Okay, that’s really all I need to know about that.” He shakes his head mourning: “I do wish I had a truck with a tarp though.”

“Counselor, is there anything else you want to say?”

“There is. There’s a table in the back with Volunteer Sign in Sheets. The sheet has a place for your name and phone number, fill that in. Check boxes to select the work you’ll do, the frequency, and times you’re available to collect and preserve the produce from The Angel Garden.

“Canning days will be all hands on deck at least within the confines of the D of I kitchen.

“Daughters, most of you will come with your Knight husbands. Talk it over so the two of you are on the same page when volunteering your best help times. Preserving food is more fun when it’s a group effort.

“Daughter and Knight Couples who enjoys making jellies and jams? Oh, that is excellent! Ladies, can we be real? We’ll talk by phone and get everyone scheduled so everyone gets to have fun pickling eggs.”

“There are eggs?” Counselor asks. “I love pickled eggs. We’re g up for pickling eggs dear one.”

“Done.” RO agrees. “We’re dealing with a miracle, people. We must have faith that we will have what we need when we need it. We know it our hearts, and that’s where change happens.

“Daughters, talk with your Knight Husband this evening and call me tomorrow with your schedule.

“Okay, ladies and gents, have you got anything else related to our t meeting this evening?”

“Well then, we go to our entertainment for this evening, Bam and Melt White, come on up, you two.

Everyone hoots and hollers until Bam and Melt are up front waiting for silence. Bam and Melt grin and wave ‘hello’. “Thanks for helping out with The Angel Garden Project. Melt and I got different stories to tell about The Angel Garden because the girl wouldn’t talk to me. She’d talk only with Melt.

“And,” Melt adds, “Dad is the only one of us who talked with the dragon and so my dad is the one will tell the dragon tale.”

Shawn Gallaway – The Source

“Dragon?” One bold man speaks for all, and his face shows the skepticism everyone else feels.

Except RO. And Hester, who’s sitting in the back row keeping her head down. RO grins at the doubter and says: “Let’s hold questions until the end of our agenda, or we will not finish in time. And then I will be cross.” She pouts. “And that will make Counselor cross; and there’s just no future in that. Deal?”

“Deal.” The attendees agree in one voice.

“Bam,” RO says with a small frown, “I think you begin.” RO looks at Counselor who nods agreement.

“Well, Ladies and Gents, I reckon I gotta begin with the first in a series of impossible events. My first impossible event was to ride on a dragon, and I did not go willingly on that wild ride.” He waits till the audience stops whispering ‘dragon?’ and turns to face him again, eyes round with wonder.

“And, riding that weird wired wyvern made me the man I am today.” He grins with them and goes back to his tale. “The dragon you see is the Thunderer.”

“I thought Zeus was the Thunderer.”

“Zeus is the Thunderer in mythology. Metaphysics teaches that thunder means

the Perfect Mind, the Complete Mind. In metaphysics, thunder is a feminine power. Thunder is loved for bringing life.” He smiles. “Thunder is hated for bringing death.” Bam frowns. “Thunder moves in all creatures. Thunder is the ‘I AM’ voice that speaks softly in silence as perception and knowing. Thunder is the real voice crying out in everyone, and they recognize that voice for its seed indwells all and everything.

“Thunder says: ‘I AM awareness of the Father. I know the hidden thoughts, the eternal mystery. I know the primordial consciousness. Because ‘the Father abides in me and me in him’, as The Master put it.

“Dragon is the Thunderer. And there was some powerful need for dragon thunder in The Angel Garden.

“I situated myself on the dragon and rode that wonderful wyvern as we winged so fast we broke the sound barrier which got me and the dragon into The Angel Garden. It was not a soft landing. It wasn’t even one you’d fairly call a hard landing. We crashed in a belly-flop. And that is my prelude for the Lilly pond in The Angel Garden. See you can see the V of the dragon’s ribcage where it fell, and on the other side, a V where the tail pressed a channel there. The dragon likes lilies of all shape, size and color, and so it pulled all Earth Mother’s lily gifts and planted them in the pond.”

“And the water came from… ?”

“Angel tears.” Bam waits.

“Wait a minute, you said “Earth Mother’s Lilly gifts’? There is only one God!”

Bam nods agreement, and argues: “However the Divine One made all and everything in his image and likeness, and there is duality in everything in life. So doesn’t that necessarily mean there must be a female counterpart that is not separate from the One, but is separate from the masculine which is also not separate from the One?”

Bam offers a condolence, “And isn’t that a good thing? I don’t know what I would do without Lizzie, and Melt, and our girls. I personally like the dualities of life.

“I think I wouldn’t find a reason to get up in the morning if I wasn’t out looking for ways to help others knowing without proof that they’d help me when I needed help and they could help.” Bam smiles and says: “I need your help. Every one of you.”

He meets all eyes. “And I too need your vow of silence for what I am about to tell you, and what I have already said to you. As RO said earlier, we’re here to create a space for a miracle. The Angel Garden produce is the miracle. We are here to preserve that miracle.

Counselor rises, turns to the door and calls: “Knights, us please.” Two dozen Knights enter with baskets and burlap bags and as they place the items, the Knight names what’s in the bag or basket.

“Where did this come from?” Someone demands as the chosen Knights finish their work and take seats.

“I already answered that question,” RO says simply. “Do you ?”

“The Angel Garden? So there is such a thing! Where is it?”

“Well I could tell you,” RO offers, “but you would first tell me why you want to know the location; and that is extraneous to the agenda for our meeting. You have a copy don’t you?” The man nods.

“We are here to talk about produce from The Angel Garden, and what we will do to keep and to preserve it. You are part of the solution, or you are part of the problem. You choose. Make your choice now.”

“I’ll stay. And I’ll the Knights Oath. And… , I want to peel an ear of that corn and eat it.”

RO chuckles, “You are not alone. So, how are you at kitchen work, especially heavy lifting, the sort of things that need done during cooking, canning, and preserving?”

“I do all of that. How about the picking and packing?”

“Ah,” Hester offers, “the Archangels do that and set the baskets outside the gate. That’s covered.”

“I am glad we’re sworn to secrecy because nobody in his right mind would

believe what you just said. It makes me feel like a kid again when I still believed in Christmas. When do we start?”

“You are not a patient man, are you? Well neither are we. We have an agenda. We’re following it!

“Bam, pick up where you left off, please.”

“Guys, angels don’t have trucks. We need men with trucks and tarps to come to The Angel Garden to pick up the produce and bring it to the storeroom back of the D of I kitchen. When you load your truck, cover it with a tarp you tie down. Most of you are country boys, use country roads. Pretend you’re rum runners if it adds zing to doing the same thing with something that’s merely miraculous and not illegal.

“No caravans, please, caravans of trucks covered with tarps attract attention. Back up to the dock of the D of I kitchen to offload baskets and crates you brought in, and put them in the pantry off kitchen. Put peppers with peppers, corn with corn, gourds with gourds, and so on. Rows and aisles will be needed in the storeroom, and we don’t know the quantity. Assume abundance.

“Next comes canning day,” Bam says, “and it’s back to you, RO.”

“Daughters… Don’t you love being Daughters, and daughters?” She sees the nods all around. “Women are Earth Keepers. That is our role. It’s why we created the D of I space that serves as a school cafeteria. School’s on break, and we need it for preparing and canning produce from The Angel Garden. We need pressure cookers. Who has one?” She raises her hand and sees that most mother

Daughters do too.

“How many would like cooking and canning together in a kitchen as big as this?” All Daughters raise hands, and most of the Knights too. By way of apology, the other Knights said they were masters at cleaning kitchens, washing dishes, pots and pans, and they really liked cooking and canning.

“How many of you are volunteering to help until we’ve preserved all the fruits of The Angel Garden?” All Knights raise their hands. All Daughter Mothers do too. RO smiles. “Excellent! Bam, you are up.”

“I brought my banjo to accompany me in telling my impossible tale. Are you all up for some picking and grinning while I’m telling about riding a weird wild wyvern I did not want to ride?

“You see, the wyvern told me that my job was to coordinate getting The Angel Garden produce from the garden to the D of I pantry. That’s it. A delivery boy.”

Bam grins, “That is my living. This time I do it for a good cause and it help a lot of folks stay alive and maybe even to thrive. We need help though.”

“I keep wondering as I listen, so I’m going to ask. “Are we trying to hide this?”

“No!” Bam scowls. “What we are truly doing is planning to maintain a low profile so our town doesn’t appear in the news attracting unwanted attention and speculation about what we’re doing, why, and how. How many newspapermen

do you think would write that The Angel Garden is a miracle?

Shawn Gallaway – Breathe A Little Magic

“Plus, the dragon said to do it this way, and the Archangels in The Angel Garden agreed. They pick and pack produce from The Angel Garden and put it on the dock for same day pick up. There’s a loading dock there now,” Bam says informationally. “The produce is grouped by type. All a drivers got to do is drive out, load the truck, tie down the tarp, and play slow rum runner on the way to the D of I pantry.

“If you see someone you don’t know at The Angel Garden, it’s an Archangel. Don’t gawk. They’ll help load trucks with berries first so they can be cleaned, cooked, and canned while they’re fresh.

“They’ll probably pick tomatoes and soft veggies the next day, and keep doing that until everything from The Angel Garden has been picked, packed, processed and canned by its best-by date.

“You might find it interesting to know the girl is the only person can freely go in The Angel Garden. Her mother still has to ask permission of the Archangels.

“And, if she asks, she receives, just like the Master said.”

“Will we work on Sundays too?”

“Would a farm guy expect to work on Sundays after church too? Yes, of course he would!” Bam grins. “And your lady wife Daughter already knows that canning doesn’t stop because it’s Sunday.

“I said more than enough and it’s Melt’s turn at telling tall tales true and well, and peeps a mine, you won’t believe this tale either. And you’ll know it’s true anyway. Come on up here, Melt.”

When Bam tries to step away, Melt pushes him to the stage to sit, and says: “Cover my back, Dad. As you know, it’s hard to tell tall tales true and well when you don’t believe ’em yourself.” Bam puts his hand on Melt’s spine where it curves making room for the heart. Melt melts, and begins telling his tale.

Shawn Gallaway – I Am The Love

“You’re probably wondering what Dad doesn’t know that I know, because Dad knows everything there is to know about everything there is. Am I right?” He sees nods and smiles.

“I know the girl’s tale, because she only told it to me. And hear this, she told me if I ever told her tale I must tell it tall and true and exceedingly well.

“She actually did use that word. So there I was at Hester’s because she’d called and said she needed my help. Help that only I could give. Help that only I could receive. That got me curious, so I went.

“Hester met me at the door and invited me into the kitchen where she poured water for us and squeezed a slice of lemon and of lime into the water. Tasty! We needed a tall cool drink before we could accept the tale Hester was about to tell. Believe – we did not. Then or now.

“In our trials we often forget that Faith is the gap-filler between hope and fear. The girl has amazing faith! The truth is that her faith has nothing whatsoever to do with the logic and reason. Faith and fact are not at war in the girl.” Melt smiles melting hearts, opening minds, and making room for miracles.

“So there we were sitting on the cedar chest in front of a window overlooking the garden that I couldn’t see, unless I did not look at it directly. What I could see then overloaded my mind, for in my mind I knew it was impossible.” Melt rubs his palms up and down over his face and tarries a moment in silence.

“’Your faith is weak. Your doubt is strong’, she said to me.

“She looked me in the eyes with gloomy grief, and said: ‘You can’t go into The Angel Garden. Your doubt would kill everything in it. Then people would starve’. She whispers ‘I hoped you could help’.” She turns to the window seeing things I would not see. I saw that. “I’m disappointed, that’s all,” she whispered.

“’The cat-fighting angels are horrid!’ She said, palms against the glass overlooking the garden. I didn’t ask. I waited, knowing she’d tell. That she had to tell.

“There were too many impossible things happening in The Angel Garden, and some of them are as zealous for evil as the snake in Eden’s Glen. Fighting evil is outside her skill sets. She couldn’t fight Archangels. Someone else had to do that.

“Turns out it was Hester who had to be Earth Mother to The Angel Garden. Dad didn’t even know that at the time. Nor did Jacob. Not even Hester knew. Yet.

“The dragon knew though. Dragon is the Thunderer. Thunder changes things. Thunder means ‘Perfect Mind’, or ‘Complete Mind’.

“For those of you who are wondering, yes, Zeus is the Thunderer. So is the dragon. Dragon is the sound of thunder.

“Thunder is a feminine power. If you ever see a dragon and don’t know if it’s a

male or a female, default to female. Treat it like you would a Lady, a woman of high rank. That means treat it respectfully for if you don’t, the dragon won’t let you ride, and if you do manage to get on board, it will be a wild and terrifying ride.”

Melt waits for silence to fall, then says: “Thunder is loved for bringing life. Thunder is hated for bringing death. Thunder existed before creation, it moves in all creatures everywhere.

“Thunder is the real ‘I AM’ voice speaking softly. Thunder dwells in the silence as perception, knowing. Thunder cries out in everyone and all recognize the voice for the seed of Thunder indwells everyone and everything. I AM is the voice of the father who knows hidden things. Thunder is the eternal mystery.

“The dragon is the guardian within that opens new realms to you. Thunder protects creation and helps manage emotions. Thunder helps us to act only from balance and self-control.

“The dragon took Hester into The Angel Garden – after it thundered through her for what she will tell you was an infinity of time during which the sun did not change position.”

Melt reminds: “Dragon is the Thunderer who changes man’s mind into Perfect Mind, Complete Mind. Hester will tell you the next part of the tale for she’s the only one who can. Hester, you’re up” Melt says stepping away.

It’s no longer easy for Hester to be timid or rigidly reserved since her Dragon talk and her Dragon ride; and, she has a key role to play in preserving the fruits

of The Angel Garden. She steps to the podium with a poised grace that wasn’t hers before. “Thank you for being here, and for being willing to,” She unexpectedly giggles, infecting everyone, “preserve The Angel Garden produce. I must start with my Dragon tale because the dragon reformed my mind about who I think I am. Before the dragon blowing my hair back and dropping me to my knees, I couldn’t go into The Angel Garden. I did not believe what I could not see. I couldn’t see mostly because my faith was too small. Not my faith in God. That I had.

“The faith I was lacking was my faith in me as a unique creation of the Divine across all of time. All my faith in me would fit into a thimble with space left. The dragon thundered that wee self out of me and made space in me for something new.

“In that Truth consciousness I went into The Angel Garden on the back of my wired weird wyvern savior. I was stunned by what I saw. The Angel Garden was ruined!” Tears brim in Hester’s eyes but do not fall. “The Archangels sent to and nourish The Angel Garden were fighting – as the girl put it – ‘like a whole basket of cats from Kilkinney’.

It pissed me off.” Hester giggles, “I ordered those two Archangels to come to me now, pointing to the dry dirt at my feet.” They were angry. And, they had a common enemy now.

“Well, I am a mother! I’m not taking sass from a couple of fallen angels who aren’t doing the jobs the Divine One sent them to do. And I’m not cleaning up after them either!” Everyone laughs aloud.

“I flew into The Angel Garden on the back of the Thunderer and I knew what I came to do. I thundered into The Angel Garden to save it. The Archangels

listened to me, but not without a lot of grouchy grumbling. So I motherly asked the Archangels why they were naked as jay birds are on the day of their birth. Seriously folks, they were clothed in nothing but bruises, scabs, and powder dry dirt. And they had no shame.” Hester shrugs, “Mothers don’t put up with no shame sass from wayward children… , even if they are Archangels.

Hester smiles, “I did what any Earth Mother would do. I kicked butt and took names. I shamed the Archangels into being buddies and partners again.

“I did a disappointed mother version of ‘ordering’ them to clean up their act and just do the job the Divine One sent them to do to and nourish The Angel Garden and then to restore it to what it was before their stunning fall from grace.

“And then I knew a thing I didn’t know at all. I demanded: “Wasn’t part of your mission here to cry Angel tears to water the garden?

“And then, motherly concerned, I asked them: “Where have you lost your wings?

“Where are your beautiful bright white angel clothes?

“Where are your white light halos?” They had no answer of course they were dim bulbs. They’d fully forgotten the reason why they were sent to The Angel Garden.

Hester grins, “You see, they both thought being assigned to The Angel Garden

was a demotion from when Michael was the D.O.’s strong right arm, and Gabriel was Michael’s strong right arm. More than that, Michael and Gabriel were best buds – before.

“However, the Archangel in The Angel Garden with Michael was named ‘Gabre-EL’, and they weren’t getting along well at all. All that dark energy and fighting filled the dome like Black Sunday. Or as the girl phrased it ‘like a whole basket of cantankerous cats from Kilkinney’.

“Okay, I like this limerick so I’m saying it: ‘There once were two cats from Kilkinney. They each thought there was one cat too many. So they fought and they fit, and they scratched and they bit, until instead of two cats there weren’t any’.

“Well those Archangels had to straighten up and fly right and I did what any good mother would do in that situation.

“I shamed them. Brutally, caustically, sarcastically, the way your mother would have done had you gotten so out of line as to willfully destroy what God had made! Really? Not happening on my watch!

“Shame worked.” Hester fans her hands. “Plus, I said no more ‘casual Fridays’ any day of the week. I expect you two to look totally angelic while you are here. And that means you do not have scratches, bruises, scars, cuts, or bruises on your bodies!” Everyone is laughing at Hester’s delivery of her tale. She continues.

“You are not in The Angel Garden to bleed. You are here to weep tears of joy for

have been assigned to The Angel Garden. It’s a plum assignment, you foolish, fickle fallen angels!

“How far you have fallen from grace to even imagine that the Divine One would give you a demotion! Que tonto! Que increable estupido! He gave you a plum assignment. He even cherry picked it for you! And if you eat all the cherries I’m coming for you!” Everyone laughs and claps. Hester grins. “The Archangels laughed too, they laughed so hard they cried tears of joy… , like they were supposed to do from the beginning.

“Now The Angel Garden is whole and healthy again, and the Angels are proud and happy. I think they are the ones who are creating new plants in The Angel Garden… , even tropical plants like papaya and pineapple. Who’d have thunk it?

Shawn Gallaway – The Artist

Hester waits until the applause and laughter stop, then, moist-eyed smiling, she says: “I want to personally thank each and every one of you for so generously dedicating your time and effort in the next few weeks to helping preserve the produce from The Angel Garden.

“Bam and Melt will be our distributors for the surplus canned produce.” She pauses for the shock to settle and grins assurance. “There will be surplus, even if we generously share with our families, friends and neighbors. See those two Archangels are not just picking and grinning in The Angel Garden. They’re creating new fruits and vegetables, and opening inner spaces for them to grow and thrive. And, we all know the Whites always follow heart guidance, and people in need that we don’t know but they do, will also share the wealth of produce from The Angel Garden.” She grins, “Let’s call it a tithe. The Divine One does. And Earth Mother is always generous, true, and unavoidably at one with the One.

She claps her hands in girlish glee: “Thank every one of you for being Thunderers!”

About The Author

When I was age three to four, I became wickedly angry about something, and Mom was no help. I went to the source, and I demanded to know why I agreed to come here and why I agreed to do this! The master said, “You have not because you ask not,” and I took that to heart. I asked.

The divine one replied, “I can tell you everything you want to know about why you came to life, what you agreed to do, and even why you agreed to do that, but then you will have to forget.”

“Why will I have to forget?” I demanded.

The DO was silent for an infinite eternity then replied, “So that you will live and experience the pain, the anger, the injustice, the slings and arrows of cruel fate that befalls humans in one way or another, at one time or another, while they still remain in their body, mind, and brain. Their earth suit.

“The spirit that inspires (the breath of life) and animates (quickens) the earth suit into life is, was, and always will be, infinite and eternal. A wise man once said, ‘God is a circle whose center is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere.’

“In truth, man cannot be outside of the presence of the divine. Yet, in the conscious mind of man, the source of all and everything is ‘out there.’ It does not indwell the body, mind, and brain of man.

“I gave mankind intelligence, reasoning power, and choice. Those gifts are placed into the conscious mind of man, where the co-creator lives. Man most deeply trusts linear thinking. Paradox.

“To give perspective, the electromagnetic energy of the heart center is five thousand times greater than the electromagnetic energy of the mind. The paradox is not opposing opposites. It’s more of a two-step.

“The co-creator mind is designed to collect the facts, figures, and data points of the physical plane, even empirical evidence. It is designed to consider possible outcomes—the likely ones, the lovely ones, even the really nasty ugly ones— and take all that evidence to the heart center and be at peace with it there until the conscious mind knows what it wants, why it wants it, and all the ways and reasons that the co-creator chooses to make the world a better place than it was before.

“That’s why you must forget now because only you can load up the co-creator mind of yours with all the good, the bad, and the ugly experiences of life. Only you can teach and invite your co-creator mind to you in the heart center, and you can do that only when it is your time to do what you came to life to do.

“Then will you write Fibonacci Tales books.”

2016.

“Welcome home again, crone of mine. Now is the time that you

everything you forgot when I answered your questions of why you came to life and what you came to do.

“Now it is time to accept, and to know that you are eLBe. That eLBe is the author of the Fibonacci Tales books. That the Fibonacci Tales books will change the world, one reader at a time.”