It amazes me still. For 22 years I had what seemed to be 1,000’s of people having a Ball in my mind, in my energy. A regular dance party, a feast! Disruption in the highest!! The Divine sent me in with a mission, and a mission statement … “Learn as much as you can about as much as you can”. My whole life I thought I was failing, life circumstances always falling apart, crumbling.
I recently thought about Royalty, true Royalty, here with us, now. Fully Present.
When things are going wrong and your family divine is being harmed, true high value one’s dive in, and get to work. That means “falling from grace”. That means becoming a “prisoner” like those you mean to assist. That means withstanding the horrors, the blame, wearing the pain, the shame and rebelling against those who insist you are a sinner for even existing.
All of the firsthand testimony of what had occurred to them, the testimony of everything they witnessed being done to others, the secrets they uncover of the abusers, just by surviving, the endurance and strength gained by standing in the fires of destruction … persevering. Secrets, uncovering …
When God decided enough was enough, when you, as transmitters/receivers of the divine had collected sufficient information necessary to secure a victory, Mother Father moved with the Family … and Boy, how did they!!
I am grateful for this life. I am grateful for you, collective! Thank you for your service to Life, to Family, to the Most High Divine. Because of you, the Human Race will continue to exist.
Back to square one. The “Originals” have awoken. The “Myths” have come alive.
These ones attempt to CRISPR everyone, failed … You were too stubborn, the connections to Source, the inner still voice, too strong.
When God said the dead would rise … they have. But these “dead” were never dead, such as we’ve been told the dead would be … They, too, were collecting data from across many dimensions and realms, many vibratory frequencies. Family.
The little boy came to our table of leather-clad bikers and slammed down a paper that said “DADDY’S FUNERAL – NEED SCARY MEN.”
His tiny fingers were still stained with marker ink, and his Superman cape was on backwards. The diner went dead silent as fifteen members of the Iron Wolves MC stared at this kid who couldn’t have weighed forty pounds soaking wet.
“My mom said I can’t ask you,” he announced, his chin jutting out defiantly. “But she’s crying all the time and the mean boys at school said daddy won’t go to heaven without scary men to protect him.”
Big Tom, who’d done two tours in Afghanistan and had a skull tattooed on his neck, carefully picked up the paper. It was a child’s drawing of stick figures on motorcycles surrounding a coffin, with “PLEASE COME” written in backwards letters.
“Where’s your mom, little man?” Tom asked, his voice a low rumble that usually preceded a fight, but was now impossibly gentle. The boy pointed through the window to a beat-up Toyota where a young woman sat with her head in her hands. “She’s scared of you. Everyone’s scared of you. That’s why I need you.”
I’d seen Tom break a man’s jaw for disrespecting his bike. But his hands shook as he read what else was on that paper – a date, tomorrow, and an address for Riverside Cemetery.
“What was your daddy’s name?” someone asked from the back. “Officer Marcus Rivera,” the boy said proudly. “He was a police. A bad man shot him.”
The silence in the diner got heavier, thick enough to choke on. Cops and bikers weren’t exactly natural allies. Most of us had been hassled, profiled, some even beaten by police. And now this cop’s kid was asking us to honor his fallen father.
Tom stood up slowly, his towering frame casting a shadow over the small table. “What’s your name, superman?”
“Miguel. Miguel Rivera.”
“Well, Miguel Rivera,” Tom said, kneeling down so he was eye to eye with the boy, a giant meeting a sparrow. “You tell your mom that your daddy’s going to have the biggest, loudest, scariest escort to heaven any police officer ever had.”
The boy’s eyes went wide. “Really? You’ll come?”
“Brother,” Snake spoke up from the corner, and I could hear the conflict in his voice. “He was a cop.”
“He was a father,” Tom said firmly, his gaze never leaving Miguel’s. “And this little warrior just did the bravest thing I’ve seen all year. We ride.”
The next morning, I arrived at the cemetery two hours early. I thought I’d be the only one, a chance to get my head right before the awkwardness and the stares. But then my jaw dropped.
The narrow road leading to the cemetery entrance was already lined with bikes. Not just the fifteen of us from the diner, but our entire chapter. Forty men, standing quietly by their polished Harleys, the morning sun glinting off the chrome. But that wasn’t what stopped my heart. Further down the road, another group was pulling in. The Vipers. Our bitter rivals. And behind them, the Sons of Odin. Word had gotten out. A call had been made for scary men, and the entire goddamn scary underworld had answered.
When the funeral procession finally arrived, the hearse slowed to a stop. I saw Miguel in the car behind it, his small face pressed against the glass. His mother looked up, and her hand flew to her mouth, her expression of fear melting into stunned disbelief.
There were over a hundred of us. A silent army of leather and steel.
At some unseen signal from Tom, a hundred engines roared to life at the exact same instant. The sound was biblical. It wasn’t angry or aggressive; it was a deep, thundering proclamation. We are here. We formed a double line, a guard of honor for the hearse and the family, and escorted them through the gates. At the graveside, a small group of uniformed officers stood stiffly, their honor guard looking tense as we dismounted. They watched us, we watched them. But there was no trouble. We formed a wide, silent circle around the service, our backs to the family, facing outward. We were a wall, protecting their grief from the world.
After the service, as the last of the mourners were leaving, the police chief walked over to Big Tom. He was a hard-looking man I’d seen on the news a dozen times. He stopped, looked at Tom, then at the sea of bikers standing in silent respect.
“I… I don’t have the words,” the chief said, his voice rough. “Officer Rivera was a good man.”
Tom just gave a short, sharp nod. “He had a good son.”
That’s when I saw Miguel, holding his mother’s hand, walking purposefully toward us. He stopped in front of Tom, who immediately knelt down again. Miguel wasn’t wearing his cape anymore. He was holding the folded American flag from his father’s coffin.
He held it out. “This is for you,” he said, his voice clear and steady.
Tom gently pushed it back. “No, little man. That’s yours. That’s your daddy’s.”
“My daddy was a hero,” Miguel said, pushing the flag firmly into Tom’s huge, tattooed hand. “He protected people. And today, you protected him.”
Tom stared at the flag in his hand, his jaw working, his whole body trembling. The man I’d seen walk through a bar fight without flinching was completely undone by a forty-pound superhero. He couldn’t speak. He just nodded, his eyes shining with tears he refused to let fall.
We didn’t ride away with a roar. We left one by one, a quiet rumble that spoke of a respect that went deeper than clubs or colors or the badges on a uniform.
We had come because a little boy asked for scary men. But we left knowing we’d just met the bravest one of all.
[Verse 1] I am not afraid I am not afraid of I am not afraid Not afraid of the dark I am okay here I can create here I am not afraid Not afraid of the dark I am not afraid I am not afraid of Not afraid of the dark I am ok here I can create here
[Verse 2] I am the light Lean into the light Everything is right here I become the light here I’m not afraid I am not afraid I am not afraid of Not afraid of the dark I can create here I am okay here I am not afraid I am not afraid of Not afraid of the dark I can create here
[Verse 3] I am all right here I am the light herе I am not afraid I am not afraid of Not afraid of the dark Fall into the space Fall into thе space I am not afraid I am not afraid of Not afraid to fall Fall into the space I am not afraid I am not afraid of Not afraid of the dark I can create here
[Verse 4] I am okay here I am not afraid Fall into the space Fall into the space I am not afraid I am not afraid of Not afraid of the dark Not afraid of the fall Into the space Into the space I can create I am not afraid of I am not afraid I am not afraid of
“When Little Red Riding Hood Defeats the wolf – When the lamb becomes the lion – And the prey becomes the huntress – Everyone acts surprised.
As if they did not see her coming. As if they did not place the salt on her wounds. As if they did not cut her open, open her wide – Expect her to swallow her defeat.
They should’ve learned A long time ago Exactly who she was. You saw the scars. You saw the battle wounds. You knew she survived them.
So tell me, What kind of woman survives this kind of war? Only a woman who is the war.
Who brings the war with her, Her bare naked feet filled with soot, Scorched earth between her toes. They tried to pour ice into her lungs – Tried to keep the truth buried, frozen – Tried to keep her quiet, but they forgot –
She still breathes fire because she was made from it.
You will ask her to bow and she will climb. You will ask her to crawl and she will rise. You will ask her to die and she will be reborn. You will bury her and she will grow.
You should’ve known that This is not a woman Who fears the wolf. The wolf fears her.”
🐺 Shahida Arabi 🎨 Lisa Aisato Artist Via Sacred Sisters Full Moon Circle
Ay-hay, nitotem. Sit with me by the fire awhile. Let me tell you a story—one the ancestors placed in my heart when I was young and full of hurt, and one that’s kept me walking straight even when the winds of sorrow tried to bend me.
Long ago, before the town came, before the hydro dams took the breath from our rivers, there was a boy named Kīsikāw, which means “He Who Comes From the Sky.” He was born during a thunderstorm—his first cries were swallowed by the roar of the heavens, and the old ones said he was destined to carry lightning in his heart. But that lightning—it’s a dangerous thing, êkwa—because it can burn just as easily as it can shine.
Kīsikāw grew up in a house where love was a quiet, broken thing. His father, wounded by residential school, carried pain like a second skin. He didn’t know how to be gentle. His words struck like fists. His silence cut deeper. And his mother, she tried—oh, how she tried—but she was drowning in her own grief. The boy learned early that some wounds don’t bleed on the outside.
When Kīsikāw was older, he carried that pain like a bone knife tucked under his ribs. He judged quickly, he rejected before he could be rejected, and his shame made him sharp. People saw him as cold, but really, he was just trying not to break apart.
Then, one day, an old woman named Nôhkom Iskwew came to him. She had eyes like the still waters of Pimicikamak, deep and watching. She said, “Grandson, the hurt you carry—did it make you stronger, or just harder?” He couldn’t answer. “You carry the hurt of generations, but you have the chance to be the one who lays it down. Be the one who breaks the chain, not the one who binds it tighter.”
He sat with that. It didn’t make sense at first. How do you heal by opening old wounds? But she told him: “When you were judged, did you not cry out for understanding? When you were cast aside, did you not long for someone to accept you, as you are? Then be that someone.”
And slowly—like the river thawing in spring—he began to change. He learned to listen without defending. To forgive without forgetting. To speak from his heart instead of his pain. He chose to be gentle where his father was harsh. To love fiercely where he was taught to be silent. He became the man he needed as a boy, and in doing so, he healed not only himself, but his children, and their children too.
So I say to you, kîsikâw pîsim, sun-child: be the one who breaks the cycle. Choose compassion over cruelty. Choose to be medicine, not more poison. You are not what happened to you—you are what you choose to become from it.
That is our way. That is the power of pimâtisiwin—the sacred life. Carry it gently.
So reach for me Like the petals of a rose Bloom in it’s season Gentle and slow My body is the mountain The ocean, the river The sand and the soil The life giver So come on now, my friend Speak to me Help me understand Let us walk together Take my hand And we will heal this land
3 short years ago. I thought it was djinn, but it could have been military…. Who knows?
I have never claimed to know it all. I learn as I go. I graduated beyond this experience 3 years ago. Folks who wish to criticize can play teacher on their own channel. I am not anyones religious guru. I was raised in the wilderness by a narcissist who never talked about God. We unknowings are typically the target of the knowing. I raised myself to the best of my ability. I posted this memory as evidence, and reminder, as to where I was vs where I currently am. There is nothing shameful about our journey … Every ounce of knowing developed along the way makes us who we are. There will always be someone who judges our story as insufficient and dangerous for the world. This is what is dangerous, telling the bird it cannot fly without permission. When the Most High, according to my knowing, kicks us out the nest … And says, fly. It upsets me I even have to defend this traumatic memory from an “all knowing” invisible “teacher” who isn’t thee Creator Divine.
Here is another memory from right about this time, info gather from additional research and inquiry…
We are all wounded, bearing invisible scars that lie deep within our souls— where no light dares to reach. We move through life with hearts stitched together by trembling hands and whispered hopes, praying that no one looks too closely. The world teaches us to wear masks, to force a smile when it hurts, to cover our cracks and pretend we are whole.
But the truth is, we are all broken— each of us carrying untold stories we’re too scared to share. The mother who sheds silent tears long after her children have drifted to sleep. The man who laughs the loudest, masking an emptiness that echoes through the night. The friend who always says, “I’m fine,” because she knows that no one truly asks twice.
We bleed differently. Some wounds are fresh— still raw and aching to the touch. Others have formed fragile scabs, but the pain lingers like a ghost, haunting us when we press too hard. And some are buried so deep we’ve convinced ourselves they don’t exist— until something unexpected tears them open again.
Maybe it was betrayal that shattered you. Maybe it was the love you poured out that was never returned. Maybe it was the dream you chased only to be left with empty hands. Or the person you lost too soon— a void that time has failed to fill. Maybe it was the harsh words you endured as a child, or the deafening silence when you needed comfort most.
But listen, love— your wounds do not make you weak. They make you human. They are proof of a life fiercely lived, of battles fought with a heart brave enough to feel. Your pain is a testament to your strength, to the resilience of a soul that refuses to give up.
And though we are all wounded, we are also healers— carrying soft words in our hearts, offering comfort through unspoken understanding. We mend each other with kind gestures, with the warmth of a gentle touch, with a reminder whispered in the quiet— “You’re not alone.” That is how we begin to heal.
So do not hide your wounds. Do not pretend they are invisible. Let them breathe— let them teach you tenderness, reminding you that every soul you meet is fighting a battle unseen.
We are all wounded, but we are also unbreakable. We may stumble, but we rise again. We may break, but we rebuild— stronger, wiser, and braver than before. Our scars are stories— not just of pain and loss but of courage and survival.
So if you feel broken today, know this, my love— you are not alone. You belong to a world of souls who wear their cracks with grace, shining light through their brokenness. And that— that is what makes us beautifully, irrevocably human.
She is his Helper; she is Wisdom—the Spiritual Law written (not on stone tablets like the Ten Commandments) but on the very heart of Christ. The woman in Revelation 12 is the actual image of God’s everlasting covenant.
My child, keep my words and store up my commandments with you; keep my commandments and live, keep my teachings as the apple of your eye; bind them on your fingers, write them on the tablet of your heart. Say to wisdom, “You are my sister.”
“In speaking of ‘a new covenant,’ he has made the first one obsolete. And what is obsolete and growing old will soon disappear” (NRS Heb. 8:13). But in Revelation John is seeing something quite different. He is witnessing the opening of the true temple… and what he sees inside is not an empty room with an obsolete stone covenant; instead, he is shown God’s Living and Spiritual Covenant–the Holy Spirit:
Then God’s temple in heaven was opened, and the ark of his covenant was seen within his temple; and there were flashes of lightning, rumblings, peals of thunder, an earthquake, and heavy hail. A great portent appeared in heaven: a woman clothed with the sun. (Rev. 11:19- 12:1)
We speak of God’s secret wisdom, a wisdom that has been hidden and that God destined for our glory before time began.” (1 Cor.2: 4-7)
God doesn’t make mistakes when He brings two together as One. It is the challenge and the blessing, and the connected management of these things which supports the Rise, and the Reward.
Together, managing the challenges well, the blessings are fortified and increased, much greater than originally.
If one chooses to be a slacker, they’ll take the original blessing, martyring the gift of the connection and leave the other with the challenge.
Sometimes, the one carrying the challenge will manage it on their own and rise exponentially, unexpectedly.
The reward is greater for this one than the original gift due to the extreme of the challenge.
The one who took the blessing and had fun at the others expense, receives no greater reward, and loses what they had, due to lack of effort, for betrayal, and for rejecting the gift of Union the Most High granted.
When Two Become One ~
It is said God / Goddess are unknowable. Humanity is made in the image of …
How many times have you noted yourself in relationship, sometimes for many years, and out of the blue you realize you never knew them? Resting in the energy, intimate in every way, yet still … unknown to you.
It isn’t a fluke or a trick, it is the hidden gem the Almighty seeded within each and every one of us, the unknowable.
Sometimes this unknowable quality is purposefully hidden.
Some think if they hide it rather than accept the challenge of metamorphosis, with Gods choice of partner, they can replace it with their own version and simply dress it up in the energy of … ‘tricking’ the Most High into believing they accepted the challenge, and ‘became’ accordingly … a villainous attempt to prove Gods Chosen unworthy by committing fraud, wearing a mask, donning their energy, and behaving in a degraded manner. They later say, I tried boss! But (s)he was a Hobag!!! The whole time the true true was buried under blame and shame.
The illusions can get very convoluted.
It is our duty in this union to grow with each other, to ‘become’ as One.
Mostly, people remain hung up on who they ‘think’ they are, they remain focused on their personal needs and desires, forgetting they are a new creation meant to increase together.
opensenseme 