This is why the elite like “blood transfusions”. They like to “be seen as” and angel, and they “harvest” them for these fluids, for this “blood-born and known” angelic identity and the “life” it holds. Vampires think of us as a commodity. Theyve been asking if a woman is “compatible” and are told “she’s compatible with everyone” so she must be O+ / O-. (O positive (O+) is not the universal blood type for everyone; O negative (O-) is the true universal red blood cell donor, meaning it can go to any patient in emergencies, but O positive is the most common and often used in trauma when types are unknown because most people have positive blood. O+ can donate to all positive types (A+, B+, AB+, O+), making it widely needed, but O- lacks A, B, and Rh antigens, allowing it to be given to anyone.)
“The blood holds the life.” — Deuteronomy 12:23–24
In Hoodoo understanding, this verse is not poetic language—it is spiritual law. Blood is not just fluid; it is carrier, witness, and record. Scripture says plainly that the life (the nephesh) is in the blood, meaning that memory, lineage, trauma, blessing, and covenant all move through it. This is why Hoodoo work is careful, ethical, and lineage-aware: when you touch blood—literally or symbolically—you are touching life itself.
From a Hoodoo perspective, blood explains why ancestry matters. What our ancestors endured did not disappear when their bodies returned to the earth; it traveled forward in bloodlines. This is why certain gifts, fears, illnesses, strengths, and callings appear generation after generation. Blood remembers. It carries spiritual residue—both wounds and wisdom. Hoodoo is not about escaping that truth, but working with it responsibly: cleansing what was harmed, strengthening what was righteous, and restoring what was broken.
This is also why Hoodoo rejects reckless manipulation. If life is in the blood, then forcing outcomes, binding wills, or acting without discernment is a violation of divine order. Elders taught that improper work “comes back through the blood,” affecting family, health, and spirit. True root-work seeks alignment, not domination—because blood answers to Yah, not human ego.
Blood also explains why prayer works. When Psalms are spoken, when hands are laid on, when healing is done righteously, the work reaches beyond the surface and speaks to the blood—to the deepest level of being. Healing the blood means healing the soul, the lineage, and the future.
In short, Deuteronomy 12:23–24 teaches the foundation of Hoodoo wisdom: life is sacred, lineage is real, and spiritual work must honor the blood it touches. To work roots without respecting blood is to work blindly. To honor the blood is to honor life itself.
Sometimes life takes everything from you—your career, your purpose, even your voice. That’s what Elaine believed, until the day she knelt in front of a dying shelter dog and heard, without words, that she was still needed.
“They called me a dinosaur—right to my face—while scrolling TikTok in my class.”
My name is Elaine Morris. I taught English literature at Midstate College in Springfield, Missouri, for thirty-four years. And this spring, I retired. Quietly. Unnoticed. No banners. No flowers. Not even a handshake from the dean.
I walked out of Room 204 with a box of worn paperbacks, three dried-up markers, and a half-used tin of Earl Grey tea. And I left behind a classroom that used to feel like a cathedral.
I started teaching in 1989. Back then, students took notes with pencils that squeaked across paper. They raised their hands. They stayed after class to argue about The Grapes of Wrath. I remember a farm boy named Tyler who cried reading Of Mice and Men—said it reminded him of putting down his granddad’s dog. Another girl, Amanda, wrote me a letter on real stationery after graduation. I still keep it in my nightstand.
But now?
Now they scroll. They ask if they can just “email it” instead of speaking aloud. I used to say, “Turn to page 64.” Now I say, “Make sure your Wi-Fi’s working.”
Last semester, one of them called me “outdated.” Another, a redheaded boy with expensive shoes, laughed and said, “No offense, but lectures are like… boomer YouTube.”
They didn’t mean it to be cruel. That’s the worst part. They didn’t even look up.
So I stopped asking them to.
I drank my tea. Read my poetry out loud like I always had. And walked out that last day with nobody knowing it was the last.
Except Sammy, the janitor.
“Last day, huh?” he said, pausing his mop outside the door.
I nodded. He handed me a keychain I must’ve dropped a year ago. “Guess it’s yours again.”
Then he walked away.
I sat in my car for nearly twenty minutes before turning the ignition. I didn’t cry. I just stared at my hands on the steering wheel, wondering what they were supposed to hold now.
The next morning, I made oatmeal, out of habit more than hunger. Fed the birds. Listened to the wind roll off the Ozarks through my open kitchen window. And for the first time in decades, I had nowhere to be.
The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy.
I pulled out an old yearbook from 1994. There I was, on page 12, caught mid-laugh in front of a chalkboard. My hair was thick and curly then, a little wild. My arms were full of books. And my eyes looked… alive.
Now, at sixty-seven, I wear soft shoes and a wrist brace. I shuffle more than stride. And the house feels too clean, like it’s waiting for something to happen that never does.
Around 3 p.m.—the hour I used to prep for my evening class—I opened Facebook. Just to scroll. Out of boredom, I guess.
A photo stopped me.
A blurry image of a dog, posted by Greene County Shelter. White muzzle. Blind in one eye. Caption: “URGENT: Hospice foster needed for 13-year-old female, owner deceased. Not eating. Losing hope.”
Her name?
Sadie.
That name pulled something out of me I hadn’t felt in years.
Sadie was the name of my childhood dog. Brown with a white chest. Used to follow me into the hayloft and sleep with her nose under my arm. She died the night I got my acceptance letter to college. I cried into her fur until sunrise.
Now here was another Sadie. Also dying. Also forgotten.
I stared at the post until my oatmeal went cold. Then I clicked “Interested.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I walked barefoot around the living room, stopping to touch the old bookshelf I built with my father in ’72. I ran my finger across the dusty spines: Frost, Dickinson, Faulkner. No one reads them anymore.
They want screens. They want speed. They want answers before the question’s even finished.
But dogs don’t. Dogs take time.
I thought of Sadie again—both of them. And I whispered to no one, “What if I still have something left to give?”
The next morning, I drove to the shelter. First time I’d been back since volunteering as a student in ’85. The building was newer now, but it still smelled like bleach and despair. A girl with blue hair and a clipboard greeted me.
“You here for hospice fostering?” Her voice was flat, tired. “I think so,” I said. “I clicked online. About Sadie.”
She nodded. “Old gal hasn’t moved much. You sure you’re up for it?”
I smiled. “I taught college kids who thought Shakespeare was a TikToker. I think I can handle a tired dog.”
The girl laughed, just a little. Then led me past rows of cages, most full. Dogs barking, pacing, chewing on metal.
And then we stopped.
There she was. Sadie. Lying on a faded blanket, ribs showing, paws curled under like she was trying to disappear.
She didn’t lift her head.
The girl opened the gate. “Go slow.”
I knelt down—slowly, knees popping—and whispered, “Hey there, Sadie. You waiting for someone?”
Her ear twitched. Then she lifted her head. Blind eye milky, the other watery and deep.
She didn’t bark. She didn’t flinch.
She just looked at me. And didn’t look away.
I held out my hand. She leaned into it. Her fur was coarse, warm, alive.
That was the moment.
Not when I gave lectures. Not when I got tenure. Not even when I won that teaching award in 2007.
This. This silent, fragile leaning.
That was when I knew.
I had just been chosen. Not as a professor. But as a person.
I stood up, knees aching, and said to the girl, “What do I have to sign?”
The girl raised her eyebrows. “You sure?”
“I’m not sure about much these days,” I said. “But I know this: she’s not dying here.”
We rode home in silence. Sadie in the passenger seat, head down, but present. I kept one hand on the wheel and the other close to her paw. Just in case.
When we pulled into my driveway, she looked out the window. Then looked at me. And wagged her tail once.
Just once.
But it was enough to break my heart in the best possible way.
🪶 Part 2 – A Name from the Past “I didn’t expect to cry over an old dog’s name. But some names hold everything you’ve ever lost.”
Sadie was curled in the corner of my rug like she’d always lived here. One paw under her chest. The other stretched toward the fire, like she remembered what warmth was.
I sat on the couch, hands folded, staring at her the way I used to stare at midterms. Carefully. Afraid to make a sound. Afraid I’d ruin the stillness.
The vet had sent me home with a bag of medicine and warnings. Renal failure. Muscle wasting. “Don’t get attached,” he said, too casually.
I wanted to say, Sir, I’ve taught five generations of heartbreak in paperback form—of course I’ll get attached. But I just nodded. Took the pills. Paid the fee. And drove home with a silent passenger.
That first night, I left my bedroom door open. She didn’t move from the rug. I whispered, “Goodnight, Sadie,” and felt foolish for how natural it sounded.
At 3:17 a.m., I woke up to a sound I hadn’t heard in forty years. The soft tick-tick-tick of nails on hardwood. I turned toward the doorway—and there she was. Watching. Waiting.
“Come on,” I said softly. She walked in slow circles. Then climbed onto the bed like it was a mountain she’d once known.
When she laid her head on my ankle, I cried. Not loud. Just enough to remember I was still alive.
In the morning, I dug through my garage until I found it.
A cardboard box. Faded blue ink on the side: ELAINE – COLLEGE STUFF – 1985. Inside: photos, a Walkman, old letters, a bracelet from a student I’d tutored in ‘88.
And at the very bottom—a Polaroid. Me, age twelve. In overalls. Grinning like I had no idea what loss was.
Beside me: the first Sadie. Mutt of unknown origins. One ear up, one down. Her head resting on my knee like it belonged there.
I held the photo next to the new Sadie, now sleeping beside the fire. They weren’t the same dog. But grief doesn’t care about accuracy. It only cares that something you loved is gone.
And sometimes, when the world gets quiet enough… It sends you back what you lost—just with more gray.
The next few days passed in soft routines.
Morning pills in peanut butter. Short walks around the block. Long pauses at fire hydrants like they were memory stones. She refused to eat dry food, so I cooked her scrambled eggs with goat cheese.
Neighbors noticed.
One of them—Mrs. Lorna Finch, who once told me she “never trusted pit bulls”—came to the gate and said, “She looks like she belongs here.”
“She does,” I answered.
“She yours?”
“She’s mine now.”
Lorna nodded once. “Good.”
Then walked away.
That weekend, I took Sadie to the little park behind Midstate College. The one where I used to read under the big sugar maple after lectures.
I sat on a bench with Sadie at my feet, watching two kids play with a drone. They screamed at it like it was alive. Never looked at each other.
No skin. No laughter. Just tech.
I thought about my final seminar. Only four students showed up. One kept texting. Another asked if the final could be replaced by a podcast episode.
I told them to just… write me something honest. None of them did.
That afternoon in the park, I closed my eyes and spoke to Sadie like she was an old colleague. “I don’t think they even hated me,” I said. “I think they just… didn’t see me.”
Sadie let out a long breath. Like she understood. Like she’d been invisible too.
That night, I was in the kitchen cleaning out my spice drawer when the phone rang.
Landline. Still have it. Not because I need it—just because I can’t let it go.
“Elaine?” A woman’s voice. Trembling a little.
“This is she.”
“This is Melanie. Melanie Kravitz. From your 2001 Gothic Lit class.”
I dropped the paprika.
“I’m sorry to call out of nowhere. I saw a photo of you with a dog on the Greene County Shelter page. I wasn’t sure if it was you but… your hands looked the same.”
That made me laugh. They do look the same. Spotted. Veined. Honest.
“I’m a vet now,” she said. “At Ozark Hills. If you ever need a second opinion, or a favor… I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I do,” she said softly. “You told me I could write. That I didn’t have to marry my boyfriend just because he said so. That I had value.”
I couldn’t speak for a moment.
Then: “Sadie’s sick.”
“Sadie?”
“That’s the dog.”
Silence.
“My grandmother’s name was Sadie,” she said. “She raised me after my mother left.”
I felt a chill.
“Would you… would you come see her?” I asked. “I think she’s holding on for someone.”
Melanie arrived the next day. Shorter than I remembered. Hair tied up. Still had that nervous kindness in her face.
She knelt by Sadie without saying a word. Listened to her heart. Checked her gums. Then looked at me and said, “She’s tired. But she’s still in there.”
“She’s all bones.”
“So were we,” she said, “when you gave us a chance.”
That night, after Melanie left, I lay in bed with Sadie tucked into my side like a puzzle piece that finally fit.
I stared at the ceiling and whispered, “What are you trying to teach me, girl?”
No answer.
But I swear—I dreamed in color for the first time in years.
🪶 Part 3 – The Dog Knew Me First 👇👇⏬⏬
“They posted my face online, called me pathetic—and Sadie licked my hand like I was still worth something.”
It started with a ping.
I was sitting on the porch with a mug of chamomile, Sadie curled up at my feet, when my phone buzzed.
13 new notifications.
Strange. I don’t get many these days. Just newsletters, pharmacy reminders, and the occasional forwarded joke from Lorna down the street.
I tapped the screen.
The first thing I saw was my own face.
Blurry. Washed out by shelter lighting. Eyes tired. Hand gently resting on Sadie’s back.
Underneath, bold white text in a screenshot of a tweet: “Boomer professor retires, adopts dying dog to ‘feel needed.’ This is so painfully sad.”
I blinked.
The caption from the person who reposted it was worse: “She used to grade my papers. Now she’s grading kibbles.” 1,249 likes. Dozens of laughing emojis.
I stared at it for a long time. Long enough for the tea to cool in my hand.
Sadie stirred. Lifted her head.
I looked down. Her eyes were cloudy, but they found mine. She leaned forward and licked the edge of my hand—right where the skin folds into itself.
It wasn’t much. But it was real. And in that moment, it meant more than any peer-reviewed publication ever had.
By lunchtime, the post had spread.
A student I barely remembered emailed to apologize: “It wasn’t me, Dr. Morris. I just wanted you to know. Some of them are cruel.”
Some of them are cruel. That sentence hit harder than the post itself.
Because when I started teaching, cruelty wasn’t clever. It was shameful. Students might grumble or gossip, but they didn’t humiliate you publicly and call it content.
Melanie came by that afternoon, holding a brown paper bag of supplements for Sadie.
She saw my face before I could fake a smile.
“I saw it,” she said quietly. “Don’t read the comments.”
“I did.”
“I’m sorry.”
I sighed. “It’s not the words. It’s the fact that they believe them.”
Melanie sat beside me. “You saved my life once. In a classroom. In a moment. When I was just a kid with panic attacks and a spiral notebook.”
I looked at her hands—now sure, practiced, capable.
She continued, “Now you’re saving a dog who has nothing left. That’s not sad, Elaine. That’s grace.”
I didn’t reply. But I didn’t cry either. Which meant I believed her—at least a little.
That evening, I received a message on Facebook from someone named Lenny Parks.
“Saw what happened online. Don’t let them win. I work at the shelter part-time. If you’re ever up for volunteering… we could use someone like you.”
Lenny was young—mid-twenties, maybe. His profile picture showed him holding a three-legged terrier with a look of such love I couldn’t ignore it.
I hesitated. Volunteering?
I had taught Paradise Lost for three decades. Given keynote speeches on Emily Dickinson’s structural rhythms. And now a stranger thought I might be useful cleaning kennels?
Sadie sneezed beside me. A loud, wet snort of a sneeze. I laughed. Then I messaged back: “I’ll come Wednesday. If you don’t mind old bones.”
He replied instantly: “The dogs won’t.”
Wednesday morning, I stood outside the shelter in worn sneakers and a cardigan I didn’t mind ruining.
Inside, the scent of bleach and wet fur wrapped around me like a memory.
Lenny met me at the door.
“You made it.”
“I said I would.”
He smiled. “I like that. People say a lot these days. Doesn’t mean much.”
He handed me gloves and led me to the back.
“Start with kennel 12. Old lab mix named Rufus. Doesn’t bite. Just moans a lot.”
I nodded. “Sounds familiar.”
I hadn’t scooped dog poop since the 80s. But the body remembers things.
I cleaned. I scrubbed. I cooed at trembling muzzles.
It was messy, exhausting, and smelled like heartbreak. But for the first time in months, I felt useful.
And the dogs didn’t care that I was old. Or mocked online. Or no longer “relevant.”
They only cared that I came back.
That afternoon, while rinsing out a metal bowl, I heard barking from the lobby. Not panic barking. Excited. Hopeful.
A family was adopting. Lenny waved me over.
“You want to say goodbye to Charlie? He’s heading home.”
I peeked around the corner.
A pit mix with bright eyes and a crooked tail was wagging so hard he nearly fell over. A little girl with freckles kissed his nose.
I smiled.
And something inside me whispered, Maybe there’s still a place for you here.
But peace doesn’t stay long.
Not in this world.
That night, I got a call from the shelter. Rufus had bitten a volunteer. They were short-staffed. Would I come?
I grabbed my keys and went.
When I arrived, Rufus was cowering in the corner of his kennel. His teeth bared—not in aggression, but in fear.
I knelt, slowly. Spoke in the voice I used when freshmen cried in my office after a bad grade.
“It’s okay, boy. You’re not in trouble.”
He looked at me, then collapsed into my lap like a falling tree.
I stroked his back, felt every rib. So much weight gone. So much trust still left.
And then I said it, out loud: “Maybe I’m not done teaching.”
Not people. Not anymore. But these forgotten souls?
They still listened. They still learned.
When I got home, Sadie was curled on the couch, tail thumping once as I entered.
I sat beside her and opened my laptop. The viral post was still spreading. But something new had appeared.
A comment.
From a stranger.
It read: “She taught me Shakespeare and grace. Now she’s teaching me what love looks like at the end of life. Thank you, Dr. Morris.”
I didn’t recognize the name.
Didn’t need to.
Because some lessons take years to bloom. And some students grow in silence.
Later that night, I stood at the back window, watching the moonlight hit the frost on the garden stones.
Sadie came up behind me. Rested her head against my knee.
We stand at the threshold of a great dawning. Something deep within life is changing. An era is ending & at the very core of creation, something new is being born. We are awakening from a long, collective sleep, an in-vitro dreaming deep within the womb of our Mother Earth.
Now is the time of a great shifting of cosmic wheels, which will result in the reformation of our Earth & trigger a radical shift in consciousness.
A galactic tidal wave of light is descending upon the Earth, activating the highest potential, raising the frequency. Reality is being reformed, redefined. The activation of new neural pathways will trigger new perceptions, new information, new impulses & a re-calibration of DNA. Open yourself to these higher dimensional frequencies. Let go.
Love each other in these coming times. Be kind to each other. Gather in community, share yourself, live your dream, live your heart. Open. Open yourself.
Be prepared for the challenges to come, the dark times of chaos & upheaval. We will experience a dynamic re-calibration of electromagnetic fields & Earth systems on a global scale. Stay present. Stay calm & centered. Try not to judge what is happening. Surrender to the process. Hold firm in the knowledge of what is being birthed.
The process of birthing is an awesome undertaking, an arduous task, often fraught with intensity. Stay in the heart. Stay connected to Beloved friends & family. Remember that this too shall pass & is a necessary purification, a great purge of all that is not in resonance with what is being born within us.
All will be redeemed & reformed in miraculous ways. Chaos will become peace & sorrow will become joy. Trust. Trust with love.
The butterfly is a marvellous demonstration of the power within trust & vulnerability & in the miracle of metamorphosis. After all, what is a butterfly if not the flowering of caterpillar beyond its wildest dreams? Emerging from the womb of the chrysalis, the butterfly discards its restrictive silken and shell, to inherit a magical new world of flowers, breezes & sunshine. A world of freedom & delight & a celebration of its divine nature.
Spreading her wings for the first time, she has no idea whether she can fly, she simply opens her wings in perfect confidence & is effortlessly conveyed into the spiral dance of graceful flight. And all that then remains is the joyous participation in the divine ecstasy of creation.
As you turn your light inward & witness your true nature, you become an empty mirror & go beyond beliefs or doctrines. Dissolving the veils, the formless takes form. Going or coming, we are in the right place.
As the veils are lifted, we will perceive worlds of unimaginable beauty. Self-transforming astral worlds of light will shine down & interpenetrate the density of matter, making it translucent, less dense, & more permeable to our thoughts & feelings.
Multi-dimensional reality & the interconnectedness of all things will be as clear as sunlight. And just as the light is not separate from the sun & the wave is not separate from the ocean, so shall we realize our connection to the source & recognise ourselves in each other, as one vast ocean of love & light.
Let the divine recognise the divine. Lights will find other lights. And as the spark ignites within you, so it will ignite in others, in a majestic radiance of consciousness & set the world alight in its magnificence.
A new world without fear, without war, without greed in the safe custodianship of an awakened species, manifesting peace with love, light & celebration.
May the Divine Mother bless all sentient beings as her children. May the ascended ones bless mankind. May religion be swept away by the revelation of what we are. May the children of the Earth understand that this is to be a birthing place for a new humanity. The birthing of a new wo/man, utterly discontinuous from the past; released, transformed, metamorphosed into a multidimensional being; conscious, Whole & FREE.
You can read all the books in the world, retain all the knowledge your brain can absorb, have the highest forms of degrees and still MISS THE MARK!
* The Mark is ASCENSION!!
* The Mark is FREEDOM!!
• The Mark is TRUTH!!
* The Mark is YOU!!
What the Elites did was make Book Knowledge more important than Intuition & Discernment! When in reality book knowledge will never compare to a mind educated by Nature & The Aether! They also made knowledge competitive and awarded pol for finding the best answers outside of themselves! When honestly, All we’re doing in every aspect of life is moving up and down the Tree of Good and Evil / Tree of KNOWLEDGE!
To break free from the chains of knowledge one must realize knowledge is not the FINAL answer to life!! It’s the TREE OF LIFE that holds the keys to Ascension!
The Tree of Life is what’s beyond the Tree of Knowledge! Gotta Keep going!
* Y’all are conquering the lesser Tree tryna figure out what’s the hold up!
If there’s any knowledge to obtain it’s the meaning & understanding of THE TREE OF LIFE!
The Tree of Life is just
* Your Chakras…
* Your Energy Points…
* Your Inner Planets…
* Heaven, Earth & Hell…
The Elites keep feeding your Left Brain! They want you to fight and quarrel over the lies and half truths they fed to us in books because that thinking keeps you away from ascension! When you don’t ascend you become recycled energy for Father Time/Set/Saturn/ Satan!
Ascension is KEY!!
I know you Love to Read & you Love your Degrees… but just remember, YOU’RE SMARTER THAN THAT!!!
Some of you are in alignment and agreement with what others say about you. It’s not true. You are the originator. They want to take your originality, and replace it with their own bullslip. Your inner g is so bright, you’re the prize!! They must have you believe in your smallness, your rewritten purpose. They need you to use your light to balance their darkness. They need you to give them permission to steer your life, experiences, and potential.
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They target the mind, filling it with jargon and trash. They need you in agreement with whatever storyline they give you. They need you to agree to your own limitations, your helpless inability to affect positive change. They need you to rely on them to tell you who you are and what you are capable of. Permitted. They take your song, the blessing of God given essence, coded particularly with your own self for personal expression in this world, and they change the notes, the tune, the tempo. And they’ll rewrite it occasionally, rescript you .. f them bishes.
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You know how many times I’ve been told I’d never make it on my own? That i lacked what it took to care for self? Many. And i said piss the f off!! And at times i survived on top ramen and baked potatoes, but I actually really love baked potatoes and top ramen. Public transportation … bicycle transport … sleeping on the floor in a sparsely furnished apartment .. f-them. Freedom often doesn’t look extravagant. But it’s priceless and worth fighting for.
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If you’re not able to control your anger, if you continue to feel lower vibrational emotions and feed into them regularly, then you’re affectively sabotaging your own happiness.
Stop owning every lower vibrational thought form that your receiver (mind) picks up on from the atmospher, the ethers. Not all energy or thought that passes through you belongs to you. Stop catching it and holding on to it. Watch it arrive, breathe, and “watch” it, feel it, as it releases.
They’ve been harvesting “bio plasma” eg: human energy, and using it to generate false telepathic connections.
They’ve been trying to give the true psychics a bad name. I believe many of the mental ailments people suffer from are due to this also.
I’m certain it’s not just Russia. We have some energy harvesters right here in the USA selling electric cars.
Folks don’t know where the actual energy comes from …
Every time they go to a concert, a sports event, or any other large entertainment being “provided” … the energy is siphoned and stored and sold … and utilized to prolong their youth and health.
Every ticket bought, every event attended, is an exchange … you essentially pay the entertainer to take your vital force and shorten your life, fueling their perpetual youth while you get sick.
Those who give a gift, thinking they have purchased authority over your life are very dangerous people. Ignorance isn’t always bliss, especially for those who “receive”.
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I choose me, respectfully.
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If you can’t see any portion of Self in the people you are hanging around, you’re either hanging with the wrong people, or are undercover gathering data against the mob.
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Live your Soul, Not your role.
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… no … you’re gonna get your karma and I’m getting off this F’d up road!
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Love IS a choice. Even when it’s frustrating, even when it hurts. Even when you’re not getting what you need from the relationship but you don’t throw them out, because you want them to land in a situation where they won’t suffer. Love IS a choice. But it is also a choice to love self enough to permit release.
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If you don’t spend time nurturing your inner child, how do you expect your sense of confidence and natural ability to heal, to grow and develop?
What you do for your inner child, you do for yourself.
Blessings 🐾🌿
(Art: KEI ACEDERA)
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We are simultaneously One and a plurality. To different degrees, parts may be more in harmony with the whole or they may be more alienated.
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There are books I haven’t read
There are poems I haven’t written
There are trees I haven’t touched
And each one asks me why
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Love keeps you young
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Do you still not know that the way to the truth stands open only to those without intentions? We tie ourselves up with intentions, not mindful of the fact that intention is the limitation. ~ Carl G. Jung
I was given another life May 29, 1996 when I wrapped my car around a telephone pole, just before my 30th birthday.
The matrix had ‘programmed’ my horrifying fate that day.
The Divine interceded, decided I needed to remain.
My “conscious” spiritual warfare began at the age of 36 (= 9, endings).
Oh, the joys they had tearing apart my mind, feasting on my emotion, my energy!
It finally eased at the age of 58 (= 13, friday the 13th is considered the day of the goddess = 4, strong foundations and mental stability = protected by angels).
Twenty-two years of transformation and rebirth (a number of mastery).
Thanks be to The Most High God, Heavenly Father, Divine Mother and my King, my Beautiful, my Scary, my Everything … for never leaving me, for preparing me, and for showing me without doubt my life is valuable, priceless, and Divine.
opensenseme 