Jet Fueled and Starlit

I punched through the willow gate and no one was left standing.

I want to know the truth. I full belly inhaled as I embodied dominion over my frequency and intent. A small woman tapped my shoulder. “I will show you the truth.”

My eyes and energy consented as she began pulling me out of my body, through my right shoulder, as my dream body took charge, like a boar.

I wanted it.

Almost out of my still anchored dream form, I saw her, static like and newspaper hued. Her sterile eyes looked at me with sarcasm I detected and she spun around like Regan’s head in The Exorcist.

I um neverminded, high tailed it back into my body, and turned back into flesh form with beta brain on point.

I purged astral crud underground, awakening the faulted earth, and birthing a thousand tectonic earthquakes. I anchored my core and regulated my chaos, in the succinct way that I do. I simply choose to release the volatile south winds of thought, and allow myself to thrive, even under duress. I re-fueled, calling forth my siphoned power.

Suddenly gripped by a tickle in my right shoulder, I experienced a shift in dynamic patterns of cognition. I was stunned by the north wind inside my thoughts — the intensity, the purpose, the linear force arising between the broad perspective of my dream and the return flight to my norm. I felt that strange post dream recollection, trying to recall that moment right before I became lucid.

Lucid dreams are predictably crystal clear to recall, even decades later. The moment preceding lucidity alludes me, and tonight, haunted me. Who were those people lying on the ground? Was my dream prophetic? In my matrilineal line, we dream of death coming for friends and family, but this felt more like my own psychology. Yes, this was about me.

I was wielding the sword of destruction upon non-productive aspects of my psyche, clearing out the stagnant sludge fracturing my emotional body. Good. I love a good slay of my internal dysfunction. The prize is regaining the neutrality that my open heart affords.

We had only stopped at Roses & Thorns roadhouse to fill up water containers on our way north to Fairbanks, Alaska. I spotted and followed what looked like a game trail, but was soon transported to a labyrinthian garden, mostly dormant at this point in August, but my psychic nose knew subtle information was already entering my consciousness. A weaver of information, frequencies, and sometimes spells, I knew that we would camp the night safely locked inside the garden, to dream. Jet consented with a proud stomp. My black-cat hued familiar, my friend, and my ride, Jet always resonates with lady luck interludes.

Sovereign in nature, like me, she was more unicorn than horse. She took herself out to pasture, while I prepared for the night.

First I sat by the river and nibbled my strawberry shortcake baked by my aunt, Sister Ryan. Her aura and business card is orange scarlet and rose gold glinted. She is a dreamwalker and weaver like me, exploring the fecund space between one thought and another, between the structured names and forms of the so called real world. Reality is something to face with readiness. I find that readiness in the imaginal world where the subtler influences of life are seen in full light and at full volume.

In the garden I heard, felt, and smelled the vibrations of the plants and earth. I saw etheric forms of those who had, were, or would visit. My breed of dreamwalker and weaver, brings energetic grid work to land and the portals therein. The land, and the invisible multidimensional fields of energy, speak clearly to us when we listen in to the rhythmic voice of our own bodies.

Aunt Ryan seeded my cake with not only poppy but also with a spoonful of shungite honey to protect our travel and work. My foil wrapped cake, rich and naturally sugary to conceal the myrrh resin oil and tastefully conjure my protection, was accompanied by a medium size glass vile of mugwort oil.

She typically gifts the honey and cake at a crossroads, for protection and power in her liminal work as restorer of people, places, and portals. She invokes Hekate, to ensure that she is gifted the keys to open and close psychic doorways, with precision. I prefer to drink directly from the stream to keep my crossroads clean. I don’t worship deities. I cultivate the keys of power within my own breath and skin. I acknowledge her power, but in regards to me, her real power is in the frequency of her name and my intention connected to it. I headed to the garden. I do love her name and the magik she inspires. Io Heka Io Ho. And, truly, what we energize, is real.

Jet communed with me psychically, while still out roaming the pasture. My familiar is never far, even when a good distance away.

I was standing before a starlit crossroads deep inside the labyrinth. Hekate and I shared the cake. I danced. I breathed and moved my body arhythmically to induce trance. I dropped down to my knees, seeing flashes of the past — not mine. I journeyed into the spaces between the pain and pleasure of memories belonging to this garden. I had no agenda other than understanding the stories of the animals, the trees, the people, and the spirits of the land. I saw weddings, funerals, and births. I saw pestilence, battle, and survival. I was neutral witness, just a traveller, gathering stories and knowledge. I was ready to dream awake.

I relaxed my mind completely, dripping my consciousness fully into the time of dreams and imaginal creation. I instantly woke inside my dream.

The halls of my energetic body are like a forest of tightropes that I traverse to discover imminent disturbance or repair harmony. I weave and shape, with my frequency and psychic senses.

I traced the threads of my circulatory system and observed the rhythm and pulse. I explored the fire inside my digestive system, assimilating. I saw within my brain, the neural pathways that seem so elusive in moments gripped in obsessive compulsive disorder. I saw the good grooves and the aberrations.

Shapeshifting at will when the opportunity affords, I am often coyote, never bored, diligent with my vibe, and always curious. Will I do wheelies on my mountain bike or run with leopards through a savannah? Will I pick a new shade of aura from the colors of the rainbow I ride?

No. I wanted to know the truth. And that is when static girl arrived, carrying a suspicious package wrapped in brown paper.

Within this astral trash dump scene of tangled vines, demons posing as friendly ghosts, and stinky dried rose petals, imminent possession was blatantly forewarned.

I heard radio fuzz sound while locking eyes with static girl, still smiling her sweet creep smile, and still wreaking of metal. Not the crispness of Iron Maiden. I smelled rusty aluminum entity stink my sisters had warned me about. Apparently, in our line, the scarier entities (some are not scary) smell of aluminum, and one way to help stay clear from bringing said entities back to the home base of waking life, is Mugwort oil worn and Myrrh resin chewed with salt, or, not to beat a dead horse, through embodying the frequency of a clear intent.

My intent was to wake up. Now. I recalled that scene from Kill Bill where The Bride willed her big toe to move. I willed to wake. I commanded my nervous system to shake off the perceived paralysis and to get myself out of this astral garden.

Awake, I was standing at a starlit crossroads, with that damn brown box. I reached for my pouch of metaphysical tools. The tart spice of my Mugwort oil shifted my frequency as it touched my skin. I grabbed my lighter and lit the box on fire and tossed it into the river. Not now demon.

I know why the static girl arrived at my truth summoning moment. She was not a priestess of deliverance. She was my saboteur. The handler always arrives when we are on that golden road to our true north, especially when we dig into the energetic stories of a place. I focus to free my mental body from overthinking her relevance. Projecting too hard, I took a step back.

Now, my hearing was turned on. Just above my physical ears I could hear the soundless truth of my true north guiding me. She was not relevant and there was no lesson to be learned, no inner childhood wound to face, no shadow to alchemize into gift. She was just some rude creature I stumbled upon, while unprotected in the astral jungle.

The next step was the pivot north, beyond the intoxicating labyrinth of plant aromas and haunted ground.

I jog past Roses and Thorns red rosehips, collecting her fierce magic and generous love, medicating my heart and skin. I called for transmutation of all that bound me — inside, outside, above and below. Jet rushed next to me. Jogging calmly past the drying dying but not dead rosemary, the still rich essence ascended us beyond fight or flight or freeze.

I mounted Jet and we rode out into the northern night, lit up like a Christmas tree on fire against a shallow layer of hail. The green purple magenta was ascending and descending its glow into my quartz and gold pendant, knocking rhythmically upon my chest. Reflexes triggered my heart open to the sky’s light and my heart field broadcasted waves of freedom and space. Jet’s gold-glinted ebony eyes and my own amber-glinted green, lit up from within us, matching the night sky majesty.

We rode to higher ground, not without damage, but the past was gone.

Everything had fallen apart and gotten reassembled in the most quantum and sensual of ways. Hours passed.

Now dawn, the wet and black spruce touches my skin and soul. I Inhale fresh cold notes, clean like laundry, but unspun and dripping cloudy water and memories. I inhale the cold hour and the sun rising. I note that my body is still a rioting theatre. I instantly shift my frequency to enchant our pathway.

The Sun blazing between cumulous and cirrus, I gaze at the edges of the tritone sky. Boom flashes and rumbles, the west winds forecast a series of storms, and in this sky portal to ecstasis, I watch the daggers of gold and gray. To the east I see caribou running in smooth tandem, symbiotically juxtaposed with the heavy rain and Jet’s hooves splashing mud. Syncing up with our true north, we wrangle the storm.

Jet fueled on the edge of our frontier, the only realms really more on the edge, than Jet and I, are Space and the Ocean to the north. We ride into the bright dark with the frequency of our intent on point.

Horse hoofs pound like my heart and our rhythm gives us strength.