Meditations, Dreams, and More News from Gods I Don’t Recognize
The new spiritual doorways I intuitively felt cracking 6 months ago have opened to me rather quickly. I didn’t know how or where or what was coming, just that it was. Honestly, I still don’t know what this is or what to do with it, just that I’m not backing down and that I feel I have no alternative but to walk through the door(s) in front of me and see where I’m led. Since February, I have been following that “guidance,” even when it didn’t make sense and may have made me seem pushy as hell to some people.
What I do know is that my dreams and meditations have changed since I started using Marc Rice’s meditation techniques in earnest rather than just glossing over them as I have for several years. (You can listen to/watch hisfree YouTube meditations for more information. One of his best playlists ishere, though I currently can’t handle his binaural/whispered meditations because they’re too intense for me personally.) I’ve become very “visual” in my intuitive and empathic experiences, and that’s something I’ve not experienced often until now. Back around 2002, I was part of a poll of High Priests and High Priestesses on the question of whether we were “visual.” In other words, did we see energy, see the Dead, see things in the Ether? Although Wiccan clergy were expected to have certain gifts, including being able to “see stuff,” it turned out that only 10% of us did. I had both Pagan and Christian friends who were visual, but I was not. My visions came in dreams that were distinctly prophetic or metaphorical, or in an occasional “flash” of a memory of something that had not happened yet.
In less than two months of specific meditation techniques, I’m not only “visual,” but I’m experiencing visions that are either an ancient past or they are not in this dimension. They’ve been so insistent at times that I’ve had to take a big step back to gather my wits.
One of these visions was interpreted for me by a Kemetic Priestess who saw my description online of Gods I didn’t recognize and gave herself over to channel a message to me. I mentioned only a dozen words of description, not to the extent I provide below.
The vision started about 10 minutes into a late-night meditation, activating mypineal gland, then later moved into a dream about my deceased father. Can’t say I’ve dreamed of him often or even that he’s welcome to visit my dreams. He’s still the same, in any case. Still doesn’t listen to me. But at least he no longer raises a hand or voice to me.
The vision started in some other place. Maybe Ancient Egypt or Sumer, though it felt more like Egypt or a off-world version of Egypt. I was in my own point of view, standing, aware of my arms when I looked from side to side and aware of my body, but not able to see my own face. This is typical for me in Past Life Regressions and visions of the future. They are the same as memories, whether of the past or the future, complete with sounds, sight, smells, touch, emotions.
I stand. Head held high. Unafraid. I can sense stone beneath my feet. I am near the front of a large stone square. Not at the right corner and not in the center of this side of the square, but between the corner and middle of the wall or side. The square is raised, maybe twelve feet high or more. We are not on the ground. We are high enough to be above the heads of throngs. I’m vaguely aware of noise from below, as if people are celebrating in the street or at street-level below us. The stone at my feet, I notice when I look to my left, is brown. A light camel-brown. And dry but not hot. I’m aware of sunshine, but not so much brightness. If the weather is hot, it does not catch my notice. The stones are flat and many across this square, then short walls of stone at the perimeter. The structure is not finished but it is solid, and this is some kind of blessing. I think there are stone steps leading up to the middle of the wall where I stand, but I am not close to them and they are empty now.
I’m aware that no one else is on this square of stone with me except him. He stands in line with me on this square, but more toward the middle of this side, maybe in front of the steps. He is addressing the throngs below, doing something with his hands, some kind of gesture, like with a ribbon or tool. And he is a jackal-headed God. Not a jackal exactly, though that’s the closest I can determine. I’ve never seen a beast with a head like this one, but he has the head of a beast and the body of a strong and healthy man. He is some kind of overseer, or feels that way. He is in profile to me, and for as fearsome as he appears, I have no fear of him. None. I am simply watching him and waiting for his part of this ceremony to be done. I am assisting him somehow or even a passive participant in his blessing. I am not the focus of his words or attention, but I am in a respected and honored position.
There are glyphs and sigils everywhere. They look like they might be Egyptian, but I don’t think so. I’ve seen similar in another vision, back in the late 1990’s that was unlike any vision until now. But those sigils were on blue stone, not brown. And those were underground.
From my place on the stone square, I look into the distance and see a wooden wagon moving slowly toward this place. I notice first the beautiful woman on the wagon. She has long, long brown hair, pulled back from her face and entwined with golden rope or ribbon to fall in a single length down her shoulder, down her chest, down to her hip. She wears soft blue fabric, criss-crossing her body, flowing, like veils. She is honored, respected, moving forward through tall, wheat-like, golden grasses toward where we stand. The wagon is being moved forward, and it would seem that she is being carried on the wagon by others but I don’t see them. She seems to be a queen or someone prized in some way.
But one thing concerns me about her and I cannot, in waking, decipher it. She is tied by one wrist to a pole in the center of the wagon-bed. It makes me think upon ending the meditation that she is a prisoner, though she seems far too regal and prized to be regarded as a mere prisoner to be confined to a wagon and hauled across the grassy terrain toward what seems to be a half-built pyramid.
The meditation, after that, morphs into a dream where I am in the old garden on my parents’ farm, and it’s high in the same golden grasses as in my meditation. I am there in this two-acre plot, stepping off the acreage, being surprised at the rabbit that pops up under my nose and hops away, eventually finding myself on the other side of the square garden with Daddy, looking more as he did when he was in his 60’s and not the husk of a man that he became later in life.
We are talking, he and I. I am helping him measure off this two-acre square, and though we are working together, he is not listening to me or my needs or my joys. I was content on this plot without his presence, with only nature around me, but now I must stand my ground in conversation with him. But no matter how I hold firm, he does not listen. He never did. He always thought the best for me was his vision of the best for me. He needs my help to complete his task–measuring this plot–and I give it freely, but I never needed his help. I don’t now. Not for this small plot of land when I was just elsewhere high on a pyramid under construction, being blessed before a vast land.
I sent the following to a few friends as my way of logging the meditation and dream when I woke at 3 AM.
My Kemetic Priestess friend read it and immediately identified the God on what was, correctly, the foundation of a temple I was building, one that was being measured, just as the plot of land with my father was being measured. (The difference, I recall now, is that I felt very special on the temple and not so special in the garden plot.) This temple, as a pyramid, is a symbol of the soul’s evolution in some belief systems.
The message she delivered was one that rings true. The woman prisoner was not a prisoner but a base from which I operate or move out, then return to safe harbor. (I find this accurate because in much of my journeying and dreaming, “home” is always a place in Georgia that incorporates this garden plot and it’s always my safe harbor.) But, she says, the safe harbor has become too confining. I’ve been redefining my relationship and boundaries with my dad and our turbulent relationship since mid-February, and it’s time to move and expand into a newer base from which to operate.
I’m not stopping, but I’m taking it just slowly enough to make sure that then boundaries are fully intact as I create a new base. The foundation for this new temple in my life requires a strong foundation for my temple, the ground zero of my new empire. And as she says, “You can’t build a pyramid without the square shape of the base.”
Perhaps that small plot of land I tended with my father’s influences has become too small and confining. Perhaps the wagon that explores new worlds is just as confining. Perhaps where I need to be is standing atop the pyramid I’m building and measuring.