Owl perches beside a centaur. A cinnamon colored bear hunkers down next to a rose quartz crystal. If you watch without blinking, you might see Coyote morph into a wizened crone and a bright-faced boy appear where a turquoise-winged archangel squats. Sometimes we all look like those little electric lights humans string about their homes at Winter Solstice.
If our forms are insubstantial, our conversation is weighty…. If you could call it conversation….
Really it is mind-talk. Spirit-talk. A soundless knowing among us. The way all beings on Earth communicate until a disintegration into separate languages engenders misunderstandings and quarrels become war. Constant war.
This is not our intent as we conjure up the two-leggeds in the Beginning Times.
For it is we who make the world. We are the powers shaping hills and rivers, pulling the clay of Earth into human forms. A single head, two legs, two arms. Ernest hearts. Brains that work pretty darn well. Free will. The ability to choose rather than follow instinctive patterns over millennia. And – is this our biggest mistake? – opposable thumbs to achieve what the brain thinks up.
Our experiment is awry. We watch the unfolding in horror. Never mind what starts it. The people of the earth are self-destructing.
It is time to do something. Past time, perhaps, to end the long sieges of the Taurean and Piscean Ages. Most agree there is nothing left but to enter into the fray to birth the Age of Aquarius. There is no way to do it from this dimension, this side of the veil. Intervention is not allowed.
We must take human form – brave the stodginess of a physical body – and, in the beginning at least, only one body for each of us. Worse, we risk The Forgetting. Not only are most humans unable to shift dimensions and bodies, they tend to forget where they have come from and why.
Do you remember?
See? We risk much. Our idea is that we incarnate in the mid-twentieth century and then once grown appear at a particular place with particular skills and particular challenges. Voila! We change the world. Miracles wrought in this little place ripple outwards to the troubled humans of the early 21st century. Time is non-linear and fluid to us so some appear as the children and grandchildren of the first group.
We aren’t entirely alone. As with any embodied human our Essential Selves – our Oversouls – stay in this ethereal dimension to guide and protect, to make connections even. The hitch? No guarantee that in our physicality we remember that fact or recognize the bird or animal or breeze that is the whispered connection to that Higher Self….
Our Council finally of one mind in this Now – in consensus on this course of action – the questions can center around the whos and wheres and hows of Operation Karmic Krew.
Actually, the where is easily decided. Many possible choices but The Mountain rising up out of the Pacific Ocean on the north Oregon coast is the catalyst bringing us together.
“I am under siege. Logging roads cross my north face. The people who once lived here are long gone, killed off by diseases brought by the Palefaces in just a few cycles of the sun. Sitka Spruce still stand who remember the Old Ones and their ways, but they are threatened as earth movers rumble and staple guns sound louder even than crows.
The Sitka envoy nods grimly. “These newest people slaughter us. We can no longer be counted on to protect the slopes of the Mountain. They do not honor us as the Old Ones do whose presence still hangs in our branches cradling the Spirit of the Land. How long can they linger? Already they tire, aching for release and the peace of other dimensions.”
In answer we all choose our parents and families, as well as a place and time of birth. Inherent in each choice is a set of challenges. A family steeped in alcoholism engenders coping skills that can serve the wider cause as long as it doesn’t involve drowning in victimhood. A family with a creative bent gives visionary skills helpful for the task ahead but also the potential for depression or the lures of the big city. A path leading through a soldiering stint in a nasty Asian war could be literally crippling…. That which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger…. as they say in the 20th century. What teachers along the way instill a love of plants, keep an artistic voice alive, or nurture coherent dreaming?
Some of us deliberate on the complicated web of details and how they play might out. Others use pendulums or well-worn tarot cards for guidance. Still others point blindly through the veil at a likely looking pair in an interesting smelling clime, trusting that it all works out. A few choose to be born on the Mountain itself. “Pinky promise!” The rest vow to show up.
Whatever our miscalculations and lucky breaks, we know a few things….
Grandmother Spider stays at the Council Fire spinning threads from our choices. Her web helps us wend our way towards each other and the Mountain where we can weave our lives into a community worthy of the Aquarian Age. Can we actually become some new version of tribe? Or is there a new word yet to be invented for this magical conglomeration of souls?
The Mountain is our beacon. Sitka is our lightening rod and shelter. The Pacific, the Rain and the River inhabit our blood. The Winds blow in both tempest and inspiration. The Earth is our Mother…. And – Ta Da! – Coyote is at loose in the world….