April 18, 2019 Root Lock

    When I first invite my ancestors to make themselves present, I feel my attention drawn to my root chakra. This is the part of my body that that always feels the most physically sick and energetically twisted, which is telling of condition Erin calls root lock; a sort of severing or walling off of energies arising from the lower chakras. I sense that there is a great build up of energy waiting to be integrated and released. This is accompanied by a images of tectonic plates, massive slabs of rock shifting deep within the Earth below. Then the movement in the Earth stops, becoming perfectly still, and I am standing on the edge of a deep hole going straight down into blackness of some unknown depth, and the energy that presents itself next is abstract sound coming up from the Earth, a shifting, warping, alien pitch; the kind of sound that moves you through the veils of time and between worlds.

   The chord that connects me to the ancient world leads first to blood and desperation and ferocity. Clashing of swords and abrasive reverberations of metal and bone. We are surrounded and cannot break through, we must push back harder and there can be no limit to the strength we summon. There can only be one way. The heavy shock of bullets shatter the nervous system and bring all capacity to act to ruin. Dehydration and hunger, spinning and sinking, the whole world is a hammer that will end me. There can be no way. Pushing and shoving, slammed against stone walls. The untouchable purity of the sky and blood on the crow's beak. Now I understand why this has all been suppressed, it is like an explosion of ferocity and fate. The soldiers and knights and fighters, those who entered an existence of war, without morality, the bringers of doom.
They echo the loudest, so I must hear them first. But then things start to ease up and quieter images begin to come through. Wading through fields, fishing around among stalks of vegetation. Silence and the wind. Fires in the yard, fires in the woods, fires in the hearth. Everyday there is a fire going. It occurs to me that our ancestors must have spent as much time in front of fires  as we do in front of screens. I'm struck by how quiet everything is compared to the buzz of the modern world, and in this old world, the electromagnetic  saturation is dramatically lower.  A child has been lost and a shirt is found in the grass. She holds it with stern acceptance of reality.

     So far there are two figures that have emerged distinctly. The first is a knight. He's a big dude. Consumed by his experiences, and shadow hangs over him. But his view of the world is unfiltered and he sees all the different paths ahead. He seems to me both ageless and ancient, like a wraith or a fey.
The second is a woman who is like a younger alternate iteration of my mother in the 17 or 1800s. She wears all white and is walking in a field of tall grass. Her presence is simultaneously demonic, like some hungry devourer of souls, but also creative and appreciating of the subtleties of expression. I think she may be a writer because she holds a book and pen. I suspect she may be involved in some kind of witchcraft, and fully embracing her status as an outsider and an evildoer, for that is how the world has framed what she does, as being synonymous with devilry and blood. She is seeing it from that angle as well. When I first see her, and she sees me, she grins and starts to grow larger and larger. Swelling to enormous size, she opens her mouth to consume me, relishing her destructive power. Once again, this individual seems to be almost more of a fey or an entity than an actual human being. Next I see her again in the fields, spinning a contraption like a modern day fidget spinner on the end of a string and having 3 spheres. There is something that strikes me as extraterrestrial in the nature of it, and I am reminded of how the ETs are now moving throughout our whole history and timelines. There are two polarities at odds within her; creative and destructive. But in this spinning of spheres, a sense of balancing.

   I am walking along the Sutton Park trail in Norman as I unearth these visualizations. I think of my lineage ahead and what I might pass on. Though I do not intend to have children, I am beginning to open to the presence of ET hybrids that carry my DNA. As I pass the lake, I suddenly visualize the one who I have come to know as Iaril or Shade walking beside me. Being a shapeshifter, she has in this moment assumed the male gender, and whenever she does this his energy bears a striking striking resemblance to mine, but more like some character that has stepped out of an anime or Final Fantasy game. I won't describe her in detail her, but would just say that she was the last figure to step forward, to offer her/his presence as a stabilizer as I dig up the sorrow and turbulence of my ancestral memory. He is my guide. Bella pops in also. I sense she is both pissed and bemused that I told Erin I don't have any guides.
  I have been interacting with the personas in my consciousness for years and I don't care if I fall through the cracks because of it, because I have already fallen through the cracks, and have nothing left to lose. I have already been swallowed by the Earth, and so like a seed I will put down roots there.