I have PTSD. I was diagnosed in early 2001. Although I was a wee babe at the first remembered trauma, my therapist had to switch tactics and treat me as if I were a Vietnam vet. My triggers, though, are not helicopters and fireworks: mine are the use of extra syllables evoking God's name, especially with an urgent southern wail and emitting from a distorted and discolored face."Je-hee-sus!" or "The Lor-re-duh!" exclaimed by the talking (screaming) heads of T.V. evangelists can send me straight into a panic attack.

Such encounters are more common than you'd think. Because of love of myth and the tarot, and art and fairy tales, and my unique spirituality, folks are provoked to verbally accuse and attack me. I've been called evil, satanic and demonic.

Some of the faces of the good Christian people are serene as they attempt to save my soul; a miserly few, to tell the truth. More often their countenance is a contorted display of rage and terror. How dare I, after all, not comply with their prescription of the appropriate response to their rhetorical questions?

“Do you accept Jesus Christ as your lord and savior?! Do you reject Satan and all his deception?!”

In days gone by, I would fully engage in these exchanges. I now know these are often performances rather than conversations. If I give a ‘wrong’ answer or I am impertinent enough to ask a question of my own, the face becomes more contemptuous: discolored and distorted by their fury. Back then, I didn’t know that the questions they asked were part of a preordained script. When I answered them honestly and from my heart that I believed God was Love, and Jesus came to tell us this beautiful and simple truth, their anger would escalate to a grotesque show. 

My earliest memory of Fear, incarnate, hysterically invoking the name of Jesus, was demonstrated by my mother. With the help of a therapist the year I turned forty, I pieced together the memories and nightmares from the event that formed me. My therapist hypothesized that I was sixteen months old when I was traumatized by my primary care giver, resulting in the post traumatic stress disorder I struggle with to this day. That fateful day that has colored my nightmares all these years hence, my mom witnessed me interacting playfully with the swirling lights that had accompanied me through my infancy. Mom responded dramatically; running back and forth between the bathroom and kitchen, gathering weird gizmos and creating a smelly, hot concoction, all the while wailing the prayers of her Appalachian childhood. As the volume of her prayer rose to a crescendo, she flung me face down on the floor and filled my colon with searing liquid. “Je-he-sus, help her! Lor-ed-duh! Save my baby!” she screamed in the Kentucky drawl she had otherwise obliterated from her speech.

I have learned that in the hill country the enema ritual is a means of exorcizing evil. The realization that my mother saw the lights and that she reacted the way she did in order to save me from the demonic seed she had passed on to me has brought me to a place of compassion for her and for those that have tried to save my soul since.

The intensity of their desire to confront, condemn and ultimately convert, causes me to question their convictions. I have no need to dispute their beliefs and choices. I cannot even imagine the gall it would take to approach someone and question their relationship with a higher power. 

Ironically, now, as it was in my babyhood, the screaming, cruel displays only strengthen my adoration of the lights of God. The God I know, of Love and Light and the peace that passeth understanding will never be equated with the one described by those with faces wracked in fear and mouths screaming falsehoods with flying spittle.

As I was writing the above post, and considering whether I possessed the courage to publish it, I received this voicemail from my mother. There have been many such messages on the answering machine at my art studio in the House of Rue. My mother was diagnosed over a decade ago with Schizotypal Personality Disorder with psychotic breaks. She has been misdiagnosed over the years, but this one seems to stand the test. My mother's refusal for treatment of any kind, her determination to carry out the 'work of God', and my father's compliance with her will have made it impossible to have a relationship with my parents.

What if the naysayers are right? What if there is no magic, no spirit, no point? What if LOVE is a commodity,to be bought and sold to the highest bidder, and worth is measured by dollars and cents? What then?

My personal, emotional response is that I would be nothing. Worse, actually, than No Thing: I will have become a burden and a disgrace. And, as I have forged my way on this stubborn, delusional path I've wandered, many have followed. Am I now responsible for their fate? Have I deceived them, taken advantage of their belief in me?

I clearly have more questions than answers today. My God, Love, will again win out over fear, eventually...

Love, Art, Dreams, God, Tarot...

The list could continue indefinitely, literally to infinity, inclusive of all truth; Joy, Synchronicity, Yoga, Courage, Awareness, Humility, Gratitude, Divinity. It is singular and all Love, in expression and comprehension. It is Exaltation. I believe exaltation is available to each of us, and is, in fact, our birthright.

I believe there are one thousand paths to enlightenment, and the magnificent voyage of our inner being. The truth wants to be experienced. God does love us, each and all, and Glory is ours, for the pursuit. All that is required is an openness to gnosis; knowledge. The knowing is already there. We just need to learn to allow it.

The Journey of the Fool in First Person is my story. Ruevelation is my personal truth revealed, through the symbology of the collective psyche, and the archetypes of the major arcana of the tarot are the characters in The Journey of the Fool in First Person. It really is about the quest, so to speak, literally the question. We can explore our questions with the tarot in a personal, and universal way.

In rereading my previous blog; "Differentiating Between Spirit Guides and Others", I realize that between the white and the black of high frequency compared to low frequency, there is a whole spectrum of variables! The last paragraph of the blog post is absolutely true:

The continuum mostly consists of the in between of the poles, and where most of us vibrate most of the time.

The noble Spirit of Love is palpable, and above all scrutiny. The experience of this connection is the highest Truth, a surging sensation of numinous rapture, is undeniable and metabolically altering; what I call a Joygasm. We, in human form, can not maintain this ecstasy for more than moments, but once we have, we know the indescribable, unmistakable powerful vibration of Love. The sensation courses through the lay lines of a geometry sacred and sublime, awakening an awareness of our connection to all that is, in Truth and Light.

The lowest frequency at the opposite pole is in the apparent darkness, and in the absence of Light. It is an experience of literal despair, as in the root meaning of the word: Middle English despeiren, from Anglo-French desperer, from Latin desperare, from de- + sperare to hope; akin to Latin spes hope. To despair is to be cut off from hope. The Hope is always there, one with Light and Love. To feel separate of it is a devastating illusion.

Big Stuff! Mind blowing, in actuality, because the intellect has no thing to do with it. Christians describe the first end of the continuum as the state of being filled with the Holy Ghost, and I agree with one enormous minutiae: we are always filled with the Holy Spirit of Love! The ecstatic state is experienced when our heart is open to the actual, palpable reality of what our soul, singular and collective, is. Once this occurs, the antennae is attuned, and able to detect the pulse of the flow. This is the highest frequency, beyond the bounds of measurement. This is beyond the rhyme and reason, the method and the madness, the song and the dance. It is beyond doubt. The other end is described as hell, and in this ascertation, Hell is an accurate depiction. In the perceived absence of Light and Love, Fear, and it's effects, a 'hell' can be experienced as a place, as well as a state of mind.

It is a bit trickier to discern all the space in the middle, where most of us are, most of the time. Medium frequencies are full of subtleties. Beginning with intention, which is, after all, where it all begins. A person and/or entity can have the very best of intentions, and not be tapped in to the highest frequency. We are each a filter, with our own preference and bias. We, on our every day best, are all vibrating at a medium frequency. When we choose to make Spirit our avocation, as healers and readers and metaphysicians, we compromise the integrity of the clean feed by necessity. We must be vigilant about the tendencies of our own filter. Our prejudice and preference color our output. We need to remember the ecstatic state, free of time, space and relativity. If we catch ourselves during a reading taking on traits of urgency in the physical sense, we know the feed has been compromised.

We are all Medium Frequency beings. The goal of Lightworkers is to be vigilant in our awareness of our specific tendencies. We strive to create the least interference as channels of the love. Mediums are the conduits between spirit and the living. Lightworkers bring light to the shady places. Healers allow wellness to overtake pain and dis-ease. In all these good works, the simple and poignant underlying common denominator is the awareness that the Spirit Light is all ways shining and all is well and whole and healed. It is our job to bring our clients to this reality with humility and grace. To do so, we must minimize the affect of our filter on the content of the flowing message.

If, during a reading, the information becomes scolding, even and especially in a maternal voice, you can be sure it's your filter. Everyone has their own karma, and all of the intricate choices that they've made contributes to their lesson. The highest frequency is eternally patient and unconditionally accepting and loving. An edge of urgency about outcomes, goals, timetables, with a tone of judgment, it is not sourced from the highest frequency. Unchecked medium frequency can be appropriate in many nonspiritual forms of counseling when it is clear the criticism is coming from the opinions a human counsel, and not from a high frequency spirit and certainly not an angel! If an individual is full of despair, and feeling cut off from the Light, the admonishment in a reading may support their feelings of unworthiness, leading to detriment and possibly disaster. A recipient of a such reading, having been chastised and belittled, will feel more alienated from the Light! The result, besides the obvious inaccuracy, is quite the opposite of the purposes of a Lightworker.

The pure feed of Spirit is without judgement, and as it passes through us, we interpret the information. We must guard against the tendency to move out of accordance. The highest entity recognizes the myriad intricacies of each of us in the vast, vibrant collective, and the grace for which each of us yearn. The revelation of our souls is like the blooming of an exquisite rose, petal by petal. The process is not a rush job, and ultimately will join in a glorious, endless bouquet of Light and Love. If it takes a hundred life times, amen, so be it.
 

I know you are abusive with the same comprehension that I know a pumpkin is a pumpkin. I know the traits of pumpkins. I know they are typically orange, and globe shaped with a thick skin, and stringy pulp and flesh inside, riddled with pale seeds. I know pumpkins grow on twisty vines with big lobed leaves and curly tendrils. I know how a pumpkin smells and how it tastes. I know a pumpkin is a pumpkin.

You can tell me you call it by a different name. I'd say, 'sure, okay.' You can tell me that they have been bred pale and warty and in various shapes. We can debate about whether it's a fruit, a gourd, or both. We can discuss the history of the pumpkin, and allegory and myth concerning pumpkins. I still know how it smells and how it tastes to my senses. I still am entitled to my personal relationship with pumpkins, and my opinions and feelings and perceptions. I still have my reality, concerning pumpkins.

You might tell me that you do not believe a pumpkin is a pumpkin. If you matter to me, and if I yearn for a shared reality with you, and assume you do with me, I would probably tell you all the reasons why I have come to know pumpkins, and why I believe they exist.

I might tell you of my personal experience with pumpkins; their taste and smell. I might explain to you how I prefer my pumpkin pie with lots of cinnamon, and real whipped cream. I might tell you how my youngest brother grew a patch of them next to our old barn. If you are quite important to me, and I assume I am important to you, I might tell you how I feel about October and Halloween, and how I associate some things emotionally with pumpkins. I might explain that aspects of my emotional and spiritual reality hold more poignancy and veracity than cold scientific facts, and sometimes, in moments of epiphany, science and spirit meld into an experience quite profound and sublime.

After I share my self and my feelings with you, you might pronounce my thoughts and opinions invalid. You might say I have no right to say what I say or feel what I feel. You might insist that I'm not sane, or honest, or entitled to my point of view. You might say I'm premenstrual, menstrual, or menopausal, and that I should take a pill. You might become hostile with me because I tried to communicate with you. You might become very angry and gesture violently and throw things. You might call me names, discount my observations and accuse me of 'pumpkin voodoo'. You might yell about a friend of mine, or my brother, or how our home is sometimes messy, or that you don't like my haircut or my boots. I might be stunned by your response. I might ask you what all that has to do with pumpkins. I might tell you your behavior hurt me. You might treat me with disdain and leave me in disgust. You might make no attempt to talk to me and to mend our relationship. You might spurn my attempts to reconcile with you.

I would then have to conclude that you don't share my reality. I would know that I am not important to you, and in fact, you demonstrate no good will toward me. I would have to acknowledge that you feel no compassion or empathy for me. I would have to question why I had believed you cared about me, and why I care so much about you. I would know that I do not matter to you.

And, I would still know that a pumpkin is a pumpkin.

Other drawings followed, spawned from the challenging experiences of those months. The works have been therapy, literally, and have been therapeutic to those I’ve shared them with. Barely veiled references to Jung’s ‘shadow aspect’ and the phenomenon of projection, along with the esoteric chakras and auras are illustrated. Splatter Girl, as the character has come to be called, has taken on a life of her own, joining ranks with my other ids and alter egos; Fool and Rue.

Gratian and Other Holy Ghosts

I hear voices. I’ve never written that plain. I hear voices, and see glimpses and feel the wispy touch of Spirit- and every shred of my works owe a debt of gratitude to this phenomenon. Every word and phrase I smith, every elfin countenance I draw is sourced from this font.

Inspiration is literally the breathing in of Spirit. If I have created beauty through my faerie tales, the credit is Spirit’s.

One such calls himself Gratian. He has appeared in my dreams and spoken audibly and capably in my waking. I quote him directly, and feel the need to give glory to the old monk. He lived in the twelfth century, a brilliant catholic juror. He compiled the Decretum, or the Concordia Discordantium Canonum. I am honored to be his conduit, and as he has taught me, Love is Honor.

I write this with trepidation. The benign tarot cards have caused a bit of an uproar among individuals self-righteous and evangelical of my small community. I waited as long as I could. My children are quite grown, my personal status free, so, the time of truth and gratitude is presented.

I thank God every day for the wonder of creativity, and the joy of expression.
As of this moment, I am outing myself. All that I am, and all that I create, I owe to the Grace of Spirit.