When I was in the thick of 2021, it felt long and laborious. Now that it is over, it feels like it went by in a blink. I’m breaking through and soaring beyond that year; the 7th Veil; that film laying over my eyes, clouding up my vision and my way forward. I vow to value myself more, to know my worth and never sell myself short.
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My brother was my best friend. He was my dude. This morning I woke up with a deep ache. I miss him. It’s been ten months since he passed on. Grief is an ornery little cuss. This workbook: “Processing Through Grief” has been helpful.
Today, I felt abandoned and even a little angry, because I am about to release a new book that my brother was a large part of.
During the process of writing I was traveling and talking with scientists I met through dear friends.
My brother was the one I shared this excitement with. He held my secrets like a trustworthy stead. He left before it was finished. I feel so sad. I wish he could hold this book in his hands, my first work of science fiction. We were so excited together.
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Because I was struggling emotionally, I decided to head into nature and see how many other abandoned things I could find. As I walked inside the trees letting some needed tears flow, I spotted these abandoned things.
I remember once in 2012, my brother, nephew and some of our friends were in Olympia, WA at Tugboat Annie’s. I was singing at an open mic night.
I looked over at the wall on the booth we were in as we waited for our turn to go up, and on the wall was a quote.
I am nobody. Nobody is perfect. Therefore I am perfect.
I have never forgotten that quote and how it stuck me. As I walked off the stinging in my throat, I embraced the truth that I have not been abandoned. My older brother is still here with me. I hear him in the smart ass way I say things and the hollow underbelly of my laughter.
He’s floating in his home dimension where he can always be the dungeon master; the best DND dungeon master I have ever met, just for the record.
Nature tells stories. It is alive with the history and human conversations which pass through it. Nature is its own sculptor. As I walked today, we fell into a deep conversation.
This beautiful woman, so playful and happy, held a wreath on her wrist as she danced with the wind.
Gleeful children frolicked around the pond reminding me to pay attention to my inner child.
The water dancer held inside of her the power of the streams, moving her hips with their flow and always in perfectly synced movement.
Mr. Mallard and I talked for a while. His wife was off picking up the fish for dinner. He’s been around for 7 years now, he shares. An older gentlemen, he had quite the charm. He was even flirting a bit. I went on my way before Mrs. Mallard returned. I certainly didn’t want to deal with a duck kerfuffle.
I gathered maple leaves as an idea emerged for a page in my current art WIP. Their colors blend beautifully.
This tree told me he has been there for 124 years. He spoke of friends who had died during the clearing process. He still speaks with them telepathically still today. One, he said, is having a wondrous life cycle as a whale, and has many tales to tell. I thought how endearing they remained in contact, thanked him for sharing and walked on.
I asked this tree why he looks so sad. He said he’s been living in the park for 70 years, and in the latter ones had seen too much. Once, right at his feet, a woman’s mouth was covered while a man took from her without her consent, violently and brutally.
“If you knew what we see at night when all the joggers and walkers are safe at home, you would know,” he said as he hung his head.
I do know the period of time when this park was called Rape Park, and no woman dared walk through it at night. Wright Park is still shrouded with the many violations which have left a permanent shadow on its history.
As I listened to the tree’s lamentations, I glanced down to find a little squirrel right there at my feet gazing up at me. I said hello and he replied with a hind quarter scratch as he scampered off to gather more bits.
As I was ready to wrap up my walk, I was stopped by a tree horse. I’d never met one before, and I found it to be peaceful.
“You have kind eyes,” I complimented.
Mr. Tree Horse is 115. He said he has heard it all, even miles beyond the park. He spoke of night dream travel, how he falls into deep slumber for days, visiting his home dimensions.
“It must be difficult being a tree, standing there day after day, weathering the seasons and changing wind,” I said.
Mr. Tree Horse smiled.
“It isn’t difficult. It’s cyclical. We choose to be here, providing life and breath. It is an honor we trees take seriously. We know we may be expired, then used for fires and homes, things that have nothing to do with us, after all, even our roots, left headless in the ground, become a continuing part of life. So, sister, we never really die.”.”
I was humbled by the nonchalant way he gave of himself, understanding dream cycles and inner dimensional travel. I finished my walk pondering the wisdom of the trees, the crisp coldness of the breeze and a mind full of their stories.
Sometime I speak to other ex-Move of god cult members, and I know things I don’t know how to approach; like their parent being a pedophile.
I listen to their pain, and what affected them, and the more I listen, the more I understand how deeply dissecting mind control is.
There is a different perspective happening. I haven’t found where to put it. I feel like I’m holding an unfair secret. What’s the use of hurting someone by revealing truth about their family member?
Why do I have to hold a secret?
I’m moving into another phase of this layered life. There are some pieces of myself I once felt I needed to follow, but the strand ended up cut and reconciled.
Now that the top layer of my experiences have been peeled back, I dive to the next layer, and I am softly processing truths which have made me stand in a quiet pause.
I hear the voice, “Lightly, child. Lightly.”
Stay in the gratitude. Join me by starting here:
I’m a cult kid. i didn’t get to create my own style as a child. So, now, I thoroughly enjoy funkiness in my wardrobe. I love being different, going against the grains and most of all mixing the feel of the feminine and masculine in my style. So today, I’m feeling fashion forward.
Dress to impress yourself. Mix it up! who cares whay anyone else thinks as long as you look in the mirror and love who you see!
“Light travels everywhere within the Universe. The speed at which light travels in the emptiness of Universe space is 186,000 MILES per SECOND. Our Sun is about 93 million miles from earth, so it requires about 8 MINUTES for a beam of sunlight to travel from the Sun to us here on Earth. If one calculates the number of seconds of time within 1 YEAR, you’d find that a beam of light travels about 6 TRILLION miles in the time of 1 YEAR!
Nobody in science has ever viewed a singular object that could be called the SB [Supreme Being]. The knowledge of space & time is spread across a wide range of what SB entails. And the ‘Rules’ are the same everywhere in our Universe. The Rules also apply to the millions of cells in our personal brains. And we are given the choice of what to do with those cells when we make a personal choice. We can love, we can hate, and even kill, with the choice we decide to make with those cells. That choice still resides within the single individual. So……… do your best to remain true to your thoughts and wishes. The Bible-bangers were kidding themselves, and all others, if they thought their writings & words were going to change the humanoids and make them better. You’ll ultimately be responsible for all of the choices you make! The SB ‘designed’ it that way.
May all the above give you something to think about, -Dad-“
David E. Carpenter, U.S. Navy, designation retired, Groom Lake Red Hat, retired 2010
“Red is the color of anger,” she said. “orange, the hues of the lows in you.”
Since when had she become the expert of my colors? Red is the blood dancing through me and orange is my sunset. Blue is my melancholy and violet my severance of free. My color has its own definition, and my rainbows don’t arch. They have edges, sharp and wordless, like the green of trees when I am nature bathing.
Vennie Kocsis 
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