You are not alone 

A few weeks ago I wrote this in my journal: “I need to get back to my happy place and set my feet in my ancient relatives earth and feel their histories rise in me. Amen.” I rarely end anything with an official amen. What an odd prayer.

I wrote that sentence after reading the words, “Walking I am listening to a deeper way. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.” It struck me as odd because when I envision myself, I see a bird, a big ass combination of a bald eagle and a Phoenix soaring into the heavens. Not something that wants to be rooted, planted, or stuck to anything.

I have learned when a message comes to me that sounds the opposite of what I am drawn to that I should listen to it. Be rooted it says, stop soaring, dig in, sink those gorgeous feet into the earth until you can see the roots slithering their way through the soil, securely anchoring you to the loving embrace of the true mother.

I love the Utah desert. It is the place of my ancestors. I used to take the top off my Jeep and drive for endless miles on the dirt roads until I was so lost to civilization no one could find me. The minute I left the pavement I would remove my seat belt and lean forward in glorious anticipation, barely breathing as I climbed hills and boulders searching the edge of my hood as I took drop after precipitous drop. I could feel my dead father’s steady hand on my shoulder, gripping me with giddy anticipation. His presence was so real sometimes I could glance in the rearview mirror and imagine his smiling face into being. The desert is where I feel grounded and alive. It is where I feel like I am flying and descending at once. It is where I find my peace. It has been seven years since I set foot in my beloved Utah desert. Seven years since I have been home to the place that sets my soul ablaze and brings me to my knees with its glorious energy of magic and healing.

I am Native American. Paiute, but not enough for it to count on either side. I am unrecognizable by modern man yet the blood of my ancestors runs thick in my veins. The only time any native soul has ever publicly said, “You must be Paiute” was when a random stranger came up to me at a child abuse conference and said just that. My reaction was to spontaneously burst into tears. No one had ever recognized me before, it is a part of me that is so true to my being and yet so invisible to the naked eye.

This last week I have been on a retreat in Scotland, another birthplace of my ancestors. On the first day we were told to pick a rock out of a bowl. This was mine:


My search for my ancestors ebbs and flows year after year. Sometimes I consciously look for them as I did when I Googled by dead fathers name in 2007. What I got in response to my inquiry was my Uncle Arvel’s website. My only memory of Arvel was his fiddle and how he used to play “The Devil Goes Down to Georgia” for me over and over when I was a little girl. He used to be an opening act for the country western band Alabama. Over the years he had become a semi famous Native American musician. I randomly called the phone number on his website. I hadn’t seen him since I was six or seven years old. We talked for two hours. That phone call began a two-year journey where I learned who my father is, connected with cousins I could barely remember, and discovered that I am descended by great Scottish warriors.

Recently my psychic told me the energy of the earth is in a panic. She told me to give the protesting a break and stand back so that I know which direction is the right direction to go. She told me to take a big deep pause and get perspective on what I want the end result to be not just for myself, but for the entire country so that I can advocate and see results. She told me my time is coming to lead from the love space, that I am going to “bring love and awareness to stop the war.” When I listened to her say those words I took a deep breath and felt giddy. I have always known that I was born to lead, oftentimes I pull too tight on my reins in my struggle to charge up the hill, my patience is starting to pay off, I have been chosen to stop the war.

Two nights ago I read this paragraph to my fellow sisters at the table:

“The wisdom of my guides, combined with my deep connection with my ancestors encourages me to listen in a deeper way. If I close my eyes, I can breathe in the messages of thousands of years of healers and shamans, goddesses and witches, queens and sorcerers. I stand alone, in full battle armor like Joan of Arc, cloaked in my wise woman cape that has been woven with the feathers of a thousand birds. I turn around and as far as I can see there is an army of wise women standing for miles in their entire glorious splendor. They move to surround me with their loving embrace. Illuminated in white light they are there beseeching me with gifts from a million different experiences. The entire matriarchy armed with decadent wisdom, beckoning me over to take the gifts that they hold in their hands, gently pushing them into my heart so I can see them with my entire soul. I light up with the resplendent glory that has been bestowed on the very fibers of my being. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands. And we are here as you stand in your own glorious white light, leading the charge into our glorious love revolution.”

I am not alone…the energy of millions of women runs through me. 

I am the midwife of the collective. 

I am here to assist in the birthing.

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