The High Priestess — Archangel Oracle ~ Divine Guidance

I find myself in another creative rut, one filled with questions and vision obscured by mist. The oracles have been sporadically  active through the written word, but there has been something missing. Until today. When the High Priestess speaks it is time to listen.

Daily Angel Oracle Card: The High Priestess, from the Shadowscapes Oracle Card deck, by Stephanie Pui-Mun Law, artwork by Barbara Moore The High Priestess: “The The High Priestess opens herself to the sky. She basks in the radiance the stars cast upon her upturned cheeks. She soaks in that tremulous, incandescent light, feeling it glow […]

via The High Priestess — Archangel Oracle ~ Divine Guidance


View Across The Water: Part 1 Of The Living Vessel

Image: Jan Malique

The month of the Crane was approaching, bringing with it mists from across the headland. His ancestors stood with him, gazing across the water to the sanctuary of the one known as the Hermit. The little white washed building stood on the remains of a temple dedicated to an unnamed deity. It was said this goddess had watched over his people from a time of cold and silence; when the world was frozen by the breath of ice giants. Or so legends said.

The Hermit had also acquired near mythological status, as people of his kind were often viewed with fear mingled with deep respect. His origins were unknown, but many kingdoms called him one of their own. Merlin was the name he answered to, although his true name was hidden.

The man on the shore had travelled for a year to reach this place. A year of hardship and danger, evading hostile forces, both human and supernatural. This was a time of warring factions, of cosmic and human battles. It was foretold by the Oracle that a time of balance was approaching, when choices would have to be made, and destinies shaped.

A sense of heaviness lay on the man’s shoulders, composed of a sense of duty and sacrifice. Sacrifice of things not physical but spiritual. He had undergone trials that would have broken someone with less resilience and humility. He had been forced to look deep within his soul and face its true reflection. Not an easy task. Self-insight never is.

During the most terrible moments of his sense of isolation the tears flowed like a raging river. As did his anger. Where were his gods when he needed them most? This state of abandonment had left him almost broken, shredded his humanity, left it bleeding profusely on the ground. Thus was he prepared for the task they had chosen him for.

He was marked as a protector of the ancient relic his people had been guarding for ten thousand sunrises. A ritual object their gods had dreamed into being, holding the power to transform, create and destroy. It had no physical form but resided within a living vessel. He was now the chosen vessel, bound by unbreakable oaths. So it was that this man was brought to the edge of an unknown land seeking his guide and teacher.


Image: OpenClipart-Vectors, Pixabay

The Hermit felt the man’s presence and prepared himself. The instruments of his art were gathered and his fire replenished. The sky and water simmered, infused with the scent of storms and portents. He whispered his student’s name, let it snake its way across the water, and enfold the human in a protective cloak.

The man swayed as if in a trance, standing on the threshold of this reality and the ones beyond consciousness. The relic sensed the presence of the Hermit and throbbed in response. The man opened his eyes and saw the Hermit before him. He spoke but no words issued from his lips. He conveyed knowledge through signs and visions. Through song and silence. So was a connection sealed with the vessel and relic.

The man stood unseeing and unspeaking. Then the dream shattered, releasing illusion and falsehoods. He felt the weight of suffering vanish like mist in the rays of the sun. Merlin beckoned the student and both got into the coracle waiting on the shore. A mist rolled in swallowing the two men. The ancestors stood guard on the shore; for as long as their kin was under the tutelage of the Hermit they would be present.

Here begins the journey of the one known as the Living Vessel.

The Spice Merchant

MimmiDieLesemaus, Pixabay

‘Step this way ‘ she says wreathed in smiles and mystery.

A purveyor of magic and spices, she’s beyond compare. Her art is an ancient one, a living relic of times of adventure and prosperity, of caravanserai bringing tales and treasures aplenty.

The Spice Merchant peers from her doorway, gazes intently, surveys our purpose, asks where we’ve come from and where we’re going.

PaelmerPhotoArts, Pixabay

We hesitate, fearful of answering, lest our masks drop, lest our voices falter. Will these jewelled hues heal our wounds and satisfy our deep hunger? She beckons us, urges us to step over her portal, step into her alchemical laboratory.

babawawa, Pixabay

Our feet hesitate, then enter into the flow of magical flow. How our blood surges through our veins, intoxicated with fire and scent of things mysterious. Paprika, Cumin, Tamarind, Saffron, Holy Basil, and Pomegranate Syrup. Dried Damask rose petals beckon, shower our senses in veils of perfume.

“What is our pleasure?” she whispers and gazes with eyes of gold.

We tell her our desires and dreams of ancient caravanserai, of journeys in pursuit of rare blue roses and gardens of Paradise, of culinary delights to satisfy our hunger. She listens in silence, seeing and hearing all that is unspoken. Her Mage’s hand writes, breathes life into sacred letters, creates palettes unsurpassed.

The Spice Merchant isn’t what she appears to be. For her art is an ancient calling, the origin hidden to all except the seeker of tales and adventure. She nourishes the Soul and feeds our hunger.

“What is our pleasure?” she whispers and gazes with eyes of gold.

The Impossible is Possible He Says: A Return to the Beginning of Things


Me in 2015

I don’t like being photographed, due to shyness mainly. For purposes of this post a decision was made to use a photo, a selfie (I dislike those things usually) taken in 2015. She stares at me with a look I remember well, filled with secrets and questions. The core of this person remains unchanged, as much as a whirling vortex can.

A whirling vortex?” he repeats slowly, the look on his face is thoughtful. His Nibs appears out of thin air, typical of these deities to indulge in dramatic behaviour.

His absence has been longer than usual, which has given me time to tie up a few loose ends. I look at his face for indication, any indication of his thought processes. He draws sigils and hieroglyphs into the air, sacred symbols etched in fire. I see a raging ocean struck many times by lightning. The First Time. Anubis is in his golden form orchestrating the play of elements. There is silence in this place of the first creation, a silence that is infused with many layers of meaning. The Mound is yet to appear. Strange that I should be witness to this again.

Image: Golden Anubis, Jan Malique

Being born is an initiation, a period of trial, tribulation and learning. We infuse our lives with beauty, pepper it with tears and sadness, and write its story in our personal Book of Life. The time has come to continue my story in the Book of Life. He hands it to me gently and smiles. I stare at it with the same look my other self had in the photo. She was yearning for change and wondering whether her circumstances would shift, evolve. Sometimes the perceived impossibility of the task at hand can throw you off kilter. Introspection can bring with it fears and uncertainties. They are unavoidable but necessary.

“I’ve stood on the edge of towering sand dunes peered down at you, watching your every move and thought. Your eyes have reflected the incandescent light of stars burning at the edge of galaxies, throwing illumination into the heart of darkness. You seek, question and demand, as you should. What answers have you obtained? You smile and give me that look. Filled with secrets and questions. Are you ready to serve, to pierce the illusions of this world and act? Take care to speak honestly and without prevarication. Serve higher ideals. The Impossible is Possible”

Anubis intends these words for those who are ready for the Journey.

His eyes burn with ancient fire and his hand gestures towards the unfolding of creation within the First Time. This journey is one towards the beginning of all things, a return to Source. We sit on the Sacred Mound beneath the waters of Chaos, the Eight peer at us intently, alien frog and snake headed creatures from a time before time. A return to the original womb of being can involve dangers, realisations of truths we may not be ready to face. I sense movement of the Eight and also of something more…The waters of Chaos bubble and shift constantly. His Nibs watches, silent as the depths of the Void, and as inscrutable.

The storm continues around us, but we‘re sitting in a space set apart deep within the eye of the storm. A place of deep significance and sacredness, the First Temple from which all others were birthed. Again I sense movement of the Eight and also of something more. From out of the gloom emerge his priests, jackal headed men bearing his mark. They stretch into infinity, forming a processional way into the depths. This is the path into the depths of the subconscious, hence the guardians of the portals safeguarding the way. There are places where no light has ever pierced, where no voice has uttered sound. We dare to pass through these halls of silence, and dare to emerge intact.


Image: Trandoshan, Pixabay

He employs sleight of hand, confuses our senses, makes us believe the real is unreal and takes us to the very edge of reality. We stand on the precipice and peer over the edge. We peer deep within our selves, for that is the purpose of this journey, of any journey, to find our truth and speak it.

The Eight churn the waters of Chaos, creating life where there was possibility and promise. The Sacred Mound waits our return, it is time for emergence, manifestation of all possibilities and promises. The Benu bird utters the first sound that breaks the eternal silence and the child Ra emerges from the waters in his womb of Blue Lotus. His light pierces the eternal darkness and so it begins. The Sacred Mound waits on our return and embraces us as we emerge. From silence and darkness does life emerge, looking out into a vast Universe filled with mysteries.

Anubis is known by many names, one being the Walker between the Worlds, another being Psychopomp, and another The Opener. He’s a shaman par excellence, guardian of the portals between the different states of consciousness. We meet him at significant points in life, so as to be eased into states of death and resurrection, symbolic and real. What’s prompted this bout of soul searching? I’d ordered a book written about Anubis and had to wait nearly three months for it, due to delays that seemed to go and on. This issue tested my patience severely, at one point I thought he was “pulling on my chain” just to see what I would do. It unveiled aspects of myself that needed looking at, and here I am looking at some of them.

Cross My Palm with Catnip: A Tale of Dark Undoing

Image: Alexas_Fotos, Pixabay

She looked longingly at what he was offering her. Its enticing aroma made the blood race through her veins, rendering her powerless against the siren song.

“Come me to me” it whispered in her ear. How could the spirit hold out against such a gloriously rampant tidbit? He knew what he was doing, all part of the plot to get her to “spill the beans”, but she was determined to hold out. The air shimmered with heat and something quite pungent, and dangerously addictive.

“Meowww”, her soft voice implored. A little paw was held out pleadingly, would he release her from this torture? This was becoming annoying, her teeth ground together, claws unsheathed. He would feel her wrath and she would draw blood.

“Come on sweetie, you need to take your medicine, be a good girl. That’s it, come here”.

She was entranced, held captive by the prize offered. It was almost within reach, almost within grasp, near, so near. She held out a paw again, gazing at him with soul melting eyes. Her body was that of a domestic cat but held the heart of a lioness. With jaws that bite and teeth that pierce and crunch.

“Gimme, gimme what I want” she yelled at him.

Would he relinquish the prize?

Image: jeanvdmeulen, Pixabay


 Song of Infinity

Image: Pixabay

This post has taken me a long time to bring into manifestation, I seemed to face a block at every turn. Thankfully it’s taken form now due to the kindness of a certain Green Man.  One wonders what he’s bringing to my attention, perhaps my Companions in the Silent Eye may have ideas regarding this???

“Bend” the wind says, and he acquiesces, sways to a tune unheard by human ears. The Green Man watches, silent as the sound of stars weeping. The Earth wakes and slumbers, singing her children into being. How old is this song? For we have no memory of it. For we have forgotten it, buried it beneath the dry leaves of autumn and cold kiss of winter.

Green Man, Green Man, tell us of its ancestry. Our memories hold its essence, shroud it in mystery. Where are the Faerie Folk to instruct us in the Old Ways, of walking paths hidden and redolent of the scent of old roses? Our blood calls to those who wait in the depths of the forests, peer at us from their temples of green and gold.

“Hush, weep not” he says, emerges from the shadows of the sentinels standing between what is not and what appears to be. The eyes of the physical dare not gaze upon what the true vision of the mystic and seer are inclined to see. A faint song emerges from the mounds, they come, sing their song of infinity. It inflames that which seeks solace amongst the solitary roads and highways of lands half remembered.

Green Man, Green Man, they sprinkle faerie dust in our eyes, to what end? Ah, what vistas open up before us! They bring a remembrance that knows no end, like waves breaking upon a distant shore. Unending and fulfilling. We stand silent, with the sound of stars weeping in our ears.  Not with sorrow but with joy unending.


Lady of the Flame: Hail Mighty Sekhmet!


Image: rocky9631, Pixabay

She is known by many epithets, in particular Eye of Ra, Lady of the Red Linen, and Lady of the Flame. Protector of the Pharaoh and scourge of humankind when we acted out like disobedient children. The Lion Goddess Sekhmet springs from ancient lineage and is imbued with the power of a million suns. Not one to be disrespected, and not one to be approached in arrogance and pride. The Goddess waits in the darkness of the Sanctuary, a place filled with eternal silence and terrible power.

How does the supplicant approach this place? Not with a backward glance. She can smell your fear as it seeps through your pores, and hear the frantic beat of your heart. Are you purified in body, soul and intent? Don’t deceive yourself, mercy will not be offered to you on a platter. Why should it? The journey through the burning desert hasn’t been easy, hunger and thirst have assailed you, brought you to your knees. She hasn’t spared you as you haven’t spared yourself.

The hot desert wind is Her breath upon your neck, a reminder that life can be all too brief, that you are prey. She can hear the blood rush through your veins, thirsts for it with a passion. The Lioness weaves Her way through the burning sands, eyes of gold survey the loneliness of the desert wastes, reveal in its bleak and awesome beauty. She calls to you, a song of allure and truth, asks what it is that you seek and want of Life. What healing is needed? She offers it, and more that remains shrouded until you reach the doors of the Sanctuary.

Fire is Her element, wielded with expertise and deadly accuracy. Her jaws open in a snarl, razor-sharp fangs gleam in the midday sun. This is the Eye of Ra in her magnificence, untamed and dangerous. She is the raw power of the Universe, a million Suns scorching and burning false personas. The Goddess waits in the darkness of the Sanctuary, a place filled with eternal silence and terrible power. She calls to you, a song of allure and truth, asks what it is that you seek and want of Life.


Image: nir_design

The temple shimmers on the horizon, is it a dream or a nightmare? She can smell your fear as it seeps through your pores, and hear the frantic beat of your heart. Don’t look back, there is no path to safety, no road to mendacity. The Portal looms ahead, offering shade and relief from the burning rays. Although you must pass through the realm of the Keeper of the Flame, one who guards the way to the Sanctuary. Are they male or female? Are they human or, something else? Your questions have no meaning in this place, it’s a place not of this world, not concerned with its laws and rules. The Keeper stares at your humanity, parts the flames to other realms, go through, don’t linger, don’t waste time.

She can smell your fear as it seeps through your pores, and hear the frantic beat of your heart. She calls to you, a song of allure and truth, asks what it is that you seek and want of Life. The place approaches, the doorway shimmers like a desert mirage, go through, don’t linger, don’t waste time. The refrain unfolds, stretches into infinity. This is your time of Becoming, an oft-repeated phrase, but filled with deep truth. Her eyes gaze intently, her manner is implacable. What can you say? Is she present? You touch your face and feel her face, touch her chest and feel your chest. Twin hearts beat loudly in this inner chamber, echo throughout the Universe. The Eye of Ra is pleased. The Eye of Ra sings her song of truth, of longing for the First Time, laments forgetfulness. Hear it and do not weep. She is eternal, the unending ocean of Being, and the life-giving rays of the Sun. Her flames consume and bring forth rebirth. It is done supplicant, it is done.

Ephemeral – #wishing star – flash fiction challenge


Image: RondellMelling

She looked at the shooting star speed across the Milky Way. What a pretty, pretty thing! Clad in shimmering star-dust, with limbs of opalescent light and eyes of velvet darkness, a beauty fit to wear the crown. Ah, what ambition nestled within her proud starry heart.

Time to fall my pretty, pretty thing. The Faerie Queen decreed and the starry assembly obeyed. She fell burning from the heavens, bringing hope to many. The Earth waited for this gift, a wish made manifest. How dark the journey looked for this starry exile. Pretty, pretty thing! Hush, dry your tears.


The December 28, 2017, Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about a wishing star. It can be central to the story or used in a different way. You can have a character interact or not. Go where the prompt leads.

Respond by January 2, 2018, to be included in the compilation (published January 3). Rules are here. All writers are welcome!

Kingdom of the Sorceress: Fate Divined


Image: RondellMelling, Pixabay

This old year is nearing its end and the time has come for the Sorceress, White Rabbit and I to convene in a place where all worlds meet and time doesn’t exist. I’ve missed my otherworldly friend, his quirky ways and unsettling habit of turning my world inside out. Is this what he was doing to Alice whilst she wandered through his surreal habitat? A world that was old, so old, when humanity was an idea, a seed in the womb of the Great Mother. The Sorceress knew the Mother’s secrets, tended to Her, guarded the gates to dimensions beyond understanding. She divined fates, foretold past and future. The present is ours to build and dream, breathe life into. Anubis and Amunet are making their way to another place to meet with Seraph and the Oracle. We will join them soon. Though not on this occasion.

The gates of this hidden kingdom open slowly at our approach. She emerges from the gloom and reveals her splendour. Spells are woven, incantations uttered, dreams shaped and birthed. She asks us, asks you, what is it that we need, not want, but need? A great fire has been lit in the centre of the kingdom, a funeral pyre. Into which shall be thrown our dead selves, old patterns, behaviours and burdens. Such things need to find their peace and place in the Universe when the times comes. Even the immortal must relinquish old memories, faded pages crumbling in the Book of Transitions. These are things to consider she says, to mull over and then, decide on our course of action. “Choose wisely” she mutters, then smiles a smile of utter sweetness and danger. A reminder that the road to revelation and freedom can be littered with fearful things. Of our own making and the intrigue of others…


Image: darksouls1, Pixabay

The way forward is veiled, its opalescent light hinting at things yet to be revealed. She lifts a hand and the veil parts at her command. The Tree of Life awaits on the plain before the Great Ocean, we now stand in the place of the Lesser Mysteries. Beings of Fire bar the way to the Greater Mysteries, their names unutterable, their natures fearful. Such an awesome sight did we behold! Is this a dream? Is this a vision of things to some? White Rabbit lies down on the ground and whistles a familiar tune, its haunting melody sinks deep into our skin, flesh and blood.

The Trickster leads us down the rabbit hole once again, we fall slowly through the vortex, spinning, spinning and spinning into infinity. Where would this journey end? Not in a place that’s familiar, not in a place we thought we would ever see again. There is darkness and fire, unfolding like gigantic waves breaking upon the shore. Is this the beginning of creation or its death? A multitude of voices fall like shooting stars, then all we hear is, the Great Silence. Thus is the song of angels. The Tree shimmers, inhales and exhales, calls to all that are ready and willing to live as divined, as decreed. The vision ends as it had begun, within the melody.

He looks, the Trickster looks and remains silent. Thus is the song of angels.

Image: Pixabay

Trickster, Shaman, Hierophant. What shall we call you? He shrugs, wearing a maddening smile. The Sorceress answers “He’s one pillar”.  The Trickster answers “She’s the other”. They gesture towards the Tree. So has she divined a fate, whose fate we should ask…We leave her kingdom of illusion and hidden truths. The Sorceress sings the gates into being, and ushers us out. How mundane that sounds but look where you now stand. What has changed?


The Scent of Jasmine – #white flowers -flash fiction challenge


Image: janeb13, Pixabay

The scent of jasmine pulled strongly on her memories, like a fishing net it scooped up the darting pieces of her past.

She peered intently at each and every bejewelled creature, for her memories were sentient and potent presences.

Piece by piece they rearranged themselves into mandalas of mystery, symbolic of lives lived with passion, lives lived in tear filled intensity.

She looked out over the landscape, now covered in a sea of white flowers. A blessing from the Old Ones for one of their own who had gone beyond the veil. She was now infinite wisdom and power.

December 21, 2017, Carrot Ranch Literary Community prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) include white flowers in your story. This is a repeat prompt, but one that has an ability to be emotive. Humor, drama, irony — go wherever the white flowers lead.

Respond by December 26, 2017 (Happy Boxing Day!) to be included in the compilation (published December 27). Rules are here. All writers are welcome!