It’s a war of frequency. I remember as a young girl the fascination I had with magic and things of the unseen, and later my mother brought into home the ideas of energy, vibration. As a priest’s daughter, God never left me. I come from generations of healers, silent healers, not the ones garnished with accolades and degrees, not the ones in white sterile therapy rooms with walls holding on to square meaningless certificates, not the ones that let their mouths drop the word ‘healer’ as something you do. Real healers, wise women whose palms exhaled soothing, whose presence brought so much light, and lightness of being. Healers who did not call themselves as such, who felt the unseen in and around us, who massaged healing back into the bone, through whom God spoke so clearly, so directly. I deepen my gratitude to them, to my mother for telling me about Light, to my father for planting in me an undoubtable belief in the Divine like an imperishable seed.
It’s a frequency war. They have their gods too, the ones that worship the dark with unsaintly rituals. They pretend it’s a war of land, of what’s tangible. They know also of energy and vibration. They call us lunatics, insane, the outcasts. Our hearts know the battles, the struggles of holding light, of fighting the density that has swallowed so many around. I see wounded soldiers around me. Ones that have given up, given into the paratrophic energies of darkness. It’s so much easier to give in and surrender, to play the game that life has given you, to be like others, at least there you feel you belong to the world as it is. Or do you? I don’t just see wounded, those that have been poisoned, killed by disease, but a spiritual death, a death of the soul-voice, disembodied bodies. There is no freedom. It feels easier to surrender to fake gods and rich men in a world of so much noise, a world characterised by contradiction, unsolvable paradoxes. We seek what is simple and weight-less, for we have no strength to carry anything more. Our reality is bent and manipulated, our sight and hearing distorted, our true selves twisted into unrecognisable parts. We hardly know ourselves anymore. We hardly know the others. Within, our soul knows, our soul – the incorruptible, unyielding spark – our soul knows. But we are too weakened to comprehend our way out, through, down to Soul.
For those of us that have Sight still and some remnants of strength, minuscule as they are, we have a duty, a responsibility to act. Light-Bearers. We are nothing, we are no better, no more whole as another, we are just as broken and cracked, but there’s a thundering call in us that wakes us daily, that will not let us sleep. There’s a frequency war, but I remember from the myths and fairytales that lulled me to sleep night by night: light always wins.
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