A.K. Reader: A shivery, multiply-synchronous, post-AKID discovery

At 75, I have hundreds of essays from all my decades writing, some published, some not. This one was published, in a 1998 issue of Crone Chronicles: A Journal of Conscious Aging, which I ran from 1989 through 2001. That I notice this particular essay now, today, is telling, in many ways.

First, mention is made of my first Dances of Universal Peace weekend: Just prior to rereading this old essay, I noticed today’s email announcing the upcoming 3 day Midwest Dance Weekend, and decided to attend.

Also, my heritage, the theme of this essay, resonates with something I discovered only a year or two ago: that besides  German Catholic, I also have German Jewish roots (a fact that I noted to a new Jewish friend just two days ago, and that had my husband Jeff known, would have been thrilled).

Furthermore, the Crone Counsel reference, with which the essay begins, is interesting, in that I am again considering attending this year’s Crones Counsel, in September, to be held in Washington State. Not only am I curious to meet up again with so many crones as we all continue to ripen into even older age, but I may do a workshop on intergenerational living, to feature our experience here in Green Acres Permaculture Village.

Then, of course, as you will discover, the overall theme of this old post happens to be dreams involving the Immortal Divine Child, which resonates uncannily with, and funnels directly into, these post-AKID stories.

Let’s start with a photo of my own “Divine Child,” for of course I was one, as were (are) we all. See babypictureproject.com.


“Well? Are You Coming?” (1998)


Crones Counsel V, San Diego, October 16, 1997. I am standing in a circle of women, drumming and dancing around a huge central bonfire. The night is young. We await the rising moon.

Suddenly one woman’s dance spirals into a frenzy, her feet pounding, staccato, as she erupts into a wild, soul-rending cry. I sense the energy of her Celtic ancestors surging up through the soles of her feet, to her heart, her brain. Susan is joyous, ecstatic, electric, at one with her tribal roots, releasing and expressing that mystical pagan exuberance that has been damped down for centuries.

I turn, walk from the fire down to the ocean’s edge. Witnessing Susan’s epiphany has made me feel oddly alone, separated — from Susan especially who, I think, is fortunate that her ancestors are Celtic. In coming into her original self she is handed an inheritance of power and beauty and mystery. Implicit in this thought is the idea that I do not have Celtic in my background. Nor do I have Afro-American or Native American, or any of the usual ancestries which women proudly proclaim in re-membering themselves. This negation of my own heritage, or what I should call this void, this blank, this absence, this numbness — is not a conscious thought. Had what occurred next not happened, I probably would not have noticed how fully this peculiar and habitual disconnection from my own heritage has been woven into the lifetime texture of my awareness.

Later that evening, I am sitting cross-legged on a bed across from Tasha in her hotel room. We are casual, at ease. Suddenly Tasha seeks my eyes, says she wants to give me a short reading. I am surprised, but willing. Why not? Looking at me full in the face, Tasha intones, in a solemn voice: “There is something of great value which you would gain by investigating your Teutonic ancestry.”

I am stunned, slack-jawed. Both that this information should so suddenly come in out of the blue, and that this information is precisely what fills the void that I mentioned above. Yes, my ancestry is German, on both sides, Teutonic. I think back to the fire, and to my own sense of alienation from those whose pride in their ancestry has made them strong. The thought that my ancestors are German strikes me to the core. I am both gladdened — that I am now to consciously acknowledge my ancestors — and revolted, physically nauseated — at the fact that I am German. I shudder to recognize why I have not come into conscious contact with my German roots until now. Being German leads back to Hitler, to Nazism. One cannot think of one without the other. In order to go back and reclaim my Teutonic inheritance, I must, somehow, encounter and integrate my Nazi heritage and press through to what lies below.

For over 30 years now my motto has been: “What I am most afraid of, that is what I must do.” And clearly here, I am shown the path ahead. Knowing that there is something I must do, something deeply unknown and ultimately, I sense, utterly transforming, excites me. Despite my horror at what I must initially encounter, the Nazi lion-at-the-gate, I realize that the information and the timing of its sudden appearance in my life makes sense.

Astrologically, I am a double Sagittarian, meaning that both my Sun (my essential self; the innate expression in this life, of soul) and the Ascendant (my persona or personality, mask) occupied that sign at the moment of my birth. Sagittarius governs the philosophical search for Truth, universal perspectives; when imbalanced, Sagittarius can devolve into intolerance, righteousness, judgment. In addition, the planet Mars, symbolizing action, courage, even violence, when not used with awareness, at my birth was also in Sagittarius and located in the 12th house, a hidden place haunted by karmic patterns connected to family, genetics, ancestry. Mars sits opposite two other planets, Uranus and Saturn. This conjunction of Uranus and Saturn, two slow-moving planets, occurred during World War II. All those born during that time have this conjunction in their birthcharts.

Uranus symbolizes sudden, strong and unpredictable eruptions or flashes. Saturn symbolizes restraint, control, discipline. When fused during World War II, Saturn and Uranus symbolized both the cold efficient genocide of the holocaust as well as the controlled fission of the erupting atomic bomb. During that war the two planets travelled in tandem through late Taurus and early Gemini. At my birth, they were in Gemini, a sign of intelligence, and it can signify sudden brilliant flashes of intuition.

From 1995 through 1999, the planet Pluto (associated with the hidden energy locked in the heart of the atom, and symbolizing death and rebirth, destruction and resurrection) transits through the early degrees of Sagittarius, triggering both my Mars and the planets opposite, Uranus and Saturn. In the birthchart for the U.S.A., the planet Uranus is located exactly on the position of my Saturn, so the meaning of this transit of Pluto for me and for the U.S.A. is somehow linked.

Along with a few other grassroots organizations, we publicized and attempted to halt the October 13, 1997 launch of the Cassini probe to the planet Saturn (see the Autumn issue, #32). This probe contains 72.3 pounds of Plutonium, the most toxic substance known. When this probe returns from its circuit of Venus to fly dangerously close to Earth on its way to Saturn in August 1999, the planet Pluto will exactly oppose the planet Uranus in the birthchart of the U.S.A. Expect sudden, unpredictable, and possibly nuclear events.

In my own chart I ponder the meaning of transit Pluto conjunct the Mars/Uranus/Saturn karmic pattern. And I realize that the explosiveness of my own character, the rage which I am only rarely in touch with, is usually smoothd out, one might say blanked out, so that I only experience it mentally — as harsh, severe judgments, against myself and others. (How German!) In this way I separate out — from others, and from my own body. And because I judged Nazism, I could not see through to the Teutonic ancestry below, and deeper, to the more ancient nature religion. According to C. G. Jung, World War II broke out when the Teutonic war god Wotan was aroused in the unconscious of the German people. And because they remained unconscious of its energy, Wotan did what it willed with them. From a Jungian point of view, Hitler was a projection of the mass mind. If Hitler had not existed, the Germans would have had to invent him.

Wotan lives in me. Wotan is my rage. Hitler is my rage projected. And what is underneath Wotan? What lives below that? As my favorite Teutonic philosopher, Ludwig Wittgenstein put it, “It’s hard to go back to the beginning, and not go further back.”

I think back to a dream, about a year ago, of being in the presence of a huge, white Pig. The dream haunted me for months. Now I discover the sacred animal of Freya, the Great Mother Goddess of northern European lands, was the Pig.

It would be nice to just skip Naziism, skip Wotan, go right back to Freya. To identify with what I know I will love, rather than with what I certainly do hate. But this is not to be. Again, a dream shows me the way.

November 25, 1997: on the one night of the year when the Sun transits my natal Mars (still being pummeled, remember, by the extremely slow-moving transit of Pluto), the Sun illumines that karmic pattern in my chart with this dream.

I am with a man whom I am wanting to impress so that he will be attracted to me. We go to his family’s large rustic log house, which is in the mountains. There are lots of people, and lots of activity. A little girl, around two years of age, with coppery red hair and a round face, attracts me. She shines from within, is luminous, numinous. The man and I leave the house, begin to walk away. I turn around, to see this child walk down the lawn to a pond below — and fall in! As she falls, she hovers in the air, long enough for her eyes to meet mine, knowingly, as if to say, “Well? Are you coming?”

Instantly, I rush to her rescue, assuming that I will be able to easily pluck her out with my hands. But as I dive into the water, it is murky, and I struggle to remove my gloves so that I will be able to feel her. I feel for her body in the muck, and do not find her.

I awaken from this dream feeling a terrible sense of failure for not saving the little girl. I am judging myself as usual. The little girl, I assumed in the dream, and from the dream, when awake, must be dead. But then, in processing this dream with my psychologically astute friend Claudia, she notes: “The dream is inconclusive; her body was not found. You don’t know if she’s dead . . . Besides,” Claudia murmurs, “she is numinous, divine. She is not dead.”

The divine child is calling me, beckoning me, she is urging me to leave my mind behind, and follow her down, to dive into the water, descend into the muck of feeling . . .

Meanwhile, fortuitously, I happen to be reading a book by Ursula Hegi, Stones in the River, about the experience of a female dwarf in a German village during the first half of this century. The book is riveting in its portrayal of the extremely difficult choices people encountered during the gradual, insidious emergence of Nazism. How ethically murky the situation was. How, in the daily context of events, it was so easy to fall out of one’s integrity, so simple to lose one’s sense of discernment between right and wrong. Over and over again, the book moves me to tears.

December 5, 1997. I hear about a weekend celebration in a town three hours from Jackson, put on by the northwest chapter of an organization called “Dances of Universal Peace.” Instantly, on hearing about it, I am alerted within to attend.

I drop everything to spend three days with 100 strangers, participating in sacred songs and dances from the world’s religions — Islam, Sufi, Christian, Goddess, Hindu, Judaic, Buddhist . . . Hour after hour, circling with and around each other, holding hands, meeting eyes. Over and over, I burst into tears, and attempt to stop myself from doing so, so much do I want to keep on singing. Never have I felt so at home as while doing these beautiful timeless dances, some of which are more than an hour long, involving small ritualized movements, all of us at once, nodding back and forth, over and over chanting the name of God in many languages — Ah . . . Allah . . . Allaha — one long sustained prayer. One hundred beings moving and singing and breathing as one.

On the drive home from this weekend, I am filled with joy and warmth. So grateful to have been able to participate in such a beautiful event! I am looking forward to the next one, at Eastertime. Oh, if only the world’s peoples everywhere could participate in such simple and universal ceremony, honoring all religions, partaking of the mystical communion of souls . . . If only we would surrender to our union, let go of what divides us, let go of war . . .

In the middle of euphoria, another, darker thought worms its way in: I recall, a few years ago, attending a local performance of Cabaret. During this musical, a chorus of beautiful, uniformed young men sing the Hitler Youth Song. As the sweet, yearning idealism of what had been a German folk song filled the air, I was shocked to feel an arousal in my whole body, as if the cells in my very blood were awakening. The shock of recognition of that song, of my blood connection to it, filled me with shame — a shame so murky, so profound that I instantly tried to push it back down into the unconscious.

Yet even as I was pushing down that hot blood in me, I was struck by the fact that I, an educated American several generations away from her German roots, could be so taken over by Nazi propaganda music. Had shame not overcome me, I would have realized then that what I loved of the song was the music, that Hitler had taken over a beautiful old folk song and given it new words.

That memory, counterpoint to my euphoria, serves as a warning. I realize that this hunger for mystical union can be manipulated by good (as in the Dances of Universal Peace) or by evil. That to my body, it doesn’t matter. That either way, my body responds. What does this mean? I wonder. Does this mean I cannot trust my instincts?

I awaken the next morning with a cloggy, mucousy, respiratory infection. Forewarned by the dream, I now descend into the murky watery depths, and remain there, stuck inside the misery of my body, unable to think, for 12 days. And what I am feeling is grief, overwhelming, incomprehensible grief.

The situation reminds me of when I was 26 and danced all night long, only to fall sick the next day and almost die. That event marked my personal transformation from socially-conditioned nice girl to a more original and courageous sense of Self. What will this dance and this illness, this new turn of the spiral bring?

While ill I continue to weep, absorbing Hegi’s tale of how good and evil seem to be inextricably connected, how difficult it is to separate them, to know for sure about anything.

Seven days into my illness, another dream: I am returning to Jackson from a far-flung Wyoming town. There is a baby in the back seat. It appears to be mine, and has just come into my life. The road gets more and more clogged with mud, potholes, abrupt edges. Men are working on the road. I am slowed down to a crawl, and wonder how long this is going to continue. Now traffic is channelled to the south — but I don’t want to go south. I want to go west. I get off the road on an artery leading to a long muddy construction site of a town that lies under an interstate, also being repaired. I see a line of women, and ask one of them how far I must go through the town to reach a place where I can get on the interstate where it is through being repaired. She gives the location of the exit, which is only a few miles away. Relieved, I turn to the baby, who is fussing. I worry, oh no, did I pack diapers, bottles of milk? I look in my bags and see that I do have diapers, and I have bottles of water, not milk. Facing her with my head only a few inches away, I hold the bottle to her mouth, and she drinks, looking surprised at the taste, but accepting.

Then she reaches her little hand around my neck to the back of my head, and holds it there, in a sweet embrace. She gazes into my eyes. I am so filled with her love that everything else disappears.

I awaken from this dream knowing that no matter how murky things get, no matter how much mud and mucus I have to slog through, that I am loved. That the divine child warms my dreams, opens my heart.

This process of going back to the beginning has just begun. I do not know what awaits me. Something is beginning to seep in, something important. Indeed, I feel that it may signal the eventual deconstruction (transit of Pluto) of my seemingly hard-wired (Saturnine) habit of judgment. For judgment is only possible when a situation is clear; when good and evil are separate, discernable, rather than subtly woven one with the other as yin to yang.

The grief, overwhelming at times, still accompanies me. I know it has personal roots, and I sense those roots plug me into our collective story. That our grief is being encountered in his/story now. The grief of all that we have done to one another in betrayal, in vengeance, in the name of “God.” Of all the wars we have fought in the name of someone’s good and another’s evil. Of all Earth has suffered as a result of our much-vaunted “intelligence.”

I think back on my life, noting the prodigious amount of intellectual energy I have given over to describing, evaluating, analyzing the stuff of daily life. How I have assumed that, sooner or later, everything becomes clear; that there is a bottom line which, if I just search deeply enough, I will fathom. That there is one overall perspective which, if I just ascend high enough, my mind will encompass. Though for years I have called myself a “relativist,” — sensing an infinite number of perspectives, all of them limited — still I am Sagittarius, and it seems I cannot help but search for the one, the One Truth which will give me what I “think” I need. To establish my “point of view.” To stop the flow.

What seeps into me now seems to be all-encompassing. Through it I feel the music, the dance of the universe. Beyond all judgments, or even discernments — beyond good, beyond evil, is this sense, this — what shall I call it? — this ISNESS. This glue that binds the whole, this Love. So that there is nothing, really, to discuss. Nothing to understand, evaluate or shape.

The divine child of the second dream held my head in her hand as she gazed lovingly into my eyes. No matter what I may “think,” no matter what choices I make, leading to good or evil, I am loved, beyond all measure.

January 2, 1998: I have just seen the movie Titanic. Our collective myth of the 20th century brought to extraordinary life at century’s end for us to process and integrate. So that we don’t have to repeat ourselves. So that we no longer need to separate ourselves into richer and poorer. So that we learn to slow down, and trust. As the colossal, state-of-the-art “unsinkable” ship went down with lifeboats for only half its passengers, we were faced with another impossible situation — good and evil all mixed up, and survival instincts overwhelming even the best intentions. As the divine child calls me down into the murky depths to encounter the feelings which bind my spirit into matter — all the shame, all the wonder, all the connection — so are we as a people faced with our murky depths.

At the movie’s end, the crone figure whose memories frame this vividly recalled story from our collective memory bank intones, “in the heart of woman there are secrets as deep as the ocean.” Yes. And even Time Magazine, in its year-end recap of 1997, called it The Year When the News Turned Emotional.”


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2 A.M. listening time: Jerome Corsi, esteemed elder, on this “Second American Revolution”

Of all the Qanon commentators, I value Jerome Corsi the most, and want to pass on his perspective on what went down yesterday. One remark that struck me so forcefully that I didn’t even have to turn on the light and jot it down: “MK Ultra has grown into Big Pharma.” Exactly. How many otherwise authentically alive school kids forced to sit still in rows while fed meaningless memorizations are NOT on psychoactive meds of some kind? And what might this fact have to do with “lone gunman school shootings”? The Deep State aims to destroy our children, and not just via pedophilia/Satanism.

So amazed and glad that “MK Ultra” is now hitting the internet news. About time. I just googled “MK Ultra exopermaculture,” and got ten stories that I’ve posted through the years.

Corsi mentions how, as a child, he went to kindergarten the first day and refused to return. That he was a difficult child, having so much energy. Don’t know his birthtime, but his birthdate is August 31, 1947, which makes him a member of the powerhouse Saturn/Pluto in Leo sub-generation; more specific to him personally, like Vladimir Putin, Corsi has many planets in Libra, and so is focused, above all, on the human dynamics of balance, equality, justice.

Thank goodness Corsi’s prodigious energy continues at the age of 71. He now seems to be “on,” 24/7, with his hard-working Virgo Sun helping independent citizen journalists to analyze the workings of what really does seem, more and more, to be a yuge revolutionary moment in the U.S.A. Thank goodness for our elders!

Rather than attempt to further summarize Corsi’s remarks here, I found someone else to do it for me. (BTW: in the second sentence, glad to see that this “White Nationalist” identifies himself as distinct from Corsi.)

This is quite an amazing videoed analysis by, in my opinion and in the opinion of many others, the current premier analyst of the political scene in America. I’m speaking of the brilliant Dr. Jerome Corsi — and I’m speaking too from the perspective of a White Nationalist (not him, me).

Dr. Corsi’s video is amazing in at least two ways. First, the political and even (counter-)revolutionary implications of the happenings themselves of this day. Second, this video, like yesterday’s, includes a direct, in REAL TIME, response to Corsi’s live-stream video by the White House — in the person(s) of “Q-Anon.” For the benefit of those who aren’t up-to-date on the Q-Anon phenomenon, Q has been fully verified (in Corsi’s opinion and mine and many highly intelligent folk) as a legitimate spokesman for the Inner Circle of the Trump Administration (and the U.S. military — namely the Marines and Navy). This, based on the confirmed uniqueness of the information “dropped” by Q plus other confirmations, has become by now totally obvious. Indeed, this video, itself, is further confirmation of that fact.

Today’s revelations:

1. Although announced by Rosenstein, it is apparent that Robert Mueller today fully exonerated President Trump of both “Russian collusion” and “obstruction of justice.” And now — at last — the tables are about to be turned — not only on Mueller himself, but on the Democrat Party, Clapper, the Clintons, “President” Obama himself, plus many other traitors. The charge will be no less than SEDITION and TREASON. These are capital crimes, punishable by death. This doesn’t mean these people will actually face the death penalty (although they certainly deserve it), but the criminal charges and the punishments will be significant. Justice is about to begin, to a large degree, to be served.

2. The FBI was exposed today and yesterday as, at best, culpably negligent and incompetent and, at worst, criminally guilty of, in effect, collusion in the murder of the 17 school children in Florida — by failing (or refusing) to take action to prevent the insane drugged boy from his pre-announced mass murder shooting. The latter — that key people in the FBI are guilty of CONSCIOUS (indirect) collusion in the Florida high school shooting — is my own opinion, not Corsi’s (at least Corsi did not state this possibility out loud). This culpability prepares the public for a much needed house cleaning of the FBI, starting with the guy at the top (not to mention prior FBI big wigs).

3. Q announced today that MAJOR VOTER FRAUD was perpetrated by the Democrat Party in the 2016 presidential election and in the election of certain congressmen. It is probable that Hillary did NOT win even the popular presidential vote. MILLIONS of illegal aliens voted — and the vote count was manipulated by the Democrats. This was a conspiracy emanating from the very top — Obama himself. The attempted subversion of a major national election is SUBVERSION against the nation. Again, a capital offense, potentially punishable by death — because it amounts to an attempted COUP D’ETAT.

Okay. Listen to Corsi’s video all the way through. You won’t be disappointed.




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Early 2018: Global Pedophilia Flushes to the Surface

Have you noticed? A ramp-up of stories on what used to be the elephant in the global living room?

Veteran Navy SEALs and Law Enforcement Teamed Up to Save Kids From Child Sex Trafficking — For Free

Little Barbies: Sex Trafficking of Young Girls Is America’s Dirty Little Secret


Professors and Staff Arrested for Trading in Child Rape


At least 10 Current and Former U.S. Mayors Accused of Child Sex Crimes since 2016


Early 2018, California:

Human trafficking crackdown nets more than 500 arrests statewide 

And, it turns out, wherever the Corporatist MIC Empire’s continuous scouring and poisoning of the global landscape leaves former inhabitants homeless, hungry, and devastated:

U.N. Workers Carried out 60,000 Rapes in a Decade

No matter what one might think of Trump, already, back in March 2017, he was being recognized for his dedication to stop this perversion of our common human values.

Fmr Congresswoman: If Trump Goes After High-Level Pedophiles, It Will Take Down Dems And Republicans

Unfortunately, this is nothing new. As I recall, the rampant systematic pedophilia theme actually broke into the news via the Catholic Church.

Remember the Academy Award winning film Spotlight, documenting clergy child abuse from 2001 in the Boston Globe?

Or remember this, from 2011?

BBC documentary exposes 50 year scandal of baby-trafficking by the Catholic Church in Spain

Meanwhile, for anyone who follows this horrific ongoing practice — which, BTW, is extremely lucrative, as noted by the Indy Star, the newspaper that also broke the very recent story about the staff doctor who raped hundreds of young female gymnasts — yet  even pedophilia pales in the face of related Satanic practices, including murder and organ harvesting.

Investigator Liz Crokin:



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Post-AKID? More Snake River Canyon memories

NOTE: I’ve now given the seemingly prolific “AKID” (“Ann Kreilkamp is dead”) its own page. All the relevant posts there, in order.

Two memories stick out here. One of them repeated, over and over again, each time Mitzi and I drove up the extremely steep grade to get out of the canyon after playing in the blue waters. Each time, it felt like death held us in its grip. Would the old car make it, or would it inexorably slide backwards, hurtle over the edge on that notorious hair-pin turn that, once again, we had only barely successfully negotiated.

Looking back, I’m surprised that I dared to dare death each time we went down there into that deep paradisical, still semi-wild cleft in the middle of the southern Idaho sagebrush desert  then in the process of converting to farmlands (and has since been paralleled by I-80).

Oh! Another memory surfaces, and another, and another . . . All of the spectacles awaiting when one descended into this Plutonian realm. Here’s a locally famous one: Shoshone Falls, said to be “higher than Niagra.”

Of course, both Shoshone Falls, and the public park at Twin Falls (another falls in the river) were places where my and other families would join for evening picnics.

Another, and this, for me, goes back to my 30s, when I was again living in Twin Falls. Hikiing to and swimming in the then hidden (but not blue) ponds near Dierke’s Lake, east of the bridge. BTW: I hear that this rim is now dotted with homes.

Back then, fresh from my loving divorce with Dick, and freed up to follow my path rather than be socially presentable as the “wife of the editor of the local paper,” I had decided to  to rile things up in this, my home town, socially dominated by varieties of Christian religion, including and especially, Mormons. What did I do?

I started my own publication, OpenSpace, aiming to attract all the dissidents in the region and giving them a space to play. Here’s a photo of the first cover, from September 1978. Framed, it now hangs on the back wall above the toilet.

Back then, in 1978, in sleepy Twin Falls! Yes, the weirdos did come out of the woodwork, in force! Including this cover artist, then a stranger who just appeared at the door with this beautiful drawing of the Magic Valley in hand! And including another then stranger, a farmer who backed up his truck to the door, hauled out a 50 pound sack of beans, and commented, laconically, “For the soup!” (which I kept simmering on the stove, all day, every day).

All of which, over time, started to “go to my head;” yes, I became a bit besotted with my own local  alt-celebrity.

Which meant I had to be taken down. Again. It had happened before, at New College of California, where I had gone, triumphant from having actually outmaneuvered Boston University philosophy department to actually grant me the Ph.D. in philosophy, despite, as my teacher lamented, “You are asking us to certify you as one of us, while kicking us in the chins!” Another long story. Let’s just say here that that early victory did indeed “go to my head” and my year-long sojourn in 1972-73 as a teacher — at that young experimental college then located in Sausalito —  went from initial triumph to total disgrace when I was “fired” as “too experimental.” Yes indeed, yet another long story!

Okay, so let’s return to the time of OpenSpace, and its aftermath. I had been running the publication for two years, and was already getting restless. To my mind, I had to present myself as “perfect” in my followers eyes, and so would smoke my cigarettes only in secret. This little secret of mine, and my loathing for myself as a person controlled by a bad habit, would, in a few years, actually transform — a story which again involved my evolving relationship with the beautiful Snake River Canyon. All of which makes me wonder if my fascination with Death (since childhood, when I unsuccessfully begged my doctor Dad to let me in to see an autopsy) and Descent (the story of Inanna’s descent to meet up with her dark sister Irishkigal) were mysteriously, geographically echoed in the very fact of living so close as a kid to a mighty canyon cleft with a river running through it.

Yes: even where a flat, bland surface may appear dry and arid, wrench open the rock walls, and what appears below? True for places. True for humans, too. There’s always much, much more than meets the eye.

Meanwhile, I’m going to skip over the story I was originally going to tell, about my meeting with a Plutonian figure at the end of two years with OpenSpace, a “bad man”  —and the year it took to extricate myself from his angry, alcoholic swoon. That story deserves more, much more, as I see my dangerous journey with Phil as indeed perhaps the most crucial to my own evolution, teaching me, finally, at least at some level, to pay attention, and NOT be so impulsive, nor so blithely assured that I could heal another! Huh? I couldn’t even heal myself. At least not then. It took another few years before I wised up, and turned within.

Yes, most crucial to my own evolution is the full story of my Dance with the Death of my treacherous “bad habit,” cigarette smoking. For all the years I did smoke (constantly, incessantly, up to two packs a day), I knew that unless and until I “quit,” my life would be continuously undermined. That in order to actually set up a foundation for authentic aliveness, I had to stop. And so I did. Finally. Back when I was 40, thanks in part, to the Snake River Canyon. You might be interested. Here goes.

How I Stopped Smoking (for what its worth)

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Post-AKID? Snake River Canyon memories

Note: For “AKID,” and “senescence,” see this, this, this and this:

Part of “senescence” involves sifting through memories. And you bet, at 75, I’m at that hallowed point in my life. On the other hand, I’ve always been there, always sensing, within the spreading point of the present moment, the layered presence of kaleidoscoping memories, noticing how meaning continuously morphs through the spiralling of time.

I grew up in Twin Falls, adjacent to the Snake River Canyon in south central Idaho. The whole valley, rimmed on the north by the far off jagged Sawtooths and the nearby soft rounded South Hills, had interesting, near-biblical place names. First of all, it was called Magic Valley (because back in the day, pioneers canalized part of the Snake for desert irrigation); plus, one little town was called “Eden” and another one “Bliss.”

One of my memories has to do with the speedboat Dad bought on a whim, christened “Ben’s Folly,” and housed on the river at the Blue Lakes Country Club (which actually harbors transparent blue lakes, their sandy bottoms 100 feet below.

One of the translucent BLUE lakes right center.

The purpose of Ben’s Folly was to take us kids waterskiing on the river, so that we could thrillingly swoosh under the Perrine Bridge;

but it wasn’t too long before he sold the damn thing. Just too much trouble for a busy doctor with eight fractious kids. We hardly missed it.

Another memory, of going to the home of John, a classmate in 8th grade, and persuading him to ride double with me on my horse down the canyon’s south side. An all afternoon adventure, with sandwiches. He ended up with open wounds on the insides of both thighs. (Or was it John? Maybe Dick? The memory does play tricks. Though I do remember it was one of those two, and how I was surprised by his lack of resilience (not that I could, or would, have used that word back then).)

And then there’s the memory of me and Mitzi, my grade school friend, playing in those blue lakes, and in the rocky streams leading into them. Crawdads abounded in the streams; once we took a pail of them to our biology teacher, Miss Minier, surprised when she did not want them for dissection in class. (Oops, that must have been in tenth grade, because that’s when we had “Miss Minier,” my totally favorite teacher; she used to live across the street from Miss Babcock, who, as I recall, was the Latin teacher, and rumors later caught up with me that the two had been lesbian lovers. (Of course Miss Minier’s backstory was that she had a beau, but he had been “killed in the war.”) For me, the most interesting thing about Miss Minier was that I heard she “could drink all the others under the table,” during faculty get-togethers). I loved her swagger; her blue hair and cigarette holder; her fearless attitude.

But I save the best memory for last. And this is the time I, and two others — a man in his 20s and another man about my age in my mid-30s — decided, right after my second husband Dick (also my first boyfriend in high school, and then the editor of the local newspaper) and I had lovingly divorced after a short, two-year love fest — to descend into the canyon, park cars at two places several miles apart, and take a friend’s two-person canoe down the river. This was in February. All three of us were high on mushrooms. Need I say more?

I will say more. Okay, so there we were, high as kites, stepping gingerly into the canoe in our boots and down jackets, with me in the center. Loaded with the three of us, the water came within two inches of the rim. Obviously, this was not a good idea. As we were getting in, I said to the older man, “This is probably not a good idea!” and he agreed, it was not; at this he stepped in boldly, and I followed, gingerly.

It truly was a beautiful day. Sky deep blue (no chemtrails back then), and iced white waterfalls from the southern rim frozen in time. And after all, we only had a couple of miles to go. We would make it.

Aaah, we all exclaimed, on hearing the beating wings of hundreds of ducks ahead, as they lifted off the river, flew over us, and settled again on the river behind.

Then another sound ahead, the hiss of rapids. Okay, I thought, any rapids on the Snake can’t be that bad; just settle in and hold the center. Steeling myself for a brief rough ride, I did just that, and . . . we made it through, no problem!

By this time the take out point was almost in view. We had just about done it! Gone down the river in February on mushrooms in a too small canoe! High on our success in negotiating the tiny rapids, we had differing responses. Me? I was relieved, and looking forward to getting out of the river. The men? They were high on adrenaline, eager for more adventure.

Suddenly, one of them noticed a small waterfall about three feet high, falling into the river on the right. “Let’s go up the rapid!” he called out, excitedly. Now remember, we were all high on mushrooms, but only I, apparently, held an awareness of danger despite the mushrooms. So of course, my stomach fell with a thud.

I resigned myself to our fate.

(I think back now; why didn’t I object? What got into me that I was so submissive, despite my recognition of obvious danger? I have no good answer to this question; maybe it’s because I was meant to undergo this entire experience?)

The men paddled to turn sharply right, heading straight for the waterfall. Memories are hazy here; I don’t know if the waterfall itself caused us to roll over, or whether the sharp turn meant water started to pour over the right rim of the canoe, or what. What I do remember, is the canoe suddenly overturned, and all three of us found ourselves surfacing at the same time, clinging to the sides, looking at each other, stunned.

Yep! Just what I feared had come to pass.

My first thought was, okay, where’s the deus ex machina to swoop down and pluck us out of this freezing river before it’s too late? I really did think that! Amazing.

But then, as the minutes wore on and the canoe drifted slowly downriver, the young man and the older man were arguing what to do to get the canoe to turn right side up, with both of them seemingly calling on their differing “boy scout” rules?

Remember, the canoe was borrowed.

The young man was full of determination. He wasn’t going to let this incident take away his life or his youth. The older man, who happened to be a pathologist, knew exactly just how much time we had before we succumbed to the cold (ten minutes or so, he said later). But without telling us this, he acted cheerful and competent. Meanwhile, I found myself drifting in and out of this world, COMPLETELY OKAY WITH WHATEVER HAPPENED NEXT. In other words, I could stay or go, live or die. And most importantly, this experience felt like a capstone to my recent decision to lovingly divorce the man I had loved since we were kids, so strong was my innate quest for freedom and exploration. 

Suddenly, the older man, who probably noticed that I was beginning to fade, barked, to both of us, get your boots off, and your jacket. SWIM! Forget the canoe.

YES! He had said the obvious. Forget the property, even though it was borrowed. Our very lives were at stake.

And that’s what we did. And made it easily to shore. Once we got warm again, and dry, the three of us proceeded to process that experience for hours.

P.S. We rescued the canoe the next day. It had gotten snagged on some branches not very far ahead of where we had abandoned it.

So, like any old woman, I look back on events with wonder, and notice how some of them stand out as markers, signposts along the way. That day in the river, that February day when I might have died, and was okay either way, helped me to understand that I was indeed on my path. That my path would be dangerous at times. The uncharacteristic timidity I demonstrated that day —or maybe it was my foreknowledge that this near-death experience would indeed occur, given that we were so high on mushrooms and not in our “right minds” — melted away with the coming of spring.

But of course, more dangerous adventures lay ahead. And didn’t even need mushrooms to hold their peril. But I didn’t know that then. It’s always good not to know exactly what’s going to make you grow and evolve, blooming your unique nature into exquisite flowering.


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Happy(?) Valentine’s Day! plus Solar Eclipse tomorrow!

I decided to research the origins of Valentine’s Day, and found conflicting stories, none of them romantic.

The dark origins of Valentine’s Day

The real St. Valentine was no patron of Love

Even more curious, and relevant, I just came across this graphic in today’s local paper. A hilarious example of a factoid that might be true, might not; but either way, I am not surprised to see that it is promoted by the National Confectioners’ Association.

But just think. What if it IS true? Would we be surprised?

Yes, what if it IS true? Does this mean that the 52% of Americans who buy chocolates on Valentine’s Day for themselves are love-starved, and so devour chocolates to compensate, at least on this one day?

Just put it in your mind’s eye: some poor love-starved slob sitting all alone, watching te-lie-vision, nursing his old, likely repeated, wounds by furtively gobbling all the chocolates in the box that he (or she?) just bought. Which box? Well, there are plenty to choose from, including expensive ones.

Would YOU just gobble something that cost so much? Well, plenty of people do. I’m thinking about an absorbing Netflix film I watched last night,

about Doug Kenney (1947-1980), the inspiration behind National Lampoon and its many cognates, including Animal House and Caddyshack! The way they flung cocaine around in that film outdid even smeary-faced chocolate lovers, and is way more expensive.

All of which brings us to the current opioid crisis, currently engulfing the families and resources of especially impoverished, unloved rural America, and impoverished, unloved inner cities.

What I’m getting at here is how so many people feel a huge devouring hole in their being, and that by constantly craving external stuff to suck into that hole, whether it be money or lies or real estate or chocolates or romance or cocaine or alcohol or stories-we-tell-ourselves-about- our-own-victim-status, on and on, that yawning existential hole will never fill! The only thing that does fill the hole IS love. And what is Love? Well, it’s not romance. That’s a projection, another spell we put on ourselves, what we “fall in”to  and crash out of, over and over again, each time wondering how we could have been so ” blind.”

No. LOVE — and too bad the very word has been so cheapened — truly IS the very stuff that fills and fuels the universe, if only we open to receive it, if only we get out of our own way and allow it to surge through us, immersing the whole world in its radiating generosity.

BTW: New Moon, in line with, and coming between Sun and Earth, creates a partial solar eclipse tomorrow, February 15, the day after Valentine’s Day: Sun/Moon conjunction at 27° Aquarius, in a harmonious sextile (60° aspect) to Uranus at 25° Aries, and a wide, tense square (90° aspect) to Jupiter at 22° Scorpio. My reading: Deep feelings (Jupiter in Scorpio), covered briefly by the Moon’s eclipse of the Sun in detached mental Aquarius, still manage to continue to quicken the energy of initiation (Uranus in Aries). And though the aspect doesn’t show up as a line in this chart, Jupiter is also in a wide inconjunct (150° aspect) with Uranus, thus creating a short-lived triangle of continuuous growth among the four planets: Sun, Moon, Jupiter and Uranus.

Jupiter in Scorpio works with Uranus in Aries in this subtly tense inconjunct relationship for all of February and March, and is brought into focus during tomorrow’s February 15th eclipse/new moon, which asks us, as do all new moons, TO BEGIN AGAIN!  I’d say that the core issue is how do we courageously ignite new actions (Uranus in Aries) while at the same time consciously clearing our path ahead of old emotional issues (Jupiter in Scorpio)? 

Note to astrologers:  I noticed and named these “triangles of continuous growth” decades ago, probably because I have three of them in my own chart. They always involve one square (its the tension providing fuel for change), plus a harmonious sextile or trine (to ease the way), via a subtly sensed need for continuous adjustment signified by either an inconjunct or a semi-sextile. I.e., “triangles of continues growth” can be small or large. The small ones contain a square, a sextile and a semi-sextile; the large ones feature a square, a trine, and an inconjunct. The point, for these triangles, which involve both “easy” and “difficult” aspects, is that the situations they trigger are, or need to be, continuously dynamic and evolving!


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AKID, day three: “Senescence” reveals snarky shadow

Received a new comment on AKID. Really like it, as somehow it nudges me to actually, and in every single endless moment, DO what I feel burbling up inside me, move into playful senescence! Here’s Kieron’s comment:


So, in the spirit of play — and remember, the great thing about old woman playing is she really doesn’t give a damn as to what YOU “think” of her. Reputation thrown to the wolves decades ago, she just lives to have fun, and in my case, given my double-Sagittarian nature, to also layer that fun with radiating meaning, as well as, let’s face it, as here, in this post, briefly lapse into my own mother’s snarkiness.

So, yes, in thr spirit of real and snarky playfulness, two photos, with superficial similarity, struck me today. The first feels so glorious it takes my breath away: a woman, dwarfed in wondrous color, gathers vegetables within a luscious field of concentrically planted rows of plants of various kinds crowded together — the way plants like it!

A permaculturist’s vision of paradise!

The work of growing food transformed into majestic art!

Okay, speaking of art, here’s another, similarly “green” photo, the already famous, or infamous “portrait” of Obama (and Michelle). But wait, let’s do the drama leading up to it.

At the Smithsonian, the unveiling ceremony, waiting with bated breath . . .

At last, they appear! Both simulated and in reality!

Former US President Barack Obama and First Lady Michelle Obama stand before their portraits and respective artists, Kehinde Wiley (L) and Amy Sherald (R), after an unveiling at the Smithsonian’s National Portrait Gallery in Washington, DC, February 12, 2018. / AFP PHOTO / SAUL LOEB / RESTRICTED TO EDITORIAL USE – MANDATORY MENTION OF THE ARTIST UPON PUBLICATION – TO ILLUSTRATE THE EVENT AS SPECIFIED IN THE CAPTION (Photo credit should read SAUL LOEB/AFP/Getty Images)

Note the need for making sure the above photo is correctly sourced. So very different from the photo taken of nature’s abundance. I wish I knew the source! I would be glad to credit the photographer.

But here we go, already; even with the natural photo, we plod knee deep into cultural requirements, one tiny detail of the thick, multilayered scrim that the magnificently creative human need for language (given that our original capacity for telepathy has been erased by fluoride to the pineal gland) overlays upon the real, palpable, physical world, driving us further and further into our “minds,” separating us further and further from our own physical bodies as sensitive, attuned antennas of the natural world!

In other words, humanity’s extraordinary creativity with language and other symbol systems, including photography and other forms of art, can work to enhance life or to kill it; can be used “for good” or “for evil,” and not just blatantly. Sometimes covertly, for example, via great masses of confusion stirred by contradictory disinfo and misinfo. For a current analysis of this phenomenon, see “The Confusion Principle” by Lisa Renee.

But I digress.

Let’s now look at the “presidential portraits” up close and impersonal:

Geez, are these cartoons?

(I’m not even gonna bother with the Michelle photo, which first of all, does not look like “her,” and features “the dress” bigley. After all, fashion is of the essence? But I do wonder what Michelle actually really thought about the portrait . . .)

So now, let’s call attention to Barack’s situation in his photo: on a chair? with larger than life hands, one of which appears to have six fingers? But never mind that. What I’m interested in is the foliage surrounding him. I’ve seen some comment that the foliage is “bushes,” symbolic of how Obama follows Bush, both Repubs and Demos being wings of the same monstrous, anti-life Deep State regime.

But officially? I read somewhere that the profusion of plant life in the portrait is supposed to represent all his accomplishments. Huh?

Oops, here we go. In this world of electronic (and other) verisimilitude, might it be that his “accomplishments” are digitally copied? That certainly would make it easier on the “painter.”

Somehow, I don’t think this happens in wild nature, nor in organic fields. Oh yes, I’m sure plant clones proliferate “in nature” too, given the tendency of Big Ag to want to repeat ad nauseam what brings in the most profits. But let’s just stick with the one glorious concentric ring photo in the field way above. Repetitions? NOT. Every single plant occupies its own unique niche, in concert with all the others. That’s part of what makes this painting of that field so glorious.

Furthermore, at least for me, what makes that photo glorious is that the human is dwarfed by nature’s bounty. So very different from a “portrait,” which puts the human in the center of creation. Always. That’s just what we do, at least we in the west who glorify the personal ego and allow the context to “fade into the background.”

But wait a minute! just as with Michelle’s photo, which stresses (bare arms in) an expensive “designer dress,” in the case of the Barack portrait, the context, “nature,” does not fade; in fact “nature” crowds in upon the human figure. That in itself is worth noting. Perhaps this painting prophesizes the takeover of nature, finally, from human pretense of “control”?

Oh yeah.

I wish it were that easy, to just erase the poisoned scrim of human attempts to dominate nature.

Okay, now look at how this photo lines up with all the oil-painted others, if it were to be chosen as the “official” presidential photo (and not just in the Smithsonian). Hmmm, doing a little internet sleuthing, wondering if the official presidential portraits are in the White House. Still haven’t found the official answer, but did discover that this photo will be part of “an exhibit in the [Smithsonian’s] National Portrait Gallery, the only place outside the White House with a complete collection of presidential portraits from George Washington to Barack Obama.”

Oh my. So this is what it will look like, in context?

Geez, it stands out like a green thumb, er, oops! I mean a sore thumb.

So tell me, which do you prefer, a photo of nature’s wonders cooperating abundantly with human needs, or a photo of faked, copied “plants” pretending to somehow enhance a “presidential portrait.”

Oh yeah, one more thing: someone on twitter wondered if some of the Obama plant leaves were poison ivy.


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AKID, Day Two, again: A living interpretation of “death”!

And see original post, to know what the hell I’m talking about!

A number of people, both in comments and personally, have told me that they think the two dreams are about changing identities; that this would be experienced as a “death” of some kind. True. So true. And in the original dream, my psychic friend emailed me later that she vaguely remembers a part of her trying on new clothes, over and over again — which would fit this interpretation of the dreams.

Much to say about this, and I have found myself morphing over the past year or so. The identity of being the main person responsible for having founded and grounded a place, seeding and seating a shared space that honors both humans and Earth, is needing to be shed, like a snake its skin. And what I’m morphing into is some version of what I’ve done before, earlier in life, as Teacher and Explorer, a very natural role for this fiery double Sagittarian, always has been. The business of grounding was new! Instigated by my security-oriented Taurus Moon, I utilized the money left to me by my dear husband Jeff to establish a home base that made sense, not just to me, but to an emergent culture of connectedness rising like a lotus in towns and cities everywhere from the mud of the old separatist mentality of “rugged individualism” that has held the American mind in a lonely spell since — since when? Since the beginning, I suppose. Ever since we Europeans wiped out the connectedness of native peoples in our thirst for adventure and individual prowess. In any case, I don’t want to go back and “argue points” as to what caused what and when. Just know that I personally need to keep morphing, as I have always done, constantly experimenting with new forms of life, new ways of sharing and communicating, new possibilities for expansion and deepening of awareness.

You might say that, even at the advanced age of 75,  I’m still one of our quintesentially American “rugged individualists;” but of course I am, that’s my inheritance, too! I value my personal freedom enormously. On the other hand, I also value connectedness, equally — with other people, animals, insects, plants, rivers, mountains, Earth, the cosmos — and over long spiraling years have have come to recognize that it is the dance between these two seemingly opposite virtues — individualism and connectednes — (or, as we put it these days: service to self vs service to others) that serves as the growing edge of human evolution. Or it can. Too much of one is downright selfish. Too much of the other leads to oblivion.

It never ends, have you noticed? This thirst of ours to grow, to evolve. This thirst of ours for more. More of what is the only question. And once we let go of our addiction to materialism, and travel inside to the mysterious space within which all possibilities arise, the list is literally endless, is it not?

Here’s me, a tiny seed, already sprouting in our Green Acres Village greenhouse.


P.S. Of course, I still might die! And meanwhile, I choose, as ever, to live fully, as if my life depends on it.

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AKID, next day. STILL HERE!


See yesterday’s post.

Busy with the quotidian: Walk dogs, eat, do yoga/taichi, write, tax prep, eat, make sure “Everything is in order, just in case.” Tea with a dear friend this afternoon.

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Dream: “Ann Kreilkamp is dead.”

Whose dream? Not mine, but that of a very intuitive psychic female friend.  In fact, she said she had the dream twice. The first time she figured it might be about a part of herself that she had projected onto me; but if not, she resolved to at least email me the next day to tell me how much she appreciates me. Then she fell back asleep, and, asking for more information, received  a much more insistent dream, “Ann Kreilkamp is dead,” over and over, like “a bell tolling,” she said, “at least 70 times . . . one for every year of your life?” (I’m 75.) In any case, she no longer thought it was about her, and knew she needed to contact me, especially since I’m concerned that we make plans now for “continuity of government” here in Green Acres Village before I die.

Well, as you can imagine, the first time I read through her recounting of the dreams I was shocked. The repeated statement, “Ann Kreilkamp is dead,”  just kept reverberating through me like a curse! I kept trying to bat it away . . . but just in case, immediately called son Colin to tell him about the dream, and to begin to make plans to make sure everything IS in order before I die, so that he can work with the GAV Board as they move through the transition to a legal structure that doesn’t need my resources or energy to continue and evolve in the direction I, and we, have set for it. I also decided on a a few people who might function as his advisory council as he works with the sudden loss of his mother, for that’s what it felt like, some kind of sudden loss.

I then called a person that has been close to me for decades, one who holds, in his own heart, the kind of vision I hold here; to me, he is the one who would have both the time and the inclination to  help Colin through the transition.

He didn’t pick up, but called back as I was parking at the grocery store, and we sat and talked for 20 minutes.

He said he was utterly stunned at my news, “Ann Kreilkamp is dead,” and especially at the fact that I had immediately thought of him as the first person for Colin to lean on should this come to pass.

Why? Because he had just in the past day or two made the decision to sell his house  and move here, to Bloomington, to be with us. So, the Board’s common vision of continuing to expand the village within the neighborhood, already begins to bear fruit!

My psychic friend had told me that she felt the dreams were connected to Jeff (my deceased husband, with whom I have been in episodic communication since he died in 2003). See This Vast Being for what went on during the first year after his death. And frankly, the over-the-top dramatic intensity of both  dreams does sound like something that vast being might do, just to get my attention.

And actually, as I told my psychic friend, the very evening of the night she had the dreams, I had been watching a movie on Netflix and could feel, for the first time ever, a spirit next to and above my left side, watching, and chuckling alongside me. Jeff?

Oops! Wait a minute. Remember Carlos Casteneda’s advice from his shaman, Don Juan, that “death walks by your left shoulder”?

Either way, something was palpably there, to my left, as I watched the movie.

Okay. Let’s now abbreviate the statement “Ann Kreilkamp Is Dead” to AKID — as in “I kid you not,” or maybe, “I kid you?”

For that is what the entire saga feels like at this point. It feels like we are now in Round Two of a situation where I am told, by some external authority, that I’m about to die, and my response is completely unexpected, not only to me, but to others in my circle. The backstory:

That first time, Round One, was in early 2008, ten years ago. I had thought I had appendicitis, and very reluctantly went to the EM at 2:00 AM, after feeling an insistent, but intermittent pain in my lower right torso area for at 24 hours. I have yet to publish the long version of that story, which, believe me, will be well worth waiting for, but here’s the short version:

I was told that I had a significant mass in my pancreas, and that I would need to see a doctor ASAP. Having no doctor (I don’t “do” doctors), I was glad that I had gone to the EM, because that way I could be assigned one. So I did that, but three days passed before I could get an appointment. Meanwhile, of course, I went on the Internet, and figured I had pancreatic cancer, with maybe two weeks left of life.

The story of what happened during those three days is where the precious jewel of larger meaning bloomed. For I discovered several things during this period of time: 1) that I was very ready to “die,” in fact welcomed it; and 2) that I needed to alert those close to me as to this close eventuality, and to let them know that I was ready and willing to go. As a result, I, who lived alone at that time, spent most of those three days on the phone drinking in extraordinarily warm and loving conversations with all my familiars, both family and others. These conversations, utterly vulnerable and authentic, both somber and solemn in tone, appeared to germinate a frequency or vibrational field of intense loving energy, as if we were all immersed in an immense, nourishing atmosphere.

Then, while doing tai chi on the evening before I was to see the doctor (for the same pain which, by this time, had completely disappeared) I sensed a large group of spirits swishing around me, all joyous, as if they were clinking glasses in congratulation. Why? Because, I was told, their experiment had worked! They had chosen me, as one who did not fear death, and who would then use the occasion of deathing as an opportunity to generate a powerful field of love. Would this ruse work? Would this kind of experiment actually jump-start such a transformative frequency field? The answer was a resounding YES.

Needless to say, the next day, I discovered that the original CT scan was wrong; an MRI revealed the “mass” to be in the liver, where it is most likely no big deal.

So, forward to yesterday, when I received the transcripts from my friend of her two amazing dreams, insisting that AKID. Hmmm? True? Am I to die soon? Actually, especially the second dream, with its at least 70 reiterations of AKID, felt so over the top that it wasn’t too long before I suspected we were in Round Two of AK’s deathing tales.

And what’s fascinating to me, is that this time, as the day wore on, instead of the solemnity of phone calls to my familiars, I started to experience the entire drama as hilarious. So that, by the time my young housemate Dan arrived home (he had been away overnight; likewise my other young housemate Alex; so this experience was just me alone), and I told him, and of course, he went into shock, until I kept intoning AKID and its cognates over and over again. Like, when going in to take a shower, or out to the back yard for a moment, solemnly: “I may not see you ever again. . . .” We started cracking up. The atmosphere had morphed into over the top funny.

Now, you may say, I still might soon die. The dreams may prove to be prophetic (this woman does have prophetic dreams of others’ dying); so why am I laughing? Well, why AM I laughing? Because I know that I — the fiery spirit that utilizes this aging body — won’t die, can’t die? Yes. I’m sure of it. I’ve had too many out of body experiences to think that I AM my body. And so now, I’m fascinated with the specific qualities of the frequency field that seems to be generating from Round Two of AKID. For if Round One was solemn, this second one feels downright playful.

The first seemed to generate a field of love, and perhaps — this thought has just now occurred to me — it might have been that precise personal drama that invisibly birthed the powerful field of love that now pervades our experiment in Green Acres Village!

This second round feels utterly carefree. The love field is assumed, assured, automatically; now, the question becomes, how can we humans learn how to let to go of our bodies easily “when the time comes”? And how can we turn fearful dirges into tearful celebrations? Time will tell.

P.S. If I do “kick the bucket” soon I’ll make sure beforehand that someone can get into this blog and tell the tale.

P.P.S. IF I live, then I have the feeling this post on AKID will turn into a series. Meanwhile, for Round Two I don’t need to call all my familiars, since I can just send them this post! Ah. the wonders of 2018 technology.

A few more possible death poses:

Still on Netflix.

While doing yoga, downward dog.

With my lover, the ipad.

Dan: “Gee, now when I get up in the morning, I’m going to be worried. What if you’re not already up?” Me: “Yes, you’ll have to knock on my bedroom door . . .”

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