Kimberly Steele

When you die, you are always given many choices, just as you are given choices while you still live. As someone who speaks to the dead, let me reassure you that an entire unseen ecosystem surrounds you at all times. The only difference between the after-death state and Meatworld is that the ecosystem becomes much more visible and perceivable because you don’t carry the albatross of your Meatworld body.
 

After physical death, your subtle bodies (also known as the eternal soul) undergo a series of baptisms as your perception is re-opened to the real world. Meatworld is a spacetime illusion. It is like the reflection a mirror. The scenery behind the layer of glass looks real enough until you try to walk into it.
 

Goodbye, cruel world!

So imagine if you followed the advice of a certain nihilist influencer and upon dying, you reject the light, run away from your loved ones who are calling out to you, and instead choose to run towards the Void. The influencer informed you that evil space lizard gods have been farming you for your soul energy for all your countless lifetimes on Meatworld. Said lizard devil-gods wash your memory each time so you’ll continue being their compliant livestock. Meatworld sucks, lending hefty credence to the notion that it is all a scam, along with those pesky religious recommendations to be a good person and to do unto others as you would yourself. Nah, all that do-gooder stuff is for suckers. You believe this influencer until the day you are hit by a bus and croak.
 

Perhaps part of you believes that as you run towards the Void, the gods will catch you and say “No, you’re not allowed to do that!” Since you are convinced that all deities are scheming space lizards out for your blood energy, you are quite surprised as the light fades, the tunnel recedes into the distance, the glowing door vaporizes, and the voices of all those you have ever loved, including your beloved pets, are squelched in an abyss of silence. The Divine won’t stop you from being engulfed by the Void if is that is what you choose. You are and have always been autonomous. As it turns out, you can have your Void and eat it too, but don’t be shocked if what you thought were open arms are actually open jaws.
 

The Void is a vacuum and nature abhors a vacuum. The Void wants you in it and always beckons. Humans are not the smartest creatures and our intelligence is somewhere between plankton and demigods. If you reject Meatworld’s school, it will happily let you go, but you will remain a spiritual retard with a Dunning-Kruger approach to the learning process. When you reject Earth while presuming the grass is greener in the Void, the Void will sweep you away, far from the soul swarm in which you incarnated to other planets and other universes. These could be heavenly depending on the frequency at which you vibrate. Odds are that your vibration is more of one of despair and arrogance, and there are plenty of planets, timelines, and universes ready to match you note for note with more of the same. Just because a planet is not Earth does not make it good, and there are many places that are far more harsh and hostile to your type of soul, which after all was incarnated on Earth because that is the ecosystem to which it is best suited. The lore around comets is very useful to study here, as comets have long been associated with bad omens and demonic beings.
 

Let’s hear it for the Void

The Void has a much stronger pull than the light, especially if you vibrate in sympathy to other beings who have chosen to wander it. The pull of the Void is so strong, you don’t have to wait until the end of your life to partake in it. In fact, most people are swayed heavily by the Void’s gravitational pull, which is especially true in our current materialistic, demonic age. It is actually far more difficult to resist the Void, because resisting the Void requires the Apollonian virtues of knowing yourself and exercising moderation in all things.

To jump into the Void right now, all you need to do is cut off and abandon every connection and friend who cannot help you in the purely material sense. Those souls at the other end of the doorway are also right here and now; give up on them and you make it much easier to leave them behind later. Refuse to see the beauty of anyone or anything unless it is an acknowledgement of superficial glamour or sex appeal. All beauty is the light and the light is supposed to be false, provided by the Archons as a fake out. Sequester yourself on a metaphorical island of parsimony, expending the bare minimum of energy it takes to stay afloat, abandoning all work if it means being inconvenienced or if it involves sacrificing your precious time for a greater cause. Grab all the wealth you can, never questioning how it got into your bank account. You won’t have to wait for the Void or travel to the Void because you will be the Void.

When the next comet comes around, you’ll feel its gravitational pull, which exists on the astral plane as well as the physical plane. The comet will seem even more promising than the Void and you will find that others who have chosen to exempt themselves from Earth and its natural laws will be magnetized by it along with you. Sociopaths, serial rapists, pedophiles, ritual Satanists, various murderers, and hoarders of unearned wealth will jump on board thinking they are going home, and in a sense, they will be going home. You, the aforementioned group, and the others who believed the influencer over their own guts will hitch a fast, free ride to lands far, far away from Earth. It is highly doubtful you’ll be back again. That said, be careful what you wish for.
 

What is karma?

The challenge of karma is to understand it is not a set of arbitrary laws put in place as a measure of sadism. Karma is another word for consequences. It is also known as cause and effect. I’m sad to have to say this: the point of incarnation is not to run away from incarnation because evilly evil space lizards are forcing you to live your worst lives. The point of consequences for your actions is to forge you into a being who is brave and strong enough to consistently be better than you were yesterday, if only by the slightest bit.
 

Forsaking the rest and grace that comes after a Meatworld incarnation for the promise of adventures and free-dumb in the Void is like being saved from starvation only to vomit the contents of your life-saving meal into the nearest toilet. Go ahead and gag yourself, but don’t expect it to end well.
 

I don’t claim to be an expert and I could always be wrong, but from I can tell, it is up to us to suss out the beauty in an ugly time. It is our duty to make the best out of what we are given, even when what is given looks like a trash heap. With enough spiritual work, the blinders are removed while we still toil on Meatworld, and that is how I can converse with the dead and remember a patchwork of my own past lives, including some of my past lives as geese and cats.

When I die, I am going to skip hitching a ride deep into the Void. No comets for me, thanks. Instead, I will enjoy having my Second Sight turned back into my First Sight. I especially look forward to communing with my soul swarm and the higher selves of the family and friends I have had during incarnation. I’m looking forward to seeing my Dad again. While I am here, I will love the seasons and I will embrace the spirits of the land, for I am one with them. I will never give up the Great Work in despair. I will persevere like the drop of water that became a creek that became the Grand Canyon. I will ratio my hatred with love. I will stay on the Path, no matter how lonely and difficult, and I will trust in the Divine. I hope you’ll join me.

If etheric starvation were a meal, it would be a Just Egg breakfast sandwich. Just Egg isn’t made of eggs — it is a vegan “egg” that comes in rectangular patty form made of highly processed mung beans. Being the bright-sided Pollyanna I am, I am grateful for Just Egg and I commend the company for trying, but if I never ate another Just Egg in my life, it would not be too soon. Just Egg is just like an egg as the name seems to promise. I don’t like Just Egg because it has a rancid, fake, throw up, septic smell that reminds me of my high school’s public cafeteria in 1987. It’s somewhere between savory and straight up ass. Throw one of those nasty things on some sad white bread with a schmear of ketchup and many would call it a decent meal. Not me.

We are all becoming diabetic

From casual observation, diabetics are a tribe with distinct propensities and identifiable personality traits, despite coming in every racial color and physical size. Every diabetic I have ever known, whether Type 1 or Type 2, has had a thing for convenient, microwaved food. Another commonality I have seen among diabetics is the tendency to binge, whether it is on food, sex, alcohol, drugs, or sleep. Diabetes is reliably accompanied with cycles of temporary, excessive, Spartan diligence that quickly regress into constant, desperate attempts to alleviate the suffering of chronic etheric depletion. There is an obsession with comfort and convenience in diabetics I have yet to see with any other part of the human population.
 

To my mind, diabetes is etheric starvation and etheric starvation is diabetes. This is why the disease is so prevalent in our time. Just as Greta Thunberg has found out the hard way that starving yourself as a child cancels puberty nearly as effectively as “gender-affirming” hormones, stuffing or bingeing does irreparable systemic damage. Type 2 diabetics trash their etheric bodies early in life and pay the piper later on. Sometimes this happens due to vicious cycle of staying up all night and sleeping into the afternoon for years at a time. Sometimes it happens via the abuse of food by eating far too much far too often. The result is that cells do not know when they are being fed, and that they begin refusing to do their assigned work, throwing sugar back into the body in confusion. Once the damage is done, it is difficult or impossible to reverse.
 

There will never be a cure for diabetes because allopathic medicine does not know the term etheric starvation, let alone how to alleviate it. There is no magic pill or removal of any organ that will provide the miracle results allopathic medicine’s believers hoist up as their faith. We can tell them all day long and they will refuse to believe us. We can insist that herbal medicine is superior because the plants are beings with whom we have a symbiotic relationship and want to heal us; they will laugh us out of the room. If it cannot be patented, price tagged, and profited from, they want nothing to do with it.
 

Polio or DDT poisoning?

They will say that inoculation cured smallpox, typhoid, and measles, but it didn’t. Sanitation did that. For those who are about to scream POLIO! please read this article in its entirety. Polio has all the same presenting symptoms as pesticide poisoning, and isn’t it funny how polio outbreaks reliably happened during peak harvest time, when fruits and vegetables were being eaten by the bushel? When Rachel Carson wrote Silent Spring, an entire arsenal of pesticides was being applied to crops willy nilly in the blind march toward Progress and the flying car future. The polio outbreak should have probably been renamed DDT’s consequences, but that would have been bad for stockholders.

The idea behind vaccines is to take a small amount of pathogen and inseminate the patient with it in order to spur an immune reaction. Homeopathy works on the same principles, and oddly enough, homeopathic remedies do not seem to work for me. I am one of those oddballs upon whom they have zero effect. Despite my own personal account, many swear by homeopathy. Yet homeopaths are laughed out of the room and vaccine pushers are not.
 

Much of the trouble with vaccines comes from their delivery system. Vaccines have an astounding amount of poison in them. Mercury, formaldehyde, and aluminum are tip of the iceberg. Milk and egg products, aborted fetal cells, rabbit brains, latex rubber, and MSG are shoved into the muscle tissue of babies and kids by parents who send food back for having a dusting of parmesan cheese for fear of allergies. If a child found an old glass thermometer, broke it and slurped down its contents, we would immediately take her to the ER to have her stomach pumped. Mercury poisoning is no laughing matter. Yet mercury is given to infants who are still wet behind the ears in the form of vaccines, and it isn’t given an opportunity to digest in the child’s mouth; it is pumped directly into muscle tissue. The average child is given 50 more vaccines in his infancy than I was given in the 1970s. The vaccine companies began escaping responsibility via the 1986 National Vaccine Childhood Injury Act, which allowed them to put whatever they wanted into kids’ arms without being liable.
 

Allergic to everything

If you want to enter your child in a game of Russian roulette where the prizes include severe autism, intellectual regression, childhood cancers, diabetes, hyperactivity, and deadly food allergies, put them in the business-as-usual vaccine sweepstakes. I am constantly amazed at the balls of parents who claim to put their children first but also cannot be bothered to research the potential harm of vaccines for a mere 30 minutes. When the light of intelligence is snuffed like a candle without hours if not seconds of a baby getting a vaccine, to my mind it is a crime for which the perpetrators should be hanged… all of them. The consequences of trusting your family doctor should not include your formerly bright child spending the rest of his or her life frozen in perpetual, drooling, diapered toddlerhood, but such evil exists and here we are. When the parent is no longer able to care for the overgrown puer or puella, the vaccine-damaged person faces a lonely desert island hell of being an adult child who is dependent upon the kindness of strangers.
 

Our civilization, via medical malfeasance and unnecessary interference, has created vaccine damaged individuals numbering in the hundreds of millions. It needs to be put to an end, and I believe in the future, the world’s newest religions will squelch allopathic medical ambitions wherever they dare to pop up.
 

 

When shots go in arms

The immune system is health. The body’s whole purpose in Meatworld is to fight off invaders: skin keeps nasties from entering and infiltrating our “bags of mostly water”. Cilia in the nose, aka nose hair, filter out airborne critters, which is why it is important to cultivate the habit of breathing through one’s nose.
 

The most overlooked part of the immune system is the digestive tract. Digestion comprises 70 percent of immunity. You are what you eat. Any doctor who does not immediately ask a sick patient “What have you been eating and drinking?” is a quack. Yet there is no consensus of which foods heal and which foods hurt and there never will be because we are all different. In my own case, I love garlic with a passion. I vastly prefer fresh garlic, especially lightly sauteed with spinach. Yum! Sadly, I can’t eat garlic that way and at that strength. My abdomen will threaten to quit a bitch for several days if I do — I will writhe in agony and wish that I had never allowed the garlic to pass my lips. What is healthy for others is not healthy for me. The opposite is also true. The immune system must be prioritized in any mode of healing. Food first. Garlic is my kryptonite. What’s yours?

When shots go in arms, it is a direct attack on the immune system. Mercury and aluminum burn a poisoned path, spreading inflammation at the injection site. The immune system then has to respond to the attack before nature has had any say in the baby’s development. Digestion is immediately destroyed — the antibiotics, aluminum, and mercury in vaccines make sure of it. The baby now has no good gut flora to fight the exotic witch’s brew floating through his system. The result? He gets a cold. He fights a flu for several days that the vaccines were ostensibly supposed to prevent. He is drowning in phlegm with a high fever. He has been poisoned. The resulting fever snuffs out his intellectual capacity as his body desperately fights merely to stay alive.
 

Revenge of the Red Man

Smallpox killed off the Native American population far more than any intentional battle. Without it, we would probably be speaking Cree or Mohawk. The reason smallpox killed the Natives and spared the European settlers was livestock. Europeans had the advantage of a millennium’s worth of animal farming that the Indians did not. Over long periods of time, Europeans suffered terrible diseases and gradually gained herd immunity. Natives were largely nomadic and their diet was closer to what we call Paleo: if they ate meat, it was not from animals who were husbanded and herded by them.
 

Humans like to think we are above animals because we enforce dominion over them, yet it is this dominion that literally keeps us perpetually sick. Human diseases, as the Native Americans proved, don’t spontaneously erupt in our populations. They are zoonotic in origin, which means we catch them from other animals, usually in the form of raising those animals for food. Sure, the conquistadores and settlers evolved in such a way that made them superior to the Natives when it came to fighting off terrible zoonotic diseases such as smallpox, but at what cost? The path to herd immunity to smallpox was repeated smallpox epidemics in Europe.
 

As a vegan, you might ask how I have ended up with a strong immune system that has kept me alive and well through the various zoonotic-origin plagues that continually race through my area. Well, I have an advantage of having lived among meat eaters my entire life, so exposure to their zoonotic pathogens is not new to my immune system. Unlike the baby getting a vaccine, my immune system has been around the block enough times to stay robust when the latest bug makes everyone else’s life a living hell. I also use natural magic if I start to get sick. It works!

In order to preserve your immune system, you need to go with Apollo’s brief advice at Delphi: practice moderation and know thyself. If you are like me, don’t eat garlic… ever. There are going to be dozens of little things you will have to discover about yourself via experimentation, elimination, and addition. You will have to adjust your diet to suit your unique, special snowflake body. You will have to exercise according to your body’s needs and sometimes you will feel lazy and not want to do it. Do it anyway. You will need to get some sunlight. You might need to change your entire life.

You will not find the answer in a shot or a pill.

Around the year 2006, I wrote my first novel, Forever Fifteen about a young, fifteen year old looking vampire who was a reluctant but prolific serial killer. The novel featured a side story about a cross-dressing man who was railroaded and driven to suicide by a nosy, outwardly normal neighbor. Back then, I had a great deal more sympathy for cross-dressers, transvestites, and what is now called transgender people. I considered them a persecuted class of mainly closeted gay men.

My empathy screeched to a halt once militant trans “allies” took over school classrooms and public libraries. A carnival of freaks shamed regular people for calling a pedophile a pedophile. Drag queens exposed their junk in front of kids. Various pornographic books popped up in school libraries that read like The Joy of Sex (ages 3 and up). Target turned its store into a pride display, complete with chest binders and tuck underwear for customers training to amputate/invert their private parts. Facebook and pre-Elon Musk Twitter censored anyone who wasn’t on board. To this day, I still see people broadcasting their preferred pronouns on social media and referring to an individual as “they”. I personally will not refer to a single person as “they”. “They” is a term for more than one person. Using it for an individual is an open acknowledgement of multiple personality disorder. Just as I would not play into the delusions of a person with severe schizophrenia, I will not use the term “they” to refer to an individual.
 

The trans movement might have survived had it contained its entitlement and kept its vibe on the side of chill. Trans is a movement that did extremely well when it was underground. Trans was cool when it was actually subversive a la Rocky Horror, K.D. Lang, Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Trans grave mistake was getting in bed with Big Pharma and Big Insurance to the point where schools and entire state governments were pushing permanent gender-motivated mutilation on prepubescent children. Trans immolated itself in the fires of self-invited public scrutiny. Yes, there was money in it, and many in the trans movement took the bait, becoming monsters in the process.
 

Etheric bodies matter: polarity and sex

The missing link in the trans dialogue this entire time has been a discussion of the subtle bodies and why their arrangement might drive someone to want to swap genders. In my article about masturbation and the subtle bodies, I explain how males have female etheric (energy) bodies and how females have male etheric (energy) bodies. Anton LaVey bludgeons through the male/female body arrangement concept in his book The Satanic Witch, but it takes a deep dive through the works of John Michael Greer, Dion Fortune, and Max Heindel to get any purchase on why we are made in such funny ways.

When a woman is extremely male on the etheric, she will be physically underwhelming and diminutive. She will be extremely sensitive to vibes. She will have a propensity to engage in behaviors that regulate and enhance the etheric plane to which she is so sensitive, such as the beauty trade, cooking, cleaning, decorating, making music, decorating, and healing.
 

When a man is extremely female on the etheric, he will dominate on the physical plane. On the energy plane, he will easily attract romantic attention as if he was casting an invisible net. He will likely be inept at making things pretty and will be far more likely to need healing power than to be able to give it out of himself.
 

In brief, we all embody our own polar opposite on the etheric plane. In my own case, I am a shrimpy little woman with a huge etheric package. I often overwhelm with my etheric force and people who aren’t used to it can be easily taken aback or frightened by it. Little women with gigantic personalities are often packing on the etheric. If you know the gentle giant stereotype such as the fireman who rescues kittens from burning buildings, you also know that certain combinations are violently attractive.
 

Trans is a tragedy because it erases polarity. Lopping off body parts and screwing with hormones maims the physical body in ways that create horrific, chronic conditions where none existed. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” should be the second line of the Hippocratic Oath, and trans procedures and drugs ignore everything Hippocrates ever uttered about medicine. I may be the etheric equivalent of a lumberjack but it doesn’t mean that I am the girliest girl who ever girled on the physical plane. I have a masculine jaw and I can leg press 230 pounds. Also, sometimes I like boy things and think exactly like a man despite being very much a woman. Non-gay boys might play with Barbie just as non-gay girls might play with GI Joe. Sexuality is a spectrum and it is not static. We all go through our tomboy eras and our girlie girl eras. Most of us have been attracted to the same sex at some point in our lives, whether we admit it or not. We don’t have to choose a side. The same people who like to blur the lines between gender seem to think they can have it both ways. When a man makes femininity into a minstrel show via drag, he is deliberately exploiting the polarity of hyper-feminine women. Drag queens don’t dress up as Amy Schumer — they dress up as Marilyn Monroe.
 

In this age of overpopulation, it is highly likely that some people with body dysmorphia were reincarnated too fast and have trauma and confusion left over from their past lives. This was certainly true of me. I believe I was female in my most recent past life. I was born as Kimberly in 1973 and the lifetime before that was Vera who was born in the 1890s. Typically one is not born female twice in a row, and usually the reincarnation process switches sexes each time. I did not have trauma about my gender but I had it about plenty of other things as a young person, and it was not my upbringing or circumstances as Kimberly that caused it. Much of my youthful distress arose because I was reincarnated a scanty four years after Vera died. This was not sufficient time to process all that happened when I was Vera.
 

Nowadays, people are reincarnated so fast that it is often only a matter of months between lives. If you were a petite woman in your most recent life, it is not going to be easy to be a six foot four guy in your following life. Things will be different, to say the least. My spirit guides have hinted that I will be a gay man in my next life, and I can see that because I have more than a tinge of gay male flair in this one.

The thrill is gone

Medicine jumped the shark over a hundred years ago, where healing and its practical knowledge was jettisoned for wonder drugs and fad diets. Medicine is a desperate game of musical chairs in a burning building. Its latest attempt to cannibalize what is left of the economy is convincing kids to turn themselves into eunuchs in need of constant surgeries and drugs. Just as Big Tobacco realized it needed to get kids hooked in order to sell cigarettes, Big Pharma understood its cash cow was in 12 year old Roblox addicts with garden variety adolescent body dysmorphia and divorcing parents.
 

I hope I have made it clear there is no way of switching sex. If a male tries to become female (to my mind, he will never succeed because chromosomes are chromosomes), he will have the same etheric body arrangement. The etheric body will act as if the amputations never happened, just as the etheric bodies of amputees create mockups in the form of phantom limbs. A male-to-female transperson will always have a phantom penis and a female-to-male transperson will suffer phantom breasts.
 

Another problem with trans treatments is their utter brutality. Trans procedures are castration. Genital mutilation is another fitting term. Just as we wince when we hear of Somali girls having their labia and clitorises cut off by well-meaning aunts on kitchen tables (this is what happened to Ayaan Hirsi Ali when she was a few years out of diapers) we should shudder when surgeons flay the skin off a girl’s or woman’s arm to make a frankenpenis or transfer a chunk of a boy’s or man’s colon to his taint in order to fashion an ersatz vaginal canal. Said canal will always act energetically as if it is still a route to the anus, oozing waste fluid and requiring “dilation” with various dildos in order to remain open. I wish I was kidding.

The role of hormones in shaping personality and expressing the human soul is barely understood by anyone, so I don’t know why anyone would trust the most retarded quotient of our civilization to dictate permanent decisions about what should be done with them. Doctors have not been healers for a while now and it is clear they have no understand of the etheric plane, despite the inconvenient truth that all healing emanates from the etheric plane.
 

I hope now that Woke is beginning its death throes that we can collectively assess trans surgeries and procedures for the horror they have always been. Gay used to be a hell of a lot more fun. There were no young adults with painful, mutilated frankenvaginas, surgically-induced menopause, and lifelong hormone and pain pill habits in its wake.

Apologies from my tongue, and never yours
Busy lapping from flowing cup and stabbing with your fork
I know you're a smart man (I know you're a smart man), and weaponise
The false incompetence, it's dominance under a guise

If we had a daughter, I'd watch and could not save her
The emotional torture, from the head of your high table
She'd do what you taught her, she'd meet the same cruel fate
So now I've gotta run, so I can undo this mistake
At least I've gotta try

The capillaries in my eyes are bursting
If our love died, would that be the worst thing?
For somebody I thought was my saviour
You sure make me do a whole lot of labour

-Excerpt from Labour (song by Paris Paloma)

 

The song I referenced puts a fine point on a cultural wave of resentment towards men. The video and the theme of the song itself — escaping a man who sees his woman as a “nurse then a servant /Just an appendage, live to attend him /So that he never lifts a finger/ 24∕7, baby machine” is utilized as a feminist soundtrack to many TikTok videos. Its Handmaid’s Tale vibe seems completely intentional, and like the Handmaid’s Tale cable TV series, the song drops the F-bomb and portrays a woman as a pretty, long-suffering slave. The woman-as-modern-handmaid trope is well on its way to becoming a huge astral pyramid. Like any growing astral pyramid, the Handmaid Pyramid has already been monetized.

The current system cannot function without a bunch of perpetually anxiety-ridden, confused humans to keep it going. Anxiety is big business and relaxation isn’t what it used to be. Nowadays, relaxation is synonymous with huge expenditures of money. It is a lifestyle to which we are supposed to aspire: meditation retreats, fancy meals, tropical vacations. The ideal human of this era can somehow afford life of constant leisure after having retired at age 38. We are all supposed to want what the hedonist tech bro has. Nevertheless, people who can retire at age 38 are uniformly hated because almost nobody has that kind of wealth at 88, let alone 38.
 

A love/hate relationship with work

We humans both idealize and resent work, whether it is the paid work of making a living or the unseen work of keeping a home. In my own case, I was so hell bent on liking what I did for a living that I forwent health insurance, vacations that involve any form of travel, and having children in order not to be enslaved. For me, enslavement meant working any job where I wasn’t in nearly complete control, and that’s why I chose my current situation of a 20 year old car and no health insurance.

Whose work is it anyways?

As we see in the song Labour, rancor between the sexes often has largely to do with the division of labor. Both sides idealize their own contributions via work and resent having to do that work. Since the Industrial Revolution, large areas of manual work have gotten technically easier or have become automated. Work of any kind has diminished to a trickle for certain well-to-do. For everyone else, we ended up soaking in a labor deluge and practically killing ourselves to keep our heads above water. A wise kid (not me) once said the invention of the washing machine did not mean less laundry. We just got more clothes and washed them more frequently. Elite Victorian bankers and kings of industry enjoyed obscene wealth without lifting a finger, stepping deftly into slots formerly occupied by monarchs. Proper Victorian ladies delegated their own woman’s work of tidying, washing, and cooking to maids, laundresses, and cooks. Most Victorian women of any status did not nurse their own babies, delegating that most sacred and intimate of duties to low paid help or slaves. The current lifestyles of the rich and famous similarly outsource any and all dirty work to peasants. This is perfectly in sync with Old Victoria.
 

For all her troubles, such as not being able to vote or inherit property, the Victorian lady had it much better than her modern, elite counterpart. She may have felt trapped, but she was never expected to do everything a man does while remaining a perpetually young, feminine, beautiful woman. Women, including this woman, are exhausted from trying to be all things to all people. Nurturer at home, ball-buster at work, warrior on the battlefield, mother, divine whore. Like men, women are generally hard working. Like men, modernity has taken advantage of our docility and tolerance. We are all frogs in water that is growing uncomfortably warm.
 

Not that men are doing any better, but women are between a rock and a hard place at the moment. We have boxed ourselves into our own corner by taking on too much freedom. In Appetites, a memoir of severe anorexia by the late Caroline Knapp, the author describes becoming anorexic in college, when her anxieties crystallized as an eating disorder.

“Starving, in its inimitably perverse way, gave me a way to address the anxiety I felt as a young, scared, ill-defined woman who was poised to enter the world and assume a new array of rights and privileges; it gave me a tiny, specific, manageable focus (popcorn kernels) instead of a a monumental, vague, overwhelming one (work, love)." -Caroline Knapp, Appetites: Why Women Want

Women tend to externalize blame in order to avoid their own culpability. In Knapp’s case, a fixation with self-abuse via starving supplanted the hefty task of narrowing down exactly what she wanted and mercilessly eliminating the rest. Anorexia became her arena for achievement; it also became the externalization of her indecision.
 

In Paris Paloma’s song, she describes a common scenario where a woman externalizes her own feelings of entrapment to be entirely the fault of the man, who surely tricked her into giving away her etheric labour via methods tantamount to rape.
 

What causes etheric starvation

The reason I enjoy lake shores, forests, prairies, gardens, and wild or semi-wild places so much is because they offer a glimpse of ecosystems where forces are balanced and in harmony. In my novel River’s Heart, the protagonist is sent out to sweep leaves in the yard as punishment. During her sojourn, she bitterly muses about having to clean up “nature’s mess”. Nature does not make any mess she cannot fix. When she visits destruction upon herself via a flood or a caldera exploding, she eventually fixes it up and makes it new again. The human project (which often looks like one of her mistakes) will peter out. Thanks to the 75% percent of humans who took MRNA vaccines, this may happen much sooner than originally expected. Whether we do it quickly or slowly, it is the lot of all civilizations to be compressed into a thin layer of carbon. This layer is not likely to be discovered or remembered by any intelligent visitors. If and when they arrive, we will probably be long gone. Nature will turn all heroes into zeroes whether they like it or not. So when I go on my long, solitary walks, I get to see the glacial process of the ecosystem correcting and balancing itself the way it did before humans and the way it will after humans are gone. 99.9 percent of species on this planet have gone extinct and I am confident humans will not be nearly as resilient as sharks or jellyfish. As a believer in the soul, I wonder if my soul will incarnate once humanity is a memory or if I will stay in the vapors and/or wander off to another universe. It’s not information I am equipped to know.

The reason working ecosystems are restorative is because they are places where the etheric or energy plane is balanced, or mostly balanced. Plants, air molecules, dirt, bugs, birds, and other animals have no other choice but to own the means of production, and the energy created of work where workers own the means of production is always more plentiful and nourishing than in areas where the means are far removed from the laborer. The song Labour is about the man stealing the woman’s energy via her work and dominion over her children, much like the cuckoo steals into a robin’s nest and kills the baby robins in order to hijack the mother and father robin’s half-digested worms.
 

The means of production

Every morning, I sweep the floor with a broom made of metal and plastic. The dustpan is entirely made of plastic and has a matching mini-broom that nests inside it. While I sweep, I boil water from tea on my stove. The water comes from Lake Michigan. It comes through pipes I did not lay. I filter it in a charcoal filter device that I bought online. As for the tea, I did not grow it. It is from China. I drink my tea and then go to another room in my natural gas-heated house. I burn incense imported from India and do my daily banishing ritual. I then meditate and record my observations in a notebook made of trees I did not chop with a pen made of foreign plastic.
 

Before I turn on a single machine, I have used at least a dozen items I had no hand in creating. Compare the pioneers and those before them: they lived in what James Howard Kunstler describes in his novels as “a world made by hand”. Pioneer lives were very hard, and they starved to death more frequently than us when they were not dying of sepsis. Nevertheless, they did not have the troubles we have with etheric starvation. They did not pathologically fear death as we do. Nobody before 1940 was turned into a medical zombie of perpetual agony, with teams of do-gooders rushing to hook him up to machines and brutal infusions of drugs. There were no armies of semi-alive drones on IV drips rotting in hospital beds, crying to be taken to homes that were sold off by the adult children who abandoned them.
 

Prosthetics for living such as the lightbulb, the food processing plant, cars, computers, and lately AI both giveth and taketh away. We humans increased our workload with machines and etherically starved in the process.
 

Etheric labor shortages

As I have said, all healing comes from the etheric and the further away we are from the means of production, the higher the likelihood we will have etheric starvation. Etheric body starvation manifests itself in illness and/or compulsive and addictive behavior. Etheric starvation is endemic to our current era; it is baked into the pie. Nobody can escape. Many will try by going back to the land or traveling to places of etheric richness like Thoreau tried to do with Walden. The whopping majority will attempt to remedy etheric starvation via one or more addictions.

Women, being male on the etheric, are the primary drivers of etheric wealth of the sort that alleviates etheric starvation. As much as women are the main creators of etheric wealth, men can do it too. Cleaning and tidying are etheric male activities regardless of the sex of the person doing them. Neatening and caring for a space infuses it with positive, vital etheric energy. When someone cooks, food is alchemically transformed into sustenance, and this is why cooked food is more nourishing than raw. The more love and skill that goes into the cooked dish, the more etheric energy it will provide. Only etheric males can conceive a child, and since children are etheric males regardless of sex until puberty, an etheric male (physical female) creating other etheric males (children) is about as etherically male as it gets.

Industrialization gave rise to upper class women being trapped inside the manor or plantation. From her gilded cage, the great lady was neutered of her etheric skills, as cooking and cleaning require practice in order to get any better. Her etheric labor was done by a bunch of indentured servants and slaves. Common women were abused for their competence and their etheric labor stolen. Almost nothing has changed since the old days. Once the plantation gave way to the factory, women were hoodwinked into amassing conveniences that further took away their motivation to practice etheric wealth-formation in any way save popping out kids. Vacuuming replaced sweeping the floor and microwaving a burrito replaced patting out tortillas by hand and chopping home grown tomatoes for salsa. Much time was saved but all that precious etheric energy said “Adios, amigo”.
 

The most devastating blow to the collective etheric plane was dealt when women were forced to work outside the home. Just because work (i.e. housework or chores) are not paid does not mean they are not worth money. I will argue in my upcoming book Sacred Homemaking that the value of skilled housework is beyond rubies. Even upper middle class households in my area of Chicagoland feature breadwinning wives. It’s just too expensive these days to have upper middle class perks like electric SUVs and trips to Europe every year without both spouses hauling ass in salary class positions.

Covid shutdowns trained an entire generation of workers that commuting to an office was unnecessary and sadistic. Home is where we go to heal our etheric bodies and when home is taken from us by work, it is a fate worse than death. Women rule the home just as they have always done; no amount of forcing women into men’s roles will take that away. When a woman is forced to commute and spend the majority of her time far away from home just like a man, she feels etherically castrated. Some castrati are simping, willing eunuchs who lick their oppressor’s boots. Others, like me, are outraged and planning a coup.
 

Freedom for women, a.k.a. feminism, forgot to include a space for women who want to assume traditional roles and stay home. As long as men are expected to be women are expected to be men, we will all suffer more etheric shortages, addictions, illnesses, and existential fatigue. Convenience came at a heavy price.

Supposedly doctors are a vanishing breed, or at least this is what is claimed by the latest issue of the AARP Bulletin. In an article called Where Have All the Doctors Gone? a reporter bemoans the 70 million Americans on Medicare waiting 30 days for medical appointments. Catastrophic collapse of the system, of course, is just around the corner. OK Boomer.

I have not seen this shortage of doctors in my corner of suburban Chicagoland. Throw a coin out of a car window at any random time during the journey and you’ll hit a medical clinic, a drug store, or a medical equipment distributor. The hospitals around here are the size of entire cities elsewhere in the country, with multi-mile walks being required to transverse the entire boundary. Medical care has, if you’ll pardon the pun, metastasized into a huge, unrecognizable blob that has sucked the majority of the real economy into its maw. Every other person in every other family works in some part of the medical field. Those who are not actual doctors are insurance underwriters, pharmacy techs, and EMTs. Medical metastasis is what we have instead of a functioning, sustainable economy. The economy is fake. The sick people, unfortunately, are real enough. It is far more common these days to be chronically ill than well, even if you are a child. There are plenty of doctors, nurses, and nurse assistants to be found, at least in my area. The ones who are missing are the actual healers.

 

Where have all the healers gone?

The reason there is not much healing available these days is because all healing comes from the etheric plane. Allow me to repeat myself: ALL HEALING COMES FROM THE ETHERIC PLANE. For those unfamiliar with occult science, the etheric is not a place, it is a condition of being. The etheric refers to that layer of existence that we call energy, force, chi, prana, animus, vitality, or cosmic breath. Another good term for it is “vibe”. If you’ve ever walked into a room and found everything to look perfectly fine but the vibe to be off, congratulations, you’ve just had a direct encounter with the etheric plane. All electricity, including light energy, is etheric in nature. Heal the etheric and the physical follows suit. If the etheric is damaged and is not repaired, the physical will remain damaged as it is one level less subtle than the etheric.

 

Women are better stewards of the etheric because they tend to be male on the etheric plane. I have discussed this in previous essays such as this one, this one, and this one. Our civilization, being mostly ignorant of etheric phenomena, tends to undervalue women as chefs or decorators. For every one Giada De Laurentis, there are a dozen Gordon Ramsays and Bobby Flays. Women are etheric males and etheric maleness, like sunshine, is a potent healing force. I talked about the Nurse with a Purse trend where older women are retreating into happy, permanent singlehood while old men literally wither away and die as a result. In a time of rampant etheric starvation like ours, an etheric male is looking at a seller’s market, even if she is old, gray, and fat.

 

How many yoga studios does one town need?

I live near the town of Naperville. My working guess is that there are at least a hundred yoga studios in Naperville, a town of 150,000 people. The type of yoga practiced in these studios is highly Westernized, often incorporating Pilates or “aerial”, which means students swing from pieces of cloth moored to the ceiling. In other words, it is glorified flexibility training with pseudo-Eastern religious pretensions. These yoga centers are almost always run, staffed, and frequented by women, making them vortices of etheric maleness. Often there is a reiki practitioner available, and there tends to be cross pollination with the kind of bastardized Eastern meditation I call “empty mind” meditation. Empty mind meditation is problematic and often leaves the people who indulge in it laid bare to astral inculcation and hijacking by corporate forces seeking recruits for their own astral pyramids, but I digress. Yoga studios are not just having a moment — I think they are here to stay. These places are picking up the pieces while Christian churches slowly die. The primary advantage they have over Christianity is their connection to the pulse of the Earth via movement and breathing. Combine their physical, direct approach to spirituality with the etheric restoration they offer through direct manipulation of energy flows via the human body and it is no wonder they proliferate wherever women are wealthy enough to spend their money on classes.

 

Me love you long time: prostitution’s new front

Speaking of common sights in the suburbs, in my corner of Aurora, a much larger and poorer suburb of Chicago, massage parlors populate nearly every strip mall. I used to rent commercial space for my private music studio, and oddly the renter before me was a shady Asian massage parlor. Its owners got booted out for illegal activity before they were able to open for business — they did a big renovation job for absolutely nothing. Imagine my surprise when I was eight years into twelve years of leasing and a shady Asian massage parlor opened next door to my lesson studio. If you want to know whether a massage parlor is offering happy endings in your area, simply look it up on Rubmaps and see if it is listed. The site consists of johns reviewing various massage parlors across the US. I looked up the parlor that landed next door to me and it was there, complete with saucy ads of big-busted, bikini clad Asian girls and a price list for a service that ended in a table shower. Hilariously, my husband happened to be working in a strip mall where he too was next door to a happy ending massage parlor. Like my Asian massage parlor, his was run by shifty, seldom seen Chinese mafia types. Arguments were frequently heard between the complex’s flimsy walls and the smells of cooking constantly emanated from the store next door. Both places were open very late at night and on holidays. The only people who ever went in besides the madam owner were men. I knew there were trafficked women being shunted around by van. Sometimes I think they forced the girls to stay overnight. I sent tips to the police about the place several times; predictably they did nothing. The neo-prostitution arrangement of housing girls in a massage parlor is now so reliably common in decaying American retail hellscapes that I would guesstimate that 4/5 massage parlors are not the old fashioned, non-happy ending kind.

It’s a trap!

Men suffer etheric starvation more acutely than women. The easiest, quickest fix for this form of depletion seems to be getting their rocks off with a pliant, nubile young woman. This is where they get the etheric rug pulled out from under them. When an etheric female (biological male) orgasms, his etheric body is laid bare and open, expecting to take in etheric energy from the etheric male. This is the reason why a man is obsessed with a woman’s orgasm and extremely frustrated when she fails or he found out that she has faked it. He is a lock that remains empty, expecting a key that never arrives. He cannot exactly fake his own orgasm, so he is left to ponder the mystery of whether or not she is lying if he feels unfulfilled after he has spent himself.

What about rape?

As you can guess, rape is not fulfilling on the etheric for the rapist unless the rapist manages to get an orgasm out of the victim. The sinister part here is that children of either sex are also etheric males until the age of puberty, and that is why men tend to be the primary groomers and abusers of children. Children also are more potent on the etheric than their adult counterparts due to excessive yang life force. Polarizing a woman or a child of either sex via rape is a form of theft that some seek out like a drug, and I suppose part of the addictive aspect lies in the polarization itself, which is mainly astral. At any rate, when a man masturbates while alone or with other men or if he comes without his partner doing the same, he will feel an infuriating emptiness that feels like an itch that cannot be scratched.

The world’s oldest profession is at the ready like a bed of poison ivy. Prostitution tends to involve a small number of etheric females in the form of pimps, usually mature men, who exploit a harem of etheric male. The sultan’s harem is a similar construct. The etheric female gathers and exploits the etheric males (women and children) to service starving etheric females (men) and to use an etheric bait-and-switch (women who do not orgasm) to bring the men back for more. Etheric starvation may be worse in our time, but it has always been around, and therefore it goes the same with prostitution and its business model.

Modern medics like to denigrate the old practice of escaping the city for the country to take in the waters and to heal in a rustic environment. Not all that long ago, it was a custom to attempt to heal tuberculosis and other dread diseases by going to a faraway spa, preferably in a place that was warm and with plentiful hot springs. The milkmaid trope of the 1700s came into being as the industrial revolution was underway. Milkmaids were seen as wholesome, healthy, lovely, and uncorrupted. Every noblewoman, including Marie Antoinette, installed working dairies at their estates so they could pretend they were the virtuous, innocent stars in an idealized, bucolic paradise. Maybe they were on to something: didn’t Edward Jenner discover the smallpox vaccination by innoculating an eight year old boy with the pus from a milkmaid’s cowpox sore?

Before most doctors were bought and paid for, they too recommended taking the waters, getting fresh air, enjoying sunshine, and eating quality homemade food. All of those things repair the etheric. In our current age, when illness strikes, the patient is offered two choices, often in combination: amputate it or drug it. Sometimes amputation and/or drugs work; most of the time they are at best a quick fix and at worst ineffective and damaging.

I know I have besmirched massage in this article, but one of the primary ways of healing one’s own etheric body is via massage. My husband is a 65 year old type two diabetic. Diabetics, including my husband, tend to have problems with infection. My husband had severe athlete’s foot which completely went away after about a month of nightly foot massages. I am the masseuse because he is not comfortable with massage otherwise. Massage may very well save his feet from amputation. I find it interesting and sad that no doctor of his has ever suggested massage. Personally, I get a massage whenever I can afford it, which is not very often. Massage is tremendously beneficial.

Another thing I suggest to alleviate etheric starvation is to expose the spleen area — the patch of skin just beneath the heart — to direct sunlight. When I am in a sunny parking lot, I will duck down in my car so I can lift up my shirt to soak up the sun’s rays. I am not a happy exhibitionist. In my own case, I feel better the moment I expose my ribcage to the light.

Possibly the best remedy of all for etheric starvation is to walk slowly through a wild or semi-wild space, taking in the sights and sounds and at least attempting to communicate with the spirits of trees, grass, animals, and the elements themselves. The Druid Tree Ritual, which is a fancy term for sitting with your back to any given tree and soaking in the tree’s energy while letting it soak in your energy, is as restorative as mutual orgasm sex, at least in my own case.

As most of my readers know, I have recently finished my second draft of a book that will talk about the rejuvenation of the etheric via connection with land spirits and the construction of a net of spells, this book is called Sacred Homemaking. Wish me luck as I will soon pitch it to a small publisher.

The etheric plane is so damaged in our iteration of the Kali Yuga, I am not sure it is possible to fix it. I have often said that I look forward to a future incarnation when the last plane has fallen from the sky and the last car has sputtered to a halt on the last paved road because the etheric plane will finally have a chance to mend from the Industrial Revolution. For the time being, miracles of healing here and there won’t do much to stop the constant pain and the litanies that arise around it. I will be talking about those litanies in a future essay.  

I recently drew some flak when I said the way forward was gratitude, not Luigi-ing a CEO. Some dude tried to start a flame war with me while crying “Hopium!” and I blocked him. Little did he know or bother to find out that I have always had a curious killer instinct. I have a great deal of Pluto in my birth chart. Death is just where my mind goes. For me, the most Herculean achievement I have ever made was not building an independent music teaching career, completing several novels, staying married to the same man for 24 years, or achieving over 500 subscribers on Substack. No, the most incredible feat I ever performed with my own existing material was learning to look on the bright side.
 

I can intimately understand why the hopium crier was pissed. Hopium proliferates from every corner of our daily lives, hopium and false transcendence syndrome. They’re both constantly being shoved down our throats. American culture has always immersed itself in hopium/false transcendence — fake it until you make it, suck it up, pull yourself up by the bootstraps, face it with a grin, It Gets Better. No, it doesn’t get better. Meatworld sucks, everybody dies, fade to black. Yet hopium and false transcendence are problematic because they are the binary of black-pilled nihilism. Neither of the poles represent balance. On one side, we have New Age wellness gurus attempting to shame anyone who holds autistic people accountable for their mea culpas. Such is the situation of the Rainbow Unicorn Glitter Fart Starchild(™) whose mindframe revolves around chakra obsession and health food fads. She insists that mass enlightenment is just around the corner. She is already there, of course, and waiting for the rest of us dirty peasants to catch up. On the other side, we have nihilist atheists and evangelists of various stripes, counting down the seconds until CEOs everywhere are forced to flee to their Bluemont bunkers for fear of a random fusillade of custom-engraved ammunition landing in their scalps.

As usual, sanity resides somewhere between the two poles, and though it goes unrecognized by those pushing the two extremes, it is a present-and-accounted-for alternative.
 

And now for Two Minutes Hate: CEO Edition

I hate CEOs and I hate the way they live. I hate all of the Kardashians. I hate Mark Zuckerberg. I hate Joel Osteen and I think he is a de facto Satanist. Speaking of de facto Satanists, I hate Dave Ramsey despite using some of his better advice. I hate people who travel around in private jets. I hate their multi-million dollar divorce settlements, their surgery and injection enhanced faces that stare from every screen and magazine cover, and their stupid attempts at trying to be relatable. I hate their trophy wives so much that I envision them going on shopping sprees to redecorate their luxe foyers with Farrow and Ball wallpaper that costs more than a year of university tuition and a $24,000 umbrella stand. Think of what that money could do for someone in dire need and the umbrella stand becomes an obscenity. Kim Kardashian redecorated her entire 8,000 square foot house in pink and green for a Wicked-themed slumber party. “No expense was spared” and future landfills were also not spared. Eff these people.
 

What we hate, we imitate

The trouble with unexamined hatred is that it molds us in its image. Our Rainbow Unicorn Glitter Fart Starchild(™) is as full of hatred as her incel shooter-in-training counterpart on the other side of the equation. Unexamined hatred has a spirit of its own along with an astral pyramid. These things exist independently of any one person or group. Like the egregores of cocaine or alcohol, the hatred egregore sucks weak humans into the bottom of its pyramids as worker bees and mines them for energy. They don’t feel it happening. Before they know it, they are snorting lines out of the carpeting or swallowing their own decayed, broken death while pissing themselves on the barstool with no memory of how they got there or why they are still alive. Hatred is much, much more addictive than cocaine or alcohol. It can take multiple lifetimes to work out an anger addiction.

Honestly, like many, I am glad Brian Thompson was executed. He deserved it. If I said I believe we need to leave the CEOs alone in order to be better people or avoid bad karma, I would be lying. If that makes me a bad person, I am OK with that. I would rather be a bad person than lie to myself to insist my thoughts are cleaner than they actually are. For instance, if the globalist goons ever come for me, I will relish falling back into my old habits. Going gonzo on them will feel like homecoming.

Were the gods truly against Brian Thompson’s assassination?

The Greek gods were not goody two shoes. They were downright vengeful, petty, and vain on the regular. For instance, was it truly necessary for Athena to transform the weaver Arachne into a spider? The human girl boasted she was a better weaver, and instead of saying “No, you’re not,” and ignoring her, Athena entered into a weaving contest with Arachne. When Athena saw that Arachne had woven a tapestry depicting the gods in various extramarital indiscretions, she ripped Arachne’s work to shreds. Arachne then kills herself and Athena’s version of “pity” is to transform her into a spider. In Druid parlance, the spider was always Arachne’s cydwil, otherwise known as the animal she originally evolved from via hundreds of millions of years of evolution. The little spider soul that ascended through form after form to finally become human was sent back again to Square One as punishment. I am a devotee of Athena who has written her a song to go with her Orphic hymn but even I cannot see this as a particularly mature set of actions. Athena was hardly the only vengeful Greek god: compared to the curse of Atreus, Athena’s punishment of Arachne hardly stirs the water.
 

The Christian god isn’t exactly just or moderate in his punishments of terrible human beings, otherwise being gay would not be libeled as an abomination and we would be able to suffer a witch to live. The urge to have it both ways does not excuse what is supposed to be the infallible Word of God. Which part of the Bible are we to believe and model our lives after? The one where God takes delight in ripping babies from the womb and crushing the heads of babies? The one where a father offers his daughters to be raped to spare his houseguests? You can’t cherry pick… it’s in there. Also, the Christian god is clearly vengeful, and putting his own son up to receive the vengeance due to others does not make him less vengeful.
 

I’m not a god and I don’t know how gods operate except that they work in mysterious ways. When Luigi Mangione gunned down one of the worst human beings ever to waste the air of this planet, perhaps it was the will of a god working through him. How the hell would I know? All I know is that the circumstances lined up in a peculiar way that humans usually associate with gods.
 

Nevertheless, if we round up all of the CEOs right now and put them in a gulag, laughing as we watched them beg for their lives on a livestream, it would not make a whit of difference unless we changed ourselves and our aspirations into something truly different than a CEO. I will be discussing what I believe about effecting those differences in a future essay.

Each Ogham letter corresponds to a particular tree. Because the Ogham are a Celtic system, the trees of Northern Europe are commonly assigned to the 25 letters of the Ogham alphabet. After I began working with the Ogham, it quickly became apparent to me that I had to choose a set of trees and plants from my own particular area and ecosystem which happens to be the Great Lakes Midwest. I did not change all of the trees: for instance, Birch and Oak are as common in the Old Country as they are over here in the US, so Birch and Oak are exactly the same. I would recommend that anyone who learns Ogham go about the slow, meditative process of choosing your own trees and plants to assign to the Ogham letters.

Anyone who follows my readings knows the Ogham have plenty of personality, in fact, they seem to have a personality of their own that is completely separate from me. The Ogham decided they wanted to provide some life hacks for 2025 to the few willing to take their advice. Here is a small portion of their counseling, which if nothing else, should be your motivation to get outside this year in order to personally get to know some trees.

 

BEITH. Birch, Intention. Meditation: A pale birch stand on a riverbank. In the background is a sky stained pink with the sunrise.

This is your year to take some things off your plate so you can focus on the best and brightest aspects of your life. You cannot have it all and no sane person wants it all. For instance, if you have a casual friend or acquaintance and the relationship is not healthy, let it fall away, undramatically if possible. Hobbies that were always more aspirational than realistic need to go. Let things go so your present and future can truly shine.

 

LUIS. Maple, Protection Meditation: The shelter of a 200 year old maple tree arching over a field on a sunlit afternoon.

Taking an angel’s eye view of your own life: How can you acknowledge the negatives and sequester them? Once you’ve done that, how can you encourage yourself to build upon the best parts of your nature and your own good deeds?

 

NUIN. Gingko biloba, Communication. Meditation: a knowledgeable person gathering soft leaves for medicine while everyone else walks by, utterly clueless

Gingko is a strange tree: it is the only one of its kind, a strange survivor of the Permian extinction (the event killed off the dinosaurs) that has been pretty much the same since then. I consider it to be the autism tree, because to me it symbolizes the upsides of autism: attention to detail, unwavering obsession with a task until it is done right. It is also the tree of memes. Memes are created in that borderland between mental plane mastery and emotional sway. What memes will you make this year? Have you seen any of your memes spread mass influence, whether you wanted them to do this or not?

 

FEARN. Mulberry, Bridge. Meditation: A sheltered grove where cardinals, sparrows, chickadees, and goldfinches feast on red and black berries.

A so-called garbage tree, yet it should be revered as holy for its medicine and food value. It is all too easy to view the precious and the good in the negative and nihilistic worldview that is the curse of our era. The way forward is to work with what you have and recognize it for its value instead of going the accursed route of dismissal and ignorance.

 

SAILLE. Willow, Sensitivity. Meditation: A willow gently swaying, the moon visible above as owls stalk their prey through tall grass.

Willows are trees of great flexibility. Flexibility is their power. It is all too easy to exist in a state of spiritual leprosy, where your emotions are constantly bombarded and battered, but you haven’t the training to discern what has happened. Take up the Sphere of Protection or another daily magical banishing ritual. Listen when you pray instead of just making wishes. Your mind should be open, but not so open your brain falls out.

 

HUATH. American Sycamore, Obstacles. Meditation: A tree the size of a small skyscraper that grows in the middle of an old battlefield, the battle itself long-forgotten.

Just as it is considered a good way of hexing yourself to cut down a hawthorn tree, Native Americans said the same of cutting down sycamores. Don’t do it unless it is literally life or death. Pick your battles, always taking the approach of avoiding them if possible. Focus on your own strength, not tearing down the strength of others. If they do come to you with a fight, your amassed strength will make them sorry they backed you into a corner.

 

DUIR. Oak, Gifts. Meditation: The comforting power of the young oak tree. When you are gone, it will still stand tall and watch over the house where you once lived.

Isn’t it strange that the most generous people never truly lack for anything? Make this your year to observe how the parsimonious who hog niceties and privileges for themselves while worrying about every penny they spend are miserable in the same way drug addicts are miserable, obsessed with money and possessions as if they were alcohol or heroin. The ones who consistently give from the goodness of their hearts always have enough, even if they are as poor as church mice. It’s almost as if the divine were taking care of the latter and ignoring the former…

 

TINNE. Eastern Cedar, Defense. Meditation: A strange little woman digging up an evergreen seedling from where it has sprouted up in the corner of an industrial building while apparently talking to herself.

The prickly, fragrant, evergreen branches of the American false cedar grace many roadsides, yards, and forest preserves. You can find it growing everywhere here because it is hearty, tough, and fast growing. Where in your life can you apply the saying “Perfect is the enemy of done” for a humble yet thriving future? Embrace the humble, both inside and outside of yourself.

 

COLL. Burr Oak, Wisdom. Meditation: Deep in the forest, he is the king of trees, with a magnificent canopy of branches.

Every day, every moment, is an opportunity to choose who you are going to be via your actions and words. If what you are about to say does not help you or anyone else, if it is passive-aggressive, lazy, or just not all that well thought out, omit it like a ruthless editor. If you’d like to be thought of as smart, this is the surefire way.

 

QUERT. Apple, Delight. Meditation: The sensory glory of a well-tended apple orchard in autumn.

The world would not end if its little pleasures disappeared. Desserts, neighbors who say hello with genuine care, bouquets of flowers for the deceased, and mints on the pillow of a hotel room are not make or break where survival is concerned. Yet life would suck much more if it was not for the small delights. There is a reason why Athens outlived Sparta: Athenians knew how to have fun. This year, how can you show gratitude for the little things that make life sweeter?

 

MUIN. Tomato, Harvest. Meditation: The taste of a backyard tomato compared to its grocery store counterpart.

This is your year to ground it out and connect with the dirt that made you. You are nature and nature is you; you were never outside it. If you are alone, take the earbuds out and listen to your surroundings, even if those surroundings are what other people define as boring. Don’t park the car in the closest spot to the store. Don’t freak out if your kid runs around outside without his jacket. Gen X survived much worse.

 

GORT. Bindweed, Perseverance. Meditation: a dense mat of weeds emerging from an asphalt crack.

To bring yourself luck this year, clean your toilet every day and thank it for its help. This humble chore has worked wonders for me. I am in a far better financial state than I was when I began cleaning my toilet, and I believe this has more to do with the attitude cleaning one’s own toilet cultivates than the practice itself.

 

NGETAL. Monarda, Health. Meditation: Pollinators of all kinds drunk on the nectar of bee balm, busily gathering pollen from an endless sea of plants on the blooming prairie.

Take a multivitamin and 15mg-30mg of zinc with every meal. In this age of endemic etheric starvation, a good multi with extra zinc should be the bare minimum in what you do for yourself. Remember moderation in all things, and that means perfectionist teetotaling and avoiding “poison” altogether is just as bad as gorging and bingeing.

 

STRAIF. Honey Locust, Resilience. Meditation: The evolution of a huge seed pod and thorny trunks for megafauna that no longer exist.

True resilience comes from inside, not by amassing hoards of wealth or obsessing over what has yet to happen. Be willing to simplify and adapt. Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.

 

RUIS. Black Walnut, Regret. Imbalanced regret can wreak havoc on your life either way: too much regret and you wallow in unproductive self-pity. Too little regret and you become an arrogant narcissist. Face your mea culpas with honesty and make a concrete decision not to do that anymore.

 

AILM. White Pine, Transcendence. Meditation: the isolation-room quiet of a snowy pine grove in the dead of winter.

American culture has a zeal for false transcendence. The worst lie is the one you convince yourself is the truth. Make it your year to be brutally honest with yourself, but don’t be foolish enough to make affirmations such as “I never…” or “I always…” You can admit you have a tendency, and this tendency should be brought into the light and dealt with.

 

ONN. Trillium, Community. Like you, the people around you — co-workers, friends, people on the road, those waiting on you in stores — are simply doing the best they can in an era of astral sepsis and economic hardship. How can you do unto others, not be too fast to judge, cut them some slack, and give them the benefit of the doubt this year?

 

UR. Goldenrod, Intimacy. Meditation: Birds chasing each other over a sea of blooming goldenrod.

To maintain and preserve your closest relationships, maintain a commitment to a careful curation of yourself. Yes, you will wear an adaptation — a mask — for each person or group. It will be worn out of love, not hatred. You will limit, edit, and customize everything you say in order for the situation to be as win-win as possible. Yes, only you will know your true secrets, and this is the way it should have always been. Your secrets will always be known between you and your Holy Guardian Angel and that is enough. This is your year to understand those secrets have always been inappropriate for those who are not you.

 

EADHA. Quaking Aspen, Limits. Meditation: The serene height of the quaking aspen, which seems to laugh in the breeze for joy.

Limits are power. Think about how nature contains itself and how direction of force is what makes that force potent. Master limits and you master more than just matter, you master the Universe. Find where your strengths are and prune away where you are not as strong or as good. Time is an illusion according to the ancient sources, but how we spend it here in Meatworld is the lesson.

 

IOHO. Yew, Grace. Meditation: A solitary evergreen, molded into a cone shape at the edge of a formal garden.

It takes a great deal of personal development to accept what is not meant for you and sacrifice it with the gods in mind. For me, the offering as of late has been my anger. It’s not so easy to leave judgement up to God. This is your year to figure out how to let go of what is over. Give up the chase of what was never going to be.

 

PHAGOS. Beech, Gnosis. Meditation: The snarled roots of the beech tree extending as far beneath the ground as the canopy is tall, its bark flaking off like leaves of note paper.

Not all subjects are worth pursuing. Think of your knowledge as a branch on the periphery of a vast tree. Should you let it grow or should you prune it so others may thrive? Plants love a haircut, what directions will you go if you keep it short and sweet? Also, keep in mind that gnosis isn’t just for academic subjects. Gnosis could be in the form of knowing how to work a room. It could be in talking to animals. There are all sorts of ways that branches grow on the great tree.

 

OÍR. Milkweed, Epiphany. Meditation: The fluffy seeds of milkweed traveling on their silken parachutes to distant locales.

Eureka moments usually aren’t pleasant, but they are always necessary. Face the truth of yourself and your world, then pull out the best parts and amplify them.

 

MÓR. Sea Change, Big Bluestem. Meditation: A colony of big bluestem fluttering like ocean waves in mid-Autumn.

The collective astral is like the weather: there isn’t much you can do about it. The Sphere of Protection is a raincoat, daily divination is a weather map, and discursive meditation is a field guide, and that is why my Ogham recommend all three!

 

UILLEAND. Trumpet Vine, Generosity. Meditation: A hummingbird flitting from flower to flower on a huge trumpet vine at the end of summer.

Every generous act from the bottom of your heart will bless your life by the power of seven. Try it and see. When you share your most precious food with someone you love, you’ll never go hungry. When you spend your last dollar on someone who needs it more than you, you will be exactly like Jesus and you will transcend worldly woes just as he did.

 

KOAD. Grove, Confluence. Meditation: Three trees with intertwining branches, all reaching the sky.

Between the two poles of extremes, there is always a third option of balance. When you look into your future and catastrophe seems to loom or you see the opposite scenario of hitting it big and never having to worry again, imagine a third option where you make the most of what you currently have. What happens when you thank and appreciate everyone around you, including your surroundings and the objects you use? What changes when you sweep your own floor, clean your own toilet, and never allow a good deed to escape without recognition and a hearty thank you?

May your year and all its characters and surroundings be blessed.