The Chakra System and Meditation

Last night I was doing a guided Chakra Meditation when suddenly I felt an urgent revulsion as I got to the point where I had reached the Crown Chakra after traveling up from the Root Chakra and I was being asked to open up my crown (located at the Soft Spot of a infant’s head) to let in the Divine Light of the Universe.

There’s a reason the soft spot of an infant’s head slowly closes up after birth. Anything outside of ourselves is a Created Universe. The Light of the created 3D Universe contains a marbling of shadow that a duality realm is known for. The Light can be beyond magnificent and the Dark can be beyond grotesque and anything in between.

As Divine Beings of Source we have decided to “realize love” and grow God through initial separation from our divine light beginnings. We have decided to create a playground where we learn from “opposites”. These are dramas that we act in playing villain, victim and hero roles in order to finally prefer a playground of compassion and realized love. We fall into amnesia from the bruising of this chosen game but leave the door to awakening slightly ajar so we can follow our trail of soul crumbs back to the Source Door from which we came.

This universe we peer out into is a chosen, necessary projection of our beliefs in duality which is a form of separation from the Oneness and We-ness of Source. And yes, we chose it so we could learn from living in a cage, wake up and set ourselves free.

So, if you decide to do a Chakra Meditation I would think twice about receiving energies and entities outside of you and keep the Crown Chakra as a tool for shining out into the Created Realms the True Love and Light of Source. The Soft Spot will open organically and willingly for Source.

If you decide to invite seemingly divine energies in through the Crown Chakra, they can align with unhealed wounds within you and cause havoc and confusion.

The Created Universe is a polar, Yin/Yang composite where we learn from opposites. We experience the good, the bad and the ugly here until we finally prefer the divine path where we walk in beauty shining from the inside out. Not the outside in.

Therefore when choosing to move through a Chakra Meditation I would direct the energies up from the Root Chakra spilling out through the top of the head like a fountain.

“The True Light is filtered through the Heart of the Earth Mother before directly entering our Hearts. There is a Heart-Chord directly from Her to our Hearts. This True Light radiates from the True, subatomic Spiritual Realms within and is rarified through Earth Mother so that her inhabitants can acclimate, transform and thrive. This True Light then shoots down through the Solar Plexus Chakra encouraging Self-esteem rather than shallow Ego, grounding us through the Root Chakra and simultaneously shooting up from the Heart Chakra through the Voice Chakra enlivening True Speech, through the 3rd Eye Chakra enlivening True Sight and through the Crown into manifested reality bringing True Knowing to the Created Realms.” ~Yendys, my Oversoul~

When you allow Created Light in through the Crown Chakra it can encrust the Chakra System with amnesia. As Source Portals we can feel it. You will feel a sense of alarm, perhaps a nausea or bad feeling in your gut when presented with the false information of duality/separation from Source. Your body knows.

We are Works in Progress: We are embodying Source.

We shine Source into the World from the inside out, transforming it and ourselves.

We are the Heart-beat.

We beat the Heart of Source.


Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on

by John Roedel

recently, the lady across from
me in a waiting room asked me
if I was ready for things
to “get back to normal”
I smiled and shook my head
“I wasn’t very good at normal,” I told her.
“I’d like the give weird a bit of a try.”
She blinked.
I blinked back.
things had gotten awkward
~ I always make things awkward ~
She blinked again.
I responded with another blink.
We were now communicating
through eyelash morse code.
So I blinked the following message to her:
I’m not waiting for things
to go back to normal
things are already
way too ordinary for me
to wish for it to have
any more of a hold over me
to be honest,
I’m waiting for things
to become more abnormal
normal had its time as the DJ
normal played the same songs over and over
typical’s reign as the queen has gone on for so long
that her crown has begun to grow into her skin
I know you can sense it, too
this cocoon we are living in
is starting to quiver and our
skin is starting to turn into
polka-dotted butterfly wings
we are all unraveling
in the most beautiful ways
can’t you feel it in your veins?
your plain blood is bleeding
itself into the sharpest pattern
of flowing plaid
you have shifted like a corvette
on an empty coastline highway at sunset
you can feel the hum deep
inside the transmission of your soul
your engine is growling with the
power of one billion angelic horses
you are now able to go from the natural
to the supernatural in under 3 seconds
you are racing toward your raw purpose
you are speeding toward your wild dream
you are no longer a bore – you are a blur
I know you can feel it, too
you are as sick as I am about pretending that
all we want is for things to be normal
normal had its age
let’s give the unusual an epoch or two
this is the season
of change and
your eyes are turning
Into a sponge
soaking up
every beautiful
oddity you see
and every now and
then when your
eyes have absorbed
just enough peculiar
artwork of the divine
they begin to pour
with tears of joy
I know you can feel it
nothing is going back
to the way things used to be
because our existence is a living
piece of clay being constantly molded
under the loving hands of a cosmic potter
normal doesn’t live
here anymore
it’s been replaced
with the abjectly strange
and isn’t that how it should be?
every day we should wake up ready
to journey into the wonderfully irregular
this is the age for you
to finally embrace
the eccentric and exotic
which is perfect
because that is exactly what you are
eccentric & exotic
there is nothing like you
among the uncountable stars
you are the rarest precious gemstone
you know it
you can feel it
right under your scars
right behind your eyes
right inside of your heart
is a river of light
that has never existed before
you were created
you are profoundly and beautifully
and that is why this age
is perfect for you
normal is on the outs
atypical is in
and you, my wild love,
are the loveliest
deviation from the norm
that has ever drawn a breath
and this is your time
and you are about to change the world
and I can’t wait to watch
~ john roedel

A Conversation between Little Me and Big Me

So what is this thing called Death? It kinda scares me because I love my hands and feet, my face, my spine, this incredible concoction of molecular consciousness that is infused with my non-physical self.
Say what? Yeah, the non-physical self that de-tangles itself from the veins and arteries expanding into its dreams and adventures when the body sinks into a state of sleep and repair or a state of after death re-cycling. This physical world tells us that we are only these bodies animated by a mind shaped by genetics, environment and experience. When you look at your loved one’s deceased body it doesn’t look like the alive body. Was something eternal animating it? Death is like falling backwards off a cliff. The body falls and you jump out of it pulling a rip-chord, feeling the balloon of your Higher Self inflating with a higher air that lifts you, the “Little You” into the arms of loved ones who have stepped out of their bodies in perfect order to be there for you when it is your turn. The Higher Self takes the “little You” with It. The little You expands into its Higher Self, its Source. The Higher Self never leaves behind the aspect of it that played and danced with so much human expression and energy.  Each human expression rides on the wings of the Higher Self with joy and ease and much abandon.
Syd, dear, please refrain from worry. Embrace the higher knowing you and I share. Don’t scare yourself with nightmares of collision and death. I am here and it’s time for you to remember fully as every year brings you closer to the transition of you into the many levels of your Soul. As you remember how easy it is to live in the non-physical, the fear will drop away. Fear is simply your lack of understanding while animating your physical body. 
I hear you, Yen. I’m starting to get it. I don’t like being afraid. It feels so bad to forget who I am. I set the intention to hold our connection  “all of the time” to who I AM. I am the balloon and I always will be.
Photo by Maria Kraynova on


There I was at my cabin in the Wahatoya. I was dreaming. I was at the front door. A figure approached. At first I thought it was my Dad who was coming back after gathering the ancient rocks of the region. It was a young man who approached. With a gentle smile. He was familiar so I invited him in. As he sat down and I turned off the DvD Lindy was watching, he aged. 
He spoke:
The Ancient Tribes are gathering. They are welcoming home their members. We are firmly now in the time of the dismantling. All tangles will find a straight line, a clear path, for all else will fall away. I have come to you, Yendys to notify you It has begun.


Brother Josias: The New Earth has been prepared. I have notified you.
Yendys:  So it is happening now?
Josias: Yes. 
Yen: What do I tell my people?
Josias: To follow their hearts. Let go of the fear, the knots, the guilt. Accept and surrender to the Light you see beyond the cave walls. Walk away from the chaos.
Yen: Will you listen and follow through this time, Lynn?
Sydney Lynn: Honestly, I don’t know. I will try. I miss you and Josias. I miss the cabin. I miss the peace. But the knots in others, am I not to undo them?
Yen: They must do that for themselves. You must not breathe in their chaos and sacrifice yourself. Accept and surrender to the peace of your Soul.
Sydney Lynn: Is that what I’m here for?
Josias: Yes.
Sydney Lynn: I will not leave myself behind this time.

An Opening

I tried to localize myself to my body, the bodies of my mom, my dad, my sister, my dog.  I tried to localize myself to my relatives, my friends, the girl scouts, the swim team, the dance troupe, the writer’s groups, the meditation groups. I tried to localize myself to my town, city, region, country, planet, star, galaxy, universe. I tried to localize myself to a lover, a partner, a god.  I tried to localize myself to my children, my grandchildren, my god children, my pets. I tried to localize myself to my race, my face, my sex, my mind, my thoughts, my culture, my beliefs, my books, my flower pots. I tried to localize myself to the sea, the mountains, the rivers, the valleys, the animals, the birds, the bugs. I tried to localize myself to my name then
I followed my feelings which were the only things left out through an opening into a breeze that bobbed me up and down, slid me, bounced me all around until gravity was all but gone and just a tinkling was left. Was it laughter?
And I was  everywhere looking at everything through an opening that pretended to be an eye that suddenly blinked and my “I” was gone.
A breeze is lifting what is left of me through an Opening.
Photo by Jan Koetsier on
Then something caught what was left of my attention, something green and shimmering. Was it like seeing a shiny something at the bottom of a pool?  Floating in the opening I saw a cluster of greening fingertips lit from within. Like a curious hummingbird remembering the sweetness of nectar I zeroed in. An Angel with white skin swaying in the Huerfano Wind.  A lone Aspen Tree extending its limb. I am falling now into a nest of leaves, cradled now by the wind and the bark and the leaves. This place is strangely familiar. I settle into the knowing of this place, still, I have no name.  But laughing now, I nurse the first breath of my return. 

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Walking until Somebody gives a Damn

by John Roedel
Hello new friends! On Sundays, I usually post longer unedited pieces that I’ve written. Here is one from a group of essays I’m thinking about putting together into a book.
*** Walk Until Someone Gives a Damn ***
“Your grandmother’s gone walking again!” my mom shouted from outside the thin barrier of my bedroom door that shielded my teenage heart from the world.
That announcement was always my bat signal – it meant that it was time for me to jump into action and try to convince my grandmother to quit her walk and go back to her home.
I immediately hid the JC Penny magazine that I was pursuing (translated: looking at the pictures of older women in bras) under my pillow and sprung off the floor. I opened my door and met my mom’s gaze.
“I wish you wouldn’t close your door all of the time,” she said.
“What is the point of a door if we don’t use them?” I asked.
This was the usual banter we had about my constant need for privacy. I don’t think she actually had a problem with me shutting myself in my bedroom because she knew that as a moody 13-year old boy I needed a daily dose of isolation to feed my soul.
Her outward resistance to me being a hermit was merely for public consumption and to fulfill the requirement of what she thought a good mom would say about the whole situation. We both had an unspoken truce about what the consequences would be if I didn’t have my quiet time to listen to The Police, write some lame poetry and take in a couple of catalogs that featured numerous models sporting the seasons latest fashion in brasseries.
The bedroom that I occupied as a teenager was the womb where I developed jokes or comedy routines that I would use the next day at school. I would pace around my bed working on the timing of and cadence of my various bits that usually were just jokes I had stolen from Robin Williams that I bent to fit the needs of my peer group.
My bedroom served many roles in my life. It was my center of creativity, my chapel, my brothel, and the place where I first began to feel the initial bangs of depression that I refused to ever give a name to for 25-years. My bedroom was the bunker that I hid in whenever I became overwhelmed with all of the complexities of life – which ended up being most of the time.
My room was where I retreated to when I didn’t understand what the world wanted from me.
My mom knew that my bedroom was my cocoon and when I had the door closed she knew that it was probably for a good reason – besides I was later told there was a certain rancid odor that emitted from my room that could render a perfectly healthy adult incontinent. My mom only demanded that I come out of my bedroom for a few reasons:
1) Food. 2) School. 3) She found my D riddled report card that I had balled up in the trash. 4) Church 5) My grandmother had slipped past her in-home nurse and gone on a walk again.
“You need to help bring your grandmother back home,” my mom said.
“Let’s go,” I said trying to close the door behind me.
“Put on some pants first.”
I looked down and saw that I was still in my glorious tidy whiteys. I always took advantage of my bedroom’s “pants optional” dress code.
“How long has she been gone?” I asked.
“Only about ten minutes, but nobody is G-D sure which way she went!” she yelled impatiently. My mom used the initials G and D as a way to fake blaspheme without actually having to actually do it.
For some reason, I was always more offended by her half attempt at taking the Lord’s name in vain. I thought you either committed to the whole G-D thing or you stayed away from it altogether.
After I slid into some of my patented tan corduroys I got into my mom’s 1980’s Mecury Sedan to begin our search for my elderly grandmother, Isabelle.
Isabelle was my Dad’s mom who had for years been slowly descending down the heartbreaking escalator of dementia. Eventually, it had gotten so bad that it caused her to have to move into a house across the street from us where she had a live-in nurse to help her out.
I was fortunate to get to know my grandmother for a few years before her mental capacities began to fail her. We could not be more different from each other but we had a strange connection that had formed between us.
Isabelle was a tough frontier woman who had grown up on a real old-time western ranch. In her prime, she was a formidable woman who had the ability to render people into ash with a single gaze. Before her downfall, she had always reminded me of a female version of a Clint Eastwood gunslinger character.
Isabelle was born with an allergy to nonsense and suffered no fools – which made our close relationship all the more mysterious. I was The King Of Fools and never shyed away from acting like that in front of her.
My grandmother would often respond to my behavior with loving quips like “John, you are a special sort of idiot, aren’t you?”
I believe that our odd kinship was formed because I was able to make her laugh. I think that this was a feat that no person on Earth, aside from my grandfather, (whom I never met) had ever been able to accomplish.
Isabelle would tell me tales of what it was like to experience the unforgiving winters of Wyoming while ranching as a little girl, and I, in turn, would share with her my Jimmy Carter impersonation. My grandmother and I would sit in her parked car and suckle down Jolly Rancher’s while we traded her stories for my jokes.
The revelation that she was suffering from dementia came to me suddenly, but for my parents, it had been a slow boil development. There were probably a hundred clues that I missed (aka: willfully ignored) that her mind was fading away – but I had never allowed myself to pick up on them.
It wasn’t until I was in eighth grade when my grandmother had gotten into a major car accident that I was forced to come to grips with what was going on. Isabelle had gotten into her forbidden car and driven outside of town looking for her long-abandoned childhood ranch.
She had been going about 30 MPH on the interstate and was plowed into by a semi-truck. It was a wreck that sent her to the ICU and allowed her mind to accelerate into full system failure.
Once Isabelle got out of the hospital it was clear that Isabelle could never live alone again. That was when it was decided that she would move in across the street from us with life in nursing care. This fact alone is cause enough to probably have allowed my mom to enter straight into heaven upon her death almost five years ago.
Isabelle and my mom had the typical mother-in-law and daughter-in-law relationship. My mother feared no person on the planet – with one exception: Isabelle. Here were two fire-tested women who had more standoffs than The Duke Boys and the local authorities of Hazard County with my poor dad caught in between these two titans. When my grandmother was rendered mentally incapacitated it was my mom who came up with the idea that Isabelle should move in across the street where we could all keep an eye on her.
Post-accident Isabelle was far more combative than her pre-accident version. This was mostly because she was confused about what was going on – but I’m convinced that there was still enough processing power in her to know how to get under my mom’s skin. We would have her over for dinner a couple of times of a week and my grandmother would spend most of the time just letting my mom have it.
“This place is a messy disgrace,” Isabelle would declare about the state of my mom’s housekeeping – which was impeccable. Our house was always museum clean; a fact that my mom always prided herself in.. Any suggestion of it being otherwise would obviously cause my mom’s blood to boil in her veins.
“I’ll try to clean it later,” my mom would say while most certainly uttering several hundred G & D’s in her head.
Isabelle would go after everybody with a barb or two – except for me. Even though all of her haze and cognitive scar tissue there still remained a connection between us. I was dubbed by my mom as “The Isabelle Translator” and it was always up to me to be the one to tell her that it was time for dinner or time to start getting ready to go back to her home across the street. She would listen to me when she wouldn’t for anybody else.
My grandmother lived across from our house for years and my mom selflessly helped care for her without ever allowing us to see her complain about it. I have no doubt that she would vent to my dad behind their closed doors – but it was never a moment that I was forced to witness. The amount of money and emotional cost that my parents paid to help care for my grandmother without bitching about any of it remains one of the greatest lessons they had ever taught me.
As time went on Isabelle got more and more confused and unstable. She would wake up in the night and believe that she had been kidnapped by the nurses who were living with her. I could hear her screaming from across the street while her caregivers would try and calm her down.
At least once a month she would find a way to sneak out of her house and go on a walk. The nurse would come running frantically over to our front door and explain that “she had just stepped into the bathroom for a second and when she came out Isabelle was gone!”
Driving around our neighborhood looking for my grandmother was not an uncommon practice for my mother and me.
Eventually, we found her shuffling in her nightgown down an alleyway. My mom knew that it would be pointless to try and talk to Isabelle herself. That’s what I was for. I was the “Isabelle Translator” after all – it was my only real functional purpose in our family.
“Tell her that she needs to get in the car and come back home,” my mom said. “It’s almost getting dark.”
“And make sure she puts on this G-D coat!” my mom commanded as she handed me Isabelle’s coat that she had kept in her car for moments exactly like this. It was October and in Wyoming, that meant that as soon as the sun went down it would go from 50 degrees to Hoth in a matter of moments.
I got out of the car and jogged up to my grandmother. Her bare arms were beet red and her hands were shivering. Isabelle’s wrinkled face was bewildered and had tears streaming down it.
She looked exhausted – and it looked like she would collapse on the hard concrete at any moment.
“Grandmother,” I said while wrapping the coat around her shoulders. “Come on, it’s time to go home.”
“That’s not my home!” she barked. “Those people are trying to kill me and steal all of my things!
“No, they aren’t. They are trying to help you.”
“Bullshit. I think they are poisoning me so that they can bury me in the grave they have dug for me in the backyard,” she said with her eyes still blankly looking forward. I had no response to this. What could I possibly say to an accusation like that? I thought about arguing with her but I knew that she wouldn’t believe me.
“Where are we walking to?” I asked her.
“The ranch. I can’t wait for you to see it,” she said.
“Me either,” I replied. “Maybe we should go there tomorrow when it wasn’t so cold out. Besides, I think it would be better to see it during the daytime.”
“No! We are going now! Now quit your bullshit and let’s get moving!”
Usually, I would have already been able to have convinced Isabelle to turn back around, but there was obviously something more going on with her on that particular day.
She had already dropped two “bullshits” on me in a matter of seconds. I looked back at my mom who was trolling us a half-block behind in the car. I flashed her a look that indicated that I was perhaps in over my head.
She unrolled her window and shouted “Tell her that we need to get her home right now! She is going to break a stupid hip!”
I knew that I needed to get her to agree to get in the car herself. The alternative would be us trying to physically move her into the car without her consent and that would be a nightmare and probably end up with my mom and I being arrested for abducting a senior citizen.
It was then that my grandmother grabbed my hand. Her fingers were so damned cold. Her knuckles were already turning a shade of blue. She stopped walking and began to sob.
“I just want to go to my ranch. I just want to go to my ranch. I just want to go to my ranch.” she repeated through her crying jags. Her voice sounded like a child. It instantly unnerved me.
“I know,” I said.
“It’s all gone, isn’t it? My ranch is gone? she asked me. This was the first time that she had looked at me since I had joined her on the walk. I remember how flush her face was with mucus and tears.
“Yes,” I replied.
I immediately wondered if I should have lied and told her that her childhood ranch was still up and running. I worried that perhaps my honesty would send her further down the rabbit hole.
It didn’t. Instead, Isabelle just squeezed my hand uncomfortably tighter.
“I wish you could have seen it. It was where I became who I am. It was where I was safe. I could be anything I wanted to there.” she said in a brief moment of absolute clarity. Isabelle had just described my exact relationship with my own bedroom.
“I wish I could have seen it too,” I answered honestly.
“Everything back then was ahead of me. Now…everything is behind me,” Isabelle said – her freezing hand clutching mine even harder now. I didn’t say anything in reply. There was nothing I could say.
“Well, if it’s gone let’s not go there. It would be a waste of time,” she said. Her drying eyes gave me a once over and then she asked “Where in the hell is your coat?”
“I left it at home,” I said.
“Aren’t you a special sort of idiot?” She asked rhetorically.
“That I am,” I said – not being able to help to smile at the revelation that underneath all of her suffering and mental torment that the same old Isabelle remained.
“Where shall we walk to?” I asked her.
“How about we walk until somebody gives a damn?” my grandmother suggested.
Perfect answer – I didn’t know what it meant – but it sounded so G-D cool.
We walked hand in hand for a couple more blocks with my mom tailing us like the worst undercover cop ever. I told Isabelle jokes. She told me about the random memories of her childhood.
Under the fading fall Wyoming sun, we had our last real conversation before her mind finally fully took her away from me.
These days whenever I take my evening walk I always think about what she said.
“Walk until somebody gives a damn.”
I still don’t know what it means, but that shouldn’t be a surprise to anybody. I am a special kind of idiot after all.
~john roedel
~I hope somebody like John finds me if I start walking until somebody gives a damn~ Syd

The Face of your Soul

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on
by Sydney Lok
It doesn’t matter
what kind it is.
Mental, emotional, physical.
It’s all the same.
It strips you of everything.
It scrubs you of everything
you are not.
Ego, excuses,
lies, labels,
illusions, fantasies
It excavates completely
leaving you un-spelled
like a word careening
off the tip of a tongue.
It excavates completely
leaving you
with the Face of your Soul
reflecting in a single tear
falling off
the cliff of your face.
I follow the tear into
the brilliance of its release
finding a shimmering peace
beyond all pain in
the Face of your Soul.
Photo by cottonbro on