It was an astonishing, unexpected breakthrough. A blazing explosion through the blockade guarding the inferno of trauma. A ZONK! they call it, as I would later learn. Sexual abuse trauma is more penetrating, more psychologically damaging than you can possibly imagine. Or can be accurately expressed, so vast is the internalized brutality of the victim’s sexual body, mind and spirit.
We’d been meeting periodically for over a year in the spirit of growth and evolution. The most receptive client we’d ever had…fearless in exploration. But never did I expect this thrust into the light. I manage my expectations. I’m the presenter. The organizer of impressions. The medium. Skilled and knowledgeable, yes, or I wouldn’t be following this path. But I am a messenger. Not the creator of the message. Nor am I a predictor of outcomes. I’m a facilitator of the process.
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Meditation ushers in yesterday. Instantly. As if it is today…time and space collapse into now. Immediately, at the second of the ZONK!—the breakthrough--they, the unseen, are here. There is no weeping or calling for intervention. No lag time. No challenge of distance. No drag through turbulence. They—unseen protectors—are present. A gathering of protecting guides arrive at the exact second of agony. At the moment of brokenness that feels utterly unrepairable, a fronting line of radiant silver entities appear like a great breath of life-giving oxygen.
High level spirit guides. Celestial. Divine. But profoundly connected to the shores of the physical earth. In attendance for the exact moment that the defense shatters. And the barricade fails. And the sexually brutalized child—condemned to the darkness so very long ago—rushes into the waiting light. Into safety. Bathed in spa energy. In healing, cleansing spiritual waters. Embraced with benevolence. Wrapped in comfort. Enfolded in the radiance of truth. Surrounded by the powerful mothering energy of soft and soothing colors…taupe and creamy white.
A stout, burdened entity approaches. Her clothes are drab and dowdy as the leaden energy she drags with her. The protectors quickly shoo her away. They will not permit the dense, muddy phobia of fear to intrude on this sacred event.
The hues are otherworldly, described perhaps only by way of babies’ dreams. I don’t know. But ethereal colors unfold in whispers of undulating waves. Burnished rose. Buttery green. Spirit entities swathed in diaphanous pink multiply into countless numbers of young ballet dancers—children dancing with pure and perfect joy—with sheer exhilaration. Forming an infinite, expansive, soaring mountainous pattern of feathery magnificence.
Leading this chorus of poetic blush and movement is a little Black girl, maybe ten years old. Upswept hair laced with creamy pearls. The most joyful child. The most exhilarated child: The Prima Ballerina. Once so brutalized. Once so broken. Now healed. Bathed in magnificent golden light. Now leading the way.
I realize I have been invited to witness a ceremonial celebration of liberation. Of illumination. It is not lost on me that I am surrounded by children. Young flowers once lost to the darkness of sexual abuse. Once barricaded inside trauma. Children once living inside traumatized adults, now free.
As I have been invited to celebrate, I, in turn, invite you to celebrate. And to know that you are not alone.