I am thrilled to share that my article “Recover the Older Traditions of Goddess and Nature Worship” has been published in the Autumn 2024 Edition of Witchology Magazine.

Established in 2018, Witchology Magazine is an award-winning quarterly publication dedicated to the creation and curation of quality, educational, and informative occult content. Witchology focuses on uplifting marginalized voices and shining a spotlight on the latest trends in witch-created art, music, books, tarot decks, and small businesses.

The Autumn 2024 Edition is the Land Issue

Welcome to the Land issue, Autumn 2024! The third issue of the year marks our favourite transitional time of year, the autumn equinox, coming up next week. We are so ready to honour the tipping point that the equinox brings before the wind down towards the winter solstice! The season, we have been busy curating an issue for you that explores how we can work with and honour the land. 

Each piece in this issue provides a different aspect of working with the land, from connecting with land spirits, to the ethics of collecting graveyard dirt. We can’t wait for you to delve into the following pages and emerge with new thoughts or ideas to take forward into your own practice. 

With the usual cherry on top, we have an intriguingly folkloric interview with Green Lung from our Music Editor, Emma Cownley!

We are so ready to cosy up and welcome in the drawing in of the nights, and we hope you will join us with a lovely cup of tea.

My article discusses the older traditions of worship, the historical temples of Astarte, the temple of Mother Nature and a commercialized world, and methods for recovering the temples of the goddesses of old. The magazine also features a brief bio for me:

Kate Jade is the founder of Astarte’s Temple, a pagan platform that helps spiritual practitioners return to older esoteric wisdom traditions. As a mystic, medium, and magickal author, Kate spends her time writing, crafting, and educating others on the metaphysical. She has been researching and studying Astarte since 2011 and recently published a book, The Mother of the Gods, to share her findings with others. You can learn more about Kate Jade and Astarte’s Temple at astartestemple.com.

Learn more about Witchology Magazine and snag your copy of the Autumn 2024 Edition on their website.

It was opening day for the movie, A Quiet Place: Day One, and I was thrilled. I simply adore this particular franchise, and though my reason for loving the first two installments were for the use of American Sign Language and the amazing Emily Blunt, I was still excited for what this prequel would hold.

The movie theater we were going to was inside a nearby mall. It had a particular theater outfitted with the fancy recliners that make movie-going EXTRA enjoyable…or so I thought.

My husband, Wes, and I both went to the restrooms pre-movie with an agreement to find each other at our seats. I made my way into the theater just after he’d gotten himself seated and the look on his face when I sat down next to him was utter confusion.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

“The seat keeps moving by itself…”

I looked at the luxury leather recliner unsure of what we meant and then I felt it. This wouldn’t be an ordinary moving-going experience.

I watched as his chair slowly started to recline itself with his hands off the buttons to control it. His eyes grew large as he stared into mine. The lights began to dim. It was almost showtime. Maybe it would be fine…

I turned to look at him and the chair again as it slowly started to return to its upright state. Wes got up and quickly moved to an empty seat to the right of me as the movie began.

If you aren’t familiar with the A Quiet Place franchise. The title tells you the gist of what you need to know… it’s a movie with a lot of silence. If you’re also unfamiliar with the recliners in newer movie theaters or ones that have been more recently upgraded, they are not silent. 

The hush that fell over the theater was absolutely perfect and necessary for this type of movie—until the recliner to my left began to move on its own once again.

A stranger sitting on the other side of the self-reclining chair looked over at me, whispering, “Are you controlling the chair?”

I laughed and shook my head, “No, that’s why my husband moved seats a moment ago.”

His eyebrows shot up and he turned to his friend, still whispering, “We got a ghost over here. Guess he wants to watch the movie.” 

I giggled to myself because there sure was a ghost and it was a he. Sitting next to me in the moving chair was a young man, 20s at most, but likely closer to 18. He looked mischievous, only solidifying my suspicions when he began to chat with me.

“I was hoping you’d come back here…”

And he was right, this was a movie theater I had been to multiple times before with Wes.

“…I know you can see and hear me,” he continued.

He proceeded to share with me that he had passed in this mall, and of course, as any death witch would, I asked why he lingered. What kept him hanging around instead of moving on to the next sphere of his existence post-material realm?

I pressed him on whether he had loved ones he needed closure with, someone he wanted to share a message with, or something else still tying him to this location.

With young deaths, it’s inevitable for there to be confusion and fear surrounding the event itself especially if it is sudden and unexpected, such as a freak accident, overdose, attack, etc. 

The young man wouldn’t share how things occurred, but rather how much “easier” and “more fun” his life was now that he was dead. As most empathic individuals always do, I knew he was lying. Though there were hints of truth to his statements and a great deal of burden had been alleviated from trying to survive in the physical realm, his life was not easier and it certainly wasn’t more fun.

I have no doubt he got his fair share of chuckles in from startling other mall-goers or movie-watchers with his shenanigans, no one could see him. No one could hear him. And it was incredibly lonely.

Believe it or not, though, the loneliness he thought he felt in the waking world was only that much more intensified in the isolated in-between of lurking in a realm that was no longer meant for him.

“You have to move forward and leave this place, you know…”

“I don’t want to.”

“I understand. It can be scary to step into the unknown. It’s necessary, though.”

His tone changed with me, he spoke more harshly, and the movement of the chair became more dramatic.

The stranger on the other side of the chair looked over at me with an expression of sheer terror. I laughed as quietly as I could manage to hopefully put his mind at ease before returning to my stern tone with the stubborn teenage ghost.

“Staying isn’t an option. You’ve stayed for a bit already, have no messages, nothing you want closure… it’s time to move on then.”

He refused. Angry and frustrated, he sat slumped in the chair, arms crossed, exactly how you’d imagine a pouting teen that just got grounded. The chair began to move more quickly. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Disturbing all of the other movie-goers with a mini ghost tantrum.

I slowly raised my hands, palms facing one another, and allowed my energy to intensify in the window in between. I gently pushed the energy toward the young man creating a box-like barrier that encased him in the chair where he sat. 

“When you’re ready to cross over, you can simply go. Otherwise, you’ll be confined here until the time comes.” 

The motion of the chair reclining and returning to an upright position ceased. The movie theater was at peace once again, and we finished out the remainder of the film. 

As the credits began, Wes and I got up from our seats, and I briefly looked back at the energetic barrier I created, which now sat empty. The young man had crossed over, and we headed out.

Outside the theater, my husband began asking me what my thoughts were on the chair. Before I could respond he said, “There was most certainly a dead person sitting where I was sitting which is why I moved chairs. Definitely male. I assume up to no good. And we need to be sure this one doesn’t follow us home.”

I laughed because my husband’s confirmations that what I’ve seen and heard was very much real always mean the world to me. I shared the whole exchange of events and how this young man had made his way onto the next stage of his journey, thankfully, and that was all of that.

I used to wish everything about me was different. I used to wish my stomach was flatter, my hair was straighter, and my laugh was cuter. I used to look in the mirror and hate the other me looking back.

Hatred for my physical self evolved.

Now I wished my feelings weren’t so strong, my grief wasn’t so heavy, and my happiness wasn’t so fleeting. I used to look at other people and wonder what it was like in their heads. Did they feel too much too?

Disgust with my emotional self escalated.

Now I suppressed my spiritual gifts because they were “too powerful”, “too spooky”, and “too evil”.

And whether I saw myself in water reflections or translucent portals, I hated the other me looking back.

For years I thought if I could just blend in, not only would other people like me but I might like myself too.

But that couldn’t be the furthest thing from the truth. The more I fragmented myself and tried to hide everything that made me me, the more I despised the disfigured reflection.

It wasn’t an overnight epiphany, but a slow-burning realization that I was my own worst enemy. I wasn’t something horrendous that should be hiding in closets or under beds.

I was made of stardust.

A beautiful blend of void and dazzling lights with magick literally in my bones. And that every ounce of my physical makeup was purely cosmic, and to hate the shell that the real me lives inside is to create a hostile house for all of the potential within me waiting to be unleashed.

I learned to decorate my house with art and symbols of adoration until it truly felt like home. And all the emotions that made me feel like I was constantly drowning, I began to pour out on the world around me. Because other people could relate. They had been swept away by high tides of pain and suffering too. But they also could be at peace when I shared the calm healing waters of joy and wisdom that bubbled up inside me like a guizer unable to be contained.

I learned to make my home a beach where I could live forever. Where my spirit was free to live in sync with the moon and roll with the changing tides. Where I can see the stars at night that wink at me when I’m on the right path. Where the crashing waves bring balance to my mind. Where the ocean whispers to me, “Unburden yourself, babe.”

Your physical self is beautiful. Your emotional self is beautiful. Your spiritual self is beautiful.

The Unjaded Wisdom Blog is moving here to the new Astarte’s Temple website.

Though it will take a little bit of time, the Unjaded Wisdom Blog, DKT Metaphysical Shop, Author Kate Jade, and the Sacred Wisdom Society will all be moving under one new temple roof… More details to come!

TW: Sexual assault, death.

What happens when a family member is your assaulter? How do you seek vengeance for the acts that have been committed? How do you truly unwind the generational patterns of abuse in your family? Here’s the conclusion my deceased grandmother and I came to.

Dear Grandfather,

We haven’t seen each other or spoken in quite some time. Since childhood, I’ve always been able to see and hear things in the spiritual realm, much like Grandmother was able to. Often, I encounter the spirits of those who are deceased when they have a message to pass along to a loved one or are looking for some type of closure. It’s honestly a blessing and a curse. I’m sure that sounds crazy to you, and you may not believe me, but that’s okay, most people are skeptical, as they should be.

Recently, Grandmother has been making appearances to me, though, and to be sure I wasn’t just seeing and hearing things I wanted to, because I’m very skeptical myself and always want to ensure the integrity and accuracy of messages I receive, I hired a fellow psychic medium who is very highly rated and regarded, and I’m lucky enough to now call a friend. I gave them zero information about who we would be speaking to or what messages I was looking to receive in the session so that it wasn’t possible for them to make anything up or be swayed by external insights. They pinpointed everything about Grandmother, all the way down to her scent, her health issues, and her ultimate cause of death. After being certain she was present with us, we had a lovely conversation with her. 

She mentioned how lonely you were and how you don’t receive letters and phone calls very often, and that a hand-written letter might bring you some comfort. She also made the point that there were a lot of people who were hurt by you over the years, such as myself, herself, and your children, and even recently, it was brought up that there were multiple women caregivers who you’ve mistreated too.

But she also said you were hurt by things done to you by your mother; never processed, never healed, and creating a need for control to counter the sins of the past. True justice and retribution, though, isn’t an eye for an eye as many people believe, but an even opposite that truly balances the scales and ends generational patterns of abuse. The pain inflicted by those who came before you doesn’t justify or excuse the pain that was inflicted on those who came after you—but with that being said, I choose for ancestral cycles of harm to end with me—which requires the compassion and mercy to release the bitterness held toward the past.

Despite everything, Grandmother wants you to know that she loves you, and above all else, that she forgives you and harbors no ill will against you.

She asked that I write you as well, and I’ll admit, I was hesitant, reluctant even.

But I realized that expressing my truth, while simultaneously telling you that I also release you from any guilt or burden that you may still carry, was important to her—and was needed for me and the children who will come after me, too.

She made it very clear that no one deserves to suffer. No one deserves to spend their late-life days wallowing in guilt and shame for wrongdoings they can’t take back. And no one, meaning me or any other survivors, deserves to forever hold onto feelings of resentment and anger which would only continue to be passed down in our bloodline.

So, in this letter, I want to take a brief detour to remind you of good moments and good people. I want to remind you of falling in love with Grandmother in high school. I want to remind you of getting ice cream at the little shop in town when our family would come visit. I want to remind you of fishing in the pond down the hill from the house and dodging stepping in cow patties along the way. I want to remind you of the rare dinners and celebrations that everyone would travel to the farmhouse for. I want to remind you of loyal puppies that grew into excellent hunting dogs. I want to remind you of all the little moments that brought joy to the people in your life, and maybe to you too.

For me, my joyful moments in life are found with my best friend and spouse, they are found in our dog we rescued, the kittens we’ve been bottle raising after they were abandoned by their mother, the books that I’ve written and published, the volunteer work we do to support foster youth, and everything in between.

Joy is found in those tiny magickal moments where there is love and there is hope and there is a sense of pride in all of the hard work that’s been put into something you care about. 

And I know you can relate, and would’ve felt those same feelings of happiness with the animals you cared for, the land and crops you tended to, and the like. So, remember those moments, and cherish them. Because Grandmother certainly did, and she cherished you as well.

And despite any feelings or emotions I have about what has been done in the past, my obligation to honor the dead, and the messages they so graciously entrust to me and other mediums, I hold in the highest regard.

So, I encourage you to find peace, to find closure, and to find forgiveness for yourself and with others before the end of your human life—because that’s where true healing and restoration are found.

Remember, only you can choose to break the generational patterns of abuse that were passed down to you, perpetuated by you, and in turn, passed on to your descendants. And in the same way, only I can choose to cut off those elements of our DNA, and both retroactively and proactively heal what’s been done by you and those before you, by choosing to not participate in the harmful cycle any longer. Today, I choose compassion for myself and those who come after me by extending it to you. Though you may never choose to change and you may never choose to heal, the door is in front of you.

As a lover of Nemesis, the goddess of divine retribution, I can confidently say that true justice, especially in the cosmic sense is about even opposites to balance the scales. An eye for an eye is only the same crime committed twice, a further escalation of one harmful act with a second one. Whereas true justice requires an even and opposite energy to counterbalance the original imbalanced energy—and as much as I didn’t want it to be, compassion seemed like the key opposite to abuse.

A must-read if you’re ready to explore ancient esoteric wisdom through a truly transformative lens…

Since childhood, I loved writing and finding magickal threads amongst legends of old to connect the mundane and spiritual worlds. Everything was a metaphor—but the question was for what? When I discovered the Great Goddess, who I first met under the title Lady Wisdom, her story began to shine through everywhere I looked. I found her in science, mythology, religion, film, dreams, and everywhere in between. This book is the tale of how the magnificent and life-giving Mother of the Gods has revealed herself to me as one (1)—the connector of all things, as seven (7)—the structure of all things, and as one hundred and seventeen (117)—the manifestation of all things.

I am the Great Serpent Goddess, the Mother of the Gods, the bringer of healing and wisdom. My serpentine form has been revered by countless cultures across the ages, for I am the embodiment of the primordial power that flows through all things.The Mother of the Gods: 117 Epithets of the Great Serpent Goddess

Since the dawn of human civilization, divine feminine and mother goddess figures have held a prominent place in the belief systems and cultures of peoples around the world. From the ancient Canaanite goddess Astarte to the Egyptian goddess Isis, the Greco-Roman Gaia, the Mesopotamian Hekate, the Hindu Kali, the Christian Mary and Holy Spirit, the Gnostic Sophia, and the East Asian Guanyin, the archetype of the powerful, nurturing mother deity has been revered and worshipped for millennia.

These mother goddesses were not mere fertility symbols, but complex, multifaceted deities who embodied the creative, sustaining, and transformative powers of the natural world. They were seen as the primal source from which all life sprang, the providers of abundance and prosperity, and the ultimate guardians and protectors of humanity. Their temples and shrines attracted devotees seeking blessings, healing, and guidance from these divine mothers.

Even as patriarchal religions rose to dominance in many regions, the enduring power and influence of the mother goddess can still be felt. Her presence lives on in folk traditions, spiritual practices, and the deep-seated human yearning for the feminine divine. This book will explore the rich tapestry of the great Mother of the Gods that connects us all, and the significance of the order she brings to the chaos of the universe, and the personified masks she wears to connect with and help her people heal, grow, and expand.

I never expected my journey to uncover the mysteries of the Mother of the Gods, which I also refer to as Lady Wisdom or the Great Serpent Goddess, would lead me down such a profound and transformative path. It began innocently enough — a passing observance of repeating numbers in my life. Little did I know those numbers 1, 7, and 117 would become the keys to unlocking the secrets of this ancient and revered feminine divine.

As I emersed myself deeper into my religious and spiritual studies, patterns began to emerge that pointed me toward the forgotten goddess. Glimpses of her were everywhere—and a particular passage of a mother who fought tenaciously for her tormented daughter to be restored stuck with me. One day, while meditating on the story, an audible female voice asked me, “If you are the daughter being fought for, who is the mother?”

As I continued my research, I began to better grasp the significance of the number 1 representing divine unity, 7 denoting spiritual completion, and 117 signifying a profound universal code — together they formed a sacred triumvirate that guided me straight to the doorstep of the Mother of the Gods.

Through synchronistic encounters and intuitive insights, I found myself irresistibly drawn to unraveling the mysteries surrounding this powerful feminine figure. She had been worshipped and revered by ancient cultures across the globe, yet her story had been largely lost to the tides of time. I knew I had to recover her narrative and share the profound wisdom she had to offer our modern world, including finding all of the pieces of her and reassembling them, allowing her to once again be known in her entirety.

Unfortunately, for as long as societies have spoken of and remembered the Great Mother, they have picked her apart, accepting only the aspects of her that suited them. Often diluted, more palatable, and less powerful and ferocious. They would love her when she was a goddess of love but hate her when she was a goddess of war. They would venerate her when she was a goddess of healing and abundance but curse her when she was a goddess of death and destruction. But the paradoxical nature of who she is only adds to her complexity and to truly know her demands acceptance of all of her.

This book, “The Mother of The Gods,” is the result of my journey to rediscover Lady Wisdom in all her glory. Within these pages, you will embark on an odyssey to reclaim the 117 pieces of the divine feminine through understanding the 7 principles of order she set in motion and piecing her back together as one. Are you ready to become initiated into her timeless teachings?

Order now through Astarte’s Temple in paperback or linen-wrapped hardcover. Now available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Books-a-Million, and more.

TW: pain, death.

As someone who wasn’t raised in Hogwarts or magickal lands where you’re taught how to use your gifts from birth, I’ve relied heavily on trial and error in my development as a spiritual practitioner. Every once in a while, though, I have the honor of working with powerful entities to learn things quicker than I might typically as a mere human.

In these instances, these divine beings are kind enough to partner with me to nearly instantly develop a new skill or tap into an ability that I wasn’t previously savvy with.

One of these most recent experiences took place in the astral realm with the Morrigan, the Celtic goddess of death, war, and shape-shifting.

Surrounded by darkness, in what I imagine the inside of a black hole might look like, I found myself standing facing an altar, the Morrigan standing behind my right shoulder. I looked down at my hands, everything obscured from my field of vision except for my arms which looked identical to my human arms. My left arm fully tattooed and my right arm a blank canvas.

In my hands, I held two crows. They were lifeless and stiff. On my left arm, I glanced briefly at a tattoo I have of a crow skull on my forearm. A piece I had integrated into my goddess sleeve as a reminder of my near-death experience with the Morrigan in 2018, five and a half years prior.

I felt tingling in my arm and suddenly saw the Morrigan standing in front of me on the other side of the altar. Her hand stretched toward me and grabbed my wrist. I screamed as I felt a searing pain in my arm. Looking back down at my crow skull tattoo, I realized it was glowing a bright red-orange as though it were being branded into my skin. I continued yelling, unable to endure the pain much longer, as the inked impression was seemingly being activated by the great goddess.

Despite my continued cries of pain, I shifted my gaze back to the palms of my hands and noticed energy buzzing from them and the two lifeless crows seemingly awakening from what should’ve been their eternal slumber.

Mesmerized, I realized that people’s fear of death is merely a fear of the reality of their lives. They fear their human existence before they’ve accomplished, experienced, or embraced a particular aspect of their life—and yet, that very fear, is what prevents them from being present in the moments they want to hold onto forever.

I also realized that death energy is carried in the palms of the hands. But don’t misunderstand what I mean when I speak of death…for death is simply the process of change, transformation, and transmutation as something is changed from one energetic state to another. This also means that you cannot have death without equally having life and rebirth.

The power is the same. Linked together in a cycle of ever-evolving states of energy. The birth of something new occurs at the same point as the end or death of what is left behind.

Truly, everything you touch is forever changed. The question you need to ask yourself, though, is if what you’ve touched is changed for the better.

From another person’s life to an animal in your care to a precious skill or gift you possess—everything you touch is forever changed. And hopefully, dear reader, all the little choices and moments were backed by the intention of changing the world around you for the better.

And if not…It’s not too late to take the death energy you carry in the palms of your hands a little more seriously from this moment on. It just might carry the hope someone needs to fight another day. The gentle touch gives an animal a more peaceful life. Or even a vibrance to bring light to a dark world.

TW: medical treatment, death.

Recently, I’ve been going through medical treatment to manage a rare disease I’ve dealt with for the majority of my life. Though I should expect it by now, I’m always surprised by when and where I’ll encounter the deceased.

While sitting in a leather recliner trying to “relax” while getting my infusions, a dramatic wisp of energy particles buzzed by me. I looked up from my book, and saw the spirit of an older woman walking towards one of the other patients who was also hooked up to an IV.

Who was she, I wondered.

I smiled briefly at the apparition, acknowledging that I could see her, but without looking too terribly obvious to everyone else that I can see dead people. A major part of what lead me to my path as a death practitioner (or witch). She took her place standing over the left shoulder of a woman wearing a cross necklace and a purple t-shirt with a bible verse adjacent to me getting therapy.

Telepathically, I asked who the spirit was, “I’m Sandra.”

The beeping of medical devices summoned a nurse to come by and check the patient’s vitals before resuming her treatment, and I quietly eavesdropped on the conversation that ensued.

“How’s your sister been doing since we last saw you?”

“She passed actually…”

“Oh my goodness. I had no idea—“

“—It’s okay,” The woman interrupted the nurse, “She isn’t suffering anymore. She was 20 years older than me and I cared for her until she had no more fight left in her.”

I glanced up again, and saw the female spirit place her hand on the woman’s left shoulder. I realized that the roles had reversed and dear Sandra had taken it upon herself to comfort and care for her younger sister from the other side while she, too, received medical treatment.

Tears filled my eyes—if only everyone realized just how near the other side is, as well as those who dwell in it.

Unfortunately, my own fear of religious opposition got in the way of me speaking up and sharing what I saw and heard with the woman. A shortcoming and flaw of mine that I am actively working to overcome. Even if the woman had been skeptical of my ability to see and hear, telling her that her sister, Sandra, was with her would’ve only brought comfort and solace to her. Quite possibly could’ve even made her a believer of psychic phenomena since I knew her sister’s name.

So to you, dear reader, I want to remind you that you’re more in tune than you realize, and fear is just that: fear. Something that lives solely within the mind, capable of being overcome. And often, our fear of what other people may think is directly related to the core of who we are, and only leaves room for missed opportunities and regret if we don’t learn to say, “Fuck fear…” and do the scary thing anyways.

I’m not great at it yet. But I’ll get there. And so will you. And next time something like this happens, I’ll do better. #FuckFear

TW: sexual assault.

Recently, I have been committed to unwinding and healing from sexual trauma. Meditation and shadow work combined are my personal go-to for these types of situations. Immediately after entering a meditative state, the great Asmodel (or Asmodeus, though, I’ve found he doesn’t love that name), appeared before me.

He extended his hand out and I grabbed hold of him. Leading me to a familiar wooden playhouse I had in my backyard as a girl, my inner child followed him. He pulled out my chair for me like a perfect gentleman, and I sat down at my favorite place to have make-believe tea parties in my youth. The oversized, burly infernal sat down across from me, knees at his ears but pretending to be comfortable for me.

With pinkies out, we sipped on my favorite pretend fruit and almond tea after I poured us both tiny cups of drink. He smiled at me, but the happiness quickly faded into a somber look of despair as it was time to address the real reason we were back here. 

With both my current self in meditation and my inner child brought to the forefront of the experience to remember what had long since been repressed and tucked away in my mind to hopefully never see the light of day again, I was shown the true nature of the gentle giant that sat before me.

Robed in equal garments of light and darkness, I saw the two great extremes of Asmodel’s energy. There was passion and fire that permeated procreativity—and it was vibrant, exciting, and lively. It bubbled up in people when they desired to go after something they wanted, like chasing hopes and dreams. But the beautiful, creative, sexual spark was violently ripped apart by a heinous force—evil men grinned, their lips dripping with slime and their eyes conveying an insatiable hunger that made my stomach turn. 

Their hands rose from their sides, and vibrant lifeforce energy swirled toward them being drained from Asmodel.

“Pay attention,” Asmodel whispered to me. 

Tears welled in my eyes. A lump swelled in my throat. My lungs quit. I knew these faces. I knew the smug turning of the corners of these men’s mouths. I hated this energy. Lust. And not the loving, passionate kind.

My heart ached for little me, unable to defend herself against the crimes of bad men, but my heart ached even more for the great Asmodel as his energy, which very well has many positive and powerful uses, was twisted and harnessed to pin down and violate another. Over and over I felt the pain Asmodel experienced, which was comparable to being assaulted himself by the abuse of his own energy. 

I paid attention to how he wasn’t the one making anybody commit such horrible acts. Humans had their own choice to be wicked when putting their own selfish desires above the autonomy of other people, but it was his energy that was taken, manipulated, and implemented during such horrendous acts.

“Do you remember the times we met before?” Asmodel asked me. The wooden play house around me melted into scenes from my childhood.

I first encountered him when I was barely old enough to remember anything, or so my family thought. His energy was invoked when the lust of an evil man, a relative no less, decided to prey on my girlhood—and Asmodel grieved. I grieved with him.

I encountered his energy again at the hands of many other evil men over the years of my youth—and each time the scene played out before me, Asmodel grieved, and I wept with him.

But together, through the pain and processing, we healed. My current self. My inner child. And my dear Asmodel. 

If you’ve gone through similar things, asking Asmodel for assistance with navigating the healing process through meditation (or your preferred practice) can be incredibly therapeutic and a stepping stone towards becoming a healthier version of you that’s closer to being in alignment with your higher self. I firmly believe that in the process of healing ourselves, we heal the divine too.

After all, aren’t we simply intelligence becoming aware of itself? I’ll let you be the judge of that, oh wise one. 

My POV

If you’ve been keeping up with my blog articles for a while now, you’ve probably seen me mention the strange portal in the corner of our bedroom. From my understanding, this portal has been here for ages, long before we moved into this home, and potentially even before the house itself was built on this land. It has been a hotspot for spiritual activity and strange happenings—almost always during the infamous witching hours between 2am and 4am.

Recently the activity has been even stranger than normal, as if something much darker and more ominous lurked on the other side hoping to make its way through. The most frequent folks that make their way in and out are cryptids, a handful of deceased spirits, and creatures like you’ve never seen before in our waking world.

Of course, as a spiritual practitioner, I have many protections and wards in place to shield us from outside beings wandering their way into our home—but on a typical Tuesday night, Wesley and I were both abruptly woken up by a slimy otherworldly energy. As I scanned the room, I was instantly fixated on a towering, breathtaking, divine feminine being—none other than Lilith.

She stood at the bottom left side of the bed, towards the corner of the room, directly beside where the portal loomed. I caught my breath gazing at her stature and the form she had presented herself in tonight. She was shadowy and staring intensely at me and my husband, as though she was watching over us. My eyes were drawn to her beautiful headdress that resembled horns in the dark room. The only words I could manage to communicate to her in my mind were, “Hello, Mother.”

Her presence and form alone indicated something inauspicious was taking place with the portal tonight. We felt it—but what exactly it was, I couldn’t pinpoint. I closed my eyes and saw the room in an energetic form in my mind. Black oozing sludge was building up on the other side of the portal and was leaking its way through the fragile barrier.

“What is this?” I telepathically communicated to Lilith.

No response.

“What are we supposed to do about this portal?”

No response.

“How do we get away from this black slime?”

” M O V E . ” Her voice boomed with a forceful huff of air emphasizing the last part of the word.

I inhaled sharply. My husband and I both knew it had been time to move for months. We’d already changed our lease arrangement with our landlord and contacted our realtor, and all that was left was selecting a new place and moving.

In the meantime, Lilith was kind enough to work with me to temporarily seal the portal until our exit from this home. This place has been perfect for us and filled with growth, healing, and transformation that I’ll be forever grateful for.

My Husband’s POV

Abruptly woken up from a deep sleep, I scanned the room, I knew something felt off and I didn’t like it. Strange red threads began encasing the bed around Kate and I, and it was frightening.

Were we being trapped? Strangled? Something else? I shifted around, continuing to inspect our surroundings, when a huge owl swooped through the bedroom and landed in the corner at the bottom left side of the bed.

I breathed a sigh of relief because that meant Lilith, our Mother, was here.

The red webbing, in its complete form, looked like a net now, shielding us from whatever was stirring things up. Suddenly, I felt at peace to return to sleep, as if the heightened energy of the portal had paused in the snap of a finger.

We’re moving…

And on the topic of moving, we are moving. We don’t know exactly where or when, but we won’t be in this house any longer as our time here is complete.

Of course, the morning after events like these are always fascinating as we sit together and share our experiences—and it never ceases to amaze either of us how differently we see and practice, and yet the overlap reassures us that everything that occurred was very much real.

As Wesley described the owl swooping across the room and knowing it was Lilith and I described seeing her “scary” dark goddess form and knowing it was our lovely Mother, we didn’t even know in the moment what the other person was seeing or experiencing and yet we had our own ways of understanding and connecting.

So, as a reminder to you, dear reader, if you’re ever kicking yourself for not having a gift that’s like someone else’s, or not seeing things exactly as they do, be gracious with yourself, for we all have unique talents and abilities we bring to the collective.