As time goes on, I hate staying in places that aren’t my own home more and more. Though I always travel with my spiritual tools for cleansing, banishing, protection, and the like—there’s something incredibly different about sleeping in a place that isn’t your well-established and warded house. A recent “free” stay at a resort in Massachusetts was yet another prime example of the icky energy that permeates buildings and locations with an eerie past.
From handsy energy in the shower to haunting vibes from the mirrors, to say I was disturbed in our hotel room was as kind as I could be. The truth was, I wanted to peel my skin off staying here. I hated the feeling of being watched and I even more so was enraged by being touched without my consent.
Unnerved being here, I covered the mirrors, practiced my standard cleansing and protection rituals for the space, and welcomed my spirit guides of benevolence to be present with us while we stayed there—and yet, I still was ready to pack our bags and leave.
The disgusting spiritual energy that exuded from the walls was that of an individual who I knew had caused harm to young children. It was an alarming and deeply disturbing feeling and my heart ached for those who had been unfortunate enough to cross paths with this monster.
Though, I had checked for notable hauntings or strange happenings at the resort before booking, what I hadn’t yet discovered was that before being acquired by the hotel chain that now owned the resort, the site used to be a home for troubled youth, boys specifically.
There it was. Plain as day on an old-ass website, seemingly created circa the 1990s. An eerie photo of an old man filled my phone screen. He was highlighted as having run the facility for “wayward boys” turning them into “farmers” and men. He took children with nowhere else to turn, and under the false guise of a helping hand, caused significantly more harm and trauma.
If that wasn’t bad enough on its own, the place was then transformed by this man into a resort for “swinging singles” that Playboy, yes, THE Playboy, described as a “frenetic” resort.
If you’re unfamiliar with the word frenetic, the two key definitions I found online for the term are fast and energetic in an uncontrolled or wild way and excessively agitated; distraught with fear or other violent emotion. Both of these are rather distressing definitions, in my opinion, when thinking of safe places to vacation as a young single, especially a woman.
Frustrated and disgusted, I expressed to my husband everything I could see, hear, and feel in this place. I went on to tell him about my findings online and how they corroborated what my intuition, clairvoyance, and claircognizance were telling me. Already late, we didn’t have a lot of other options. The town we were in was small and in a rural area with little-to-no alternate sleeping accommodations, and so we decided to stay and try our best to get as much rest as we could—which was none. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Not one ounce of precious sleep was had by me or my husband.
The next morning came and we quickly got ready to head out for our planned adventures for the day. The unit we were in had two bedrooms and bathrooms, which was yet another strange factor in the whole ordeal. The larger bedroom had mirrors facing the bed, a shower/bath directly in the open part of the bedroom rather than in its own enclosed bathroom—and it had an incredibly creepy mirror in it. As we were preparing to shower and get dressed, my husband commented on the strange mirror and how he refused to use that shower because there was something so off about it—and I fully agreed.
After finally leaving the place, we enjoyed our day, though incredibly exhausted, and ended up booking our stay for that night elsewhere (where we got fabulous sleep).
Upon returning home, we had an additional and frightening experience with the energy that lingered from our stay and to avoid triggering any of my blog readers unnecessarily, though some might argue everything I write is triggering, I’ll just say that it upset my husband to the point that though he was unable to see, hear, and feel what I was picking up on at the resort, it became very real to him in a different way, and now he too will forever think twice about where we choose to stay on vacations going forward.
When I first met Astarte I had no idea how magickal all of my future encounters with her would be. As the many-named goddess of the cosmos, queen of heaven, and lady of the mysteries of the universe, it’s no surprise how glorious standing before her would be—but I can assure you it’s even more overwhelming than you can imagine.
Astarte (also known as Ashtoreth, Asherah, Attoret, Anath, and many many many other names since the dawn of existence) is the great Canaanite mother goddess. Ba’el and El of the Canaanite pantheon were both recognized consorts of hers, and her reputation as a powerful force earned her the respect and worship of people all throughout the surrounding regions, including Egyptian kings. The worship of Astarte was even adopted into the Egyptian pantheon during the New Kingdom when temples were built for her in Thebes and Tanis, as she was venerated as a consort of Set.
Many people are surprised to find that her name is also maintained in Old Testament Christian texts where her well-deserved goddess status has been utterly demonized due to the altering of the texts to portray her as an entity leading the people astray from the “one true god” rather than recognizing her as the powerful and creative force of energy that gives them life. We won’t focus on that today, though, as that’s not the point of this particular article, and I could write novels upon novels of material on the crimes committed against our sweet, holy, and blessed Queen Astarte, but I digress.
One of my favorite encounters with Astarte took place in a liminal realm that encompassed what I can only describe as “all of time.” The energy of every snapshot of time swirled around us like antique gothic picture frames with memories waiting to be played. I stood there by her side completely mesmerized by this powerful and beautiful great lady, the cloak of stars that she was robed in, and the surrounding impossible glimpses into countless moments in time.
Seemingly at random, a framed portal into another time would fly toward us hovering just out of arms reach. The interior imagery would come to life like a television screen playing its own unique channel. For a brief moment, I would watch as each scenario from the past, present, and future would unfold before my eyes. The imagery was vibrant, jaw-dropping, and more than anything mysterious.
We stood there, side by side, for what felt like lifetimes watching time ripple in every direction taking on a life of its own that was anything but linear. My human mind would’ve struggled to grasp what I was witnessing, but my spirit or higher self was the active consciousness in this realm and was uninhibited by my earthly preconceived notions about how time unfolds for us and what it all means.
And in the same way that it felt like lifetimes unfolded as we stood there, it also all felt like it happened in a mere instant with no pauses or gaps between these moments regardless of whether they took place in the “past” or “present” or “future”—instead all of these snapshots just were.
And I too just was.
And while I just was I absorbed every instance, simply awe-struck at magickal happenings that couldn’t be explained. Profound colors, music, words, shapes, forms, and things I’ll never be able to put into words materialized as though I was there fully immersed in them. They wrapped around me as my arms floated outward, spinning me around like Cinderella being transformed for the Prince’s Ball by her Fairy God Mother.
I wanted to understand what I was seeing. I wanted to take it all in—and remember it—but it was simply too much information. So, instead, I focused on how I felt—how the energy of Astarte and the ability to witness all of time both inside of it and outside of it made me feel:
Wonderstruck, like when giant snow flurries fall under twinkling nights in an unexpected holiday town where everything seems too good to be true, but no matter how hard you look for the flaws or the cons or the downsides, everything is simply magickal and so you stick out your tongue and let a few snowflakes gently land on them bringing laughter and smiles to your face that can’t be contained.
Astonished, as though the air in my lungs had been sucked out of them like a vacuum leaving behind an insatiable need to breathe, and just as I feel at my weakest like there’s a black hole in my chest and I desperately need oxygen, I find myself standing on a mountaintop inhaling the crispest, freshest air I’ve ever tasted. And all I can do is gasp, sucking it all in, and savoring each breath.
Overwhelmed, as one would be if they wandered into a giant field free of light pollution where every single star, not just in the galaxy but in the whole of the cosmos, could be seen all at once, and just when you think it’s far too beautiful to take in, every single one of these lights descends to where you are and sparkles all around you pulling your energy into the very center of their grand cosmic dance.
Astonished. Breathless. Baffled. Undone. Awestruck. Amazed. Bewildered. And the list could go on and on. After all, how would you feel if you witnessed such a thing in the presence of royalty?
A near-death experience in 2018 left me wary and cautious of any repeat events pertaining to my health. The events leading up to my hospitalization in 2018 were so quickly onset that I went from nearly no symptoms as I left for a holiday vacation to almost immediately returning on an emergency flight home where I was checked into the ER that night with sepsis, a double kidney infection, bladder infection, and uterine infection. Fraught with chills, sweats, shakes, severe pain, fatigue, and the like—I took any similar symptoms or issues incredibly seriously going forward.
I felt once again that deep-seated pain in my lower back. I knew this symptom: it was the beginning of a kidney infection and time was of the essence.
I told my husband and we quickly headed to a nearby urgent care. I explained to the doctor my concerns, and they watched as the pain I was experiencing made it more and more difficult to walk. They insisted on testing for a UTI, along with the flu and COVID-19. I had a flashback to my last hospitalization as the ER intake team insisted I must have a severe case of influenza despite recognizing the obvious symptoms of sepsis as an infection coursed through my veins.
At the urgent care, all of the tests they ran came back negative. The urine sample indicated no infection, and the flu and COVID-19 tests returned negative. I was frustrated because I knew something was wrong and to go home now would only shorten the window of time for this kidney infection to be treated before it would evolve into another severe sepsis case. Sepsis had a high likelihood of resulting in death and after having survived it once, these weren’t odds I wanted to be up against again. With 1 out of every 2 patients with sepsis passing away during their hospital stay and 1 in 5 patients dying within the first year of being discharged, we found ourselves on our way to the emergency room for further testing.
My health was deteriorating rapidly. I could hardly walk on my own at this point. After being taken to a room, running additional tests, and starting antibiotics and pain medication—we finally had our answer. Sure enough, I had a kidney infection that had once again bypassed the obvious lower portion of the urinary tract and was nearly undetectable through basic urine samples.
If we had gone home after our urgent care visit instead of going to the ER, I certainly would’ve had a repeat sepsis scenario. We were eventually discharged and sent home with additional antibiotics to continue on—and upon climbing into my bed to try and get some rest after our exhausting hospital adventures, out of the corner of my eye I saw none other than Archangel Michael himself.
The encounter was nothing short of terrifying. As I struggled to catch my breath and cling to what little strength I had left, an otherworldly blue light began to fill the room. My dim surroundings were illuminated, penetrating through the darkness like a beacon.
Archangel Michael towered before me, radiating power and authority. His eyes bore deep into my soul as if on an important mission that couldn’t be conveyed with human language and words. The sheer force of his presence seemed to send shockwaves through my fragile being.
My husband was in the bathroom as Michael began to speak to me. Fear consumed me as he spoke in a voice that transcended earthly sounds — a voice that resonated with both compassion and an undeniable sense of judgment. With each word that echoed from his lips, my heart pounded in my chest; every hair on my body stood on end.
The gravity of yet another brush with death hung heavy in the air as he nonchalantly mentioned that he had been sent to our home for protection and healing exclusively. My curiosity got the best of me and I began asking him questions that were abruptly interrupted with a reiterating statement, “I am only here for protection and healing.”
But I had so many questions. I nodded in understanding and the angelic being grew silent standing brightly in the corner of the room despite all of the lights in our bedroom being off.
My husband came and got in bed beside me and stared in confusion in Michael’s direction. He blinked a couple of times and rubbed his eyes, ultimately asking, “What is that?” while pointing to the corner of the room.
“Oh, the bright glowing blue guy in the corner?” I chuckled.
“Yes…?”
“That’s Archangel Michael.”
Indeed, encountering Archangel Michael at death’s door for the second time was an experience drenched in fear and trepidation. The magnitude of his presence reminded me just how fragile our existence truly is and posed profound questions about life’s ultimate purpose.
This time wasn’t my time yet—always a sharp reminder that I must have quite a lot of work left to do if a being as busy and determined as Archangel Michael was needed to be stationed in my room.
Most people are intrigued by a good ghost story. Especially the ones that leave you wondering where the truth ends and the lies begin—and that’s assuming there was ever any truth to them at all. But I’m here to tell you about a very real, true, and unexpected night I spent in a haunted hotel—well two actually.
As most spooky stories start, everything was happy, beautiful, and exciting in our world. My husband and I were on our way to the Masters Tournament in Augusta, Georgia, and to avoid dealing with overcrowding and overpriced hotels in the area, we had booked a stay at the cutest old-fashioned, bed-and-breakfast-style hotel in Abbeville, South Carolina. Located in a historic district, the hotel was adorable with string lights draped over an outdoor courtyard and a local, small-town style about it.
Upon arriving, I felt a shift in the energy. It was cute—on the outside—but looks can often be deceiving, can’t they? We parked in the old lot on the backside of the hotel and made our way into the main lobby to check in for our stay. Known as the Belmont Inn, the quirky red-brink building was eccentric and certainly felt every bit as dated as a 1903 historic structure would.
Of course, we were exhausted from having traveled all day by plane and then car to arrive at our hotel and were ready to call it a night. The halls of the hotel were odd. Old carpet lined the floors. Despite its age, everything was well-kept and clean, though. We quickly turned in for the evening, locking the door, closing the curtains, and barely taking in our surroundings before falling fast asleep—GASP—the air felt like it was being sucked out of my lungs and out of our room. The panic I felt, startled awake by a tall man lying in between my husband and me in bed and then suddenly standing in front of the window looking outward. His stare was fixated on something beyond the glass, and I was baffled because the blinds had been drawn aside even though I knew for certain we had closed them before going to bed. I shrieked unable to form words.
Who was this man? What did he want? Why was he in our hotel room? How did he get in here? Why was he looking out the window? I had so. many. questions.
My husband jolted awake, him too horrified, but not because he could see someone in our room. “There-there-there was a man—” I stuttered. Confused, my husband fumbled to find a light to examine the room, which was small with nowhere to hide save the attached bathroom. No humans were anywhere to be found. Realizing who I’d seen was more than likely a departed spirit, I breathed a sigh of relief. We weren’t about to be murdered in our sleep by a crazed killer—just casually haunted by a mysterious ghost that enjoyed spookily climbing into people’s beds and staring out their windows.
My sleep the rest of the evening was restless. I felt disturbed, heavy, and sad more than anything. The next morning my husband was off to the tournament we’d traveled in for, leaving me alone at this strange little hotel to work on client projects from my laptop. I sat on the bed giving it my best effort to focus on my to-do list only to be abruptly interrupted by the television turning itself on to a grey static screen. Puzzled, I reached for the remote on the nightstand and clicked the power button to shut it back off.
Resuming the tasks at hand, I continued with emails, writing, and other pending projects, not making much progress as I was interrupted multiple times over by chilling shifts in the temperature, my laptop making an eerie crackling sound, and the faucet in the bathroom running by itself. I gave up on working and began rummaging through the room curious about the hotel we had booked our stay in.
The middle drawer of the dresser had an oversized binder with all kinds of helpful insights about the town: where to shop, where to eat, and most importantly—the history of the most haunted hotel in South Carolina. My jaw dropped. Had we really booked a stay in the most haunted hotel in the area unknowingly? I continued reading about dear old Abraham, one of the bellhops who helped build the original hotel, The Eureka, in 1903, and one of many ghosts whom people now claimed to see throughout the building.
After passing away, Abraham the bellhop continued to care for the hotel’s guests as best he could from the other side. He was notorious for jingling the door handles to make sure guests were sleeping safely in their rooms as he would when he was alive. Described as a “friendly” ghost, I’d have to say that he was too friendly. The binder described Abraham as being known to appear in guests’ rooms, and sometimes even getting into bed with the guests. My mouth gaped at what I was reading of haunted legends of prior hotel guests experiencing exactly what I had the night before.
Disturbed, despite the claims of friendliness, I made my way out of the hotel for the day, finding other spots to hang out until my husband returned for our second night in the hotel. While I don’t doubt that he believed what I claimed to have seen and heard—with no prior knowledge of the hotel’s haunted status I might add—he still remained someone skeptical.
That evening, we enjoyed a dinner on the lower floor of the hotel before making our way up the stairs to our room on the third floor. Tonight, while there were no sudden visits from Abraham the bellhop, we still found ourselves awake all night listening to the clattering of dishes and the hustling and bustling noises of a busy kitchen that we assumed was fulfilling room service requests above our room. Groaning in exhaustion and frustration, my husband muttered his irritation for being booked in the one room directly under the noisiest kitchen one could imagine.
Trying to dismiss my own agitation, my mind wandered wondering how newer building construction navigated insulation, noise-proofing, and the like to mitigate such problems for their guests who nine times out of ten would be weary from their travels and simply looking for a peaceful night’s sleep. This old, fragile, thin-walled building would soon be behind us if only I could manage to get some shut-eye.
The next morning, we got ready, packed up our things, and loaded into the car. Sitting in the sunken old parking lot and looking up at the strange little hotel, my husband tilted his head in confusion. “How many floors do you count?” He asked me. “One, two, three rows of windows…so three floors…and?” He stared at me, waiting for me to put the pieces together for what this meant.
Our room was on the third floor.
There was no floor above our room.
No kitchen or possible explanation for the stomping.
No explanation for the sounds of a busy kitchen, clattering dishes, or any of the other things we heard all night long.
We looked at each other and smiled.
The Belmont Inn really was haunted after all—and we had booked our stay there entirely by mistake.
Looking back, I wish I could offer help and hope to the departed spirits to help them transition onto whatever is next for them instead of continuing to worry about the hotel and its ghosts—but that’ll have to be a project for another time.
Would you ever stay in a haunted hotel on purpose?
For most people, haunted houses are spooky. To me, though, they’re sad. They’re containers for the lingering remnants of people of the past that remain haunted themselves, fearful to move on from the material realm to what’s next for them.
Many years ago, we found a house that had just been remodeled. Hardwood floors ran throughout, the wall outlets were upgraded with USB plugs, and it was move-in ready. Despite having multiple other houses fall through when it came time to finalize the paperwork, everything with this home fell perfectly into place, and it was ours. We were thrilled.
After moving in and getting settled, things suddenly started to shift. Strange sounds rumbled from the hallway and attic. Eerie chills made the hair on the back of your neck stand up as you passed through the dining room. And when you least expected it, you’d catch the shadow of a person hurrying through the living room.
Multiple times, conversations arose about the energy of the house—and each time, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had died there. I reached out to our realtor to find out if there had been any reports of such happenings and she came back empty-handed. I turned to Google to see if I could figure anything out myself and I too came back empty-handed.
Days, weeks, and months went by and the unsettling feelings of death and sadness lingered. Glimpses of an older man materialized from time to time in the kitchen, but as soon as he appeared, he would disappear yet again. Often, he would just stare as though he was lost or uncertain of how to spend his time.
After nearly a year of living in this house, we received a strange piece of mail that wasn’t addressed to us. The name was peculiar and I quickly researched who they were and their connection with our house. Not only did they previously live at this address BUT they were the prior homeowner. I found the deed to the house and unsurprisingly, they had lived here for nearly two decades.
The air was thick with uncertainty as we stood in the dimly lit hallway observing the digital copy of the deed to the house. The question lingered heavily in our minds, casting a shadow of unease over our once peaceful home. Did they die in this house? It was a query that had haunted us for days, refusing to be ignored.
As we delved deeper into our investigation, searching for any shred of evidence or historical records that could shed light on the mysterious past of this place, anxiety gripped us tighter. The weight of the unknown pressed down upon us like a heavy burden.
But amidst all this apprehension and uncertainty, one thing remained clear — we were not alone.
I continued to search for any information about the former homeowner and eventually stumbled upon a recent obituary dated only a few months prior to us moving into the house. The words that struck me hardest from the obituary stated that the individual had died in the master bedroom, our bedroom that is.
Discovering the obituary of the former homeowner of your house, and learning that they died in your very own bedroom can be a truly unsettling experience for most, but for me, it gave solace that what I was seeing and hearing was legitimate and could be backed by factual information.
My hope and heart for all deceased individuals who become trapped in the material world, regardless of why they are unable to move on, is that they know that stepping into what’s next for them is always better than lingering here. Looking back on my life, I’ve rarely lived anywhere that didn’t have heightened spiritual activity. Maybe I’m the common denominator, but either way, it’s made me more aware of the energy where I live, and when spirits stay who are meant to carry on their way, I make it a point now to help them do so to the best of my ability.
If you find yourself in a similar situation, here’s my advice to you.
Living with ghosts or paranormal activity when you’re unaccustomed to it can be an overwhelming experience, impacting both your physical and emotional well-being. It is important to address these concerns and find ways to bring peace not just to yourself but also to any restless spirits that may reside in your house.
Exploring solutions such as seeking guidance from spiritual practitioners or conducting rituals focused on helping stuck spirits move forward can help bring some relief. However, I say that cautiously, as helping the dead move forward isn’t for everyone, so only proceed with this if you are confident in how to do so in a manner that is safe for you and respectful of the spirit.
And remember, it’s crucial to prioritize your own mental health while dealing with such circumstances.
For my entire life, I’ve despised attending funerals. As a child, I assumed it was because I was sad that a loved one had passed on, but as an adult, I’ve discovered that it was never about my connection to the departed, but rather it was being surrounded by the intense overwhelming emotions of everyone else in the room that couldn’t make sense of the death.
The way we do funerals nowadays is disheartening. It’s filled with grief, sorrow, and a twisted opportunity to preach to the living a grotesque message of “fire and brimstone” awaiting them for not saying a specific prayer and sitting in a pew once a week to sing hymns.
For my entire life, I’ve despised attending funerals. As a child, I assumed it was because I was sad that a loved one had passed on, but as an adult, I’ve discovered that it was never about my connection to the departed, but rather it was being surrounded by the intense overwhelming emotions of everyone else in the room that couldn’t make sense of the death.
The way we do funerals nowadays is disheartening. It’s filled with grief, sorrow, and a twisted opportunity to preach to the living a grotesque message of “fire and brimstone” awaiting them for not saying a specific prayer and sitting in a pew once a week to sing hymns.
I couldn’t make sense of why I felt such intense emotions as a child—but now I understand that much of what I experienced and took on wasn’t my own. As a child, how do you rationalize feeling such a heavy burden as a wife of 40 years loses her spouse? How do you process the weight of a mother who lost her teenage daughter to mental illness? Those were never my feelings, but I didn’t know that back then.
More than anything, funerals confused me. They rarely celebrated the person’s life, they were chock full of lies about how the person lived, and they were often absent of the individual themselves. And you might say, “That’s silly, of course, the deceased person wasn’t at their funeral.” But I don’t mean in the physical—I mean their spirit.
In many cases, people’s spirits do linger or lurk at their funeral, curious about what might be said or to provide some comfort to their suffering loved ones. Often though, I find that they’re nowhere to be found because the funerals, like I said previously, are quite a buzz kill.
It’s especially hard on the spirit who has departed from the physical realm when they weren’t given ample time to make their transition to the other side. Sudden deaths, suicides, and the like, can often leave a person’s ghost confused, frustrated, and lost wondering what has happened to them. Humans naturally spend more time sleeping, dreaming, and transitioning as they near the end of their life but sudden deaths don’t allow for this.
One of my favorite memories as a child was spending time with my dear great-uncle as he neared the end of his life. Although he did pass away younger than most would’ve liked, he also had time to gracefully make his transition from this realm to the next. My grandmother was his only sibling, though, so his death was still particularly hard on her. One afternoon she took me with her to visit her brother. He had late-stage colon cancer and was on death’s door, and she was doing everything in her power to keep in comfortable in his final moments.
Against her wishes, I walked into his bedroom and said hello to him. I remember his sunken face and a body that was barely functioning. Sadness was all I felt, not because I was sad, but because I knew he was miserable and the way he was living was no life at all. He was laid up in a hospital bed with tubes, tape, and blankets, unable to speak or do anything for himself. My grandmother quickly shuffled me out of the room and to the kitchen to keep myself occupied while she took care of her brother.
To my surprise, I found my uncle instantaneously sitting at the oversized wooden table across from me. How did he get in here so fast? I smiled at him puzzled at how he’d disconnected himself from all the tubing, made his way through their maze of a home, and into the kitchen where I was so quickly, but I was so grateful to have someone to sit with me that I dismissed the perplexing circumstances.
“Would you like to help me build my puzzle?” He asked me. Giddy, I nodded in response, picked up an edge piece, and slid it toward him. “Ah yes, always start with the edges,” he chuckled and grinned at me in approval. For quite some time we worked on the puzzle. It was a photo of a steam train sailing past mountains and fields of flowers, something near and dear to his dad, my great-grandfather, who had worked on the railroads most of his life.
After what felt like hours, my grandma called for me to grab my things because it was time to leave. I waved goodbye to my great-uncle and headed to the car. After buckling my seatbelt, my grandma asked what I had been up to and I told her that I had been building a puzzle in the kitchen with my great-uncle while waiting on her. Dramatically, her head swiveled toward me, “Your uncle isn’t able to build puzzles right now, he’s very sick, remember?”
“Oh, I know he’s sick,” I responded, “I saw him in the bedroom. But then he decided he’d have more fun in the kitchen with me.”
My grandma’s expression to this day still makes me giggle because it was at this moment that she realized I wasn’t lying or being silly—I had been building a puzzle with my great-uncle. My great-uncle’s ghost that is. His final moments were spent learning how to acclimate to the spiritual realm and living without a material body, and I just so happened to be able to see and hear him during a window of time while he was practicing being on the other side before his official departure from this realm.
My grandmother was comforted despite her grief, and when the time came to attend my great uncle’s funeral weeks later, I once again remembered how much I hated having to sit through those. My great uncle actually was present for quite a bit of his service and even winked at me from across the funeral home causing me to do a double take as I looked back and forth between his still body in the casket at the front of the room and his lively dancing spirit near the corner.
He seemed happy and peaceful—and to me, that was something beautiful to celebrate and not grieve. With a subtle wave and a smile, I wished him well and after that, I never saw him again.
Whether your childhood was all fond memories or a blank gap of time you know you lived through but can’t recall, it’s always curious to think back on those distant moments that occurred while our brains were still developing and our ability to process emotions and information was limited.
I remember strange bits and pieces of my childhood, some things good, others horrendous, and many confusing or scary. In recent years, I’ve spent extra time loving my dear inner child who believed that she could be anything and everything all at once. She was the child who refused to be put in a box. She hated labels, she had a wild imagination, and she genuinely believed the world was her oyster.
The back seat of the car was suffocating on long car rides but it was worth it when our family made the drive from Dallas to Galveston because halfway between the two cities was a small restaurant off the side of the highway that we often stopped at. The food was the least exciting thing about this particular spot. My heart, every time, was set on one thing only—the gift shop. All I wanted was a pouch full of tumbled rocks and crystals to add to my collection.
On each visit, I strategically picked and packed the rocks into the velvety bag trying to get the most bang for my buck, and I was a happy camper from there on out. A purple tumbled amethyst was always a must and I could never have enough as they often seemed to disappear or magically find new homes because who doesn’t love to share their rocks with other rock lovers?
I had a mini collection of quartz, amethyst, onyx, citrine, and some other faves—and I very frequently was found carrying fossils, minerals, and other goodies because trinkets. This odd geology obsession was probably deemed just a phase—but I was just sure someday I would work with rocks in some capacity.
The mall was always a busy place, physically and spiritually. I remember going with my grandmother to run various errands with her, and no trip to the mall was complete without a quarter for the gumball machine. My grandmother would hand me a quarter, I’d pop it into the machine and turn the knob whispering the exact color I wanted (white usually because it didn’t turn my mouth a weird color), and out would come the color I stated. My grandmother was amazed every time, but that was the least interesting thing that would happen during our trip to the mall.
The most distinct memory I have was the sheer nuisance of having to dodge and walk around so many odd people and critters. They would step in front of me, stop directly in my path, or just generally make themselves obnoxiously in the way. What I couldn’t grasp at the time was why grandmother had no issue with them or plowed right through them, while I was playing Frogger trying not to run into anyone.
Finally, we sat down on a bench and I began describing a strange duck-looking creature that was standing not too far from our bench when everything started to make more sense. I was the only one who could see him…and all the others. My grandmother nodded and smiled realizing and asked if that’s why I’d been walking so strangely throughout our time at the mall. To this day, she reminds me that that was the moment she knew I was a seer, and I reckon all the ghosts realized so that day too.
As far back as I can remember, I always loved writing and imagined I’d be a published author in adulthood. I wrote poetry and song lyrics, books about animals and mystic creatures in secret woodlands, and everything in between.
As I was preparing to go to college, I assumed that I would major in something writing-related. As my mind wandered through possible degree paths of English, literature, journalism, and the like—my thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a towering divine goddess with flowing red hair. “Protect my gift of writing,” she told me, with a strong warning not to pursue writing in school because I would lose my unique voice as an author.
Confused, I thought through every possible workaround until I ultimately came to terms with what I had been told. That was my first face-to-face encounter with Brigid, the Celtic goddess of poetry, healing, and smithcraft. It would be years before I would ever begin to truly work with her energy in a powerful way, but her words always stuck with me, “Protect my gift of writing.” And so I did.
I went on to study art, earn my undergraduate degrees in Design and PR & Advertising, and my master’s degree in Digital Media (Film) Production. Along the way, I wrote constantly. From screenplays to novels to personal growth books to blogs, I learned to tell legends of the divine and the cosmos through any medium I could, and I fell in love with being a storyteller.
So whether your childhood was all fond memories or a blank gap of time you know you lived through but can’t recall, if you find your mind wandering to the distant past and remembering things you once loved or that always felt like home—I encourage you to ask yourself some questions. For me, I realized that my love for writing, the spiritual realm, and rocks & crystals were always there—along with many other things woven into the fabric of who I am. After all, here I am today, founder of Astarte’s Temple, working with crystals and rocks daily, a friend of ghosts and the dead as a death walker, and a published author.
What did your inner child love that still holds significance to you today? And are there things you would like to pick up again that you haven’t thought about since your youth? What’s stopping you from doing what once brought you joy?
For years I had worked with and studied under the goddess Astarte and knew her by many different names, symbols, and epithets. Studying her mysteries and teachings was my whole world, and despite encountering and studying many other divine beings along the way, she was ultimately who I answered to at the end of each day.
Every day of my life, she was on my mind. I saw her in nature, music, art, food, animals, and kind people. With her, I felt emotions so raw and intense that I became gentler and more compassionate while simultaneously becoming stronger and less compromising on who I am at my core. Her eyes allowed me to see time differently, awakened a deep love for humanity, and gave me a new outlook on my own existence.
I was devoted to her and knew her as the Lady, the Great Goddess, the Queen of the Cosmos, the Ruler of Heaven, the Canaanite Woman, Lady Wisdom, and the original Holy Spirit. Often I saw her in the astral, and she would show me things more beautiful and breathtaking than my human mind could fathom.
In the astral, she looked like the most gorgeous divine feminine goddess you could imagine, robed in the cosmos themselves, every wrinkle of fabric cloaking her appearance as though it was woven out of the galaxies themselves. Somehow she embodied the whole universe in a personified form and I’ll most likely never be able to fully wrap my mind around it.
One particular night in the astral realm, I found myself somewhere new. I didn’t recall venturing into this place before. It was darker than other realms, as though it were dusk entering into the night. Beautiful columns and pillars rose up out of the ground around me and a cobblestone path laid under my feet.
I found myself wandering through ancient ruins with greenery overtaking much of the stone remnants. Every step I took revealed more forestry surroundings until I was in the center of a large circle of pillars. Spinning to take in every detail, I caught my breath when I realized I wasn’t alone.
A towering dark goddess stood just out of my reach. Her hood was drawn obscuring most of her facial features. Confused, I uttered the name of the goddess I’d long been familiar with—only to be sharply interrupted and abrasively corrected—
“HEH-KAH-TAY,” she hissed at me. The vibration of her voice boomed but it wasn’t an audible tone to be heard through the ears but rather a deep spiritual reverberation of what I can only explain as telepathic communication. My chest heaved at the mental “sound” and my mind spiraled trying to make sense of who this was.
It wasn’t a name I’d heard of before at the time. All I knew at that moment: this wasn’t the goddess I’d been working with for so long. This was someone entirely new to me and she commanded respect.
Stepping towards me, she insisted that we had much work to do and not a lot of time. She began teaching me the art of shapes and their form. She taught me about runes and sigils, and how to combine them to create entirely new magickal configurations. I practiced drawing shape after shape after shape as she hovered behind me demanding I start over with each mistake I inevitably made.
“Again,” she would say. Again. Again. Again. And over and over, I would create. I would craft. I would practice. And over and over, she would fine-tune everything I made until it was the most powerful and accurate magickal structure it could be.
I spent what felt like months, years, and decades of “time” with this goddess learning her magickal rites in this liminal place. The relationship we developed felt like a rekindling of a connection that had already matured over lifetimes of work, but I still felt uncertain as to who she was. All I knew was that she was wonderful, I trusted her with my life, and she was teaching me things my heart had long been drawn to.
Upon waking up, I remembered every detail of the experience. I felt confused about time and realized only a few hours had passed since I’d originally fallen asleep. Wide awake, I pulled out my phone to do a Google search on this new goddess I had encountered.
I typed in: “heckatay goddess” — and my phone was flooded with results for Hecate or Hekate, the Greek Goddess of witchcraft, magic, and ghosts. Stunned that she was a real goddess and the name I had heard in the astral/dream state had proven to be legitimate, I felt a rush of emotions. I was in awe, fearful, worried, and yet my deep dive into who this goddess was began.
“When we are at a crossroads, or already in the Underworld, Hekate can rise up out of the deeper world, showing up in the cracks of our lives. She sends her emissaries—angels and hungry ghosts alike—to do her bidding. They occupy our dreams, invade our imaginations, and drop their uncanny hints until we pay them heed.”Entering Hekate’s Cave, Cyndi Brannen
And that’s exactly what she did—and I was paying attention.
My research led me to an understanding of her as a primordial being, though many venerate her as a titan goddess. I discovered her roots ran far deeper than Greece, and that she was likely originally known to the Sumerian-Babylonian and Mesopotamian people, all of whom are closely connected to the Great Goddess, Astarte/Asherah that I had been venerating for so long as an original symbol of the Holy Spirit. Many of her symbols connected to things I had long loved and identified as sacred, such as snakes and the moon. As I came across her connection to wisdom and her epithet as the cosmic world soul, I realized that she truly was very much a part of the goddess Astarte I already knew and loved, but her role amongst the realm of divine beings was over the liminal space that connected the spiritual cosmic realm of Astarte to the human realm we all abided in.
“Hekate, as Anima Mundi, the soul of all the world, is the origin of all the forces and spirits. Hekate is not viewed as an embodied favor-granting goddess, but rather as the primal source. From the Anima Mundi flow the seven sacred forces of the Three Worlds and the four elements. These forces are the master forces in which all others, including the spirit of each botanical are nested.”Entering Hekate’s Garden, Cyndi Brannen
Hekate was everything I had already been aiming to embody in my devotion to Astarte, so welcoming her insight into my studies and life came naturally. It felt right. It felt necessary. And it was a defining moment, that changed everything and transformed me into the spiritual practitioner I am today. Hekate empowered me to begin the journey of taking everything I’d been learning from Astarte and practically applying it to help both myself and others.
“She is the darkness, and she is the fire.
She is the cry of “enough.”
She is the sigil written in stone.
She is the silent walking away of the betrayed.
She is the lonely raising arms to the moon.
She is the lie told to live the truth.
She is the secret circle drawing down her moon.
She is the poison that heals.
She is the bold stare into the mirror.
She is the blood shed to bring rebirth.
She is all those who dare to become.
She is the power that is our right.
She has returned.
Answer her call.
The time is now.
Speak the truth. Be healed.”
—Entering Hekate’s Cave, Cyndi Brannen
For as long as I can remember, I had what I was told growing up were “vivid dreams” stemming from a “creative mind.” But if you’re someone who dreams often, especially in a lucid state, experiences those horrific night terrors that you swear feel real, or repeatedly find yourself wandering astral realms, we might have quite a bit in common.
Night after night through childhood, my teen years, and now as an adult, I’ve experienced enough wild things while sleeping that I’m certain much of what I’ve witnessed was not just dreams fabricated by my subconscious trying to make sense of the world, but rather spiritual happenings occurring in the liminal space that sits between “here and there.” With that statement, I also understand that may not be everyone’s experience or reality, and I believe both of those things can be true at the same time.
For me, though, the dream world is a place I’ve only ever known as the astral, and from my experience, it’s filled with more beings and spirits than we can fathom. There are different realms or places within the astral that seemingly are governed by different energies. Within each place, there are different things you can do, see, experience, or learn. There are some realms that you ought not to wander into and others that are more welcoming to outsiders.
One of my favorite realms is a portal of sorts. It resembles the cosmic colors of our Milky Way if you were to stand in the center of it and have swirling points of light dance around you against the dark space background. The center of the portal is my favorite place to sit—it is void of light, lacks stars, and is absent of color. It sucks you in like a black hole in stark contrast to the vibrant galactic expanse surrounding it.
No one was ever in this portal but me—until one particular night. I sat in the center of this astral realm thinking, creating, and expanding when I was abruptly interrupted by a female spirit who appeared in the empty space beside me. Confused and startled, I stared at her. How did she find me here? How did she travel here? Most importantly, what did she need?
The female spirit smiled at me and began floating above me, her “body” elongating as though it was being pulled upward. I stretched out my hand to her, gently attempting to keep her in the portal with me until I could make sense of what she wanted. She reached out connecting herself to me and I paused looking longingly at her fragile, wrinkled hands. They were delicate and small, but powerful.
I looked up into her eyes and noticed glistening tears welling up in them, something you would think impossible in a place like this—and I recognized her. She was my sweet great-grandmother, Dru, and she had a message for me.
Tomorrow, when I woke up from my astral travels, she would be exiting our earthly existence. My human heart of this earthly incarnation was saddened. She was a light, a goofball, and a sassy fireball of a woman—and everyone loved her. Literally everyone.
I, too, had tears pooling in my eyes now at the thought of her no longer being with me physically in this lifetime, but she assured me it would be okay. She was at peace, she was gracefully transitioning to her next energetic form and existence, and I was glad for her.
The energy of her body continued stretching and drifting upward and our hands released from one another with a final goodbye as she faded from sight in the portal and exhaled her last earthly breath.
The next day, as foretold, my sweet great-grandmother passed away. Our family grieved, all in their own way, but I smiled at the night sky because energy cannot be destroyed, it can only be changed from one form to another.
“Just as when we come into the world, when we die we are afraid of the unknown. But the fear is something from within us that has nothing to do with reality. Dying is like being born: just a change.”
―Isabel Allende
For as long as I can remember in my adult years and as a married woman, having a child was my lowest priority. Modern economic burdens, my own career aspirations, and traveling the world with my husband were always more pressing to me. In fact, it was actually hard for me to imagine bringing a life into this world with so much uncertainty—but all of that changed one day.
It is no secret that I have had more than your typical share of physical health issues. Two rare chronic diseases have contributed to many years of nerve and muscular pain, joint dislocations, soft tissue injuries, infections, and more. The sheer quantity of daily symptoms makes it difficult to navigate when new or acute health issues arise, which was one of many reasons I found myself on death’s door with sepsis in 2018.
This time, my symptoms were, yet again, lower back pain, nausea, fatigue, frequent urination, and more joint pain than common for me. Many of which I experienced on a regular basis, and most of which sent me spiraling back to the blood infection nightmare of the year prior. This time, though, there was one additional symptom that made me wonder if there was something else much more typical at play here—breast tenderness.
As someone with cups that runneth over, I was no stranger to my chest and back often hurting, but this was different. It hurt to walk, it hurt to stand, and it especially hurt to do jumping jacks (yes, I was doing jumping jacks regularly for some wild reason). This symptom was ultimately what made me realize it wasn’t another freak health scare I was experiencing—I was pregnant. Days turned into weeks and that glorious time of the month never arrived, and I knew. I was scared. I wasn’t mentally prepared for a child. This wasn’t in our current plan, or budget for that matter.
As many mothers-to-be do, though, my mind began imagining the possibilities. While not all people in my situation would’ve or could’ve changed their mind about having a child, for a brief season I did. I decided I liked the idea of bringing another soul into the world and striving to give them the best of me. I believed my husband would too, and I began planning on how I would tell him the news.
I sat in bed one night, with my eyes shut tight and my mind racing. As I sat there in silence, I felt a small hand brush across mine startling me because no one was visibly there. Seeing, hearing, and feeling spirits was nothing new to me. After all, I’d had “mediumship abilities” since my youth that I had long wished away for “fear of being evil”. I didn’t think too much of it and ended up calling it a night shortly after and going to sleep. My dreams were vivid, our bedroom danced with buzzing energies that I was consciously aware of as my spirit watched my human self sleep.
Startled awake, my husband and I looked around our dark room to see nothing out of the ordinary, and we soon returned back to our dreams. A young female spirit smiled and waved at me in my dream world, we spent some time together chatting about various things that were important to us in the astral realm, and then I watched as she gently drifted out of my sight.
I was miscarrying and she was exiting this earth before she had ever truly arrived.
The next day, I lived through the horrors of what no hopeful mother-to-be ever believes they’ll experience. Laid up in the bathroom, in physical and emotional pain like I hadn’t experienced before my body spontaneously aborted the sweet girl I had just met the night before.
I choked through words I never thought I’d have to say to my husband. We were pregnant. His confusion stabbed my already aching heart and I watched as he began to grieve with me. How in a moment’s time he was forced to process what I had been grappling with for weeks—and I don’t know if that was better or worse.
That night we lay in bed, me sobbing, and my husband silent—when suddenly he gasped, the noise slicing through the suffocating air of our room. He motioned to the other side of the bed to our television. It was off, the screen black—but drawn onto the surface was a name: Ahn. The name of our daughter. We grieved but also felt comfort. It was a brief encounter with her, that though short, meant the world to me—and gave us hope to one day try again.
