We are not Alone

"We are not Alone" hangs on my garage, weathered by the elements of Mother Nature.  The words of my ancestors, in search of a better life, ring true to me.  The headless fates present themselves in metallic marker on window panes.   They reveal a collage of ancestral photographs, photocopied and pasted on newsprint about Pope John Paul II having brought "the word" to St. Louis.  The lap of Lachesis glows bright from my point and shoot camera. 

The following is an excerpt from The Daimon:

To choose the newly spun golden thread from the lap of Lachesis, the old soul knew that one would re-live the life of a medieval tale.

 “A dark fairy tale!” The Daimon, keeper of destiny, had fore-warned, “Expect to encounter demons.”

                Next in line, the elder one tentatively approached the three fates, with Lachesis in the middle, lounging next to her sisters.  As Atropos cast recollections of lives past, there stirred an earthy, musty smell of autumn.  Wafting from the yarn on Clotho’s spinning wheel, a familiar aroma lured the soul to move in closer, to be permeated by its essence.  Lulled by the accompanying mantra, “The way is not in the heavens, the way is in the heart!”  The spirit came forth, with soulful volition, choosing this lifetime to re-create a myth by re-casting the past.  

                Lachesis snipped a length from the precious thread, sending the soul to Earth.  Watching, in a protective stance, The Daimon stood in-waiting.

                In Momma’s womb, the brave soul manifested physical form, lacking a male member, arriving on Mother Earth into a family of three girls and a boy.  And on that October day in 1952, when she made her appearance, Daddy, who needed more help on the farm, showed grave disappointment.  The old soul, in a new body with a strong heart, cried the lungs open and The Daimon received her just in time to clearly read Daddy’s intentions.

                “She’s no child of mine!” Daddy’s disowning sent Momma into a fit of despair, blanking her of all possible thoughts to welcome this little one with a proper name.

                “Name her after me!”  Nurse Elisabeth cooed, hearing the cry of Momma’s brand new baby.

                Thus became the family story of how Elisabeth had bore her name.  Answering the call of The Daimon, Little Elisabeth grew to be a Prairie girl, entangled with the far outreaching darkness of her ancestral karma.