New Orleans, the Mystery birthed in the bedrock, the land is haunted. Then brought in chains, the Magic of desert and hot sun enslaved and consumed, woven dark and deep. A port town, Magic imported from around the world, soaked in the cracks of the infrastructure, that infrastructure that feels so unstable is actually born on the supernatural. And that Magic once grabbed me by the throat and when I was able, I ran away from that city as fast as I could.
I don’t know who I am anymore to be brutally honest. I used to know, so fiercely. I held on to my identity as Sara Brown, invincible, self reliant badass extraordinaire, so tight. So tight that the Mystery with great helpings of external and internal Pressure caused my ego to explode in an overwhelming metaphysical rewiring one fine morning in dirty old New Orleans. Magic City epicenter.
I experienced it as a complete cold water plunge into the endless depth of my primal fear through an electric firestorm being set off in my nervous system. I never resurfaced, not really. Someone else did wearing my face. The face I came into this world with, the first face before all the conditioning, she came back for me and I still don’t know her very well three years later. I like her though. I didn’t at first, but through the trauma of losing my constructed adult identity, I found this First Self and grew to love her. She is now me and I can do Magic. I have visions, I heal with my hands and trees speak to me through the language of energetic pressure in my palms. Crows follow me and throw down gifts of feathers and chunks of bark frantically pulled from the branches on which they perch. I meditate with red dogs, our chakras breath together through their fur and my bare skin. My ancestors are a chorus of angelic cheerleaders joyfully cheering me on as I uncover yet another layer of supernatural connection.
Sometimes you have to be hit on the head to talk to angels.
