I had believed that the end of the Mayan Calendar indicated that on 12-12-12, there would be a shift in spiritual concerns and practices. It would be a profound beginning in our society, where our conflicts would be about love and kindness, rather than war and killing. I so knew that achieving and getting were on their way out of our society. I knew that this began some 30 years ago, and that, 12-12-12 was harkening in a new ‘age of Aquarius’, and that St Germaine, once again, is here to see this shift and evolution to its fulfillment. This day was not the end of the world, I told friends, it is an end of the physical constraints we once had. It is a steady progression to higher thinking, and higher consciousness. We can behave in harmony with one another, and a time to share unconditional love. Yes, it is true.
As those thoughts swirled in my head, I went downtown to run errands in a very small town where I live. It was midday, and I stopped just before I stepped into the crosswalk. I saw, across the street, a most unusual and beautiful lady. She was dressed in Civil War fashion, high society. Her dress was shiny and made of what seemed like silk. It was *Technicolor* green. She had a silk or gossamer transparent bonnet, understated, on her head with dangling ties down her face. Grey curls were arranged at the edge of the bonnet, and her face was ashen, as if she did not get enough sun. The skirt of her dress likely had a 5-6 bone hoop underneath. It was the biggest skirt I have ever seen. She had a small, pulled tight waist. She wore small black fitted boots with trim up the side. Her face was quite serious. I looked as well as I could, and surmised. She may have been 40 years old but looked 70. It is hard to tell how I knew.
My first thought, ‘she is not a widow, she isn’t wearing black’. It was as if my suspension of disbelief was full and complete. She was not wearing proper clothes for the cool weather. And, where was she going? She turned the corner, and her skirt followed. It moved side to side, covering either side of the sidewalk. There was more skirt than woman.
I looked around, and no one seemed to notice her. Across the street, down the street, even people who walked by me. No one looked her way. They seemed to walk past her and never look her way. They had no trouble getting around her. Why didn’t I take a picture, I ask myself now. I had my cell phone camera. This is fascinating I thought.
I walked away as if nothing was out of the ordinary. What I had seen I couldn’t explain. A real, human body is what I had seen. Not a see through ghost, dressed in clothes. No. She was an image, a moment when the shift happened for me, when I chose to believe the unbelievable. That a woman could step out from the Civil War Era, and with a worried face, briskly pushed forward, up the hill, focused on her mission. She had a purpose. Perhaps there was a Christmas party, birthday, it is hard to say. There was no production at the theatre calling for this costume, at this time of day, or this season of the year. This was not a costume.
This day, I felt the shift from one trajectory to another. Many things are now possible, probable and not always able to be questioned. I felt the fresh start of this lady in all her finery, and the hope that we will push forward, as she did, standing out in a crowd, with a bold statement. Yet no one noticed her the way I did. She is a symbol of what is possible when we allow ourselves to see.
The question, as spiritual beings, is how much are we going to participate in the new shift that happened that day, 12-12-12? How much are we willing to give up on the violence in our world, and trade it in for harmony, unconditional love, a kinder tomorrow? What, I ask myself, am I willing to do toward this unimaginable choice?
It is simply, the suspension of disbelief. We can choose to believe in a new spiritual calling. I know that it is possible to love with no judgment, no conditions, and no fine print. It exists, I saw it, I know her, and I have no reason to ever disbelieve her again.
~Brightest blessings,
Michelle
