2011 was a strange year. Looking back, it was filled with some of the most profound highs and lows of my life. The strand I relay here of that entangled year is one that would set me on a course that would change my life.
February of that year, a strong desire came over me to start to practice the Violet Flame mantras. Now, I had a very, very faint recall of what a Violet Flame mantra was, as I had heard one or two from Elizabeth Claire Prophet before, and I had skimmed a small book published by Summit Lighthouse, but that was the extent of my familiarity with this practice. So, I looked up Violet Flame Mantras on YouTube. I found two that I liked and practiced them in my closet so to not be disturbed by my family. It wasn’t long before I began to feel the effects of the vibrations move through my body.
In May 5th of that year, we had the wonderful excitement to witness the birth of our little filly, Rain. (High!) We had waited for nearly a year for our mare, Cheyenne, to deliver, and we were so blessed to witness this miracle as a whole family (a rare occurrence since my husband works abroad most of the year). On a cold, rainy morning, that brat-of-a-buckskin paint came into our lives and would be cause to a few menacing situations as she and my daughter grew together.
A week later, I got a call from my Mom and Dad that my grandfather had died and my grandmother was in the hospital (Low). They were heading up to Maine to take care of my dad’s mom and the final affairs of his father; I knew that I had to accompany them to offer support in whatever way I could. My sister and I boarded a plane from DFW and made the trek into what would be a very shadowy journey into our family’s dark closet.
The last time I had been to that old decrepit house in Newport, Maine I was fourteen years old. More than twenty years later, it still smelled and sounded the same. Years of fear and abuse saturated the dank air with a heaviness that was hard to breathe in. Like it’s inhabitants, it stood at a tilted angle above the black muck of darkness that tried to swallow it up.
Dad had told me stories of the abuse he suffered at the hands of his father, how my grandfather had ripped the refrigerator handle off and beat him with it. How , when a young man off to the Army, Dad had finally stood up to him to defend his mother.
I could see the memory still stored in the house come alive with recollection of my father’s story…
Late 1960’s. Dad, 20 years old. Very handsome with dark brown hair and alabaster skin. His teen sister wearing gigantic glasses, his young brother wearing that color-challenged striped shirt. His mother, teased bee hive hair-do, and father, slicked Aqua Velva hair, sit at opposite ends of the oval table. Grandma said something to elicit grandpa to get up from from his seat and begin to charge at her.
Dad, knowing what was about to happen, stood up and faced his father. From the deepest recesses of his being, dad mustered strength that he had never shown before. His chair skated across the floor behind him, “Don’t you touch her!” A powerful force so strong came from his voice and from his body, it put my grandfather back in his seat.
My grandmother chided him for being disrespectful.
This was the sick cycle my father grew up in. This is why he joined the Army to get as far away as possible. But, there were more stories that lingered in those dreadful walls.
My sister and I stayed upstairs in my aunt’s old room, which connected to my dad’s childhood bedroom. I remember staying there as that 14 year old, waking to a howling train in the middle of the night. This time, it wouldn’t be a train that waked me in that house.
I sat looking out the same window that my dad used to look out as a kid, wondering what it was like to grow up in that puny town. I heard my father shuffle across the creaky wood floor, as if to read my mind.
“I used to sit right there as a kid and watch my father walk home from work. With every step he took, I knew I was one step closer to getting a beating when he walked through our door.” I imagined my grandfather, with his hair meticulously shined with Aqua Velva and an old metal lunchbox in his hand creating dust down that dirt road as he walked home. I could FEEL the fear that still lingered in that room.
“Your grandfather’s dairy was just right there at the end of the road.” Dad’s crooked finger pointed to an old abandoned Hood building with broken windows and corrugated metal siding. I knew it was close, but not an acre away!
I turned to look at my dad with a breath of awe. I couldn’t imagine living day after day as that young beautiful boy in that prison-of-a-room counting the paces of his father’s return home as if counting the paces to capital punishment. Newfound compassion and pride welled tears in my eyes and I saw him in a new way for the first time.
He always seemed so weak, being chronically sick and debilitated, hunched over as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders, deep furrows across his brow. But now, I could see the titan of strength that lived at his core. A wave of respect moved through me for this man who NEVER ever hit us, who ALWAYS encouraged me to be whatever I dreamed I could be, who cherished his daughters and his wife. Dad’s kindness and gentility were literally a miracle to witness, having broke the cycle of abuse that he grew up in.
As the days unraveled the broken bones and broken promises of my family in even more gruesome detail, I found myself unable to sleep in that rotting, godforsaken house. Each night I tried to sleep in a different room until I found myself downstairs on the living room sofa. It was in this most darkest of places that I mustered my light.
My arms slapped the old vinyl sofa, waking me up, as I tried to take in a breath. Every speck of moonlight in the room dissolved into an inky void around me. A sinister entity had grabbed my throat and attempted to vacuum my mind of my memory, of my identity.
I SCREAMED, but no sound escaped my mouth.
As I lay there, stiff as a board, paralyzed in fear, moving and screaming inside my frozen body, I could feel my identity beginning to break off in the black hole above me.
Wait! Who am I? I writhed, my head moving from side to side, still suffocating under the weight of the darkness above me.
Who am I? No! I could feel the cold darkness rolling across my entire mind and body.
Who am I? Wait! As the threads of my memory quickly began dissolving, one strand stood out from all the others.
I am a being of Violet Fire. Instantly, light cut through the darkness and the unraveling ceased.
Yes! I am a being of Violet Fire! More light.
I am a being of Violet Fire, a tidal wave of power welled from my center. A plume of violet energy rushed forth and dislodged the paralysis in my body.
“I AM A BEING OF VIOLET FIRE!” My voice heaved with a fiery ferocity. I moved my arms and literally threw the entity across the room. Finally, a breath! I gobbled up more breath as warmth returned to my body. Slivers of moonlight once again reflected from picture frames on the wall.
This evil. This mass of hatred. This was the leech that controlled my grandfather. Now that he was gone, it sought another as host. Luckily, I was armed with the protective body of Sacred Fire.
In just a few short months, learning those mantras literally saved my life and those of my family. Several years of dedicated application continues to alchemize my physical construct into a more multi-dimensional instrument. Because of this, I continue to wear the mantle of Sacred Fire with love, loyalty and faith.
This was just the first major initiation in my journey with the Sacred Fire, but those are stories for another time….
Sacred Fire Priestess 
This is fantastic mother!
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Excellent writing! I love you!
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