Deeply Awake — Permission To Speak 11-25-13 By Kathy Vik

Image result for cosmic teacher gif



Deeply Awake — Permission To Speak 11-25-13 By Kathy Vik

As some of you know, but many might not, unless you’re a hardcore fan, I have a thing for the number 25, and 223. Big events have seemed to happen, for me, on the 25th. I can’t remember much, my memory never too obedient to linear organization, so when dates stick out, they really stick out.

I have always been enchanted by numbers. I learned the alphabet system as a girl, and played with how things added up, and what it might mean, for a very long time. My long time friend helped me along, and I had many teachers along the way, but never a hardcore numerologist. That seemed too fussy, and something I could easily go insane with if I took it too far. Numbers have that sort of effect on me. Intoxicating.

My graduation from nursing school, our wedding, Sam’s birth, the date of my presumed death, all of it on the 25th. The month and year numbers, they’re fascinating, as are the relation between the dates. Fascinating. But, the 25th, it’s a theme.

The night of the 24th, yesternight, I was writing, going at it hard, determined to make my NaNo novel my bitch, 50K in 21 days.

The thing is, as I pushed to just over 45K, I sat at my computer and just got sick as a dog. That lightheadedness, the feeling that I’m going away, fading out, but, on top of that was this jangly feeling, a physical sort of jolty, sharp feeling.

I could sort of feel it coming from my open netbook. I considered that this was entirely possible, energetically, but seemed like a bit of a dramatic overreaction to a stupid computer. So I sat in front of it, head on the table, actually, feeling like I was going to die, yet again, and finally decided that maybe I should just move from the computer, see how that feels.

I moved to the granny chair, and noticed, while walking there, an immediate cessation of the symptoms. Still thinking I was overreacting, I went back over, sat down in front of Patrick, and got sick again.

I didn’t feel like doing or seeing anything, just decided to bag it.

As I drifted off, I realized that tomorrow is the 25th. It’s fitting, I said to myself, to publish on the 25th. That’s why I got sick.

I slept in small chunks of time, through the night, and thankfully drifted off into silence until 8:30.

It was my day to do as I saw fit. I had told my ex I would be using the day to get a job. I didn’t want to come home without a new job. But this morning, I knew that the job at hand was to complete this task I’d set in front of me. Today was the day.

I interject that there is a great truth hidden, not yet languaged here, and it needs to be placed here, at the outset.

Through the night, when I would get woken up, and all through the morning, I had a brand new sensation, a brand new awareness. This awareness was crystal clear, sustained, and brilliant.

I realized that I have, for years now, lived in a state of expecting doom, financially. I chant, in my head, “I won’t have enough for that bill,” over and over and over, until, guess what? I can’t afford to pay that bill. Circumstances come up, or, have you have this happen? When you just get caught up, just have a little bit of ease, and then bam, it’s another big expense. The car or a license renewal or dental work.

But, I realized today, this has been putting things in the wrong light. The panic I was always gripped with, it had to do with trying to believe a lie. The truth of the matter is, I always have enough. I never go without. I am financially embarrassed, certainly, and my financial situation could be seen as precarious to some, but I’ve lived like this all my life.

I have held it as a known fact that I would be wealthy. I had nothing to worry about. I would be taken care of. Under my own steam, I might add, not due to inheritance, although that has always been in the mix, too.

I knew this to my core, a knowing that no one else could ever get on board with, until recently. No one else in my reality saw this as anything short of irresponsible madness. And who could blame them? Not everyone can do this.

I am a magical sort, and I know that my life is blessed somehow. I’ve always known that too. Special, in a Jesus way, in a sacred way, but very mysterious and obscure and hidden. Elusive. And for far too many years, wholly a memory, theoretical, a distant longing for something that no longer seemed to fit with what I’d created to experience.

So, I’ve never believed in coincidence, always that “it” meant something more. This led to doomed relationships, trusting gut instinct without training, without maturity, without knowing what was mine and what wasn’t when mixing with another’s energy fields.

This need to remember the web that connects all of us, this led to my love of numbers, that and a constant need for symmetry, brain symmetry, when everything rings true and level, for just that one shining moment. I used to find that in poetry a lot. That’s where I’d go if I needed to feel whole, balanced, symmetry.

But then I discovered crop circles, and the more I studied them and really, really fell in love with some of them, it’s as if that burning need for symmetry just sort of left me. I don’t hunger for it as I once did. When Sam complains about his OCD kicking up, I ask him to google crop circles, and gave him a big stack of ones I’d printed out one night at work.

I realized as the morning went on, and the words kept coming, that it’s not going to be that I finished this novel that is making me feel so good about myself. I realized that it needed to be stated somewhere, so I’d remember that point. It is so important. It is this sense of completion within me that I woke up with that sort of allowed me to finish the book.

I woke up and realized I had fashioned it wrong, the conclusion. I had been going too far down the wrong direction. It came to me how things needed to go instead, and I deleted several pages this morning, before getting to the picking-out-words-imaging-the-scene work. First time I’d deleted anything of any length.

I had been grateful, upon awakening, that I’d slept on it. I knew I had a better idea. It came in waves, and when fully formed, I got up and got on the computer, ripping things away, and then beginning again.

When it was complete, and the word count was over 50K, I did the necessary word check, and then cut and paste a few things. I posted on the blogs, and then, I got to the nano site.

I put in my word count. Then I did the word validator thing, and then, in front of my eyes, quite slowly, came a banner, black and red, with the word “Winner” spelled out in what looked like blood. Maybe that’s not what it looks like at all. It’s how I remember it though.

I downloaded a PDF certificate, NaNoWriMo Winner, and I did all of it giggling.

You know, the incremental way life works has always just driven me mental. To the point of just giving up, totally not interested in doing the steps, and royally pissed off that I have to. It seems somehow degrading, to have to do things incrementally. Even housework I usually avoid, simply because it’s a first-you-do-this-and-then-you-do-this sort of activity that it just makes me so angry. I hate housework, resent having to be a student, and hate things that happening time. I hated the idea of having to start small. It infuriates me. I can see the end product, why all the steps?

I don’t know if this is an atypical form of madness, or just a lovable personality foible. I don’t act out around it all that much, but I am very well aware that the sense of futility I infused everything with sort of tainted things, making incremental things seem not only demeaning, but utterly pointless.

Such a barrel of laughs, I used to be!

But this morning, as I was getting dressed, ready to begin, I realized that I had things wrong, purposefully wrong, and that part of it is over.

I told myself on the can, out loud, “I know now that I am that I am. I know this. I own this. I know it. And I might have another day of dissonance, where I can’t believe any of it, like the day before yesterday, but I just can’t see it being able to be prolonged anymore. I think I’ll see it for what it is and let it pass. I know this is real. It’s real.”

This is before starting to write, you see. Completely sober. Just really clear.

So, I began the work, and was done by the noon hour.

I called the book up on the deeply awake site, got some coffee, and settled in to read the thing, beginning to end.

I cried, I laughed, I was surprised, I re-read certain passages, I aid, “Oh that’s just so beautiful.” I fell in love with it, at my kitchen table, loving each of the characters, noting where my brain got caught, in grammar or semantics or spelling, but I tried my best to silence that inner editor, and just read through it sort of gliding, allowing it to shake and wobble at certain spots.

So what.

It’s a first draft.

I fell in love with it, and this is all wrapped up with having fallen in deeper and deeper, well, love I guess is the word we’re using for this, with myself, through the morning. This is what pushed the project home.

Tonight I have more money than I had at the start of the day. A generous benefactor wired me a gift, and my ex slipped me a little cash. I have enough, I am rich now, compared to twelve hours ago, and I know what I have done is good.

I spent my Deeply Awake time arguing with myself, with my disbelief. I hit summits of consciousness, and wrote from there, chronicled dreams and meditations, fears and disappointments, losses and change Its part of the tapestry of life. I can tell you, the weave has changed in mine, but this does not negate the transformative power of the suffering each of us has known, if we have been paying attention, if we have been willing to see.

It had been hard here, and each of us should be in deep honor for having survived as lightworkers even when the place had gone pitch black.

Kryon said something in one of his lectures that spooked me. I knew it was true. I had been having odd revelations about merkahbahs and angels and meteors. And then, in a tape from I think February of 2012, he talked about “a visitor”, a piece of space debris, a comet, or something, that had “visited” our planet, found a “sweet spot” which didn’t interfere with any satellite equipment. Kryon said that he wanted to have us think about something for a minute.

He said, there had been prophecies, the energy we had all been born under, long-held writings by sages who had predicted the end of the world. And there was an ancient one which said that by the time the visitor entered our skies in 2012, there would be no human life of the planet.

He said, this is what you have changed.

You can call it messianic, or nihilistic, but, how do you argue with something you know is true, because you can feel, from within to without, that it is true? I have long obeyed this language, known there was something else being said all the time, a web connecting it all together, a web of magic and connection and synchronicity, and symmetry.

And I knew it, could see it, when he talked about that close pass, could feel the stillness of the planet saw how its colors had changed, felt the end of a grand opportunity.

I think there are some of us coded to this, who went through other bottlenecks, other times when we knew we had to throw in the towel, had gone too far afield, had misunderstood, or needed to mix it up.

And here we are. We said yes, we are ready, and it began. And now, nearly at the end of this first year of new energy, here we are.

And now ISON, our prophesied blue star, and the weirdly shaped presumed asteroid hanging out in the heavens, and something about the 28th. I keep getting that the 28th will be a day for the books. I never know how that sort of message is going to play out, but I can already feel myself just internally aware of it, anticipating it, holding a sense of excitement and giddy happiness. I do remember the sensations I got, when I saw the photos of how ISON had turned blue.

These visitors, now, they are special. They are expected. When I saw that image for the first time, I remembered what The Teachers had taught me. That there would be a sign. A star. Around Christmas time. And it would be understood, just known, that something extraordinary was occurring. We would all know it. I felt those words, that personal prophecy, gazing at that photo. Our friend. My friend. Finally here. We did it.

Rather than any of the bleak things that could have happened, this is what we have done. It is real. We are awakened, and more so every day. It is an internally validating thing. It builds on itself, and the end product is rock solid, unshakable knowing of one’s worth. An amazing process, really. And we did it! We all did it!

I look back at the tremendous shifts and the healing I have known this year. It is phenomenal. Completion of karma. Laying down of old energy. Hard resets. Unplugging from old patterns, seeing old habits fall away, habits of thought, and feeling, and expectation.

But to come here, to this date, and find that now, I have no more questions, no more fight left, and feel no need to argue against this light anymore.

Today, late, as the sun was setting, it dawned on me I was having a very roomy moment. Gone were the worries I carried so fervently just yesterday, chanting again and again, “I won’t have enough,” tussling with the panic.

I knew, heard, yesterday, that I was exiting a portal, and this was a final test, of sorts. It would be the last time ti would be so severe, I understood. And the panic did recede, once I imagined the things I have had success imagining, but mainly, it was just knowing that this was at its end, that helped.

Writing about this passage has helped, because I can see there were disparate elements at work. This includes a call, today, from the Hay House Self Publishing rep I have been talking to. It told her I hoped she was ok with my seeing such significance to her calls, the timing of them, the connection we seemed to share.

She told me I had sort of inspired her, after our last talk, and she’d gotten her guitar back out, and had written ten songs. She said me telling her about my devotion to this act of creativity had her reach, and she was putting together a band now.

I told her that I think everything would be happening by the 12th, once she oriented me to the fact it was November. I sat there, at the kitchen table, and I felt stunned. December is just days away? You mean, the solstice is almost here???

Amazing. Snapping back to linear time. I thought about how far we have all come, how different things are now than just a year ago, and asked my friend to call in a couple weeks. I told her that I felt things were about to bust open, but, you know, things change, so, two weeks.

I can feel it. I can feel things lining up. It is incremental. It is. I saw my word count go up, day after day, because I did it in increments.

That old anger has gone from me, and I feel no futility. I feel capable, and this is because I examined everything, remained dissuaded, unwilling to own it, live it, claim it and be it. Why? I have theories, but these are things which only the most tenderhearted will ever know. There are some things I share with only a few.

What’s done is done, and all of it seems just a bit flat, at this point. I think now about the thing that used to just psyche me out, a job interview, and now I hold no fear. The things that happen in the workplace, all the indignities and invasions and presumptions that employers make about employees, the scare tactics and power plays and exercises in terrible judgment, I’ll let it ride, and take it all with a grain of salt. I’ll find a job, a good one, solid and stable, now, and do so without fear in my heart, no worries about getting found out, and believing whatever anyone thinks is the truth about me.

It’s a coalescence of many things, many aspects of a life that was lived earnestly, seeking god, always seeking answers, never really convinced it was anything but a chemical imbalance, something that would keep me alone and poor and friendless. But somehow, I hung on, and today, I’ll end with this. Today, my friend Diane, who has been weirdly resistant to all of this, she sent me an email, a link to a youtube video, from the Pleiadian High Council, about what is happening energetically, soulically.

And then, I watched an 11-minute video of my hero, Russell Brand. It was beautifully edited. Russell talked about a shining moment in meditation he had, and it sounded like what I experienced on Christmas Eve. An experience that is beyond dispute, that it is all divine, benevolent and loving, what holds it all together, the glue between the molecules, It’s love. And we are made of it, you and me. Loved by it. Approved by it.

It makes squawking about writing a book seem like a frill, a detail, and a nice, if overdramatic pursuit. It takes the drama out of everything, set everything right, and allows a lighter heart, as I go through the steps which will make, in the end, more beauty.

Just as each meditation and essay last year helped to build Deeply Awake, fifty thousand words had to be written, character by character, to make Patrick come alive.

Although I remember the frustration with this process, and I honor the wisdom informing it, it is a warped interpretation of the data, running the truth through slippery belief structures that no longer hold up.

I did mirror work today, something I enjoy now, but used to feel uncomfortable doing. I’ve always seen blazing intelligence, impatience, wickedly sharp humor, and a kind countenance in the mirror, today I aw someone who is unconcerned if these qualities are ever seen in me by another.

And as I owned this, that I am enough for me, and I am whole, divine and beautiful, right now, right here, looking like this, as imperfect as I may appear, I felt a shimmery solidification. I saw my body as glowing, involuntarily so, and I understood that it is true, it is true, we are made of light.

I’ve gone very far today, without leaving my apartment. I did pick up my son tonight, and he agreed to my reading him Patrick as he lay in bed. We got to Chapter Ten, and he said he was ready to sleep. I asked him what the thought, and he said,
“Mom, you’re going to be a millionaire.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I said.
“I think you already are a millionaire, but the money hasn’t come to you yet.”

Then he said, “James Patterson is a 99, and you’re about a 96. You should use more metaphors and similes.”

He fell asleep soon after these words, and I use them to close. A little boy of 13, son to a woman who is not like other moms, and he has such high praise. I felt like a little kid getting hugged and congratulated by a parent, and I felt like a mom being unconditionally loved by her son, and I felt like a writer who’d just discovered a fan.

I didn’t think I could write a novel, because being so close to characters would drive me into madness, I’d never return, like a non-drug induced trip from which you never return.

Writing instead became a process of integration, of seeing actual slivers of myself come alive, make decisions, act congruently, for them. I saw how big I’d been thinking, how small my life had been, and held such deep compassion for the boredom and humility I’d known as a nurse, wondering as I thought about the subplots and character voice, how it was that I’d managed to sane not writing fiction.

It hadn’t been time, now it is.

I am so grateful I finally have permission to speak.

Deeply Awake Proposal — Patrick Hears Voices 10-23-13 By Kathy Vik

Image result for cosmic lighthouse gif




The only way I will be able to get this written is to imagine that I am talking to a very, very good friend, someone who is supportive and kind, indulgent and wise. You, dear reader, now sit across from me, at my dining room table, and we are enjoying warm beverages and sweet danishes this morning.

Because we are friends, both of us know that saying “yes” is intrinsic to happiness, and saying “no” is also, at times, more than appropriate, and because we are friends, because we trust and value each other, neither of us fears saying these two little words, carefully placed, lovingly uttered. They are gatekeepers to realities, those two little words, and because we are friends, we both know this, about those two little words.

In seven days time, I start another year of NaNoWriMo.

This is an international event, NaNoWriMo, one that most have never heard of.

All over the world, on November 1st, the clock is set to zero, and then for thirty days, writers just like me, all over the world, set before them a nearly impossible, a truly impressive, task.

From November 1st through November 30th, we, as individual writers, we come together to support each other, laugh with one another, inspire and encourage each other, as each of us wrestle, individually, with the novel we want to create in thirty short days.

We log on to during that month and log our progress, with our word counts. Some post their work, many, but most do not. We tick off our days with knowing the numerical goal, understanding that to reach this lofty goal we must write daily, and for one month out of the year, the natural isolation a writer feels sort of dissolves. We get together in coffee shops and libraries and private homes, to do exercises, to laugh, to let our freak flags fly, to share our usually sequestered minds.

I have been doing NaNoWriMo for some time. My sister introduced it to me, because she is nearly always aware of cool, hip and awesome things first. My sister is cool.

Anyhow, this year I am excited about the event, rather than nervous, because this year, I have a novel in my head that is ready, whole, and it’s finally one that I want to read!

Why tell you about this now, rather than just putting nose to paper and cranking it out?

Well, here’s the thing.

If you are like me, novels, even movies, anymore, are beginning to not feel right. There is not so much light in a lot of it, and we have to work hard to see through the layers of old ways of thinking, and being, and feeling, to get a bang out of things.

Things we read, view, they are still a little dark, sometimes. And though darkness adds contrast, what I have discovered is that within a well lit home, there is even more beauty, even more wonder, than in a darkened home. It’s easier to breathe, and celebrate, and reflect, in a home with the lights on. The contrast of darkness, oh, it’ll always be there, but, using it as contrast, it has not been able to be done quite as easily before now.

I want to read, and write, a book which is standing in the light, talking about our world, as it is, now. The world each of us plugs into, some of us from dawn to dusk. Channelers, videos, stories and posts, about and from home.

Not a projection, and not a reflection, but a travelogue of extraordinary folks, just like you and me, is the novel, Patrick Hears Voices.

Patrick is a boy who is in seventh grade. He has friends, and he has loving parents, but Patrick is a little odd, and very misunderstood. He is “an indigo,” a starchild, a wayshower, a baby lightworker, in the midst of those who are not.

And one day, he is taken away in light and sound, there by his locker, while readying for math class. After making a relatively quick recovery, and because his folks wouldn’t really know what’s going on, Patrick makes his way to the school’s counselor. Just for a little advice.

Turns out the counselor is a lightworker, and knows all about being taken away in rapturous thought.

She lives in an apartment block downtown, one tenant of currently five, each members of a loose, informal and wildly supportive place they’ve nicknamed “The Light House.”

Each of the folks who live at the lighthouse came to it in weird ways, but each belong there, for this moment, and what they creating is a beautiful thing.

Five folks, each unique, each a little odd, actually, and all just funny as hell.

Two of the folks who live at the lighthouse have kids, just about Patrick’s age.

Patrick takes to this slowly, comes and goes, has conversations with people he comes to understand are sages, his teachers, his friends. His family begins to show support, and fascination, for the changes they see in their boy, and his family comes to love those who live in the lighthouse.

There Patrick learns about the mechanics, the esoterics, the applied physics, of spirituality. He learns to pendulum, to change, slowly, his eating and drinking habits, learns about the Earth’s history from brand new perspectives, and grows into himself as a happy person, in this new context, gradually, and with great humor and light.

It is with his friends at the lighthouse he discovers a burgeoning sense of self-worth, and of internal power, and it is, eventually, from there, that he changes his reality.

When I got this idea, initially, I understood this is could be the first in a series of books. But honestly, it just feels like something I would enjoy watching play out on the TV, an HBO or even NBC series.

But, you have to start somewhere, and Patrick has gotten sort of bored, waiting for the stars to line up, for his story to be told.

You can see, can you not, the possibilities in this, right?

A novel to go to to learn how several highly enlightened folks each interpret running light, praying, paying bills, dealing with the man, doing their jobs, always while holding the light.


** Author’s note 1-24-18: I went on to write Patrick Hears Voices, Ahmed you can read it in its entirety at I completed nano in 2013, 5 days ahead of schedule. I’m hoping life will conspire with me to make 2018 another nano completion year, because it’s super fun to do. I encourage writers to check it out.

In this essay I went on to request readers reach out and assist me financially, to get the thing written. I’m not including that here. I’m not proud of when I asked readers to contribute to the cause, and so, in re-read,  I decided that even for historical purposes, a page and a half of highly persuasive begging is unnecessary.

It never worked very well, and those who’ve helped me are therefore Very Big Deals to me, giants, saviors, beloveds.

I’ll not equivocate, the poverty that’s accompanied this work grows tiresome.

But, I prevail, and I am assisted now by a benefactor who has made each day sweeter than I could have imagined possible in these circumstances, and i think you can tell I’ve got a great imagination.

So, I’ve edited out my begging, and end this piece instead with overflowing thanks to you, gentle reader.

If you read Patrick, please do so with soft eyes. It’s a first draft, but it’s worth a gander. The story is more complex than this proposal, but the heart of it is true to the intention: it’s a book for lightworkers like you.