I have a physical need to come back to words. They are the very backbone to how I operate. My father was an accountant with a degree in corporate law. He was an avid reader, cognitive thinker, and visionary. The exact caricature of what an opinionated lawyer would be, with “little man syndrome.” This is no insult to him because when I was younger, I wanted to be his conventional mini me; even if that meant ordering his quad grande espresso bone dry macchiato made with whole milk while we sat in Starbucks discussing the rise of artificial intelligence on our economy. Our conversations were my introduction into the sphere of words and comprehension of empathy. Those poor Starbucks workers’ expressions after quad grande espresso bone dry macchiato with whole milk left my father’s lips. What the fuck? And God forbid they got the bone dry factor wrong. Little man syndrome. I was seven, but age was inconsequential because he was not going to converse with anyone who wasn’t keen in debating the current societal heavy hitters. It probably should’ve been, because I’m not sure what seven year old should be drinking a quad grande espresso bone dry macchiato. Also, no seven year old peer of mine was tolerating the heart-to-heart discussions I was adamant about deliberating or my “bossy” nature. “BUT WE MUST DISCUSS WOMEN’S RIGHTS, WHY IT’S IMPORTANT TO RECYCLE, AND WHY IT’S CRUCIAL TO GIVE BACK TO THE COMMUNITY!” This was quickly met with a, “Here she goes again” and my nickname rapidly became “talky Jackie.” Well, my journal had to listen to “talky Jackie,” and if my mind needed the internal debate I had my Dad, who had the equal struggle of learning to shut up.
May I start by saying, I am only 20. While I may have a certain level of intellect that I work hard to cultivate, I do lack the very experience that comes with only time itself. Time, however, is fickle. While these are my most personal and detailed thoughts, I wrestled with releasing this topic in conversation in relation to my energy work and mediumship. However, I felt called to write. Time and time again it has saved me. I remember after my brother passed, the first thing that I came to was my journal. I wrote my feelings in the most plausible way I could wrap my head around. While the adjectives and nouns jumbled together, a feeling was provoked that couldn’t be simply placed into one word. Because it wasn’t a word, it was a feeling. Reading was a need in my routine that became a calling. Time and time again it has saved me. It allowed me the escapism to fully delve into the world of awareness. When I couldn’t demonstrate the sentiment, I knew that Clarice Lispector, Joan Didion, or Eve Babitz could. It made me feel connected to the weight I was carrying through grief, identification of self, and coming back to my inner child before circumstance came into play.
Being inexperienced was never a fragility to me. I am not a vase, I am not going to shatter going into questioning. Perhaps I will assert a claim to the “wrong,” maybe not disclose the totality of a world viewed position, possibly view a contemplation without objectivity. I am not afraid. It takes bravery to enter a world in a journalistic approach and be willing to look like a fool. It takes bravery to tackle many issues. It even takes a spunk to love. My personal art has always been for the girl that is too brash, asks far too many questions, and goes over the line. The dare I’ve set to myself is to give my privilege the backseat to those that are executing the work I aspire to. I’m also eager to transform my mind and substitute my awareness.
Growing up a sensible intuitive, many mystics were drawn to me. I remember a particular day when a woman who lived in our same condominium grabbed a hold of my plump cheeks and looked deeply into my eyes. We were both met with the same rod of golden light around our pupils. “This little girl is gifted,” she whispered to my mom. There were instances walking down the damp sand, having the cool ocean break over my toes, when I discovered stingrays strolling next to me. Schools of fish tread around my aura in a great circle. Jellyfish never dared to touch my feet as I appreciated their transparency. There were prophetesses that intertwined the groundwork for my clairvoyance. Many of them had led eccentric lives delving into the world of the unknown. My gifts were honed, embodied, and serviced. Answer your calling, listen to the whispers of God they would partake. My brio was colored with quantum thinkers, present guardians, and sirens of sorts. They shook my molten core and destroyed everything I once knew to create a new beginning. One of pure mystic magic.
As a child, I remember being acutely passionate about space and the ocean. Space was always a phenomenon to me. What was the Universe hiding from me? What was in the black hole that seemed to be protruding from the sea of stars? Am I made of any of the same chemical compounds as a planet hundreds of thousands of miles away from my proximity? The ocean was of equal fascination to me. How has only less than 10 percent of the global ocean been explored? Are there potential sea beings in the house of the great unknown depths? What neuron responses in my brain are transmitting that gives me nostalgia for the sea? Curiosity has never killed the cat. It might have set it off, but wallowing in emotions never moved mountains.
The mystical women enlivened my spirit to enter into the enigma of the Universe. Through their transmitted energies, my guardians on the other sides have appeared. Getting to appreciate the other veil of the Universe has come to encapsulate my being. My main guide channels her shamanic powers through the person’s feet, a sign of deep respect. Her humility allows the connection of animals and Mother Nature to play a part in each of my readings. Beyond her humility is her humor, which intwines the giddiness of a puppy. In deep surrender, I communicate with each of my deceased twin souls. My brother. My long lost sister. My best friend. My grandmother. My great grandmother. My ancestors. A deep meditation, it is indeed. Beyond the deceased are the ascended. ArchAngel Michael. Raphael. Mary Magdalen. Jesus Christ. Buddha. Mother Nature. They have each healed and continue to move each step I sequence. Indeed, I am taken in their hands.
There isn’t any particular word to pinpoint exactly who I am. I am. That is all. We all are “I am.” As an artist would never identify with a label, neither will I. Everything within me is around me. Every guiding force is touching my soul with pure magic and the least of identification. There are conduits. There are messages to unravel every day. As the runic alphabet expands, so do I. Let us not adhere to labels or keep anyone in a single box. Allow the mysticism of the ocean to be our guide. Boundaryless and forever unfolding. Unfold into the deep ocean blue. Forgive and appreciate every soul’s beauty.
This is a playground for my creative being. I will take the crude buddingness of naivety as my ally and use it to expose the truths of my reality. Art is freedom. Art should never be censored. It is curious and slips into the depths of the subconscious. Therein lies our most powerful selves, abundant gratitude, and a mischief for favorable circumstances. There is no “right” way to discuss the topics of the Universe. The Universe is profound, it is to be explored and takes curious beings to shake its crux. I propose a tempt to entwine with me; to escape into the world of the unknown with an unshaking prying.