Friday, October 30, 2020

Hello, and welcome to Highest Good.  

Thank you for visiting my blog.  I've had this blog for many years, and it has been morphing since the death of MySpace.

At times I have used it to write about my visions, synchronicities, serendipities, and collective energetic musings.

I am a high functioning empath, and as most empaths know, it is trauma which comes through the generations, in the vein of our ancestries, the secrets to be unveiled as generations move along and forget the roots.

The Original Wounds run deeply, secretly, and get projected, while many of us wind up never knowing, if we are not curious enough, where we truly come from, or where our generational wounding lies.

Over the course of my life, I have made it my mission to understand why I was "different" from my family. I searched high and low, and deep down into my DNA.

What I found within my genetic markers confirmed many of my beliefs about how sometimes, although we may experience moments and believe they are spiritual in nature, they are, in fact, genetic imprints, memories that are forced through as we exercise the gifts inherent within us.

To deny that we do not inherit the genes of our ancestors is to deny our being.

As a child, I watched my father breed and raise hunting dogs.  He trained them (abused them) and kept them far away from human loving hands, so that they could retain their genetic instincts for hunting and serve their purpose for man.

My father reveled in the control he had over these animals, and boasted to other sportsmen the superiority of these breeds of hunting dogs.  Certainly he did not regard them as pets for love, but instead as a tool for hunting, making money, and as trophies, serving the cultural status of success.

In 2016 after shuffling through my poetry which I had been preserving for thirty years, I was in awe of my own writings. I found them to be powerful, and spoken with a voice which I was very surprised to be my own.

Split personality?  Disassociative writing?

But these poems I wrote, they were of universal themes, and were meant to enlighten the collective, not to personally identify with the power of personal feeling.


When I received my DNA results back, I was astonished to discovered that I was more "Italian" than I had known.  Furthermore, I discovered that I had genetic markers for Somalia, East Africa.

Could it be that my poetry came through my genetics?  

This curiosity stemmed from the PHYSICAL experience I encountered, when a poem would come into existence by my hand.  It felt as if there was this powerful energy rushing through me, my chest would feel as if it needed to express and open up, and the words would come easily, and profoundly.

I learned that Somalia has also been known as The Land Of Bards, and historically has been regarded as a people of colorful and poetic language:


"The country teems with poets... every man has his recognized position in literature as accurately defined as though he had been reviewed in a century of magazines - the fine ear of this people causing them to take the greatest pleasure in harmonious sounds and poetic expressions ... Every chief in the country must have a panegyric to be sung by his clan, and the great patronize light literature by keeping a poet.[2]

19th-century British explorer Richard Francis Burton, who visited the Somali Peninsula, First Footsteps in East Africa 

        *borrowed from Wikipedia 

I think many of us believe we are having these inexplicable abilities, and don't know where they come from.  I believe these gifts come from our ancestors, and it serves to note that after I had my DNA done, my family essentially stole my kid, locked their doors and stopped talking to me.

Was that the final nail in the coffin?

Maybe so.

Who, of capitalist and political illusion, of high degree, and white skin, could want such family secrets to be known?

I said goodbye to those toxic folk who locked me out because I did not live by their standards, and I began my own journey, a journey which might never end, a journey to myself and my roots.  A journey through the history of humankind, and, in particular, WOMANkind.

Never before Trump have we questioned where we come from like we do, now.

Before Trump, I wanted to go home to Italy, where I know I would find the kin I might relate to best, culturally.

Now, even more so, I wish to extrapolate the lost stories, the silent stories that got buried in the maternal lineage of my Italian/Sardenian/East African roots. Maybe my indigenous roots.  To be sure, the language of my Grandmother, died with her, here in the USA in 1993.

I am a dancer.  Since childhood, I hardly ever walked, but instead danced, to all the energy swirling around me.  I might have been diagnosed as hyperactive, but I wasn't.  All I knew was that I felt all the energy of feelings and unspoken nuances and watched what the adults in my life did, and I mirrored that in my dance.

Through all cultures, since the beginning of time dance has been a reflection of our understanding of man, nature and the world we live in, 

In my American white family, nobody danced, and dancing was shunned upon for what it might mean... tight leotards, tutus, showing my legs. being pretty.  Expressing myself.

Yes, it would seem that the silencing of the family connections had everything to do with the fact that I was constantly finding truths and wanting to talk about them, but for many it was just too damn scary.

So I broke off, accepted the family rejection, and from the age of 14 made it my mission to see the world, to know the people of all walks of life, and spent many months away hiding in alleyways and in peoples' houses, in a full-out rampage to EXPRESS MYSELF.

Now, I begin this blog, called Highest Good.

Readers can expect astrological musings, tarot and oracle impressions of current energies as we move through the new phase of the planet's growth and unprecedented shifts.

Thank you.


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