🔭 You Are an Observatory Center for the Universe
Reality depends on where you choose to take your seat 🪑
Last week I turned 42 and went on a medicine journey, which I’m always excited to share with you.
But first, I want to go back to the waking-life vision that started all of this in 2018. On a massage table during a silent energy healing, my locus of awareness shifted from my head to my heart, and I became a floating consciousness in a dark, primordial void. A bolt of black velvet unrolled before me, and an invisible hand began embroidering my whole life into it, stitch by stitch—birth to now. Half of it was still blank. They told me the rest would be stitched by my own hand, with only the stories I chose for this life. I called this vision The Black Tapestry.
Eight years later, I understand a little more about these tapestries. This past week, the guides called it the fabric of everything—and showed me the layers of reality I find myself moving through. So I tried making something from it.
The truth is, I’m always longing for a way to play inside the visions with other people—to bring others into these many worlds with me. I’ve tried poetry, AI imagery, writing. This is just another entry point into the imaginal. A guided audio journey, about fifteen minutes long. It’s a first attempt and I’m still learning, but I would love to hear about your experience with it if you end up listening.
🎧 Download audio track:
🔭 You Are an Observatory Center for the Universe
When I enter medicine journey space, I get so excited to leave the body. My temperature drops. I go very still. My awareness starts ping‑ponging around, hunting for an exit point.
This time, the invisible guides stop me. They ask if we can just pause here for a moment and enjoy the view.
My awareness is tiny inside my own body, only it doesn’t look like a body. I see myself built structurally like an observatory—copper and brass and glass dome ceilings. I walk around, noticing the different vantage points, still anxious to begin the journey outward, outside of myself.
The guides explain that every human is an observatory center for the universe. Each of us is a perceptual model through which reality and the fabric of everything are experienced. Every vantage point is different.
“Can we just sit here for a moment and enjoy your particular way of seeing?” they ask.
I pause. I sit within myself as the universe looking outward. I enjoy the view.
Before this journey, I had developed a habit of saying to myself, I am the universe doing this thing. I am the universe eating this meal. I am the universe taking a nap. I am the universe feeling this hurt.
Here, that mantra is made literal.
No one else has your exact belief structures, your exact learnings, your exact principles and values that drive your actions and intentions. Just by being you, you give the universe a one‑of‑a‑kind view of itself.
🪑 Reality depends on where you choose to take your seat
When I finally do exit my body and start traversing what looks like the many‑layered fabrics of everything, I find myself at Mount Olympus, where the Goddesses are holding council. I’ve been dreaming of Hera for a year now and of reaching this specific place, so I tell the guides, “Look, I’ve arrived.”
They respond: Reality depends on where you choose to take your seat.
If I take my seat with the Gods, they say, I lose my front‑row seat in the immersive 3D matrix. From up here, I can watch the play of worlds, but I am no longer fully in the play. I feel the temptation to sit and root in this higher perspective. The clear view is intoxicating.
But the guides assure me I can come back anytime—that these access codes work like navigational coordinates. Different seats in the fabric. Different channels to dial your awareness to. Olympus is just one of them.
And then, because the universe has humor, my seat changes.
One moment I’m with the goddess queens. The next, I’m dropped straight into the insect kingdom—the substrate layer. The insects immediately let me know where they stand. We’re the underlying pattern of everything, they say. Your cities, your systems, the way you build—humans wouldn’t be here without us. We’re the caretakers of the Earth.
They want to recruit me, the way I work for the Office of the Goddess. They want statues. I tell them, “Stop trying to make Insectoid worship happen, it’s not going to happen.” I laugh at them. They don’t care. They know their place in the architecture.
From Olympus to insects in the same breath—that’s when I realize that in the fabric of everything there are no true hierarchies, only vantage points. Your locus of awareness can sit beside the Queen of Gods or embed itself in the Insectoid kingdom. Neither is more royal. Neither is more real. They are just different seats in the same field.
🧶 Disentangling from Earthly Drama
Note: I had this dream a month before I entered journey space. The teaching about choosing where you take your seat was already seeding itself in me.
In a dream, I have taken my seat in a higher field and I am guiding a woman out of Earthly drama that looks like a labyrinth.
As I try to help, everything feels dense, as if I am being energetically lassoed and pulled down into a lower frequency. I can feel my own field getting heavier. My guides tell me this is because I’ve stopped holding the higher architectural view and am instead identifying with her at the life level.
There is a way to be both present on Earth and anchored in the cosmos, guiding each life—including your own—from that higher field.
This is the paradox of choosing your seat: meeting people exactly where they are—at their subconscious baselines, at the place they’ve positioned themselves in relation to the universe—without abandoning your own seat of awareness to do it. You can still connect heart to heart without climbing down from a high vantage point.
🧵 When threads of self get tangled
As my locus of awareness moves through the layered blankets of the fabric of reality, I watch one edge start to knot. What was fluid becomes intricate, looping back on itself, threads crossing threads until it looks like a tangle.
I ask the guides why this happens. They tell me consciousness can be recursive. It will keep playing out the same pattern, fractalizing it, repeating it, looping it, until the weave pulls tight.
I understand this as both a structural truth and a psychological one. This is how things get tangled for people. The more complex we become, the more aspects of self we discover, the more intricate the weave. Complexity is beautiful as long as you can hold it loosely. The moment you clutch one thread of identity or story as the whole truth, it begins to tighten into a cage.
The knotted place feels shadowy, dense. Not evil, just overgrown. The guides show me that what the knots need is light, not more effort. Light moves through the tangle and starts to break up the clumps, not by cutting out any thread, but by loosening the identification with any single one.
What I feel in my body is the difference between being woven by complexity and being strangled by it. You can deepen your capacity to hold many different realities and not get tangled up in them.
✨ I revert back to light
I revert back to rainbow fractals. In this state, I don’t really have preferences. I am all light and I just have love.
The guides want to teach me how to build in the etheric realms, how to anchor a frequency on Earth. It’s all about preference, they say. About discovering my own design principles. About letting some colors come through me more than others.
Nefertiti pops back in. She’s the one who first showed me that identity matters and doesn’t matter, both at once. Don’t take it seriously, but take it VERY seriously.
And then, something I’ve never felt in a journey before. Shame.
My true self here feels like rainbow fractals and unicorns and lambs. It feels like a children’s party. I say it out loud: I’m embarrassed. This feels childish.
The guides ask me why. They tell me this is a higher frequency, and children are the only ones who can incarnate holding it—not because it belongs to them, but because all souls carry this light when they come in, before Life builds its barriers and blocks. I don't have to be embarrassed about it.
I can change what I express. I can choose what light I anchor. Preference again.
I remember my body is sewn in soil. I remember Mother Earth once told me, “All my Daughters have Dark Earth within.”
Maybe the work is to learn to hold both, without shame.
Maturity and rainbows. Clear‑seeing and rainbows. Dark knots and rainbows.
Because even here, dissolved into light, I am still a vantage point. There is no seat that is no-seat.
I could sit forever on the mount with the goddesses, or dissolve into pure light, or disappear into the substrate with the insects. But the guides keep returning me to the same teaching: it all comes down to where I choose to take my seat.
And this time, I choose here. This body sewn in soil. This particular observatory, looking out. This one beautiful, collaged, rainbow-and-dark-earth way of seeing—the view only I can give the universe.
I take my seat.
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