I used to want to be a journalist

Walking with my mom when I was about thirteen years old, I yearned with all my being to explain to her how I could feel and understand the space before words were chosen, in between thought and the casual wondering of the mind in memory.  I never heard anyone talk about that space, but to me it was absolutely important, and my frustration on this point in my young body was righteous.  Before words are chosen, there is a space undefined by duality, where a broader understanding exists, and then when a word is chosen, it slices that knowledge in half, forcing you to label the subject as generally "good" or "bad."  To me it felt as wrong as cutting off one of our own legs and having to hop around on a single foot, an unbalanced reality that could never lead to truth.

So what to do with words, considering all explanations chop truth in half, divide it from itself.

I sought to heal the union of things, to understand the eviscerated world around me, how everything seemed to be simplified into smaller, arbitrary pieces.  The forest was cut up into cities, the cities took the shapes of ancient designs that were branded in the memory banks of humans, who were likewise castrated into classes and races, separated into ranks and levels.  I struggled to bear this world of divisions, where the subjective stroke of history seemed too nonsensical to defend.  One decision a thousand years ago led to another, and all that arbitrary angling was considered the code of our society.

It was in this inner landscape and confusion, and depression, that I always knew there was something more.  I knew it logically, because if this was all wrong, then there would have to be something that was right.

My mind felt like then and I guess now, the wandering in the darkened house with a small flashlight, showing bits at a time, and alot of grey edges.  My self seemed to have courage beyond the dimness of my vision, it seemed to know where I was and what house I was in, even if my mind didn't.  If we really think about it, I believe that's what keeps us all going.

Over the years I found clues.  I still remember walking into the study of my grandparent's house when I was about fourteen or fifteen, and my older cousin showing me something on a computer screen, something about the Rosthchilds.  Katie! He exclaimed, beckoning me to come see.  I can't tell you anything else that happened that Christmas or at that party, but I can still remember the text on that screen, like discovering a light in a dark cave, that memory stuck out with importance for years, to be pieced together when I was able.  The authenticity of these discoveries, and the unprejudiced and unguided manner of my intuition as it connects to my soul grants me the confidence to know, to really know, that these things that are so wildly forbidden to be considered, are actually very true and have been.

I'm starting small, because telling my story has been working in my mind for many years, and these tales in my infancy are cherished jewels that led my path.