How to Create Sacred Water: A Guide to Rituals and Practices

Preface

WE LIVE IN A TIME of extremes. Weather disasters have become common. Drought plagues one area while a neighboring state or country is flooded. We hear about climate change, Earth changes, the ending of ancient calendars, and coming shifts in consciousness. More people speak of expanded consciousness and transformational living while millions still live with limited awareness of anything beyond their dire, immediate physical needs or egos besot with materialism.

This book is about an evelation. What is an evelation? It is a revelation that evolves someone into a higher state. I experienced an evelation regarding water that caused me to create my sacred water altar and led me into an entirely new relationship with water. It also reshaped my life. Water cannot flow without making a change in the area it passes through; neither can Spirit.

How to Create Sacred Water is the story of my evelation. It is also a manual of simple instructions anyone can follow to help with the transformation of the waters of the earth. Every person can make a difference and can help in restoring the balance. We are all connected; what happens on the inside is reflected in our exterior world. The outside world floods us with the energies and events happening across the globe. No one is immune. No one is excused.

Besides an instruction manual, How to Create Sacred Water offers a series of spirit journeys to help connect or reconnect to Spirit through guides who offer their loving assistance to us in our personal life journeys, and offer suggestions as to how we can be the change that is so needed. As many times as we reach out, Spirit is there to connect with us, teaching us something new about ourselves, our world.

There are many ways to learn and transform. Keeping a sacred water altar in your home opens a portal to new dimensions. I invite you to walk through that portal, to explore, bless, and be blessed.

1

The Monster

ON A SULTRY SEPTEMBER DAY in 1999 off the coast of Africa, the waters of the Atlantic Ocean spawned a monster of mythic proportions. This monster did not rise up from murky, uncharted depths as a hideous sea creature rearing multiple heads, devouring terrified tourists on cruise ships. It was not a gigantic fish with jaws full of razor sharp teeth gnashing at unsuspecting swimmers. It had nothing to do with revengeful ghosts of pirates who came to the end of violent lives by walking the plank; their last footsteps falling into thin air, scrabbling against gravity as they plunged into their waiting watery graves.

No. This monster was born as a single tropical wave sparkling in the sunlight, drinking in the hot, solar rays beaming down into it. Its appetite for heat could not be sated. It continued to suck the sun’s fiery outpouring into the open vessel of the ocean. Launched along with the movement of the water, the monster began to take form, reaching out with vaporous tendrils to snag currents of cooler air drifting unsuspectingly above.

A cosmic dance began. Gentle, graceful twirls between water and air accelerated into a frenzied whirl. The surface of the ocean quickly became insufficient as a dance floor. Demanding more room, the monster launched itself skyward and began to spin counterclockwise across the Atlantic toward San Salvador. Dancing up a storm, it dropped in on the Bahamas leaving its calling card of disaster and destruction behind on Abaco Island. A right turn steered the monster toward the North Carolina coast of the United States. Giant arms wheeled out of massive clouds as it turned in indescribable power. Experts around the world, who knew and judged the fine points of such dancing techniques, clustered themselves around computer monitors, watching in rapt fascination. Sufficiently impressed, they awarded the performance with high points, rating it a storm category between four and five, and gave the monster a name: Hurricane Floyd.

Floyd traveled with an entourage. Vast amounts of rain preceded its arrival in North Carolina, dropping between 15 and 20 inches onto land already oversaturated from Hurricane Dennis’s deposits just ten days earlier. There was no welcome for Floyd, no place for its unwanted deluge and 130 mile per hour winds.

Floyd came anyway, making landfall at Cape Fear, North Carolina, on Thursday, September 16, 1999, at 6:30 a.m. as a category 2 hurricane. Storm surges 10 feet high slammed the coast tossing boats around, smashing them into piers that splintered and collapsed into the roiling waters. Trees, uprooted by all the rain, toppled over, smashing homes and cars, yanking utility lines out of the sodden ground. People, nerves and resources worn-out from a season of storms, fled to higher ground. Floyd howled and hurled, wreaking havoc in unrelenting fury.

By nightfall, it seemed the worst was over. Exhausted and wary, those people who rode out the storm crawled into their beds for a few hours of fitful sleep. But like a bad dream, Floyd was not done yet.

With silent stealth, Floyd snuck back in through the dense system of rivers, creeks, and streams that circulated North Carolina’s usually peaceful and beautiful waters. That night the Tar, Neuse, Roanoke, and Pamlico Rivers and all their tributaries, swollen with Floyd’s inundations, could no longer hold back the surging water. With the worst of timing for the weary residents, the rivers all overran their banks. Around 2:30 Friday morning the local fire departments drove their trucks through the rural neighborhoods, honking horns, blowing sirens, and bringing more bad news: the rivers were flooding. It was time to evacuate.

The flood now ran directly through the heart of North Carolina’s pig and poultry production farms where millions of chickens, turkeys, and hogs were held captive in low-roofed containment houses, being raised in mass production for the meat industry. On each farm were lagoons to collect and hold the waste products of thousands of animals. The word lagoons was simply a corporately chosen euphemism for open sewage pits. Dug directly into the earth, many directly on the floodplain of a major river, these pits were approximately 12 feet deep and 4 or 5 acres wide. Lined only with plastic, the engineering of the sewage lagoons depended on gravity to pull the heavy, raw sludge to the bottom, acting as a sealant against leakage. Each one held about 25 million gallons of raw fecal matter and urine. The lagoons were infested with undigested heavy metals, growth supplements, hormones, pesticides, parasites, and antibodies that had passed through the caged animals’ bodies.

Floyd’s floodwaters gushed into and through the buildings-turneddeath traps, drowning the terrified animals en masse, and smashing away all structure. The collection lagoons were completely washed out, flushing the poisonous potion directly into the waterways.

Not satisfied with the carnage, the ravaging waters swept through sewage plants, spilling human filth into the torrent. Dozens of dams along the engorged rivers were damaged or destroyed, spilling more volume into the putrid flood. Even 225 caskets were pulled from the ground and sent downstream. Gasoline, motor oil, pesticides, fertilizers, cars, tractors, homes, precious topsoil, and failed dreams all spewed together into a toxic soup. Entire towns were covered with it.

The rivers crested as high as 24 feet above normal flood stages, surpassing records set in 1919. Days later, when the waters finally began to recede, 18,000 square miles of North Carolina were under water. The afflicted area had become a giant estuary filled with levels of fecal coliform bacteria so high that residents could not drink, cook, or bathe in the water. The liquid filth had nowhere to go except into the flooded rivers, wetlands, and then into the ocean. The water supply of every living creature in its path was contaminated. Hundreds of farms were destroyed.

Massive evacuations prevented all but fifty-seven human deaths, but the body count was astronomical. The death toll included 2.2 million chickens, 737,000 turkeys, 30,500 hogs, and 250 horses. Bulldozers were brought in to scrape up towering piles of bloated bodies reeking in the steamy and stinking air. Attempts were made to incinerate the mountains of corpses. Fires roasted the dead flesh twenty-four hours a day in three counties but could not get ahead of the rotting process. The digging of mass graves began when incineration failed; but the water table had risen to the surface of the soggy ground. The digging just caused more of the polluted water to ooze, squishing around the equipment, making sickening sucking sounds. With entombment impossible, the bodies were left to rot in sludge-covered fields or were swept out through the waterways toward the ocean, littering the landscape with death, decay, and disease.

There was nothing more that could be done.

The monster born on an African wave had carved its indelible mark across the southeastern United States. Things would never be the same.

2

The Voice

THE BALD EAGLE perched patiently on a dead branch at the top of the tallest tree on Duck Island. From this lofty perch, it could survey all the action across the serene September waters of Greenlake, a popular and particularly lovely park in Seattle, Washington. The eagle’s white head feathers flashed in the sun streaming through a vivid blue sky. Its head rotated to observe a crowd of crows making a ruckus a few trees over. Keen hearing picked up the muffled laughter of brightly clad joggers making their daily run around the circular 3 ½-mile lake pathway. A slight breeze gently ruffled the majestic bird’s glossy brown feathers and sent little waves across the surface of the lake.

A green-headed mallard duck fluttered brightly patterned wings, reached its orange webbed feet out toward the cool water, quacking its arrival as it made a routine splash landing. In an instant, the acutely alert eagle spread its 6-foot wing span, launched itself off the branch, and dived straight down after the duck. It was a no contest event. The raptor dined richly on its reward.

Seattle has a reputation for gray skies and rain. It is less known for, and residents try to keep secret, the fact that September can be the best of weather anywhere. On one of those rare and gorgeous days, I began a never imagined journey with a casual walk around Greenlake.

Middle age was being good to me. Ten years before saw me graduating from massage therapy school, starting up a practice, and finding out I was very good at my chosen craft. I enjoyed a life focused on health, healing, and consciousness expansion. Supported by a community of interesting, creative, and intentional people, I was exploring my spirituality. Part of that exploration was participation in a monthly gathering focused on planetary healing where we offered prayers for the Earth. We referred to Mother Earth as a conscious being, Gaia, as she was called in the ancient Greek pantheon. The usage of that name had been revived in recent years in the alternative spiritual communities.

To me, Gaia was more than a Greek myth. I pictured her as the most beautiful of dancers, clad in a flowing emerald-green gown, gliding gracefully in her path around the sun. Her body was shaped of majestic mountains, her shoulders draped with shawls of pure white snow. Lush valleys of grasses and flowers were her hair, expanses of deserts and grasslands her swirling skirts. The night skies were her eyes, the sounds of the winds her voice. Arteries of oceans, rivers, and waterways carried her life force to all her children. The two-legged and four-legged, the winged ones, those who swam or crawled, the trees, the rocks, and the elements were all living beings interconnected in the great and beautiful life Gaia supported.

Today at Greenlake on this perfect, late summer day, the sunlight created sparkling diamonds on the gently dancing waves. Bright red paddle boats, silent except for an occasional splash, dotted the lake. Strong-armed rowers from Greenlake Crew, in sync with the rhythmic call of the coxswain, dipped their oars in and out of the water as they propelled long, brightly colored boats across invisible water lanes dividing their passage into safe distances from canoes and other nonmotorized craft that shared the lake. Bicyclers, parents pushing baby strollers, roller skaters, and walkers shared the two paved lanes around the lake. Patient fishermen coaxed brown trout onto their lines. The wading pool was filled with kids of all ages engaging in good-natured splashing, enjoying the refreshing water on a warm day. Even the Seattle Police Department’s bicycle cops, patrolling the lake circle on their black bikes, clad in black uniforms and helmets, seemed festive.

Stepping off the path onto the soft green grass shaded by tall trees, I stopped to cradle the lush, low-hanging branches of a cedar in my hands. The tree’s rich resins emitted its unique and pungent scent. Rubbing a little of the sticky substance on my hand so the smell would stay with me, I sat down and drank in the beauty of my surroundings. Redwing blackbirds sang their distinctive song. A great blue heron hid in the higher grasses at the edge of the water watching for fish to swim by and become lunch.

Watching the heron reminded me of the news reports I had recently heard of Hurricane Floyd hitting North Carolina, devastating the animals and the water. The images in my head created a sharp contrast to the idyllic scene around me. What did two million dead chickens look like? I pictured the animal carcasses, fertilizer, and gasoline swirling around in the floodwater and wondered how much pollution was too much. How many dead animals could the natural filtering process accommodate? Was it possible to clean up from such a grizzly toll?

What was happening to Gaia?

I felt helpless. What could I do way up here in the Pacific Northwest?

Just then I heard a voice in my right ear, as clearly as if someone sitting next to me had spoken. You know, you could make a crystal homeopathic elixir that would heal the waters of Gaia. To say my reaction was one of surprise would be an understatement. What the heck? Am I hearing things? My body went on full alert. My senses perked up as if tasting the air, evaluating my situation. There was no one talking to me; did I imagine the voice? A great sense of clarity came over me. It was not my imagination. I did hear that voice.

Although I trusted my intuition and used it successfully in my massage work, my experience with audible instructions from an unseen origin was limited. My spiritual training supported the concept of receiving communication from a higher source—call it Spirit—that would bring guidance and assistance if we could just tune in to it. Still learning about this kind of communication, it was somehow more believable that visions and messages happened for other people, not me. I had great confidence in my ability to treat a client for whiplash or a rotator cuff injury but I was not so confident in my still-burgeoning spiritual gifts. Listening to voices was an undeveloped talent for me.

And yet, the voice had spoken and I had heard it. I could not deny it. This very clear direction was happening to me. Right now. During our lives we come to crossroads, turning points, where the next steps lead us onto new pathways and directions. The voice put me right at the junction of such an opportunity. I stepped forward. I believed.

I don’t know how long I stayed in this somewhat altered state but, eventually, I got up and continued the circular walk around the lake, returned to my car, and drove home. The message haunted me. How would I make a crystal homeopathic elixir to heal the waters of Gaia?

And what was that, anyway?

3

Rocks and Pellets

I HAVE BEEN DRAWN TO ROCKS to rocks and crystals since I was a small child. I grew up in Wyoming with rocks everywhere. Even though we lived in Casper, one of the biggest towns, undeveloped areas stretched out through our neighborhood providing unlimited opportunities to ride my bike on dirt pathways or out onto the nearby prairies, where I spent blissful summer days hunting for lizards and collecting rocks. Even the alley behind our house was a treasure lane filled with sparkling stones. I liked to gather those that caught my fancy, take them into the backyard, and run water from the garden hose over them. The water exposed their secret bands of colors as they went from dry and dusty to gleaming wet. I never got tired of playing with them.

I used to beg my mother to drive me to the local rock shop that was all the way across town by the airport so I could explore its vast inventory and hold the beauties in my small hands. She would not always indulge me, making adult excuses like it takes too long or I’m busy and other such things that really made no sense to me. What could be more important than looking at rocks?

When she would finally agree to go, it was a great adventure for me. It seemed to take forever to get there. Once we left the main part of town and got onto the highway, the great wide-open spaces of Wyoming were on display. Small herds of antelope roamed around the open prairies. Sagebrush waved in the constant wind. The local mountain range rose majestically and stretched along the southern edge of town. There were lots of rocks up on the mountain, too. Maybe I could get Mom to drive us there soon.

The anticipation of what I would find when we finally got to the little shop tantalized me. Not a fancy store in any way, it was more of a Quonset hut, its four basic walls topped with a corrugated metal roof. Single-pane windows let in the Wyoming sunshine and allowed the notorious wind to push occasional gusts of air past dried-up window caulking creating drafts and little puffs of dust. Tall shelves lined the walls and stretched across the large display room. Spiders, rarely noticed or bothered by anyone, spun layers of cobwebs draped from bare light-bulbs to piles of old boxes, connecting the corners of the ceiling with their silky threads.

The store smelled like dirt; like heaven. The treasures those four walls held were miracles to me—rose quartz, clear quartz, geodes cut in half exposing magical star-shaped centers, thinly sliced pieces of moss agate with feathery veins looking like ancient fern plants encased in see-through stone, yellow stones, black stones, and speckled stones. Fossils filled with bits of plants and animals from ancient seas held a great fascination and, oh, those crystals with their spikes sticking up out of their round or oval bodies! I loved them all. I would hold them, smell them, even put my tongue on them to taste them if Mom or the shopkeeper wasn’t watching me.

Finally, agonizing over the many choices, I would select one or two beauties and trade them for my money, saved from shoveling snow during the winter or any other chores I could manage to do for pay. Counting out the coins, the shopkeeper would ring up my purchase, wrap my selected treasures in newspaper, and hand them over to me. They were