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Michael – Part 2

Saturday, April 21st, 2007

Michael planted the sword firmly in the ground before him, cheapest sending a tremor under my feet. “You are done with Gabriel for now, attend to me.” His eyes flashed, not in anger, but with power.

“Put away your romantic fantasies and rule with me for a time. Your moment in the glow of the moon is at an end, step back into the sun where you were born.”

I stepped out of the embrace of Gabriel’s wings, our hands still touching until only our fingertips kept the connection in tact. I turned to look up into that beautiful face, seeing eyes alive with future promises. With courage I didn’t know I possessed, I kissed Gabriel quickly and turned to Michael without further hesitation.

He stood there with both hands on the hilt of the sword planted in the earth before him. It’s hard to see anything about Michael without first seeing his wings, which are the largest of all the Archangels. The sleek, shiny feathers are the deepest emerald green. Any breeze amplifies their radiance and with a magnificent trick of the light, they flare a brilliant scarlet.

He moves them slowly, sensually, to their full width and I can see how deep the gem tones grow in the shadows under his wings. He shrugs them back to an arch and I notice that the bottom edges are a different type of feather. I walk around him to see the back of the wings and find a much different color array. Still sparkling emerald and scarlet up at their tops, they melt into the deepest sapphire near the ends. But the most magnificent surprise is that the edges are several rows of peacock feathers. The eyes swirl emerald and sapphire and violet, the delicate tendrils alive with motion.

He flicks his wings and I’m caught off guard. Coming back to face him, he takes my hand firmly in his and he pulls me to him. His wings come around us both, sheltering us from any outside distraction. I flinched, realizing for the first time that I was a bit afraid of Michael. His normally aloof nature fostered no comfort. I closed my eyes tight until I felt him relax his grip on my wrists. I expected it to be dark when I finally looked up at this face, but there was a golden glow inside of this embrace.

I’m tall, at 5’11”, and Michael is only a few inches taller than me, although his wings tower higher. His eyes are magnificent, as dark as the deepest green at the upper edges of his wings. The most incredible part of his eyes, other than the long, golden lashes, is that his irises look alive with electricity. You don’t see this from a distance, and I suspect that it’s his current intensity that is making them active. Tiny threads of electric blue flash like a lightning storm. I make a small noise at the incredible site and it fades. I blink and look again, and see that it’s still there, just so faint that it’s no longer very noticeable.

His face is angular and severe, yet still very handsome. Sun-kissed skin, and deep golden brown hair. The cut is shaggy, and full, and falls to his shoulders. His skin holds no specific age, and yet the gentle creases in his skin can be tracked to every smile and every pain he’s ever felt. Two modes for Michael, Triumphant and Resolved. The look that he has for me now is the latter. It holds the stories of all the things he’s been asked to do and the pain of it seems to battle and nearly win. Nearly, but not totally.

Michael pulls the sword straight up out of the earth. The edges are alight with tiny flames that put off no heat. The metal is polished to an unearthly shine. He holds the broad blade up for me to see. I am mesmerized and I press up against him for comfort, but am met with only the cold brass of the armor he wears.

As I look deeper at the metal of his blade, scenes start to play. Bloody battles pass by quickly. I don’t know enough of his history to understand what I am seeing, but I can tell that it wasn’t just one battle, but many. Those scenes clear and I see a garden that brings tears to my eyes. I fight the urge to climb through the metal to be in the place that I see, but it fades too quickly and I look up at him to plead.

“I am the guard for that garden. If you stay in the sun and learn from me, I can describe it to you so that you will feel that you are there. It’s as close as I will let anyone get. You will take these stories back with you as your own.”

“I know that this isn’t a gift, Michael. If I accept, what is your price?”

“I’ve told you already the price. You will take these stories back with you as your own.”

My mind fills with voices full of questions and warnings and cries of desires. Each yammering faster and louder than the next until I slump against his cold armor once again. Michael shoves his sword into the earth once more and puts his arm around my waist to hold me. He releases my other hand and puts the cool palm of his hand on my forehead, quieting the ruckus inside.

“Why do you fear me?”

“Because you ask the question “Who is as God” and I fear my answer.”

“Make your decision.”

“I have. This is now your time and I stand willing to witness.”

“I guard Eden, I defend and protect those that ask, I command the skies. These are things you will need to do for those under your care. It’s time to train your voice.”

Michael brought his wings back, letting the natural sunlight in. The world looks crisper and in finer focus than I remember. I look back at Michael and his face has changed from Resolved and I can’t help but smile.

Copyright 2002
Debra Chaffins
All Rights Reserved

Gabriel – Part I

Saturday, April 21st, 2007

My name is Debra. I’m an artist, surgery among other things. I write, search I carve wood, glaucoma I knit/crochet/spin fiber, I cook, I create healing products, and I play with beads. It’s what I do. I create.

While I’m Hermetic and Gnostic, I’m really just a kitchen witch with a passion for herbal healing and cooking.

I used to be an IT professional. I’ve written 5 technical books and was a contributing author to about 8 others. I’ve managed IT teams worldwide. There isn’t a software program I can’t figure out. I created a technical education center that earned many awards with the staff of instructors that I hand picked.

When the pressures of corporate life insisted that my team be treated as dispensable tools, I threw in the towel and created my own business, 5th Element Products. After a year of selling my bath and body products on line, I opened a brick and mortar store. While I had 4 incredible years there, it really did suck a lot of the joy out of me. It never got to be successful enough for me to hire someone to do the parts I hated, like bookkeeping and marketing myself. I understand business, but running a retail store just isn’t what I wanted to be tied to doing. So I closed the store and went back to selling things on line, allowing myself to focus more on completing a degree in Naturopathy and developing new products.

After 2 years of floundering about,  I ended up working as the webmistress and electronic marketing person (LED signs, in branch video feeds, ATM marketing graphics) for a medium sized credit union.  While I miss being my own boss, I find that I have far more time now to do the things I love to do when I’m not at work.  It’s become the best of all worlds.

And this is where the story begins…
site sans-serif”>For someone who was known for being in control, no rx who was marked as a top before I even knew what that term meant, it was amusing to think of myself in the servitude of a bitch mistress. But she had me tethered and bound more securely than any leather cuffs and silken rope could ever achieve. She held the font of my creativity, and I was obligated to my muse.

Calliope, the muse of eloquence, was the name she was given by the Greeks. I can’t tell if this is her or not, but I know she’s a muse. I’m certain of it. And she’s the harshest of taskmasters. Fickle and disloyal, she visits only when she wants. Never when I beg, no matter how prettily I do so, because she knows that begging is not in my heart.

She wants something from me in payment for the poetry and writing she’s inspired the past few years. She’s coy. She won’t come out and tell me what it is she wants, but I know that nothing else will appease her. Her desire is apparent and I am left guessing.

It’s been so long since she’s given me any gift of prose. She’s deliberately withholding her favors while she waits for me to figure it out. She has infinite patience with me, but she’s been doing this for aeons, what’s a few years to her? I feel her smile at me, gentle yet taunting. She knows that I ache for the time when my fingers would dance with her words. I remember the feeling of words pouring forth, exact and perfect. No changes were necessary, no pauses to search for elusive words. It was all there at my fingertips.

Then she left as abruptly as she came. I searched inside myself for the ability to write. Surely I could do it without her. But the words wouldn’t come. What ended up on the pages was juvenile and tart. Nothing inspired. Nothing that was even good. I called to her and my pleas fell on deaf ears. She was gone.

I went on with my existence, only occasionally thinking of her and the times we had together. Over the last few years the ache reemerged. She got my attention by picking at my soul. Giving me a phrase when there was nothing I could do about it. In the car on my way somewhere was a favorite time of hers. I’d commit the phrase to my memory and promise to write when I got a moment. But by the time I could stop and write down my thoughts, the phrase was gone for good.

Her plucking became more obvious. I could feel that moment of divine inspiration wash over me, but it wouldn’t stay. She was reminding me of what it felt like to write. She was making sure that I knew she wasn’t done with me yet. And with every failed attempt to write, she showed me that she wanted something and that it was my task to know what it was she demanded.

There were lessons to learn. I had to realize exactly what was my inspiration. I had to let go of some destructive connections that I attributed to that glorious feeling of inspiration. I had to purge some demons. I had to break some addictions. I just didn’t realize that’s what I had done for her. I cleaned the slate. But that wasn’t what she demanded. All of those things were simply housecleaning so that I could see what I had to really offer to her.

As the idea finally forms in my mind’s eye, I can feel the warmth of her smiling behind me now. I feel the inspiration pour through my veins and out through my fingertips. She’s back. I’ve given her what she required. For now.


Copyright 2002
Debra Chaffins
All Rights Reserved

My meditation was finished. Gabriel put her hand on my shoulder, what is ed
startling me. In all the years that I’ve called upon her to guard and protect me, patient
she’s never truly acknowledged me, only performed the tasks as is her duty. Tonight, she reached out.

“I want you to tell my story.”

“But I don’t know your story.”

“Start by telling what you do know about me, all of your observations. This is a journey and you will tell my story as you know it.”

I feel like I know so very little about this angel. I always thought that the angels were male, but Gabriel is the androgynous one. She sports short, tousled hair, reflecting the golds and reds of the setting sun. Her robes cover any real hint of her figure. Her limbs are long and slender.

Looking at her sweet face, one understands Angelic Beauty. Her eyes are the color of the seas, ever changing with her moods. They brew a stormy grey of the sea at turmoil when she’s angry; a tranquil Caribbean blue when she’s at peace.

Her skin is perfection, and I long to run a finger along her chiseled jawline. I want to trace her features with my hand to burn them into my mind. I see her eyes look at my hands, then return slowly to meet mine. She silently gives me her permission.

Tentatively, I reach out and place just my fingertips on her cheek. I am surprised to find her face chilled. She reaches up and puts her cool hand over mind, pressing her face against my hand. Her eyes close and a gentle smile spread over her lips. She’s drawing my warmth into her and in return I am feeling her divine beauty coursing through my entire soul.

She opens her eyes and I take my hand away. Her smile fades just slightly as she sees that I am nearly overwhelmed. She nods for me to continue her story.

Gabriel’s robes are also the color of the ocean. A brilliant blue that calls to mind photos of the earth from space. The fabric reflects flame colored highlights from the setting sun. Every movement of the azure cloth catches an orange shimmer.

She shows me the clear blue chalice she is bound to hold in her duties. I realize it’s not glass, but a cup carved from aquamarine. It’s partially filled with the waters from every ocean. Miniature waves crash and tumble in the crystal chalice.

Gabriel flexes her wings and my attention is abruptly brought to her most amazing feature. High above her head they arch and flutter. Enormous wings of pristine snow white feathers. Her wings are tipped with a fire that does not consume. The bottom edges of both wings are edged with crimson and copper flames that spark and drip, giving the impression that she has just walked out of the fiery sun to be with me.

I am standing so close to Gabriel as I breathe in the scent of her. Night blooming jasmine, woodsy sandalwood and a hint of sweet lemon mingle and tantalize. I step closer to her, putting my head on her shoulder. Her wings rise up and forward and encompass us both as she whispers more of her story to me, one hand gently stroking my hair and keeping me still.


Copyright 2003 Debra Chaffins
All Rights Reserved