Every year for Samhain I publish accounts of my more charged, and in some cases creepy, spiritual pursuits. The Dead Time is a treasured journey to Solstice, and as it is a time of untime, the shadowed season presents a great opportunity to tell the stories that many who do shamanic work won’t tell–the occasions when things don’t go well or the unseen presents itself unexpectedly. You may recognize some of these accounts from my previous stories, while others are more recent. Enjoy the solitude of the darkness, and know the light will soon warm!
A phenomena well-known to the mystical community made widely popular by the film Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is that of ancient skulls honed from precious and semi-precious gemstones. Found scattered throughout Central America and Mexico, a particular set of thirteen crystal skulls thought to be the ancient relics of tribal mystics have been interpreted many ways. Some say they are connected to the Mayans and will serve a purpose in cosmic unity at the end of the Long Count in 2012. Some say they are metaphors for holographic consciousness, devices for divination and higher awareness. Others say that they were hand delivered from space beings for some collective purpose yet undetermined. The conjecture is endless. What is known is that these gems are between 5,000 and 36,000 years old, most are carved from a single crystal block (a feat modern technology has yet to reproduce), they are priceless, and my partner and I did a session with one in 2003.
I had read about the crystal skulls a few years earlier in The Mystery of the Crystal Skulls: Unlocking the Secrets of the Past, Present, and Future,by Chris Morton and Ceri Louise Thomas, a book that I selected out of mere curiosity and interest in crystals.
Max, the Crystal Skull
“Max, the Crystal Skull,” as it is known, is in the possession of JoAnn Parks of Texas, and is from time-to-time made available for private readings and sessions. When I learned that Max would be visiting the Triangle Area I leapt at the opportunity to do a private session.
In private home Max was displayed rather dramatically on a lighted pedestal; however, we were left alone to work with it for an hour. We sat before the skull on chairs that had been dutifully placed for its audience, staring intently at the vacant, sightless sockets. Seconds after sitting I developed an intense migraine. I touched Max and my palms warmed, tingling lightly after I withdrew them. I focused on relaxing and altered my breath pattern. I called in my guides and any aspects of Max that would want to communicate then slid into a light trance. Sitting with my paper and pen ready, I began to hear a male voice. It told me to sit with both feet flat on the floor and to press my palms together in prayer position. When I did, for the first time since I’d been in a car crash two years prior I felt no pain or discomfort in my body. The migraine dissipated.
I sat in trance a few more minutes enjoying the comfort of my body when a creature stood up out of the skull. It appeared as a naked aboriginal man whose body was completely covered in a white powdery substance that had hints of silver and dark blue mixed in. Small leaves the size of an ivy leaf grew from his flesh, and they, too, were powdery white. He danced in front of us, then moved in a circle around us, silently. His energy was elemental, though not one that I recognized. He felt the same age as Max.
After about 20-30 minutes of playing congregation I decided to lie on the floor a few feet away from Max. Trance facilitation is best for me when lying, so I assumed my usual pose. As soon as I was flat on the floor, the voice started yammering away in rapid-fire stream of conscious touching on topics that were on my mind. I hadn’t time to set an intention or direct the interaction in any way, but the influx was intriguing. Ever the scribe I stopped trying to listen to Max and wrote as fast as I could.
I didn’t come away with secret information on Max or his origin. Its purpose and that of its cohorts remains a mystery. In the spirit of honoring that ancient puzzle I share an excerpt of its words to me:
“Kelley, take heed in your own guidance, your own council—the world is small and your space in it large. This love knows. This love grows. Understand that your role in exactness is simple—live. Live in everything that you do. Do not be hindered by the trivial ties, for you are bound to nothing. There is nothing you cannot do. You will write this all. You have written it all. Please hear your own voice in what you say. You have chosen it, the tool, the words. It is uncommon, such devotion. Never doubt this. You are dear.
Let your body free its chains to stricture and common. You know its rivers’ sanctity and holding are deep with fervor.”
