Entering the House of Spirits, or: Time-Walking

A little girl haunts me here in Tucson. She varies in age from 6 to 9 years old, but appears the same to all mediums and psychics who pick up on her: Long blonde hair. Sad face. Wears a dress. Needs love.

I call her Little Angie.

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Dark Goddess Tarot by Ellen Lorenzi-Prince

Dark Goddess Tarot by Ellen Lorenzi-Prince

Stuffed into an airplane window seat with canned air blowing on my head and my hips spilling over into the stranger next to me, I opened the Dark Goddess Tarot app on my phone to begin the October Divination Challenge. The first prompt we developed: “What do I need to focus on most when it comes to connecting with spirits?”

The idea was to lead folks through any fear or resistance they may have in regard to working with spirits, and to do so during October, when the veil between worlds is thinnest. I speak to spirits regularly—I’m an animist, which means I believe everything has a spirit—so I wasn’t sure I really “needed” to do the challenge. But hey, it was developed by me and the badass witches of my business, so I should participate, right?

On the flight from the San Jose airport to Tucson, I clicked “draw a card,” and waited. Artemis, the Amazon of Earth appeared. The first words on the description gave me chills: “Care for the little ones. Defend those who cannot defend themselves. Teach strength through example.”

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I got married this past weekend. I got married this past weekend, to a woman. I got married this past weekend, to a woman, where Little Angie grew up. I got married this past weekend, to a woman, where Little Angie grew up—in an evangelical, fundamentalist anti-gay Christian family that provided fertile ground for abusers to take advantage of Little Angie.

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When you have PTSD (or Complex PTSD, as I do), sometimes time does weird things. Sometimes you dissociate. Sometimes, you go back in time to the trauma. Sometimes, you don’t know just where in time you are. This happens seemingly spontaneously. A previous doctor of mine called them flashbacks—I literally believe I am back in the time and space of danger. Our western medicine tells us that this is a disorder, a disease, a wrongness.

What if it’s a possibility?

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I traveled back in time this weekend. My mentor calls it Kairos Magick. I call it time-walking. Usually it happens in my living room or bedroom; I detach from my now-me body and travel backward or forward in time. Usually it’s during this lifetime. I call it time-walking—and not a PTSD flashback—when I engage in the activity purposefully.

I’ve decided this is possible because time must not be linear. The best I can explain it in limited human vocabulary is that time folds in on itself. I suspect everything that’s ever happened or ever could happen exists in any given moment. Yeah, it’s too much for the human brain to handle. I just accept it, and go with it.

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This weekend, Little Angie pushed me to take my wife to Garland Ranch, a park where Little Angie spent a lot of time growing up. Garland Ranch is a 4,000-acre regional park nestled in the Carmel Valley along California’s central coast in the Monterey Bay area. It’s mostly grassland, the steep sloped above the Carmel River dotted with ubiquitous California Live Oak. The river provides a shady oasis and plenty of swimming holes.

Similar to what Little Angie remembered of the pond.

Similar to what Little Angie remembered of the pond.

Specifically, Little Angie wanted me to take my wife to Fern Pond at Garland Ranch. In my memories—that is, Big Angie’s or Now-me’s memories—Fern Pond was a quiet and still pond tucked away in a back recess of Garland Ranch, the pond a magickal place of peace and solitude.

In Little Angie’s memories, Fern Pond was associated with a particular perpetrator in her life. Now-me can’t quite parse if the perpetrator was at the park that day with Little Angie’s family, or if the trip to Fern Pond happened while Little Angie was in the thick of the abuse. Regardless, Fern Pond was a magickal respite from what was going on. Little Angie begged her parents to return to Fern Pond many times over the years, and they always demurred. Little Angie kept telling Big Angie that we had to go back, and we had to “sit on the bench on the other side of the pond, where the peace was.” This was important to Little Angie. And dammit, Now-me was gonna honor her request as best I could.

As I hiked up the trail this weekend, my overweight body out of shape due to two surgeries this year, I huffed and puffed to my wife, “I don’t recall it being this steep!” I worried about my most recent surgery and the fact that I was probably overdoing things.

The actual Fern Pond.

The actual Fern Pond.

My wife laughed. I envied her easy pace and lack of hard breathing. Perhaps the incline was why my parents never returned to the spot.

I saw the top of the hill where the pond was nestled and pointed, grunting and gesturing, “There.”

When we crested the hill, we were greeted by flies. Hundreds of flies. And a worn-out, desiccated pond covered in algae scum and surrounded by mud—nothing like the fairy-tale beauty of a secret garden or hidden spot of peace.





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A few months ago, the grocery store aisles were crushing me, like the giant trash compactor in Star Wars— one of the original Star Wars, where Leia and maybe Chewbacca get trapped and have to get out. I couldn’t breathe. I was grieving. I was sober. I was desperately wanting alcohol to numb the emotions that threatened to tear me apart. My grip on reality was tenuous. So I decided to use it to my advantage, and I began to call on Future-me, the Future-me who was stable and sober and in a place to provide care and nurturing for me. At the same time, I kept reminding myself to not forget to come back and help; this would only work if Future-me remembered to return. Future-me provided an energetic container for me to keep Now-me together and finish grocery shopping without sliding out of time—or buying alcohol.

A few days later, my strength replenished, I entered a trance state and traveled back to Then-me to provide that energetic container. Both Then-me (formerly Now-me) and Now-me (formerly Future-me) were relieved. It worked.

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Now-me sat on the bench Little Angie wanted us to sit on. The flies buzzed at my head. The pond was gross. Disgusting. I could feel my lip and nose begin to curl.

And then I felt Little Angie. Goosebumps traveled across my skin—a personal indicator of energy connection and spirit work—and I felt her satisfaction. Yes, this place wasn’t the movie-perfect version of the pond Little Angie had augmented in her memories, but it was still the place. I honored her need. I brought her back.

For a moment, I existed in both times. I was Now-me on the bench with my wife next to me, and I was Little Angie. We felt heard. We felt recognized. We knew we were at peace, we knew we were going to be okay even through the events that were occurring, BECAUSE Now-me came back to provide Then-me with the safety and security Future-me could provide.

Future-me and Future-wife.

Caring for the little ones. Showing strength through example.

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Join the House of Spirits event at the end of October, where you can receive a reading not only from Angie, but also Serendipity Wyrd, and the incomparable Dr. Cyndi Brannen.

Angie Brown Knight-Reiter is the founder of Geology of the Soul. She is a queer psychic Tarot reader and Soul Coach who cheerleads her clients to their empowered best. Book a reading with her today, or sign up for her upcoming Tarot + Self-Care for the Holidays Group Coaching Package.