Don’t Liberate Me, I’ll Liberate Myself

“So this week …” Deborah explained haltingly “ … I am in doubt about how to help my daughter again.”

And that’s an understatement if there ever was one, she thought, and allowed herself to glance for the clairvoyant counselor’s reaction. 

“Go on,” the other woman said with professional gentleness. 

Deborah Sawyer pulled her legs even more up in the softly cushioned curving chair and attempted to look relaxed like this was a normal clairvoyance therapy session. On the other side of a small wooden table with a single candlelight on was Mieleeka Mountaindaughter seated in a similar chair. The latter with considerably greater regal posture.

“I don’t know where to start,” Deborah admitted. 

Mieleeka nodded patiently “Start at the beginning.”

Deborah frowned. It was like she was having another bout of migraine, but what about those damn pills … ?

From outside the window came the sound of someone roller skating at great speed and someone else walking by and talking about where to eat, and a hundred other muffled echoes of life at Long Beach. 

It made for a weird contrast to the incense-smelling room with all the crystals and Mieleeka’s oil painting of the Archangel Metatron on the wall behind the counselor. It was a channeled painting and Deborah had always thought it looked like a bunch of waves crossed with a lotus flower, but for years now she had had firm experiences with the seven Planes of Existence, so who was Deb to argue? She had long since accepted that not everything in the spiritual realm looked like a Hollywood movie.

Or what they force-fed you in Latter Day Saints primary school.

They were both women in their early 60s, Deborah still slender, dressing like she did twenty years earlier, short jeans and a top because it was Californian summer. She kept her curly hair long despite the silver cropping up every time she looked in the mirror. But that was one battle she had given up on early. There was so much else to fight for … 

Mieleeka in contrast had cut her hair very short, and, Deborah suspected, still dyed it more reddish than it was. She was a shapely woman, who seemed to feel good about it, although she always wore long, flowing, sari-like dresses, which hid most of her curves. And then there was the jewelry.

Deborah thought Mieleeka probably had a ring or an earring or a necklace for any occasion, and for any kind of connection you’d want to make with the various planes beyond the material.

“You know almost everything there is to know about Carrie and my grandson,” Deborah said, at length.

“But I want to hear it again, with the feelings that are important to you this week.” Mieleeka smiled.

Deborah opened and closed her fists. “Okay, so the way I see it things have reached a point of no return for my daughter. She got clean, she married, she had Emma and Michael. But because of her … mistakes, she never got to do what she really wanted.”

“But now there is a chance.” A thin smile crossed the seer’s lips.

Deborah fidgeted with the only ring she had. “Yes. But it’s probably now or never. I finally got Marcus convinced to get Carrie in the Program, as a kind of special case. They could use it for publicity before expanding it and promoting it more heavily.”

Mieleeka nodded, “Ah, I remember: you get a certain sum up front and then you take part in one of their courses and see what you can make of it. Kind of like an angel investor situation, but for real people – with real needs.” Her lips twitched a bit as if she was about to say something more, but it didn’t happen.

Instead, she took a piece of a mountain crystal from her bag and put it on the table between them.

“I think we should start the session now,” she said. “What do you most want to know from our lord Metatron at this time?”

Deborah leaned forward in the curving chair. This was what she had been waiting for. Whatever you could say about Mieleeka she had an uncanny connection to the angelic realms. Deborah couldn’t count the clairvoyance sessions where she had walked away feeling utterly astounded by the insights Mieleeka had provided on her situation, via Lord Metatron and others.

Mieleeka also took a vial of white essence from her bag and put a few drops on her fingers which she waved in the air in a predetermined pattern. Then finally she put a drop on her brow and closed her eyes. “Tell our lord Metatron what is on your mind and in your heart.”

Deborah twisted the ring back and forth “Ah, okay … so it’s like this: I really wish my daughter would go back to drawing and maybe rebuild her art studio. But Carrie keeps … talking about how little she can do for herself, even with more money, because she has to take care of my grandson.”

“And because of Michael’s autism,” Mieleeka added, eyes still closed.

“ … Yes.” Deborah took the ring off and clenched it in her hand. “I’m tired of saying it, but it’s there and I have to confront it: There is no cure for autism … at least not something recognized by traditional science. So I was wondering … “

“What were you wondering?” Something seemed to glow now on Mieleeka’s cheeks.

Maybe it was just because it was noon and the temperature outside was pushing 80. Despite the shade in the room, and the droning of the air conditioning, Deborah felt her own jeans and blouse cling to her skin. She searched for the words.

“I, uhm, was wondering if there is some kind of spiritual … way to help Michael with his autism? Something we haven’t tried yet?”

“So your daughter could spend the money on that … ” Mieleeka inquired slowly “ … or so her son could get so much better, that she could get more time to spend the money on her art?”

“I guess I’m asking about both.” Deborah felt restless. She heard some tourists chatter in French outside. 

God, how she missed Paris. Even the cobblestones… 

“I’ll try to tune in  …” Mieleeka seemed to stop breathing for a long moment. 

Finally, she inhaled.  “Lord Metatron says that … there are ways, but your grandson is not ready for them yet. Nor is your daughter for that matter.”

“What ways?” Deborah clenched her fists again. “And how long will I have to wait?”

“Lord Metatron is silent on this matter. I am sorry, Deborah. You will have to find out for yourself in your own good time.”

“I’m 63—I don’t have as much time as I used to, you know!”

“I’m sorry, but sometimes it’s like this,” Mieleeka said. “Like when you asked about your relationship with Marcus … ”

Deborah stood up abruptly as if somebody had placed a needle in one of the cushions. The chair almost keeled over, as she angrily fumbled for her own bag, which she had parked somewhere below it.

“I thought I could get something more … You usually give me a lot more.” She stared at Mieleeka with a mixture of desperation and despair.

“You are angry.” Mieleeka’s smooth voice stated it as a fact.

“You are right, I’m angry. That’s not good enough – that … that information. There has to be more!”

“There isn’t.”

“Well, great.” Deborah shook her head in disbelief, as she tried to position the strap from her bag so it didn’t bite into her naked shoulder.

“You have come here for a long time now,” Mieleeka said calmly, “getting free readings. It was part of our agreement. Most of the time you have been happy with the information you got, even though it was very little—as you well know can often be the way of the spirit world.”

The strap on Deborah’s bag snapped. “—Goddammit!”

“Deborah …” Mieleeka started.

“—I’ll say ‘goddammit’ in my own apartment!” Deborah grabbed the bag again and rolled the broken strap around one of her wrists like a whip. 

For a moment none of the women spoke.

“I’m sorry … ” Deborah tried to breathe normally, but the stinging in her head was already getting worse.

“I will ask again,” Mieleeka said, closing her eyes once more.

Deborah waited anxiously, hoping there would be one last bit of advice. She had often prayed to Him, and some of the other angelic masters. Directly, personally, with all the passion she could muster. Maybe He would feel some compassion for her in this situation?

“He says you must have faith,” Mieleeka said quietly.

“‘Faith’?” Deborah was flabbergasted.”Faith is for gospel singers and all the others who take everything in their religion at face value. I want to know.”

“Sometimes you have to be ready to have a certain experience,” Mieleeka said, “to have a certain knowledge.”

“I’d better go now.” Deborah turned and headed towards the street door.

“If you want me to move out—” Mieleeka started.

Deborah stopped with her hand on the handle. “I don’t want you out. I just need … time to think.”

“When is your daughter coming to visit?” Mieleeka asked.

“I’m going to pick them up at the airport now.”

“I am sorry, Deborah. We have known each other for so long. I wish there was more I could do.”

Deborah didn’t answer that. She went out on the stairway and then down to the drive that ran along the beach where she was almost hit by another pair of skating youngsters.

Deborah gave them the finger and crossed the drive to the parking lot on the other side. Once there she zigzagged with defiance between moving cars to find her own SUV (well, Marcus’ SUV but … ).

She pulled out the keys from her damaged bag and started up. On a whim, she also turned on the radio.

They played an old pop song. She recognized the band from way back when she had lived with Carrie’s father. Carrie had loved that band. She had wanted to be like the lead singer. But it was a short-lived dream. The band broke up after a few years. Carrie the between-ager was devastated. No more singing with the hair dryer in front of the mirror.

They had even been to a concert in Glasgow, though Deborah had thought Carrie was too young back then, but one of the few good things Calum had done was to convince her that it would be great for their daughter, and of course, the girl had loved every minute.

Deborah let it play while she followed Ocean Boulevard like a hunter looking for the on-ramp to the freeway. Unlike Carrie, and her late stepbrother, Tim, she had never really been a super fan of any kind of popular music. In fact, Deborah took silent pride in being a bit of a pop and rock musical dunce.

It was probably predestined. Her first job had been waiting tables in New York where she one day had served John and Yoko without recognizing them until her boss pointed out who they were.

That’s what a solitary upbringing in Mormon land would do for you …

However, she didn’t hate popular music, even if she had mostly been listening to chanting and the like since the early 1970s.

Music wasn’t an enemy, unlike certain religions. It just did not matter enough.

Except when it connected to something that did. Like Carrie’s happiness or that impossibly young singer switching to French after the chorus and reminding Deborah of the first time she felt really free.

No, all that mattered was change, and what you could do to change things. And there was always something. Marcus had chided her at the beginning of their relationship for being a dreamer, someone who’d rather sit on her arse and meditate until a new life manifested itself right in front of her.

Or just sit and feel sorry for herself, like she suspected many people did when they replaced the worship of religion with the worship of some artist or other.

But Marcus had learned soon enough that that wasn’t the truth about her.

Deborah Sawyer was a change agent. She knew she was here on Earth for a purpose. She had long suspected that it was so. Now she just had to find out exactly what it was, so she could fulfill it before it was too late.

And if there was one certain thing above all, it had to be that no purpose would be complete without the happiness of her daughter. Or her grandson.

But the angels just weren’t ready yet. Fine. Who could question that?

As usual, she’d just have to start it all herself.


Photo by Julia Kadel on Unsplash


Last edited 8 Sep 2023