Телеграм канал «Abby Wynne»

If you want to watch something beautiful today watch this.

https://youtu.be/P6iTkTyN0QY?is=girA3HkQIGggl0ba

Reflective blessing
By Andrew Smith


May truth shine brightly before you,
revealing pathways that resonate with the wisdom of your heart.
May insight arrive with ease,
bringing clarity, confidence, and a deep sense of direction.

May your desires align with what nourishes your spirit,
what enriches your life,
and what calls forth your finest qualities.
May every choice draw you closer to what is genuine,
meaningful, and enduring.

May self-esteem grow steadily within you,
rooted in the recognition of your inherent worth.
May you delight in your gifts,
honour your experiences,
and trust the unique perspective that you bring to the world.

May your presence carry a quiet confidence,
a confidence born of authenticity and self-knowledge.
May your voice express your truth with grace,
and may your actions reflect the richness of your values.

May freedom accompany you throughout these days:
freedom to create,
freedom to choose,
freedom to love,
freedom to explore,
and freedom to become ever more fully yourself.

And may you walk forward with a light heart,
a clear mind,
and a spirit that recognises abundance, beauty, and opportunity wherever you go.

Be like this tree and take a moment to stand tall in the fullness of who you are. Notice how that feels inside.

There are many pressures on us that make us shrink & keep parts of ourselves hidden. We give our personal power away to others, often without realising that we are doing it.

When we become aware of what we are doing we can start to change things. We can heal the parts that are wounded and learn to call back our power so we CAN stand in that fullness of who we are.

When you train to be a Life Mastery Practitioner you start by healing those inner wounds. You learn how to come back into your power and then how you can support clients to do the same.

If you are interested in learning more the link is in the bio. We open the doors for applications to join our next co-hort soon.

Https://www.lifemasterypractitionerschool.com

And not because I claim to have answers.

After all these years, I still don't know exactly who—or what—we encountered on that long-ago night beneath the stars.
I only know how it felt.
It felt kind.
It felt wise.
And somehow...it felt familiar.

Perhaps the universe is far more alive than we have imagined. Perhaps consciousness extends far beyond the narrow boundaries we have drawn around it.

Perhaps the same Creator who fashioned the stars, the oceans, and the pelicans diving into the sea has filled the cosmos with forms of life and intelligence we have barely begun to understand.

Or perhaps this story is not really about beings from distant worlds. Perhaps it is about remembering that we live in a sacred and enchanted universe.

Perhaps it is about realizing that mystery is not something to be feared, but something to be embraced. And perhaps it is about understanding that we are never truly alone.

Lately, I have felt a subtle shift in the frequencies around us—a quiet stirring, as though humanity is standing at the threshold of something new.

The old certainties are crumbling, and the walls between worlds seem thinner than they once were.

Whatever unfolds in the months and years ahead, I believe one thing above all else:

We are being invited to expand.
To open.
To wonder.
To remember.
And perhaps, like I did on that quiet country road nearly fifty years ago, we are being asked to lift our eyes to the heavens, open our arms, and whisper one simple word—

"Welcome."

Because maybe the greatest discovery awaiting humanity is not that we are being visited.

Maybe it is that we are finally becoming ready to recognize that we belong to something infinitely larger, infinitely wiser, and infinitely more wondrous than we have ever dared to imagine.

And perhaps, in the end, all true encounters—whether with angels, signs, ancestors, or beings among the stars—have always been leading us toward the same realization:

That love is the universal language.

And that the time is now.

And perhaps there is one more thing I have come to understand.
On that long-ago night, one young woman stood beneath the stars with her arms lifted to the heavens, opening herself to the mystery.

And one young husband stood beside an old pickup truck, pulling on his beard, eating peanuts, and making sure his wife got home safely.

One was opening to the mystery.
The other was anchoring it.

And perhaps, looking back, both were expressions of love.
To me, that may be the greatest miracle of all.

He was leaning against the truck, nervously pulling on his beard—a habit he had whenever he was anxious—and calmly eating peanuts.

Looking back, I think that was simply David's way of staying grounded in the midst of the unimaginable.

Even now, remembering it makes me smile.

I turned back toward the craft and suddenly felt something I can only describe as a telepathic connection—as though soft tendrils of awareness were gently reaching into my mind.

There was nothing frightening about it.

The feeling was loving.
Kind.
Gentle.
Curious.

Silently, I thought, "If you can hear my thoughts, blink your lights."

The lights blinked.

At that moment, my thoughts drifted back to a near-death experience I had endured as a teenager. It had been called a miracle that I survived. Ever since then, I had wondered why I had been spared.

Perhaps I had been saved for a reason.
Perhaps I was meant to be of service.

As the connection deepened, one prayer repeated itself within me:
Help me be of service to others.
Help me be of service to others.
Help me be of service to others.

I knew—absolutely knew—that whatever intelligence was present could hear my plea.

Then, in the stillness of the night, we heard the distant hum of a small airplane. Immediately, the lights around the craft disappeared.

Instead, a red light and a green light flashed—perfect imitations of the position lights of an ordinary aircraft. And then, with breathtaking speed, it silently shot upward and vanished into the heavens.

David and I stood speechless.

After a few moments, I felt another unmistakable nudge.
Whatever intelligence had been present seemed to want us to continue down that lonely road.

But David had reached the limits of what felt comfortable and prudent to him.

"I'm not doing it," he said gently but firmly. "I don't know what that was, but I think we've seen enough. We're going home."

I was frustrated.

As he started the truck, I reluctantly climbed in beside him, and during the drive back to San Francisco, we had perhaps the biggest disagreement of our fifty-three years together.

At the time, I thought he was simply afraid. But looking back all these years later, I can appreciate his caution. We had no framework for understanding what we had witnessed, and he was doing what loving husbands often do—trying to keep us safe.

While I felt that whatever we had encountered was kind and wise, David felt that caution was needed.

Perhaps we were both right.

The next morning, however, we made up.

And two hours later, I knew I was pregnant.

I knew it with such certainty that I went outside and announced it to the elderly Italian women who gathered every morning on the front steps of our apartment building to sun themselves and chat. They were delighted. Though I wasn't even two weeks pregnant, they immediately began bringing me baby gifts.

Here's the extraordinary part.

Because of the severe injuries from my near-death experience, doctors had warned me never to become pregnant. They said that if I did, I should terminate the pregnancy because carrying a child would likely kill me.

But after that night, I knew.

I knew everything would be all right.

And it was.

Without that encounter, I never would have dared become pregnant. I would never have had our magnificent daughter, a being filled with integrity, compassion, and grace.

And we would never have been blessed with our two beautiful grandchildren.

Looking back across the decades, I have come to realize that perhaps the greatest miracle of that night was not what appeared in the sky. It was what appeared in my heart.

For in that silent encounter beneath the stars, I discovered something I have spent the rest of my life trying to honor—that we live in a universe infinitely more mysterious, more compassionate, and more wondrous than we can possibly imagine.

And that when we approach the unknown with humility, curiosity, and love, life has a way of revealing miracles we never knew were possible.

Why am I sharing this story now?

Not because I need anyone to believe me.

From Denise Lin on Facebook

The Time Is Now

(I apologize in advance for the length of this post.)

There are moments in life that divide time into before and after. Moments so extraordinary that they become woven into the deepest fabric of our souls. Moments that forever alter the course of our lives and expand our understanding of what it means to be human in a mysterious and living universe.

This is the story of one such night.

I don't expect you to believe what I'm about to tell you. In truth, if someone else told me this story, I might have difficulty believing it myself.

Yet what I am about to share is absolutely true.

This happened nearly fifty years ago, and even after all these years, it remains the single most remarkable event of my life. It profoundly changed our lives forever.

David and I were newly married and living in San Francisco. One Saturday, we drove north along the coast so David could fish at the mouth of Alder Creek. While he cast his line into the river, I spent the afternoon sitting on a cliff above him, watching pelicans plunge into the sea. The air was soft, the sky brilliant, and my heart was full.

As the sun sank into the western horizon in a blaze of gold and crimson, David's joy matched my own. He had just caught his first steelhead.

By the time we packed our old 1956 Ford truck and began the drive home along the winding Jenner coast, darkness had settled over the ocean. Above us stretched an endless tapestry of stars. Sitting on the ocean side of the truck, I gazed out over the sea, marveling at the beauty of creation and feeling profoundly grateful to be alive.

Then I noticed something strange.

One "star" wasn't behaving like a star at all.

It would stop. Then dart forward. Stop again. And then make an impossible ninety-degree turn, moving from above the ocean toward the land.

"David," I said, "there's a star that's acting strangely."

"Huh?"

"It keeps stopping and changing directions."

He barely looked up from the road.

But after watching it for several minutes, an unexpected certainty arose within me.

"David, I think it wants us to turn around."

"Are you kidding?" he replied. "It's late. We've got a long drive home."

Yet the conviction inside me only grew stronger.

"We have to turn around."

After much grumbling and more than a little skepticism, David reluctantly swung the truck around.

And then the light moved.

Now it appeared on the inland side of the road. Again, it would stop abruptly, then move farther inland.

"Oh my God," I whispered. "It wants us to go inland."

"What?"

"Don't ask me how I know. I just know."

From where he sat, David still hadn't seen what I was seeing, and understandably, he was skeptical.

Then, almost as if by design, a narrow country road appeared.

"There!" I exclaimed. "We need to turn down that road!"

David swerved onto the small road, and suddenly the light was directly ahead of us. It still appeared like a brilliant star—but now he could see it too.

The atmosphere inside the truck became very quiet.

Finally, David pulled to the side of the road.

"I'm not going any farther."

"We have to."

"No."

"You're afraid," I said.

Almost sheepishly, he smiled and replied, "No, I'm just tired, and it's late."

From his perspective, we had already ventured far beyond what made sense, and looking back, I can't really blame him. He was trying to be practical while I was being pulled by something I couldn't explain.

Still, I wasn't ready to leave.

So I climbed out of the truck and walked into the middle of the field.

Standing beneath the stars, I lifted my arms toward the heavens and simply said,

"Welcome." (I didn't know what else to do.)

Instantly, the light—which had seemed as distant as the stars themselves—silently surged downward.

Within seconds, it hovered just above the trees.

It was enormous, perhaps thirty or forty feet across, unmistakably saucer-shaped, with lights glowing around its rim.

And it made no sound whatsoever. None. It simply floated there in the night.

I turned back toward David.

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