Private: “The Garden Island”

“The Garden Island,” Calliope speaks softly, her voice carrying the weight of ages. “I see how it marked the beginning of something profound in your journey. The seeds planted there would grow into the very foundation of the Mythica, would they not?”

Peter’s eyes reflect the dancing light as he nods. “Yes, exactly. It was there, on Kauai, that I first began to truly understand the relationship between the Land and our own consciousness. The island herself was my teacher – through the Huna training with Serge King, through the bite of the millipede, through every step along the Na Pali coast.”

Calliope waves her hand through the light, sending ripples across the surface of memory. “Tell me about the documentation. I see you beginning to use your camera as more than just a tool for capturing images…”

Anini Beach

The White Magicians

“This was a significant synchronicity,” Peter indicates the photograph hovering between them. “After arriving on Kauai for Serge King’s workshop, I needed a place to stay. The way opened to share space with these two remarkable magicians near Anini Beach.”

Calliope leans closer to study the image, noting the white-bearded elder in his light clothing and the woman with flowing hair, both captured in a moment of warmth and laughter. “Tell me about these practitioners of Huna.”

“They were an elder couple, both students of the Huna tradition, attending the same workshop with Serge. The synchronicity of finding accommodation with fellow magicians studying the ancient Hawaiian spiritual arts… it was perfect. Their home near Anini Beach became more than just a place to stay – it was a gathering point for magical discourse and shared wisdom.”

“A beautiful example of how the Path provides exactly what’s needed,” Calliope observes, studying the comfortable familiarity captured in the scene. “The sharing of food, of space, of knowledge…”

“Yes,” Peter nods. “Such moments reveal the orchestration beneath the surface. Here I was, studying the subtle arts of Huna, and the land herself provided shelter with others walking the same path. It was another demonstration of the synchronicity that defines our journey when we’re aligned with our purpose.”

The Huna Technique

“Who’s this?” Calliope asks, looking at a bearded man wearing a hawaiian shirt.

“Serge King.” replies Peter. “He was the primary teacher of the course I was taking, revealing the techniques of Huna style magic that he’d studied during his time on the island.”

“Interesting” said Calliope, her hair blowing gently with an unseen tropical breeze as she gazed at the photo. “What made it significant on your story?”

Peter answered without pause. “Story. He presented the idea that we could look at our magic in terms of adventure. It was something that appealed to me greatly. The style felt familiar to me, resonating with my elemental relationship with what they call “the Aina”, the spirit of the Land. As he taught us the techniques, he imparted certain phrases, certain ways the Huna tradition related to the process of energy work. It was the first time I heard the term ‘aka threads’, something that would influence me deeply on the Quest to come.”

“It was the first time i’d encountered the idea that one could take a bunch of people through a training in the mystic arts, charging them good money to listen to lectures on techniques and do some basic somatic work” said Peter. “It inspired me. I saw that it was something that I could do myself at some point.”

“So …. this was the moment when you realized you could get paid to teach people the magic.” she said, marking a note on her book, and he nodded.

The Sacred Talkstory

The floating image shifts, revealing a warm interior scene of a small Hawaiian house. Several people gather around an elder, his weathered hands weaving intricate patterns with strings, creating complex designs that seem to pulse with meaning. “Pretty,” Calliope observes, her fingers tracing the edges of the holographic image. “It reminds me of the constellations in the stars – each thread a story, each knot a moment of connection.”

Peter nods, a familiar light of remembrance in his eyes. “It was my first encounter with ‘talkstory’ – the Hawaiian concept of mo’olelo, where story, legend, and history intertwine as one.” He pauses, then adds softly, “It sang in my heart, like a memory both ancient and yet to come.” Calliope’s gaze deepens, her voice taking on the resonance of countless ages. “Stories are the true language of consciousness,” she says, her words filling the luminous space of the Akashic Library. “Facts are merely the skeleton, but myths are the living flesh of understanding. They carry the vibration of truth beyond the limitations of linear time and rational thought. In these woven narratives, in these strings of connection, we find the real map of existence – not in what happened, but in what always happens. The eternal patterns that dance through human experience, threading together the cosmic tapestry of meaning.”

Offering to the Dragon

Calliope studied the glowing image of Peter dancing with the fire-sword, the arc of flames casting its light across the sand and merging with the darkness of the night. She turned to Peter, her gaze alight with curiosity. “You seem so… alive here,” she remarked. “What were you feeling in that moment?”

Peter’s gaze focused into the memory. “There was magic here,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “An ancient power that sang from the beaches and the oceans. I could feel it, thrumming beneath my skin. In honor of that, I brought out my fire-sword, adding the magic of Fire to the mix. The dance, the light—it wasn’t just a performance. It was a way of connecting, of stepping into rhythm with the land itself. The flickering flames felt alive, and even though I didn’t think of it at the time, the sigil of the Dragon was present—a harbinger of what was to come along my Path.”

Calliope tilted her head, considering his words. “Did you sense the elements? The connection between them and the people?”

Peter nodded, his gaze distant as he continued. “Even then, at this early point in the Quest, I had the sensation that there was a relationship between the elements of the land and the people who walked upon it. The very substance of the island—the water, the air, the earth—felt tied to the essence of those who lived there. Just as I was wielding Fire, others seemed to resonate with Water, Air, or Earth. It wasn’t something I fully understood, but I could feel it, like threads connecting all of us through the land itself. The dance was my way of honoring that connection, of weaving my energy into the larger tapestry.”

The Ancient Wisdom

Peter’s hand moves across an image that shimmers with primal energy, his fingers tracing the outline of an old memory. “It was on the Garden Island,” he begins, his voice carrying the weight of an intimate encounter. “I was lying in my bed, somewhere deep in the jungle of Kauai, when I felt the first crawl of legs against my skin. A millipede – ancient and deliberate – moving across my back with a precision that felt almost calculated.”

Calliope leans forward, her blue robes shifting like water around her. “And in that moment?” she prompts, sensing there is more to this encounter than a simple insect bite. Peter’s eyes grow distant, reflecting the golden light of the Akashic Library. “The heat of its bite entered me like a transmission,” he says softly, “and suddenly I was flooded with racial memories – glimpses of an intelligence stretching back to prehistoric times. Not just the millipede’s journey, but the entire lineage of its kind, a consciousness that predated human understanding, scuttling through epochs long before our species even imagined itself into existence.”

The Rainbow Trees

Calliope studied the next image with deep interest. “The deva.” she says firmly. And he nods.

“There was a communication there.  A kind of message or meaning that whispered at the edge of my senses. It wasn’t a solid thing. More of a feeling. A knowing, moving through the marrow of my being. I could taste what she says to me, a revelation tickling at the edges of my perceptions. In which my photography will become my documentation, golden breadcrumbs helping me to navigate my way through the madness and majesty of my Worlds.”

A smile plays across Peter’s face as he studies the image. “Looking back now, I can see how prophetic that image was. I was literally standing next to the roots of what would become the Tree of Life, the framework for understanding how all our stories connect. But at the time, I only felt the resonance without fully understanding it.”

Roots of the Worlds

The window ripples again, revealing Peter standing beside massive tree roots. Calliope reaches out, her fingers barely brushing the luminous surface. “These roots… they seem to mirror something about your own journey into the depths.”

As I wander through the forest, I continue marking my divinations with the camera. Witnessing photos of the ways in which the Land speaks to me, revealing faces in the trees and the stones, whispering in the language of the elements.  Everything is magical.  Everything has significance.  A snake looks out of me with a face made of bark, the leaves flutter in the wind of remembrance.

There is a vastness to the recollection. To being an Author in 2022 looking back on the events of the quest. Seeing the roots of the patterns which have blossomed into the understanding of the Tree of Life over time. Here, the photos serve as markers not simply for the past, but for the present, revealing the underlying mystical truths that came to me along the way. A photo is witnessed of me, standing next to the massive rootwork beneath one of Kauai’s upturned trees. While I had not considered it deeply at the time the photo happened, there is a sense from the present that speaks volumes.

Over the years i’ve come to see that what I witnessed photos of at early points in the Quest invariably proved to be a part of a larger thing.  It was as if I was collecting images from both a temporal and trans-temporal perspective, noticing certain key things which I brought into my archives and which would later prove to part of the dreamscape of divinations and interpretations that made up my world.  This photo of myself standing by the roots of the tree would prove to be such a thing.

The Mountain Elf

“Who is this young woman?” Calliope inquires, her gaze drawn to the photograph of the girl resting against the ancient tree trunk.

Peter’s expression shifts, a flicker of recognition passing across his features. “Ah, this was one of the early moments that set me on my path,” he says, a sense of wonder coloring his tone. “I came across her sitting within the hollows of that old redwood, and there was something about her presence – her very scent – that reminded me of the elven realms I had read about as a child.”

Calliope’s brow furrows slightly. “The energy of the elves? What do you mean by that?”

Peter traces the edge of the photograph, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “It’s difficult to put into words, but there was a primal resonance to her being – a connection to the world around her that I rarely felt, even in the most natural places. It was as if she carried a quality I had only ever encountered in the pages of stories, a kind of mythic essence that seemed to shimmer just beneath the surface of the physical world.”

Closing Ceremonies

The images flow once more, moving like drops of light in a running stream, and Peter speaks –

“After two weeks, the journey with Serge King came to an end, and we parted ways. Each of the travelers who had embraced the style of Huna magic he had offered headed off to our own lives. As we did, he spoke to us of the Hawaiian concept of ohana, which means family.

This idea of ohana felt strong to me – resonant, in a way. It was a feeling I sensed amongst the hearts of the people, held aloft in the nimbus of elements that I could feel all across the island. And like so many aspects of this quest, it felt emblematic of the patterns of wounding and redemption that would come to define my journey across the worlds.”

Threads of the Aka

Calliope’s gaze fixes on the shimmering portal, her eyes reflecting the mesmerizing dance of light and shadow. “This is the moment,” she says softly, “when you first saw the threads of the aka.”

Peter nods, his expression pensive as he watches the figures moving through the surf. “Yes,” he murmurs, “standing there on that beach, I could feel it – the threads of energy that make up all things, the connections between people. It was palpable, almost tangible, in a way that seemed so much clearer here, on this island.”

Calliope nods, her blue robes shifting as she turns to face him. “The islands have a way of revealing the subtle realms, of thinning the boundaries between the worlds. Here, the aka makes itself known, weaving the tapestry of life before our very eyes.”

Peter’s gaze returns to the portal, watching as the figures move through the shimmering surf. “Yes. I remember feeling a profound sense of connection in that moment – not just to the people around me, but to the very fabric of reality itself. As if I had been granted a momentary glimpse into the underlying architecture of consciousness.”

“And what did you do with that revelation?” Calliope asks, her voice carrying a note of gentle prompting.

“I tried to shoot a photo of it” he said with a smile, and she laughed.

“Still,” he said, “While the coherence of the vision was fleeting, I began to see that my photography could serve as breadcrumbs, marking the way through the subtle realms. Each photo became a window, not just into a moment in time, but into the deeper current of meaning flowing beneath the surface world.”

Kalalau – The Sacred Valley

Calliope paused before an image that shimmered to life: a verdant trail, its stones winding upward through the dense jungle. The canopy above arched into a perfect gateway of leaves, forming a natural threshold. She gestured toward it, her expression one of quiet wonder. “This… it looks like a doorway,” she said. “But not just any doorway. What did it feel like to stand there?”

Peter stepped closer, his gaze softening as he took in the memory. “It was a doorway,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “Standing at the base of that trail, with the leaves curving above me like they’d been woven by unseen hands, I felt something shift. It wasn’t just a path through the jungle—it was a portal between realms. The stones stretched upward into the unknown, and I knew, stepping through it, that I was crossing a threshold. Not just into the trail, but into a deeper part of myself. The land was inviting me forward, asking if I was ready to journey into the depths of what lay ahead.”

Calliope tilted her head, her dark eyes tracing the curve of the leaves in the image. “And you went,” she said softly, almost as a statement of fact. “What lay beyond?”

Peter smiled faintly, his voice carrying a note of reverence. “Kalalau,” he said, as if the word itself were sacred. “We’d heard whispers of it—a mystical valley on the northern coastline of Kauai. But the trail to get there… it felt alive. Every step was like moving further into a dream, the scent of the earth, the salt of the ocean, the pull of story guiding me. I didn’t know what I’d find, but I felt the land itself urging me onward. That gateway wasn’t just an entry to the trail; it was the start of a transformation. One I could feel in my bones.”

Peter gestured to the image of the river shimmering in the Akashic Library, its surface reflecting the sky and the lush greenery along its banks. “This river,” he began, his voice thoughtful, “was more than just a crossing point. At the time, I didn’t have the language to describe it, but I felt it—a threshold. As I stepped onto the rocks and the cool water brushed against my skin, I had the distinct sense that I was moving through something. It wasn’t just physical. It was… a shift, like the river was a boundary between one state of being and another.”

Calliope tilted her head, studying the flow of water captured in the memory. “You felt it even then,” she said softly. “The connection between the surface of the world and what lay beneath it.”

Peter nodded. “Exactly. I couldn’t have articulated it then, but there was a relationship, a kind of resonance between the outer and the inner. The river wasn’t just a river—it was a passage. Moving through it stirred something in me, something subtle, as if the flow of the water mirrored the unseen currents of my awareness. It was the beginning of a journey I didn’t even know I’d started, one that would take years to clarify. But in that moment, it was just a feeling—unspoken, but undeniable.”

The image shifted in the Akashic Library, and Calliope smiled as it settled into view. It was Peter, younger, shirtless, and sun-kissed, sitting on a rocky ledge with the infinite blue of the ocean stretching behind him. The cliffs of Kauai loomed in the background, their lush greens and craggy edges like something pulled from a dream. His expression was relaxed, his body at ease, and there was a brightness in his eyes that Calliope couldn’t miss.

“You look happy here,” she said, tilting her head as she studied the scene. “Really happy.”

Peter chuckled softly, stepping closer to the image. “I was,” he admitted. “I mean, how could I not be? I was on the Quest, surrounded by the warm, golden magic of Hawaii. Everything felt alive—the land, the ocean, the very air I was breathing. It was like I’d stepped into the magical world I’d always believed was just beyond the edge of perception.” He paused, his gaze softening. “And I wasn’t alone. I was in the company of one of the elf-kin. That made all the difference.”

As the next image unfolded in the Akashic Library, it revealed a breathtaking view of jagged cliffs falling away into the endless blue of the Pacific. Calliope gazed at the scene, her dark eyes tracing the contours of the Na Pali coastline, its ridges and valleys like folds of some ancient, living garment. She turned to Peter, curiosity lighting her face.

“Tell me about this trail,” she said, gesturing toward the image. “The Na Pali coastline—it feels… alive. What was it like to walk it?”

Peter’s expression softened as he stepped closer to the memory. “It was alive,” he said, his voice quiet but reverent. “The Na Pali Coast trail isn’t just a hike—it’s a journey into something ancient, something sacred. Every step felt like peeling back the veil between worlds. The cliffs, the ocean, the way the trail twists and turns—it’s not just geography. It’s a story. A myth.”

Calliope’s brow furrowed slightly, intrigued. “A myth? What do you mean?”

He gestured toward the ridges in the image, their deep green slopes catching the sunlight. “The trek to Kalalau isn’t just about reaching the valley,” he explained. “It’s a pilgrimage of sorts. The trail demands something from you—it makes you feel the land. The cliffs rise like cathedral walls, and the ocean crashes far below, reminding you of how small you are. And yet, as you walk, you feel part of it. Like you’re threading yourself into something larger.”

Calliope tilted her head, her tone thoughtful. “And Kalalau itself? Did it feel… mythic?”

Peter smiled faintly, nodding. “Absolutely. The valley has this… energy. It’s hard to describe. It feels untouched, like it exists in its own time, separate from the rest of the world. You hear stories—of people disappearing there, of spirits guarding the land. Even before I reached it, I could feel that sense of mystery. The trail wasn’t just leading me to a place. It was leading me into the unknown, into the heart of the mythopoetic.”

Calliope’s lips curved into a small smile, her gaze returning to the coastline. “It sounds like the land itself was telling you a story.”

As the image flickered into place, Calliope leaned in, her eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity. Nestled among the mossy roots of a jungle trail was a small stuffed wolf, its tiny form contrasting with the vibrant, untamed wilderness surrounding it. She glanced at Peter, her lips curving into a faint smile.

“This seems… playful,” she said. “What’s the story here?”

Peter’s expression softened as he stepped closer, memories flickering in his gaze. “That was Rebecca’s wolf,” he explained. “She brought it with her on the journey, saying it was for her family. She’d shoot photos of it in different places—on the trail, near waterfalls, perched on rocks like this. At the time, I thought it was just a quirky way for her to stay connected to her loved ones. But looking back now, I see it was something more. That little wolf carried a totemic energy, even if I didn’t recognize it then.”

“It’s so interesting that an aspect of the wolf totem appeared so early on the quest” says Peter as they stand in the library, “especially since North, my beloved wolf familiar would arrive three years later.”

“Yes,” said Calliope, the weight of the library behind her words, “an aspect of your pattern in the Akasha playing out in the mortal plane.”

“The valley feels like a major part of your story” says Calliope. “What did you find there?”

He grinned. “I came to the jungle expecting to find something like Shambhala—a mystical city, glowing with enlightenment, hidden from the world. Instead, I found a group of outlaw hippies camping in the jungle, trying to live off the land with varying degrees of success. They weren’t sages or keepers of ancient wisdom—they were just people, messy and flawed, searching for their own version of freedom. It wasn’t what I had imagined. Not even close.”

Calliope tilted her head, her form flickering like sunlight through smoke. “The disappointment you felt at finding not Shambhala but a colony of outlaws…” she asked gently. “How did that shift your understanding?” Peter smiled faintly, his expression softening.

“It showed me that magic doesn’t always wear the face we expect.” Peter reaches out to touch one of the floating images, sending ripples through the light. “Those ‘outlaws’ were part of the story too – they were living in relationship with the Land in their own way. It taught me to look deeper, to see beyond my preconceptions of what magic should look like.”

The window of memory pulses softly, its surface now showing a series of photographs – a silouette of a woman in the water, the coastline of the Kalalau valley, a man surrounded by glowing orbs like watchful eyes. Calliope’s presence seems to merge with the golden light of the Library as she speaks. “And this becomes a crucial teaching in the Mythica – learning to see the magical world that exists beneath the surface of the ordinary?”

“Exactly.” Peter’s voice carries the weight of two decades of understanding. “Every apparently mundane moment can be a portal if we have eyes to see it. That’s what the camera helped me prove – that there are indeed worlds beneath the world, and our journey through them is our own unique myth unfolding.”

“Here,” Calliope gestures to an image of interwoven branches, her blue robes shifting like water, “the aina was speaking to you through its very form. What did you feel in this moment, Peter?”

Peter’s expression grows contemplative as he studies the gnarled branches. “The land was revealing something to me about our deeper connection – humanity’s connection – to itself. It started with that fallen tree and its exposed roots, but here in Kalalau, the message grew stronger. The valley itself seemed to be showing me how we’re all part of its root system.”

“The wisdom of the aina often speaks through such symbols,” Calliope observes. “Especially to those who are learning to listen.”

“Yes,” Peter nods, his gold cloak catching the ethereal light. “I was just beginning to understand the language of the land then. How it communicates through vibration, through pattern, through the very shapes of things. These twisted branches weren’t just trees – they were letters in an ancient alphabet, spelling out truths about our relationship with the Earth herself.”

“And this was early in your journey,” Calliope notes, “when you were first learning to read these messages?”

“Exactly. I didn’t fully understand what I was seeing yet, but I knew it was significant. The valley was teaching me about roots – not just physical roots, but the root systems of consciousness itself. How humanity is quite literally an extension of the land, branching out from the same source.”

“And so the Garden Island planted the seeds of what would become your life’s work,” Calliope observes, her voice carrying both question and revelation. The golden light of the Library seems to breathe with her words.

Peter nods slowly, his eyes still fixed on the flowing images. “Yes. It was there that I first truly understood that we’re not separate from the Land – we’re characters moving through the space of our stories, and every synchronicity, every meaningful encounter, every challenge and triumph is part of a larger tapestry.” He pauses, watching as the images begin to still, like water settling in a pool. “The Mythica grew from that understanding, from that first taste of paradise.”

The window of living light gradually dims, the memories settling back into the eternal archives of the Akashic Library. Yet something of their resonance remains, hanging in the air like the afterglow of a sunset, inviting deeper exploration into the lands beneath the land.

Deva of the Sky – Colors of the World

“This moment,” I say to Calliope, gesturing to the image suspended in the ethereal light between us, “captured something far deeper than just a beautiful sunset on Kauai.”

Calliope leans closer to the photograph, her blue robes shimmering with an inner light. “Tell me what you witnessed here, Peter.”

“We had just returned from hiking the Kalalau Valley. There, in the hollow of an ancient tree, I encountered her – a mountain elf. The world was still reeling from the fall of the Twin Towers, and humanity was searching for signs of hope, of renewal.” I pause, remembering the moment with crystal clarity. “When she stretched her arms to greet the rising sun, I saw it – a gesture of embracing what was to come, not what was left behind.”

“The timing is significant,” Calliope observes thoughtfully. “Such moments of transition often appear as both endings and beginnings in the Great Story.”

“Yes,” I nod, “Through my lens, I wasn’t just capturing a silhouette against a sunset. I was documenting the dawn of a new paradigm. Here was this magical being, literally emerging from the living wood of Kauai, reaching toward the light as if to pull down a new dawn for all of us.”

“The microcosm reflecting the macrocosm,” Calliope muses, “A single gesture speaking to humanity’s collective yearning for rebirth after trauma.”

“Exactly. The sacred lands of Kauai held space for this moment – this perfect synchronicity of time, place, and meaning. Through witnessing and documenting it, the deeper story beneath the surface could be seen and shared.”

“These moments,” Peter gestures to the images suspended between them, “represent something deeper than just beautiful sunset clouds. They were communications.”

Calliope studies the intricate patterns, her blue robes subtly reflecting the photographs’ rich hues. “Tell me about these conversations with the devas, Peter. What were you witnessing through your lens?”

“I was documenting the language of the land herself,” Peter explains, his gold cloak shimmering as he moves closer to the images. “The way the cloud devas would shape themselves into patterns that spoke directly to my consciousness. It wasn’t just about capturing beautiful skies. It was about recording evidence of how the natural world communicates with us through form and pattern.”

“The ethers themselves taking shape,” Calliope observes, focusing on the swirling formations. “The invisible made visible.”

“Exactly.” Peter points to the layered dimensions in the first image. “See how the clouds create these depths of purple and coral? And in the second, that intense orangey-red infusion? These weren’t random formations – they were intentional expressions, like brushstrokes in the sky. Through my photography, I was able to document these messages from the devas, these moments when the veil between the subtle and physical worlds grew thin.”

“And this documentation serves as proof of a deeper dialogue happening constantly between consciousness and form,” Calliope adds thoughtfully.

“Yes,” Peter nods. “It’s about showing others that these communications are real – that the land, the sky, the elements themselves are in constant conversation with us. We just need to learn their language, to recognize the patterns and signs they’re constantly sharing.”

Avalon Fringe

As the portal begins to close, another image comes into the mix, showing a house on stilts in the jungle. Calliope leans forward, curious. “What’s this?”

“It’s a place I called Avalon Fringe, denoting it’s status as an outpost of Avalon.” he says proudly. “A house I rented off of Powerhouse road in a section of Kauai called Wainiha. But that’s another story.”