“Sword in the Stone” March 17, 2016

The library hummed with a quiet energy, as if the books themselves carried whispers of countless lifetimes. Calliope and Peter Fae stood in the garden amidst walls of books entwined with creeping ivy and blooming flowers. The air was rich with the scent of old paper and fresh earth. Sunlight filtered through a skylight, dappled by the leaves of a great tree growing through the center of the space.

Calliope turned toward Peter, her starry blue cloak replaced by one of deep azure, plain but regal in its simplicity. “You’ve told me pieces of it before,” she began, her voice soft yet eager. “But I want to know more about God’s Way Love. What did it mean to you on the Quest?”

Peter, draped in his gold cloak, exhaled thoughtfully, his topknot catching the light. He gestured toward a nearby bench, its back carved with intricate Celtic knots. “It was a turning point,” he said, his tone reflective. “One of those moments when the threads of the Mythica wove together so perfectly, it felt as though I could see the hand of the Divine itself.”

He sat, and Calliope followed, her dark hair cascading as she leaned forward, intent. “Start at the beginning,” she urged. “How did you find it?”

Peter smiled, the memory vivid. “I was at Leif Cedarblom’s sanctuary—a place of such peace it felt like stepping into another world. The people there spoke of a sacred site in the desert, a place called Boulder Gardens. But it wasn’t just the name that caught my attention. They mentioned the road leading there was named ‘God’s Way Love.’” He chuckled softly. “How could I not follow that sign?”

Calliope laughed lightly, the sound like the chime of a bell. “It does sound like an omen.”

“It was,” Peter agreed. “When I saw the sign, the words themselves felt like a blessing, as if the land was speaking directly to me. It wasn’t just a road; it was a pathway through synchronicity, a reflection of the alignment I sought—Heaven on Earth manifest in the mundane.”

Calliope’s gaze drifted to the garden around them, where books and plants grew together in harmonious chaos. “And when you arrived? What did you find?”

Peter’s expression softened, the memory filling his voice with reverence. “I met Garth—King Garth, as I called him. He was a seeker like me, someone who had traveled the world in service to the Divine. The land had been gifted to him, and he had shaped it into a sanctuary, a haven for travelers and wanderers, much like Leif’s.”

She leaned closer. “What was he like?”

“A kindred spirit,” Peter said warmly. “He radiated humility and wisdom. His main dwelling was a stone teepee with a wood stove, but the whole place was an oasis—a living testament to what happens when we heed the voice of the deva. The Boulder Gardens were alive with their presence, every rock and plant humming with a quiet sanctity.”

Calliope’s eyes lit with curiosity. “You’ve spoken of the deva before—the spirits of the land. Did they guide you there?”

“They always do,” Peter replied. “But this place felt special. Sacred. As if the land itself had been listening to Garth and the people who came through it. There was a resonance, a harmony. I wandered barefoot through the gardens, letting the energies fill me, much like I’d done in Kalalau and Livingwell.”

Calliope nodded, sensing the depth of his connection to these sacred places. “And the Boulder Gardens themselves? What stood out to you?”

Peter’s smile widened. “So much. The structures, the community, the sense of purpose. But one thing remains vivid in my mind—the jeweled rainbow serpent sculpture. When I saw it, I knew it was another aspect of the rainbow Dragon I had encountered on the Quest. It felt like a thread connecting the tapestry of my journey.”

Calliope tilted her head. “A symbol of transformation, perhaps?”

“Exactly,” Peter said. “The Dragon represents so much—change, power, and the magic inherent in the world. Seeing it there was a reminder of the Quest’s deeper meaning, the way the Mythica threads through everything.”

The Good Story

Calliope’s expression turned curious. “And while you were there, you recorded something, didn’t you? I remember you mentioning climbing rocks.”

Peter chuckled. “Ah, yes. The Boulder Gardens weren’t exactly cell-friendly terrain. The signal was almost nonexistent, so I climbed one of the highest rocks I could find, hoping to catch even a sliver of reception. It felt almost symbolic—ascending to broadcast a message of hope.”

“What did you say in the video?” she asked, leaning forward.

“It was about the Good Story,” Peter said, his tone earnest. “I spoke about how the modern media has become a propagator of the Fear Story—a constant barrage of chaos, control, and limitation. It paints a picture of the world as bleak, dangerous, and devoid of magic. But that’s not the truth. That’s not the world I’ve seen, not the world I’ve traveled through.”

Calliope nodded, her gaze intent. “You wanted to show them something different.”

“Exactly,” Peter said. “I wanted to remind people that there’s another story, a better story—a story of hope, real magic, and real adventure. A story where they could step beyond the limitations imposed by the Commonwealth and realize the beauty and possibility that exists in this world. It’s not just fantasy. The places I’ve been, the synchronicities I’ve experienced—those are proof that something greater is at play.”

Her eyes softened. “And this was part of that proof?”

“It was,” Peter said, his voice firm. “Being there in the Boulder Gardens, seeing the sanctity of the land, meeting Garth, witnessing the rainbow serpent—every moment was part of the Good Story. It was the real magic, the real possibility that we can live in a reality far richer and more vibrant than what we’ve been told. Sharing that message felt vital. It’s why the Mythica exists—to guide people to those truths.”

Calliope smiled, her expression thoughtful. “And in that moment, you became a storyteller, a herald of something greater.”

Peter’s gaze was steady. “It felt like my duty. To climb that rock, to send out that message—it was my way of lighting a beacon, showing others that the path to something better is real.”

She paused, letting the moment settle before asking, “And Excalibur? Tell me about the sword.”

Peter’s eyes gleamed with the memory. “That was the culmination of my time there. As I explored the gardens, I came upon a rock formation. And there it was—Excalibur, the Sword in the Stone. Framed by the light of the deva, it appeared at the perfect moment, as if the world itself had aligned to present it to me.”

The Sword in the Stone

Calliope’s breath hitched. “The sword of legend?”

“Yes,” Peter said, his voice reverent. “But it wasn’t just a relic of myth. It was a manifestation of discernment, the magical quality I needed at that point in the Quest. As I approached, I could feel its power—a crystalline clarity that pierced through my being.”

“And you pulled it from the stone?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“It was a holy moment for me. As I rounded the corner, she rises before me, framed by the light of the deva. Excalibur. The Sword in the Stone. Yet another piece in the fulfillment of my mission on the material plane.”

“I was so deeply aware of the legend I was walking in that moment. How I had trained with LeFaye up in the mountains, finding my way to the material plane from the timeless shores of Avalon. How I had traveled to Scotland on the “Faerie Roads” with McLain and Patience, there to receive a vision of the Grail and the lesson of forgiveness, where I had witnessed the relationship between that redeemed state and the manifestation of Heaven on Earth.”

“I had come so far since then. Made my way across the underlands of the Mythica, tracking my way back to the Garden. Now my Quest in service to that Opening had brought me to another expression of that myth, the presence of Excalibur herself, framed by the deva whom had been my constant companions on the long walk.”

“And so I sat. And I witnessed the sword in the sunlight of the Divine. Where synchrony had brought a photographer to witness the unfoldment. Where I listened, to what was expressing itself through the Mythica, appearing in the form of my unfolding myth.”

“To me, this was High Honour. The appearance of the sacred blade the Surface manifestation of my movement into the deeper realms of God’s Kingdom. In which the Clarity I had so long fought for in my consciousness was at last coming to bear.”

As I drew the Sword from the Stone, I felt an Opening. A shifting in the tones of my consciousness. Light streamed through my being, a vorpal discernment. Like a subtle knife, I felt the realms crystallize for me, the Goddess unveiling Herself, the scales falling from my eyes in the grandeur of the Creation.

It was as if the skies cleared, the Sun’s light bringing everything into crystal clarity. I saw the movement of my self, of all selves and stories as things of living mythology, repeating themselves across incarnations and an infinity of personalities.

“I did,” Peter said, the memory vivid. “As my hands closed around the hilt and I drew it forth, it wasn’t just an act—it was a revelation. Light streamed through me, the scales fell from my eyes, and I saw the world with a clarity I’d never known. The sword wasn’t just a weapon; it was a symbol of the Truth, the Good Story I was meant to tell.”

Calliope’s gaze lingered on him, her eyes filled with wonder. “And then?”

“Grace flowed through me then, a sense of accomplishment, of virtue rewarded with sacred Vision of the Truth that lay behind the seeming of the Worlds. I saw my passage across the realms as the bright Service that it is, my talents in pen and prose the swordsmanship of a new Story. The long road stretched out behind and in front of me as the mists parted, granting vision of the Avalon that waits behind our sleeping eyes. In that instant, light shimmering from the blade, I saw. There is not one Grail. Nor one Excalibur. Nor one Buddha, one Christ. Such are merely the surface manifestations of a much deeper thing, the current incarnation of our own sacred movement across our own Self. There is an Excalibur for each of us. The high ideal of our own excellence, the affirmation from the Universe that we stand in righteousness, the discernment and sharpness of our vantage embodied in the sword, the words, the actions and deeds of a modern mythology made real.”

Peter leaned back, his expression serene. “I sat with Garth and another elder. We shared our swords—literal and metaphorical—each representing the qualities we had attained on our respective journeys. It was a council of Kings, a gathering of those who walked the paths of myth and service.”

Calliope’s eyes widened, intrigued. “A council of Kings in the modern age… it sounds like something out of legend. But there was more to your time there, wasn’t there?”

Peter nodded slowly, his gaze distant as he remembered. “There was. Garth took me to a cave on the land, a place imbued with a deep and sacred history. He told me of a Tibetan monk who had lived there, dedicating his life to prayer and devotion. The cave had become a sanctuary, a place where the vibrations of his faith still lingered.”

Calliope tilted her head. “What was special about the cave?”

“It was during a great storm,” Peter explained, his tone reverent. “Rain fell in torrents, relentless and unyielding, flooding the land. The winds howled, and the monk’s tent, which had stood just outside the cave, was drenched and flattened by the deluge. The storm devoured everything in its path, leaving chaos and destruction behind. Yet the monk, steadfast in his devotion, never wavered. He moved to the cave and sat in meditation, utterly still.”

Calliope’s eyes widened, her voice barely a whisper. “And the cave?”

Peter’s expression softened with awe. “The cave was untouched. Amidst the flood and the raging winds, the monk sat in the only dry spot, as though cradled by the Divine itself. The water never breached that sacred space. To me, it was a profound symbol—proof that our devotion and faith can create sanctuaries even in the most turbulent of circumstances. The storm couldn’t reach him, because his spirit was aligned with something greater.”

Calliope leaned forward, captivated. “What did it mean to you, seeing that?”

Peter’s gaze grew distant, the memory vivid in his mind. “It was a reminder that even when the world seems to crumble around us, there is a place within, a sanctuary of faith and devotion, that cannot be touched. The monk’s calm presence, his unwavering meditation amidst the chaos, was a testament to the strength of the Divine to protect us when we trust in it fully. It was a living embodiment of grace.”

She nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. “The storm, the cave… it’s like the world itself was showing you what it means to walk the path.”

Peter smiled, the moment settling into his heart. “Exactly. It was a reflection, a lesson etched into the land. It spoke to the importance of staying grounded in faith and purpose, even when the storms of life seem insurmountable. It’s what I carried with me as I traveled the underlands of Creation—the knowledge that the Divine is always there, holding space for us, if we are willing to see it.”

She sat back, thoughtful. “It’s incredible, Peter. The synchronicities, the symbols—it’s as if every step of your journey was a story in itself.”

“And every story,” Peter said, “is part of something greater. That’s the gift of the Mythica—to show the world these threads, to remind people that the sacred is always there, waiting to be seen.”

“And North?” Calliope asked, her tone tinged with sadness.

Peter’s expression grew somber. “Garth and the others offered sanctuary for him, recognizing that his time was near. It was a kindness I will never forget. But my path called me onward to Crestone. The Quest always moves forward.”

Calliope nodded, absorbing his words. “And the man with ‘A Course in Miracles’? What of him?”

Peter smiled again. “He shared his story of discovering the text and following its instructions. He was granted a place to stay and three meals a day for months as a result—a testament to the magic that flows when we align with the Divine. It was another proof, another golden breadcrumb on the path.”

She sat back, her expression thoughtful. “It sounds like a chapter out of a living myth.”

“That’s exactly what it was,” Peter said. “A moment where the Mythica revealed itself fully—Heaven on Earth, the mundane and the magical intertwined. It’s these moments that remind me why we tell the Good Story.”

Calliope smiled, her gaze softening. “And you’re still telling it, Peter. Through the Mythica, through your words. The story continues.”

Peter’s eyes met hers, and for a moment, the library garden seemed to shimmer, as if the threads of their own story were weaving into something greater.