Initiation

Initiation:

My Faery Soul Awakening

Diomira Rose D'Agostino

The Publishing Circle

Initiation

My Faery Soul Awakening

Diomira Rose D'Agostino

Copyright © 2022 by Diomira Rose D'Agostino

All rights reserved.

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ISBN: 978-1-955018-11-1 print paperback

ISBN: 978-1-955018-17-3 hardcover

ISBN: 978-1-955018-23-4 large print

ISBN: 978-1-955018-18-0 eBook

Contents

1. Dedication

2. Author’s Note

3. Prologue

4. Glastonbury, England 2006

5. Part 1

6. The Imperial City

7. The Sacred Valley

8. Machu Picchu

9. The Legend of the Pink Dolphins

10. Miriam

11. Outbreak

12. The Flyer

13. Class of a Different Kind

14. The Art of Stalking

15. Los Angeles

16. New York City

17. The Book

18. A Remnant

19. Class with Past Life Confirmation

20. Inner Quest

21. Inner Quest

22. The Job

23. Inner Quest

24. To Europe

25. Part 2

26. A Reflection over Tea

27. Stonehenge

28. Ratfyn Farm

29. The Bus to Glastonbury

30. Judith

31. A Dark Force

32. Chalice Well

33. The Tor

34. Deepening

35. Glastonbury Abbey

36. The Abbey Museum Discovery

37. Gwyn

38. A Decision Is Made

39. Ghost or Angel

40. To Cornwall

41. Tintagel Castle

42. Merlin’s Cave

43. Glendalough

44. Another Bus Ride

45. A Fairytale Castle

46. The Bookstore Excursion

47. The Apostille

48. Kicked Out

49. Rejection

50. A Declaration on a Beach in Mexico

51. Part 3

52. Reflections

53. Just Face It

54. The London Flashback

55. The Orkney Islands - Part 1

56. The Orkney Islands - Part 2

57. The Orkney Islands - Part 3

58. Taking a Chance

59. Italy

60. Part 4

61. The Inner Quest Psychic Fair

62. Inner Quest Meditation Class

63. The Women’s Meditation Retreat

64. The Faery Tree

65. A Summons

66. A Broken Heart

67. Reiki Attunement

68. Rebirthing

69. The Creatures Return

70. Time To Face The Music

71. The Deva of the Millipedes

72. Not In My Meditation!

73. Liberation Training Begins

74. I Can Be Alive and Be at Peace

75. Last Day of the Liberation Breathing® Intensive

76. Homecoming

77. Faery Soul Awakening

78. Joyce Kilmer National Forest

79. Afterword

80. Excerpt from Book Two

A Gift

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Gaia and to the dream of living in harmony and co-creative partnership with all life, seen and unseen, within the sacred ecology of which we humans are merely one part.

Author’s Note

You’ll notice throughout the text I use the same word with three different spellings: Fairy, Faery, and Faerie. These are intentional, I assure you. Fairy, the least used form of the word, to me refers to the watered-down, small, diminutive beings found in modern children’s stories like Tinker Bell. Faery refers to the powerful Shining Ones of the Otherworld that co-exist alongside us, though we have forgotten. Faerie refers to the energetic place these beings inhabit, also known as the Otherworld.

Prologue

Thousands of years ago, the Faery gates began to close.

Standing in the rising mists were the Shining Ones. They offered a final blessing: May the memory of Gaia be with you, they said to those of us who were departing; but they also spoke to humanity as a whole.

Then the mists took over, rising higher and higher until the Otherworld of Faerie seemingly vanished.

A deep melancholy swept over the land, but a light could still be seen. Like a soft, tiny flame that flickered and danced through the now thick blanket of haziness.

All those with the ability to see with their heart, however, could discern the presence of that which now lay enshrouded in the mist just beyond the veil. The Shining Ones hoped these dear souls could continue to stoke the fires of memory within their sacred and holy heart temple.

They would do their part.

And they did. For a long, long time.

Until all was eventually forgotten.

Glastonbury, England 2006

Istand atop the looming hill. Heart pounding in my chest and ears, I hear the voice of the Otherworld calling me. I had climbed as if my life had depended on it—and maybe it has.

Digging my feet into the earth at the precipice, I seek security. There is none. I gaze out at the world beyond.

Well, this is what it feels like to receive an otherworldly summons, I think. 

Ba-boom! Ba-boom! Ba-boom! The pulse of this place rings in my ears and throbs in my fingertips, growing in volume and intensity, as if all my years of searching have boiled down to this one moment. It is so overwhelming; I feel as if it could crack me open from the inside. 

Dropping to my knees, I surrender to come what may.

The grassy knoll is springy like lush moss, inviting my hands to caress its knobby tufts of green. I run my palms over it, as if searching for . . . a way in?

My hands come to rest upon what my mind imagines is a trapdoor, an entrance to a world within. My inner sight stirs, as if in answer to an unspoken invitation to journey into this sacred hill. An energetic current guides my vision, and I descend slowly, hesitantly. Darkness shrouds me, as if the lights have suddenly been turned out. For much too long, I see nothing. Just as panic starts to set in, I find the source of the pulse that I have traced here—even though I had not known I was searching for it until now. Like a knot in the wall of darkness, the dammed-up energy lines of the land bulge and swell, crying for release.

The elemental forces begin to flow and dance within my heart. Like a living key that I have guarded and secreted away, my heart guides my hands in a way my mind does not understand.

Placing my hands upon the matted mess, the request is clear: set what lies trapped within free.

I unwind and unwind the snarled ley lines, working until the last thread is untangled. 

Silence.

I wait, afraid to breathe for fear I might disturb the power of this moment. Then I hear a thunderous explosion.

The dam bursts asunder, carrying away the darkness as if draining it from a deep well. My vision is restored as a flood of light spills out in a pool, bathing the land in a liquid blanket of magic and power. Droves of nature spirits and elemental beings pour forth, no longer inhibited by what once held them bound. 

For a transient fluttering of time, I see myself as earth, air, fire, water—all coalescing in a dynamic dance of power and focus.

Before I can form a thought, a blaring white light blinds my vision once again. Then, slowly, the light begins to subside.

In its place, a shining being with iridescent skin like a bluish-white flame stands watching me. In my heart, his name, Gwyn, is whispered, followed by vague familiarity. 

Then he speaks, saying, I knew you'd come. 

Just as Gwyn turns to go, he states definitively, Soon, you will remember.

Rarely is a true initiation consciously planned. You may find yourself being drawn along a certain path or guided to take a specific string of actions, but the details, including the how, when, and what are mostly left up to Spirit.

Not to mention, the path along the journey of initiation itself is fraught with unexpected twists and turns and many trials and tribulations. Rarely does an initiation provide any answers; instead, it usually offers a whole other level of deeper, more tremendous questions.

My first initiation into the world of Faerie on top of the Glastonbury Tor, the sacred hill in the tiny English village of Glastonbury, was exactly like this.

I had not planned for this at all (although that depends on whether or not you consider my soul forging agreements long written in the stars and stones to be planning). I definitely had no idea this Otherworld initiation was even upon me, and the whole experience left me reeling for a very long time.

Looking back, I can see the carefully laid breadcrumbs along the divinely orchestrated path of life. For years, I had been driven by some ineffable soul desire, urging me to never settle for what I was told to believe, but to instead search incessantly for what I always knew was out there. Because of this, I began an endless pursuit for the unknown, catalyzed by a longing for a connection to a deeper spiritual reality and a seemingly eternal quest for identity and purpose.

It is in the retracing of some of these stepping-stones that I hope to offer you, not a road map, because you must forge your own, but a candle in the darkness that reminds you that you are not alone.

Now you may be asking yourself what the heck is a faery initiation? For that matter, who and what are faeries?

The faeries I speak of are not the make-believe small creatures of children’s stories that most people think of, such as Tinker Bell, that flit around in Disney movies.

The faeries I speak of are ancient. Faery refers to both a living story and a reality that interpenetrates this one. In truth, it flows through the heart of this world, and it is a magical, living, energetic key code that many of us in modern times hold within our hearts.

Faery refers to a people, a realm, and an experience that I know intimately because it is who I am in my core, for I remember a time when I was faery.

Allow me to share my story. Through its telling, I hope to transmit the faery codes of remembrance to support you on your journey of awakening.

Let us begin, however, by traveling back several years before that day of initiation on the Tor. Together, may we trace the starlit trail of mystery and ancient memory. I offer this story as a gift of deepest love and service to the Dream of Gaia’s Heart, blessed by the stars of the Mother and the Father.

Diomira Rose

Part 1

Awakening

The Imperial City

August 2002

We arrive in Cusco late in the afternoon. Although it is August, which in the northern hemisphere is summer, here in the southern part of the globe it is winter. Winter, to me, means cold winds and snowy gales. Not my favorite climate. Thankfully, Cusco is not like this.

I would not care if it was. Even before my feet touch the ground of this enchanting land, its unsolved mysteries, incredible ancient temples, and sacred places take me in. Machu Picchu is supposed to be one of the Earth’s chakra points, a vortex of spiritual energy. I wonder if this is the mystical experience I have been seeking.

En route to the inn reserved for our accommodation, I reflect on how one moment you can be pointed in one direction; the next, you can be completely turned around in another new and thrilling direction. This is how it was the day my friend Lena invited me to come with her to Peru.

I had called her for another reason entirely: to get some information.

Hey, I’m thinking of going to Costa Rica this summer. Would you tell me again whereabouts you lived?

Lena, a college classmate and friend, is about twenty years my senior. She is going back to school at age forty, not because she wants another university degree, but because she is determined to learn Spanish. She, like me, has fallen in love with the Latin culture.

Unlike me, she has gotten a head start on her travels, having already lived for several months in Costa Rica and Argentina. She even traveled to Cuba when travel there was still prohibited by the U.S. for Americans.

During the semester, we have become friends, practicing Spanish together and discovering hole-in-the-wall eateries in Atlanta like Little Havana, a fabulous dive that serves to-die-for Cuban food.

I have recommitted to my dream of traveling to Costa Rica this summer, and I have decided there is no better place to begin my preliminary research than with someone who has been there before.

Sure, no problem! says Lena, in reply to my request. I can tell you all about my favorite places. Hey, by the way, guess where I am going this summer?

Where?

Peru!

Before I can respond, she forges on, ending with a question that will change my life. Yep, I am going to hike the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu and go play in the Amazon. You wanna come along?

My heart says yes even before my lips can figure out how to move again.

That was several months ago. Since then, I spent the summer working three jobs in order to save money and prepare for this excursion. We are finally here.

Though there are no snowy gales, the air is chilly, and as soon as we settle into the inn, we dig like chickens in our suitcases to locate heavier layers.

Just as we are about to leave the inn to walk around the city, Alfredo, our host, meets us near the door. You’re going to love this place. It’s enchanting, he says, in beautiful, lilting Spanish. After you’ve explored some, I imagine you’ll want to get some dinner. I know just the place. He writes the name of a restaurant on a note for us, and off we go.

Walking the streets is like going back in time. The Spanish colonial architecture of the buildings makes it look like a place right out of a history book.

The main square, La Plaza de Armas, is buzzing with the hustle and bustle of life, even though it is late afternoon. While the Spanish architecture has mostly replaced the Inca structures, destroying their civilization and way of life, we learn the Inca ruins and the precisely carved Inca walls can still be seen if you know what to look for.

After wandering around, we make our way to the restaurant, El Papillón, that Alfredo recommended. Luckily, they have a place for us.

Wanting to experience the customs and culture of the locals firsthand, I scan the menu, considering my options.

Determined to eat a Peruvian delicacy that I had read about, my mind is already made up. Quisiera el cuy por favor! (Translated: I’ll have the cuy, please!)

When my plate arrives, I nearly fall over.

Ah! Lena begins to both cry and laugh uproariously at once. It’s a rat!

Cuy translates to roasted guinea pig, a staple in the Peruvian Andean diet for over 5,000 years. I had never imagined it would look like this.

Before me lies a cooked rodent of considerable size. Not The Princess Bride kind of size, but almost! It comes served with the head intact. Its mouth is open, and the teeth stick out in such a grotesque way I have to cover my scowl to avoid offending the owner and chef. I notice my meal has claws, too.

Not the most appetizing presentation, I must admit. But I am determined to eat it. Taking a deep breath, I dig in.

First, I will say, obviously, I survive. Second, it is not as bad as it looks, and is actually quite flavorful. Third, it is not as good as I had hoped or expected, as it is mostly skin and bones.

After the initial shock wears off, and Lena has made several jokes at my expense, we settle into the dining atmosphere and our meals. We have been eating and casually talking for about fifteen minutes when our conversation is brought to a sudden halt by the most hypnotic melody I have ever heard.

Because it comes from behind me, for a split second before I turn around, I imagine someone must have captured and sealed the wind inside a magic bottle. It is as if the wind is speaking as it glides through the mountains on a starlit night when the spirits of those who have gone before us are watching and speaking loudly to one another.

I am certain the wind must have been let out of its magic bottle because it carries the longing for liberation that a caged bird must feel the moment just before it knows it is going to taste freedom once again.

Turning to confirm if what I imagine might be real, my gaze falls upon three Indigenous men performing the traditional music of the Andes with flutes and percussion. Instead of satisfying confirmation, I stare in baffled wonderment. How on earth do humans produce a sound so haunting and beautiful?

The music stays with me long after we have left El Papillón, and that night as I dream, I am whisked away on a spell of enchantment to secret places of stone and sky.

The Sacred Valley

Stillness pervades the atmosphere, and I fear that if I move or even breathe too heavily, the spell might break.

A quickening, a rush of energy, courses through my body, accompanied by a soft tingling like the beat of dragonfly wings, which stirs my enthusiasm: Am I actually going to have a mystical experience—the kind I have come here hoping to find?

Over the last few years, my propensity for the esoteric has evolved into an increasing interest in my spiritual growth. It has led me to explore ancient mysteries, hunting for clues that might explain the collective spiritual evolution I sense is taking place. Books and ancient texts have satiated this thirst for a while, but they can only carry me so far before I yearn to dive in headfirst and test the waters of mysticism for myself.

Although I have no clue what direct experience looks like, or how I am supposed to come by it, following my urge to travel to places of spiritual distinction seems a solid starting point.

The plan is to hike the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. Acclimatizing to Cusco’s altitude beforehand is of the utmost importance, thus we are spending our first full day on a tour through the Sacred Valley.

Peppered with temples, fortresses, and sacred sites, I marvel at the unrivaled stonework. How in the world did the Inca, or some even earlier civilization as is now being considered, manage these feats? Even with modern technology, achieving the precision seen in these structures would be a great challenge.

The Temple of the Sun lies at the top of the Sacred Valley. Scrambling up the ruins, I feel a surge of anticipation. However, no picture or guidebook could have prepared me for what I experience when I arrive on top. Overcome by a sensation of well-being and contentedness, I stand there, wordless, and nearly breathless too.

The wind blows lightly against my face, and I have the strangest feeling that the spirits of this place welcome me. Then I scoff at my narcissistic imaginings.

Why would the spirits of this place welcome you? I chide myself. As if you are special.

All my life, all I have ever wanted is to feel special. Perhaps we all do. Even though, growing up, my parents gave me the freedom to pursue many unusual interests like the occult, aloneness pervaded my existence. Early on, I was able to infer rationally that this discontent may well have catalyzed my longing to glean a deeper meaning in the world.

However, having this rational understanding did not, in fact, assuage the gaping hole of need. Beyond needing to matter, special carried a meaning of being part of a bigger story, possibly having a spiritual mission connected to a reality that expanded beyond the surface of what life appeared to be.

In little more than a nanosecond, I am flooded with these memories of longing. I quickly rope myself in: Nothing has happened yet, so chances are this is just your overactive imagination. Cut it out.

Fearing disappointment, I do not dare to get my hopes up. I scout around through the ruins all day, all the while keeping my increasing elan on a leash, like reigning in an overly rambunctious, sniffing puppy.

The wind chills my cheek, but it is not a sharp wind. Instead, it feels like a frisky breeze bringing me back to the present, snapping me out of my sporadic self-deprecating behavior.

Gazing out across the Sacred Valley, containment is no longer possible. For as much as I want to convince myself that I am full of it, the sense that I am getting is unmistakable . . . I really am being welcomed.

Some force has greeted me, perhaps even invited me here. I consider all the seeming coincidences that had to occur in order for me to arrive at this place in time, and I shudder.

Best not to think about it. You do not want to get carried away with any delusions, do you?

Then I feel the breeze blow once more and a mild shower starts without warning, gently misting me from head to toe.

A blessing.

I hear the words as if they have been spoken aloud and carried on the wind.

Then I hear another sound. I strain my ear to confirm. Sure enough, it is music. Not just any music. Once again, I hear the stories the wind tells as it glides through the mountains on a starlit night when the spirits of those who have gone before us are watching and speaking loudly to one another.

The music from last night!

The rain disappears. The music stops.

Once again, I stand alone in the silence of the Temple of the Sun.

Machu Picchu

My grandiose ideas about meditating in mystical gnosis and attaining enlightenment at Machu Picchu are soon dashed to pieces. In fact, instead of what took place at the Temple of the Sun being a precursor to set the stage for what is to come, to my great dismay it turns out to be the only profound experience I have while in the Andes.

Yesterday, when we had set out upon the Inca Trail, I had all the aw-shucks wonder of a child. Hiking through the Andes mountains had been extraordinary. The sheer scale of their size was both exhilarating and intimidating, most likely demanding a respectful pause from even the most jaded mountaineer.

We had spent the entire eight-hour day hiking high into these massive mountains to a lodge where we would spend the night. The following morning, we would descend a short distance to the majestic and famed ruins of Machu Picchu.

The drama began with our arrival, which was late . . . so late that we found ourselves locked outside the main gates, located more than a quarter-mile from the lodge entrance. With the guards having already left their posts, there was no way to get in.

It took almost forty-five minutes of hollering and banging to alert them of our arrival. Finally, with a great sigh of relief, we were bid entrance.

Only it was not a lodge, as had been advertised to us by our tour coordinator in Cusco. It was a hostel with multiple shared beds in each room—over a dozen per room. We were not pleased.

On top of that, I had acquired an excruciating blister along the way. So much for having supposedly broken in my hiking boots. Attended by the medical personnel, I imagine my yelping had been heard throughout the hostel as they tried to clip and clean the blister to the best of their ability.

"But think of the cool story you'll get