The Story Behind This Blog

It happened a long time ago, or maybe just yesterday. Not quite sure, really. Time just folds over on time so that nothing is yesterday or tomorrow here.

I am The Dragonfly’s Student. That’s the most important thing you need to know about me. My name doesn’t matter. The lessons I relay are meant for all of us. Teacher gives life lessons meant to help us get through the sludge that is our reality. He also reminds us of another world; a better world. One where many of us know we belong.

This blog is free of all forms of organized religion.

I used to follow a religion. I was raised on rules, judging my neighbors for only coming to Church on Easter Sunday. I watched my friend become alienated from that place I used to call home, and then I became a stranger there, too, when the judging became alien to my soul.

Faith is definitely part of this web-log endeavor.

I have faith that a better world exists, that there are friends in that other dimension who watch over us. That there are Angels, Ascended Masters and personal Guardians. I believe in the all-encompassing Spirit whom many call God. And I believe we all have a Higher Self — a part of ourselves that understands all that Teacher’s about.

My faith is not dictated by an old man in a robe. My faith follows my heart and the lessons I learn from a beautiful dragonfly on this beautiful university campus.

Teacher is not a normal man. When he comes to us, he is a purple and indigo blue dragonfly who then transforms in front of us into a man — tall, tanned, and healthy, with long fingers that sometimes resemble the tips of wings. His head is clean-shaven, but he usually wears a hat or a baseball cap, and always his clothes are the colors of the dragonfly’s wings.

I’m getting to know my classmates better. The first, and most vocal, is the somewhat angry Irreverent Student, who has become, more or less, my friend. Another classmate is a girl named Faith, but she’s hardly in class anymore. I think she’s got an internship.

I invite you, my readers, to take this journey with me. I am told graduation will be glorious, but I’m still trying to figure out where this school is …. and how I got here.

Yours Truly,

The Dragonfly’s Student


My Life Map Mystery

I don’t work well with outlines. When I write I just put pen to paper and let my thoughts flow until they build a bridge to understanding for my reader to access the thoughts bubbling in my mind.

My classmates hate that about me.

“It’s like you’re cheating or something,” my irreverent friend admits, tearing a sheet from his notebook and crumbling it into the nearby garbage can.

It all sounds great, I know, but it only works because I can’t think in a linear way.

“It’s not what it’s cut out to be,” I grumble. “Nothing ever comes the way I want it to. There’s no A, B, C order to my life. There are no maps I can follow to make things go faster or to help me understand where I’m supposed to go next.”

“Still sounds better,” he argues.

I’m not surprised. No one really understands what it’s like to be me. Maybe things would be easier if I didn’t know this world contained dragonflies that become teachers; that there are realities that bridge the worlds of our existence and that, sometimes, with the right coaching, I can soar like a seagull.

For some mysterious reason, I know these things, “But what am I supposed to be doing with all of this knowledge? What part am I supposed to play in this world?”

My friend has no reaction to my tirade other than a slight smirk and a twinkle to his eye before, “Maybe it will come to you suddenly one day, like everything else. That is how you say things work for you, right?”

“Good suggestion, my son.”

Whiplash nearly tears my head off as I react to the voice of our teacher standing by the window in the classroom. How long has he been here? Did he hear my questions of doubt? Will he kick me out of our class when he realizes how unsettled I have been of late?

Teacher reaches a hand out to me and I rush to grasp it.

Holding my hand between both of his he asks, “Why do you need to know why we speak to you, dear one?” He pauses as if to let me ask my question, then he releases the pause. “Why can’t things just be?

“You humans incarnate in order to live a life fresh and with no carry-over memories. The goal is to get a second chance at a first impression, so to speak. The memories come when you are ready to accept them.”

He guides me out of the classroom into the butterfly garden just outside the back door. As we walk through a flock of fluttering monarchs, he continues. “There are lessons that are made greater when there is no memory.”

“I just need to know why things happen,” I say. “Like, maybe I can do a better job at whatever I’m supposed to be doing for you if I know more.”

“Why is that?”

“So that I will know how to prepare and how to react.”

“What if the reaction you need to give is the reaction that is not planned or prepared? What if you let go of the idea of expectation, what will you lose if you simply live the life your heart tells you is right?”

The questions rush into my head in such a jumble that I can’t pick out even one. How will my life change if I lose the question of expectation; if my life is all that it needs to be? What if I lose the confusion of an inconclusive Life Map?

Then, I get it.

“If I lose the questions, I will gain the happiness that comes with acceptance.”

Again, I have learned a multitude from my Dragonfly.

Much love to you, my dear classmates,

The Dragonfly’s Student

Life Lesson — Death

“Teacher,” I can’t wait for him to finish his lecture on the peace and joy that greets souls that cross the veil between worlds. I couldn’t get my old neighbor out of my mind. “Teacher, I know all of this. I’ve accepted your words as gospel truth for years and I understand that the world that’s on the other side is better than what we have here, but why can’t I accept it when the soul that passes is like family?”

Our instructor pulls back from his lectern and steps down toward me.

“What is it you do not understand, dear one?” He approaches, holding his hands in front of himself as if holding something, then, suddenly, he’s holding a purple box. “What is causing you tears?”

He tugs on a tissue, popping the blue sheet out of the box. He taps the outside of my eye with the tissue before handing it to me.

“Why does this death hurt you so?” he says, more as a rhetorical response than anything.

That one, gentle and softly spoken question lets loose a flood of silent tears. “I know he’s in a better place, but why does it hurt?”

“You are human, my dear. Of course you are saddened by a passing. You have no idea if you will meet again. You are saddened by the eternal loss you believe is yours.”

I crumple to the ground as the tears ravage me. I hadn’t allowed myself to fully feel my pain until this moment, but now that he put words to my thoughts I couldn’t deny their truth. Yes, my old friend is in a better place; yes, my old friend no longer feels pain and no longer has to suffer the indignities of an infirmed old age. Those truths cannot be denied. Teacher has justified my guilt over feeling sadness at this passing. No longer will I compare his passing to the passing of young souls as being preferable because of the length of his human experience.

Huddled into myself, I feel arms wrap around me, but they’re not arms. What I feel feeding me a kind of spiritual joy is strong and reaches around my shoulders from the small of my back to the top of my head. It is soft, yet firm. When I turn my face slightly I imagine soft feathers tickling my cheek.

“Do not feel guilty, dear one. Allow yourself to feel. That is, of course, why souls incarnate.” A warm, silken voice triggers more sobs from the depths of my soul. Eventually, though, curiosity slows my mourning. I must see what is wrapping me in a cocoon.

I pull back. Strong wings as white as freshly fallen snow slowly unravel themselves from around me to reveal their owner. My eyes lock into a set of eyes as blue as the sky on a cool winter’s day.

I wonder where teacher went, but I can’t tear my gaze away.

“We are always with you,” the angel says before wrapping me within his wings again. He doesn’t let me go until the pain has dissipated.

I apologize, dear friends. This event has caused me much confusion. I will never fully rememember or completely understand what happened that day. I just know that I was in pain and my angel took care of me.

I have always believed in angels, but I assumed I would never really see mine — after all, I am a strong woman. But I guess even the strong need to fall sometimes. How else will we truly learn?

Yours most sincerely,

The Dragonfly’s Student

The Dream: Without A Net

“My hands securely clutched the rock face as I travelled through the air like a seven-year-old on monkey bars, except I’ve never been able to cross those playground bars as easily as I travelled on those ledges I grasped, then I wondered what I was crossing and it was like a movie.”

I lock my eyes onto my classmate’s chocolate ones hidden behind heavy lids.

“My point of view pulled back to show me crossing precariously on narrow ledges of a bottomless cliff.”

My Irreverent friend nods, his eyes just a little more open than hey’d been just a few moments before. “What did you do?”

“I woke up. The realization scared me — I was climbing without a net.”

“But it didn’t frighten you before?”

“Nah, before that I was Tarzan, flying through the air on a mission. It was cool, actually. I liked having that strength and I absolutely loved the feeling of coasting through the air. It changed when I realized that one slip and I could fall to my death.”

“What do you think it means?”

I shrug and glance around the classroom, hoping that our teacher has heard me from his perch somewhere between his world and ours.

I think this is something I must decipher on my own. One thing is crystal clear, though. I was without a care in the world when I was probably in the most danger.

Maybe you, my friends, can help.

Until later, I remain your classmate and forever …

The Dragonfly’s Student

The Businessman and the Thief, a parable

I am indebted to my teacher, that magnificent purple and iridescent blue dragonfly who visits to tell me stories. This one was especially urgent for him recently.

The lights in the room dim. Teacher pulls a wing-back chair to the edge of his stage, settling into its purple and blue upholstery, as he encourages us to gather around on the bean bags scattered around the classroom.

“An elderly businessman spent his life building his fortune,” he starts. He lights a classic smoking pipe and takes a long puff to continue recounting the following story:

As the end neared, his attorney asked him who would inherit his riches. The businessman, puzzled, thought back to the people with whom he’d had contact throughout his life, the men and women who helped him with his daily tasks of life – his nurses and doctors, his butler and maids, his lawyers and chauffeur, and the employees he saw every day when he worked on the 197th floor of the skyscraper he built for himself.

Unwilling to allow his hard-earned fortune to fall into the wrong hands, the businessman vowed to find a person worthy of his riches.

He remembered being a precocious boy. Although his work at school was acceptable, it was not what others accepted in order to fit within the walls of conventional reality. He knew he would have to think outside of the ordinary.

He remembered growing up poor and climbing the sometimes-wobbly ladder of success, many times alone, but on occasion, someone would reach back and pull him up. He remembered the few people who offered him comfort on lonely nights when nothing was going right. He remembered the people who gave him a reason to smile. He knew he would be able to find someone as resourceful and kind as himself.

Inspired, he knew he could not pass this world until a suitable home for his fortune was found.

He would look for someone who would fight for what he knew was right.

Many times in his life, he found himself up against situations pitting honesty against heartlessness. He discovered people more concerned with winning against all odds. Over the years, he recognized some of those very same people fighting against the person they had become and trying to right their many wrongs only to die lonely and bitter.

He would look for someone who was not defined by a number or an expectation.

One day, early in his career, he walked to his average, unassuming 9-to-5 job in the belly of some corporate building. He would pass men and women on the streets begging for money, some in exchange for a toothpick flag or an earnest ‘God Bless You,’ others in exchange for a newspaper or a hot dog. He wondered why no one had ever stopped him to offer him the one thing he would really have wanted. Instead of waiting, and against the well-meaning suggestions from his coworkers about the risks he’d be taking and the chances against success, he became that man and created something no one could live without.

Soon, he no longer had to concern himself with following in someone else’s footsteps already laid out in the pavement of life. He learned the expected can never be remarkable. He became the man no one had expected.

He would look for someone who was kind.

Many times, as he climbed the slippery corporate walls, he would reach for a helping hand. Only with the boost offered by one stranger or another was he able to succeed so he had always looked for others like himself, always willing to lend a hand or back a dream.

“We are all on the Earth together, and when one man falls, we all fail,” he preached. He learned to offer help to honest men who needed it.

And so the man lived a long, unassuming life.

After many years, much to his attorney’s chagrin, word got out that the businessman sought an heir. He was flooded with unwanted applications, requests for an audience, and the impassioned requests of friends and strangers alike.

Always the applicants were wanting in at least one of his three requirements, someone who would fight for what is right, someone who would not settle for someone else’s definitions, someone who would help his fellow man up the slippery slope of life.

The old man got older and his shoulders slouched with the immensity of his task. Then came the day when he walked in on a burglary in his own home.

The two thieves froze when the lights came on. Neither was armed and when the businessman cocked his hunting rifle, the men knew what would be next.

“What are you doing here?” said the businessman, pointing the rifle at one man, then the other. “I am a wealthy man and I could shoot you dead for even being here.”

The older of the robbers, a man old enough to have a family and a job, held out his hand. “Please, sir. Please let me explain why we are here tonight, of all nights.”

With a nod from the old man, the burglar continued.

“When I was a young man, with dreams of a career itching at my feet, my parents were killed in a horrendous accident. That left me, as the oldest, with the task of raising my sisters and my brother.”

He nodded toward the younger thief. “My dreams of success failed to become greater than my family responsibility. I knew that the greater good would be to help my family.”

He paused for the old man’s reaction. The businessman, knowing the burglar had passed his first test, took a seat and asked the two thieves to do the same, but the rifle remained trained on its target.

“I took humble jobs as my brother and sisters grew. Although I could never afford the luxuries they wanted, I was always there for them. When there were ceremonies at school, I applauded for them from the audience. When they received awards, I snipped the articles from the newspaper and had them framed. When my sisters went on dates, I would meet the boys and be certain they understood how much I would do to keep my sisters safe. But when my siblings wanted money to follow their dreams, I had to become creative.”

The man raised his hands. “This is what I do, but never from anyone who cannot afford it.”

“Young man, what about your confession is going to stop me from calling the cops?” the old man asked.

“Well, sir, as a student, I excelled at research. I was going to be a famous writer. I often create stories to entertain my siblings and I have journals full of those stories waiting for them to be read to their children. The time to put my desires before my beloved siblings never came. I have been unable to do more than dream.”

That fact didn’t impress the old man. That didn’t stop the thief, “The point isn’t that I write or that I dream, sir,” he said. “The point is that I’m an excellent researcher.”

He swung his arm toward his brother. “My brother’s dream is to become a businessman such as yourself. In searching for suggestions, we found a news story about your quest for the perfect successor—”

The old man smirked, “The truth rears its ugly head. You do mean to rob me.” He settled his rifle into his shoulder and took aim at the older burglar’s head.

“There is more, sir,” the burglar said.

The businessman nodded, but the rifle had found a permanent home on his shoulder.

“I spoke of being a researcher. I researched where you lived and when you would be here with the intent to allow my brother to meet you. We tried to get an appointment past your secretaries and your butler. When those attempts failed, we called your attorney and your chauffeur. My brother here even became friendly with your chamber maid, who offered to help him meet you, but at every place along the way our efforts met with obstacle after obstacle.”

The thief stood and stepped toward the businessman, who took in a sharp breath before readjusting the end of his rifle.

“You see, we knew when you would be home. We knew when the last member of your staff went home for the night. We knew where the security cameras are located.” He signaled toward the rifle. “We also knew you have no ammunition.”

Slowly, the businessman lowered the rifle.

“My brother just wants the chance I never had, sir. Will you at least give him that much?” he said, standing behind his brother in the old wing-back chair next to the fireplace.

The older man settled his empty rifle onto the couch next to him, his eyes intent on the face of the wanna-be burglar.

“Tell me, young man, for you are young to an old man such as myself, why don’t you just rob me? Isn’t it easier, and more profitable, than telling me such a long story?”

“Oh, no, sir. You misunderstand. I am here to get your attention. I have a job that does not pay well. What I do to help my siblings with their dreams is tell stories to people who will listen. They pay me what they can when they can. What I wanted tonight was simply your attention. I ask only that you give my brother an open mind and a chance at his dream.”

The old man rested his chin in his hand as he considered his two unexpected guests. “You have told me about how you lost your dream when your parents died and you had to become parent to your siblings. Was that true?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you were willing to recognize and fight for what was right.”

The older thief shrugged with a nod.

“And, despite the fact that you were unable to follow your dream, you are willing to help others reach theirs.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Finally, let me get this straight, regardless of how many times you were refused an appointment with me, you persevered , took an unexpected approach and managed to hold my attention for nearly an hour.”

“I suppose so, sir.”

The old man stood. “All these years, I have sought a successor who met my three requirements. Tonight, I have found such a man.”

The older thief shook his head, “Oh no, sir, don’t make a decision without hearing his ideas. He is my brother, and I think he’s brilliant, but you are the businessman. You need to make the decision that is right for you. I am far from being an expert.”

The businessman, walking straighter than he’d walked in years, stood next to the older brother. “No, young man, it is not your brother I speak of. Something I learned as a young man is a lesson you have retold tonight.”

With his hand on the older thief’s shoulder, “You have succeeded tonight with a skill that is not ordinary. What I learned as a young man myself is that ordinary and normal can never be remarkable. You, my friend, are remarkable and, as long as you refuse to allow anyone to change you, you will inherit my veritable kingdom.”

His story finished, teacher taps his pipe into his hand. “That, my dear students, is one of many paths toward the Kingdom of Source.” He flicks his hand as if to spray his ashes over us. Instead of ashes, though, what come down are sparks of light like flickers of fireworks, before he transforms himself back into the dragonfly.

Namaste, dear friends,

The Dragonfly’s Student

God Is In The Detail

I don’t know how I got here.

One day, I was a teacher in a public high school, stressing over final exams and careless students. The next moment, it seems, I’m a graduate student at a school where my dragonfly is the teacher. The thing is, the gap in consciousness never bothered me until now. Actually, it doesn’t even bother me now. A classmate was asking me where I was before and it dawned on me like a nuclear bomb on a darkened shore.

Somehow, I got here. My days are filled with lessons from our teacher, who transforms into human form for many classes, adapting his colors into the clothing he wears. The lessons are supposed to help us understand the true meaning of life. They’re supposed to help us grow as humans so that we can bring a higher vibration to our own plane of existence.

Simple, right?

Teacher says one day soon I’ll be ready to graduate. I am his prized student; his teaching assistant, and I pride myself in that knowledge. Usually, his lessons are captivating. They amaze me because of how easy it is to learn under his tutelage. Today’s, however, is one of the more confounding ones.

“God is in the detail.” he says in the high-pitched hum of his dragonfly incarnation. He stops briefly over each student before heading toward the stage where his desk and lectern complete the picture of a highly-respected university.

I’ve heard this saying, but never understood it. I remember, one day after the dragonfly’s visit oh, so long ago. I was showered with random examples of missing details — incomplete student assignments, road signs with unlit letters, graffiti stopped mid-stroke. So many examples that the minutiae are indeed crucial. The only thing I saw through the shattered glass of my existence was the imperfections that existed.

At that time, the phrase that represented my life most was Don’t Sweat The Small Stuff — if it didn’t scream for attention, I didn’t bother with it. That existence was so much easier to handle. I didn’t have to deal with anything unless it started cutting into my comfort zone.

But not sweating the small stuff became meaningless. In my own, unique way, it kept me from experiencing anything substantial. Then it struck me like a two-ton truck — if the details are so important in life, am I doomed to a life of failure if I can’t fathom that concept?

Teacher twirls like a ballerina, complete with blue and fuschia tutu and dark blue toe shoes. “Perfection can never be attained until all parts of the whole are in agreement.” He Grand Jetés across the stage, pliés and bows to a chorus of chuckles and guffaws from my classmates. “Even a master often finds he has a weakness. It takes a truly advanced soul to understand the importance of detail.”

His performance is nearly perfect, and yet I still don’t understand. He continues a beautiful rendition of Baryshnikov in White Nights, sliding across the stage toward us in prayer.

“But we are patient,” he says, scooting around to sit on the top step. “If it takes you hundreds of lives to learn one small lesson, we will wait.” He reaches for the tattooed arm of one of our classmates. “And sometimes we leave you reminders, just as this artwork has become for you.”

The man with the artwork arm nods slowly as the lesson sinks in. “So, true, dude,” he says. “So like this one here reminds me of my first ex. That part of my life taught me so much.”

He gets it. I’m still lost.

“Teacher,” but my question gets lost in the space of time. I don’t understand because I’m still not ready. That much is clear.

Our leader takes the steps slowly, balancing carefully on his toes as he approaches. “This life is a precarious game of chance,” he says. “Every hurdle cannot always be conquered and, instead of starting from scratch every time, we sometimes let you skip ahead, like a scene selection button on a DVD player.”

“Ohhh,” rolls around the classroom. I’m still clueless, and imperfect.

I am sorry I cannot help Teacher with the details of this lesson. I feel it is truly an important one.

Much love and understanding to you, dear classmates.


The Dragonfly’s Student

My Path to Spiritual Growth

The day my new journey began started out like any other day.

True to form, the county’s central air conditioning system was set on freeze and my students begged me to open a window. Most days, the only thing that comes into the building is warm air that takes the biting edge off the cold. Some days, however, wild life find their way into my classroom. Sometimes the visitors are as simple as wandering lizards the length of a No. 2 pencil after it’s been sharpened a few times. One time our visitor was a chameleon whose color changed from black to brilliant green as soon as it found its way back into the outside world.

But the visitor this day was a dragonfly who slipped in during lunch without my knowledge. 

I had already started the day’s lesson when our guest was discovered by a couple of girls who noticed it flying near the board. I say ‘noticed’ to be polite, because they did more than notice. One of them shrieked. Another one left the room claiming to be petrified of the little insect.

I’ve never known dragonflies as anything other than the insects that fly and are almost as beautiful as butterflies. I also know they eat mosquitoes, which makes them A-ok in my book, so I couldn’t understand that student’s reaction. Regardless, I moved to help the little visitor escape the room by opening the fire escape and the door into the hallway — maybe a cross breeze would lead him out, I thought.

That plan failed. 

I then picked up a broom and tried to shoo him out, but I couldn’t reach him. A taller-than-me student offered to help, but when he suggested he was going to kill the intruder, I whipped the weapon out of his hands.

“Never mind,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”

Then I focused on the dragonfly, as if I could talk to him — I don’t know, maybe I was channeling some character from some Disney fairy cartoon or something, but I was certain I could get him to leave of his own volition. I certainly couldn’t continue teaching when even the idea of him was freaking out my seventeen-year-olds!

He flew toward a corner closer to my desk, where my desk chair could afford an adequate lift closer. For some unknown reason, I reconsidered shooing him away. Instead of stepping on a chair to take a gentle swipe at him with my broom, I cupped my hands over my head and softly called to him.

To my utter fascination, he dropped into my hands and stayed there as I walked him to the open fire escape. I blew on him softly then stood, fascinated, as he hovered outside the window before flying away.

I’ve never been the same.

Tons of research has led me to discover that dragonflies, in spiritual circles, pierce the veil between dimensions. Sometimes they symbolize our need to get past the illusions of this dense world. Sometimes, they are messengers telling us to tap into our deeper thoughts and creative imaginings. Sometimes, they represent the beings who help us most — our Spirit Guides.

To me, that dragonfly was all these things and more. That visit spurred me on to examine the spiritual world and how it appears in my life — the coincidences, the lucky breaks, the synchronicity of things. It also led me to accept my life and what it has become. Of course, the transition hasn’t been easy. At times, I can be heard kicking and screaming about how life isn’t fair. The truth is, as I’m learning, It’s all fair. It’s all part of the life we signed up for.

This blog, therefore, is the musings of a budding spiritualist who will never be able to fully let go of her Catholic upbringing. That’s okay. As I continue on the road to my own personal enlightenment, I will hold these new lessons to the magnifying glass of the teachings from my upbringing and try to make sense of it all — the truth that was hidden from us and the spiritual truth that resonates in me now.

Fortunately for my friend the dragonfly, there is no mention of them in the Bible (probably because they thrive in water, not desert.) So the dragonfly survives analysis today. It has become my teacher, the one who works with my Guardian Angel and my Spirit Guides to bring me closer to the being some people know as Source, or Spirit, or Supreme Being, or God.

The teacher has become the student now. I only hope this blog becomes a place for others to learn from my spiritual growth and continue on their own journey.

Sincerely yours,

The Dragonfly’s Student


… One Traveler's Testimony

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