Many people are unaware of the evolution of Whitewolf Visions. What began in 2009 as a place to showcase my photography, then turned into a place to showcase writings created throughout the span of my lifetime. The page became a place of refuge and a coping mechanism, which I am thankful for.
In 2009 my life took a very sharp turn, I changed drastically, anyone who I knew as a friend became a stranger, and it all happened so quickly. This is when suddenly; I began to notice the numbers 124, which became 1247, until finally morphing into 12479 in every variation and only at times of chaos. I took this as a sign from the Universe that whatever the circumstances were at the time, it was all meant to be and I accepted the changes at hand.
After so many appearances and coincidences; I began to research the numbers, and asked anyone who was metaphysically inclined if they knew what the numbers meant. There were no definitive answers, so the hypothesis that the numbers were a sign from the Universe stayed.
Then May 24, 2015 came about. I found the name George Gordon and the numbers in a small graveyard, prompting me to begin research as soon as I got home. The research became Whitewolf Visions, the series, because without the Facebook page and all that entailed, I would not have seen the name George Gordon, Lord Byron just hours before the trip began.
I will share the chapter Chapel of Water…or Simply Chapleau, followed by the chapter 144,000 Marches of Time of Whitewolf Visions: Book II Razing the Dead with Byron.
The Chapel of Water…or Simply Chapleau
Coordinates: 47°50â˛0âN, 83°24â˛0âW
I feel the air moving around me and my hair is tingling as I write this; so it began this time on May 24, 2015 in Chapleau, Ontario, Canada.
When we arrived I had a strange feeling of dĂŠjĂ vu, though aside from an oddly numerous amount of street names being the same as in Sudbury I saw no sign of a past life. Plenty life had passed through this town, it was evident in the empty store fronts and six people bustling down the narrow stretch of downtown.
We waited for my friendâs mother, prowling through the small town like lions in wait; she showed me where she once lived, loved, and raised four children. When the mother arrived home from work my friend suggested I walk toward a path to see an old graveyard she used to find peace and solace in; I gratefully took the directions.
On the way I passed a mother and daughter standing at the water’s edge, I smiled hello, baring my teeth, and kept walking. I was admiring the day, warm sun, leafy greens, happy. I was finally beginning to step into the light out of the darkness of my heart and spirit.
I was minding my own business trying to free myself of…of…recent events. As I was freeing myself a raven flew down and around me, landing on a branch nearby. I smiled hello and took my camera out as he watched.
It looked as if he was trying to say something but no sound was coming from his bird-whistling vocal chords, he was muted and I thought âI know the feeling wellâ. A few photographic moments later I thanked him and kept going; he followed, perching himself ahead and continued to watch as I lost myself in the scenery.
To my left was a âmountainâ and directly ahead an opening in the trees which turned out to be an old road. By the waterâs edge, trees hugged the road, tugged at the sides, and shadows were cast from the looming branches.
A few minutes down the road an eerie feeling washed over me, prompting me to look around; the road ahead was as dark as the forest beside me and suddenly I knew I was not alone. Thinking I should have a stick for protection I scanned the ground until I saw a birch branch. I turned to pick it up but stopped abruptly, stepping aside quickly, barely missing a pile of bear crap.
I picked the stick up, smiling, and checked the pile for freshness; the end of the stick sunk in with ease, thus making my smile disappear. I had a sudden feeling of urgency and went to keep going. To my left I saw a terrace with an iron fence surrounding gravestones; I had found it.
The fates, destiny, time, and universe would have it no other way. I felt instant jubilation. Everything about the small graveyard was well-tended and nurtured in nature, softly swaddled by the tall pine and birch trees, the shores bathed in river water hugging to the right. Love at first sight.
As I walked through the rusty gate I felt the energy change; it grew softer, and was flowing around me, seeming to brush my hair and my cheek.
I knew this was why I was in Chapleau; this was why BJ and I were friends.
There was something so familiar about the bars of iron and the way the trees reached up to the sky, so wispy, longing, stronger with every blow of the wind. Trees speak to me; there is something about them that is so âhomeâ to me, the earthen smell of them in all their forms of life and decay.
Concentrating on the people who were laid to rest I looked down and saw the name George Gordon* (last name omitted).
I was immediately moved because just hours before leaving for the trip I was reading a line by another George Gordon known as Lord Byron. The words touched me enough to go in search of his poetry I had recently purchased. On page three, When We Two Parted: âIf I should meet thee after long years, how should I greet thee? – With silence and tears.â
When I saw the name George Gordon* on the headstone in Chapleau, I smiled at the coincidence. To me it was a sign telling me indeed, this was the way life was supposed to be, no matter what.
This particular George Gordon* was laid next to his wife Lois, 1924-199something; the headstone was covered with leaves. I brushed off all but one number. Had I seen my fifth number I would have been thunderstruck. Imagine that. It was too much for me to imagine so I did not try, deeming it unfathomable.
I looked at the gravestone to the right, but the name and dates were too weathered for me to read from where I was standing. Across from George Gordon* and Lois were Mary Marjorie 1910-1995 and J. Murray 1917-1994.
Time was ticking; I said my goodbyes and began to leave, and as I was passing by Lois I turned my head for one last look the wind blew revealing the number under the one leaf I didn’t turn; it was a seven, making my sequence of 12479 complete. I can still feel the wind, and my life changing in that moment.
I was stunned and could barely see through my tears as I walked back through the gates and lifted the leaf. I had no clue what the numbers meant, if anything aside from the obvious. All I knew is they were carved in stone surrounded by an iron fence in the middle of the Northern Ontario wilderness and I was in front of them.
As I walked slowly back into the fenced yard the air changed from elation to intense and eternal sadness, it was electric. At that moment all doubts were expelled…again. I knew I had been there before.
There were no words and no one to share them with, at least not in the flesh. I felt the web of time and breaths of air touching me as if trying to tell me many years of stories in one stunted breath. I looked around with blurry eyes and a thick throat; the wind picked up as though trying to soothe.
Focusing on the older stone I walked over and held my hands over it; the air between my hands and the stone was vibrating with energy.
Once again overtaken by tears I took some photos, laid on the ground, and then began to leave. While I was rushing down the road I felt I was being ushered, I told the spirit to take care of them and that I would be back someday. Feeling the spirit’s rebuke, I knew they would be as fine as they had been for many years now.
When I arrived at the house I said nothing until we were in the driveway about to drive home. My friend had long heard about the numbers so my exuberance was not entirely odd to her.
All the way home I could not stop thinking about the graveyard, those numbers, and the feeling my life had just changed. When I reached my house I began by reading my Byron poem book; initially nothing was triggered other than a few words and his birth and death year, 1788-1824, dead at 36.
Once I was finished with the biographic websites I went to Wikipedia where I continued to find the numbers in the birth and death dates of many, many people, connection after connection, and trigger after trigger, lined up in perfect jumbled symmetry.
The connections neatly lain out in plain sight. The coincidences were strange, such as our mothers sharing first names, our daughtersâ names differing by one letter, and the name of his publisher and friend John Murray was eerily familiar considering in the grave across from George Gordon* in Chapleau lay J. Murray.
Through the route of names and numbers I began to see patterns within the pattern but the pattern that stuck out the most was of course the numbers. Chillingly the numbers began connecting to popes, saints (on consecration and inaugural dates) and famous writers, (many, many writers), and scientists.
I have been seeing the numbers for seven years now and according to my research it is a do or die type of situation for me.
My life did a complete 360° turn in 2009 and in 2010 began to speed up; my words and mind with it. Now my world seems to be at a spinning halt, readying for another turn I am sure but I need to tie the words down, anchor them so that they might become as real to you as they are to me.
In 2009, I began seeing the numbers 1, 2, 4, 7 and sometimes 9 all the time, I mean ALL the time. They would seem to materialize at pivotal and memorable moments in my life as 124, 1247 or 12479 in all variations.
It was startling at first, and then the coincidences became too many, I had to pay attention. I have always been a believer in the paranormal so it was not hard to imagine otherworldly things. The spirits have never been shy at showing themselves to me, at touching me, saving me, sitting at the foot of my bed while I sleep, talking to me while I sleep, and holding me.
My mother kept calling and calling in 2010 but I would not answer her call for the life of anyone. I had cut the cord, literally, virtually, figuratively, and finally. I do not have the time or inclination to say more than that it was during this time the numbers began to noticeably push forward.
Many of her calls and messages were ill-received at 12:47 p.m.; it was disconcerting and annoying. I see now even in her name and birth date she has been with me for many lives now.
These numbers truly are everywhere, in everything, all carefully laid out, planned, plotted and desperately trying to reach someone, something.
I call this chapter Chapel of Water because of the links and connections I see in the word itself: Chap l eau. Chap, el, and âeauâ French for water. This is an important correlation because not only is water one of the single most important things to gurgle up from Earth’s crust but because that word alone, water, links every creation story in history. It would only be natural to have a âchapelâ dedicated to it in reverence, as a safe keeping.
(Today) May 24, 2018: Minutes to the day left.
Three years later to drive up to the path and run to your grave with my daughter running safely beside me.
The road seemed so long three years ago, the path was wider and the ground sparkled I swear.
Today, the path was shorter, the ground a little harder and perhaps even raised. I will compare my memory with the photos of three years ago. There were no photos today, no tears of deeply-rooted remorse and love. The love was there, you were there in all your suspended glory, the energy raw, and here with me now.
I needed to be there today, to touch ground, to breathe in and out, hands and feet on the stones. The other stones were missing-or were they? I didn’t stay long enough to dig and clear my way to the truth of the stone’s location.
If they were gone, where did they go? And if they were there…buried underground after only three years of growth? George Gordon* and Lois are well-tended and uncovered. The rusty gate was closed this time, the ground craggier than ever. Many trees fell all around; the deep forest was drying out.
If my daughter wasn’t with me I would have gone up that path: it was now covered by the fallen trees. It was strange to see how different and barren the lush forest I remember had become. The emerald green moss was dusty with forest debris and at this moment I cannot recall which direction the trees had fallen. We didn’t stay more than five minutes.
The forest moved a step closer to the water’s edge. Itâs the only plausible reason for the changes in the ground and throughout the trees.
I will return at least one more time to find those missing stone markers, to walk further down that path despite any obstruction or doubt.
Today was about an unknown and all-consuming force from within to reach and touch that stone. I know I need to return soon, to see about those stones, my imagination runs wild enough without their disappearance.
The fact they are either buried or gone is a little or a lot disconcerting and concerning considering George Gordon* and his wife a few meters away are clearly visited.
Chapleau, Ontario, May 24, 2019:
I was very relieved and happy to feel the stonework of the plaque beneath the forest debris. The masonry was under a few inches of dirt but J. Murray and wife were still safely interred across from George Gordon* and Lois. Mystery solved.
My youngest daughter and I had taken another journey to Chapleau but this time we took the same path BJ and I had four years prior up Highway 101, and we rented a car and hotel room. Our only real plan was to escape the clouds covering the weather map, stay safe, and close to home, and to console ourselves.
We were supposed to have journeyed to Albuquerque, New Mexico for the Gathering of Nations Powwow with her older sister as a 16th birthday present but my health was causing worries. In March, due to extremely low iron, I fainted, giving myself a concussion, and soon thereafter my employment at the funeral home became too much for my head (I began working there two weeks after completing Whitewolf Visions: Book III The Serpents Tongue in July 2017). I was recovering nicely but me driving to New Mexico with 2 unlicensed passengers whom I love more than life seemed a little dicey.
Since that trip I have been working steadily toward the presentation of these three books and this path of numbers and light.
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