The Ghost of Armageddon Past | Catherine Viel

By Catherine Viel, April 14, 2023

(Golden Age of Gaia)

April 13, 2023

I dwell in a lonely house I know

That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls

And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.
~Robert Frost, Ghost House



As we roll our way through April, I continue my trend of disinterest in outer happenings. Maybe I’ve become a bit frivolous, or there’s a big chunk of me residing in 5D and it feels unnecessary to follow faraway situations. Some might call that shallow; I consider it a healthy disregard for things I cannot change.

Come to think of it, frivolity seems like a sensible counterbalance to dire news. Surely it’s reasonable to refrain from teeth-gnashing over the awfulness. Even better, I’m not seeking out that state, it’s just there. Lovely! If I’m morphing into the human version of water rolling off a duck’s back, I will bow to the duck and say thank you for the inspiration.

*****



The cat with the stomach issues seems to have recovered from the latest episode. Maybe the new treatment is helping; maybe he was just done with it.

I’ve noticed that when a pet or a person has been ill, it’s easy to be hyper-vigilant long after they’re better. We continue, perhaps subliminally, expecting things to go south. After all, experience has demonstrated that this is how it works.

But somehow, I’ve managed to let go of over-vigilance with the cat. One morning I realized I was more interested in writing in my journal and daydreaming about the garden than hovering over the cat to see if he eats.

I couldn’t have forced myself to such equanimity. It’s as if a benediction has landed on me, a gentle hand on my shoulder steering me in a new direction, one glimmering with delightful awarenesses to come.

The daily irritations haven’t gone away, and life is not suddenly easy and smooth. But smooth sailing seems tangible, now, where before it was impossibly distant. The awfulness no longer seems interminable. An ending to fraught times feels imminent, almost palpable, the way the smoky-strong scent of coffee roasting drifts toward you, half a block before the coffeehouse comes into view.

*****



On a jaunt to the hardware store, I glanced at the adjacent empty storefront. Next to the For Lease sign, three large posters informed us that masks are required for entry, we should be aware of Covid symptoms, and for goodness sake, maintain social distance.

I felt like I was looking at a preview of a future Covid museum, marveling over relics from a now-defunct state of emergency. Most businesses ditched such signage months ago. Even the hyper-obedient medical clinic abandoned N95-masks-for-all after the California public health department ended their mandate on April 3.

The storefront signs feel like the ghost of Armageddon past, an eventuality that never quite materialized despite all the dark controllers’ efforts. I imagine a future lessee peeling away the brittle tape, wondering why we ever obeyed these directives, measures later proven to be almost entirely ineffective.

The cat snoozes, unaware of my musings. The garden is already moving into spring, riotous growth and exuberant flowers like heralds before the entrance of the queen. The Covid Times seem already a distant memory—the frustration over mandates, the injustices, countless unnecessary deaths and maiming from the “vaccines.” I’m glad to let such things drift away like the ghosts that they are, and plunge hands into soil, making it ready for seedlings and future fruits of willing labor.