The Soul-Stream Portal
The portal opened up in the corner of our dining room, in August 2024, It took me a few weeks to figure out what it was and another year to get myself into alignment with it. It’s not a Stargate, nor a portal to another place or time. It’s a dynamic portal, that works like a spyglass to the great treasure map of the soul-stream. Initially, I named it the Story Portal as it stirred in me the desire to tell a story. Gradually, I came to real-eyes that the story is the weaving made by the tendrils of our soul-pods and that imagination is the language of the soul and what we bring to re-creation.
This portal started to take form earlier in the year, when other doorways and channels closed. Dean and I visited Las Médulas in March 2024 as part of our ‘farewell tour,’ to close the book on the official historical record. We had to go to the Castle of the Templars first, as I thought that Dean had some unfinished business there. Neither of us knew what that was, until we got there.
It was a fine day for a road trip, sunny and crisp. There was still snow on the mountains, sharpening the blue of the sky. The roads were clear, hardly any traffic. As we neared Ponferrada, there were road works and diversions. We kept getting lost and sent on the road to Las Médulas and could not find our way into the city of Ponferrada. It felt like a magnetic repulsion, pushing us away. We lost communication with each other. We could not hear each other speak and I could not find our place on the map – we don’t use GPS. Naturally, my imagination went into over-drive. Was there some sort of protective shield around the castle? What was it protecting? Why did I feel so irritated?
The history of the castle itself is sketchy. Ferdinand II of León gifted the city of Ponferrada, along with the ruins of the old fortress, to the Order of the Knights Templar In 1178. The official story is that this was to protect the pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago, as they passed through El Bierzo on the way to Santiago de Compostela. That is a cover story, draped like cobwebs over abandoned masonry. The “Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon.” were anything but poor. And a drive through the wooded hills and valleys today shows how impossible it would have been to protect any travellers in such terrain.
The Order was founded in 1119, by two Flemish knights Godfrey de Saint-Omer and his brother Hugues le Païen. The details change in different accountings. Of note, Omer is wheat-sheaf in Hebrew and a reference to Spica, the symbol of feminine magic in the hand of the Constellation of The Virgin. So, God-free of the Wheat-sheaf and Hugh the Pagan, along with six other noble relatives founded a Christian order of “warrior-monks” to protect pilgrims visiting the Holy Lands? Christianity was different back then.
After 10 years, without any recorded successes, the brothers returned to Europe to raise funds and recruits. Then they became useful. The sterling reputation of the Order enabled them to establish letters of credit, whereby gold and jewels deposited in a Templar House could be withdrawn in another House on presentation of the sealed letter – so that travellers did not have to carry heavy precious metals around. They charged a fee for this service and so created the first international banking system, which made the Order incredibly wealthy and powerful. They were granted exemptions from paying tithes and allowed to collect taxes of their own and because they were considered trustworthy, they became the tax collectors, financial advisors and banks to monarchs and the Pope. At their height they had thousands of Houses/Temples that functioned as banks throughout Europe and what is now the Middle East. They became too powerful and needed to be removed so that the system they set up could be controlled by ‘the authorities.’
I call these ‘authorities’ the Phoenicians, although they are now go under a different name. They functioned as the political and economic advisors to the Royal Houses of Europe, instigating the endless wars that caused the monarchs to become heavily indebted to the Order. A perfect setup. On their advice, in 1307 Philip IV of France, with the collusion of Pope Clement V, arrested all the Templars in France and accused them of heresy and blasphemy. Confessions were extracted under torture and many Knights were burned alive at the stake, their funds raided by the indebted monarchs and the remainder of their property distributed to the Knights Hospitaller. Their banking activities were taken over by ‘the money lenders.’ The Castle of Ponferrada was confiscated by the grey entity of “the Crown’ in 1311 and held by various ‘noble families’ until officially handed over to the Catholic Monarchs, Isabela I of Castile and Ferdinand II of Aragon.
None of this explained the strong energetic repulsion and confusion we experienced as we neared the castle.
I was hot and irritated and Dean had gone almost completely deaf. We had to stop at a petrol station and ask directions for the castle which turned out to be only about 200 m up the road. Thankfully we found a place to park close by and we were still in time to get in before they closed for lunch. We passed through the grand and impressive entrance with some trepidation. Inside, everything was very clean and shiny and beautifully renovated but it was completely sterile and we knew it immediately. Dean said, “That’s it then. All our history is built on lies.”
The castle was a piece of theatre, an artfully and expensively constructed stage prop around which a story had been built. The castle itself covered quite a large area and there were wooden walkways connecting the different parts, a few turrets and some old cannons. There was modern mortar connecting the stones many of which had apparently been taken by locals to build their houses over the years. It just didn’t match the hype; it was just another theme park castle. We hurried through, avoiding the worst misdirections and then headed into the town in search of refreshment.
The town of Ponferrada felt like a dead-zone, dropped in from the 1970s and updated with bad graffiti and traffic. We stopped at a café for a drink, but lunch was out of the question. I felt stunned, liberated and completely out of place. Discombobulated. We’ve been to many castles, pyramids and palaces, but the Castle of the Knights Templar at Ponferrada closed the door on that line of investigation and it was the end of history for us. The story woven around the ruins was so obviously fabricated that it called every other bit of history into question. The truth cannot be found in the past. History is all made up, a bad script draped over a few relics and pinned down by carefully selected facts and figures, now digitally scrubbed and photo-shopped beyond recognition. It was a liberating moment out of time.
From Ponferrada, it was a short drive to Las Médulas. I had been angry for a long time when I read that it had been the largest open pit gold mine of the Roman Empire and that the Romans had completely destroyed what must’ve been an entire mountain of gold. The Romans had, in fact, invented fracking. They tunnelled into the mountain and then pumped water from the River Sil into the tunnels, splitting them open so they could get at the gold. I did not anticipate seeing a place of such magical beauty, that whatever happened in the past no longer matters. Nature just reclaimed it and made it even more beautiful.
As one door closes and another opens.
The header image is not the portal in our dining room. We discovered it in wall in a charming village near Las Médulas and it is a real Faerie Portal. Faerie portals have a triskelion lock. The first lock is in the invisible world; it opens up a pathway in the imagination to deep lifehood memory. This is what inspired the artist to create a representation of the faerie portal in the wall and just seeing it invoked a curious wistfulness that began to flow into my day-to-day experience. The second lock has coordinates in the physical world, but is not visible as such – this is in our dining room. The third lock is in the human heart. When all three locks are in resonance, the portal opens.
The physical portal had lain dormant on our property for hundreds of years, abandoned for forty years before we moved in. There was an old stone blacksmith’s cottage and barn, mostly fallen to ruin. We liked the fact that there were no neighbours and that the only access was via a dirt road. The slate roof had collapsed and the ground floor was flooded, as the disused access track had become a small river. There was no running water in the house. The previous owners had used the well in the barn and the bucket was still here, hanging on a chain. We don’t know when the old cottage was built, maybe late 1800s, something like that, but people had lived here long before that house was built. As soon as we saw it, I knew I had to live here.
We renovated the house in a natural rustic style, retaining as much of the old stone building as we could and rebuilding with cob, using clay and straw sourced from the land. Most of all, we built with Love and sometimes hope. As the house grew out of the land and reconnected with the water veins, it remembered itself and all the wounds of rejection and loss showed up as disturbances. Such grief and sadness, that triggered my own barely contained rage. The dogs knew what was going on, but it took me years to figure it out. Eventually, the disturbances ceased and it became clear that the house has its own means of protecting itself and its chosen guardians.
In early August, Freya had started laying down in the corner of the dining room, looking at me pointedly. When Tulku joined her, I knew that something had changed. Tulku was very energy sensitive, but he avoided stressed areas. Freya had an amazing affinity for energy lines, especially those that were disturbed. Her protective instinct was so strong that she would always sit in doorways, guarding and alert to our every move. She would block our path if we went the wrong way, or moved into the well-worn ruts of the artificial construct. This was, of course, irritating until we real-eyesed what she was doing.
There were Hartmann and Curry lines crossing on that corner and it had felt unwelcoming, even hostile. Birds nesting in the gables above got pushed out of their nests too soon and a long vertical crack appeared in the wall. I corrected the lines several times until I was shown that all these straight grid lines are imposed on the Earth and are part of the artificial matrix. In correcting them, it was as though I was picking a scab on a wound trying to heal itself.
When I looked closely at the corner, it looked the same as it always had. The crack was still there and maybe a few more spiders webs, but nothing in any way remarkable. So I stepped into the space and found that it was not the same place at all.
There were no claps of thunder, nor shimmering lights and I wasn’t transported to another world. Or maybe I was, as other worlds exist right here in the space between thoughts, where time and space lose touch with each other. I re-membered myself. That I’d been lost here before, in another place and time on the still point of the Autumn Equinox. I was walking the dogs in the woods I’d known all my life, when a silver shimmer appeared on the periphery of my vision and with the next step, I didn’t know where I was. Mentally, I knew the place, I remembered where the car was parked, I knew how far I was from home, but I didn’t recognise the path and it took me nearly an hour to find my way out of the woods. When I got home that day, I went into a fever and had to go to bed. The next morning the stomach ulcer I’d had for twenty years was healed.
Time passes differently in the portal. What seems like 20 minutes, could be two hours of no-thing. Then on another day, a tiny phosphorescent spark of memory explodes into a kaleidoscope vision of other realms. The portal is a tunnel through Spider Grandmother’s web, the viscous fabric of the physical world. It is contiguous with the fascia of our bodies and extends into the ocean of consciousness.
After I sat in it for a while, it is big enough to sit in with a dog lying next to me, I could track what was happening in my body and my inner vision sharpened. My breathing slowed and the space between thoughts opened up and appeared to expand and contract, as if moved by the gentle swell of the cosmic heart-beat. In my mind’s eye, I saw filmy overlays of happenstance moving on invisible currents into dream-streams and the waters of the visible world. The banks of my peripheral vision were lined with hordes of fishermen, blindly casting out their lines in the hope of finding treasure. So we think. The mesh of habits, beliefs and assumptions hovered in a dark fog over the waters. I felt a creeping sensation move up my scalp, and pressure within the base of my skull. From the depths of the oceanic mind, the image of Las Médulas floated into view and crystallised with biological memory into into the sudden awareness of my medulla oblongata.
The medulla oblongata is part of the brainstem that relays signals between the spinal cord and the brain. It regulates involuntary functions like breathing, heart rate, and blood pressure, as well as automatic reflexes such as coughing, sneezing, swallowing, and vomiting. It resonates on the same frequencies as physical gold and that of the Nature Beings who create it, the gold-makers. Sudden coughing or sneezing often indicates an interruption in the signal relay, for me an indication that I am straying off the Path of the Soul.
Physical gold deposits are information relay centres between the gold-making elementals and humans. Extracting the physical gold is stealing the physical wealth of the land and destroying the wealth-generating ability of the people there. Reconnecting with the gold-makers helps us create abundance and wealth without further exploitation and enslavement to the matrix economy. The loss of this connection has harmed the invisible realms as much as our own. Nature Beings need human interaction for their survival too and have been reaching out to us for centuries. That said, they cannot trust us because of what some of us have done to the worlds and they do not share our sense of morality. T
he fae did not volunteer to be the intermediaries between the worlds. Naming magic made this their fate through tales and cakes, teeth and dish-soap, lights and the odd grandmother here and there. Their cousins and elemental beings are lost in the tales of the old gods. If the last of the silvery ribbons woven into our individual stories were to disappear, they and all of their kind would be gone from our world forever.
In the world we are now calling into form, that doesn’t happen. The Earth energies, electromagnetic waves and pulses, the dragon vortices and cosmic dragons are ramping up and portals, doorways between worlds within us and beyond are opening – too many have already opened for this shift to be stopped. It is the artificial constraining mesh, that we create with alien intelligence that we think is our own, that is dissolving, along all its evil-doers and black magicians.
Exactly one year after the opening of the portal a wildfire purged Las Médulas. Close to half a million hectares of forest burned in Galicia in 2025, the worst wildfire season on record. There had been no rain since the end of May and even the leaves on the deep-rooted oak trees turned brown and dropped, as if autumn had come early. The sun glowed an eery red through the ash. We were never in any danger, but many people lost their homes and seven fire-fighters were killed. Whole communities of animals and birds were wiped out. As hard as thus was to bear, I saw the return of the gold-makers in the ash that rained down on us.
This story emerged in communication with Tulku, in that first year after the opening of the portal. It thrust itself through layers of emotions and perceptions that had diverted me onto a path that was not mine. I shed a river of tears before I found the point at which my own story-line got shunted into an alien narrative, many lifetimes ago. However, just as this story has its roots in what appears to be the distant past, it is simultaneously unfolding right now in my day-to-day life.
Of all the beings in these worlds within worlds, it is only original humans, the ‘people people,’ who have the gift of imagination, along with the ability to shape reality with our words. A heady mix. Given the state of the world and what I am re-membering through the soul-stream, it’s taken me over a year to convince myself that telling this story is worth the effort. As the mainstream narrative falls apart, other stories rush in to fill the gap, to grab our attention and become real, if only for a moment. For the storyteller, drawing the story out of the soul-stream and bringing it into our daily lives is our gift and our offering to the world. Earth magic, I call it.
As incredible as this story might sound, Truth is my lodestone. The Dragon Dogs hold me to that and keep me from losing myself in some one else’s story.
