From a frequency holder who remembers the harmony before the discord
It began with a walk I’ve taken a hundred times – but not lately.
By the time I got home, my eyes were welled with tears.
Something this morning called me this way and I went – along the field where the mares and their foals once grazed. I wasn’t expecting to see them, but there they were, their energetic imprint shimmering, inviting me to admire them, beckoning me to remember.
Something in the land had shifted again — and I could feel it.
Not through facts or numbers or newspaper stories. Through frequency.
The kind of shift that doesn’t announce itself but settles like a film over the air —
a barely perceptible overlay.
More people. New buildings.
Different energy.
It comes quickly now —
Not one or two changes, but dozens. All at once.
Fast. Slick. Smiling.
The kind of movement that doesn’t pause to ask what came before.
I’m not against growth.
I’m not afraid of change.
But I am someone who listens to the land.
And what I heard today was grief.
There used to be a quiet here — not silence, but stillness.
A kind of spacious coherence.
You could feel the rhythm of the trees.
The dignity of time moving slowly.
The stories that were still embedded in the soil.
And now, that rhythm has been disrupted.
Not gone, but strained.
Like an old song being drowned out by a new one that plays too loud – and this time in the wrong key
But here’s what I need to say:
It’s not just about change.
It’s about memory.
Because a place remembers.
Not in the way humans do, with names and dates and nostalgia —
but in vibration, in imprint, in energetic resonance.
The land behind my house carries the residue of a much older time.
A time of hunters. Traders. Black bears in the mountains.
Activity. Exchange. Survival. Extinction.
And not all of it was gentle.
I have felt the weight of those echoes move through my home.
I have felt the presence of souls who never crossed over.
I have done the quiet work of clearing. Of listening. Of holding still.
And now —
Now I feel something different arriving.
Not just people. A pattern that carries distortion.
An overlay.
Not all overlays are malevolent. Some are just momentum.
But others… are not accidental.
Some carry a kind of synthetic push — a frequency that replaces instead of integrates.
That extracts instead of relates.
That moves in so fast, it doesn’t notice what it’s stepping over.
I know this might sound strange.
I know that to some, it might sound snobbish or judgmental.
But I’m not talking about cars or clothes or where someone comes from.
I’m talking about how they come.
The speed. The energy. The disconnection.
The way the field begins to ripple with disregard.
And I feel it because I was here before it arrived.
I feel it because the land and I remember each other.
And because I seem to carry a strange and often painful gift —
to feel the shift before it’s visible.
To witness the grief the community around me feels but doesn’t know how to name.
To sense what’s being lost before it’s even fully gone.
Sometimes, that feels like an honor.
Other times, it feels like a kind of loneliness.
Because what do you do when you know something that no one else sees?
When the ache in your chest comes not from imagination, but from imprint?
There have been waves before.
Civilizations that rose, faltered, and faded.
Communities that bloomed and then were replaced —
not always with care.
Not always with awareness of what came before.
And the pattern repeats.
Humanity moves in cycles:
A rising of coherence.
A falling into greed or speed or forgetting.
Then the slow return — carried quietly by those who never stopped remembering.
I think I’m one of them.
Not better. Just early.
A tree that hears the change in the wind before the storm arrives.
And stands. Even when the landscape shifts.
So I walk.
And I weep.
Not because I am weak —
but because I can feel what is true.
There was a place here.
And it remembered itself.
And I was part of it.
And it is not gone.
But something inorganic, misaligned, is moving in that does not yet know how to listen.
And I do not know if it will.
So I write this for the ones who feel the change before it has a name.
For the ones who are not snobbish, but sensitive.
Who are not judgmental, but attuned.
And for the ones who stand quietly,
long before anyone else realizes
that something ancient
is being asked
to hold.
