I press my head against the white wall inside the wooden triangle, King Solomon’s triangle, just outside the blue and white healing rooms of the Casa. King Solomon, the first Entity who came through John of God when he was a mere lad of sixteen.

King Solomon, who’s shown me visions, guided me, lit me up with crystals.

Belly up, my body’s against white. Hips down against blue. Palms flat against the walnut wood triangle. Blue and white. The colors the Entities chose for the spiritual hospital, Casa de Dom Inacio.

And not just any blue and white — they’re the colors of Mother Mary’s robes. Her blue. Sky blue on a hot summer day.

It’s my last day at the Casa. I press my forehead against the wall, close my eyes, and say goodbye. Thank the Entities for their beautiful work with me these two weeks, for their gifts, their messages, their healing, their love.

Always I receive more than my arms can carry. Always I receive more than I can imagine. Always the Sacred bends with immeasurable grace to touch me, shower me. Always my body, my heart, are cracked, split, melted open with love, with light.

To Love. To Light.

To truths revealed, as I shake with sobs, that my mind and ego haven’t wanted to see, haven’t wanted to know.

To my soul’s truth buried deep, a pearl in the folds of an oyster’s flesh.

To God.

I say goodbye. Thank the Entities with all my heart, from the bottom of my heart.

And still, even with my arms full, I ask greedily. For one more thing.

Please show me…

The next instant She is there.

Ruby-red thick, heavy satin robes draped more beautifully than any queen in any movie, studded and embroidered with jewels that stars would want for their eyes.

Red as the Sacred Heart. Red as blood. Red as life. Red as a vagina. Red, the sacred feminine.

She is majesty. She is grace. She is taller than the brick tile ceiling for, with my inner eye, I can see only her robes waist down from the roof.

It is Her. Mother Mary.

My heart bows.

She was there the first time I went to the Casa. She was everywhere. She was all I could see.

She has held and healed my little one, who found comfort and solace with her, who hid and played inside the folds of her blue and white robes.

She has cradled, rocked, mothered me into life. Her heart a simple, wide, open flower. Asking nothing. Giving all.

She has held the waters of Sacred to my dry lips, poured life and love into my parched mouth.

She has been with me since that first time, healing, guiding, teaching, showing me things my mind cannot believe, what I am to do, how to work with Her.

Always the questions. Me? A brown Indian woman? Born a Hindu? Who will listen to me? Who will believe me? How can I talk about You?

But she is different today from any other time I have seen her. She is magnificent, regal, statuesque.

She bends down from above the roof, her face more exquisite than any. Her eyes look into mine. She cups my chin in her palm.

Daughter, I’m not just a shepherd girl. I am Queen of Heaven. This is who I am. People do not know me this way. You could not see me that way before. You needed me to be simple. For you could come to me as a child.

“But now you are ready. As a woman. This is how you will be in the world. This is how you will walk, stand, sit, eat, talk. This is how you will carry my work into the world.

Resplendent.”

And she looks at the basket that is my work. One by one, she sends rays of light to each blossom and shoot and seed, tipping all their colors with her blessings.

I cannot speak, so full am I with her majesty, her red regal robes, the radiance that is Her, her power so full of grace.

Hail Mary, full of grace.