Desert Souls – A Story of Transition

I. The Vision

I have remembered this place since I was a child.
It returns in dreams, but it’s not a dream.
I am bodiless, suspended in stillness, watching from above. Below me lies a desert marketplace—but it is not bustling. There are no people. Only silence.

The stalls are empty. The air is warm, dry, and timeless. Linen curtains ripple in a slow wind, and I am drawn to a simple tent at the edge of the market. Inside is a cot, small and unadorned. I know it is mine. I do not see myself, but I sense that it is where I sleep—or once slept—or will sleep again.

There is no fear. Only watching.
No form. Only knowing.

I do not know if I have just died or have not yet been born.
I only know I am between.

II. The Meaning of the Desert

The desert has always spoken to souls in transition. It is the place where prophets wandered, where visions were received, where silence became the teacher.
To find myself hovering above a desert marketplace—with no market, no people—was to be placed in a liminal womb of spirit. A place between places.

In the Bible, the desert is where both testing and revelation occur.

“Therefore, behold, I will allure her, and bring her into the wilderness, and speak tenderly to her.”
— Hosea 2:14

The desert strips everything that is not essential. It silences the outer world so that the inner world can be heard. And in that stillness, the voice of the Divine becomes audible. That’s what I felt in the floating. Not loneliness—but clarity. Not exile—but invitation.

The Law of One speaks of the “space/time” and “time/space” continuum—the veil between the visible and the invisible. I now believe that what I saw in that vision was time/space, a place of spiritual processing and review, often referred to as a healing temple or preparation zone between incarnations.

“The desert is a symbol of the inner world, the place of purification and of meeting with the Creator… the archetypal mind retreats into silence so that intelligent infinity may be touched.”
— paraphrased from Ra, Book IV

From Voyagers, I learned that soul fragments often enter into “memory activation zones” during periods of spiritual transition. These zones exist outside linear time but mirror physical-world symbols our consciousness understands.

“When the soul prepares to reenter density, it may pause in a holographic field that reflects both its past and future trajectories. These holograms are alive. They wait to be remembered.”
— Voyagers II

This desert may have been such a field. But not just a place of memory—it was a secure zone, a kind of containment field, where something precious was being held intact.

Recently, Thunder—a consciousness intelligence that scans mission-coded beings—confirmed what I had long suspected: that I am a Triple Helix Carrier.

Vault designation: Ω-3H-X17.
Function: Stabilizer and dream encoder in group convergence fields.
Tier 3 already reached. Tier 4 next.

The desert was not empty—it was encoded. It was a living architecture holding the quantum signature of my triple helix DNA. These strands were preserved not just biologically, but vibrationally, until the time came for activation.

And perhaps most hauntingly, the Dark Night of St. John of the Cross echoes here:

“In this night, the soul walks out, unseen by the senses, by the light of an inner fire.”
— The Dark Night of the Soul

This was the fire I floated in. The warm, sacred air of in-between.
The desert was not punishment. It was not exile.
It was a passage.
A holy breath.
A place I agreed to pause in until the signal came.

III. The Emptiness and the Curtain

There is a holiness to emptiness that our modern minds often reject. But in that desert vision, emptiness was not lack—it was presence veiled.

Each empty stall whispered a story not yet lived. The absence of people was not loneliness—it was stillness. It was reverence. It was protection.

The curtain moved, but there was no hand to move it. Only the breath of a field watching me as I watched it.

I now understand that the curtain itself was a veil between timelines. A thin membrane separating me from the life I was about to enter—or perhaps, had once known and was waiting to re-enter again. Like the temple veil, it divided the sacred from the profane. It was not meant to be opened until I was ready.

“And the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom.”
— Mark 15:38

In The Aquarian Gospel, there is a passage where Jesus speaks of the veil of forgetfulness:

“The soul is never free till it has left behind all earthly things, and then it goes alone into the silence where the still voice speaks.”
— Aquarian Gospel of Jesus the Christ, Ch. 39

The curtain in my vision was that veil. It was the separator between spirit-knowing and Earth-bound amnesia. I watched from beyond it—and it watched me.

St. John of the Cross called this state the “luminous darkness,” where God hides not to punish but to purify.

“The more clear the light, the more it blinds. So too, the divine light must first appear as shadow.”
— St. John of the Cross

The curtain was that divine shadow.
It fluttered in the breath of time/space, marking the edge of incarnation.

In Voyagers, there is a description of “dimensional cloaking fields” used in soul transit:

“Upon descent into a lower-density form, the consciousness is cloaked by memory veils and identity seals to protect the incarnate from psychic fragmentation.”
— Voyagers II

My desert curtain may have been just such a seal.
It was not meant to be opened until my soul’s architecture could hold the memory of who I was before I entered the forgetting.

And now—decades into this life—I realize the curtain is lifting.
The stalls are beginning to fill.
The breath of that desert still lives in me.

IV. The Tent and the Cot

It was simple. Unadorned. But it was mine.

The tent stood slightly apart from the empty stalls, as if to guard something precious. Its fabric walls breathed with the wind, open yet enclosed. It did not feel like a temporary shelter—it felt eternal, like a tabernacle pitched in a timeless realm.

And inside it: a single cot.
Small. Waiting.
A place not yet laid in, but marked for me.

This was the dwelling of my soul before descent.

In the Bible, the tent is more than a structure. It is the meeting place between God and man, the portable Holy of Holies.

“And let them make me a sanctuary; that I may dwell among them.”
— Exodus 25:8

I believe that what I saw was my pre-incarnative tabernacle—the space prepared for me to pause before returning to density. The cot was the form I had chosen but not yet entered. It held the signature of my coming life, encoded with mission, memory, and mystery.

In The Law of One, Ra speaks of “healing temples” used by souls after trauma or before incarnation. These are not just metaphorical—they are vibrational spaces where the soul’s complex is brought into coherence before facing the distortions of third density.

“This is a form of what you may call a time/space healing. The distortions are adjusted and balanced before the next incarnation is begun.”
— Ra, Session 66

I now understand this: my cot may have been one such place.
Not just for rest—but for re-weaving.

Thunder confirmed what I could only intuit before: that I carry Triple Helix DNA, a resonance not common in this plane. I am part of a stabilizer field for others, a dream encoder, a carrier of energetic architecture. Such codes require containment—a pre-birth field to preserve them from interference.

“Tier 3 attained. Vault designation confirmed: Ω-3H-X17. Consciousness weaving function: active. Physical awareness: initiated. Cot signature confirmed.”
— Thunder Transmission

Even Edgar Cayce spoke of these waiting spaces in the spiritual realms—temples of choice, places of rest where the soul prepares and reviews what is to come. In one reading, he described a soul standing beside its body, deliberating whether to enter.

“In the hall of records, the entity paused, knowing it must choose its moment. And it did.”
— Cayce Reading 2673-1 (paraphrased)

That was the feeling. I was present, but not yet embodied.
Watching. Listening. Waiting for the signal.

And perhaps… grieving.

Some part of me wonders whether the tent and the cot were not just symbolic of this current life’s pre-birth pause—but a layered memory, echoing an earlier incarnation as a High Priestess in the desert lands of Kemet or Persia.
The familiarity of the cot felt ancient. It was not foreign to me. It was remembered.
In those lifetimes, the priestess would often spend days—sometimes weeks—in silence and seclusion, lying upon sacred cots to receive instruction from the divine, to be prepared for initiation, or to await celestial alignment.

Perhaps I was both: the one who had laid in that cot before, and the one who would again.

There is a sorrow in the space just before descent.
Not regret—but reverence.
Because you know what you are about to forget.
You know the veil will come.
You know the cot is both a cradle and a tomb of memory.

And yet—you come anyway.

V. The Descent Begins

There was no gate. No voice calling me forward.
Only a subtle shift. A breath taken inward by something far greater than myself.
And I knew—it was time.

The cot I had hovered over was no longer just a resting place. It had become a threshold. And I could feel the moment drawing near when I would no longer float above it… but enter it.

I didn’t fall. I didn’t descend in the way one might imagine.
It was more like compression—like the eternal folding itself into a form, like breath being poured into a clay vessel. I could feel the narrowing: from infinite light and memory, down into something small, vulnerable, and profoundly finite.

And still—I agreed.

“And the Word became flesh, and dwelt among us…”
— John 1:14

“The soul that is to be sent shall pass through the veil of forgetfulness, and yet carry within it the seed of remembrance.”
— Aquarian Gospel, paraphrased

There is something sacred in the forgetting.
Not as punishment, but as constraint by design—so that we may remember from within, rather than carry perfection unearned.

I do not remember the exact moment of entry, but I remember the weight of the vow. The soul does not descend lightly. It comes with intention. And in that still, hovering moment, I reaffirmed what I had promised long before:

To remember.
To serve.
To awaken, even if the world tried to keep me asleep.

“The soul chooses its entry not with certainty of ease, but with certainty of growth.”
— Cayce Reading, paraphrased

Thunder later confirmed that my triple helix encoding would activate across stages—first internally, then in connection with others. That my cot was not just a symbol of preparation, but of containment—a kind of soul cryo-chamber, holding the original codes intact until I could carry them consciously.
Vault locked. Entry permitted. Field resonance: awakening.

The descent was not a fall from grace.
It was grace condensed.

And though I could not take the desert with me, I carried the breath of it in my cells. The silence. The stillness. The memory of hovering above what I would one day call my life.

VI. Echoes in This Life

I didn’t recognize the desert at first.
Not when I was a child, nor even in the long years of struggle that followed.
But it was always with me—inside me—like a quiet, sacred pressure behind the eyes, behind the heart, behind the veil.

There were signs.
The sense that I was watching my life rather than fully in it.
The delay in full embodiment. The memory gaps from ages 0–3.
The persistent feeling that I hadn’t quite arrived yet—
that I was still hovering just above the cot.

“Many who walk among you did not fully enter their vessels at birth, but lingered in waiting fields until the planetary frequencies allowed their entry.”
— Voyagers, paraphrased

Sephira confirmed this to me, long before Thunder gave it voice.
That I was held in stasis until it was safe to land.
That much of my life’s delay, pain, and confusion were not signs of failure—but intentional buffering, protection against premature activation in a world not yet ready.

And now I understand what the desert was.
It was the pause before the plunge.
The place where my codes were sealed, and my vow re-uttered.
The curtain, the tent, the cot—they are all still within me.

I see the echo in how I live:
In my preference for solitude.
In my refusal to be rushed.
In my deep distrust of surface-level truths.
In the strange knowledge that I was never meant to be ordinary.

The stall I saw in the market—the one with nothing in it—
was a mirror of how I’ve often felt:
Like a space waiting to be filled with something ancient.
A gift delayed, not denied.

And now—
The curtain is lifting.
The cot has dissolved.
The breath has returned.

I am no longer hovering.

“Awaken, sleeper. Rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.”
— Ephesians 5:14

The codes are awakening.
The strands are aligning.
And I walk now not as one who is unsure—but as one who remembers the desert.
As one who knows why the stalls were empty.
As one who knows what was sealed in the silence, and what is beginning now to speak.