Saturday, August 10, 2019

The Dusting of Soulful Connection

In writing my last post, my creative side was soothed by the delicate instrumental sounds of Kelvin. We had met previously, at the weekly Sidney Night Market, that I like to attend.

With the backdrop of blue ocean, the delicacies of fresh salmon burgers and Sea Cider, the market extends through the main street of this sleepy coastal town. Sidney comes alive, with various artisans and entertainers, on Thursdays from 4:30 pm - 8:30 pm.

When I met Kelvin for the first time, it was his beauty of form, the way his fingers expressed emotion through every strum on his guitar, that drew me in. Upon hearing 'Scarborough Fair' being played, I gathered with others in the crowd, to listen.

Kelvin performing in the Zen Gardens of the Horticultural Centre of the Pacific
Kelvin has a dream and goals, much like myself and others who seek to acquire more skills and immerse in the world of the creative arts. He is hoping to go to Spain and be part of the Flamenco Guitar Project, which offers Flamenco Guitar courses. Kelvin is fundraising and here is his GoFundMe link:
For me, music is another extension of my life where I can connect, worship and lose myself in the moment of a song.

In speaking with Kelvin, there is a degree of humbleness, in which he is genuine and thankful for a person taking interest in his passion.

I believe in the importance of supporting other artists, in all aspects of their gifts.

Dan Ferguson Pottery 
Whether a potter's hands like Dan's makes beauty from out of the ashes or the skillful eyes of a wood worker such as Dave reveals workmanship from layers of timber, I fall in love with the sheer notion of creation.

When I see a piece of quality craftsmanship, there is a desire to hold whatever it is in my hands or in the case of music, hold it within my heart.

My visits to the Sidney Market have lead to many intriguing conversations and even newfound friendships formed. With connections to beautiful places to visit, stay and purchase items of exquisite measure, those I have met surpass in value the importance of being authentic.
One never knows what will be discovered, when venturing out to a place, thriving in the production of artistry.


Dan Ferguson Pottery:

Dave's Boat Tours:

Dave's Woodworking ~ Cowichan Creations

Don ~ Youbou Guesthouse:

by T.L. Alton

Sunday, August 4, 2019

Land of Traces

Spirit Interrupted ~

Casting embers of crimson and jade
Upon the land where it will live
The raven forms the ivory bear
From legends, it will thrive
A token of when the world was white
An island reaped with joie de vivre
Rain forest valleys encase the allure
Yet not the spirit, for it roams free
Among the Sitka spruce and the ocean
Its presence known to the nomadic wolves
This is what raven planned for it to exist
Yet, the echoes of crushing metal break in
The jagged apparatus pierces the lavender skies
The grease explodes into the miles of cylinders
Toxins ablaze, the air thick with blackened odours
Nothing but destruction in its crude wake
The raven weeps as his beak is consumed with stench
His beady eyes; a mirror reflection of nature being decimated
The spirit bear’s snow-white fur drinks in the oil
As mother nature cradles the raven, overcome with sorrow
The beating of drums signifies the arrival of the pipeline.
~ by T.L. Alton 
Seated in my IMAX chair, I allow myself to take in the sight before me. Surrounding sound technology and a filmmaker’s dream, which transform’s every frame into magical moments...that is what the IMAX Experience is all about.

While I have used my annual pass to take in documentary’s music and adventure themed films, this one is phenomenal and in a league of its own.
The Great Bear Rainforest ~ Land of the Spirit Bear, is by far one of the best I have seen. The following reviews says it well:

I’ve seen many filmmakers enter the giant screen industry, but none has excited me as much as Ian McAllister and Jeff Turner, who have quickly understood our unique format’s power and have captured spectacular, one-of-a-kind footage of this magical environment and its stunning wildlife,”
– Greg MacGillivray, Chairman of MacGillivray Freeman Films

From the stunning opening scenes, to the adventure I was taken on throughout the film, it made me long even more for wanting to visit Ocean Falls, B.C.
The film is packed full of exploration, guileful camera manoeuvres both on land and in water, with an added bonus of the narration by Canadian born Ryan Reynolds.

Another key component, is the valued connection between the First Peoples, within the Rainforest and the importance of sustainability, built on thousands of years of origin.

The Spirit Bear or White Kermode has been held in high regard throughout time as a powerful totem, inspiring those in need of bravery, to take a stand against adversity.

The director of the film, Ian McAllister, conveys the message best with the following:

I get a lot of fulfillment just being here, in this world of diminishing ecological returns. It is hard to describe how special this place is. I think we are just so fortunate to have a place that still has the working parts—the full suite of flora and fauna—and we’re not talking about How are we going to bring these animals back? and How are we going to restore this system that’s been destroyed? which is really the ecological conversation for most other places. Here, we just have to protect what we have. If we just leave it alone and stop treating it like an inexhaustible resource it would have a fighting chance. I love it up here. I’ve raised my kids up here. There’s still so many things left to do and places to explore.” —Ian McAllister, director of Great Bear Rainforest

The harmony of co-existing, was the basis of a short legend story, I wrote many years ago and centred on a Spirit Bear. While there once was an element of love attached to it, the stardust particles in my eyes were forever changed, by the chemicals within my broken heart.
Yet when I sat mesmerized by the IMAX film The Great Bear Rainforest, I was reminded of its symbolism; the cycle of life within the beginning and ending of all things.

There once was a Spirit Bear who travelled all over the mountainside, the running rivers and meadows filled with wildflowers. He had a fire in his soul, which saw him drink in the beauty, wherever he went. Under the silver globe, he sought after adventure and while he followed the golden sphere; the Spirit Bear was a seeker of peace.

There came a day, when he stood, at the edge of the world. Returning to the rivers in search of food, he soon found himself trapped in a bush so full of thorns, he could not claw his way thru. Days passed, as he tried in desperation to reach the river for the fish, which nourished his body.

Under the scorching sun, he began to grow weak and gave up all hope of ever surviving. One night, the Spirit Bear heard a piercing sound that shattered the veil of darkness.

He lifted his weary head, to see a Golden hawk soaring past him. Dipping her claws into the glacier waters, she pulled out a coral salmon. With a swift turn, the Golden hawk flew rapidly towards the Spirit Bear, dropping the fish necessary to sustain him. He watched as she flew continuously in a succession of gathering the salmon and bringing it back for the ravished bear. Gorging on the light orange flesh, the Spirit Bear was brought back to life.

While he ate, the Golden hawk took her razor sharp beak and began to break through the wall of thorns. When the sun rose over the layers of basalt mountains, the Golden hawk lay battered and exhausted. Her wings were no longer strong to carry her up to the heavens. 

Facing the unknown, she was fearful, as she now was at the mercy of the powerful Spirit Bear. As he stood, the bear took his injured companion and began to cleanse the wounds of the Golden hawk. He pushed towards her beak one of the salmon, he did not eat. Using his claws, he gently fed the Golden hawk, as she had done for him. 

Not long after, both animals nourished and taken care of, were well enough to return to the forest. They parted, knowing they had become lifetime warriors. 

by T.L. Alton 

Thursday, June 27, 2019

Moonstone Jane

What miner’s art
Did meld and make,
Did stone on stone
Fling you on high,
Or lie beneath
The stars, awake
To think your shape
As nights sped by?

What weary hand
Did knead and tread
Your mud in some
Dead winter’s storm,
While autumn’s bride
Long kept her bed
To wait his will
Who gave you form.

And though they lie
Unknown at last,
Without foundation
Still you stand,
Your walls have stood
Six score of years
While they ran through
Their shift of sand!

And every furrow
At some brow
Did trace in mud
These barren lands,
Each humble cottage
Built in need
Was raised in pride
By miner’s hands!

~ 18 February 1983

By Miners Hands - Poem by David Lewis Paget

On the day someone passes from this world onto their final destination, you remember where you were at that moment.

When my father died at 41 from cancer, I was living at a friends house. Only 17 years old, I would come to feel the exit of a parent, from my life.
The day my daughter Shayla passed at the age of 21, I was in my home, when I felt a prompting to check my computer. It is there, while I was alone, that death would come to remind me of my own mortality. 

Recently, my Aunty Jane passed away from cancer. In her seventies, she had a lifetime of adventures, love, motherhood and losses. 

As a teenager, she had joined my Uncle Wally on a journey, which saw them live as miners. The lifestyle was never easy or glamorous; yet with over fifty years of marriage between them, Jane and Wally settled on the embracing the life most would not understand. 

Jane and Wally's hands of love
My memories of them included a world of survival, which I marvelled. I recall watching my aunt take a mason jar, put heavy whipping cream into it and shake it vigorously. My widened eyes never left her motions of back and forth until it thickened into a pale, yellow clump. I discovered science 101 of how the liquid abruptly separated from the butter. I also learned how people around 4,000 years ago prepared this ancient food. This knowledge, was only a small example of what I acquired, when I was in the presence of my aunt and uncle. 

Through them, I became introduced to the world of stones and the process of fluting. This operation involves the polishing of rock surfaces that are eroded by currents of air and water, where the powerful abrasion removes fine particles. I learned terms such as exploration and what crushing and grinding entailed.
My roots in rockhounding began here and were passed along to my daughter, along with other's influence. Shayla had a little metal hammer and hours were spent chiselling, every rock she could find. Her love of the ocean came from both her grandmother Dee, and I. Sea glass and shells were other treasures collected and cherished. 

A fond memory of a visit from Aunty Jane and Uncle Wally, was back when Shayla was a baby. Aunty had brought some gifts, including a beautiful blanket. Jane had a creative flair that saw over time, the intricate creations of weaving, needlework and also making owls from craft materials. These magical creatures appeared lifelike from afar; a person had a hard time distinguishing if they were real or not. 

Having a home in Wells, a small mining and tourist town in central British Columbia, gave my brother and me a chance to visit with our mother.
Only 10 minutes away, we were transported back within the historic town of Barkerville (named after William 'Billy' Barker). The main area was paramount in the Cariboo Gold Rush, in 1862.
Some of my favourite memories include rock candy, gold panning, and heritage buildings, preserved in time.

Another thread throughout our family tree, is the compassion my Aunty Jane had for those in need. She was known to cook for others, to give freely and also bonded with animals that included a fox, she use to feed by hand. Her favourite insect was the gentle ladybug, which connected to Jane's vibrant and colour life she led. 

Ladybug Earrings I bought

Her gifting heart was such a treasure; always putting herself last, Jane was a beautiful example of helping those she could. 
The day before she passed, I was in a local drugstore. When the cashier mentioned the Variety Children's Charity, I made a donation in Aunty Jane's name. The customer behind thanked me, as he proudly declared the boy on the Variety poster, was his grandson. 

Motherhood came late in life when her son Danny was born. The newest addition did not deter Wally or Jane, from pursuing their mining life.
There are those who could not fathom being immersed in the belly of nature's harsh environment, or appreciate what it took to survive in such conditions. 
Jane's love was an anchor in her marriage, as a mother and a miner. 

Shortly after I received news of my Aunty Jane passing; I sat on a pier at Florence Lake. Surrounded by my care package lovingly sent by my best friend, Sarah, her perfect timing brought comfort.

Florence Lake
In a corner of the marshland, a flock of sparrows erupted into single,
chirping notes that surprised me with their volume. 

When she passed, those of us from all parts of the earth, played upon her request, 'Moonlight Sonata.' 

Beethoven - Moonlight Sonata (1st Movement)

Video Link >>>>>>>

I imagined, mother nature's trumpets, vibrating in tune upon the glorious welcoming of Jane... with the words: "Well done, faithful one."

She was always something special
A diamond shining bright in the rain
Everybody dreams of angels ...

Now she's breakin' hearts in heaven
Shining bright in the sky
~ Mike Jagosz

By T.L. Alton

Saturday, May 18, 2019

Against All Odds

I refuse to gain the world and lose my Soul.” ~ Colton Dixon

A journey of 19 years has seen me endure the death of the only child I ever bore, and walk away from someone, I thought was my life partner. This path I have been on, once included three children (two of them not mine) and grandchildren, I will never hold. The voyage’s I have taken, saw me misplace my spirit, down alleys cloaked in betrayal, deceit and hopelessness. 
Darkness swathed me in unimaginable ways and yet throughout it all, there remained a seed… a spark of light that was rooted in faith. 

With every 365 days that passed in those years, one thing has stood the test of time. The Creator, who is the maker of all things, brought a Sitka spruce tree into my world and helped me to discover... it is my Spirit tree.

Locked wooden box of mine that is 19 years old..only I hold the key.


This particular Sitka represents the balance of good and evil.
The creation of this tree exists, near a place I have only travelled to, in my imagination. 

Over the years, there is deep gratitude in meeting the Rain people, who helped mold the setting of my novel; Ospero Falls in Under the Sitka Tree. 

Other connections to the story-line came from various parts of my creativity, where a milk bottle, unique skeleton key and an enclosed loft, are elements of the narrative.

The length of time spent in UTST is quite exceptional. When most would have given up long ago, I have persevered. Notwithstanding, the countless edits prepared me for what has immersed. A compelling novel of intricate threading, stemming from factual, Canadian history and fine storytelling. 

My method of writing is that there is none. I have worked on UTST in endless locales where Japanese Gardens were my backdrop, in the tropics of Hawaii, and within London -- where another infamous author, first began her arduous path to becoming J.K. Rowling. 

I have shaken the hands of those, whose fingers held the pens, to their stories of love, hardships and brilliance: Lawrence Hill, Amanda Lindhout and Nicholas Sparks.

Throughout it all, I have been inspired, welcomed and encouraged to push on.
Recently, I watched a film based on the book, “The Wife,” by American novelist, Meg Wolitzer. 
In sharing the quote, I am inserting the word (she) instead of he in red, as it is a precise example, of how I see myself as a female writer.

"A true writer does not write to get published. She writes because she has something urgent and personal that she has to say. A writer must write as she must breathe, and she keeps on doing it despite the loneliness, despite the poverty, despite the piles of rejection letters, despite the parent or spouse who call out 'You fool, why don't you get a real job?' A writer writes 'cause if she does not…her Soul will starve.” 

~ Original quote is from the movie “The Wife.”

In saying a ‘true writer does not write to get published,’ this resonates with me. It shines a light on why I sit in isolation, surrounded with my literary friends, bound in books and covered in fine particles. I write to release a flurry of adjectives, straddling onto nouns. To see a character’s life form, by the stroke of my pen, is to connect with my Creator. Whilst I allow myself to step away into the hustle of everyday life; it is that sudden rush which engulfs me, when I am struck with inspiration and must flee back home again, to purge my words.

I therefore write, knowing that its existence, flows through me and the very bloodlines are those which unite me with my convictions. 

The purpose of the intentions being one who is a true writer, merely writes for release. Yet, last summer, while working in the northern region of the Provincial Parks, an encounter in Mother Nature saw a major shift take place.
Upon leaving Moberly, I knew in my heart, where the unveiling of Under the Sitka Tree would take place. 

After nearly two decades, I am submitting my novel, to be considered for publication. 

Upon discovering the deadline of submissions, encompassed less than thirty days, I have burrowed my way to a chair that has my backside imprinted on it. There are edits still to be done, paragraphs needing polishing and a 4- 5 page synopsis to be written that many authors dread. 

As I immerse myself into Ospero Falls, I have also spent quality time creating the layout, design and content of my new website, for my book: 

Under the Sitka Tree by T.L. Alton
New website link >>>>

I was blessed with four people, who took the time to lend their support of my writing; which includes my newspaper career, blogs, feature articles, Chicken Soup for the Soul and of course, my first novel. 
What I discovered, humbled me as a writer. One never knows the impact of words shared and I am deeply grateful to C. Bruton, Christopher, TJ Wallis and S. Kube, for their valued time and contributions on my website. 

There are others, who behind the scene have lent more than their support over the years. Having enriched my life by means of their generous hearts, their worthy friendships have sustained me. 

In the midst of all the streaming of creativity, there is also a reality of survival.

Picture of me wearing my cross and an Ichthys, which is a clear statement of my faith.
If there is one thing I have consistently written about over time, is that in becoming a Christian, it does not make life easier, but it makes one more accountable. In divulging truth, I have had to share pain. In connecting with others suffering, I have had to expose scars. 

As I prepared this blog outline, I thought about all of the brokenness in our world and how ‘hurting people hurt people.’  

A quote by Siddhārtha Gautama says ~ 
“It is a man's own mind, not his enemy or foe that lures him to evil ways.”

I believe this truth is solid, in that we all have choices. They say each one of us has a price, a value in which we can be bought. While many would scoff at this, think about it and ponder what if you were kidnapped, being held for ransom? What about the single mom, who has several children to feed, or the man wrestling addiction? 

For me, my value is in my Saviour, Jesus Christ. 

Despite the financial instability in my life, there is no value on this gift I have been blessed with, no amount of money that can buy my soul. 

Against the odds of what I have struggled with in poverty, I am so rich in His grace, love and mercy, that beyond this world… my gain is Eternal. 

Song ~ God's Not Done With You: Tauren Wells

By T.L. Alton

Monday, May 6, 2019



Nearly a month after I attended the conference of Wounded Healers, I continue to be in awe of the transformation that occurred.
Given that I was not anticipating a spiritual healing to occur, I had no expectations of the discussions shared, by the speakers from Wounded Healers Ministries.

At the conclusion of the three days dedicated to the conference, I ended up forgiving the one person, whose baggage I carried for over forty years. As I stepped out of the encasement of shame that covered me, there was a revelation of who I am no longer.

My cocoon had been torn open, bursting forth with vibrant tints painted by the hands of God. This alteration was not about a whole new me; rather it became clear my emergence drew on the very clay, I had been formed with at birth.

In treading through unknown waters; a major shifting has taken place, where peace is amongst the other bedlam in my life.  

Truth is… the rest of my world is not at all perfect. 

There is a misconception some have of Christians that we are sheathed in a bubble of light and joy. Let me burst that notion by saying what I have learned as a believer. The closer I draw nearer to God, the more the enemy is bent on hellish destruction, which includes suffering in any way possible. I refuse to give Satan the platform here; instead I am grateful to the one I believe gave his life on the cross for me, my Saviour, Jesus Christ.

In stating my declaration, I share the following true account of the Smith family- a mother and father, along with their 14 year old son John Smith, who experienced transformation in a radical way.

On January 19th, 2015, John and two of his friends had fallen through the ice on a lake in St. Charles Missouri.
While the other two boys were rescued, John sank to the bottom and was under water for 15 minutes, before being pulled to the surface by one of his rescuers, Tommy Shine.

When John was transported into the hospital, he was pronounced dead…for an Hour!

In writing this, I want to share that I did not just read about it. Last week, I sat front and center in a theatre and watched all of this unfold on the big screen. 

A few years ago, this would not be possible, given the way my daughter died in a frozen reservoir. When Shayla’s car crashed through the ice, there was 362.83 km – or about 4 hrs separating me from her. For that reason, I never was able to be right there, when she was brought into the hospital in Kelowna, BC.

As I sat riveted in the movie theatre, I was careful to keep check on my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. In viewing something like this, the triggers could take me back to a place; I have fought hard to rise above.

I will admit, it was challenging to watch as the young boy was brought, lifeless into the hospital.
In my own daughter’s scenario, I was told how those in the room would not give up on her. There were Doctors I never met and nurses who I have not had the opportunity to thank; including the paramedics, ambulance driver and anyone else who attended.

Watching every minute of what transpired with John, was like being given a glimpse into the past of December 12th, 2011.

For a minute, as my eyes were affixed to the screen, it was my babygirl on that table.
This is when I realized, I needed to take a deep breath in and let John Smith’s story be told.
For my daughter, her life was an ending chapter… but what happened next, is where a new chapter, began to unfold for the Smith family.

John’s mother, Joyce Smith arrived to the hospital in a state of shock. Earlier that day, only minutes after talking to John on his cell phone, they had hung up and the ice cracked from underneath him. 

As a devout Christian, she was lead into the room where her son laid, cold, no heart tones or signs of life. 

“John was dead. He was gone," said Dr. Kent Sutterer, the ER doctor on duty that day.

The doctor had asked Joyce to say her goodbyes, as he needed to call time of death.

She walked up to the end of the bed and touched his feet, which were the only part of his extremities that were uncovered. She recalls them being cold and grey. It was then that she began to pray out loud desperately. "'Holy Spirit, please come and give me back my son.' And within moments, he started to have a heartbeat," Joyce recalled. Her son John had been without a pulse for roughly an hour and the doctors had been trying to revive him for half an hour.” ~ Source: The Impossible

John though was not alert by any means and would spend the next 48 to 72 hours fighting for his life. A prayer chain went viral on Facebook. Soon people were gathering outside the hospital to be beacons of hope, love and light to John, his mother Joyce and his father, Brian. 

Chrissy Metz - I'm Standing With You (From "Breakthrough" Soundtrack)

Video Link>>> 

This is where I leave this story, for you to discover yourself. Whether you read the book  “The IMPOSSIBLE,” or watch the film, “Breakthrough,” both are testimonies of a 21st century miracle that took place.  As for my own breakthrough…I experienced another kind, when I sat through 1 hour and 56 minutes of something I have endured, which had two, very, different endings. 

In the years of my spiritual walk, I have come to believe that all things created, have a way of colliding into our lives.

Currently, with me being concerned about loved ones who are experiencing serious health issues, my anxiety has increased. The disorders I have lived with most of my life, are not to be confused with lack of faith. If anything, I have been made stronger,  because of my weaknesses.

To combat any negativity and restore balance, I have broken free into Mother Nature. 
Arriving at a local Regional park, my shoulders fall at ease.

Her lofty branches welcome me amongst the spruce, cedar and fir. I inhale the breath of the natural world, covered in frondescence. 
Slowly, I let the caked deposits of tension, be separated from the woodland scene, before me. 
My fingers feel the deep crags of the bark from a towering Douglas, my nails touch the liquid adhesive, which bears signs of disturbance from within. 
As my heart beats, the sound of a red-breasted nuthatch echoes to me its existence. 
Looking at a growth of shooting star flowers, I marvel at the basal, clumping of leaves leading to their nodding, lavender, collars. 

Traipsing along the woodland trail, I forget about my two left feet. As soon as I am immersed along a rock and root pathway, my runners catch the tips of protruding sticks. 
In the back of my mind, I heed an old, familiar, voice say: “Pick up your feet Tonya.”

Nearing a blind corner, my solitude is interrupted by a young man, wearing track shorts and high tops. Completing his fashion is a John McEnroe headband, holding back mounds of dark curls. With him, is his sidekick black lab, tongue hanging out. Bounding through the forest, as if they were at a track meet, each of us is startled to discover the other’s presence. The man apologizes and as he carries on, evokes images of a running Forrest Gump – minus the beard. Part of me is envious as his feet carry him effortlessly, only minutes later, I trip over  a tiny stick.

I decide to make my way to the entrance of the park and self consciously ponder the next trip will be to the ocean.

Back at my residence, I check the tides along with the sunrises and sunsets, for the next few days. In between, I dedicate my time searching for and applying to various job opportunities. 
Like a revolving door, my life swings open, with chapters closing.

The next day, I am at the beach. Brackish water settles into my nostrils. I smile, thinking of how there has never been an air freshener, which comes close to the essence of the sea.
On the trail down to the beach, I discover a relative of "Groot," popping up to say hello!  

Grabbing my camera, I go exploring. Not for the usual photograph of my toes in the sand or a pair of sunglasses, reflecting the open waters. My coastal spirit thirsts for something more.

I find a slab of granite, with a hole drilled in it. Inquisitively, I peek inside. 

My discovery is a smoothed black pebble, hiding from the incoming tides. Its refuge within the massive stone will soon come to an end, and see the pebble return to the ocean, once the waves break through. 

Next, my eyes zoom in on a marvellous sight! On the beach, I discover a formation of washed up seagrass, which resembles ventricles of a heart. This beautiful find invokes humbleness amongst the smallest of things. 

Finding a long piece of driftwood, I settle in to watch the seagulls preen themselves on a boulder. What I enjoy the most is that I have no cell signal and can tune out the world, with a front row seat to the natural environment. 

 Only when becoming conscious of the sun setting, do I stand to stretch. It is then I see something faintly dance off the water. There are hues of purple so bright, the glaring rays, make it difficult to stare into. My decision to take a few photographs proved worthwhile, as once back home, I am amazed at what my camera exhibits!

Contained within the snapshot is a vivid illustration of mauve rays mid center, emitting from a solid hue of purple, over the open sea in a display of brilliance. What my eyes witnessed could not even fathom the imagery. 

This intrigued me to conduct further research. In my discovery, I read about the Purple Light Ray and Archangel Zadkiel.

Zadkiel, the archangel of mercy, is in charge of the purple light ray. Zadkiel helps people approach God for mercy when they've done something wrong, encouraging them that God cares and will be merciful to them when they confess and repent of their sins, and motivating them to pray. Just as Zadkiel encourages people to seek the forgiveness that God offers them, he also encourages people to forgive others who have hurt them and helps deliver divine power that people can tap into to enable them to choose forgiveness, despite their hurt feelings. Zadkiel helps heal emotional wounds by comforting people and healing their painful memories. He helps repair broken relationships by motivating estranged people to show mercy to each other. 
~ Source: Angels and Miracles

I then delved into my Bible, and discovered that the archangel of freedom, benevolence and mercy is the unnamed biblical Angel of the Lord, who holds back Abraham from sacrificing his son. Zadkiel is associated with the colour violet.

At St Michael and All Angels Church, in Brighton, East Sussex, England, there is a stained glass made in 1862 of Saint Zadkiel the Archangel.

I am not claiming anything, other than what I believe in, and that is angels do exist. In the Bible, there are eight archangels, who are listed throughout.

Just as in the movie, “Breakthrough,” which allows the viewer to decide for themselves what happened to John Smith…I am letting my readers choose for themselves what to believe.

I would like to add that before this experience happened, I mailed my mom for Mother’s Day, a  purple ‘Guardian Angel” figurine, I bought at a Christian store. 

In my personal journey of forgiveness, my mother was someone I prayed over often. When at long last,  I freed myself from all the heartache of our tumultuous past, this allowed more room in my life for me to ultimately forgive others.

I will say it is fascinating after completing a conference on forgiveness and receiving my own powerful breakthrough, when standing in a place of serenity at the ocean, I do not fear the storms of life… which may be coming my way. 

By T.L. Alton