Sonja Grace - Spirit Traveler: Unlocking Ancient Mysteries and Secrets of Eight of the Worlds Great Historic Sites

I have traveled the world to visit sacred sites, for I have always believed they hold secrets light and dark. I have never read a better book about the historythe true historyof our most sacred of sites than Sonja Graces SpiritTraveler. Sonja is a gifted researcher, author, and intuitive. Besides featuring the known history of sites including Stonehenge and St. Winefrides Well, Sonja invites us on a spirit journey. We fly with her to discover mysteries long forgotten, all of which reveal our ties to the stars and the connectivity of our souls to other people and planets. You will be fascinated, intrigued, and enlightened.

Cyndi Dale, author of The Subtle Body Encyclopedia

This densely-rendered portrait of ancient sacred sites is painted with a combination of science, history, and metaphysical research. From psychically experiencing the raw energy of Stonehenge to watching a high priestess call forth the goddess from the waters of St. Winefrides Well, Grace recounts this adventure tale of the soul with tremendous insight and a sense of wonder.

Anna Jedrziewski, Retailing Insight

The legends of earth temples and tombs whisper a different story of humanity. One we must listen to now. Spirit Traveler opens our hearts to new perspectives on time, reality and who we are. Theses incredible power-sites hold encrypted wisdom to show us the way to One. This story will inspire you to travel and know self.

Tracey Ash, author of Ancient Egyptian Celestial Healing

SPIRIT

TRAVELER

UNLOCKING ANCIENT MYSTERIES AND SECRETS OF EIGHT OF THE WORLDS GREAT HISTORIC SITES

SONJA GRACE

Sonja Grace 2016

The right of Sonja Grace to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

ISBN 978-1-84409-694-7

All rights reserved.

The contents of this book may not be reproduced in any form, except for short extracts for quotation or review, without the written permission of the publisher.

A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library.

Edited by Nicky Leach

Cover and interior design by Thierry Bogliolo

Artwork and maps by Sonja Grace

Printed and bound in the EU

Photo Credits:

The following photos were purchased through Shutterstock:

Tiwanaku: Gate of the Sun Matyas Rehak

Statue at Tiwanaku Stefano Buttafoco

Hagar Qim Mary416

Rock of Cashel Pierre Leclerc

Temple of Kukulcan Sorin Colac

Great Pyramids Kokhanchikov

Skellig Rock, Bee Hive Huts Andreas Juergensmeier

St. Winefrides Well Ian Taylor,

https://wellhopper.wordpress.com/2012/06/22/st-winefrides-well-holywell/

Procession Panel, near Bluff, Utah photo courtesy of Paul Martini

Published by

Findhorn Press

117-121 High Street,

Forres IV36 1AB,

Scotland, UK

t +44 (0)1309 690582

f +44 (0)131 777 2711

e

www.findhornpress.com

Contents

by Dr. Kieran OMahony, University of Washington

This book is dedicated to my husband, Shawn, who is always by my side, keeping me safe and traveling the world, galaxy, and beyond with me.

Special thanks to Gail Torr, for her endless hours of editing and encouragement.

Foreword

My grandfather was solemn when he revealed the ground rules. We never plow this field. There was a grave pallor to his face, which I recognized well from the time that he told me to always respect animals. I recall his words, Never mistreat an animal, neither horse nor dog. He was a kindly man of the land. He knew his ground. He understood the connection to wind, rain, and sun. As we walked I felt his warmth, with my paw firmly in his hand; the age difference made us one. I was five, he closer to 75. My short legs, and his own unsteady ones, forced us to attend to each others balance over rough, stony ground. I realized he was intentional about us walking the remnants of a famine graveyard, which straddled unkempt the lower meadow by the River Airgidn.

I liked the word (silvery in the old language) and would rhyme it in tune with the soft, gurgling water as it bounded our farm from McCarthys place next doorArra-gudeen. His pronouncement bore weight. I understood that there had been a great hunger in his day, and a lot of children were forced to eat grass. I had heard the awful stories from my grandmother. I liked to suck on grass stems for the sweet and acerbic juices but never ate any. The children with green lips were buried here in unmarked graves. It was hallowed ground, even if the Church didnt recognize it. On that day, I felt it to the very core of my being. I can still taste the wind, the whiff of purple heather over the empty call of the curlew. Old Tim was passing on our tribal culture, which had been just as carefully given to him nearly a century earlier. It felt heavy to now be a keeper, a holder, a teller.

The farther we become removed from the soil, the more technology we engage with, and the more distance we place between us and our farming forefathers, the more we need to reconnect with historic sites, rituals of past times, and knowledge of who we are and whence we came. Identity is a primal dust. As humans, we are bounded by our heritage, our culture, and our past. Only with surety in our own being can we set out on our solo journeys in life with confidence and zeal. Our music, our dance, our stories make us who we are, and they spring from the soil, stones, and streams. I know this because my journey has been across continents and across time. We are of the generation where the horse was replaced by the tractor, the fireside story by the radio, the radio by the television, the television by the... Well, you know where I am going with this.

Today, in my office at the university that borders the Pacific, I look across at the charts of synapses and dendrites, and I hesitate to think about the neural pathways that our new generations have outgrown. What engages our senses today are electronic ringtones, beeps, and emoticons! Gone are the sounds and sights of the iron-rimmed wheels on gravel roadways... grassy patches and ruts where the rims and clip-clop feet no longer tread. Gone are the familiar signs of morningrooster crowing, music of milking in the cow byreand gone to the knowledge that rain is imminent because we smell it in the clouds or the swallows are swooping lower. We have broken connections that from time immemorial were sacrosanct to our survival. What does survival look like today? Where is the nearest plug-in charge for my phone, because I do not remember phone numbers anymore?

As humans we must be rooted to our planet. We have to, or we perish. Some argue that it is already too late. Ice age? Global warming? It is of little consequence, because we are so disconnected that we do not know who to believe, who to follow, in whom to place our trust. From my boyhood I remember the stories, the connections back through the ages. I know where my ancestors came from. But there is a missing chunk, a gap. Time and memory for humans are a nebulous luxury. When I climb the rugged edge of Europe, arriving at remote beehive huts on Skellig Michael, I am connected again. I get a sense of the timelessness of existence. I know that some very smart people survived here at a time when different mindsets made sense. But questions remain. I want to know more about these people, about this sites origin, and, in particular, I want to know my connection to this space in time.

My ancestors met Patrick at the outlier geologic monolith in Cashel. It has a particular meaning for me when I walk through the ruined buildings, run my fingers over the smooth ridges of limestone that were polished by my people, and wonder at the strange Celtic crucifix that resides therein. Once again I am left with more questions than answers. Sure, there were stories and legends handed downstaff, snakes, and battles; but beyond the epic dramas, I want to know who made Cashel and why it was so important to our Celtic survival. Across the Irish Sea, which I know was at one time a land bridge to England and France, what is the reason for the remnants of ramparts, henges, and megalithic sites scattered in areas that are sometimes so remote that even sheep have difficulty hanging out there?