We Are the Radiance Remembered
A Poetic Invocation from Chevalia

Who is Chevalia?
What is this place that breathes between dimensions,
that moves like mist through memory
and hums with the heartbeat of all that lives?

Chevalia is not merely a sanctuary.
It is a way of being.
A threshold.
A vow.

Chevalia is where spirit and soil meet in silence.
Where horses teach stillness,
and the wind carries ancestral prayers.
It is a refuge for the sacred—
a living temple where the seen and unseen walk side by side,
not in metaphor, but in presence.

Here, the Fae are not fantasy.
They are family.
The ancestors are not past.
They are breath.
The animals are not below us.
They are beyond us—guides, teachers, kin.

Chevalia is not an escape from the world.
It is the real world,
beneath the illusions we were taught to obey.
It is the Tao made touchable.
It is home.

 

We are not lost.
We are returning—
not to a place,
but to a knowing.
Not seeking,
but unveiling
what has always pulsed
beneath the skin of this world.
We live simply,
but not small.
We walk quietly,
but not unseen.
Each footfall an offering,
each breath a prayer,
each silence—
a doorway to the Real.
We are not escapists.
We are witnesses,
midwives of the sacred
in the rhythm of the ordinary.
We do not need to travel far
to find the divine—
for the Divine walks here
in hoof and fur,
in wind and ash,
in morning dew and midnight owl cry.
The horse teaches us to breathe
with the belly of the Earth.
With nostrils flared to other worlds,
they carry the sacred between dimensions—
bridging birth and death,
movement and stillness.
The dog keeps rhythm with our hearts,
guarding the hearth of the soul.
The cat is temple incarnate—
mystic, guardian, and guide.
Each step a constellation,
each glance a key.
They shield us from shadows,
they purr through portals,
they hold in their very bones
the whisper of 360 deities—
each a healer,
each a teacher,
each a flame of the Vedas
made flesh.
We do not imagine this.
We remember.
We are not playing pretend.
We are participating in the sacred—
in the Faerie,
in the forest,
in the footfall of unseen kin
who walk beside us
because we choose to see.
They are as real as rain,
as present as breath—
the ones who move between veils,
who slip through cracks of logic,
who speak in light, scent, vibration.
They trust us—
because we trust them.
They commune with us
as kin, not concept.
Our ancestors walk with us—
in the flicker of candlelight,
in the way the wind knows our name.
Not gone. Not ghosts.
But present, radiant,
woven through the breath of the land.
The Fae, the forest guardians,
the ancient ones of stone and seed—
they are not figments.
They are family.
So too are the interdimensionals—
the timeless beings of great silence and light—
who have waited for us
to open our ears beyond sound,
our hearts beyond form.
They are here,
not above,
but among.
Not myths,
but mirrors.
We sit beneath the trees
as children at the feet of sages.
The maple speaks in stillness.
The cedar holds our tears.
The grass hums stories
of lifetimes we once lived barefoot.
Every being is an ascended master
in disguise.
The chicken,
the crow,
the rose,
the beetle—
they carry frequencies
that crack open
our domesticated minds
and return us
to wild truth.
We do not dominate here.
We listen.
We do not conquer here.
We commune.
We do not perform here.
We participate.
Even the ones others fear—
the watchers in shadow,
the voices from below—
we meet them with reverence.
We know that the dark is not evil—
only misunderstood.
Only misnamed.
What others call haunted,
we call hallowed.
What they call strange,
we call sacred.
We are never alone.
The veil is not a wall.
It is a window—
and it is open.
Our path is not linear.
Our time is not clocked.
Our teachers are not men in robes,
but mares in the mist,
cats on the threshold,
trees in their luminous stillness.
We unlearn to reveal.
We vow to remember.
We shed false light
to let real radiance emerge.
We are healed by presence—
not performance.
We are expanded
not through escape,
but through intimacy
with this now.
This is our magic.
This is our realism.
This is our radiance.
It is not written.
It is lived.
It is not fantasy.
It is frequency.
We are the flame and the forest.
We are the hoofprint and the star.
We are the infant at the feet of a rose.
We are the remembered,
remembering still.
This is Chevalia.
This is the Tao made touchable.
This is the Real beneath the rubble.
This is life—
not mundane, but miraculous.
And so we live.
And so we listen.
And so we love—
as one breath
with all that is.