Sacred Land, Sacred Remembrance

In the heart of the Earth where olive trees whisper to the winds and desert sands carry the memory of prophets and priestesses, there is a land known by many names. To some, it is Israel. To others, Palestine. To the ancients, it was Judea and Samaria. It is a land soaked with sacred history, layered with pain, prayer, prophecy, and promise.

The story unfolding here is not merely political; it is deeply spiritual. It echoes through the ancestral bones of many lineages—of Hebrews, Canaanites, Arabs, Jews, and countless others who have walked this terrain with both reverence and longing. The soil here remembers. It remembers the footsteps of the Matriarchs—Sarah, Miriam, Mary, and Magdalena. It holds the songs of Inanna and Isis, the divine echoes of the Great Mother in her many forms.

But today, the land trembles—not only with tension and conflict, but with a plea for remembrance. Efforts to rename the West Bank as “Judea and Samaria” are more than semantic. They signal a movement—one that wishes to reclaim ancestral belonging, yes, but also one that risks erasing the living truth of those who also call this place home.

Annexation, in its legal and political framing, is an act of possession. But in a deeper sense, it reveals our collective wound: the belief that land can be owned, bordered, and divided without consequence. The Earth, especially sacred lands like this, do not belong to us. We belong to Her. And until we return to that remembrance, we remain in exile from our true nature.

This is the story of all peoples. Of diaspora. Of exile and return. Whether we were scattered through colonization, slavery, war, or systemic forgetting, we are all children of Earth who have wandered far from the original instructions: to tend, to honor, to be in reciprocity.

The crossroads region—between Africa, Asia, and Europe—holds a key for humanity’s regeneration. Not through domination or conquest, but through deep listening. Through reconciliation. Through the sacred feminine rising once again to remind us of the cyclical nature of life, death, rebirth, and belonging.

We are entering the Age of Aquarius, the golden age prophesied by many traditions. An age not of nations and empires, but of unity consciousness. An age in which we remember that to lose something—our homeland, our language, even our name—is to also be given an invitation to rediscover who we truly are.

The Sacred Matriarchs—Isis, Inanna, Mother Mary, and Mary Magdalene—stand at the threshold of this remembrance. They whisper through the veils, calling us back to wholeness, to the womb of creation. Their stories, long buried or distorted, are now rising like spring water from ancient wells.

It is time to remember. To return. To reclaim not land, but love. Not dominion, but devotion. Not borders, but bridges.

In this remembering, we do not deny the pain, the blood, the exile. We honor it. We heal it. Through the mirror of Earth’s regeneration—seasons, cycles, and sacred silence—we find our own.

The land of Judea, of Palestine, of Israel, of Canaan, of countless names—calls us all home. Not to possess, but to protect. Not to conquer, but to consecrate.

This is the journey of the Sacred Feminine. This is the return to the Mother.

And she is waiting.