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I will get back to the tale of the Anunnaki infiltration within the Earth dreamscape soon. But first, I will share a dimensional experience of my own. 

The “golden handcuffs” was what we dubbed it. The golden handcuffs was Scott’s ability to earn multiple six figures in a stable job whilst I stayed home and cared for our baby. The golden part was the money and all it enabled. We rented a brand new suburban home on the outskirts of the Australian city named Perth. The home felt lavish yet sterile. We were paying top dollar in the rental market and the premium price tag afforded us fancy features not usually present in a standard suburban home - a scullery adjoining the kitchen, a huge master bedroom with a hotel style spa and a massive garage for our cars and Scott’s boy’s toys. The “golden” part was never worrying about money. 

We named it the “golden handcuffs” because although his job in a senior role in the West Australian gold mines was lucrative, a way of life that was agonising to the heart bound Scott, and I was trapped in the agony along with him. Working on a mine site in Australia usually means travelling for work within a “fly in, fly out” roster. The FIFO life is what we Aussies call it. Big pay packets, massive bonuses and a life where over fifty percent of your time is spent away from your family. This is the “Australian dream”. Our new family were stuck in the FIFO Aussie dream - accustomed to the way of life ushered in by big pay cheques. 

With my new baby, I was often alone in our big, beautiful, cold home. Life was, of course, “good,” but I had become sensitive to the truth of my experience, and I couldn’t ignore the lump of melancholy that lived within my throat in most moments of Scott’s absence. I was lonely. I would spend one week counting down the nights until Scott’s return and the following week holding him close in our bed counting down the nights until he would again leave us. We were prisoners of linear time.

We lived in a suburb called Burns Beach. Our house was a stone’s throw from a white-sand beach with gentle waves. We could walk barefoot to the ocean and follow a bike path all the way to a cafe that served great coffee overlooking the water. The whole suburb was brand new; the bird calls of the native bushland bulldozed for a lucrative development were a distant dream. Perfectly curated parks and new trees planted down the centre of freshly tarmacked streets - this was the suburban dream, or in my case, the suburban nightmare. 

The house we rented didn’t have a garden, it had a small courtyard out the back with a BBQ (of course) and out the front, a small strip of fake grass to ensure an always green look, even in the harshest summer drought. Our neighbour also had fake grass. In fact, most new homes in Burns Beach were freshly landscaped with an evergreen strip of astroturf. One morning, as I pulled out of the driveway in our SUV, I saw our neighbour vacuuming his lawn as he waved a friendly smile of good morning. Was I living in the Truman Show? Did my neighbours seriously like the fake grass more than normal grass? Did I actually live in a world where the look of green plastic grass had more intrinsic value than the feeling of real, alive blades that glistened with dew in the morning sunlight? 

My life was perfect in the same sense that the fake grass was perfect. From the outside looking in from a distance, all was in order - money, house, baby, husband - check. But I was no longer numb to the insidious festering of untruth within my body. I could smell the stench of illusion when it surrounded me, and I was well aware Scott and I had built a comfortable life that reeked.

Why did people choose to live a life of falsity with fake grass, perfect houses and boring jobs? I could see the answer to this question more clearly than ever, and the answer was rooted in fear. My neighbours were bound to their existence whether or not they liked it because the fear of a life beyond all that was stable and secure kept them prisoner. The fear of the unknown kept them in the safety of the known. The fake grass was the perfect metaphor - of course everyone prefers the texture, smell and look of real green grass but real grass isn’t predictable or consistent - it changes, it grows, it dies. We cannot fully control real grass, and so the predictability of fake plastic grass can be a comfortable sacrifice. Some of my neighbours were oblivious to the unacknowledged fear that kept them prisoner. Other neighbours were likely aware of the fear and yet chose complacency. And I have no doubt that a rare few of my neighbours were indeed mirrors of myself - aware of the fear and ready to choose courageous action and change. 

I was ready to tear up the fake lawn for the rawness of real weeds. 

The moment Scott walked in the door after another agonisingly long week away, I told him, “We can’t do this shit anymore.” And he immediately agreed. A conversation that lifted the invisible weight of our intrinsic suffering and paved our way to freedom. 

We had changed deeply. We felt different from our neighbours. We were fully alive in a world that, like the fake grass, felt dead. We could feel what was real and what was false, both within our own beings, and in our external realities. We had both already spent a number of years committed to our own personal growth and healing, and we had arrived at a stage in our lives where we valued truth and freedom above all else. We were vibrating at a frequency that demanded truth in our reality, even if it was uncomfortable. 

It was time to uncuff the golden handcuffs, but the golden handcuffs weren’t just gripping our wrists - there was an insidious darkness that had grips of terror within our hearts, our bodies and our minds. We were uncuffing from something real. We were consciously uncuffing from the same grip of fear that I had recognised within my neighbours and their unconscious stuckness. It was as though there was a spell of black magic cast into the psyche of all residents within the entire suburb and beyond. As though an invisible black magic grip of fear was unknowingly terrifying the neighbourhood into a dreamy submission where their homes, cars, jobs and lives were carefully mediated into a vibration of good - too good to change, not worth rocking the boat, comfortably stationary, bound by the invisible grip of fear of the unknown. 

The moment we were ready to uncuff the golden handcuffs was the moment I saw it - the handcuffs had imprisoned everyone around me too, but most people were unaware of their stronghold. I saw, I felt and I suddenly deeply recognised a frequency of bondage wearing a mask of middle-class comfortability. It was a nauseating bondage that appeared to serve no one aside from the corporations that each member of my suburban society obediently served through their jobs. I pondered, “Were the corporations of big business casting spells of black magic into society to keep people bound and stuck in their roles as cogs in the machine?” I then realised that Burns Beach was full of CEOs, directors and business owners who were too busy paying their own bills and running their own households to concern themselves with black magic. Indeed, I recognised that the CEOs themselves were under the same spell of bondage and subservience. 

What I knew was that Scott, baby Lillian and I were done. We needed to get out. We were ready to walk toward our highest possible potential for our human existence, and that potential did not live within the suburban Truman Show nightmare. Despite so much uncertainty, we shared a burning desire to live a life in radically aligned service. We had visions of healing retreats, travel and a home set upon acreage. In shared late-night discussions, we’d explore these visions together and let our limitless imaginations run wild. 

But we were stuck at a point of nothingness, terrified to uncuff ourselves to be freed into the deep abyss of the unknown. Where would the money come from? How would we support our child? How would we pay our bills? These were the questions that danced in circles through our minds and conversations. We were terrified, and we did not trust that all would work out well. The only certainty within our being was the certainty that the suburban Truman Show, FIFO nightmare we were living was absolutely unbearable to endure for even a moment longer. 

So with that ‌single certainty, Scott quit his job, we packed our home into a storage unit and we booked three one-way tickets to Bali. Surely the sacred land that brought us together would reveal the next chapter of our journey. 

We thrust ourselves into the abyss of the unknown. The golden handcuffs of the suburban nightmare were gone, but the grip of terror that was the fear of the unknown boiled within us more fiercely than ever before. 

Our path of unhooking the invisible grips of fear from within and following the expression of our divinely guided creativity was just beginning. 

Chapter 8

Let’s continue ‌with the tale of the dreamscape and the souls who navigated it...