The Blue Star
A mythical journey dedicated to Frank & Barbara Waters
I slept in Frank Waters’ bed, if you called that sleep, beneath the Cheyenne war shield that hung from the ceiling, surrounded by ancient kachina dolls on shelves in a room full of spirits. Frank’s bed was so high off the ground that it took a step stool to launch into its crushing softness. Frank, a tall man with leonine eyes, had a floor beneath his bed that had been sealed by hand with ox blood, in the old way. He and I shared a bond as mutual admirers, kindred spirits, and lovers of the Desert Southwest. I met Frank in his last days, although these days have certainly not seen the last of Frank.
Frank had been deceased for twelve years when his widow, Barbara Waters, invited me into their home to house-sit and to sleep in their bed. My work with the Frank Waters Foundation, whose motto is Sheltering the Creative Spirit, brought Barbara and I together after Frank’s death. Barbara encouraged and supported my writing, and the Foundation published one of my essays about Frank in a book titled Rekindling the Inner Light. Frank Waters authored Book of the Hopi and many other works, earning him the title Grandfather of Southwestern Literature.
Frank gave me hope that I, too, could become a writer. More broadly, he offers hope not only to those who read his works or are touched by his life, but to the entire literary world. Through his writing, Frank provided me with a way to step into a different world—one that exists in the past yet remains timeless.
Most references to the Blue Star Kachina come from Book of the Hopi (1963). It was in 1991 that I felt the spiritual call to journey with the Blue Star, and I didn’t meet Frank Waters until 1994, just one year before his passing. His writings on Hopi mythology reveal that the Blue Star Kachina signifies the beginning of a new world by manifesting as a blue star. I witnessed this star and followed its beckoning light into the wilderness and up to the Hopi sacred mountain.
In Tucson, in December 1991, an uncertain bright blue star sparkled above the southeastern horizon as I made my way home along Old Spanish Trail. Night had not yet fallen, and the sky displayed a gradient of dusky rose and turquoise. Recent gentle rains had transformed the prickly pear cacti into glowing shades of silver-green and violet. Winter had arrived in the Sonoran desert, and I fixed my eyes on the horizon, captivated by the mesmerizing blue star.
Within that same month, a multinational coalition led by the United States initiated a massive air campaign known as Operation Desert Storm, following Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait. Tucson’s Davis-Monthan Air Force Base deployed A-10 pilots, whose takeoffs and landings soon became a daily spectacle. The roar of war machines agitated me, and the name Saddam Hussein echoed like a deranged mantra. The dismal state of affairs in the Middle East was impossible to ignore.
One chilly January morning, I stepped into the feed store for supplies and noticed a group of men standing to one side, playing darts. They aimed at an enlarged photocopy of Saddam Hussein’s face. The darts they threw, fueled by hatred, struck me as sorely missing the mark. Something had gone terribly wrong in our world.
When the shimmering blue star first appeared, I perceived it as a sign, a messenger, a shining presence from a distant realm. After several nights of stargazing, I began to lose my consensual hold on reality. The drums of war triggered my sympathetic nervous system, compelling me to flee. I yearned for a renewal of hope, faith, and love to combat the overwhelming negativity. In a moment of impulsive determination, I left my job and devised a plan to leave town and venture into the wilderness. My boyfriend, Jesse, needed no convincing to join me. A self-proclaimed Druid and survivalist, he had been preparing for this moment his entire life.
With the world in chaos, the sanctity of the wilderness beckoned. Jesse packed our survival gear into the Land Cruiser: waterproof matches, a tent, an ax, tarps, rope, twine, flashlights, extra batteries, emergency blankets, extra blankets, knives, a knife sharpener, canned goods, and a can opener. I brought along my guitar, sacred pipe, ritual supplies, and grabbed a book off the shelf as I headed out the door. We secured skis and ski poles on the roof rack. I threw the rest of my ski gear in the back in case it snowed, and we made our way to the slopes.
We headed out at midnight after my gig at the Riverside Inn in Benson, AZ. Our destination was New Mexico’s 3.3 million acres of Gila Wilderness. Jesse and I planned to camp at a primitive hot spring on the San Francisco River, sheltered by canyon walls in the Gila National Forest.
I needed to escape the devastation of Operation Desert Storm; the name itself felt like an abomination. I loved the natural desert storms that herded clouds from the west, driving them across the mountains to the east, bringing much-needed relief and the smell of chaparral. In that vast land, I could hear the sound of my heart beating in rhythm with Mother Earth. The land did not exist for me; I existed for it.
Our Living Mother Earth is not only humanity’s past, but its hope for the future. We are not the owners of the land we occupy, nor its tenants, nor simply its caretakers. We are a part of the living earth itself. —Frank Waters
As the Land Cruiser climbed the winding road to the snowy ridge, we reached the mountain pass that leads from Arizona into New Mexico. Compelled by its beauty, I pulled over and cranked up the stereo. Jesse and I threw open the doors and danced wildly beneath the light of a billion stars, listening to the sounds of Native flutes and percussion playing in the moonless night. The song that played, Land of Skin and Sorrow by Eliza Gilkyson, was inspired by a Hopi Indian prophesy predicting the time when humanity would climb out of the Fourth World of Separation and into the Fifth World of Illumination. It all felt prophetic.
We arrived at the remote hot springs canyon before dawn. The Frisco springs are primitive, hand-dug pools a few feet from the San Francisco River that runs west to east. Exhausted from our exodus, Jesse kept me warm as we slept curled up together in the back of the Land Cruiser. By late morning, the desert sun beckoned us to water. Jesse crawled out first from under our sleeping bags. Moments later, we stumbled down to the river and slipped naked into a pool of warm mud and hot healing water, surrounded by volcanic deposits over 20 million years old.
The Canyon Cathedral is the only church I will ever need. Surrendering to deep relaxation next to the sound of wild, rushing water while gazing up through ancient Miocene epoch stone walls beneath a brilliant turquoise blue sky is a profoundly spiritual experience.
We set up camp in the early afternoon. Jesse forded the river upstream in search of firewood and returned with an armload, looking very much like a Druid with his dark curls loosely pulled back in a ponytail.
A short distance away, two men and a woman were also camping. Jesse struck up a friendly conversation with them, and I learned they were collecting wood for a sweat lodge. Curious, I began asking questions: What would they use for lodge poles? Had they ever built a lodge before? And the most important question: Who would lead the Inipi ceremony?
Their answers amazed me. None of them had ever built or led a lodge. However, they shared that they had seen an unusually bright blue star and felt called to the wilderness to pray for peace. Was this synchronicity? We listened to each other’s stories, and when they learned I was a pipe carrier, everything started to make sense. There was a reason we had been brought together at such an unsettling time.
The next day was dedicated to preparation. It required teamwork to construct the lodge. Jesse and the men used his ax to cut lodge poles and tied them together with twine to form a dome. A shovel, which had been left at the hot springs for digging silt out of the pools, was used to excavate a pit in the center of the lodge where the stone people would be placed. The other woman and I set up an altar and covered the lodge with blankets, towels, sleeping bags, and tarps. I realized I would need to lead the ceremony since no one else was qualified, and the others were greatly relieved. The Great Spirit put me in that position to ensure there was no doubt in my mind. This would be my first time leading an Inipi ceremony since becoming a pipe carrier.
I had everything I needed in my medicine bundle for the ceremony: a sacred pipe, tobacco, sacred objects, feathers, crystals, a sage bundle, and an abalone shell. Spirit had called me to be of service in a role I had prayed for and been prepared to fulfill.
Dusk settled over our camp as Jesse lit the ceremonial fire. The wood caught easily and burned hot. Twelve lava rocks, gathered in the canyon, were placed beneath the burning pyre made of cedar and pine. When the time came, four of us entered the lodge to listen for the messages hidden deep within the stone’s ancient bodies. We would pass the sacred pipe and pray. Jesse remained by the fire as our firekeeper, using the shovel to carry four stones for each round into the lodge and placing them in the center pit.
As we gathered our resources as strangers, we began to feel like family, discovering a sense of belonging to an even greater community. Tears filled our eyes as powerful prayers washed away the pain from our hearts. The womb-shaped lodge above us promised a new birth. We sat with the souls of our feet touching Mother Earth. We gave thanks for hearing the call of the divine and the courage to follow its guidance—to soak in healing waters, build a sweat lodge for prayer, and share our food and medicine stories in order to understand the place where peace begins.
After emerging from the lodge, we sat around the campfire to share a meal. I strummed my guitar as we lifted our voices in song. Since my days as a Girl Scout singing around the campfire, music had become something I needed most. The emotional and heart-felt Lakota prayers spoken during a traditional sweat lodge ceremony did not entirely belong to me. I was still searching for healing from past wounds and for a sense of belonging. But the music was my own, and it had given me a voice.
That night, I dreamed vivid medicine dreams—the kind that feel so real you can’t tell whether you are awake or dreaming. They are the dreams you can dream while lying next to a running river under a blanket of stars, where the air is sweet and clean, and you feel at peace.
In the morning, the five of us gathered around the campfire to close the ceremony and say goodbye. Jesse and I felt called to continue our journey north. As we drove out of the canyon, a group of ravens, illuminated by the morning sun, flew alongside the car as our escort. When we reached the two-lane at the end of the long, bumpy dirt road, they swooped up and flew away toward the rugged mountains of the Gila’s Blue Range Wilderness. Magic was in the air.
With Jesse behind the wheel, I saw an opportunity to catch up on my reading. I reached for the book I had grabbed off the bookshelf before leaving Tucson. The title read Predictions and Prophesies. I flipped it open and landed on a page about the Hopi Indian prophecy of the Blue Star Kachina. Was it a coincidence? The pieces started to fall into place.
According to the prophecy, the appearance of the Blue Star Kachina would signal the start of the “last and final great war,” a conflict between matter and spirit. The Blue Star Kachina represents a blue star, far away yet invisible, predicted to appear “soon,” heralding the emergence of the Fifth World of Illumination. It describes a time when “the Blue Star Kachina would take off his mask and dance in the plaza.” What did it mean?
I grabbed the cassette with Eliza’s song and shoved it back into the deck. I needed to hear that song again. “Climbing out is never easy on this ladder rung by rung.” I hadn’t grasped the whole story before opening that book. It accurately predicted the war as it was unfolding: A conflict started by Islamic nations in the Middle East, which would evolve into a spiritual battle over material matters. At the time, I didn’t fully understand it significance. I only knew that a war was raging in the Middle East, a blue star had appeared on the horizon, and we listened to lyrics inspired by the Hopi prophecy.
By the time we reached Albuquerque, it had begun to snow heavily. We were lucky to have a place to stay in Santa Fe with a friend for the night. By mid-morning the following day, the skies had cleared enough for us to leave. We continued through the dead of winter to Durango, where my good friend and former midwifery partner, Mona, lived. I could feel the mountains calling. Fortunately, we had the Land Cruiser, as it got stuck in Mona’s driveway for two days in two feet of snow.
Mona and I were thrilled to see each other, especially with the world at war. Her home felt like a warm oasis. We didn’t have to go anywhere or do anything. However, after camping out in her living room for an entire week with the TV tuned to war coverage, I began to feel depressed. The images of burning oil wells painted a vivid picture of a living hell, contrasting with the power of our prayers and a Hopi prophecy. How could I know what was real? To visually integrate our journey, I began drawing with pastels on the sketch pad I always carried with me. I sketched a shield of the New Mexico sun, enclosing a snow-covered mountain beneath a blue star. Ravens, which had guided us out of the canyon, perched above the shield. This image reminded me that we were on a mission, even though I had no idea what that mission entailed.
By the end of the week at Mona’s, the reality that the world would continue, and we would eventually need to return to Tucson, began to sink in. While the other side of the world burned and would never be the same, Jesse and I hoped that jobs would be waiting for us when we got back. But I still needed to go to the mountain. So, we decided to pass through Flagstaff on our way back to Tucson so I could indulge in a little downhill skiing. We spent the last of our money on a room for the night and a lift ticket for me, allowing me to enjoy my day on not just any mountain. The San Francisco Peaks in Flagstaff’s Coconino National Forest is a sacred Hopi mountain. Rising more than a mile above the surrounding pine forest, the San Francisco Peaks are the mythological home of the Hopi Kachinas.
Jesse didn’t ski but seemed happy to hang out at the bar at the bottom of the ski lift, drinking beer until I had my fill of white powder. I gleefully headed up the slopes, excited to bond with the sacred mountain. I studied the trail map carefully, planning to warm up on the green runs for about an hour before tackling the blues. However, after catching the next lift to the top, I miscalculated and ended up on the wrong run. To make matters worse, I had forgotten to put on my goggles. It happened so quickly — blinded by the snow, I hit a patch of ice and flew off the trail. I lost control, fell hard, hit my head, and momentarily blacked out. A passing skier who witnessed my crash glided over and offered a helping hand. I felt nauseous and suspected I had a mild concussion. Carrying my skis to the small lodge perched halfway down the mountain took every ounce of energy. All I could do was sit and wait until my head cleared.
I wandered onto the deck behind the lodge on a clear, blue, sunny day and found a quiet place to sit. Frustrated that my time on the mountain had been so rudely interrupted, I closed my eyes and reflected on the events of the previous weeks. As I sat halfway up this sacred mountain, which was imbued with power, I opened my eyes and gazed out at a stand of Ponderosa pines.
To my disbelief, a large, human-like figure emerged from the shadows beneath a magnificent pine tree. I rubbed my eyes and reached up to feel my head, wondering if I was hallucinating. The figure moved again, revealing a strong masculine presence. As he stepped into view, I noticed that he was entirely blue—like the paintings I’ve seen of Krishna—but this figure had a big, luminescent blue star on his chest.
“He can’t be a kachina!” I thought to myself. Kachinas are usually small, but this being was huge! He looked so serene, and I felt a warm sensation in his presence. Was this the reason I had fallen? To slow down long enough to see the spirit of the mountain? A sudden premonition struck me: the appearance of the Blue Star Kachina confirmed what I had recently learned—we had entered the final great war. This war would become the never-ending war against terror. Just as slowly as he appeared, he faded back into the pines.
My feelings were further validated when I learned that two astronomers at Kitt Peak National Observatory in Tucson, AZ, had discovered evidence of a blue star “brighter than a million suns.” An article published about a blue supergiant in the Cygnus constellation appeared in New Scientist Magazine around the same time as Desert Storm. Cygnus, known as the Swan, symbolizes “the power of woman entering sacred space.” In Latin and Greek, Cygnus means “circling and returning,” and it is also referred to as the Northern Cross. The name of the blue star in the Cygnus constellation is Deneb, which is one of the most luminous stars known. Just as the stardust from which we are made binds us to one another, we too are gravitationally bound to each other.
Following Desert Storm, The Oil for Food program failed, and the subsequent embargo led to the deaths of 500,000 children under the age of five. According to prophecy, a new cycle begins when faith in the current systems is lost; only then will the land be rejuvenated. Did the Blue Star Kachina remove his mask and dance in the plaza before “uninitiated children,” as described by Frank Waters in Book of the Hopi? The answer is yes because we cannot see what we have not been initiated to see. The Blue Star Kachina may not be the only one who needs to remove his mask. Today, we are witnessing an unprecedented unmasking of the underworld, where unconscious collective memories are coming to light. We are leaving the Fourth World of Separation and entering the Fifth World of Illumination. Our emergence has begun.
Those who are at peace in their hearts already are in the great shelter of life. There is no shelter for evil. Those who take no part in the making of world division by ideology are ready to resume life in another world, be they Black, White, Red, or Yellow. They are all one….
—Frank Waters, Book of the Hopi, 1963
The changes occurring on Earth in our times have been predicted by more than just the Hopi prophecies. The Blue Star prophecy warns that a "gourd of ashes" will bring destruction to the United States, while Hopi Land in the Four Corners region will serve as an oasis for refugees. The Blue Star Kachina is considered the ninth and final great sign before the "Day of Purification," which is described as an apocalypse involving a "world-engulfing cataclysm" leading to widespread destruction. This shamanic death represents our transition from the life we once knew.
Apocalyptic images of fires and floods are pervasive, being constantly fed into our consciousness through negative social media and sensational journalism. It is important to be mindful of what we consume, lest we become consumed. We are currently engaged in a spiritual battle—the last and final great war—where we will discover how powerful we are as both creators and destroyers within a dimension governed by duality.
In this dimension, peace cannot exist without war. The battle between spirit and matter has always taken place within ourselves, as we are spiritualized matter. Through the integration of these opposites, we become complete and emerge from the Fourth World of Separation. As without, so within. Understanding that we are in the final battle means recognizing that one world is coming to an end while the new world being born is not of this dimension. Prepare to ascend!
…there is a well-worn spiral path from this reality to all other dimensions and from Mother Earth to the Great Star Nations. —Linda Star Wolf, Blue Star Sisterhood founder
There is much discussion these days about a “New World Order.” If it’s true that the Blue Star Kachina signified the coming of the beginning of the new world by appearing in the form of a blue star, then that time is now. Why do we protest against that which has been prophesied?
The truth emerges when we remove the mask. The process is not solely about destruction; it also involves purification, transformation, and renewal. Learn to endure as the Earth endures. Be Emissaries of Light. Keep your hearts open, alive, and awake as we shift into our light bodies. Come to a place of renewal and be blessed.
About the main art image:
BLUE STARFIRE (#126) by Bryan de Flores is an accelerator image. These channeled art pieces are energetically infused with many levels of information and etheric templates. The “accelerators” operate at subtle levels of consciousness, reactivating the “empowerment program” of our true nature while dissolving old patterns and thought forms no longer in alignment with our highest good.
BLUE STARFIRE also known as “The Blue Essence” and “The Flame of Creation,” this legendary and very elusive substance appears during all initial creational moments. This includes the births of all beings, planets, and universes. The Blue Star still remains a mystery to even the most advanced races in our universe and usually is only detected through the Third Eye vision.
Working with this image and energetically infusing it within your body and consciousness will summon the purest primal aspects of yourself and creation. Through these aspects you will be able to access your galactic origins and align with the gifts and talents you have known in former incarnations. In addition, this accelerator should be present during the initial stages of the creation of any project or physical birth. It will infuse and awaken the new creativity within all who view and use it.
Blue Star Intention
Written in my journal in September 2011, this story is only now being shared, and my intention is coming to fruition thanks to you and my paid subscribers' support.
I, Thea Summer Deer, stand at the dawn of a new age of consciousness, when the world as we have known it is passing away. I intend to remain open and receptive, holding the Blue Star energies of peace, in whatever way I am guided to receive and carry them. Additionally, I plan to share the stories and messages that I have received, and continue to receive, from the Blue Star energies through my work and writing. May we weave together an even greater story with the unique pieces that each of us carries as we step into the brightest of sun-star lights.
References:
San Francisco Hot Springs by Michael O’Connor
Rolling Thunder: The Coming Earth Changes by Joey R. Jochmans
Book of the Hopi, by Frank Waters
Note:
Barbara Waters, beloved writer, teacher and patron of the arts, died Jan. 11, 2015 at her home in Arroyo Seco. She was 83. Frank Waters died at his home in Arroyo Seco on June 3, 1995. He was 93.
Frank Waters Trivia:
Frank passed away on my son Sean’s birthday, which coincidentally is also Aldo Leopold Day. Leopold advocated for the preservation of over 700,000 acres of the Gila National Forest as a wilderness area. Additionally, my grandmother was born in Cheyenne, which is believed to be part of Frank’s heritage. Interestingly, both Frank and I have Venus in Cancer.
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Archival photos from Frank & Barbara Waters historic home in Arroyo Seco and two original songs by Thea
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