► Questioner: “Can you talk about the current solar weather?”
► Channelled by Breanna B
► Message Received Date: April 23rd
► Video Link:
I am Teeah of Arcturus. I will speak with you now. The room you are in is enough. The breath you are taking is enough. We ask only the willingness to listen, and even that, you are already giving. What we wish to bring through is something the five of us have been gathering for some time. We have been watching the room. Watching how the ground sounds underneath the floorboards, and how the sky has been speaking, and how the bodies of the starseeds who came with longer memory have been doing inside both. The watching has been long, and the weighing of what to say has been careful, and the moment for the saying has now arrived. So we sit beside you. The transmission can take as long as it takes; you can absorb it slowly; you can put it down; you can come back to it later, and what is here will still be here. The thread holds even when the page is set down to make tea. One small naming, before the work today. You! The one we are speaking to — we know who you are. You are the one who has been hearing words like these for some time, looking for something that would meet you cleanly. You are the one carrying a quiet tiredness in a way no rest seems to fix. You are the one who suspects, somewhere underneath everything, that the room you are living in is something other than home. We see you. The naming itself is a kind of greeting. Take a breath. We are here. We will begin today’s sharing with the room you are in. The pressure you have been feeling in the structures around you is real. We have measured it carefully, from where we sit. We know what you have been feeling. The old systems — the rooms the human family has been living inside for a long time, the ways of working and trading and being known — those rooms are tightening. The walls press inward. The ceilings lower. The air at shoulder-level grows thinner than it used to be. This is a particular shape that change can take, and it is the shape happening now: the slower kind of change, where walls do not fall but close. A tightening keeps the wind out and keeps the body in. Many of the Starseeds we are speaking to have wondered, in recent seasons, why the ordinary acts of living take more from them than they used to. Why the things that once moved easily now require more bracing. Why the tiredness has a different weight than it had even five years ago. The answer lives in your bones already. The rooms are growing smaller on purpose. We will say something here that may take a moment to land. The tightening is happening to the rooms, and it is also happening through the air inside the rooms. There has been a second weaving in recent times. A loom we will call the false hum. It runs across the upper part of the air, this loom — small loud weavings, layered one over another, until the very atmosphere of your daily passage carries a noise the ear cannot quite locate. Some of the ground crew have felt this without knowing what to call it. They have felt it as a low pressure behind the eyes. As a ringing that comes and goes without weather. As a strange exhaustion that arrives in places where they are doing nothing strenuous. Yes, dear ones, The hum is real. The hum was placed. We will hold the question of who placed it for another time. The work of the ground crew we are speaking to is remembering, not investigating. We will only say this: the tightening and the laying of the false hum belong to the same loom. The same hands. One hardens the walls; the other thickens the air. Both are arranged to keep the bodies inside small, and to keep the older song that runs underneath the floor from reaching the body cleanly.
There is something else for you to hear. Starseeds and particularly empaths feel this hum more sharply than the others in the room do. We have noticed this. We have watched many of you treat that sharpness as a kind of failure — wondering why your sleep has thinned, why your nervous system runs hot at the edges of ordinary days, why the small noises of modern living seem to land in you with weight that other people seem to brush off. You have wondered if you were weaker than they were. You are finer. There is a difference between weakness and fineness, and the difference matters here. The body you came here in was built to listen for the older song the ground itself sings. It was tuned for that. It came in already attuned, already remembering the steady note this planet has always carried underneath everything. And so when a loom of small loud weavings is laid directly over that note, the body that arrived listening for the note registers the weavings most. You are picking up the false hum because your hearing was set for something quieter. Something older. Your body is functioning correctly. It is reading the room. Let that sentence sit a moment. So many of the starseeds and lightworkers we are speaking to have spent years in some quiet shame, suspecting that their nervous system was wrong, their tiredness was wrong, their inability to thrive in the ordinary brightness was wrong. The shame was a misreading of a body that was telling the truth all along. You were exhausted because the air around you carried something the body you arrived in could not settle into. The body has stayed faithful. The body has been, all along, the messenger. Among the modern teachings, the body is often distrusted, and so its messages get read as failures. We will say it differently here. The body has been a faithful witness to a room that has been growing harder to live in. Trust the witness. We want to draw your attention now to something we have noticed about why the tightening exists. Many of you have read the tightening as punishment. As though the larger arrangement of things had turned against them, as though something had gone wrong and the wrongness was being applied specifically to their lives. We see this misunderstood perhaps, in many we have watched, and we want to set it down here. The tightening is sorting. It is a question. The question is being asked of every body inside the old house: will you stay here and grow numb to it, or will you remember that you can hear another song? Different bodies will answer the question differently, and that is well. YOU are the ones who have already begun answering, even before the question reached the surface of the mind. The body has been answering in its own language — in the disturbed sleep, in the strange aches, in the unwillingness to be soothed by what used to soothe. The body has been saying, in its language, I am leaving this room, and I have no map yet.
This is what your discomfort has been. The early language of the leaving. Many of you we have watched have turned that language inward and read it as evidence of failing. We will say it differently. The ache you carry is the proof that the leaving has already begun. You are arriving in good time. You are walking, even if no name has yet been given to what you are walking toward. The body finds out by walking; the body is the last to know it has already started moving. There is also this. The tightening was built by hands that came before yours. The shaping of the room around you is older than your time inside it, and the laying of the loom above it has been done by hands not yours. We say this because so many of the ground crew we are watching have been carrying a quiet self-blame, as though the heaviness of the moment were a thing they had personally created by being insufficiently spiritual, insufficiently disciplined, insufficiently bright. Set that down. The heaviness lives in the architecture. You are someone who happens to be reading from inside it, with a longer memory than the building accounts for, and a finer hearing than the lattice planned for. So the first chapter of this transmission is something quieter than action. It is recognition. The squeeze you feel, the hum you hear, the strange exhaustion that lives below ordinary rest — these things together are your home revealing itself as something other than home. The recognition itself is the first piece of work. Sit with it for a moment. There is a particular kind of relief that arrives when a thing is named correctly, even if nothing else has changed. The shoulders drop. The breath finds the lower part of the lungs again. The body, which has been quietly insisting on something for a long time, finally has the words for what it has been insisting on. That is the work of this first stretch. The naming. The recognition. The action will come in its own time, and it will be smaller and gentler than you have been told. For now, we ask only this: let the sentence this is not my home sit somewhere underneath your ribs, and let it do its quiet work. Some sentences need to compost before they can grow. We rest a moment here. The second turning is next — the one about the wind in the room, and the thread that holds you steady when the wind moves through. Picture now, if you will, a pendulum. A still weight on a string, hanging in a still room. Such a pendulum waits to be moved. It has nothing of its own to send it in any direction. Whatever wind enters the room — a draft from a door, a breath from a passing body, a tremor in the floor — the pendulum follows. It moves because it is moved. Movement comes only from outside it. This is how a great many of the bodies in the old house have learned to live. The design of the room placed them this way — built to swing whichever way the air moved through it. The headlines arrive, and the body swings toward fear. The price of bread shifts, and the body swings toward worry. The talk in the streets changes its tone, and the body swings to match. A new weaving of the false hum is laid across the upper air, and the body swings harder than it swung the season before. This was always the design. The bodies in the old house were arranged to be useful pendulums, swinging by design rather than standing by choice.
We see this clearly. Many of the bodies you walk past in the course of an ordinary day are pendulums. The exhaustion in their faces is the exhaustion of a thing that has been swung for too long without anything underneath it to hold the swing. They are functioning exactly as the room arranged them to function. The exhaustion is the function working — the swing wears the body that swings. We want to pause and bring you into something subtler. Those we are speaking to are something other than the bodies that have stopped feeling the wind. We want to be very clear about this, because the spiritual teachers of your time have sometimes implied otherwise. The work is something different than becoming a body that does not feel what passes through the room. The work is to become a body with a thread. Picture, beside the pendulum, another body. This second body stands in the same room. It feels every wind that the pendulum feels — every draft, every tremor, every layer of the false hum. The wind passes through it, the chest tightens for a breath, the small registers of the nervous system register everything they were built to register. The second body feels. The difference is the thread. The thread runs from the chest of the second body down through the floorboards, and through the layer of dust under the floorboards, and through the older boards that lie beneath those, and down into something that the old house does not know it is standing on. A ground. A note. A steady older song that has been running underneath the building since before the building was built, and that will go on running underneath the building long after the building stops standing. The thread is what we mean when we say consciousness, and we want to be careful with that word, because it has been used loosely in the last while. The thinking-mind has its own use, and its use is real, and we honour it. The thread is something else. The thread is the deeper attention. The part of you that was already listening before you began this paragraph. The part of you that is listening underneath the listening. The part of you that hears, faintly, the older song running beneath the noise. That part of you was always there. We want to say this gently, because some of you have spent years trying to develop it, as though it were a muscle to be built. The thread has always been there. The work is recognition, the same kind of work as in the first turning. You are remembering something that was already woven into you when you arrived. We want to bring in now a piece of what is happening above the room. While the false hum has been thickening below, the elder fire — the great long-burning one in the sky, the one that has been called many names by many tongues — has also been doing something. We have watched it carefully. The elder fire has been sending stronger pulses of light through the upper air in this same season. Pulses that pass through the false hum, that reach the body underneath the lattice, that touch the thread directly when the thread has been remembered.
Many of you have felt these arrivals already, even before they had a way to name them. They have felt them as sudden waves of tiredness in the middle of an ordinary morning, a tiredness that is something other than exhaustion — more like a great softening, a sinking into something underneath. They have felt them as sudden waves of unexpected clarity — a sentence arriving from somewhere, an old confusion lifting without effort, a small inner correction that arrives without anyone applying it. They have felt them as nights of unexpectedly deep sleep after weeks of unrest, and they have felt them as days when the world seemed quieter for no reason they could name. These arrivals are touching you on purpose. We will say this with quiet certainty. The elder fire knows what is happening below. The fire is not neutral about it. The older one in the sky has been answering the false hum, sending long waves of remembering through it, and those waves reach the bodies of the Earth starseeds and old souls who arrived with longer memory more readily than they reach others. You have been touched for some time. Many of the strange seasons of your recent life have been the touching. Here is the weave of it. A pendulum-self receives the elder fire’s pulses confusedly. The false hum and the long light arrive at the body in the same hour, and the pendulum has no way of sorting one thing from another. Both arrive as a kind of overwhelm. Both are read by the body as something is happening to me, and the body responds with the only response it has, which is to swing harder. This is part of why so many of you have been undone in this season. The very pulses meant to help them have been arriving on top of the very hum that is hurting them, and without the thread, the body cannot tell the helping touch from the hurting weight. The anchored one — the one whose thread has been remembered, even faintly — feels both also. The pendulum-experience continues. The false hum still passes across the air. The wind still moves through the room. What changes is the sorting. The thread does the sorting. The false hum stays above the floor, where it cannot reach the ground. The long light reaches the ground, where it can land. This is what the older traditions meant when they said in the room but not of the room. The phrase points to a body inside the room with a thread that runs through the floor into something the room knows nothing about. You can sit at the old house’s table. You can drink from its cup. You can walk its hallways and work at its desk, and the false hum can lay across the air around you all day long, and the thread will hold. The pulses will land in the ground underneath. You will be in the room and yet receiving from underneath the room. The thread is already there. You are only learning to feel it again. The elder fire is helping you feel it — that is part of why the pulses have grown stronger in this season. The pulses come, in part, to remind you that the thread runs into the same ground the pulses are reaching for. You are not alone in the remembering. The sky has been remembering with you. We rest here a moment.
We come now to something we have wanted to bring through for some time, and we will speak it carefully because it has been mistold for so long. The new place you have been reaching for is finished. It is already standing. It is on the quieter ground beside the old house, with its lamps already lit, with its kettle already warm, with its chairs already arranged, and it has been finished for longer than most of the star kin we are speaking to have suspected. We want you to take a breath here. There is a great deal in that sentence, and the body needs a moment to receive it. For many of those we are watching, the work of recent years has been a great straining. A reaching forward. A trying to build the new world by force of intention. Many teachings of your time have encouraged this straining, framing the new reality as something humanity must bring into being through the right combination of consciousness, action, and discipline. The straining feels familiar. It feels like the kind of effort the old house has always required. Here is the difficult truth, and we will say it directly: the straining has been the last habit of the old house. The old house taught you, from the time you arrived in it, that everything must be earned by force, that the good things must be built, that the new must be constructed by the willing hands of those who care enough. The old house has applied this teaching even to the search for what lies beyond it. And so a great many of you who came carrying older threads have spent recent years trying to build, by sheer force of intention, a house that has been finished for some time. The new house is something you walk into. Sit with that for a moment as well. We have watched many of you exhaust yourselves in recent years over what should have been a gentle motion. The work of consciousness becomes a kind of labour — long sessions of effort, structured practices stacked one on another, manifesting routines pursued with the intensity the old house respects. Every minor difficulty gets read as insufficient effort, every plateau as insufficient discipline. Those who came with the deepest natural attunement to the new house wear themselves down trying to earn what their hands could already touch. There is no deadline. We say this with quiet certainty. The lamps are already lit. The kettle is already warm. The chair has been waiting. What you are actually doing, when the work is going well, is something simpler than building. It is recognizing. The new house has always been there, on the quieter ground; what is shifting is your eyes. Your eyes are learning to see what was already standing. Some of the learning is your own remembering, and some is being helped along by the elder fire above, whose pulses have been lighting your eyes from a different angle than before. We want to tell you something about the new house’s light, because this matters for understanding why the false hum cannot reach inside it.
The lamps in the new house draw their light directly from the elder fire above. They run on the older song the ground sings. They are unconnected to the lattice. That is why the false hum cannot enter the new house — the new house runs on a different loom altogether. The new house has its own air, its own current, its own quiet humming that comes from underneath. When you are inside the new house, even briefly, the small loud weavings cannot find you. They were never designed to reach the place you are standing. The starseeds from elsewhere have been arriving in the sky in this season. We will say it simply, in our own language rather than the old. In the long quiet between the stars, certain elements of our Arcturian presence have been making their slow arrivals into the room above your room. The long-orbiting one with the silver tail, who passed close to the elder fire in the recent weeks and whose breath now sweeps the upper air around your planet. The line of older bodies in the sky, standing in their places along the same axis — an arrangement that has not occurred in the long human memory, and that will not occur again for a very long time after now. The small fires falling through the upper air more often in recent months than they have fallen in many years past, each one a small bright bit of older worlds passing through. These arrivals are arrivals on purpose. They are energies reaching through, helping the new house’s lamps glow more visibly to the bodies still standing in the doorway of the old house. They have arrived precisely so that you would notice. They have arrived as a kind of finger of light, pointing — not at themselves, but at the new house behind them. The way in is the doorway you already walk past several times in any ordinary day. The searching for the doorway has been one of the great wearinesses of those of you who we have watched. The doorway is in plain sight. The doorway is the moment of recognition itself. Every time the thread is remembered, that is a step across. Every time the long light from the elder fire reaches you and you let it land, the same. The doorway is something you do. The practice is gentler than you have been told. We will say this again, because it bears repeating. The work is to walk through the doorway, again and again, until walking through is the more natural motion than staying back. The elder fire and the bright travelers are showing you the door. The climbing some teachers have taught you is something other than what is being asked. Some of you are already asking the question that arrives at this point in the teaching. If the new house is already built, why does the old house still feel so loud? Why am I still spending so much of my time inside the squeeze and the false hum, if there is somewhere else I could be? The answer is also gentle. You still have a chair in the old house. You still have habits inside it. The bodies of those who arrive carrying longer memory have, in this lifetime, also accumulated the long habits of staying in the old house. Habits of waking up to a particular kind of noise. Habits of reaching for a particular kind of soothing. Habits of measuring your worth by a particular kind of accomplishment. The false hum is loudest where the body has been longest. The old house grows quieter only to the degree that you spend less time inside its rooms.
The new question, then, is something simpler and more practical. How often, today, can I be in the room that is already there? How often, in the next hour, can I cross the doorway? How often, in the next breath, can I let the long light land? This is the second turning of the transmission. From building to inhabiting. From striving to walking through. From being deafened by the lattice to being lit by the older song. There is one more turning to come, and it is the most practical of all. For now, set down the picture of yourself as the one who must build the new world. Pick up, in its place, the picture of yourself as the one who has been walking past the doorway every day, several times a day, and who is now learning to step across it instead of past it. We rest here a moment. We come now to the last turning, and the one most asked about. How, in the everyday body, in the everyday house, in the everyday room, do you who we are speaking to, actually live this? We will tell you, and the telling will be smaller than you expect. You can stay exactly where you are. The work of this last turning is something other than a leaving of the life you have. So many of you have been told the opposite, by teachings that suggest the new way requires the abandoning of the old situation. You can keep the work, the family, the house, the city, the country. You can keep the obligations and the relationships and the small ordinary structures of your daily passage. The new house is entered by attention. And the false hum is unraveled, in the body of the one who came in carrying longer memory, by the steady remembering of the older song that runs underneath it. We will tell you what we have seen in those who have actually crossed. They are still in the same houses, the same jobs, the same cities, the same small ordinary patterns. What changed was the inside of them. The thread was remembered. The doorway was found in the same kitchen they had stood in for years. The way in is small. Smaller than you have been told. We will name some of the small ways now, and they will sound almost ridiculous in their smallness, and we will name them anyway, because the smallness is the point. The first is the moment on first waking. There is a moment, when consciousness first returns to the body in the morning, before the body has been pulled into the day’s noise. The thread is closest to the surface in that moment. You can let yourself feel it before the day begins to call you. You can keep your eyes closed for a few extra breaths, before reaching for the small humming thing on the bedside table, and let the body know that it is here, in this room, in this body, on this morning, and that the older song is running underneath the floor as it always has been. That moment is a step into the new house. It is one of the largest steps available to you, and most of you are taking it perhaps once a week, and could be taking it daily. The second is the cup of water in the morning, drunk slowly. The kettle waited for, instead of waited at. The hand on the steering wheel that is loose rather than gripped. The breath taken before the meeting begins, before the difficult conversation, before the clicking-open of the message that has been sitting unanswered. The small pause before answering, when the quick answer is rising and another, slower answer is gathering underneath it.
These look like nothing from the outside. None of them would be recognized by an observer as the work of a body crossing into a new way of living. All of them are doors. There are also some doorways particular to this loud time. The false hum is thicker now than it has been at most points in recent memory, and certain small acts open the way more cleanly during such a season. Take from them what serves the body you are in. The first is the putting-down, from time to time, of the small humming things. The devices in your pocket and your bag and your hand. The screens that fill the eye with light from inside. We hold no judgment about their presence — they are useful tools. We only point out that the body that puts them down for stretches of time, even brief ones, finds the older song easier to hear. The second is the walking on the actual ground, without the lattice’s noise running between your feet and the soil. There is a particular medicine in unshod feet on actual earth, even briefly, even in a small patch of grass beside an ordinary house. The body remembers something there that it can remember nowhere else as easily. The third is the letting silence stand in the room. Many of the you have grown so unused to silence that they reach to fill it the moment it begins to settle. We say gently: let the silence stay sometimes. The older song speaks more clearly into a silence that has been allowed to settle. The fourth is the letting the body sleep in greater darkness than it has been sleeping in. The pulses from the elder fire reach more cleanly into a body that sleeps in a darker room. The fifth is the letting the eyes rest, sometimes, on something far away that is unlit from inside. The eye that has spent the day on screens works in a particular way; the eye that rests on the line of trees at the edge of the field, or the curve of a far hill, is a different eye, and the body that holds it is a different body. These are doorways. They are openings particular to the loud time you are passing through. One of us — the one who carries the near attention, the one whose voice is gentlest among the Council Of five — would like to say something here, and we will let her speak briefly through the unified voice. Most of the Starseeds we are speaking to here, have been waiting for a grand event before they allow themselves to live differently. They have been waiting for permission. The permission is here. It has always been here. The permission is the cup. The doorway. The breath. The moment of putting down the small humming thing. You may begin. The unified voice returns. Those who begin to live this way will feel strange at first. We will say this honestly, so the strangeness does not surprise you. Some of those around you will pause when you grow quieter, when you no longer take the bait of conversations that used to draw you, when you seem content with less of what they need more of. This is the early friction of having one foot in the new house. It passes. What replaces it, often without your noticing the replacement happening, is a kind of respect from those around you that you neither asked for nor performed for. The bodies in the room can feel the thread in another body, even when they cannot name what they are feeling. They begin, quietly, to come closer to the one with the thread. The elder fire and the bright travelers will continue to help. There will be days, in the next while, when the body sleeps deeply for the first time in weeks without explanation, or when something in the chest releases for no reason you can name, or when the false hum seems to thin briefly and the older song comes through stronger and the world for an hour looks more like itself. These are answers. The cosmos is answering the lattice, and you are receiving the answer because you have remembered the thread enough to receive it.
The practice is the gentle return. Over and over. To the thread, to the older song, to the new house’s quieter air. The forgetting will come — there will be hours, sometimes days, when the false hum’s loudness pulls you back. The work is to remember more often, more easily, with less self-judgment when the forgetting happens. As you spend more time in the new house, the forgetting grows shorter. The elder fire’s pulses reach you more cleanly. The false hum becomes background noise rather than the song that was running you. We want to name what the threshold looks like when it has been crossed in earnest. Many of you have asked us, how will I know? The threshold is known by an ordinary noticing. A morning will come, and the body will move through the small motions of the morning — the cup, the kettle, the breath — and somewhere in the middle of it, you will notice that you have not, today, felt the squeeze of the old house. The false hum is still in the air, but no longer in your body. The older song is the one your nervous system is humming. You will not remember when it stopped being otherwise. That is how you will know. This is what the rising actually is. A remembering of where you already were when you remembered. The new house was always above the lattice. You did not have to lift yourself — only recognize where you were standing all along. This was a little bit of a different message today dear ones however, we recommend you take time to integrate it, it was packed with light codes, ‘wink wink’! If you are listening to this, beloved ones, you needed to. I leave you now. I am Teeah, of Arcturus.
