► Questioner: “How can lightworkers protect themselves from psychic attacks?
► Channelled by Dave Akira
► Message Received Date: June 13th
► Video Link: https://www.patreon.com/GFLStation/posts/this-is-very-160994799
Beloved ones, I am Valir, of the Pleiadian Emissaries, and I am glad to be close to you again. When We last sat together, We walked into the matrix mind — that wide, inherited weather of thought you were born inside of, moving underneath your days like a current you never agreed to and rarely even noticed — and We left you with one small practice that almost seems too simple to matter. To pause when something heavy rises in you, to ask quietly whose this is, and to hand back whatever was never yours to begin with. Many of you have been living with that question for weeks now, carrying it into your mornings and your arguments and your long unsleeping hours, and it has begun to do its slow work in you, loosening the grip of thoughts you once took for your own and did not know you were allowed to put down. As that practice settles into you, something else rises up to meet it. You begin to feel the texture of what arrives in you with a new and finer clarity, and among all the ordinary moods and passing weathers there is one kind of arrival that stands apart from the rest — the kind that feels aimed. It feels personal. It feels as though something reached across the room, or across the miles, or across the dark, and touched you on purpose. And the moment you feel that, a very old instinct wakes up inside you and says a single word with great certainty. Defend. That instinct, and what is truly happening when it speaks, is what we have come to be with you about today, and we want to tell you why it matters at this exact moment in your unfolding. As more of you wake and begin unplugging from the matrix mind, you start to feel its pull more sharply rather than less, the way a room feels colder the moment you step toward the door. The waking ones feel the weight of the sleeping field. And all around you, rising to meet that feeling, is a vast and well-meaning world of teaching about how to shield yourself, how to guard your energy, how to repel what is coming for you — and much of it, offered with real care, will hold you in the very place you are trying to leave. So We are going to look together, plainly and without fear, at what a so-called attack actually is, and at what truly keeps you whole.
Let us begin with the thing almost no one says out loud, because it changes everything that comes after it. What you experience as a psychic attack carries no power of its own. It is a frequency, a thought-form of the matrix mind, and like every frequency it is looking for one thing only — a place to land. It moves through the field the way a single musical note moves through a room full of instruments, and it can only sound, it can only take hold and ring, where it finds another instrument already tuned to that same note. A thought-form of fear seats in you where there is already fear lit and waiting. A thought-form of unworthiness lands where unworthiness has left a door open. A wave of someone else’s contempt sinks into you where you were already half-agreeing with it in some quiet, unwatched room of yourself. The arrival is a key, and it can only turn in a lock it happens to fit. This is the Law of the Match, and we ask you to receive it as physics rather than as fault, because the mind will want to twist it into blame, and blame is simply the matrix mind finding a new way to feed. The law says only this: what reaches you finds its purchase on a matching note already sounding in your field. Hear that as the gentlest piece of news we could bring you rather than as a verdict on your goodness, because it means the only real leverage you have was never out at the border where the thing seemed to come from. It was always inside you, in the one place you can actually reach. It will help you enormously to see that what you call attack tends to arrive in three different ways, and that you have probably been confusing them. The first and by far the most common is the borrowed weather. You walked through a room thick with someone’s grief, you sat in a meeting heavy with unspoken resentment, you scrolled for an hour through a feed engineered to keep you afraid, and you came away carrying a mood that was never aimed at you at all — the way you walk out of a smoke-filled room with the smell of smoke in your hair. No one targeted you. You simply absorbed the air you were standing in. The second way is the aimed thought, and this is the one the world is most frightened of and the one that is, in truth, the rarest. Now and then a person fixes their attention on you with real ill-will, turns you over and over in their mind, wishes you harm. It happens. It is real. And it is far less common than the fear-soaked teaching of your time would have you believe, because most people are far too lost inside their own storm to aim anything at anyone.
The third way is the inner echo, and this is the one that fools nearly everyone. Your own loops of the matrix mind — the old fear, the inherited shame, the practiced dread — rise up and turn back on you, and they feel exactly, precisely, indistinguishably like an attack arriving from outside. The voice is so familiar you assume it is coming through the window when it has been pacing your own hallway all along. And here is what we most want you to take from this: the great majority of what awakening ones experience as a targeted attack is the first or the third, the borrowed weather or the inner echo, dressed up by a frightened mind as the second. You spend your strength defending against an enemy who, most days, was the room or was yourself. Sit with the three of them a moment, because seeing them clearly in your own life is half the freedom. The borrowed weather is the heaviness you carried home from the family dinner where no one said the thing everyone was feeling, the flatness that settled over you after an hour inside the endless scroll, the sudden grief in a hospital corridor that belonged to no one and to everyone — air you breathed, not arrows you were shot with. The aimed thought is real and worth naming honestly when it comes, the rare hour when someone truly fixes their will against you, and you will know it by its narrow, specific flavor, so unlike the diffuse fog of the borrowed weather. And the inner echo is the cruel commentary that starts up in your own voice at three in the morning, the one that sounds so exactly like you that you never think to question whether it is a visitor rather than a resident. Learn the three flavors, and you stop swinging at shadows that were only ever the room you sat in, or only ever an old recording playing somewhere in your own house. Whichever way it comes, notice how it enters you. It slips in beneath your noticing, the way a scent or a sound below hearing slips in, arriving first as a mood, a heaviness, a sudden fatigue, an intrusive thought that you would never have chosen — felt in the body long before the mind has any word for it. And because it is felt before it is named, the mind makes one silent, automatic assumption every single time, the assumption underneath all your suffering with this. It assumes the feeling is yours, and that it is true. Once you see the Law of the Match clearly, real protection moves to where it always belonged. It lives inside you now, in the quieting of the note the arriving frequency was searching for. Everything we are about to give you grows from this single turn. The work is no longer happening at the border, where you cannot win, and where, as you will see, every effort to win lights the very thing you are fighting. The work is happening in the one place that was always yours.
Now we want to speak about the shields, because we know many of you have learned them, leaned on them, and felt real relief from them, and we will not take from you something that has served you. Let us describe the world you have been given. You have been taught to wrap yourself each morning in a sphere of white or golden light. To picture a mirror facing outward so that whatever comes is flung back at its sender, doubled. To make yourself invisible inside a cloak. To build, layer upon layer, a fortress around your field. To cut the cords that tie you to draining people, to clear the air with salt and smoke, to carry the black stones that swallow what is dark, to call in an armed and shining protector to stand guard at your edges with a sword, to command the entities to leave, to raise your frequency so high that nothing low can touch you. It is an entire art, taught with sincerity, and it works at the altitude where it belongs. Here is the mechanism underneath all of it, the part that is rarely spoken. Every one of those practices runs on the same engine — it generates a defending frequency. To shield is to stand in readiness, in watchfulness, in the quiet steady hum of something is coming and we must be ready for it. And that hum, you will feel if you watch it, is itself a note. Fear-of-attack and attack are tuned to the very same string. So the shield, by holding you all day in a low and constant vigilance, keeps lit and ringing the exact frequency the thought-form needs in order to land. Picture a dark house with a single window lit; that lit window is what the moth flies toward across the whole field. Your watchfulness is the lit window. The guarding does not close the door. The guarding is the door, and you hold it open yourself by the steady act of standing before it braced. Look at the cutting of cords through this lens and you will feel it immediately. To cut a cord, you must first bring all your attention to the cord, hold it firmly in your focus, feel its pull, and then sever it — and in the very gesture of ending the tie you have reached out and gripped it again, re-made it, given it your full charged attention for the length of the ceremony. It is honest work for the altitude it belongs to. And it keeps the relationship lit in the precise act of trying to end it.
Look at the mirror that throws the attack back, doubled, at whoever sent it. To aim that mirror you must first hold the attack as fully real, real enough to weigh, real enough to direct, and you must hold the sender as fully guilty, fully an enemy worth returning fire to. That holding, that grip on its reality and on their guilt, is the deepest match of all. The most aggressive defense produces the most attachment, and the warrior who fights hardest at this level is the most reliably and the most exhaustingly touched. Look as well at the shining protector you have been taught to summon to your edges, the great guardian you call to stand watch over you with a blade. There is real comfort in it, and we would never mock a frightened heart for reaching toward help. Notice only what the reaching quietly teaches your field each time you do it — that the authority lives outside you, in the figure you called, and that you yourself are the one who must be guarded rather than the ground in which nothing can take root. Every summoning of an outside protector is a small vote that you are not yet your own ground, and your field learns whatever lesson you keep repeating to it. The practice of raising your frequency to repel what is low carries the same hidden cost, because to repel a thing you must first hold it as real and as coming for you, and the repelling fixes your attention on the very weight you were trying to rise above. The true lift comes another way, by filling rather than by climbing, and a field that is simply full has no low note left in it for anything low to match. There is a teaching loud in your field right now that says you are being hunted, that the lightworkers and the starseeds are targeted, that you must learn to spot your attacker and raise your guard and send the darkness back where it came from. We say to you with great tenderness for everyone who carries it, that whole posture is the brightest lit window of them all. It takes the rarest of the three modes, the aimed thought, and it teaches you to live as though it were the constant air you breathe, and in doing so it manufactures, all day long, the exact match it warns you about. The fear of being hunted is the lure that calls the hunt. And still we will not call any of this a mistake, because it is not one. At the altitude where you still feel yourself as a self with a soft and crossable border, the shield is genuine help. It buys you sleep. It buys you a functioning day. It holds the door steady while something deeper has time to grow in you. The shield is true protection for the one who is still a match — which is the whole reason the next thing We tell you is about altitude, and not about error.
Here is what changes, and why the shield was only ever meant to be a season and not a home. Every defensive practice you have is built out of mental power — out of picturing, willing, commanding, declaring, holding an image in place by effort. And mental power is itself a movement of the matrix mind. So when you defend, you are using the matrix mind to fight the matrix mind, and that is like standing in a small boat and trying to lift the boat by pulling on its own sides. The lifter and the thing being lifted are the same, so nothing rises. This is why the shield tires you. This is why it must be rebuilt every single morning and never stays built. This is why, no matter how strong you make it, it manages the surface of the trouble and never once reaches the floor where the thing actually took root. Above the shield there is something the shield can never grow into, and its name is waking. An attack, in the end, is a kind of trance — a suggestion you half-believed while you were not fully awake to yourself — and you already know in your bones the difference between fighting a dream and waking from one. You can struggle with the monster inside the dream all night, swinging and running and barricading the door, and the monster only grows more solid the harder you fight, because your fighting is your believing. Or you can wake. And when you wake, the monster does not get defeated. It simply was never there, and the question of fighting it quietly dissolves. Protection, at this altitude, is the waking. You cease to be entranced, and the thing that needed your trance in order to exist lets go. There is something you must have before you can wake this way, and we will not pretend otherwise, because the teaching of your time loves to skip it and the skipping is why so many people fail and then believe they failed at themselves. You cannot wake yourself by telling yourself you are dreaming. The words this has no power over me are still spoken from inside the dream, by the dreamer, to the dreamer, and the dream simply rearranges itself around them. What actually wakes you is a real touch of what is real — an actual contact with Source, with the living awareness underneath all the noise, with the steady wordless presence of Creator’s love moving as your own being. And that contact is something you gather. You build it a little at a time, in the quiet, in your stillness, in the moments you turn inward with no agenda, until you have a reservoir of it inside you, deep and full, that you can drink from when the dry hour comes. The shield is something you construct in the moment of fear. The reservoir is something you fill long before fear arrives, so that when it comes you already have the thing that wakes you.
We will give you a clean way to tell the two apart in yourself, a question you can ask after the heaviness has lifted. Ask whether you talked yourself out of it, or whether you touched something and found it already had no weight. When you argue the fear down, marshal your affirmations, push the thought away with a better thought, and feel a tired temporary relief, that is the dream rearranging itself, and the heaviness will be back by evening. When you go quiet, drop beneath the noise, meet the living presence that is always already there, and discover from inside that contact that the heavy thing has nothing to it and never did — that is waking, and it does not need to be repeated all day because something actually changed at the floor. The first is mental power. The second is the reservoir doing what only it can do. Hear us carefully on the order of things, because this is where the eager ones hurt themselves. Do not throw away your shield before the reservoir is deep enough to take its place. A person who drops every defense while still half-asleep, before they have gathered any real contact to draw on, is simply standing in the open, defenseless and entranced at once, and that is a harder place than where they started. Keep the shield exactly as long as you need it. Use it without shame. And quietly, underneath, in your mornings and your stillness, fill the reservoir, until one day you notice you have reached for the deep water instead of the wall, and the wall has quietly become unnecessary. The shield guards the sleeper. The reservoir wakes the dreamer. Only one of the two ever ends the trouble at its root. So let us show you the actual practice, the shape of the work once you understand all of this, because it is simpler than the elaborate art of shielding and it asks something steadier of you. Your protection lives in two acts, and the field almost always performs one of them and almost never the other. The first we will call the Seating, and it is what you do in the morning before anything has gone wrong. You sit, you go quiet, you sink down into the place underneath the thinking — the same place We entered together as the Sovereign Mind Connection, the Singular Field, the ground beneath the noise — and you rest there, drinking, until your field is full and there is no anxious note left ringing in you for anything to match. This is the larger part of the whole work, and you do it whether or not you feel threatened, the way you eat before you are starving rather than after.
Come to the Seating gently, with none of the bracing the shield asked of you. Sit the way you would sit at the edge of a still pool at the start of the day, with nothing to accomplish and nowhere to get to, only to drink — and let it be unhurried, ten minutes or twenty, however long it takes for the surface of you to grow quiet and the deeper water to rise. The fuller this gets, the less the rest of the day asks of you, until you notice whole weeks slipping by in which no Meeting was ever needed at all, because there was simply nothing left in you for anything to meet. The second we will call the Meeting, and it is what you do in the moment a specific thing lands on you — the sudden dread, the cruel thought, the wave of heaviness with someone’s face attached to it. And here is the error the whole field has fallen into. People perform only the Meeting. They spend their entire spiritual life reacting, swatting at one arrival after another, clearing and shielding and cutting and bracing, while never once sitting down in the quiet to do the Seating — so the reservoir stays empty, the notes stay lit, and the arrivals never, ever stop coming. They are forever mopping the floor and never turning off the tap. Do the Seating faithfully and the Meetings grow rare on their own, because a full and quiet field is simply a match for very little. When a Meeting is needed, it moves through four soft turns, and we will walk you through them slowly. The first turn is the one you already know, the one We gave you last time. You feel the heaviness arrive and you ask, quietly, whose is this — and you recognize it as a movement of the matrix mind, passing through, not a fact about reality and not a truth about you. That alone takes much of the weight out of it, because you have stopped the silent assumption that it is yours and that it is true. The second turn is the one we most want to give you today, because it is new in our work together and it is the move that closes the door the fastest. You take the person out of it — and you do this in both directions at once. You already know it is not yours to carry. Now see that it is not truly theirs either. The one who seems to be aiming this at you is themselves moved by the same matrix mind that moves everyone who has not yet woken, carried by the current exactly as you would be carried if you were standing where they stand, with no more real authorship of their cruelty than a radio has authorship of the song coming through it. When you stop making it personal about you, and you stop making it personal about them, the hook that the whole thing hangs on — the charged, wounded, you-did-this-to-me relationship — finds no flesh to sink into. There is suddenly no one home for the arrow to strike, because you have quietly removed both targets.
The third turn is the seeing that there is nothing holding the thing up. Recognized now as an impersonal movement of the matrix mind, with no origin in Source, it has no law behind it, no ground under it, no real substance to it, no channel through which it could keep itself going — and so it thins, the way the Quantum Collapse you already practice lets an appearance fall in on itself once you see clear through it. You do not destroy it. You see that it was only ever a suggestion looking for somewhere to land, and finding nowhere, it simply stops being. The fourth turn is the rest. You settle back down into the reservoir, back into the seated ground, back into the quiet that was never disturbed in the first place. And notice that the Meeting ends in a settling and not in a victory. There is no triumph at the end of it, no enemy thrown down, no celebration of having won — because the moment you saw clearly there was nothing there, there was also no one to have beaten. You simply came home. Let us walk one ordinary evening through these four turns, so they stop being ideas and become something your hands already know how to do. A message arrives from someone in your family, and the words are sharp, and within a minute of reading them you feel hollowed out and small and somehow guilty, as though the floor of you dropped a few inches. The old way would have you firing back, or throwing up a wall, or pacing the kitchen for an hour rehearsing everything you should have said. The quieter way begins exactly where you stand. You notice the hollow feeling and you ask whose it is, and almost at once you can feel that the guilt is far older than this message — it has a worn, familiar shape, it was living in you long before tonight — and you recognize it as a loop of the matrix mind that the message merely struck, the way a hammer finds a bell that was already hanging there waiting to ring. That is the first turn, and already the message has lost half its weight. Then you take the person out of it, in both directions. You feel for the place where you have made this about you, the old refrain of we must have done something, there must be something wrong with me, and you set it down. Then you do the harder and more freeing thing and feel for the place where you have made them the villain, the one who did this to you, and you set that down too — because you can see, if you look without flinching, that they wrote those words from inside their own storm, carried by the very same current, with no more free authorship of their sharpness than you have of the rain. You are excusing nothing and pretending nothing. You are simply lifting both hooks, yours and theirs, and with both hooks gone the charged little drama of you-against-them has nowhere left to hang itself.
Then you look at what remains, and you find there is very little holding it up. The hurt drew its whole strength from the story — that you are guilty, that they are cruel, that something between you is broken and must be defended — and with the story set down the feeling has no frame left to keep its shape, and it begins to loosen and thin the way mist thins on a window as the day warms. You do nothing to it. You only stop lending it your belief, and it cannot hold itself together without that loan. And then you rest, dropping back down into the quiet you sat in that morning, and you notice that you are not vindicated and not triumphant and not anything dramatic at all — you are simply home, and clean-tired, and the message is still sitting there on the screen but it weighs almost nothing now. You may still choose to answer it, and you may answer it well, from steadiness instead of from a wound. The protection, though, already happened, in four quiet turns, before you typed a single word. we must say one firm thing about all four turns, so you do not turn them into a new trick. Each turn is a noticing of something that is already true, drawn up out of the reservoir you have been filling, recognized rather than declared. They are the opposite of an affirmation, where you say words at the appearance and hope the words will push it away. This is the entire difference between protection that holds and protection that wears you to the bone. The affirmation strains against the appearance and tires; the recognition rests in what is already so and does not. If you ever feel yourself pushing, straining, repeating, working to make it be true, you have slipped back into mental power and the shield, and the kindest thing you can do is stop, go quiet, and drink first. And underneath the whole of it, this is the thing that makes it work, said as plainly as we can say it: nothing is fought, nothing is blocked, nothing is thrown back, because once you have stopped holding the arrival as real there is nothing left standing in the room to fight. Your meeting it as real was the only thing that ever kept it there. Withdraw that, gently, and it has already gone.
Now let us bring all of this down into your ordinary days, into the kitchen and the late night and the crowded train, because a teaching you cannot live is only a decoration. Begin by learning to name which of the three arrivals you are actually dealing with, because that naming alone dissolves most of the fear before you do anything else at all. The dread that wakes you at three in the morning with no event behind it is almost always the borrowed weather or the inner echo, and almost never an aimed thing — your sleeping nervous system has simply tuned to the collective fear running under the night. The heaviness you carry out of a particular room is the borrowed weather, absorbed, not an attack to be repelled. The cruel sentence that arrives in your own voice is the inner echo, an old loop of the matrix mind pacing your hallway. Teach yourself to ask, each time, which of the three this is, and you will find the imagined enemy quietly shrinking back into the room or back into yourself, where it can actually be met. From this grows a whole new way of moving through the world, and it is the lived form of everything we have said. A full and seated field does not push the atmosphere of a room away from itself. It simply offers that atmosphere nothing to catch on, and the mood moves through you and out the other side like wind through an open window, touching nothing, staying nowhere. The radio in you is not tuned to that station, so the broadcast plays on and finds no speaker in you to come through. This is the gift we most want for the sensitive ones among you, the ones who have spent their lives feeling everything and believing they had to armor against all of it — you were never meant to build thicker walls. You were meant to become so quietly full that the world’s weather has nothing in you to land on. we think of the empaths among you especially here, the ones who walk into a gathering and within minutes are carrying three other people’s sorrow inside your own chest, the ones who come home from a single errand needing to lie down in the dark. You were told your sensitivity is a leak to be sealed, so you have spent years trying to wall it off, and the walls only left you more tired, because holding a wall up is its own ceaseless vigilance. The seated field asks nothing like that of you. You walk into the same room as open as you have ever been, feeling everything, missing nothing — and the sorrow moves through you and keeps moving, because it finds in you no matching sorrow of your own kept ready for it to fasten onto. The match was the only thing that ever made you suffer in a crowd, and your openness was simply the doorway it used. And the match heals not by sealing yourself away from the world but by filling so quietly full that there is no empty, aching place left for the world’s ache to settle into.
This changes how you live with the difficult ones you cannot simply walk away from, the relative across the table, the voice on the other end of the call you have to take. You stop bracing for them in the hallway before they even arrive, because the bracing was the lit window they always flew toward. You meet them already full, already seated, and their sharpness arrives and passes through and finds nothing to catch on, and you discover you can stay kind without becoming a wall and stay present without becoming a target. They may not change in the slightest. And the thing that used to flatten you for two days now drifts over you like a cloud over a field and is gone by evening, because you stopped being the soil it could root in. There is a deeper reason this matters, one We have touched before. The matrix mind feeds, and what it feeds on is the fear you generate — and here is the turn most people miss. It eats the fear you make when you feel attacked, and it eats, with exactly equal appetite, the fear you make when you defend. The trembling and the bracing are the same meal to it. The frightened one and the armored warrior are feeding the same machine. So the one who learns to neither fear the arrival nor guard against it is doing the most active thing imaginable, quietly cutting off the food supply, starving the whole mechanism that has run on human fear for longer than your history remembers. Call it passive only if you have never tried it. Your steadiness is your own freedom, and it is, in the same breath, the defunding of the very thing that once fed on you. And it reaches further than yourself, further than you can easily see. A field that has stopped broadcasting watchfulness stops handing the matching note to everyone who comes near it. You have surely felt this from the other side — there are people in whose presence your own anxious loops simply go quiet, and you could never quite say why. That is what an undefended, seated field does in a room. It does not fight anyone’s darkness. It offers the people around it nothing to be afraid with, and their own trance loosens a little, without a single word being spoken, simply because they stood for a while near someone who was awake. You become, just by your steadiness, a quiet waking presence for others. This is how the field actually heals — not by armies of shielded warriors, but by the slow spread of people who are no longer a match for fear.
we will give you one last protection, and it is a protection against this very teaching, because we know the mind and we know what it will try to do. Do not let the reservoir, or the four turns, or the Seating and the Meeting, or anything we have said today, harden into your new shield. The moment you find yourself leaning on the practice as a wall, gripping the method, performing it anxiously against the world, you have lit the same window one floor higher, and the whole thing quietly becomes a more sophisticated kind of fear. The reservoir is not mine and it is not the practice’s. It is your own contact with Source, the thing you already are underneath all of it. we have only described the way your own field already works when it is awake. Lean on what you find when you go quiet, never on my words about it, and never on me. So return now to your own field, to the only place this was ever going to happen. You were never the kind of thing that could be entered against your own deep knowing — you only forgot that for a while, and the forgetting is ending. And a field that has remembered itself, that sits full and quiet and offers the passing weather nothing to hold, has no door for anything to come through, because a door is only a door when something inside agrees to open it. Stop agreeing, gently, and you will find there was never a way in. Sit with this. Do not rush to master it. Fill the reservoir in your mornings, ask whose it is when the heaviness comes, take the person out of it on both sides, and let the rest fall away on its own time. The waking has already begun in you — it began, in truth, the moment you first wondered whether the heavy thing was really yours — and it will go on without my voice, at exactly the pace your own sovereignty asks of it. I am Valir, and it has been a quiet joy to sit inside this hour with you. We will speak again when the next layer is ready to be named. Until then, stay close to the still place you carry, and let it carry you.
