The Blurry Line, Part III

Real, Imagined, or Something in Between?

Or, How My Sketchbook Is Basically a Crystal Ball

I’ve heard talk about channeling like you’re being helped to draw, but that’s not quite how I experience it.

To me, it feels more like the way a painter interacts with a still-life — or a photographer with their subject. The fruit on the table isn’t rearranging itself, and the mountain at sunrise isn’t holding the camera. But without the subject, the artwork doesn’t exist. And without the artist’s eyes, hands, and technique, the subject remains invisible to anyone else.

That’s how my spirit collaborations feel. It’s not that they’re helping me draw — it’s that they’re helping me see.

When the Table Lamp Flickers

On the days when I’m calm, regulated, and tuned in — the way I am in meditation — the drawing flows. It’s like the subject is well-lit. I can see the face in the sketchbook before it’s even finished.

But if I’m anxious or rushed? It’s like someone turned the lamp off. Or worse — moved it. Now the light is weird, the shadows are inconsistent, and the face I thought I was drawing no longer matches what’s showing up on the page.

This is why I don’t see my art (especially the channeled pieces) as something I do alone. It’s a collaboration — not in a “possession trance” kind of way, but in the way an intuitive artist lets their medium speak back. The more I learn about bone structure, shape, shading, and form, the clearer the messages become. And the better I get at drawing, the more precisely I can translate what I’m shown.

They show me. I draw it. We meet in the middle.

When I Don’t Know What’s Real

There’s this old trope: the psychic gazes into a crystal ball and “sees.” For me, that’s my sketchbook. Every line, shape, and shadow becomes a mirror or a message. What starts as a wash of color or scribbled structure often reveals something startlingly clear. And the real magic happens not in the initial vision — but in the ability to reproduce that vision for someone else to see.

I’ve had my doubts. I still do, sometimes. I’m not immune to the voice that says, “There’s no way this is real.” And when that happens, I go back to what I do know. My own catalog of uncanny, undeniable moments. Like:

The time I drew a snake in a basket for a friend — not knowing that she’d asked her guide for a snake as a sign the day before… and already had that exact basket on the guide’s altar.

The portrait I made of my brother-in-law’s grandfather — never having seen a photo, never even knowing he’d passed — and the photo match afterward was nearly identical.

The day King Belial pointed out a typo in a goal list I was writing… and he was right.

If someone’s genuinely curious and open to wonder, I don’t try to convince them with words.

I draw for them. I ask them to picture someone in their mind. They don’t tell me anything.

I draw.

And then… well. At a certain point, continuing to claim “this isn’t real” takes more effort than just accepting that maybe it is.

This last part’s personal. And honest. And not very glamorous.

When the world starts to feel blurry — when I’m overwhelmed, or disconnected, or spiraling in doubt — I come back to myself.

My whole self.

Not just the mystical parts. Not just the mundane ones. All of it.

The mother. The artist. The skeptical channeler. The accidental psychic.

The person who gave birth on the freeway and the person who cried over a busted sketch.

The woman who trusts her visions — and still double-checks her spelling.

When I don’t know what’s real, I root in what I’ve lived. I may not be able to explain it all, but I was there.

And that counts for something.

💬 Cauldron Prompt:

Have you ever collaborated with a spirit through your craft?

What do you do when your experiences feel “unreal,” even to you?

How do you ground yourself when belief wavers or clarity fades?