I have always sensed the presence of the angels—though I never would have used that word. Angels…
I didn’t grow up with religion—no Sunday School, no church—except for the few times I went with a friend. At home, we talked about people and art. My mom was a painter. My dad, a social worker. We discussed things psychologically, creatively.
Angels weren’t named or dismissed—they simply weren’t part of the conversation.
And yet... something was there. A steady, stabilizing presence. A quiet conversation I was having privately, inside myself.
Though I never noticed it consciously—and if asked, I wouldn’t have had words to explain it—I leaned against it. It was as real to me as the walls of my bedroom.
When I was a child—hiding after an argument with my mom, or retreating from the pressure of being the oldest sister—it would come around me. Soft. Comforting. Not rescuing me, exactly, but being with me.
When I was nervous, it softened the world so I felt . . . safer. When I had a problem to solve or a school project to complete, it helped me—through synchronicity, through timing so perfect it made the world feel alive.
Those early experiences weren’t religious training, but they laid the tracks for a raw kind of faith—born from experience and knowing. Something benevolent and invisible moved with me—and I trusted it. I knew it was real.
This sense of being accompanied stayed with me, quietly, through every chapter of my life.
None of this was conscious. It wasn’t a belief. It was more like background music, or sunlight on the wall—always there, gently supporting me from behind the edges of awareness.
It wasn’t until much later—when I was working as a Features Editor at Woman’s World—that I started to notice it. My editor had assigned me a new column to manage. “It’s about angels,” she explained. My response: “Angels? Really?”
It was my job—imagine that, my actual job—to read miracle stories. And each month, I read hundreds of them. Each year, thousands. Without realizing it, I began to absorb the patterns of miracles. The ways of the angels. They were speaking—not just to the people who wrote to us—but to me.
The more I listened, the more the presence returned. Not just in feeling, but in form. Through vivid dreams. Through whispers in my ears. Through memories I’d completely forgotten—taken for granted.
Reading the stories, I’d gasp: This is exactly what happened to me! And one by one, like pebbles into still water, the realization would ripple outward: I’ve experienced almost all of this.
And a question began to bloom: that something—the presence that had walked with me all my life—was that an angel?
In these posts—what I’m calling The Early Transmissions—I’ll look back and try to recall what I can. Not as a teacher, but as someone who walked into a room and realized she was not alone.
This first transmission came a few months before the flood began—before the messages arrived like tidewater: slowly at first… and then all at once, filling my dreams and waking life with signs, symbols, and song.
Before I knew they’d been there all along. Before I realized: they were always singing with me. It was I who hadn’t noticed. Who hadn’t been ready. And then one day—I was. And when I was… they were everywhere.
One morning, I woke early to the sound of a question, clear as a bell:
How might you make this day better? How might you live today at its fullest? As if it were the last day—the only day? As if it were all one day?
I didn’t know what to do with the question, but it lingered. Like a thread just out of reach. Like something soft and bright catching in the corner of my mind.
I came downstairs and settled into the sunroom with my morning tea. Outside, the light was beginning to shift. Inside, I felt a subtle pull—like an invisible thread was gently tugging at my belly.
My cat, Mooky, padded over and curled beside me. I closed my eyes. Listening. Breathing. Without thinking, I reached for my sketchbook and began drawing spirals, letting my mind drift like mist.
And then—from the shelf above my head—something fell. It landed in my lap. I looked down and saw the card: Archangel Michael.
The same prayer card I had tucked onto that shelf seven years earlier. The one I hadn’t touched or even thought about since.
I froze, staring at it.
This wasn’t just any card.
Seven years earlier…
My mother was recovering from open-heart surgery. There was nothing more the doctors could do. Either her body would rally—or she would die.
My sisters and I kept vigil at the hospital, taking turns leaving the room for bathroom breaks or coffee. During one of these moments, I retreated to a quiet corridor. Overwhelmed with fear—we could lose her!—I slid down the wall and sobbed.
And then, out of nowhere, a wave of fury.
At the time, I had been writing about angels for years. Collecting and sharing hundreds of real-life stories about divine interventions and unexplained miracles.
Now, I spoke to them. I have been writing your stories for years. You owe me!
I knew it was selfish. I knew that if it was my mother’s time to go, she should go. Still, I wanted their help. I needed it. Please, I said.
And then… a wave of quiet presence came over me. Not a fix. Not a promise.
Just a knowing: Whatever will be, will be. And underneath it: No matter what happens, we are here with you.
I returned to Mom’s hospital room, feeling calmer. A good cry will do that, I thought. I felt cleansed.
Then, my sister Beth went to the restroom. And there, a woman she’d never seen before handed her a card. A prayer card bearing the image of Archangel Michael.
“Your mom will be fine,” the woman said.
Beth stood there, stunned. “How did you—?” she began to ask.
But the woman turned and walked away before she could finish.
Beth brought the card back to the hospital room and handed it to me.
“I think this is for you,” she said.
That moment changed something in me.
I’d sensed the angels’ presence before—heard their whispers, noticed their winks.
But this was different. It was a direct answer.
Reverently, I placed the card on a shelf in my sunroom, where it remained—untouched—for seven years.
And now, on this ordinary morning, it had fallen into my lap.
Why?
I no longer believe in coincidence. Something was happening.
It felt like an invitation. And it was.
This moment with Archangel Michael marked a turning point. It was a call to step fully into relationship with the unseen world. To trust the guidance I had too often ignored in my hurry and distraction.
I’d always kept a dream journal. I’d always tried to record my spiritual experiences.
But this was the day I began taking the flow more seriously.
I already sensed that these messages weren’t only for me.
It wasn’t that I’d been chosen—not exactly. It was more that I was capable of sharing them— because I could hear them, because I was a writer, because I was already teaching and offering spiritual direction to a growing circle of Soul Callers.
It wasn’t always easy.
Many mornings, I didn’t feel ready. Or worthy. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I’d sense a message tugging at the edge of my awareness and groan—not now.
The messengers didn’t seem to mind. Rest now, they would soothe, tucking me gently back into sleep. And in the morning, the message would still be there—waiting,
pulling me toward the truth.
You are not alone. We are here with you.
And so, with this post - this story - I extend that invitation to you. . .
What if this is real - not just for me, but for you too?
What if your guides are here with you right now, offering guidance?
What if you actually live in a universe that is constantly supporting you, constantly answering your prayers?
What if you are receiving guidance, signs, and other communication from Divine Helpers—like angels, spirit guides, nature spirits—and even a Divine Source?
What if?
There’s a way that this realization can be slippery. We feel a rush of awe - a sense of being accompanied but we soon forget.
So, take a moment.
Take Out Your Journal
Imagine This:
What if you woke every morning as if the steady pulse of love beneath your feet were real—guiding you, supporting you? What if there really were a benevolent presence, surrounding you like light, whispering its quiet encouragement?
Ask yourself:
How might your life feel different if you lived as though you were held and guided every moment?
What would you begin to allow into your life?
Write it down. Let the words flow, without editing or judgment.
When I Asked Myself These Questions...
When I first asked myself these questions, my answers surprised me:
If this was real…
I would stay in constant conversation, a constant state of meditation.
I would wake every morning and let my body move into yoga practice, easily, naturally—not a big deal, just following the nature of my body.
I would live in a state of timeless presence. No pressure, no hurry. No stress about how things might turn out. Here things are; this is how they are turning out.
I would write or not write—guided by this presence and my conversation with myself and others. I would meditate because I love sitting with the guides—sitting in the silence, watching my thoughts.
I would make art or not make art. I would sew or not sew. I would paint my house bright colors. I would bring in more light.
I would make room in my life for this to be real, and in doing so, this would become real—because I made it so.
Your Turn
Ask yourself:
If this were real, what would have to change?
Would it change the way you interact with others? With yourself? With the world?
If this were real, how might it change the way you live?
Notice: What has to happen for you to let this be real?
These are the conditions you have placed on the transformation of your own consciousness. Ask the same questions another way:
What would change if I believed I was guided by love?
What would I allow into my life if I trusted this guidance?
Notice what rises. Breathe into it. Make room for this to be real—because you can make it so.
Read the Flow Books as they are built, one transmission at a time, right here on The Guidebook
Prequel: The Early Transmissions
Book One: We are Here with You
Book Two: Holiness and Making Sacred the World
Book Three: I am the Enchanted One
Thank you Amy! It's been a long time since I've felt connected. I'm so happy to have come across you and your writing. My beloved German Shepherd passed on Halloween (the day the veil is the thinnest, right?!) and I've started to receive little messages from her. It is definitely time for me to start again. I need to figure out, or not, why I have been so hesitant to actually channel rather than only allowing little pieces to come through (it doesn't feel like fear), as I "know" that is a gift I am here to share. 💜