Solphia

Solphia podcast featuring interviews to harness the wisdom of the universe. (Music by Alexander Nakarada)

Hello. I hope you are all well today and living your best life. I know that may be hard to do in these times. But don’t give up hope. We must keep our vibrations high. How do we do that? Well, that’s why I am here and have created this podcast. You have heard my ramblings and poetry. But I am adding a new element, a conversation that will spark a light in us. That is what I am hoping for anyway. 

My name is Liz, but when I am writing and when I am connected to you, I am Solphia, harnessing wisdom from the universe. I don’t pretend to know the answers. In fact, when I research a query, I seem to find that I don’t know anything at all. The rabbit holes are deep and mysterious. But at least I can use all the human training I have had throughout my life. I was a journalist for over 15 years and they consider me an expert in my field. I have had an incredible journey in hard news and entertainment news, interviewing fascinating people. 

But I want to focus on talking to people who are going through their own spiritual journeys.  After my dad passed away in 2015, I started to question my purpose here. I think they call it the mid-life crisis. And an extraordinary thing happened. People started coming into my life dropping little hints. One of the first was a high school friend who encouraged me to read the Nag Hammadi. I plan to interview him. I’ve also done Ayahuasca, as some of you may have gathered from my writings. I have a friend who did a wonderful documentary on Peru and why that is such a sacred and special place. 

So many things I want to explore with you. We can uncover the mysteries together, or simply learn how to read the signs. If you would like to be on the show and share your knowledge, please visit the site, Sophia.com for contact information. 

You can also follow me on Twitter at realSolphia Thank you for listening and visiting my site. 

‘What They Said’ by Liz Casanova

We’re here today as an experiment. A school to sharpen the soul. I was told things that I didn’t understand then. They said ‘you are the butterfly’ and they kept telling me that I have a purpose here and I need to keep going.

When I say ‘said’, it wasn’t verbal. It was telepathic communication. Communication. Funny that it was what I studied in college. It was four years of a barely sober existence. I could have graduated with honors if it were not for my preference for long afternoon naps, house parties, and club craws. I did not begin to understand communication until I reached middle age.

It might be a little unexciting to say, ‘I was asleep and then I woke up.’ But that’s what it was. One day I was a mother, wife and upstanding citizen…the next, I was drinking whiskey for breakfast in Paris.

The communication was through everything. Communication through experience. Once you know that the world is not just the one you see with your eyes, you understand that there are forces manifesting themselves in ordinary things.

When my eye was open, I trembled with wonder at the revelations. How can I explain in human words that I saw how the universe was created? That there are codes that make up the fabric of our existence, that make up our past and our future. But that the past and the future do not exist. They co-exist.

I see a bird and I know it’s a spirit guide rendering a message. I am no shaman. I am no preacher. I do not know what it all means. Sometimes I know what it means when the thing happens. If I write it down, my history and the symbols, I may be able to catch a glimpse.

And in this world we live in now, the virus world, I feel less and less like someone who exists in this world. My detachment is palatable. That feeling of unconditional love for myself and the humans in the world is like a piece of sheetrock being scratched by a lion. The sheet is getting thinner and thinner and pretty soon, the wall will crumble and it will be all gone. I could hire a contractor to put up a new one. But what would be the point if the lion is still there?

“The Reoccurring” by Liz CasanovaMusic – “Nightdreams” by Kevin McLeod

The places I have gone and not moved a foot. Awake, constantly distracted by the slavery I have been put in. Not love. Love is not slavery if you know how to do it right. The slavery comes in the hustle just to pretend you are living.

I used to think that the escape came in dreams. That once I was tucked away into myself, I could hit the ‘exit’ button and proceed to another realm. That, I discovered, is not the case. Dreams are also traps. The leftover junk of the day, or the regression to a past life that you thought you evolved from. It’s the bin of the mind.

The world is wrapping around itself and the vibrations of it reverberate in my conscience mind. I see my dad, who passed away five years ago. He’s agitated and concerned. When he was alive, he knew that his children and grandchildren were going to suffer the consequences of the darkness. So he comes to watch. I see smooth skin and his eyebrows shift. But he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. Dad, all I can do is not be swallowed into the dark.

My sister and my mom, who are alive, also show up. Mom is hysterical. I can’t catch a break from her judgement. Her other daughter, the young one, is angry. I try to reason with her but the dark storms in her eyes tell me to ‘fuck off.’ I’m not offended, I know our history and there is a price to pay for growing up the way we did.

Another dream, the people who were once my heroes and have crumbled from their Hollywood palaces, unmasked and their true nature revealed. I am angry. The three of them. The Tequila Man who fled to Italy, the Club Fighter with ex witch wife, and the one who wore the Red Shoes and became a Greek. I manifest my anger in accusations, but they smile. They assure me that the cycle of devouring innocent blood and flesh will never end.

The places I go. The cities that only exist in a dimension I create when my body gives in and I am taken deep inside. Deep inside myself. That is where the universe exists. I have been everywhere. A mountain too big to fit on this planet. A canal city with flying machines. Roads that were on fire and we managed to barely escape.

I have died in my dreams. I have talked to the shamans. I have stared the devil in the face. I have friends there. But there are also unpleasant faces that want to take what I have fought for. I see my child and perhaps children that I have borne in my past lives.

It’s a difficult thing. Dreaming. It’s too much responsibility. It makes me anxious about death and her adventures. Why can’t the soul rest? Is it too much to ask for? Happiness without worry?

“Museum Woman” by Liz CasanovaMusic – “Leaving Home” by Kevin McLeod

I am a woman, who should be in a museum,

A relic for you to look at.

I should be packaged in plastic,

So when the world ends, and the fire consumes,

The smell of one thousand years of petrol,

Will escape back to the firmament.

Encapsulate and preserve me,

Make sure the acumen is tightly sealed.

So that when I am touched by the hands of the curator,

My secret knowledge will be revealed.

Keep me safe,

Let them look at the last frame of my existence.

They will make up stories,

That will point out the stains.

They will say I was a great woman,

And they will say I was a fraud.

A little flame,

Before the detachment.

And an expert will come along,

With little imagination,

To judge a life,

Reducing me to numbers.

A woman, they will say, void of physical truth,

But a metaphysical marvel.

“Museum Woman” by Liz CasanovaDownload

“Functioning” by Liz CasanovaMusic by Kevin McLeod

I repeat the decisions made by my ancestors,

I walk with no confidence,

Hiding behind Ray Ban,

Smoking too much and drinking from Croesus' coffer.

I build enemies because I know too much,

And give no proof of their asininity,

The crowd was never my friend,

But loneliness does not offend me.

I like words when they are clipped,

I eat once a day,

I look out a window only when it rains,

It's not always joyless, but it's palatable.

Who molded me?

With an affinity to my soul's incarceration?

Enjoying activities that are counterfeit was never my thing,

Raising a glass to what they call 'functioning'.

“Functioning” by Liz CasanovaDownload

I want to heal

I want my ancestors to visit me before I fall in my grave

Their smiling faces

Their knowing faces

Some look Vietnamese

Where did they come from?

The colors swirl connected to magnets in the sky

The sacred geometry dancing by the custard moon

Let’s reconcile

Let’s tear a hole in the britches of divinity

I smell the incense that cleanse the patches of earth that belong to us

I don’t want to fade

I don’t want to be less than a shadow

I want them to see me

I bleed for them

All of them

A thousand journeys and a thousand more

Until I get it right

Until my soul is at ease

The crickets, the frogs, the breeze that is my father

The distant thunder knocking in the sky

A whistle of a bird that does not have a name

I know this, do not be afraid

I only fear myself

And where do I leave her behind?

I fail if I don’t fail

I succeed if I accept

I take too many steps

And sometimes not enough

They are here now

In the trees

I see their faces

The divinity of the spaces between

It is a resting place

I am face down on the dried leaves

My fingers caress the damp earth

I don’t know where it starts and where I end

There is no end

Only the eternal loop

Back to the sky

And fall to the dirt

Sophia and God and the Oneness

Inside

Close your eyes

So you can see

A week after our first kiss,

You take me to Paris,

Because that's what the mad ones do,

True story.

We drink at the airport,

Smoke until they call us,

I don't sit with you on the plane,

I lose my phone.

The bus driver drops us in the city,

I realized I don't speak French,

But we find a place to eat,

Burgers and Parisian salad, carnal sin.

We walk our luggage, like two little dogs,

The tube, quiet and rustic,

Towards the flat,

The Tardis elevator takes us to paradise.

Who does this?

Goes to Paris with a stranger?

And orders vin rouge and eats mandarins?

People like us, and Hemingway.

We spend the day in sunshine,

But it's not offensive,

The streets are like soundless music,

Dreams and alternate universes.

Where did he go?

What did he eat?

Where did his typewriter rest?

When it was cranking out perfection?

The evening comes, the cafe is closed,

The barman yells "San Michelle!",

He points us to the bus,

And it takes us there.

To meet Paris Pete,

Who has hair that is screaming,

Drinks, laughs and a taxi later,

He gives us a real tour.

The place where the men came,

And shot them to death,

The girl in the cafe, Pete says,

Can't get her out of my head.

Back at the flat, drunk and nude,

Love was made to be made in Paris,

The night joins us for a ménage à trois,

And we sleep cocooned in our own fantasies.

The Eiffel Tower is there,

But he's a tease,

Like a skillful harlot,

He hides and we seek.

Finally, the fallacy,

I try to mount him unsuccessfully,

But no matter, more wine at the cafe,

Hemingway's ambulance provides a concert.

We found him, that other day,

Walking through le Rue de Mouffetard,

Planted ourselves at that cafe,

Where you wrote poetry on envelopes.

Watching the theater,

The young women drawing by the fountain,

The ancient lady drinking a pint,

The children philosophers holding hands.

The pain one feels,

Saying au revoir to you,

When your streets feel like home,

And your scent arousing, like war.

It has to be done,

Eventually, we all go back,

And the memory of your existence,

Makes me forget.

“You never seem depressed.”

That’s what my boyfriend said when I told him about Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade’s apparent suicides. I confronted him with the fear that one day that would be me. Yeah, I never seem depressed because I learned to pretend like it’s all good. Like I have my shit together. Like I’m strong. Whenever I read about a celebrity or local, suicide it brushes its hand against my soul recalling the times, since I was 16, that I wanted to be part of that club.

There are people who, or have been, in my circle that have either witnessed my attempts or have heard about them. And the responses vary. My family responds with insults about being selfish. “How could you even think about killing yourself?! You have a family. You have a daughter who needs you.” True. But the thing about suicide is that thinking about the people you love and the shit damage you’ve caused them is further evidence that you’re better off dead.

On the other hand, my friends try to help me. A woman who was a close friend of mine would let me spend the night at her house and we’d watch romcoms and drink wine. She’d make me vegan food and she showed me how to be mindful. That did help. I have another friend who I’d call whenever I felt the dark thoughts looming. He was a lifeline for sure.

I can only speak for my experience. I have no idea what Ms Spade or Mr Bourdain were feeling when they decided to remove themselves from this world, but if it’s anything like what I have felt in my darkest hours, well, then I know. I know that pain.

Perhaps the reason treatment of clinical depression is a challenge is because there is not really a one-size-fits-all cure. Sure, there are the medical terms psychologists know. The years of studies that can identify someone who has issues. I can’t pinpoint where these thoughts started for me. I only remember being a lonely kid. From the time I was five up until about middle school the whole town was pretty white, Baptist and not very inviting to outsiders. My parents are from Mexico. I wasn’t the standard of beauty. I’m dark. The pretty ones were blonde and blue-eyed. I was bullied. I was harassed. In junior high, I escaped with the black kids. They understood the struggle.

High school was stressful. I was too smart. Too skinny (in a time when skinny or Latin wasn’t cool). It was a health class that seriously introduced me to the possibility of suicide. The teacher, who was a part-time coach, talked about the signs. You know, like giving away your possessions and withdrawing from friends and family. We were put in groups and had to do a scene. A week later, I found my mother’s pain pills and took as many as I could. My dad found me crying on the bathroom floor. But he thought I was drunk or ‘doing drugs’. I got yelled at and sent to my room where I slept it off. This happened a lot until I ran away to Mexico my senior year (that’s another story).

The reality is, I was actually a good kid. I made really good grades. All my teachers loved me and I was known as a polite and sweet kid. But inside there was this little monster, this little voice that said, “Hey, you totally suck and should die”. I kept feeding that voice. Agreeing with it. Taking it out to lunch. I got married, had various careers and a beautiful daughter. I should have been happy. But my marriage was difficult until my ex decided to run off with his high school sweetheart and take my daughter with him. I lost it all. Hit rock bottom. Did things I didn’t think I would ever do to survive. And now I am here.

Last October I was in West Cork,

“You never seem depressed.” That’s what my boyfriend said when I told him about Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade’s apparent suicides. I confronted him with the fear that one day that would be me. Yeah, I never seem depressed because I learned to pretend like it’s all good. Like I have my shit together. Like… Read more

The rain soaks through my pores,

And covers my bones,

I am lost in this town,

That's all I know.

He steps out from the shadows,

With the perfectly coiffed hair,

And the cat eyes,

What an elegant affair.

That sexy leather jacket,

That looks like James Dean,

I am taken aback,

By the magic within.

Not a connection,

Not love at first sight,

I'm just taken away,

By the loneliness of the night.

Pub life is for friends,

For people you know,

Or strangers who yearn,

It's a story, not a show.

He buys me a pint,

Doesn't bother to charm me,

He looks bored and unafraid,

He is the ship, I am the sea.

And the next moment in his car,

Driving away from the city,

Not going too far,

He's not you, what a pity.

I kiss him, un-enthused,

Who does he look like?

With a warm cold smile?

David Bowie, the enigma,

I'll take this for a while.