Scattered Memories of a Virgin Birth
February 3, 2022I keep pages and pages of notes. How many pages? I couldn't say for sure. Thousands are made from zeroes and ones and countless more from woven, dead trees.
On these pages, I write down all of my visions and messages and synchronicities. Everything I can stomach capturing without losing all sense of presence in my life. I write it down as it happens because long term memory is faulty and unreliable. I write it down so I don’t forget. I write it down so when I go to tell the story later, I am telling you the truth.
This morning, while writing, I paused to find a memory. I opened a document titled Journal 2021–Part 2. It’s made of 392 pages, and I was looking for something specific within them. I was looking for a memory of a time when I asked the gods/God/Spirit/the universe about the notion of virgin birth. I instinctively didn't believe in such a thing, but I was curious enough to ask. How did I ask? What exactly was the answer? I remembered the gist, but I wanted precision. For you, I always want precision.
So I opened the journal and searched for the word "virgin," and this is what I saw:
psst…the MAGIC DAY referenced in this note is told in this story — click here.
In a document of 392 pages, the letters "virgin" were strung together exactly 188 times. The eleventh time was on 11–11, and for whatever reason, when I went to search the word, it was this eleventh mention that was pulled up for me to see. It felt like some sort of kismet, as the numbers in the searchable pages often do.
Just last week, as I was writing The Magic Guide, I was recalling memory after memory related to the notion of heaven and the notion of keys, and in order to get the memories right, I found myself searching an even longer document. The first of its kind that I kept. It grew to be exactly 655 pages long before I thought, "I should really be splitting these notes up by year." So that's what I did in January 2021, but before that, most everything was in this sprawling document—the start of my tracking—and this is where I returned last week, looking for memories of visions I had. Visions of keys and visions of Jesus.
I searched the words in the 655 page document, and this is what I saw:
Both words just happened to be mentioned exactly 55 times in the journal. The journal that spanned three years of my life and 655 pages within which these words just happened to be mentioned the exact same repeating number of times.
As I tell you this story now, I think back to the word virgin, held within my name *Virginia* — a fact that I bemoaned in my youth thanks to childish mocking but have come to love thanks to its actual meaning: pure, wild, untamed by man. Like the copious notes scattered amongst thousands of pages.
The word virgin—I was shown—was mentioned 188 times. I was shown the 11th mention—11 of 188. My birthday is 11/18/8...6, I realize now.
And for what it's worth the first mention of Jesus had nothing to do with a vision. Instead it referenced a sticker I saw just before crossing a bridge in Queens in 2019. The bridge was painted to display the numbers in the Fibonacci sequence, and with each step you took across it, a new number was revealed, which is how I feel, living my life.
With each day and each moment, another piece of the sequence is revealed. Another pattern. Another point of connection between what's happening now and what was happening then. Another vision that feels fresh and new only to be revealed as an echo of an earlier vision—a forgotten memory from years ago—stored on a page in an unending scroll of memories.
And the question of a virgin birth?
I didn’t find it in the first journal where I looked. It wasn’t where “virgin” was mentioned 188 times—why did I mistakenly look there first? Instead, I found it in the sprawling 655 page document, in an entry dated April 1, 2020.
I read my notes from then and smiled at the richness of detail and information that I’d mostly forgotten. The answer I was given then.
Then, I opened another document—this one newer and shorter. Just thirty pages complete. The beginnings of a new book, where all the notes from all the years are breathing cohesion into a scattered remembrance, seeking something divine.
I prepared to tell the story.
