Veiled Ancient World
Shades of Sierra


SanandaThe name Sananda means "mother's bliss." Sananda is a devotee of Sai, Divine Mother, She who is responsible for making the world go 'round. Sananda is her Divine Son and he also is Jesus in another aspect of that Trinity. These ghost stories are given for our entertainment and trust, on the celebration of All Hallow Even, eve of All Saint's Day. They are sweet stories that involve the god-king Lord Sananda and his awesome abilities to control the weather and the events of the evening. (Sananda has another secret identity, as well.)

The word hallow means to make holy or set apart for holy use. It also means to respect greatly. Halloween, begun about 1556 CE, is traditionally observed with festivity and the playing of pranks by children during the evening. Showing great respect for this tradition, Sananda makes use of the ghost story genre and the Halloween format to tell-by-doing a story about interaction with time, nature and the weather.

As we are traveling and camping in Colorado and Utah, Sananda plays wonderful Halloween pranks on us and shows us what is possible in the world of Time. He teaches us time is a window through which we can peek. In the first little story, entitled "Skipper the Ghost Dog," Sananda time travels and interacts with a future coyote. In the second little story, entitled "Sandy the Ghost Horse," he time travels and interacts with the future weather.

After driving for several hours from Denver through the Pike National Forest, we are setting up camp at 9200 feet in the Rocky Mountains, at a beautiful area called Trout Creek Pass, Colorado. We are camping beneath Castle Rock, a small area named because of the four yellow, brown and green basalt pillar rock faces rising hundreds of feet above the ground. Below them, and tumbling down the rock face, are perfectly square basalt pillars (pillows).

Sananda Ghost Stories (Artist Rhonda Angel) Nearby we can hear the icy cold water of Trout Creek as it flows into a marshy area behind us, and later we will dip water from the creek. Ducks fly by low, quacking at us before landing in the marshes behind us. Our campsite is a very dry and flat area, comfortable for sleeping, hopefully, and good for a camp fire. At twilight, when the world is hazy, I build the fire on top of a thick and fragrant sage bush. Ah, the aroma of burning sage!

Only a few miles away on the dirt road is a deserted place called Mushroom Gulch, and ahead of us, in tomorrow-land, waits a long day's drive to Utah. But tonight, under a night sky scattered with billions of twinkling stars like white diamonds, we gather firewood and prepare delicious seaweed soup. As we cook, we set up our tent and prepare for a good night's sleep. In the brilliance of the night, the owls begin their soft "who-who-who," and a cool breeze blows. Sitting around the campfire, it seems time for a ghost story. "How about a channeled ghost story? I wonder who will channel it?" I hear the inner voice say, "Sananda will channel it. Are you ready?" I can feel his smile. "Here is the story of Skipper the Ghost Dog."


A miner and his dog lived quietly in the area of Trout Creek Pass in Colorado. They were the best of friends, this man and his dog, and lived together for many years. They knew each so well and took care of each other. They lived in a strange little area called Miners Ghosts, said to be inhabited by the ghosts of some miners lost in a flash flood.

Weather Magic, Ghost StoriesOne day, the dog began to display peculiar new habits. It clicked its teeth together too often and it scratched its back too often and it also made strange growling sounds for no reason. It began to set up a weird howl, and the owner wondered what was wrong with the dog. Then, one morning, the miner arose to find his little friend had died in the night. Just as he saw the little dog lying there, he saw a spirit flow up and out of its dog body. The spirit gained legend in the area, as the miners told the tale, and become known as Skipper the Ghost Dog. Every night, after the miners go into the tents, the legend goes, Skipper comes out, howling like a ghost dog and wailing at the moon.

"Ooooooh," we say, and a slight chill runs up my spine! We eat the delicious seaweed soup and sit around the sage fire chatting for awhile, then we go to sleep in our tent. After several hours of sleep (or near sleep), we are awakened by the weird howls of an animal, a coyote, we think, about 100 feet away from us. "That coyote is crazy!" we comment in hopeful reassurance that it's not Skipper. After all, "it's probably a coyote," we tell each other, our eyes wide and watching out the crack in the tent fold. We can't see the coyote and we don't want to open the tent fold any wider to look. The crazy coyote continues its eerie howling and barking, creeping closer and closer toward us, until it sits only a few feet away from the tent. We are not terrified but wide awake and mesmerized, listening to the strange and mournful wailing of Skipper the Ghost Dog!

The next day, happy and energized, we drive through the beautiful Gunnison National Forest in Colorado and stop for lunch along the Gunnison River, famed for its Salmon runs.

Driving all day into Utah, we camp for the night at Cisco, at an altitude of about 4000 ft, setting up camp on the flat top of a very dry, small hill. The energy here is soothing and relaxing, and so sweet is the aroma of dark green cedar trees. Just a few feet away, only about 100 feet or so behind us, is a steep cliff overlooking a vast and breathtaking valley. In the twilight we realize our little hill is actually the flat top of a mesa overlooking hundreds of miles of valley, spread expansively beneath us as though in a flying dream. Over the camp fire we cook delicious spaghetti, and then talk and laugh a bit. Sananda channels a new ghost story entitled Sandy the Ghost Horse. This ought to really be good, we think!


Once upon a time, a man and his cherished and beautiful black horse rode the vast ranges of Utah until, one day, both the man and the horse died at the same time by riding after twilight. They didn't see the steep cliff at Cisco and rode off of it without a pause. Down, down, down they fell until they hit bottom in the valley. Terrified they were, both of them, but just as soon as they hit, they blanked out and felt no pain. When they awoke, they discovered they had risen from the dust to ride the night skies together. Happy they were, so very happy to be flying through the skies, and sometimes at night, as they ride above and gallop by, you can hear the whinny of the beautiful black horse.

Right away we say, "Ghost Riders in the Sky! Riders on the Storm! Wonder what will happen?!" That night as we sleep, we are awakened by the low rumble of thunder and the sound of large rain drops pelting our tent like the clip-clop clip-clop of horse's hooves. And when the big black horse in the sky "whinnies" again and the thunder rolls, and when its hooves ride across our tarp, we go back to sleep, safe and sound, and under the watchful, caring eyes of the Ghost Riders on the Storm. Sananda's Little Ghost Stories

Strange the synchronicity of things! The next day, after pancakes and eggs for breakfast, we continue our journey. A couple of hours later we stop on the highway as seven or eight cowboys on horseback herd several hundred sheep across the road in front of us. How picturesque! Then we drive on and approach a hazy town in Utah, the entire place enveloped by a ghostly haze of fine sand everywhere. "Sandy the Ghost Horse," I say. No, it's Sandy, Utah!

We leave Sandy and drive into the Canyonlands, a vast and magnificent desert of dry and eroding massive cliffs, a riot of chalk pastels in serene, clay cliff faces. In desert hues of pink, tan, gray and brown, the cliffs, all bleak and beautiful and magnificent, stretch for hundreds of miles in all directions.

As we drive along, joyful to be alive and experiencing such magnificence, we talk about the ghost stories and about alternate or parallel realities. Soon, we are joined in our conversation by a third being, a lofty and vast consciousness named Sierra, who tells us she is the land. I channel her.


"Hello, my lovely friends! I am so pleased with be speaking with you. I do get lonely out here in my own vastness. Seldom do people drive through capable of conversations such as this, one in which I can connect and join in. Thank you for driving through my lands! Let me take you on a tour of them. I am the portal keeper here. I am the shaman of these lands. I am the land." As Sierra speaks, I can feel her energy moving into me, embodying me and looking out through my eyes upon her lands. She's part of me now. For her, it's like a mirror. With my eyes, she sees herself looking out upon herself. We're exchanging energy, and I feel so vast, so much larger than life. I am merging with these Canyonlands. I know how it feels to be Sierra. It is sheer beauty in its vastness, sheer glory in its conception, sheer wonder at the joy of it all! Oh, to be this vast is so very, very fine!

The Lady of the Land speaks through me: "When these peaks were first conceived, they were beautiful and barren, quite tall and magnificent. Now you see them eroded by sand, water and time. See those deep, dry sandy gashes there in the distance? That's water erosion. This gives away my age, doesn't it? How old am I? Billions of years old and proud of it. I will be here all this time until my destiny is fulfilled. My desires and my reality exist in parallel dimensions. I want to go but I also want to stay. All this time I have been fighting the good fight against the pull of gravity. See it there, what it does! It slowly but surely devastates my beautiful powers - my mountains. I have seen such water here as you cannot even imagine. I was once an ocean.

I support wildlife here, though you can't tell it just by looking." (She says this right before we round a bend and see for the first time thick, green ground cover in clumps, and the small stocky forests of dark green cedar trees against the pinkish-red backdrop of the barren cliffs.) She continues: "I feed many rodents here and keep them shaded. See those ragged peaks up ahead to the right? I am fighting gravity with those peaks with planetary upthrust, but it is to no avail, really. No matter how hard I push up, I am steadily worn down. Sometimes I am a little saddened by this, and so I do enjoy a conversation such as this. My mind is finely attuned to planetary changes and I can feel an ascension coming on. Do you know what planetary ascension means? I do.

Ascension means going further within. How is this possible? Because within is where all the dimensions lie and therein is ascension. My own thoughts about ascension are these. I believe ascension means having the same essential reality, the same sense of denseness, dense matter, but without the big payoff to gravity. Look what gravity costs us. My beautiful powers eroding, eroding away. My mountains growing smaller, smaller. But with ascension, we can become less material, less dense, and still produce the same illusion of materiality. How do I know this?

With my vast consciousness and my way of expressing it, I am in contact with billions of planets where this is happening now. I know billions of lands and portal keepers on those planets who are in the same ascension mode as we are. Synchronicity is present all around, and this gives me hope, for as you look at my powers, my lovely mountains, you see them as majestic and beautiful, but I am a little upset about all this, myself. I see them as slowly eroding away when they don't have to. They can stand beautiful-in-the-ideal by choice, were it not for gravity."

Some time passes, about 45 minutes, and Sierra is silent and so am I. We are enjoying the experience of each other's dimension and reality, and the car is filled with her presence. I feel calm and restful, eternal and pure. My eyes feel different, as she looks through them. My hands and arms work on their own accord, as Sierra drives the car. I give myself, my body and my mind, over to her, unafraid and delighting in the exchange. She takes it all in, the beauty of herself, through the perspective of being me and being human. Admiring her handiwork and her creation, the Canyonlands of Utah, she rides in silence and is satisfied and happy. Then she departs, but before she leaves, she says goodbye and tells us she loves us. "I am Sierra, Lady of the Land. I leave you now. Please come again."

Soon after she leaves, we round a bend to see a big coal mine, and then further up the road appears Salt Lake City. I wonder if Sierra left because she wanted to or because these new developments, the coal mine and the large population area, are blocking her great spirit. Probably, it's just that the energy is different. I like to think so, anyway. I don't want to believe that she is rejected by that huge metropolitan population, where no one is listening, no one is hearing Sierra.

Entranced with Sierra and her dimension, we drove right past the entrance to Arches National Park in Utah without even realizing it. Arches is where, in her spare time, Sierra designs the red mountains into huge portals, doughnuts and needles - her kundalini energy expressing everywhere! It's ok I missed it this time because I'll see it next time when I return to Sierra! And I will return, Sierra, I promise you. I will return.

Claire Grace Watson
Channeling the Powers That Be organization known as Melchizedek's Domain for Living, Sananda Group and Angelic Logoi

Page 1 - Who is Sananda | Skipper, the Ghost Dog
     Sandy, the Ghost Horse | Sierra, Lady of the Land

Copyright Notice - Disk of the World - Text and images copyrighted March 21, 1993-2023, Claire Grace Watson, B.A., M.S.T., U.S. Copyright and under the Digital Millennium Copyright Act of 1998, All rights reserved.