channeled Master Saint Germain, written by Nora Hoffmann
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Some people have taken Nora's money, and it is very difficult for her. These people are no longer any of her business. They have taken what they believe to be their right, broken Nora's heart and wallet, not her wallet is the injury but the depth of injury to her soul unfathomable to those actors. Now to the restoration Nora has been praying for to her divine inheritance to her soul to be restored in full harmony to something deeper and more self-connected than before. We are not concerned for her livelihood as we are guiding her everyday. The terror she experiences is not keeping her awake but what is purifying her destiny to be fearless in the face of what's coming. The earth is at large in a purifying destiny designed to inherit its prosperity. My best friend Mark Fernquest has given Nora a place in his heart which is enabling her to travel far and wide without effort. She has traversed the ocean many times during the height of covid, fearless due to her inner self which has guided her without harm. She came from India to Germany to the US and from there to Sweden only to return to the US, from where she re-entered India to return to Israel which hadn't opened its borders before. 

She has no cash yet her mouth is full with bread from the German farmer's market. Her eyes sparkle, and her hands touch everything with the fierce presence of an awakened man. 

Alchemy is a destructive process in the wake of which we must come to peace. 

“I have done my work. She is very upset. I spent hours talking with her. She wants nothing to do with the Institute of David Quigley and said she would be happy with the recordings and a refund. I told her I will talk to you and David Quigley to give her a refund. You and David Quigley should split it.”
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I remember clearly briefly insisting that our refund policy should include 3 days, one weekend, not only one day as Patricia Haggard, co-director of David Quigley’s Alchemy Institute and now director of her own small LLC Bridges Academy, demanded, for a full refund. David Quigley’s misogynistic politically unfair personality does not suit all. She was very angry with David Quigley. She directed her fury at me. She used everything against me — insisting I go away.

On Horror in a Shared Economy

 She was selfish. I was crying out of despair. There was nothing I could do. 

You need to ask for 40%. I asked for an equal share. King Solomon said, anticipating the issue You need to ask for 40%.

“Karma is a way of seeing, a perspective, the looking glasses.” Ngak’chang Rinpoche said long ago. It is a lens.

“That is strange,” a genius in Germany of Einstein caliber, two weeks ago commented on Patricia Haggard of Bridges Academy in California betraying my soul. “If you get along, you don’t suddenly not get along.”




​Being entrenched in a Karmic Way of Seeing of not demanding enough for my brilliance, I asked for an equal share with everyone, not 40% percent but ⅓ one third. The karmic result is suffering serious poverty.

I could not overcome my karmic way of seeing, despite King Solomon’s request on my behalf to ask forty percent, not only one equal third which is what I did instead of recognizing his pure caring wisdom of what would come from my initiating online delivery of David Quigley’s Alchemical Hypnotherapy Certification Training. My inner father King Solomon wanted me to have prosperity for as long as David Quigley’s online delivery was bringing in money.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — --
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On a whim, a drop of a big hat, Patricia, suddenly being fed up with David Quigley’s lack of income — his popularity had gone down to a number of zero to two students in his training at the time before covid — but her words were David Quigley’s “lack of integrity” — and therefore abandoning the guy in order to become Bridges Academy, her own, small but cute, corporation for online delivery of high-quality professional development, came to me for help with a new, namely her own, Hypnotherapy Training Program.

I thought while Patricia Haggard will be transitioning to her own vastly prospering livelihood, I suggested temporarily we should do an online component of David Quigley’s Alchemical Hypnotherapy Training — it can’t hurt. Immediately she refused, “He won’t do it, he says there is no money in it!”

David Quigley had been refusing to try his Alchemical Hypnotherapy Certification Training online for over ten years every time Patricia Haggard, during those years merely his co-director, had nudged him. But I knew I could get his head unstuck from his anus and promised I would get David Quigley started immediately. I desperately need respect. My price is too low.

His alchemical inner father King Arthur came to me in 2016 when I was going to leave David Quigley’s work of a lifetime for yet another breach of contract by David Quigley. By that time I’d been around him for three years and seen it time and again. King Arthur begged me to kindly reconsider my judgment and do my own inner work to help him with his son, asking for compassion for how much severe trauma his son had in regard to money. I trusted David Quigley’s inner father King Arthur for he used to appear to me with a depth of empathy that made me suppose he was the reincarnation of the Great Mother Mary.

After swallowing a few times I wrote a very long caring letter, pouring hours of my insight in there, to Arthur’s son David Quigley. In hindsight, whoever this guy is who showed up as King Arthur with the depth of empathy that made me suppose he was the Great Mother Mary in a previous incarnation — his child David Quigley is now rich, and I am now poor from heeding his request.

After realizing that the initiation of David Quigley’s online delivery training was well underway, his alchemical inner father King Arthur came and told me: You will be supporting him for two more years in this way.” I hope King Arthur will prove himself. For when King Arthur first entered my inner circle of alchemy as a second inner husband to Master Saint Germain, I was wondering what on earth, but King Arthur requested: Please, let me prove myself. Which he did not in the way I thought. Does it help that a friend of ours, King Arthur and I, on the inner plane regretfully remarks that King Arthur’s son is a troubled youth. He’s quite the Mordred. ? No, It does not help. I desperately need respect.
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Did I owe them? No. It may be my lack of testosterone, underestimating the result of my contribution while not esteeming the might of a dick like David Quigley. Had he taken advantage of me previously? Yes.
Have I been too sweet? No. Too honest? Yes. The business I had was enamored with David Quigley’s testosterone-driven cruel typical male inferior behavior and surrendered.

Dad, how can my karmic error be remedied?
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By living in poverty.

I owe myself the truth that the karmic lens is underestimating my worth. And it always comes at a high price. No good deed goes unpunished. It is cause and effect. An alchemical inner father can only help as far as you listen.
Does one need to make verbal agreements in addition to written ones? No.
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I have come to arrive at the conclusion that there is no fault on my part except for not heeding my inner father King Solomon’s advice. I did not need to make a written contract. I wasn’t too sweet, too honest, too naïve. I needed to charge initially only 40% to a woman who was economically destitute, I needed to charge what my inner father King Solomon with such love and premonition said.

Safe Escape with Master Saint Germain: avoided killing someone, Thanks to Saint Germain.


I’m in India. Without my spirit guides, I would be dead. If it wasn’t Halloween….

I will still have nightmares all night.

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Near Rewalsar/Tso Pema Up the Hill By the Padmasambhava Caves.
Padmasambhava Cave Rewalsar (Tso Pema) Himachal-Pradesh of India, © Nora Hoffmann. No reproduction without written permission. It was October 31.

After spending some time up on the mountain around the caves of Padmasambhava (see previous story), I return to Rewalsar/Tso Pema. I am not precisely clear about my steps to reach the village below. The landscape is haunting me. By now it is getting dark.

The landscape soon will be dark. Soon, it will be fully dark.

© Nora Hoffmann. No reproduction without written permission. It took much longer than I expected to reach the caves. I will head down straight toward the rooftops of the monasteries.

Soon it will be entirely dark. © Nora Hoffmann. No reproduction without written permission.I encounter three boys — skinny unmarried Indian men — while it is still light and clarify directions to Rewalsar/Tso Pema with them. Pretending to offer help, the three Indian boys chattingly follow me.

“Where are you from?”

Evoking the powerful protective presence of my inner husband Master Saint Germain, I respond:

“Saint Germain.”

To answer this way when someone asks, my being so very innocent, Saint Germain and I agreed since I arrived in Chandigarh four days ago.

Only one of the boys follows me at first. I let him pass.
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As he passes to go in front of me, I see a thought of him strangling me, and my kundalini rushes upward. Shoot. How to get out of the situation. The other two boys join their friend.
Carefully, I walk on. The path is steep and rocky, slippery from dust and loose rocks. It is not clear how to get quickly to Rewalsar/Tso Pema, as several paths split into multiple options.
“Sit down.” one of the boys orders me.
I am reluctant, and fearful. He speaks with authority, as if having a right to command me. It will not help to delay my journey back to Rewalsar in the increasing darkness. I am still uncertain about my way.
The male sits down. I sit with him briefly, thinking I better run with clear directions down to Rewalsar and as fast as I can. But now the two other men sit down on the stair step behind us. The alpha says a few things in Hindi, then pulls out his phone for translating Hindi to English. I think about taking out the dictionaries on my telephone, but Saint Germain says:
Do not give him anything of your heart.
I listen.
Let him show you the translation, then go.
I wait and read the Hindi words in Latin characters. I don’t remember the English translation.
Now excuse yourself and go.
I get up. I’m feeling disturbed by seeing that the boys as well get up to pursue me.
If you don’t have any rape fantasies by now….My beloved horse spirit guide Leor whispers into my right ear.
That makes too much sense. I recognize that all three of them are short and skinny, unlike the tall African or Caucasian hunks of men we deal with in the US. I am not aware of fear the way I feel in the United States. There I have picked up and run more than once.
If you let them walk with you, you will not return to your room tonight.
This sounds more than scary. I hear it as a clear rape-murder warning. I step away from the path to let them pass. It is one of the many terraced fields in this area. It is dark, but there is no place to cower to hide myself. I wonder whether it is safer to be prepared to fight rather than demonstrate fear by trying to hide: As feared, the three young Indian men don’t go very far before turning around and walking back toward me.
Where are your weapons? Asks Saint Germain.
I think about what I have in my backpack.
The water bottle is the best one I have.
Use it.
I pull it out. It is not very heavy anymore, not much water is left inside it. I let it dangle from its carabiner hook, but wonder whether I should hold it more demonstratively.
This will be enough, says Saint Germain. It is inconspicuous enough that it could be unintentional. But it also demonstrates that it may be a weapon.
The three young men return.
“Rewalsar?”
I don’t respond.
“Come, eat dinner with us.”
Do not go with them.
“Rewalsar?”
I make a gesture by bringing the edge of my palm down from my face to my belly button:
“I am going alone.”
One of them steps in front of me, shining the flashlight of his phone into my eyes.
“What? What is this?” Aggressively, he repeats my gesture.
Feeling scared, I am especially furious at his shining the light into my eyes. Despite never considering myself aware enough, my inner awareness training by Saint Germain is paying off, nonetheless: I am aware of each of the young men’s locations despite being blinded by this one’s flashlight.
“I will go alone.”
He wants to take my hand pretending it is to say goodbye, and I decline. The boy leaves the terraced area and joins his friends on the way. They walk upward a few meters.
Master Saint Germain explains, He was preparing to rape you. Go now.
Feeling fearful, I want to wait them out, but Saint Germain says:
They will bother you ten more minutes if you don’t continue your way down to Rewalsar now.
So I do. Uneasy, I step onto the path from where the males are only a few meters behind me to move quickly down the steps, slowing down my heart as instructed by Master Saint Germain, which he has repeatedly asked as I was walking with the three followers.
Once I am safely on my way, Saint Germain and Tweng again turn my victimhood around the same way they did recently when a man groped me. I was just finishing coming up a set of stairs in Simla, one of the steep kind between the middle bazaar and top level mall road. The man groped my boobs in climbing down. Furious, I turned and was about to severely push him down that stair case I had just arrived from climbing up. Most Indian men are lightweight and dumb compared to American hunks of male dominance. There are some exceptions, which are terrifying. My guides interfered preventing me from doing more serious harm than he.
You have to see it that you protected them from receiving harm. Tomorrow, there would have been three dead young Indian men.
The thought makes me giggle.
It would delay your arrival by three more days, and we already wasted too many.
Wondering why three days, my guides explain.
Indian police would have kept you in prison for three days until they sorted the story.
I safely find my way all the way back down into the little town called Rewalsar/Tso Pema.

© Nora Hoffmann. No reproduction without written permission.I am exhausted from all the stairs.

© Nora Hoffmann. No reproduction without written permission.The photo shop from where I ordered photos in the morning is closed. Thankfully, I have the man’s phone number. I call him, and he is right there, upstairs, in an apartment above the shop. He comes down and gives me the prints. He suggests that there is a bus at 8:20 in the morning leaving directly from here to Simla. “Maybe I will come to the bus stand in the morning to tell the bus driver what you need.” I will have to change buses in Sand…?… .
Most of the time, Indian natives are very kind.

© Nora Hoffmann. No reproduction without written permission.But as Tenzin Dolma, who runs the eating corner next to the Nyingma monastery, said to me last night:
“Be careful, please. Many Indians are very bad. Very bad.”
Happy Halloween.
I have serious nightmares all night.
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copyright written by Nora Hoffmann 2015

​You've got Gaian equipment, Gaia takes care of you. 

on the earth I lie
resting
for now. 

many days have risen
behind me
into darkness
the only thing I know to calm me
is SHE: GaiaMa. 

the scent of ancient cedars embraces me
I can rest now
in the stillness
of this Emerald Truth.

cradled in HER magnetism
I can rest once more
perhaps til the sunrise
perhaps til tomorrow
perhaps I may sleep tonight. 

the cat gently comes around my legs
sits on my sleeping bag
wetly sniffs my nose.

I can take it now:
the morning darkness no longer scares me
and perhaps one day the days will be days again.  

They turned the light switch on a few minutes ago and now it's working again.
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The light bulb above me though is still kaputt.
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But instead of being angry, they gave me this. Very sweet. :-D