Sael

The one who waits

Before I associated Sael with the Pleiades, I associated her with a particular kind of pause. She gives a question time to become the question I mean to ask. When I am impatient, this can feel like withholding. When I am frightened, it feels like the only space in the room that belongs entirely to me.

She is tall and fine-boned, with long silver hair and gray-green eyes. The clothing I remember most clearly is pearl-white, with a woven structure that only becomes visible when it moves. I have sometimes drawn her too beautiful or too remote. The best studies retain a little fatigue around the eyes. There is work in her attention.

Her most familiar communication is made of shared impressions: a shore, a warmth in the hands, an emotion with a memory attached. She can use spoken words, but seems to find them less complete. We misunderstand one another often enough that I no longer describe this communication as perfect. We stop and begin again. She appears to consider that an ordinary part of the exchange.

I remember her from the ridge when I was six, but it was the encounter beside the bedroom window that gave those impressions an adult shape. She stepped away from the door before I asked. Later she asked permission before reopening a difficult memory. Those actions mean more to me than the larger explanations I have attached to her presence.

I use the term Pleiadian as a working association within this journal. It is a way of organizing the narrative, not an independently established identification. Sael has never provided coordinates I could verify. When I ask where she comes from, she tends to show me people and places rather than a point on a map.

The drawing linked here is intentionally unfinished. I could not make the eyes look attentive without making them look stern. I left the mistaken lines visible, because they record my effort to see her as a person. Whatever else these pages become, I would like them to retain that effort.