About

The Story of The Rarebird

Anahata Graceland

My life didn't unfold like most children's. I was born without antibodies, and from the beginning, my existence balanced delicately between worlds. Illness shaped my early years, and before I turned fourteen, I had already died twice—once by drowning, and once from intense sickness that pulled me completely out of my body. Each time, I returned changed, attuned, expanded. I had access to a realm I privately called "the place of the rock." It appeared as a vast white expanse with a single stone resting at its center. I could meet beings there from different dimensions and some from this life where their souls shared important things such as they were getting ready to leave this plane. In that place, knowing arrived instantaneously—whole, intact, and effortless. I never questioned it. I simply understood that this luminous realm was part of my life. In that space: thoughts quieted and the world of “No Thing Who Was All Things” opened. It’s presence was a great gift to me. It wasn't imagination. It wasn't metaphor. It was a real realm of consciousness, a place I entered effortlessly, long before I had language or awareness of intuition or sight.

Communing With the Ocean

Ages 3–9

Between the ages of five and eight, my parents noticed something unusual: I could see in ways other children didn't. We lived on the sea in Gloucester, Massachusetts, where my family owned the fishing dock. The ocean wasn't just scenery—it was my teacher, my mirror, and my first great expanse of consciousness. During deep-sea tuna tournament trips, my father gave me an unexpected role: the ship's point person—responsible for finding and pointing towards the direction of where the tuna were that we were seeking to catch. He would send me out onto the very end of the pulpit—a long wooden plank stretching far beyond the bow of the boat, suspended above the rushing Atlantic. I would grip the single metal rail with my small hand and dangle over the water. The boat disappeared behind me; all I could see was the endless horizon and the wild, living sea beneath my feet. It felt like flying.

To the adults, it was remarkable that I could always find the tuna. They assumed I had keen eyes or a knack for reading surface currents. But no one ever asked me how I did it. The truth was simple: I was communing with the whales. They would rise near me, massive and ancient, communicating in waves of knowing. They guided me to the tuna below the surface. They became my dearest friends—especially one great, old, white sperm whale who appeared in my seeing as "the great one." He felt futuristic, timeless, and deeply familiar, and he cared greatly for me. He taught me all sorts of things about the sea. Hours passed with me perched at the edge of the world, the boundaries between realms dissolving. My consciousness expanded in ways language can barely hold. I learned to listen without ears, see without eyes, and trust beings who lived in realms deeper than our own. The sea and the whales were shaping my SEER abilities. They planted the seeds of everything that would come next.

When Everything Broke

At thirteen, my life changed again. A severe brain disease struck violently, stealing from me the ordinary ways humans navigate the world. I could walk, but not in a straight line. I couldn't reach a doorway without hitting the wall. My inner sense of space was shattered. For a year and a half, I had to rely on “walkers” to steady my every movement so that I could walk out into the world again. Language also began slipping away. If I moved my eyes in certain directions, I would lose the thread of a conversation or the sentences in a book. Words dissolved mid-sentence. My left brain had been deeply affected—traditional navigation, learning, and communication simply weren't available to me anymore to rely on. So I turned to what was available: My intuition. My early years on the Atlantic communing with whales had prepared me for this. Now living in upstate New York, I began rebuilding my life through the only channel that remained intact: feeling, sensing, and knowing beyond human boundaries. And at the center of that process was my dog, Captain.

Captain: My Second Nervous System

Captain became my lifeline. I wasn’t able to run through the forest with him, but I learned I could see through him, through his eyes. While I practiced for hours on my bongo board (a board that rested on a ball that I would stand on to retrain my brain for balance and navigation abilities) retraining my equilibrium, my brain, my very orientation to the world—I would sense Captain's running on the earth, see through his eyes, sense where he was, hear impressions from him about people approaching the house. Through Captain, I could navigate reality again. Months became years. And slowly, my senses sharpened into something extraordinary: I felt people approaching long before they arrived. I sensed emotional truths beneath spoken words. I saw and received messages from beings from other worlds. I received images, impressions, and knowing with crystal clarity. The brain damage didn't break me—it reforged me. It connected me to "No Thing Who Is All Things" and "the place of the rock" more deeply—the vast luminous realm where knowing is immediate, where perception is whole, where boundaries dissolve and "No Thing Who Is All Things"—life—simply speaks. This is the foundation of the Seer I am today. This is the origin of the sight I now use to help others.

The Place of the Rock

From my earliest memories of childhood, I often lived in a realm I called "the place of the rock." It appeared as a vast white expanse with a single stone resting in its center. In that space: thoughts quieted the world opened and knowing arrived instantly. It wasn't imagination. It wasn't metaphor. It was a real realm of consciousness—a place I entered effortlessly, long before I had language for intuition or sight. Later in life, during illness and neurological collapse, this realm returned to me with even greater clarity. It became my compass when physical navigation failed. It taught me to perceive the emotional, intuitive, and energetic layers of people, animals, and life itself. Today, "No Thing Who is All Things" remains a core part of my life. It is the foundation of how I perceive truth, receive insight, and access forms of knowing that support the people who come to me. It is the quiet center of my gifts. And in session as a seer, its presence guides what I see for you.