Winged Messengers: A Contactee Memoir

By Ted Denmark, Ph.D.

The true story of how Pleiadian extraterrestrial visitors from the planet Erra in the Star System Taygeta--from 330 years in the future--surreptitiously used various kinds of birds, real and virtual, over the course of a lifetime, particularly large raptors in the latter stages after the "White Eagle Initiation," to monitor, influence and ultimately openly contact and acknowledge the author, Ted Denmark. as one of their family of hybrid subjects living on Earth in mature decades as part of a genetic and exo-cross-cultural experiment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483590486

Book preview

CO.

Preface to Winged Messengers

Reflecting back over the latter half of my life, dating roughly from the time of the White Eagle Initiation, recounted in Part 2 of the book, as the most obvious conscious beginning of this Contactee Memoir, I realize I have only very recently been able to fully accept the manifold of my experiences with off-planet extraterrestrials from a time in our Earth-based future. I also understand more about the earlier half too, even from the beginning of my 72 years on Earth—and what a long, strange … and unusually interesting trip it has turned out to be! I refer to this as my ‘Identity Convergence,’ the main impetus for offering this book-length story of what will probably be unbelievable accounts for many if not most people to take seriously. I would have been unsure of what to make of such claims myself only a couple of decades ago.

I started writing about the White Eagle incidents more than a decade ago to report on my unusual experiences having obvious UFO/ET links, which I felt needed to be documented. They had impacted me deeply, and as I slowly overcame my doubts, I didn’t want to forget some of the details of these bizarre events—the powerful imprints of the core experiences themselves were likely never to be forgotten! But then it began to occur to me that this sequence of incidents—that as far as I knew were unique—really were significant, not just for the sake of making a report but for projecting and honing my own remaining trajectory in life. As always, I was afraid I would never find out why these unusual events had happened to me—what it could mean and what it was really about. And I never forgot the similarly persistent insight I had when I was twelve years old that I should or would become a writer—but it would take a while because I had so much to learn before I would finally be ready. My whole career in life has led up to this …

And then it all came together nearly fifty years later with the Coming of the Golden Eagles (Part 3) … around the time I met Julie Loar, with whom I was able to make strategic contact (with a little help from our Dear Friends), as kindred spirit and delightful companion; deep mind-field investigator; co-author; and now lovely wife in our Grand Adventure together—and without whom I probably would never have been able to have the breakthroughs that finally allowed me to assemble the puzzle pieces. She was the catalyst, the Alchemical Philosopher’s Stone that provided the extraordinary insights to induce my remaining essential identity transmutation.

This latter stage of my contactee story that began with Julie and the Golden Eagles only five years ago—the excerpted accounts from our Telepresence Conferences with ETs and Celestial Guides, which is the sub-title of our Five Star Series of books—was largely revealed through so-called hypnotic trances that I conducted with her after I learned of her prior experience as a practiced hypnotic subject. The unfortunate confusion of all the varieties of hypnosis with sleep is still prevalent after a couple of centuries of experimentation in mainstream psychological investigations, such as they have been, yet without a clear understanding or differentiation. As our ETs have made clear to us, nothing could be further from the truth—discovery of which, as always, has been my main objective as would-be realist and sometimes romantic rationalist. Rather, ‘waking hypnosis’ (hip gnosis?) of the kind exhibited by Julie, is still a bit mysterious—she does it so easily and so well. I am now convinced this gift, talent or whatever it is, should be seen as a space-time viewport made available through the superconscious mind function of a few rare individuals who have been able to prepare themselves for such a quest. Julie, a modest person by nature and unsure how this enhanced psychic function actually works, is indeed a remarkably gifted hypnotic subject as I have been able to see in depth over many hours of working together with her in our sessions.

This covers some of the essential explanation for the segments excerpted from the books co-written with Julie (two currently in ebook publication, three remaining to be finished), which shed quite a lot of light on my involvement with birds, particularly white birds, over the course of a lifetime. Most of my incidents with birds in the earlier years seemed ordinary enough to me at the time and just happened spontaneously, so I never thought it went beyond the common range of experience. The White Eagle incidents began a more heightened awareness of birds, particularly raptors, and then the Golden Eagle chronicles, recounted in the final sections of this book, took it to a whole new level, which is still continuing but at a somewhat decreased pace—the intended result has largely been achieved, I suspect—though incidents continue to occur.

What is most unusual, of course, is the link claimed between various bird experiences and stages of my increasingly conscious involvement with the group of ETs who told us they came from the Pleiades three hundred and thirty years in our future, and that Julie and I are Pleiadian-Earthuman hybrids in a Genetic Reclamation Experiment with Earthuman mothers and Pleiadian exo-fathers—the details of those events are in our first book The Star Table Trance Missions. Many of these revelations were disclosed to us by Semjase, the same star woman figure I first encountered in the Eduard Billy Meier Contact Notes made famous by Wendelle Stevens. The birds have been used by our ETs to communicate with Julie and me because these space-time travelers from the star system Taygeta are not allowed to appear openly on Earth … for various complex reasons. Sometimes these birds are just natural birds living in my mountain home environment, going about their normal activities; and sometimes the same birds are manipulated by these ETs, some of whom are my actual exo-family members; but sometimes the birds are only visions in the sky or in my mind, created and manipulated by ET technologies that are almost unimaginably advanced by Earth standards … according to our transcripts.

I suspect that for some readers not particularly involved in the UFO/ET enigma, a story like this may seem to be a clever way to float an improbable sci-fi fantasy with a new twist on an already well-mined genre. That’s ok … but I hope they can at least follow and enjoy the story … and the pictures of the amazing birds, particularly the Golden Eagles! But as Julie often says, If I’m making all this stuff up myself, I’m really good because I haven’t a clue how I could be doing it. And like our dear Lady Athena, We really love the birds. Here then begins Part 1.

Part 1. Farm-Boy Early Birds and School-Days Retrospective

Growing up as a farm boy in central Oklahoma in the late forties and early fifties, I had plenty of time to witness the often fascinating behaviors of a wide range of birds, from the ubiquitous flitting sparrows and numerous jays and songbirds around our house and small orchard, through the larger quail, crows and magpies in the farm fields, up to the occasional larger raptors, mostly hawks and owls, that frequented our barnyard and nearby premises. I can’t, however, remember ever seeing an eagle, even in the thickly overgrown, continually shifting and virtually inaccessible wilderness of the nearby South Canadian river-bottom floodplain—which I’m sure I would have remembered—from having gone down there from time to time on day-long walk-about adventures with my trusty Lab-mix dog Laddie. The reason for retrospectively scanning early memories from my current stage of seven decade maturity for the possible appearance of eagles will become clearer as the central part of this memoir emerges.

Actually, the woods were full of a multitude of birds of many different kinds in that already mostly-disappeared era of woodland and farmland just south of Norman, OK, around our forty acres with its little white ranch-style farmhouse and only a short distance across from an open pasture (well-fenced to hold a very temperamental bull) sloping down over soil embankments to an exotic meandering creek, lined with pecan trees and the raucous summer sounds of blue jays and grey squirrels loudly complaining about who got too close to whose territory … and the continuous monotonously serenading tree locusts that we called jar flies. It was a paradise with more than just a few token serpents—some poisonous like the prowling diamond back rattlers and swimming water moccasins. This was what worried my grandmother the most. I often heard her say, as I was running out the door after breakfast, Don’t let the screen door slam, honey … and watch out for snakes—be sure to take Laddie with you (!). And I would say, Ok, Gramma, I will. But I would already be far enough away with Laddie hustling in excitement to keep up, to just barely hear the slap of the screen door on the back porch. I wouldn’t have wanted to disobey or irritate my grandmother, who was a very dear sweet and kind lady, but the call of the wild on those surging occasions was just too much to hold back.

The primary objective at this time in the Summer Land, still most vividly imprinted in current recollection, would be the marvelous blackberries and a kind of softer red berry, favored by myself as much as the crew of local birds that would become shy and quiet for a short time as we would appear after running across the fenced field before the increasingly upset bull could arrive at full gallop from the other end of its long lonely pasture, and we would have descended into the blind of the bushes and dense brush of the lush creek bottom. This mean old bull would reliably pull up in time before going down the side of the embankment, but would be sure to remember our trick as he was most apt to walk along the fence, pacing not more than ten feet away, pawing the ground and snorting, the next time we had to walk the whole length of that fence to the mailbox and back, which would probably even be later that very day. It was a bit much for a boy and a dog, but seemingly not as dangerous as the poison oak that still luxuriated in various stages of suppression in the inaccessible fence-rows and along the more remote trails, not to mention the virgin distribution in some of the underbrush—that you couldn’t outrun—and if you got tagged, would just have to hope that there would be enough calamine lotion left in the pink bottle to get through increasingly itchy rash days, before going to town next Saturday to buy more.

After our rude foray onto the blooming and buzzing sandy creek bottom, the bird sounds would slowly return to normal volume, as these sharp-eyed sentinels carefully noticed … it was just us again … nothing to worry about, even if some of the best ripe berries were going to go missing near favorite perching places. Except for the always shy woodpeckers, that is, who would never want to be so easily traced back to their unavoidable cascades of head-banging, or spotted so easily out in the open with their vivid red markings. They were what my grandfather Ran jokingly called Hide-behinds (or was he referring to something much more sinister, with his sly smile?). There were very mischievous-looking red-headed woodpeckers, as well as the notorious yellow-bellied sap suckers, and the hard-working pileated woodpeckers, populating the shady canopy of these old native hard-shell pecan trees, with a full complement of thrushes, jays, robins and chickadees thriving in the underbrush below.

One naturally spent a fair amount of time looking up to see the little charmers dodging about through the greenery, but Laddie would always growl and show his canines if so much as a garter snake were slithering through the weeds to get out of our way. The water moccasins were a bit more troubling, but we both knew to run without hesitation if we heard the iconic rattles of the most-feared Diamond-back—or any of its wily cousins. The only other thing that could compete with the warblers and snakes for my attention in this wonderland were the poor fish, mostly thrashing cat fish, that would be left for easy capture by any passing poacher in rapidly evaporating pools as the summer heat reached full dominion.

It would never have occurred to me, walking down to the bridge with my fishing pole and can of worms, perhaps a little earlier in the season of the life and times of this barefoot boy with straw hat, to imagine that there could be any kind of relationship between the winging songsters and the slithering rattlers—they seemed about as different as any two things could possibly be. Yet, as I was to discover as a young teenager in a quite fascinating way in a book by D. H. Lawrence called the Plumed Serpent, which somehow managed to fall into my hands, there was an eponymous and quite influential cult that had extended over large parts of Central and southern North America in the not-too-distant past. It was a seemingly irrational paradox, of course, as this union of opposites would have to be, but then two of the most magical creatures, one up in the sky and the other down on—and under—the ground, would seem to cover the full range of extremes, even if its composite image would always be an enigma—and hence its evident tense fascination—for these native people, who knew the habits of all the animals the way a modern urban young man knows the look of all the car models for all the years they have been around.

The plumed serpent image or phenomenon—or whatever it was—still intrigues me even in the most recent times about what may really exist in the deep caverns of the Earth … but to return to the time when I would have been about seven years old, strolling out across our barnyard, eventually on the way to the milking shed on the side of the barn where my grandfather would likely have been getting ready to bring in our pair of milk cows, one a golden Guernsey and the other the greatly-beloved huge Holstein called Bossy, with their extended udders swaying back and forth as they trudged back down the trail from the back twenty where they would have been nose-to-Bermuda grass for many a long hot hour. They would have finally gotten a long cold drink at the stock tank underneath the tall old Cottonwood tree in our classic small-farm barnyard, before turning around and heading for the side ramp into the barn to bellow for my grandfather to let them in so they could get their heads locked in the stall for their just reward of some oat bran milled with molasses (!), not to mention getting milked to reduce their distress of the last missing calf that they would have mostly already forgotten.

I was about ready to get out my small flotilla of carved wind-up rubber-band boats that my granddad had made for me the previous Christmas, for a sporting race on the stock tank. Neither the horses nor the cows would approach the water tank if the boats were moving around on the surface, even if they weren’t afraid of me standing next to it, so I would have to wait until they got their big gulps after a hot day in the pasture before I could play in the cold well water that would have just been pumped to bring the water level up to the top. But one day something rather unusual happened—a lone nearly-white dove of a kind I had never seen before, landed on a small mound in the barn yard and called several times, pacing and turning around back and forth, appearing a bit agitated as it peered towards me. I stopped watching my boat-race game and simply stared across the way at it, wondering why it would land in so exposed and vulnerable a position with its light, nearly white, elegant plumage and unflinching round eyes and pinkish bill.

White dove¹

At first I thought it was a quail, but those charmers would always hide in the weeds until the very last minute and then fly up in your face if you finally got too close … Of course, mid-sized birds like this one away from its nest, are still very quick and not very fearful about holding and releasing any particular position since they can launch back into flight in less than a bob of their little pigeon-like heads—which this one did as soon as my dog Laddie, who had been surveying the situation from just off in the weeds, jumped up and bounded towards it at full bore. This strikingly unusual white dove then flew up above the extended head of the jumping dog, coming directly towards me and landed in one of the lower branches of the Cottonwood just above my head. I looked up, and it looked down—a bit nervously. What was going on? It was quite a lot closer now, and I could see how sleek it was and the way its wings tucked so neatly over its back and disappeared seamlessly into its feathered sides. The dog had now come over to my side on the ground, but was still excited and trying to restrain its instinctive barking, which was now also starting to scare the sizable flock of White Leghorn chickens just on the other side of the fence from the stock tank, and they were jumping up from their contented dust baths in the otherwise lazy afternoon to run across their large yard and hide in the bushes behind the chicken house.

This cute little white bird, though mesmerizing to me, then didn’t seem to know what to do, moving around the low branches above my head, both seeming to try to hide but also being a bird on a mission needing to go forth. The dog would look at me and then look at the bird, emitting a little low squeal until he couldn’t take it any more before breaking out in a full round of barks as if to get my attention—why didn’t I do something? I hushed him and told him this was no snake—just a cute little bird that probably only wanted … to tell me something. But before long, my grandma called out the open window facing the barnyard, Is everything okay, honey? I probably said something like, Yeah, it’s just a little white bird that probably wants to get a drink in the stock tank, but it’s afraid to come down out of the tree.

How this little standoff actually ended on this particular afternoon, which it did a short time later, I don’t exactly remember, except that I would have needed to go to the barn shortly to be handy to help out with the milking chore when the restive cow, now being milked would have needed to get another coffee-can cup of bran meal from the bin, which my grandad couldn’t get up to do while milking, since the cow was devouring the bran as quickly as her course sandpaper-like tongue could scrape bottom as the last remaining sticky grains lodged in the corners of the feed trough.

When we came into the house together a little later, me following behind Ran as usual with his big gleaming three-gallon stainless-steel milk bucket full to the brim, and finally sat down for dinner, I told them about the funny white bird that flew up into the tree and caused so much commotion. My grandmother asked me to describe it, and after I did, the two old-timers from the northwest Arkansas woods looked at each other, and my granddad said, Well, that sounds like some kind of rock dove or morning (mourning?) dove, but I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a white one like that around here before.

As noted, this unusual appearance of a white dove taking flight into the tall Cottonwood tree in our barnyard—back in the days before flocks of white doves were routinely released after wedding ceremonies—had remained as something of a just barely-memorable enigma until I began work on this current memoir, when it occurred to me that this incident was somewhat similar to the dramatic incident, whose detailed story I will tell in a later section, of what I have called my White Eagle Initiation—the time in the late Seventies while I was living near Boulder, Colorado when a large pure-white eagle landed in the top of a tall Douglas Fir at the foot of my garden while I was sitting on the porch … and stared at me intently until it mysteriously disappeared a short time later.

The most obvious and slightly humorous commonality of these two incidents that came to mind first—apart from their both being white bird incidents, thus setting the tone of the main theme of my early bird experiences, particularly with an unusual white bird—was the fact that a flock of chickens was very vocally distressed both times. In the Colorado sighting there was no doubt that the chickens also saw the great White Eagle because with loud squawks they all ran into their chicken house at the base of that Doug Fir a long time before their normal bedtimes—and became stealthily silent. These hens were big old tough Rhode Island Reds with a similarly tough-minded lead rooster who by day lived out in the Rocky Mountain wilds around my country house where any number of dangerous critters were constantly on the lookout for a way to poach a chicken dinner, but they roamed freely every day in spite of it, and it gave me a chance to see quite a range of critters trying to break into my securely-built and well-insulated red chicken house.

But, speaking of white birds, my grandad’s flock of more than a hundred White Leghorn chickens comes back to mind as if it were yesterday—the most obvious white-bird suspects of my youth—since my main job was to take care of these smallish but good-laying chickens and gather their eggs, etc. which both my grandparents had coached me on and asked me to do.

White Leghorn rooster and hen²

I spent quite a lot of time with these quizzical and slightly amusing dust busters who had some funny habits and whose chasing behavior made for a fun game for me to watch, as would often happen when one enterprising member of the flock would suddenly catch a grasshopper and then begin running as all the others queued in hot pursuit until it could manage to swallow it in one gulp before the others caught up and piled on. But mostly they were happy to scratch the dirt and toss it over their back feathers the way hen birds like to do, singing a kind of serenade to while away their long hot afternoons before heading for the chicken house to find a private nest to deposit a new pure white egg before breaking out in a loud cackle, announcing the prodigious feat.

When I moved to Chicago to start school and live with my mother who had fled the Okie prairie some years before, I was most lucky to find myself living next to Lincoln Park with its always serviceable range of museums, ponds, beaches, baseball diamonds, trails and especially … the zoo. It was nearly always packed with strolling natives and tourists, elderly European immigrants dreamily sitting on park benches, throngs of feral boys looking for adventure and any number of bobbing pigeons and very saucy grey squirrels. I knew all the sidewalks and shortcuts, where the peanut vendors would be and when the big animal house feedings would occur. The famous gorilla Bushman was the star attraction most days. A little (flash forward) Googling reveals that the great Bushman, who first arrived at the zoo in 1930 (!), died in 1951, which I hadn’t remembered, probably during my first year there when I would have barely been eight.

My Old Town neighborhood next to Lincoln Park, now with giant high-rise buildings³

But one of the most memorable attractions for me at the zoo, which slowly crept up on me as I walked the various attractions, and oddly, could hardly wait to get back to see, would turn out to be the zoo rookery—where the birds are—especially the variously-sized white water birds swimming and wading around their little ponds, lounging through long afternoons of easy boredom. I can remember staring at the sign announcing the ZOO ROOKERY, looking at the spelling of this new word rookery, thinking, so that’s what this is called: a rookery, carefully noting the spelling (What’s a rook?) For some unknown reason, I would find myself picking out a particular bird on the lam and stare at it, attempting to fathom its consciousness and what it might do next, and always wondering how it might feel about living in captivity, especially compared to all the wild birds I had grown up with on the creek and river wetlands of my little Oklahoma paradise—before the pecan trees were taken out and it all washed away in unrestricted erosion—and in spite of a massive government earthworks terracing program, as it all did over the following sixty or so years.

I was only able to bring myself to return a single time in mature years to the old homeland setting where my grandfather’s little forty acre farm had been, after all the old-timers like him, who had worked the sandy soils of the area so successfully for so many years, had all passed on, now some years after Interstate Highway 35 had first cut through the northeast corner of our little farm, not unlike the first breaking plow had first ripped the prairie sod and allowed the dry dust to blow and wash away after the requisite number of years of row cropping. The area where our house had been was now a big new Home Depot complex, and the only visible remains of our farm was a short line of Arkansas trees of paradise that Ran and I had planted next to our driveway late one summer with a water-tanker wheel-barrow. I walked out to the far western edge of the old property line to see where the old highly-revered Persian Mulberry tree had stood, having thrived already for many decades in my youth. This was where I used to walk or ride my horse to survey the area and pick a few berries from the high horseback position. Its huge tangled jumble of roots, even though it was still just barely alive, now stood twenty feet above the surrounding raw red-clay sub-soil ground—a shock to see when I first realized what it was, after the slow halting walk up to it. In its prime this old Mulberry tree had fed every small and large bird, animal and sweet-feeding insect within a range of several miles, … maybe much farther, as my grandfather would have said. I used to come and watch with my toy binoculars, just to marvel at how many kinds of birds would appear in an hour or so, from screaming hawks to humming birds and especially the brilliant red cardinals.

As I looked out my window at breakfast this morning in Pagosa Springs, Colorado in January of 2016, there was the usual flock of ravens of various sizes and charming magpies deftly winging their way through the Ponderosa branches to land on the mix of ice and snow and otherwise bare ground to feed on the table scraps that we regularly toss out for them. The ravens have their predictable pivoting cake walk, but the magpies are completely captivating to watch because of their long tails that bounce up when they flit or land on a branch, their cute jumping around to stay one step ahead of the bigger ravens, and especially their meticulously clean white breast feathers which get momentarily puffed out in the cold weather as they hesitate in hot pursuit of bread crumbs and burned rice. As I mentioned, there weren’t so many magpies in my boyhood Oklahoma, but I do remember taking a very careful look at one once when I was still quite young, and when I asked what this bird was called, my grandfather said it was a butcherbird. It was quite preoccupied in one track of our dirt road with salvaging some poor flattened road-kill remnant, so I could see why it might be called that, but I could also see that it was striking in its high contrast costume of blue-black and white plumage—and so confidently animated!

When I took a moment to Google butcher bird recently, I was surprised to find that’s what the Australian magpie is called! So, did my grandad get his butcherbird name from the Australians? Not likely, since he had never been farther away from our little farm than Corpus Christi, Texas, and we didn’t have a TV is those days either. More likely the Australians had gotten the name for their bird—that does look quite a lot like the North American Magpie—from the old time Appalachian pioneers like my grandfather’s Scots-Irish relatives, but I would just be guessing—they might have come up with the same name independently, though it seems unlikely. Butcher Bird isn’t much of a name for our tuxedoed sharpie anyway, particularly compared to what some of the Native Americans call them: king of the small birds (eagles being king of the large birds).

North American Magpie⁴

Australian Magpie⁵

After I arrived to live with my mother in Chicago, it wasn’t long before she had a parakeet, which was really an Australian Budgie that she hoped would be able to talk to her nicer than some of the people she was having to deal with at her day job. Me, I had moved on to tropical fish for a while by that time since the chirping of the poor caged budgie (without a shade cloth thrown over the small wireframe cage) was a bit too piercing. Years later in her search for pet companionship, she graduated to cockatiels, which were rather more capable of imitating speech and also quite a lot more appealing as your indoor, white, caged … basic bird (the clever name of a neighborhood pet store I happened to notice living in Berkeley, CA some years later), also capable of singing a little on the side. Parrots or McCaws would have been the logical culmination of her search for the perfect companion bird, if she had persisted, but fortunately she gave up before taking on the ultimate house-bird problem … and settled for a beagle dog named Jasper when she finally moved back to Oklahoma City years later.

There were lots of pigeons around the Chicago neighborhoods in those days, which I thought of as city chickens, and there was an occasional almost-white street dove of this ubiquitous type to note, but apart from an occasional duck or goose seen floating in a local pond or river, there was little time for bird watching while in high school as my high-achieving student lifestyle settled down into a routine kind of hard-day’s night … job.

Though I was drawn to a fairly wide range of literature, science and math studies in my early high