NeuroDivine

A Neurodivergent Reflection for the Festival of St Michael and All Angels

There are moments when the veil feels thin—when the ordinary becomes infused with something luminous. Years ago, during an aromatherapy massage in Belfast, I found myself in one of those moments. The room was quiet, the scent of lavender and bergamot hung in the air, and the therapist’s hands moved with practised grace. But what struck me most wasn’t the massage itself—it was the feeling that something unseen had entered the room.

It felt as if the four corners of the space were guarded—held—by beings with wings and swords. Not imagined, but sensed. Not threatening, but protective. It was as if Michael and his angels had taken up post, making that small treatment room a sanctuary. A haven. A little part of heaven on earth.

As an autistic person, I experience the world through layers—sensory, emotional, spiritual. My perception isn’t linear; it’s textured. Aromatheraphy doesn’t just soothe my body—it opens portals. It quiets the noise and amplifies the sutble. In that quiet, I become aware of presences that defy explanation but feel deeply real.

Perhaps it is not coincidence that my name is Michael: named for the Prince of the Heavenly Host, the archangel who defends and protects, who casts down chaos and stands for truth. Today, on the Festival of St Michael and All Angels, I feel a particular kinship. Not just with the liturgy, but with the mystery. With the idea that protection can be both fierce and gentle at once. That boundaries can be sacred. That presence can be felt even when unseen.

Autistic embodiment, for me, is porous. I sense the mood of a room before I enter iti. I notice the way light bends through curtains, and how certain spaces seem to hum with memory. So when I say I felt angels in the corners, I’m not reaching for metaphor—I’m describing a sensory–spiritual truth.

There’s something about being vulnerable—lying still, unclothed, trusting another person’s hands—that invites a need for protection. And in that Belfast room, I felt protected. Not just by the therapist’s skill, but by something older, deeper, and more mysterious. The swords weren’t threatening; they were symbols of boundary. The wings weren’t for flight; they were for shelter.

This feast day reminds me that my way of perceiving—my sensitivity, my pattern-seeking, my spiritual attunement—isn’t a flaw. It’s a gift. It allows me to experience the sacred in the everyday. To feel angels in the corners. To know that heaven can touch earth—in a massage room, in a scent, in a moment of deep safety.

And maybe that’s the invitatio: to trust our perceptions, even whn they don’t fit the dominant narrative. To honour the ways our bodies and spirits speak. To believe that the name we carry might echo something eternal. That Michael—whether in liturgy or in lived experience—is never far from the threshold of protection and peace.

Because sometimes, the most profound truths aren’t seen. They’re felt.