The Gardens of Ailana” will be controversial and many will hate it.
But in reading it some have already come to new terms with their lives and a God they see as either non-existent or cruel.
In this story, adults crippled by memories from childhood; two them suffered at the hands of evil and twisted men from southern fundamentalist churches; have to come clear with every ugliness within them before they can find any meaning and purpose for their lives. In the process they learn that if there is a Heaven at all, it would not be what their churches had told them to believe, and that forgiveness may not always be the healthiest option.
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The afterlife is not what you’ve been led to believe.
Neither is life.
Find the deeper Truth and heal.
– “The Gardens of Ailana” handbook for healers & mystics
Before there is time, or form, there is Potential. All things are possible.
There is Caring before there is anyone to care about. And before we create raging and fear.
Before guilt there is the purity of true Innocence.
Before knowledge there is Knowing.
Ailana looked out into the vastness with her eyes closed. In her heart she was smiling, and that world beyond worlds smiled with her.
She was dying.
But this only mattered to her body. Her spirit was not confined much to that these days.
She had a few more people to help first, and then she could step free of it.
A few who had been fighting their ways out of their own darkness seemed so very close to breaking through.
It was time.
They were ready.
– From “The Gardens of Ailana” handbook for mystics & healers
It seems to be mainly the mediocre and amateurish writers who defend their work, and tell you how great they are. If you’re not enjoying their excerpts then there is something wrong with you, not their writing.
The truly great writers have no time for this.
They are focused on trying to get better.
– Edward Fahey
Writing, like any art, is creative exploration. In my own case, that works best if I follow my inspiration. I probably finished, or came close to finishing, the first draft of my latest novel half a dozen times. When inspiration comes, don’t turn away from it. If it suggests you write, write! If it suggests you edit, edit! It may also suggest you kill out your favorite characters, lose your favorite scenes, or re-distribute whole chapters. It may not be what you had planned, but if you keep pushing forward you will likely be much more excited by whatever you and your muses write together than you would have been by following only your own original plans and concepts.
I couldn’t resist questioning encrusted old beliefs, though questioning was the worst of all sins. Adam and Eve had been fine wandering around nude among tigers and snakes until they’d eaten that apple and started thinking things through. We had to bet our souls on stuff that didn’t make sense; on wandering stars, wives turning to salt, and God stopping the sun so his own children, made in his image, could kill each other. Samson hadn’t cut his own hair, someone else had, but rules must be followed, so the hell with him, God said. Then our principal kicked a kid out of school for refusing to cut his. Adults kept changing “eternal truths,” and I couldn’t keep up. Everybody kept hammering away at the world like blacksmiths, each trying to beat it into something different.
– From “Entertaining Naked People” by Edward Fahey.
Depression is a non-life. It just sits there, not stirring. Like you’re mired in the silence and sludge at the bottom of a stagnant sea. Now and then a dim, fuzzy wad of something hangs above, a brief distraction from your comforting gloom, but it hurts to be reminded there is still life in any form. So you snuggle back into your sludge. Snug it in like a thick, fuzzy blanket around your heart, welcoming the dull, slow non-rhythm of pain and numbness.
Depression sticks to your soul, layers around and within you, suffocating all hope.
I may have lost years to this emotional cancer after Julie pulled away. Depression is a timeless state. Each second is interminable. This hideous strangling darkness drew in ever tighter and more dank, closer than my skin because skin is only on the outside.
There was a big ugly hole in my world, and nothing to plug it with but misery.
– Excerpt from “Entertaining Naked People”
When my arms grew long and strong enough I started pulling myself up onto the roof to lie back under the stars, praying for their vast peace to drain off some of this hurt. I ached for something higher, richer, undeniable, and there were moments when I was teased with just a glimpse. I could lose my heart in a picture of Jesus or Mary, in a rainy autumn sunset, or a field of stars, and it was like I’d gone home. Everything dissolved into pure, aching sweetness. How vast love can be when we don’t hack off a chunk and hoard it, call it ours, or chain it to someone; when it isn’t love for some thing or someone, just love.
I was only allowed brief visits to this world beyond worlds, though, and couldn’t bring the bliss back with me. Trying to hold on to that soul piercing, excruciating sweetness was like tearing my heart apart; but maybe that was exactly the point. Broken hearts show us we’ve grown out of one stage, by ripping us wide open for the next.
We’re forced to choose what we do with all that pain: turn it against ourselves, aim it at someone else, or tap all that power and reach higher.
– From “Entertaining Naked People”
There are places on this planet not confined to the logic of men or limitations of science. Something inside a few special people draws them to these centers when they are ready.
Early man may have erected strange mounds, or circles of giant stones there. Early religions may have inspired great cathedrals or temples there. Legends may have spread about miracles and healing wonders, and for centuries pilgrims may flock in from all lands.
Or they may just have been left alone, unknown but to the few; tended by very special beings.
In our story, four deeply caring souls have been broken by their childhoods. As adults now they secretly yearn for forgiveness; their own, or to find the clarity of heart to forgive those who have hurt them so badly. They yearn, but don’t pray. If life has taught them anything it’s that no loving, caring God could have let tiny vulnerable children be treated so cruelly.
But what if all things really do have a reason?
What if everything does serve some purpose?
And what if there are places and people one is drawn to when she has finally found the courage, or the depths of desperation, to face herself down and be free?
“The Gardens of Ailana” is a tale of redemption. Of what lies beyond; what is deeper than suffering and more real than life itself. It is about finding one’s deepest truth and dearest peace. It is a story of returning to innocence.
– My next novel; due out probably in late February.
By now you might be reading “Entertaining Naked People” and noticing a definite change in style, as well as progressive development of message and teachings.
As each of my books advances beyond the scope of the previous one, my goal is not to keep digging into ever more esoteric concepts like sutratmic threads, pralayas, and manvantaras. Lynden says I am kind of explaining these things anyway, just doing so subtly and without labeling them. She said those concepts “are really quite simple; it’s just the eggheads who complicate it.”
But my goal is to help “poor orphan humanity”, and to reach for the saddest and most lost of these orphans. Those struggling with challenges and personalities they may still be caught up in when they die this time around. I want to get down in the mud with them and show how they can find glimmers of Light, meaning, and hope even there.
“There’s so many folks out there thinkin’ prayer is just so’s they can tell God exactly what they want. Settin’ around waitin’ for Him to drop it in their lap. ‘I put my faith in Him, so He owes me.’
“Been figger’n on that’n a long time. All things don’t necessarily come to folks who don’t do nothin’ but wait. Even if they’re prayin’ while they’re settin’ there. You can put all the faith in God you want to, but you try crammin’ Him behind the wheel while you nap in the back seat; you’re still gonna drive into a tree.”
– Excerpt from “Entertaining Naked People”.
I had to learn from experience that death was only temporary.
As a small boy, frail in body and spirit, I reached so far beyond the world of the living I didn’t bring all of me back. I tapped into lives that had been lived and maybe lost. They just kind of reached out and grabbed me. Other people’s pains chewed through me like lingering nostalgia for days I couldn’t quite recall. I took on the hurt of others like festering sores draining the spirit out of me.
Our family didn’t talk about what churned and ate away at us. Dad said all we needed to know was in our little catechisms or brightly colored Bible tales. For anything too deep and hurtful; that didn’t make any sense, just wasn’t fair, and we really, really needed to come to grips with; he’d just say, “Well, that’s just one of God’s glorious mysteries.” End of story.
Not for me, it wasn’t.
Blind obedience was our nemesis and inspiration.
I couldn’t resist questioning encrusted old beliefs, though questioning was the worst of all sins.
Pathologically sensitive, young Ed feels what people hide even from themselves. His world churns with matters so terribly unfair that he can’t accept them. Overwhelmed by hopelessness, he’s afraid to reach out into life.
Ed leaves for college as the Vietnam War deadens souls and riots tear cities apart. He has to deal with hippie artists trying to out-weird each other, police attacking innocents, and friends committing suicide.
In one month he drops out of school, turns twenty-one, his father dies, and he is drafted.
He refuses induction. He knows that if he ever finds himself in a paddy facing an armed enemy soldier, he wouldn’t be the one pulling the trigger.
Hitching a ride west with a strangely wise cowboy, he is pulled ever deeper into the bizarre and the impossible. He meets healers and miracle workers as he sorts through his own darkness and power.
He camps in deserts, sets out to sea, even walks out into the fury of a hurricane, trying to touch God close up and in all His power. He has given up on finding Him in any one religion. If He is out there, you may have to kill yourself to find him.
He teaches massage school in southern California, his life spilling over with unbridled passion now of a more erogenous sort. And yet for a while longer he must still taste darkness, failure, and bitterness.
Sometimes we have to be destroyed so we can be reborn. Anything that can be ground out you by another may need to be let go of anyway before you can see what you truly are. Crawling from the wreckage of his own being, Ed finds wisdom and healing one naked truth at a time.
He discovers that we don’t have to search for God, soul, magic, and truth. They have been with us, inside us, since our childhood.
In the end it is all about love, knowing that when you hug a child, or scratch a dog, you can find everything that is most magical and beautiful in your own hands and heart.
In my latest novel, “The Gardens of Ailana,” you may learn about:
How to do Laying on of hands healing / Finding your center of peace / Dumping toxic relationships / Out of body traveling / Life after death / What a mystic sees and experiences / Things we believe, or tell ourselves, that hold us back / Stepping free of childhood traumas / Deeper spirit vs fundamentalism / How karma works / Old souls and indigo children / Empaths / Dark nights of the mystic soul…
Across the street, a retired couple strolled, rocking to a shared rhythm it had taken them years to co-ordinate.
Slowly, luxuriously, the day slipped away. The restaurant dimmed. Waiters ached to go home. In the plaza, the fountain couldn’t quite touch the stars, but certainly reached for them, the cool comfort of sky and spray mingling along iridescent edges. Sam and Clara went for a walk, holding each other in changing, experimental grips, all awkwardness and bliss.
It was late, well past midnight, but Sam couldn’t sleep. He inhaled the aroma of Clara’s long bubble bath as she lingered in there and he missed her.
He had no idea she was waiting, hoping he’d join her. Soaking as the water turned cold, she kept picturing ways he could slip in and “accidentally,” catching her naked: He’d forgotten his watch. He’d forgotten she was in there. Or the best of all possible scenarios: he’d just missed her and wanted to hold her as she sat so completely vulnerable, fresh, and hungry in the tub.
But he never came.
– From “The Mourning After,” a novel by Edward Fahey.