Ailana’s Gardens.

Aside

New opening lines for the book?: “I hurt so badly to connect with something.” She didn’t know how many times she’d awakened with those words in her head; that ache in her heart. She wasn’t completely sure what they meant, or what she could do to change anything. She only knew that feeling rode her somehow. Like a horse wearing blinders, she always felt something unseen, controlling each step, yanking at her reins, pulling her up short when she wanted to run free across vast fields she probably only imagined. Or maybe in some strange way remembered.

Dedication: This book is for those who hurt for something more in their everyday lives. Who desperately need to feel connected to something. Something Higher, richer, more meaningful. No matter how much they give to others, no matter how productive, over-stuffed, and generous their lives, they always feel they’re pulling up short.

It’s for those who need to feel what it’s like to heal, and be healed.

For those who need to FEEL again.

To feel something far beyond life’s daily drudgeries.

Moving beyond.

You reach a certain stage in your developmental flow when your life floods over with minor miracles and bizarre synchronicities. Until you get so you hardly notice them anymore; they are just what your life is made of.

– Next may come a time when you learn to stay in the moment, and follow subtle promptings. You get so you no longer need feedback that you are doing what’s right; when and where needed; you just trust and stay centered in the joy of higher service.

– As you pull away from old relationships, outmoded habits and beliefs, others gather around you who may be thought of as a team. But it appears that you WILL have to make room for them. As you leave another behind, though, do it caringly.

– As you learn to swallow your ego, you may also be offered an even bigger challenge: to swallow your anti-ego. Allow yourself to be powerful and do great things even as you open in naked and humble vulnerability to another. This will really test your honesty and adherence to Truth. Can you admit your failures and foolishness, and just as honestly step in beside the big spiritual guns if they need you to be there in some way beside them?

– More stages will undoubtedly lie beyond these first few, but I haven’t run into those yet.

I pray I will be ready as called upon.

Suffering may come to us with a purpose.

The Mourning After is obviously about reincarnation. I used to try to keep that a secret since the narrator takes a long time figuring that out. But what the heck; it’s all over the ads, and detailed on the back of the book, so I guess I can tell a few friends now anyway, huh? Three companions are caught up, through many cultures and lifetimes, in an entwined cycle of harsh tragedy and wondrous love.  They fight desperately to destroy the one without losing the other.

The book I am beginning now, Ailana’s Gardens, takes place in one lifetime, centering around healers and healing. When I ask unseen guides what it’s about generally, though, I keep getting stuff like, “There is so much pain in the world. The trick may be to find why this particular suffering is yours; why it came to you. Find what lies beneath it. You are not here to run away, but to find deeper truths it may carry within it. What are you now ready for? What may you finally be able to let go of? How are you ready to grow? And the most important question; As you heal, can you help others in the process?”

Today, the concept that greeted me was, “Suffering offers itself to us as a process of birth. Only by finding the stillness in the chaos, the light in our own darkness, can we unfold what we are here for, and how to work miracles as we set about making a difference in the world”.

I keep flashing on that scene from The Robe, where Richard Burton’s troubled Roman centurion character searches out an early Christian who had been crippled until she’d met Jesus. The Master had gone in and spent private time with her and healed her. Burton finds the girl, but sees she’s still lame. She tells him how miserable she had been, but now she radiates such peace and joy that her Light changes everyone near her.

She sees that she is more than her legs. She is thrilled to feel love again, to be alive and helping others.

Caring enough to say No.

Everything in life is a delicate balance for those of us treading paths of self-knowing, and of reaching beyond self. But sometimes the best response is to say No.

When I first became a massage teacher, every student west of Atlantis wanted to trade massages with me. Yes, that would have helped them. I gave great feedback and they could have felt what a professional massage feels like.

It would also wear me out and chew up my time so I couldn’t work my own professions and help others.
I got so I wouldn’t even tell people what I did because complete strangers in grocery queues would want me to work the knots out of their shoulders as we stood there.
So I set a clear policy not to trade and stuck with it.
Nowadays, when I tell people I’m a writer, it turns out that everybody and his dead uncle has thought about being a writer, wants me to teach them how to do it, edit their first efforts, get them published …
So again, I make a policy drawing the line.
When lonely people find out I can listen, care, and empathize, they get in my face, trying to stop me from whatever I might be trying to focus on, so I can listen to them tell me every ache they ever had, any word their doctors ever uttered.
But the books and thoughts and minor essays I write can be helpful and important, too, and they are means of helping more than one person at a time.
Again, we will always be tested. And for those of caring natures, these tests may hit literally where we, and another might hurt.
But sometimes it might just be healthier to say no.

Thoughts from recent travels.

Ancient philosophers were explorers and wanted us to be. They wanted us to understand this physical world, but not get stuck here. They didn’t share their insights so we’d over-analyze and repeat their words in endless loops through forever ad nauseum. Their goals never included being quoted and re-translated until they lost all meaning. They sought to be jumping off points, not stalling out points. They wanted to be doorways, not doorstops.

A trained, logical mind can be like a door with well-oiled hinges. But it is not the doorway itself, just a slab pivoting within set parameters.

The doorway can be reached by stepping beyond the door, by turning away from the strictly physical. But you are still merely standing on the threshold.

Freedom, Bliss, and True Knowing can only consume you once you leap through the threshold and fly.

I had cancers on my shoulder and back for years. Just kept piling more layers of ever-bigger bandages on them to sop the blood. They hurt. As they spread, I couldn’t find comfortable positions to sleep in, couldn’t use a seat belt, or wear heavy clothes in cold weather.

So I just made my peace and prepared for the end times.

My niece invited me up to spend Christmas with family. Hugging kids, chasing dogs, laughing, and eating way too much, was immensely healing. Transformational.  As snowstorm after snowstorm hit, family members told me I shouldn’t drive back up into the mountains. I stayed there for months.

Then I got a gal pal. Girlfriends won’t let you get away with that shit. I finally followed through on many lapsed promises to her and went to a clinic. First time I’d been to a doctor in maybe 10 years. He expressed concern. Said I could either spend major bucks on surgery, or hundreds of dollars on some expensive cream. I got home and found a tube of the stuff in my medicine cabinet. Don’t know where it had come from. Tried it for a while to eat away at the buggers, but it dug deeper, wider, and more painful holes until I just stopped using it.

So my lady friend in England (it was a Facebook relationship; we hadn’t actually met yet) told me that since I already sent healing to others around the planet and beyond; why not zap some through myself while I’m at it? She had to keep nagging me. This whole “Healer heal thyself” thing seemed unnatural to me. But every once in a while I did give it a shot.

Then I headed off to Europe. Spent six months touring ancient monasteries, and spooky sites generally. Saw pieces of the True Cross, one of the thorns, bones of apostles, the robe and belt of St. Francis, touched a column Jesus may have leaned against while preaching.

Some sites throbbed with power. I felt every part of me changing.

I’m back in the states now, but I’m not the person, and this is not the body, that left here.

Where the cancer had been there are tiny white spaces. Like somebody erased them.

I’m a romantic, but a realist. When I heard stories of Jesus, or at least his great uncle (Mary’s uncle, Joseph of Aramathea), having set up a church in Glastonbury where King Arthur was later buried, I blew it off and made sarcastic jokes. – But then – when I experienced that site itself- it was like being smacked in the soul with a rock! – The same with Tintagel and the caves of Merlin. – I came away with the feeling that legends are sometimes born, and churches built, on special places where people feel, and are moved by, forces they cannot explain. Arthur and Merlin may never have existed; some Bible stories are completely fictitious. But when you feel some of these places, these artifacts of saints, and come away stunned, you may want to explain that experience to someone. This might be how many of our most endearing and enduring myths have been born. The ones we suspect hold some truth.

Take each myth entirely out of the equation, and you still have the need to open yourself to wonder. To fall away overwhelmed by vast magnificence. Physicists could never cram that into equations; scriptures can only point and fall short; legends live and breathe though the people in them may never have. And still there is wonder; and the need to touch it, to share it, in words that could never quite do.

I’d seen pictures of the Sistine Chapel for so many years I’d grown tired of them. Critical of Michelangelo’s painting style. The fat forearms, pudgy toes, slapping boobs onto guys so he could call them gals … I knew if I was going to be in Rome & the Vatican anyway, I couldn’t just ignore the place, but I really wasn’t expecting much.

But then I am inside. An Italian guard is calling for silence. Reverential organ music is thundering quietly (you would have to experience that to know what I mean). It is one huge, open room. Botticelli figures dance and flow along the walls.

And there – everywhere above you; like the Milky Way over farm country on a clear summer night – is the Creation, and Judgment Day; a plethora of great spiritual beings and moments as envisioned and expressed by Buonarroti himself.

And tears come.

And joy flows.

I spent a long time with St. Francis’s robe and belt.  I stood there meeting him heart to heart and spirit to spirit, examining the textures of the cloth, hand-stitched seams he had probably sewn himself. And then, I kept coming back. It was so far beyond merely beautiful.

We were in that church for hours. Santa Croce is a deeply moving spiritual and heart center. Lovely tree-lined cloisters. The tombs of Michelangelo, Dante, Rossini, Galileo, Ghiberti, Machiavelli, Marconi, Fermi, Florence Nightingale, and many others. With paintings of the assumptions by Giotto, Cimabue, and the like. Art by della Robbia, Donatello, Venezianno.

I felt myself not just lifted up, but driven hard to my highest. I prayed for inspiration, and soon after published my novel.

But most moving and powerful of all was the time spent with St. Francis. We came away together; one shared heart; fused in spirit.

At our favorite spiritual haunts, we could feel the sacredness, the power and spirit of the land itself. Christians built churches there centuries ago on land pagans had already venerated, and consecrated. You can feel the Nature spirit, and the Christ love, empowering and clarifying each other. It is a wonder of the heart to share and participate in that.

All great world teachers teach basically the same things. It’s when self-lauding followers come along after they’re dead and start beating others with claims that Our guy is the only guy, and our way is the only way that the stink of danger and abuse arise.

Seeing science as the true and only source for understanding the universe, or holding spiritual teachings similarly, does not take everything in. Seeing Jesus as the only way and the only true teacher, or Mohammed, or whomever, leaves us locking our doors against the light, but then searching for it through the peephole. All paths can lead ultimately toward the deepest and Highest Truths. Maybe we only get there by treading, and falling short, on one heckuva lot of them.

Those who let their religion confine them to what church leaders tell them about God don’t really know God. Those who believe Science can tell them what the universe is all about confine themselves to what can be theorized, mathematically tested, and cross-checked. Each group is confining itself to different fenced-in areas along the thin outer shell of things. Anyone who relies exclusively on what mind or faith can reveal is seeing only what his own limited awareness can grasp. He is not touching the eternal; only looking toward it, from a distance.

In Holy Cross Abbey, outside, Tipperary, I stood between relics of The True Cross. Wearing my bag of talismans, I lifted my arms and felt immense power flooding in from on High. – Then I felt intensely blessed and profoundly at peace in the tiny chapel St. Margaret used in the Castle of Edinburgh. She had been a true spirit of Christian charity despite being successor to Lady Macbeth. She had owned a piece of the cross as well. – Lynden and I felt early Christian passions mingling with ancient Nature faiths in Rosslyn Chapel, where all sorts of relics might have been hidden. – I’ve felt the surging; sometimes joyous, sometimes agonized and desperate, faith of churchgoers from ancient centuries, and of masons who had built those holy sites. I wore or carried special jewelry, medals blessed by the church, relics of saints, vibhutti from Sai Baba. At some point I will pass these along to those in need, but for now I am sharing our highest moments, pouring this magic into them, creating talismans of my own.

I’m trying to work up how to tell you about the spirit of the tiny child we felt, and who seemed to feel us, in Mary King’s Close, under Edinburgh, but it still feels very raw, and sensitive to me. We abandoned a hurting child who wanted us to stay. She could feel that Lyndie and I knew she was there, loved her, and wanted to stay with her. She didn’t understand why we left. Just like her parents had abandoned her to die in that room, victims of the plague so many long centuries ago. She hurt when we too turned away from her, but she is used to hurting.

The guides take groups into her cold, cold room, with its pile of dolls, where they treat her like she is just a ghost tale to be sported with, and then rush everyone out. I don’t think she understands the words, but she sees and feels people coming and going. She can sense when someone connects with her and truly cares. But then they, too, walk away. She doesn’t know why they are leaving her. Everyone moves on to the next room, turning their backs to her, listening to the guide’s next stories.

But this time, Lynden & I turned from him, calling to her through the underground streets, as the distance between us stretched, and our contact became more vague. The little girl stayed stuck in that tiny, icy room.

Lynden chatted outside with the ticket taker afterward, who told her that at least once a week somebody comes back up to the surface, saying they’d felt someone in that room. Sometimes tugging on their coats.

We spent much of our first day in Edinburgh exploring St. Giles Cathedral, spellbound. As we joined others in wandering reverence, or sat in quiet contemplation, the choir held forth in moving glory.

In the castle we visited the room where Mary Queen of Scots gave birth, and another where the Black Dinner took place. Our hearts sank and stayed there as we moved through the cold cramped corners where hundreds of soldiers starved and froze to death during a siege of the fort that lasted months.

At the very top of the castle, though, St. Margaret’s tiny private chapel opened its sacred aura for all. Just standing in it I felt to be in one of the earth’s radiating centers of love, enfolding all and everywhere in compassion. A tiny, simple place, but so intense with gentle caring. She must have been a beautiful soul.

We took a nighttime tour of haunted sites. It turned out to be so disrespectful of the dead that we stayed behind after midnight when the group broke up, just to apologize to the interred inhabitants of one of its haunted graveyards.

The little dog buried just inside the entrance was the only thing sweet about Greyfriers Churchyard. Lynden and I separated and headed off through graves on opposite sides of the church. She was lost in a sad, desolate feeling. I felt the lingering agony of the spirits there, still wrenching and clawing the atmosphere with pain through the centuries. Turns out more than 1200 men, women, and children, had been had been imprisoned there for signing a letter to the new captor king, telling him they’d cooperate in every other way, but please don’t mess with their religion. He’d taken it as an act of treason; caged them outside through harsh winters, feeding them only four ounces of bread a day. They were tried, tortured, and executed there. Very few escaped. Some were shipped to America, chained below deck as slaves, but their ship sank in icy waters and no one survived. You can still feel their intense and hopeless agony.

Their main torturer is buried there, too. Hundreds have been bitten, scratched, or burned near his mausoleum; day and night. In Greyfriers Churchyard an evil presence slashes through an atmosphere thick with ancient agony. Up to ten percent of people buried in the 1800’s or earlier were unintentionally buried alive. They broke their nails off clawing to get out. You can feel this there, too. The whole cemetery writhed and clawed at you. So many stones from the 14- to 1600’s crawl with skulls, skeletons, scenes showing the horrific triumph of death.

In more recent graveyards; say from the 1800’s; I can still feel the pain of mothers aching for their babies laid out around them. Cemeteries & tombs from perhaps the 1600’s and earlier, though, generally feel empty. There is no connection. There are exceptions, of course. Greyfriers Churchyard in Edinburgh is horrific. But most feel emptied out, like the spirits there have moved on. There may be lifelike effigies atop some of the tombs, but nothing inside them.

I’ve seen a lot of tombs of popes and bishops from long ago. In a few I’ve sensed the passion they’d poured into their work. Sometimes with a hard edge of pompous cruelty.

But on spiritual planes and in the afterlife, all that really matters is the motivation. If they lost themselves in service, with no thought of self, they set themselves free. Any taint of superiority though; toward their followers, or toward other religions; could lock them into their own dark bile and smallness of spirit through the centuries. Feeling the need to lord it over those who have long ago forgotten them may be one expression of limbo.

A place of worship is much more than moments, memorials, and men. More than those who have led, or perhaps MISled it. – It is passion left behind in the stones by masons as they chipped it together. – It’s babies lost in fields by poor farmers and grieving parents who couldn’t make it in for services. – It is need, it’s fulfillment, and it’s an unquenchable quest. – It is unknowable mysteries; and a deep silent knowing. A building is only sacred to the degree that it taps into something that could never be contained within its structure. – Church leaders can only lead by humbly following. They can only offer hope by getting down in the mud with the hopeless. They offer strength to the weak through their own vulnerabilities; their compassion comes from deep resonant empathy. – In ancient abbes, monasteries, and churches I have felt all this pouring through the walls, through the centuries. As these walls of time and structure crumble away, I swim in that vast, uncontainable glory. I become that vastness, the Hope, and the Knowing; and carry it with me everywhere.

I don’t believe it! They just set them down right in front of you and you just carry them off to your reading desk. Seven huge volumes. The Mahatma Letters to A. P. Sinnett. Not even in bulletproof sleeves or anything. You can feel them; you can smell them. Letters by HPB, Olcott, Damodar, Subba Rowe, all of them. Sinnett, Hume, Countess Wachmeister, Judge. Everybody. Right in your hands. The Pillow Dak is there. The note someone wanted to find pinned to a branch high up in a tree. So, from far away in Tibet, that’s where KH materialized it. He’d written, “I was told you wanted me to put this here. What can I do for you?”

Someone wrote a letter to him in India, had it postmarked and mailed. Within minutes he read it, still in its envelope, while he was on a train in another country. He stopped to telegraph a reply. The letter and the telegraph are there along with all sorts of sworn eye witness accounts. Everything. It’s all there, and they just plunk the letters down in your lap. Sealed letters that when opened had been edited and commented on in the margins. The whole amazing story of those first few years of the TS. You feel them tingling all through you.

I’ve seen pieces of The True Cross, body parts of saints and apostles, the robe of St. Francis. Charlemagne’s vestments. I’ve seen Joan of Arc’s helmet. And now this.

I can feel my little molecules just giggling, high-fiving each other, and dancing themselves like little squirming tadpoles into being something infinitely Higher & Brighter.

I don’t know, don’t really care how much longer I have to live, or how much longer my money will hold out, but while I am here I will do what I was put on this planet to do. I have been given many lifetimes of special gifts and experiences all in one. I’ve lived with and been taught by miracle workers and have worked some minor miracles of my own. But then I kept saying No to life and shutting it all back down again.

Well, no more. I am stepping way beyond this tiny, drab, confining world of the physical, into what I am meant to be; what I was put here to do. Wherever it takes me. I am High and getting ever Higher!

So – here we are, just hanging out in our favorite sidewalk cafe in Rome. Really getting into our two liter beers, and the freshest seafood and pasta in the world.

Horns start blaring and a column of cops on motorcycles go by.

That’s normal in this city. But this time the cop on the front bike is standing and waving violently from side to side.

This is not.

The limo drives past. and folks on the street are applauding. The new Pope leans up against his window and waves as he goes by, but I really don’t think he actually recognized me; I think he was just being polite.

Dating from around 3,500 BC, Castlerigg may be the oldest, most atmospheric stone circle in England. Perhaps all of Europe.

In 1919, witnesses watched white light-balls moving slowly over the stones, just as they do nowadays over crop circles beside Stonehenge. Such lights have been observed at ancient sites throughout the world since at least the 1700’s, and may have been among the reasons ancient man built monuments there in the first place.

Castlerigg’s stones seem to relate in eerie ways to Nature around them.

I figured these folks must have been about half my size, so I squatted down to see things from their level. Found what struck me as a story telling rock. Gazing at it long enough, one could see images, and scenes, some moving.

The hill is encircled by mountains – a cozy place of magic and peace. Somehow the lives there seem lively and inviting; not at all somber as I had expected.

Saw a gigantic hillside chalk carving in the distance and decided to drive closer for photos. Passed through the most exquisitely sweet little village. Seemed like hardly twenty homes there. Charming and magical. Fairy tale cottages with thatched roofs, walls laced by wandering wisteria. Just lovely. So I couldn’t let it go. I went home and researched it. Turns out it was the childhood village of Mick Jagger. Keith Richards went to school there.

So many special centers I feel connected to now. Like a spider weaves its web with many links, and as he moves around he feels vibrations from every point. As with karma, every ripple feeds through every other. I carry these spirits within me; just as a part of me lives within them.

There are special beings I move through the world with, as well; but their names I tend to hold much more privately.

There are dark places I carry, like Gettysburg, and Greyfriers Churchyard.

Wherever I wander, they are.

When you touch me, you touch them.

I had cancer spots for years until Lynden suggested I zap them. So I drew down the healing forces, pulling them through me. The cancer went away and I headed for England. I touched lingering spirits in ancient monasteries; stone circles and centers of magic. Merlin told me where to dig to find a special crystal…. And it was like my molecules were changing. I was losing my sense of physical presence. Lynden and I were sick for months and I stayed home. The winter broke records and I stayed inside. I got a devastating earache and deafness in Italy, and could hardly have felt more isolated.

As I healed from this, though, it was like I was building a new body. In recent weeks I’ve been constantly buzzing in some other-worldly kinda way. If I just make the slightest shift from paying attention to my surroundings, I feel the flow of healing pouring through me for all beings everywhere. – I am a part of that flow.

As Lyndie and I were driving home from Scotland yesterday after visiting Roslyn Chapel again (I lingered longer in the crypt this time), I felt like I was just some non-specific force of Nature; pouring benign energy out into the hills. Until then I’d always felt I was directing my zaps. To help those I knew needed it. I had some say in where the healing flowed, and who could benefit.

I pondered over what this new wrinkle might indicate. A tree in the forest is a center of peace, but doesn’t get all anxiety-ridden over where he should be sending that peace. He is just doing what he is. Winds are forces of Nature, but don’t question whom they should be blowing on, and where they should be blowing him.

Now I can offer my help to unseen spiritual beings generally, without specifically addressing Jesus, or Sai, or some other great Master. I don’t have to know whom I’m praying to. If I want to be of service, my ego should not set terms and limitations on that. I want to be there if needed, as needed, in every moment – Period.

The very best, most real, most powerful part of this world is definitely not the physical and temporal. I fought for so long to deny the strange spooky things that happen to me; the things I can do; all those seeming miracles and miracle workers. I wanted logical, acceptable, scientific explanations. – Or, failing that, at least to believe it was only my imagination. I fought my Higher Self back for decades that way!

I finally let go of those levels of denial. I opened more fully to what truly is.

So then I thrilled to all those people re-assuring me that they had indeed seen me, quite clearly, materialize and disappear when I’d traveled out of body to their hospital rooms. I’d ache, and fall back into self-doubt if they didn’t write or call right away, unsolicited, or if I had to prompt it out of them.

I no longer need to hear these long distance pats on the back.

In the end, it is all about letting go. About trusting in the caring guidance of powers and wisdom infinitely beyond the reaches of your own. So why not let myself be that force of nature without asking questions?

When we feel ourselves radiating as healers; as powerful Centers of Light; is there still a part of us that wants to hold back? Telling ourselves that Spiritual Brilliance is for other Beings; much Greater Beings?  That we’re nobody, and we’re just fooling ourselves? Could that just be buckling under to old, outmoded paradigms; thinking we are still that little kid, hanging onto the coattails of bigger, more significant folks? When is it finally time to let go? To stand up and be, and to do, what we were put here for?

As one of those transcended beings once told me, if we hide behind walls we’re ready to break free of, we may be hurting more than ourselves. There are people out there praying for help. Why deny them what we’re able to share?

There must always be those of a nature to doubt. There must also be gullible folk, believing too much and too readily. Ranged between are the true seekers, pilgrims heading homeward into the heart of that Infinite Other.

These would do well to feed both their doubts, and their wonder.

The very best questions don’t lead to answers. They lead to deeper questions.

The joy of learning never fades. It is only the schools that fall behind us.

I have traveled far, and seen many things; in spirit, or merely in body.

Now, wherever I am feels foreign to me, but everywhere I go, I am home.

Returning to Spirit.

Just settling myself back into the forest today, catching only moments & wisps of The Stillness. Am finding bits of quiet, but not the stillness that would show I am opening to Spirit again. 7 months running around among mortals, in many countries, doing stuff. I can appreciate how hard it is for folks to find their deepest selves & truths, even once they have already known and embraced them.
This personality and history, Bob Fahey; this life; this world; all the stuff he needs to do to keep his body alive on this planet … It is all just STUFF. That which I was before this person was born, and which I will continue to be once it’s gone – That is what I want to return to, embrace fully and clearly.
But first I must feel The Stillness again.

Falling through the bottom.

If my life shows anything, it’s that no matter how lost you may feel in your deepest pits of depression, you can always be led to something Higher.  In fact sometimes it seems you may have to fall through the bottom before you can rise to your true heights. Sometimes you have to be consumed by your own darkness before you can find that tiny light to lead you out. Or maybe I should say before it can find you; before you are ready to let it in. You can be guided out of any mess into something clearer.

I’m not of course recommending any of this as a path to enlightenment, but it doesn’t cut you off from it either. You don’t have to be a vegan yogi living in isolation on barren steppes somewhere hidden from the world, and from life. You can get drunk, have sex, get angry, hate God and His world, and still find Him.

God, or whatever you choose to call Him, Her, It, That, Them.

Or nothing. Maybe it isn’t God you are finding, but your deepest, highest, vastest, truest self. Which may be the same thing as God.

Friends want to drag you into their darkness

Aside

The universe is based on contrasts: yin & yang / for every action there is a reaction. The world of spirit is no exception. For each teacher trying to lead us toward light there will be another slinging darkness. When we find ourselves dancing in joy we will find friends crowding nearer who want to drag us into their fears, angers, and disillusionment. When we lose ourselves in beauty, others will remind us of ugliness. As our lives fill with magic and wonder, there will always be those trying to beat these away from us with factoids and rumors, with scientific counter-references and left brain limitations.

I picture a dog in a storm outside a large comfortable mansion. He is standing at the door, barking and howling as the masters snuggle inside by the fireplace, dry and warm and feeling wonderful.

They go to the door to let the pooch in, but he won’t budge. He hasn’t been barking for them to let him in; he’s been trying to get them to come outside and share his misery, to join him in this horrible deluge.

So they walk back in to sit again by the fire, to snuggle up in the golden warmth, as he goes back to yapping in the darkness.

We can never rise unless we fall

Aside

Doubt and denial seem to be an important part of spiritual development. Tales are told in most if not all religious traditions about those who deny, and who, other than Judas, lived to recant. Look also at stories of Christian and other martyrs, of Sai Baba, HPB, et al. Where there is a Light Bearer there must be those trying to drag us back into the darkness where they are more comfortable. Where there is purity, folks will sling mud. It seems to be one of the basic and undeniable, unavoidable rules of the universe. Like Yin & Yang, like there can be no up without a down to compare it to. Where there are those trying, we will find those falling short. “Seek & you will find”? Sure. But only if you are willing to get lost so many times that you have felt like giving up. “Knock & it shall be opened”? Maybe. But sometimes it will be the wrong door.
But the light is in there; and someday, you will get all the way home, only to realize that even when failing, even in your very darkness moments, you actually had been there all the time.

When should doctors let us go?

Aside

Beyond a certain point, however well meaning, the medical staff may be merely keeping the physical structure alive, not the person in it. They may be keeping the soul trapped there, hibernating, when it actually wants to live, to reach out and thrive; just not in this body any more.

How many steps along the path?

Aside

Imprisoning oneself inside his own history; inside what he has always believed, what folks around him believe and proclaim; can’t reach very far into deep, pure, meaningful understanding. Learning to observe carefully with his senses, and to do so objectively, carries him much further in. Scientific understanding could conceivably carry him further still, and then deep spiritual attunement even deeper. But he doesn’t get there by taking any one single step; he doesn’t reach deepest knowing by locking himself into one level.
He gets there by letting go of it all.

In dark times, must we fight for Spirit?

Aside

These are troubling times for the Deep of Spirit, but we have our forebears even here. Did KH and M ignore the political heavings and machinations of the London Lodge? Did HPB fight with Garibaldi? Did Annie Besant never take a political stand, nor her friend, Mahatma Gandhi? Would the good Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King want to be forced to choose between being a man of spirit OR a political activist? And from my readings of the Bhagavad Gita, I did NOT get that Krishna was telling Arjuna, “Okay, buddy; you just sit this one out. Go back and meditate under that tree in that field; maybe if you OMMMMM loud enough you won’t hear the cries of pain and the clashing of the armor.  Let these lesser yokels fight amongst themselves. You’re on the path now; don’t soil your hands.”

Being the Light.

Aside

Years ago my other-worldly connections shifted dramatically. I could sometimes feel myself traveling to a hospital or sickroom somewhere to assist in the healing, and would get unsolicited confirmation later that day. Or I might radiate general Light to all beings; I might feel myself a radiant sun on high, shining down onto all beings, onto and through the planet itself. Or I might for a while enjoy the Bliss of Humility, and just receive for a while. Then I went through a long period of time when I just felt part of the woods I live in, part of the world’s peace.

This troubled me when I read the masters’ letters and they spoke of being there for poor orphan humanity. A dear and knowing theosophist / psychologist friend, Dr. Barbara Hebert, told me I was a radiating center of peace and that this was a good thing, but I had trouble agreeing with her that this was enough.

It sure felt good, though. It felt natural, and healing, and right.

I had some cancer spots for years that bled and hurt all over my back and shoulders and Lynden suggested, “Well, you send all this healing all over the planet and beyond, why don’t you just redirect some through yourself?” – Well. I have to admit that had never occurred to me. So I sat and drew down the healing forces, pulling them through me. The cancer went away and I apparently set about getting ready for the next stage.

I headed off for England where I came into contact with lingering spirits in ancient monasteries and graveyards; stone circles and centers of magic; pieces of the true cross, bones of apostles, the robe of St. Francis …. And it was like my molecules were changing. I was losing my sense of physical presence. Lynden and I were sick for months and I stayed home. The winter broke records and I stayed inside. I got a devastating earache and deafness in Italy, and I could hardly have felt any more isolated.

As I healed from this, it was as though I was now in a very different body than the one I’d felt the pain through. In recent weeks I have been constantly buzzing in some other-worldly kinda way. I have never been good with numbers, but now I seem to have no connection at all. If I just make the slightest shift from paying attention to my surroundings, I feel the flow of healing pouring through for all; and I am a part of that flow. Shortly after that, for some reason, I desperately need a nap.

As Lyndie and I were coming home from Scotland yesterday, after visiting Roslyn Chapel again (I spent a lot of time in the crypt below it this time), I felt like I was just some non-specific force of Nature, just pouring some benign energy out into the hills.

I pondered over what that might mean. A tree in the forest is a center of peace, but doesn’t get all anxiety-ridden over where he should be sending that peace. He is just doing what he is. Winds are forces of Nature, but don’t question whom they should be seeking out to blow upon, and where they should be blowing him.

There is a picture on Lynden’s altar which we think was supposed to be KH, but I have never believed they looked like their pictures in real life. I can see why they would not correct this, because having too many normal people focusing on them could disrupt their work on other planes, so I just see these as pictures of generic mahatmas that I could make use of however I will. If I am in a place of gentle loving peace and wish to grow more so, I can see this drawing as KH. If I am kneeling there with Sword Ganesha in my hands, in a mood to bust through the blockages and the darkness, I can see this as M. I can use this to offer myself to guides and spiritual teachers generally and ask to be an extension of their work into the world I inhabit, without having any idea whom I am praying to. I may or may not be a student of some great teacher, but that question doesn’t bother me. I want to be there if needed, as needed, in every moment.

Period.

I no longer need feedback. I don’t need the ego trip of people re-assuring me that I had indeed helped them. Spreading peace and joy is a good thing, and if more is needed of me, doing that will keep those channels open.

If I hold too specific a picture when wishing to contact a particular master, I am limiting him, and my access to him, to what I have imagined him to be.

If he offers some teaching or challenge, I have already opened one particular doorway for that gift to come in through, and by golly it had danged well better fit through that tiny and very specific portal. Unseen teachers can only reveal whom they are to the extent that I can let go of whom I am expecting them to be.

And in the end, isn’t it really all about letting go?

Why should I feel bad for feeling this good; even if I don’t know how, or if, I might be helping others? Why not just trust? Let myself be that force of nature, even if it is a Force of a Higher Nature I can’t see or be thanked by?

It feels good. It feels powerful. It feels completely and totally right.

I guess I can be okay with that.