Energy can be defined many ways. Are photons real, or illusory/mayavic? Gamma rays? Radio waves? – Physical bodies and structures are composed of energy forms that are composed of subtler energy forms which are composed of subtler … Each can be called energy. – But at the core of it all; the central essence of it all is ultimately undefinable because in defining and labeling something we are confining it within the parameters of our definition. Of our interpretation in that moment. In confining it we are limiting it. But that ultimate essence is beyond limitations. It will always be more than we say it is by being less (subtler than we can picture). We can bask in our oneness with it, we can know it, but we can not define it. Whereas we can define, control, and confine some forms of energy. – And yet I myself refer to that which pulses and flows through all of it as “energy” because I have no other word which will suffice. In calling it energy I am limiting my description, but not the essence.
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.
Like · Comment ·
“Forgiveness doesn’t make one person better, or the other guy smaller. Forgiving is just letting go. It’s turning back toward being what we really are.” – From “The Gardens of Ailana” handbook for healers & mystics
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
Edward Fahey Returns with a New Novel
Sapphire author, Edward Fahey will present his third novel on Friday, May 22nd at 6:30 p.m. The Gardens of Ailana explores the metaphysical, the idea that there are places on this planet not confined to the logic of men or limitations of science. In this modern-day fictional tale, four people with very different backgrounds, each scarred by a horrific childhood, meet at a place of healing where one’s most crippling darkness must be faced down. In the rubble of their lives and broken spirits they learn that in their weaknesses lie their most profound strengths. In their festering wounds they find hope. In The Gardens of Ailana we see through the souls of mystics, experience laying-on-of-hands from the healer’s point of view. Feel at home among wonders and magic. Fahey says of The Gardens of Ailana, “This is the book others have been laying the groundwork for and building towards.” Novelist and teacher, Fahey spent his life hunting magic, seeking out the other sides of reality. His previous novels are Mourning After and Entertaining Naked People. To reserve any of his books please call City Lights Bookstore at 828-586-9499.
Friday, May 22, 2015 – 6:30pm
3 E Jackson St.
Sylva, NC 28779
A person of deep and guiding spirit is still human. She loses her keys. She forgets your name, the password to her account, and sometimes her own phone number. Even the Highest among us aren’t always so high.
But at these times we can see how we’re not really so very different. We can identify; we with them, and they with us.
And if we are alike in form, couldn’t that offer us some hope that we can reach the same heights in spirit; the same depths of truth; the same richness and meaning for our own lives?
Even those sometimes guided by higher beings still; by great spirits unseen but adored; might have times when they can’t quite connect. Maybe they just don’t feel so lost when it happens. Because they have been there and know it as home.
– Those of you who know me know that I tend to write several books at once. This morning I hoped to get something of my internet-centered novel, “I Am!”. Instead I got the above stirrings of what could be an intro for “Tackling Clara”; a collection of anecdotes from the lives of Dora Kunz and other spiritual teachers.
This outer world, our day-to-day lives, can be very distracting. They buffet our minds, emotions, and senses. We let things that happen to us form experiential sores; existential callouses.
As we pick at these, our surface grows tougher. We are less sensitive where we’ve been scarred.
Then we learn that there is a deeper life; we don’t need our toughness and scars anymore. That which grinds away our surface can free our core. As it polishes away the outer shell, the hull, the pod; we find our souls pulsing inside.
– From “The Gardens of Ailana” handbook for mystics & healers
I have known my work is “Literary Fiction” in that every word counts, and the characters are rich, multi-layered, complex. It is “Magic Realism” in that it reads as though this is just an everyday story while making laying-on-of-hands, reincarnation and such clearly part of that reality, and relevant to our strained and challenging modern lives. But now with the sub-genre “Visionary Fiction” I get the rest of it. Ancient principles and teachings shared without preaching. Powerful emphasis on the limitless potential each has for growth and transformation. These are the bases for every one of my novels. It is all there now. Thank you so much for this new discovery, Ellis Nelson.
When someone special appears, bringing Light to mankind there will always be there slinging mud on it.
But you can’t throw mud on Light; it will just fall through. The Light will still shine while the mud lies inert on the ground, and someone will be left standing there with dirt on his hands.
Quoting HPB or anyone else when exploring matters of spirit, we might not want to take them as ultimate authority. To almost reverence her for connections to great masters of the wisdom who themselves didn’t want to be reverenced. Our most usable insights come from within. At the end of any answer from a great teacher we should hear a little “hook,” as though s/he is asking us, “What insights does that set off in you?”
Great masters point and guide. They know your answers can and should be accessed through your own soul and experiences. If you are simply researching and quoting texts for answers, then your are still knocking on doors.
I keep hearing that so-and-so did something pretty nasty, or selfish “for a theosophist”. But to be a theosophist is to have a hunger to know and grow into whatever is Higher, Deeper, and Eternal. It doesn’t mean we’re already there. Not one of us starts out as a fully-fledged and evolved Master of the Wisdom. We each of us start out from somewhere challenging.
Even once we are nicely along the path, it would help to see that we are team-mates in some Higher Work of service to humanity, but that we may still have personality issues to work through.
We’d do well to keep in mind that we each walk a separate path toward enlightenment, and that each has its own unique potholes and cul-de-sacs. Let us honor each other for working our ways past them however we manage to do so, and however muddy we may get our boots along the way.
People come to me with questions regarding theosophy and spirit. I reach beyond myself to respond. To meet their needs I seek beyond what I know, and it comes. I tap open or bring through Insights and Wisdom that deepens my own understanding as well.
In the discussion she who queries may find her own bright understanding to offer as well. This too deepens and enriches what I have learned about Spirit.
As these others grow in Wisdom, others are drawn to them with their own curiosity and questions. I learn from the points-of-view and life experiences of each.
There seems to be no single locked down and strictly delineated set of facts out there beyond the physical. We each modify and develop the Universal Light as we express it through our lives; through deep understanding and caring for others. We become the deeper truths through our very Beings. The deepest wisdom grows as we grow.
“The Gardens of Ailana”
A pilgrimage toward redemption, and forgiveness.
You can recover your innocence.
“Guess we all have our moments when we don’t look at reality quite head on. See things through our ‘I’m no good and I can’t do this’ state of mind. We might read it as ‘She hates me,’ or ‘This’ll never work,’ but what we’re really doin’ is givin’ up on ourselves.” …
… “So you’re sayin’ we just make peace with everyone who’s ever screwed us.”
Paulette reached into her own past to tell her, “We make peace with ourselves. They just come along for the ride.”
Sometimes, when the vastness pours everywhere and I am merely part of it, following inspiration, following each moment, it is so hard to find nouns or pronouns to describe what the body is doing. IT is eating? WE are writing? I am down by the lake? THIS BRAIN is tired?
Flow should really be a pseudo-personal pronoun. FLOW is sharing thoughts with the world.
I am absolutely amazed at the wisdom, deep truth, and heavy duty teachings in “The Gardens of Ailana”! I find insights I have never seen any philosopher or great spiritual teacher even hint at before! (And I hate using exclamation points) Every day it all just pours through – a thousand words or more in a couple of hours – and I am learning so much from each scene and passage. I feel like I am READING each chapter, not writing it.
I am so very, very grateful for these teachings
Will be doing a reading from “The Mourning After” (and perhaps from my new book, “The Gardens of Ailana”) at the Quest Bookshop in New York City on Sunday, May 11th.
Now that “The Mourning After” has entered that stage where folks buy it from stores and the internet, and I rarely know any of these new readers; I really want to pause once again in fondness for those who have loved her. I especially want to thank, deeply and sincerely, those of you who have loved her enough to tell friends and family.
As she wandered back to her cabin, searching for any fond memories she might have buried from her childhood, light faded everywhere around her.
How about the coloring? Children enjoy coloring, how about that? She’d spent so many hours and days on her art. It was as close as she could remember to having her Mamma stand over her with anything even remotely resembling approval. Her books and comics could be tales of Jesus, but coloring books had to be Old Testament because “No child’s impure hand could touch a crayon to the sweet beautiful face of our lord and savior Jesus Christ.”
So the little girl had scrunched down over Daniel in the lion’s den. Samson, screaming, being blinded with daggers and torches. The redder she made the flowing wounds of a man of God shot full of arrows, or stoned to death, the richer the flames of three men being burned in a box, the longer mamma let her stay out of that closet.
But the men still came. Mamma had no say over that. The Cleansers from the church had to step in as her father, since women were weak and needed men to set them straight. Mamma had done the unmentionable, and that sin must be cleansed from the girl child.
Paulette had fought so hard not to hum while she colored, since music was sinful. Now she fought to lock that vision back into its box. It was as close as she came to a happy childhood memory, but even this one gnawed away at her insides.
As that long night of deepening terrors took hold, her room grew colder. The trees outside began to quiver, then wail. The winds rose up, gathering the darkness in around them.
She heard rivers running everywhere, whitewater roaring far off.
But it was only those ominous winds, scraping and clawing through long-dried leaves that should have been left to lie still, and die quietly.
– From today’s chapter of “The Gardens of Ailana”
“What do you think we should call you?” little Sylva asked.
“Do I have to have a name?”
“Most people seem to think so. I think they’d get lost if they didn’t have their names. People don’t usually know who they really are, but they do like to pretend.”
“People think they need a lot of things they’d be better off without.”
“That’s what my mom says, but I’m still figuring on that one.”
“Want a little help?”
“No, I think I’ll just let my brain have it for a while; I’ve got other things to do.”
Some very brief bit, only one or two short, very mildy distracting lines goes here.
“What do you like to eat?” Sylva, lost in her pondering, was all seriousness now.
“I like strawberries.”
“No, that’d be a dumb name.”
“How about calling me Cuthbert?”
“Now you are just being silly. Pay attention. This is important business. People don’t come here and leave here the same, so they should get a new name while they’re here.”
“Okay, I can see that,” he said. “So what’s your brother’s new name? Or is Renn his new name?”
“Renn doesn’t need a new name; he was born here. Only the pretending people need real names when they stop pretending so much. But some people leave and they still don’t know who they are, so I don’t name them.”
“Aren’t you the girl people told me doesn’t talk very much? Guess they didn’t know you very well.”
“Good point,” she said. So then she went back to thinking again.
As they studied the land around them it seemed indecisive, uncertain. It hadn’t yet made up its mind. Was it spring now, or had winter merely blinked? Were some patches of ivy brown, brittle, dried out and returning to soil; or were they looking for a bit of their green again? Had they given up, or would they once again decide to live? Was that which had been there last year coming back, or had they seen the last of it?
“Y’know, people really should listen to children,” she told him.
“I’m beginning to find that out.”
“But not when we’re just being children.”
“Okay, now that’s something I’ll have to think about.”
“It’s good to give each other stuff to think.
“But you don’t wanna make a whole lotta noise when you’re doing it.”
“You mean like talking?” he asked.
“And other stuff. Like eating corn chips.”
He started to write on one of his special lumpy papers. She saw him holding a pencil he hadn’t had before, but hadn’t seen how he’d opened his box. She decided she would just have to start observing harder.
She thought she’d give him something to write.
“You know you can’t pet a stumblebee on the back while he’s flying because that’s where his flying parts are, and that’s why they stumble.”
“Ah, yes. That would be so,” he replied.
“You don’t really scare them when you try to, but they would ‘Really rather you would stop doing that!’ ”
And then she was quiet again. That had been a lot of talking for her. She didn’t usually pay any attention to grownups because most grownups didn’t know very much.
This one was different.
Besides, he was fun to watch because his light went out farther when he thought about people.
It didn’t shrink in and get all hard like that crippled lady’s used to. You could hardly call hers light at all.
“I think I’ll name you Mica,” she told him, “Because you’re all shiny.”
“Mica. I like that. Thank you.”
“Mica it is. I am now Mica.”
“You are Mica, the Shiny One.”
At end of day, Paulette sat with Ailana on the porch, unwinding from her day of exploration. She’d been thinking about how much she had learned back at the healing and meditation retreat without even knowing it.
She tried to remind Ailana now of one particularly lasting and memorable lesson. “When you told us to listen to the forest, feel that deep Peace, and take it inside us … Well that just changed me somehow.”
“Except I never said that.”
“It … but … You didn’t?”
“Why would I tell you to take peace inside you? It’s already there. All you needed was to find it. I told you to feel it inside you, not take it there.”
– From my new novel-in-progress, “The Gardens of Ailana”.
Digging through lies you created to hide your True Self,
you may find God.
Or something much better.
An instant spray of sparkle spat outward across the pond.
Gentle footprints of ripple wavered, dissolved, fading away to rich green stillness. All the world was ripening, finding its form, as the scent of new birth hid in breezes.
Paulette poked through the rubble left by long years of misconceptions she had once built her life on. By water’s edge she kicked through the jetsam of defensiveness she no longer need. Budding here and there throughout the wreckage she found the delicate florets of long-hidden kindnesses, just now peeking out through deep shadows.
Harve felt caught up in a web of lies the world really wanted, even needed to believe. They told him to his face, announced in banner headlines, that their world needed heroes. So in some muddled and disheartened way, he kept climbing into the costume they held out before him.
He couldn’t abandon them now.
Confession would get him nowhere; it would hurt a lot of people.
He was trapped.
And yet here was a woman to whom he had just bared his soul throughout a long night of impassioned weakness, and she seemed to understand. She stood beside him still.
In fact they seem to have connected even more deeply than if he had just stayed Mr. Mystery, or played the hero card.
Throughout this morning they’d been wandering. Heading off originally, each had followed his or her own directions, seemingly at random. Bit by bit their paths had drawn nearer to each other. Now the two new and tentative companions walked together, though not directly side-by-side, and barely talking.
Walking, pausing, reflecting; staring at trees right in front of them, or rocks at their feet, but not truly seeing them. They felt stunned, unnerved; bemused as things seen and unseen fell into new places. Like leaves after a great troubling wind. They felt both drained and refilled; alive with new mysteries and possibilities.
Like newborns, everything was new, bright, wondrous, but confusing. Nothing made sense, and yet they had to learn to trust, their hearts surging everywhere at once. This was a brand new world they knew nothing about.
After long silence between them, Paulette spoke.
“It’s so hard to find out all in one night you’ve built your life on beliefs that were just never true.”
“Tell me about it.”
– From my novel, “The Gardens of Ailana”.
I don’t believe in life after death.
Now you might well ask, “Really? You gotta be kidding me, Oh truly weird one who talks to spirits in graveyards. Why is that, pray tell?”
Because I don’t really believe in death.
A certain fragment of consciousness had inhabited a living form he called his body for a length of time he thought of as a life. – But then what?
The cells and tissues in that form lose their coordinating principle.
They may be broken down and distributed among other living forms like bacteria, microbes, and great gobs of yucky stinky goo, but this is merely life of one form feeding into another. It isn’t lost; it’s redistributed. Even the minerals left behind after those processes move elsewhere can be argued to have some form of slow-moving life in them.
If the body is embalmed and sealed so that no microorganisms can get to it; or if it is cremated; what happens to the life that once flowed through it; where does it go?
Same place it has always been:
Life passes through us; we don’t own it. No chunk of it is ever broken off from the whole; we pass through life as life passes through us. Our birth and death don’t add to or diminish the overall supply.
So what is lost?
The consciousness that moved into that form at birth now rejoins its more immense self; it has not died, and may even return to form again. Nothing has ended; stages of development have shifted; that’s all.
So what is death? A definition imposed by limited minds. A best guess; a conception. Just because doctors have shut the machine off that kept your heart beating doesn’t mean you’re not in that room hugging your loved ones. Is that life after death?
Or just life?