Healing others can’t be forced.

We may call upon angelic presences to help us offer healing to someone in great pain or need. But often then we block their help by getting too willful. When we say we want such and such a result; we want their cancer removed, want their marriage issues resolved, we are coming from ego. We cannot know what the root problem is, or what results might constitute true and deepest healing.

Just wish them the best from a clear space within your soul, then get out of the way.

You do need to focus, to project with clear intent; but you cannot kill out their karma and wrestle what you want for them out of the inevitable.

– Another point: We call upon angels to help us when we are determined to help other humans or animals. But how often do we ask angels if there is any way we can help them?

Quoting myself.

I tend to stick quotes in my books. Often just quoting myself. Thought I’d get away without doing that this time. But then this morning they started bubbling up out of the ethers, or wherever such ideas come from.

Oh, well; here we go again:

Whatever lies behind, stays behind.

Whatever lies ahead, so be it.

This moment now is forever.

I embrace it with all of my being.

You have become what you are through countless lives and lessons.

There is something you can offer others

if only working on your self-discipline, fighting your own baser urges.

Do that, then.

Do what is offered. Learn and grow as you can.

That in itself is service.

I don’t like calling it “God”.

That leaves you hassling over He, She, or It; and who’s it most look like?

“Powers-that-be” works for me.

But I really like calling it that vast “So much more!”

I guess I still believe in coincidence.

But only for everyday folks.

Once you step fully into your Quest for Spirit, though,

commit to it with all of your being,

your whole life becomes a mesh of synchronized miracles.

You can’t call that coincidence anymore.

Being yourself IS spiritual.

I don’t need to follow some ethereal checklist, take on some pre-designated persona in order to attract the attention of the masters, maybe even hope they might accept me into their service. M wasn’t KH; there is no standard persona. Why would I want to be muddling up their energy fields before I’m ready anyway? And why would they want anyone pretending to be what he isn’t?
Be who you are honestly and fully. But keep in mind the classic motivations for everything you do; like service to humanity, defending the weak, standing up against the abusive, and being the best you can be (whatever that is). If you screw up or fall short, face it honestly and make amends.
Be you.
But be it fully, and for the right reasons.

Love battling death.

My niece just asked me to sum up “The Mourning After” in a sentence or two. How’s this?: It’s a moving and mystical tale about a connection so deep, a romance so strong, the lovers have to battle the forces of tragedy and death to stay together.

Watching talismans disintegrate from your altar, are you disappointed? DO you miss them? Maybe you shouldn’t.

For every object or bottle of holy water I got for our talismans bag, my object was always to bless it, fill it with healing and spiritual power, and then pass it along to someone who needed it (when that time came, which I trusted would not be soon).
Well, you remember how I used to know full well whom I was sending healing energies to; there was definite and clear internationality to the process. I sat down, went into my eerie place, zeroed in on someone, and zapped her.- Then I went through a personally troubling time when I couldn’t feel or direct that anymore. I needed to let go of any shadow of ego; just trust that the powers that be would use me as needed.
The healings continued, but I wasn’t allowed to see any spooky spreadsheet of who was being helped; how, when, and where.
Perhaps I am going through more of that now as one-by-one my favorite personal talismans disintegrate from the altar. I’ve lost four of them, one at a time, in recent weeks.
One was returned to me, but only after Lyndie and I stopped what we were doing, to sit side by side until we had sorted through to some of the metaphysical underpinnings of its disappearance.
It came back, minutes later, on the other side of town, and under very strange circumstances.
Perhaps “my” treasured relics and talismans are being sent to those in need; fulfilling my wishes and intentions, but without the ego boost of me having any say or choice in the matter.
That does seem to be the trend of the lessons at the moment. Wanting anything to go a particular way comes from ego.
I really need to let go of that.

Spirit centers we touch, then carry away within us.

I have filled my life with miracles, healings, and amazing spiritual moments. With wonder and magic.
But some parts of me will forever be alive in key moments and places that have blended with my very molecules and energies until they and I have become one form together; one single shared life.
I will always be alive in the magic of those whispering wee morning hours of that desert we camped in, buried deep in the bowels of Mexico.
I will always be in Cartmel Priory in England; and Cartmel will always be in me.
I will forever be holding the robe of St. Francis in Italy, and he will be wherever I am.
I will always have the letters of the Mahatmas in my hands, under my fingers, in my heart. My finger oils, energies, and love, will always be blending there with those of HPB, Olcott, every great theosophist, and the Masters themselves.
I will always be in Rosslyn Chapel, in Scotland.
Dora Kunz and John Coats have loved me, and I have loved them. Dora and Sai dance to me through the fields and the forests, to greet me when I climb out of bed each day.
I don’t say “I” anymore; I say “We”. I am so much more than one man in one place.
I can’t describe it. It just is. And I love it beyond all description.

“The Gardens of Ailana”

Aside

Sylva was holding her hand up in awe. A child of four, she was hardly even talking yet, but there was a good possibility this was intentional. Garden creatures understood her well enough.

She was watching a fat, fuzzy bee with golden stripes saunter across her upturned hand, trailing pollen along her palm, to the delight of her tiny companion, Renn.

Renn, all of six years of age, was Syl’s older brother, though it didn’t always feel that way. He trailed her through adventures into bright, spirited loveliness and sheer joy, asking questions, and hearing answers that often neither of them actually said aloud. In the world they inhabited, most beings didn’t speak. In that world, it wasn’t really necessary.

“Does he tickle, Syl?” he asked, though, because sometimes feelings have to be expressed.

He probably could have coaxed a bee of his own onto his own hand, but he loved watching his little sister’s eyes, sharing her delight.

“Petelmeyer,” she told him, answering the next question he was getting ready to ask. “We have decided to name this bee, Petelmeyer,” and it sounded like she was getting ready to knight it.

The tiny thing couldn’t kneel, since its legs hadn’t been assembled that way, but Petelmeyer he became then, and Petelmeyer he stayed.

As though she had commanded him to rise and assume his new duties in the Kingdom of Nature, he lifted up into soft garden breezes, touched her fingertip, and bowed away.

His realm called to him. He had duties to attend to in a nearby patch of strawberries.

The children giggled.

For some people, gardens come alive with the sunrise, with that first kiss of color, and warmth.

For others, they’re at their best in the darkness, when true magic is everywhere.

For these two, Ailana’s Gardens were always miraculous; they carried the magic around with them.

Sylvie was a wind-tossed child with scrambled hair. She would never wear a hat because there was no way she could keep it on, and just couldn’t be bothered. She had similar problems with shoes that tied, so she went everywhere barefoot or in boots. One couldn’t imagine her without a smudge on her face. Ailana called her Flitter.

She was a child born with wide open eyes who didn’t need to be told what she saw. Sometimes she played Peekaboo in the middle of a field, when there didn’t appear to be anyone with her, but no one really questioned her on it; few even chalked it off to imagination; they knew she saw deeper than they could.

Some thought she was late starting to speak because she was a slow learner, but those who knew her well suspected she’d been born with very little left to learn.

Visitors to the garden heard rumors that she wasn’t a normal human child at all. That she may have been more of a nature spirit, taking on human form for only this one lifetime.

What others thought and said about her, though, didn’t stir any interest at all. She didn’t think about people much. They were mere passing curiosities; just as they were to most fairies, tree spirits, and forest sylphs.

Her hippy parents may have sensed some of this from the beginning. This may have been why they’d named her Sylva.

As Petelmeyer plied the short green fields of berries, Sylva shared the gift of the pollen he’d left behind with her brother. Delicately pressing the fingertip the bee had kissed into a spot of golden powder on her palm, she touched that to the center of Renn’s forehead, just above his eyebrows.

She repeated that ceremony on her own.

Neither spoke.

One tree very near them whispered a quiet, contented croak. Sylv croaked back.

Sunbeams glistened off the wings of a dragonfly in subdued hints of purple, then green, or maybe red. Renn wondered just how many colors there were.

“God sings through the flowers, you know,” Sylva said, “Only you don’t hear him with any part of your head.”

Renn sort of knew what she was saying.

When Ailana came by later, she found the little girl standing over a dead rabbit. Her brother had wandered away. A child down the street had just died. He didn’t know how to process that, and didn’t think he really wanted to, so he just left her alone with the still form of the bunny.

Ailana said nothing. She just stood there with Sylvie, offering blessings of her own.

It was a while before Sylva spoke. She quite often didn’t, but when she did have something to say, it was worth fully listening to.

Now she told Ailana, “It is sad some things die, but it isn’t. The part we see with our outside eyes just stops moving is all. But the shiny part can play better then, because it doesn’t have to stay close to the ground anymore.”

Ailana smiled, and said nothing.

Sylvie much preferred people stay silent when there was so obviously nothing more to say.

– A character I’m creating within my new novel, “The Gardens of Ailana.”

Living stories that breathe beyond the book covers.

I am dearly touched by all who have read “The Mourning After” several times. When you so passionately share with me how much more you get out of it each time, how it draws you in deeper, comes more alive, I see that it is more than just a gathering of words. It has a heart. It breathes. It calls to us from inside, drawing us in through our dreaming.

Being love; not needing love.

“The most important aspect of love is not in giving or the receiving: it’s in the being. When I need love from others, or need to give love to others, I’m caught in an unstable situation. Being in love, rather than giving or taking love, is the only thing that provides stability. Being in love means seeing the Beloved all around me.” 
-Ram Dass

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.

Request for my healer friends.

While developing my new novels about hurting people growing into healers, I’m also interested in key moments that really meant something as you developed your sensitivities through Therapeutic Touch, or some other Laying on of Hands type interface. Was there a time when you were riddled with self-doubt, but then it all changed? Perhaps one key interaction when you could no longer deny that you were having an effect; your client was definitely responding and you could no longer tell yourself if was just your imagination, or your client’s own wish fulfillment? Did your growing sensitivities start to affect your outside life as well? Did your life start filling and thrilling with amazing, and helpful synchronicity and “coincidences”? Did people start telling you that you had been showing up in their dreams? Did you believe them?

While partnered up to assess a client, did you see a color some time where your partner on the other side felt a temperature shift? How did you discuss that; how did you rectify the two? Do you feel it anywhere else than in your hands?

As I write these scenes I will have a number of people exploring and growing from such experiences. I’d like to explore how these things hit different people in different ways; particularly how it changes them inside, and how their lives change as they do. These healing and revealing processes don’t have to have come from formal training. Perhaps some traumatic or special event brought them on. Maybe they just started up spontaneously.

Anyone care to share? You can always private message me, you know.

I’m also thinking about including someone who keeps praising Jesus, but not in any crazy fundie “Our guy is the only guy and the rest of you suck” kinda way. I want her to show what his real teachings really offered as she works alongside those of other faiths or none at all. She won’t be central, but I may put her in.

Lots of ideas popping in this tale of healers being themselves healed; care to contribute any of your own? As Mickey Rooney might say, “Hey, kids; my dad’s got a barn! Let’s write a novel!”

What do you feel when in Healing mode?

The new book I’m now writing is basically a story based on my own experiences, but maybe some of you can offer your own. You know how as you develop yourselves as healers, you seem to dissolve, to be less aware of your physical form? Particularly, I suppose, if you travel long distances out-of-body to help. As you become more aware of the part you play in the vastness, you feel less stuck in your body. Death is just as comfortable as life, and some of those walls fall away. So this story is about a healer who identifies less and less with her little self; and so after her body dies, she just steps out of it. Keeps right on healing. People find her garden is haunted, but not in a scary way, and ever more people come to her for help. – I would be happy to hear your own stories of feeling less dense, more ethereal in your highest moments, if these are not too personal to share.
Thank you in advance.

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.

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.

Sharing spirit experiences so intimate and powerful they hurt.

It seems as though one of the lessons I am due to learn, or anticipate, is that Pearls Before Swine thing. I am back in the American south among rednecks again. I expect the local gossip to show up any moment and ply me with questions about my trip to then garble as he talks about me to the neighbors.
How can I (though the big question, really, is SHOULD I?) explain how it changed me to hold the Mahatma Letters for hours in The British Library. I feel my heart squirming every time I even try to generalize about who and what the masters are, even to other theosophists; I do not want to cast these pearls here, before these folks. Spending so much time with the robe of St. Francis. Touching a pillar Jesus may have leaned against as he taught, and another one swarming with ancient passions outside a monastery in Ireland. That poor hurting child who’d been abandoned to the plague under the streets of Edinburgh and how she cried for us to love her. So many such memories have changed me so radically, and upped my sensitivities to the point where I don’t even want to go out among the people here, let alone try to share what the trip really has been for me.

They have changed me, though, as I begin my next novel, and discover that “The Mourning After” may have been just the first in a series of stories bringing ancient truths to a changing world hungry for them in tales even common folks can enjoy. So these changes in me will be shared. But I wonder just how much I should post on Facebook, or try to summarize and simplify for those who really aren’t interested anyway; they are just making small talk.
This isn’t small talk for me. And some things cannot be shared. Others shouldn’t be.
This is very hard and hurtful for me to try to sort through.

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.

Great teachers don’t tell you what to do.

Great spiritual teachers know not to take on other people’s karma. They don’t command or demand. If I tell you to tithe 10% of your income to the church, but then you don’t use your head, and do it even as your children starve, then I am partly responsible for their ill health. If I rail against abortion doctors and then you go out and blow up a hospital, that is partly my fault. A great teacher won’t tell you that you absolutely MUST do this, that you MUST believe that. A great teacher simply points, offers his own life as an example, and shows you love. You can follow, or not, even find your own way, and he will love you.

A great teacher is first and foremost a kind person and a caring soul.

Are miracles supernatural?

Do I believe in miracles? No, not really. Do I believe that there have been, and are, great teachers and developed human beings who have raised others from the dead, multiplied food stores, pulled objects out of nothingness, and travelled long distances out of body? Absolutely. But I don’t see these things as miracles. There are many laws of Nature that science has not yet discovered, categorized, and mapped out in mathematical formulae. But they are still laws of Nature. Some metaphysicians have been able to work with them just as you and I work with gravity when we stand up or sit down. Just because they are outside what science recognizes doesn’t make them unnatural. And, since they are natural, and since those who make use of them are staying within natural laws, then I don’t see such things as being miracles.