Initial Steps

Strange Happenings

I was a stupid ugly little kid nobody wanted. I was nobody's child.

I stood alone in the hay field and cried. I didn't know why. I was alone in a manner which I could not express nor understand. Even with my brother, the bright outgoing kingpin of my stability, I was alone. It was unfathomable. My four year old mind could not formulate this deepness, this void, nor my heart understand this anguish. I felt haggard and aged, tired. As I dropped to the ground, heavy, burdened, sad, weeping, I felt a Presence. Though no one had ever physically hugged me, I knew this Presence was embracing me. Though I did not know the word, I knew this was love. Though I knew only turmoil, I knew this was peace.

I saw her then- this beautiful Indian woman, her long black hair brushing against my child-face, her eyes luminous with grace. I felt her move within me, about me. I felt protection, and beauty, and gratitude. She said, "The cauldron of fire purifies and strengthens. This path you have chosen is difficult, but perfect. You are the seed sheltered in the winter storm." I had no understanding of what she spoke, but did, for the briefest of moments, know only comfort, calmness, and, yes, strength.

The Life aspect which manifests in all forms- planets, solar systems, suns, humanity, enters and attaches itself in the heart of man, through the sutratma which is not a single cord but an intertwined confluence of life and consciousness, the consciousness attaching itself in the head center.

The blood distributes the force we call Life for regeneration and coordination of the physical form. The brain responds to the consciousness force, activating and controlling the neurological pathways bringing about the awareness of the body to its multiple facets and to the environment through the sensory input. The creative thread (fused with the consciousness thread) is active today in its ability to reframe past-life consciousness into spiritual awareness and overt manasic action. This manasic (mental) action blended with pure intent, desire, and will opens the potential for the eventual building of the rainbow bridge, the antahkarana which will connect from the root chakra up the sushumna to the sutratma and hence to the upper mental plane and through great endeavor on to the Monad. This creates a direct linkage from the physical to the Soul to the Monad. Blessed, indeed, is the one who brings this into manifestation - for the greater Journey has begun.

Death, pain, fear, sorrow, anger, hate-is this truly the lot of the human family? Torture, shame, debilitation, frustration, poverty - is this truly an acceptable premise for us? Greed, despair, inequity, famine, disease - really? Corruption, manipulation, tyranny, tragedy – is this truly our vision, our ideal, our faith? Kill the animals. Kill the air. Kill each other. Kill our children.

War

"Whaddya got there, buddy?"

"Mmmm. ... dead body, I reckon."

"Kinda stiff."

"Yeah, been here a while, I 'spect."

"Whaddya think—bullet, bomb?"

"Dunno."

"Well, one less to fight. Let's saddle up"

"Ambush! Down!"

"Shit, we're in for......."

"Buddy? Buddy?"

The 100 degree heat made it hard to breathe. Six months of this, six months to go. The bullet blew by my head. The RPG was a lot closer.

Train yourself to integrate everything that is useless or is in any way undesirable, for one who continues with unpleasant memories creates over and over for himself similar experiences of misery, or pain, or sorrow. The very thing he is trying to free himself from becomes that which continuously assaults.

When integration is complete, using the tools of forgiveness, forbearance, tolerance, patience and understanding, the emotional body (astral form) is peaceful and comfortable with its environment, powerful and impregnable from outer disturbances. The practice becomes the principle bringing strength and courage and fortitude to move forward.

There were five of them coming closer and closer. The explosions and rifle fire were deafening, disorienting. I was out of ammunition. When the five charged, I rushed at them madly swinging my rifle, crazed, bloodied. The bayonet ripped my side and I tumbled, tumbled. ... They followed. ... (I watched his eyes, as crazed as mine as he plunged the bayonet, oh, so luxuriously into my neck.)

There were five of them coming closer and closer. ...

There were five of them coming. ....

There were five of them. ...

There were five. ...

There were. ....

I'm tired of the nightmares, the scattered remnants of myself dissolving in grief, anger, night after night after. ....

One now came closer. I could see him, smell him. I was sweating, angry, but as he charged, I stood, arms at my side. Something in my eyes made him stop. We looked at each other. He dropped his rifle, came closer. We stood toe to toe, and yes, we cried, together, we cried. We embraced. He dissolved. I dissolved. The nightmare ended, forever.

My tongue is heavy with unspoken words, swollen with the passion to express them. Language as a symbol can only be a marker for a greater voice, the voice of experience, of insight, of perception. The sounding of words, though moving, exact, seeds the listener with ideation or provocative response.

My tongue is heavy with unspoken words. Words formatted out of vision, understanding, the willingness to listen, to heed. The greatest story, the most sublime wisdom of our age, lies not in the construct of language, but in listening; for there is much given beyond words. This is my experience, this story, with words. Beauty is lessened, its meaning diminished by the simple act of writing or speaking. But at this stage of evolvement, before telepathy and sensible empathy, words are the messenger and the message.

Are you musical? Yes, you are. We all carry a tone distinct from all others. I have heard these tones, and they are wonderful to hear, magical in their definition of spiritual potential. So, seeming as you are musical, how would you create a symphony? Here is one way.

Imagine and visualize with clarity and perfect intent a safe world—injury, starvation, disease, torture, war, greed-etc. –gone. Imagine and visualize with clarity and perfect intent a peaceful world, a healthy world, a vibrant energetic you, a compassionate you, a passionate you, a multidimensional you, a balanced you, a harmonious you, a connected you. Extrapolate this 'you' to the rest of humanity. See these aspects in your mind's eye, the depth of your heart. This is your symphony.

Develop clarity of purpose and perfect intent. How do you do this? You may or may not be aware that vibrational changes of higher frequencies are now impacting us all. You may even be aware that these higher vibrational frequencies magnify all 'blockages'- emotional, physical, mental—in all aspects of yourself. These unexpressed, repressed, unprocessed feelings objectify into challenges in the nature of that which you do not relinquish. By becoming more greatly aware and accepting responsibility of the 'you' you perceive yourself to be opens portals to the greater vistas of self.

Any and all negative patterns (hate, vengeance, prejudice, intolerance, bitterness, spite, etc.) will become more greatly amplified until the choices you make (the reality you create) uplifts, rather than condemns or vilifies self and/or others.

The cellular network of the body continuously releases 'images', 'patterns', which direct you into unresolved, unforgiven life situations, partners, events which will keep returning in different guises until they are released by those countervailing perceptions, practices, and choices (forgiveness, tolerance, etc) inherent in spiritual forward movement.

Try this: find opportunity in each and every situation, no matter how dire, to bring forth humor, kindness, patience, love; identify and overcome the challenges which your personal, environmental, and cultural patterning sets forth; hold ever to your spiritual ideal, fomenting ideal into true aspiration and inspiration; be clear in your intent and then objectify that intent. Remember; laughter and humor are great healers. Ennoble your truth; enable your action. Open yourself to possibilities. Build, now, the light body—self-generating, self-replenishing. Truly create 'realities' of your ideal - manifesting multilayered Selfhood.

I had no memory of my mother. She left early on. It didn't really matter. I adjusted to the non-parent anomaly, my father unable financially to raise two young boys. As a foster child things were constantly in flux—six months in one home, a year in another, two months somewhere else, constantly shifting, being the fifth wheel in someone else's family. For a year or so I was in the local orphanage, which in itself was an interesting journey.

Orphanage

The orphanage was a large brick monolith. The younger children were maintained separately from the older children. My brother was in the older group, I in the younger. He and I never saw each other during the full year we were in the orphanage. I would cry at night, wanting so badly just to talk with him. It wasn't to be. I was fighting the demons of loneliness, separation, alienation. Whatever my brother was fighting, in later years became the bottle. Alcoholism would eventually kill him. It almost got me.

On a Thursday afternoon, on a warm summer day Fred and I were tossing a football on the lawn outside the main building of the orphanage. Our young fingers could barely grip the ball, but it felt good just to be outside, to be active. The sun was hot so we moved closer to the shade cast by the building. Fred threw the ball. I missed the catch. The ball tumbled through a first floor window. The sound of the breaking glass, to me, was deafening. I knew it meant trouble. Seemingly instantly the matrons were there, grabbing Fred and I by our ears and marching us into the main office.

"Who did this? Which one of you threw the ball?" Harshly said, harshly heard – there was only silence.

"Who did this? I want an answer now!" A twist of the ear ... from me, no answer ... from Fred. "He did. He threw the ball!"

I was stunned. I had thought of Fred as my friend, my confidante. I thought he was honest. I felt betrayed. It reinforced the edict so prevalent in my first six years of life – trust no one.

I said nothing, only hanging my head with the shame I felt for my friend. In my heart was a cold emptiness and a bitter anger.

"Is this true?" I was asked. I looked at Fred. I said nothing. To them, I assume, it was a tacit admission. The smack of the face, the gruff handling back to my room was nothing compared to what was to come.

It wasn't my room, though. The closet was dark, small, enough room to crouch. Enough room to cry. Minutes became hours. I had wet my pants. The closet became very smelly. I had stopped crying. My heart was as dark as the closet.

Hours later the matrons came to take me to supper. They brought a dress. I was to wear the dress to supper, to be on display to the hundreds of kids who would be there. This was my punishment for breaking a window that I didn't break. I wore the dress, with makeup to supper. Amongst the jeers and laughter of all the kids and the snickers of the adults there grew within me a coldness of heart far more frightening than the event. Months later when my Dad came to pick my brother and I up from the orphanage I hid under a table and cut my hair every which way so he could see what an ugly kid I really was.

As a foster child, this is the way it was, always the new kid on the block, new school, new rules, new places, new faces—each with its own set of challenges and amazing opportunities. This is not the way I saw it then. The voice of constraint, restraint, abuse, loneliness, sadness, and anger were ever a chorus in my mind and my heart. These turned into bitterness, revenge, hatred and a certain savage impulse to survive all things. As a young adult I had a memory, one that had eluded me until that point in time. I had, in all ways, become upset and later totally pissed off when someone, playfully or otherwise covered my face with a pillow or put their hand over my mouth. Anything that restricted my breathing totally antagonized me. And so I had this dream. A figure which somehow I knew as my mother, tried to suffocate me with a pillow; not once, but twice. Each time she would be interrupted and thus unable to complete her task. I was, in this dream, but an infant. I could feel the environment, the crib, the faded wallpaper on the walls. I woke up from this dream struggling to catch my breath. What a stupid dream, I thought. And the days went on.

Working towards my hypnotherapist certification, in an age regression seminar, I became more than aware of the crossover between actual events and the dream state. We, at this seminar, would, after lecture, break into teams of two each in order to practice what had been presented—whether weight loss techniques, test anxiety resolution, recovery of traumatic events, etc. This we did at this particular seminar.

Age-regression. Yeah, right. I had always approached time-space phenomena with a certain skepticism . I was aware of certain momentous mental and emotional recall of supposedly forgotten event by others, but I, of course, was immune.

Age-Regression

"Go back, now, back, further and further, back deep into your childhood. Bring forth an event in your childhood which was happy, secure."

I could find no such event.

"Go back further, then, further, back into the womb itself. Do you feel yourself there?"

"Yes."

"What do you feel?"

"Hatred." "Hatred?"

I could hear my partner's breathing. I could hear the motion of light as it illumined the room.

I could feel desperation, an unwillingness to reveal the unwholesome environment pervasive in the images so clear in my mind.

"Yes." And then it came. With my infant eyes I could see my mother lowering the pillow. I felt myself gasping, trying to cry, to breathe. I felt a veil of darkness shrouding me. I could feel myself letting go, floating. ... some noise, a door opening, a voice. ... the pillow was withdrawn. I could breathe. A recall, an event, twice repeated. Something in me recognized the truth of this, something in me died. .... a hope, a desire, a longing.

"Hatred from whom?"

"My mother."

"Move quickly now, forward in time. You are now an infant, 6 to 10 months of age. Do you see or feel yourself at this age?"

"Yes."

And so I practiced, as I had with my Vietnam nightmares, to redeem this memory. To not harbor it in darkness, but to make it a part of me to more greatly light the way. I practiced forgiveness, love, kindness, and understanding. It took me years, and, yes, anguish, to do this. I had to overcome the sensibilities of abandonment, rejection, and horror. I was determined to integrate self—loathing, self-hatred, and self-rejection. I had to fake it until I made it. And I did. I forgave not only my mother and the event, but myself for harboring terrible ill-will and a biting vengeance. I loved. I understood. I gathered wisdom. I was awakening to the journey. True story.

Network: The earth, a sentient entity, can easily attune itself to six billion voices. If these voices all spoke as one, whether for love, for peace, for healing, for the unification of all humankind, for sisterhood, for brotherhood, for synthesis instead of separateness, for greatness instead of default, for beneficence instead of caustic regard, we could, in that moment of united voice, alter forever the course of future events into the fold of beauty, wisdom and sublime consciousness.

Network: Sit and meditate, pray, discuss with others that which is seemingly so real, but in the greater scheme, so superfluous. Work through all heartache, physical distress, deceptions, manipulations, beatings, volatility, fear, masks and posturing. Hand in hand, heart to heart meditate and pray. Help each other past the hurdles, the demands, the cruelties, the debasements, disease, despair. Once a week, twice a week, every day or every night, if possible, meet discuss, clarify, purify that which obscures or obfuscates the truer vision of who you are as powerful spiritual entities.

Network: Through phone, internet and mail, touch each other with encouragement, hope, lightness of being. Idle not, for, yes, time is short. Words left unsaid, an embrace never given, kindness never offered, wisdom never revealed, prosperity never shared, vision never proffered are forces locked and un-channeled, thus, useless.