Remembering the Future
The Physics of the Soul and Time TravelBy Brooks A. AgnewiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Brooks A. Agnew
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4502-5248-5 Contents
Introduction.........................................................3Preface..............................................................6Chapter 1: Home World................................................15Waking up here.......................................................24Going back in........................................................31Chapter 2: The Big Bang Never Happened...............................46Just a Little Math...................................................49Chapter 3: Past Life.................................................55Chapter 4: Waking up in the Human Race...............................75Genetic Memories.....................................................76Light Memories.......................................................77Atomic Memories......................................................86Entangled Particle Theory............................................91Chapter 5: Unlocking the Secret......................................109Chapter 6: Tapping at the Right Time.................................124The Phoenix Sequence.................................................147The Dream Process....................................................153Chapter 7: Manifestation of the Future...............................160How and Where to Listen..............................................167Step One ? Getting in the heart......................................168The Breaths and Mudras...............................................170Step Two ? Learning to intend with intention.........................178The Eighteenth Breath ? the Key to Manifestation.....................179Method for the Eighteenth Breath.....................................182Afterword............................................................193
Chapter One
Home World
Eight years ago, I was approached by a woman after I had completed a lecture on the speed of light and asked if I would like to co-author a book with her on the creation of the Earth. Curious, I admitted that the subject was irresistible and that I was a skeptical student and longtime teacher of the traditional religious stories we had heard our entire lives. Somehow the words, "... and the morning and the evening were the third day ..." had a myriad of meanings flow through my mind each time I read them. It had nothing to do with my level of faith. It's just that the word day could mean anything from twenty-four hours to ten million years.
After all, the Earth didn't even receive a sun or moon until the third day according to the Biblical creation story, so how could there be days in the traditional sense of the word? The physics community is populated with various metaphysical theorists ever extrapolating and interpolating in attempts to understand how the universe was created. At the time, the distance physicists forayed into metaphysics was inversely proportional to one's ability to obtain tenure or obtain funding for research. But as the years progressed, more and more main-stream physicists were publishing papers on time travel, wormholes, and the functionality of multiple dimensions. This was a rare opportunity to be involved in a major publication about the subject. I had no idea it would end up being more than 1,500 pages of world-class research publication titled The Ark of Millions of Years: Volumes I, II, and III becoming a best seller. (www.arkofmillionsofyears.com)
She handed me a hand-written outline of her ideas for the book and gestured with her hands the gaps where she hoped I would inject the scientific aspects of her somewhat controversial archaeological approach to the subject. I agreed to proceed and began writing some chapters on dimensions and methods for considering the stability and practicality of super-massive spinning black holes serving as wormholes or star gates through which planets might move unharmed. We visited the Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City and found numerous ancient carvings, codices, and pieces of art that actually did a very good job of describing the possibility that Earth was not from around here. I quickly came up against the leading edge of known physics and had to search deeper in my mind for answers. I decided to revive a skill I had learned many years before. The ability quiet the mind enough to hear the echo of pasts and futures was necessary to connect the dots.
At eighteen, I was an airman in the Air Force stationed in Grand forks, North Dakota. It was springtime. The urge to meditate became overpowering, yet I had no training in doing so. Fortuitously, there was a teacher of Transcendental Meditation offering classes at the local University at night. I enrolled in earnest and started to connect with the quiet mind.
The mantra I received was simple and easy to repeat. My teacher appeared to be impressed that I could reach deep states of calmness in just a few minutes. I was able to disconnect myself from the stress that had bothered me as a youth and focus my learning ability. The groundwork for my lifetime of study and learning began by taking college classes in Humanities and Sociology on my own at night while pouring through the correspondence courses offered by the Air Force in Electronics Engineering.
Though I was able to calm my fleeting attention, there was something missing. I began to shape the process to meet my needs and found that I developed a sort of launching spot in my meditation state. It was a mountain meadow with tall green grass with a single white garden chair. The sky was often blue, and I could hear the wind singing through the trees like distant applause blending into one harmonious white noise. From there I could travel, as it were, to distant places and times. It was a good method of escape from the world and its pressures and feints within feints, which are desperately difficult to negotiate for a post-adolescent boy lacking parents. But, escape is not what I needed or wanted.
In my fifty-first year, I learned a new type of meditation, called Flower of Life, or MerKaBa meditation. It was then that the childhood dreams returned. It was like a distant memory. This was completely different then the Transcendental Meditation experience. And there was something else. I really don't know how the switch was turned on, but when the lights came on, it was like a whole chapter lost in my youth came into view very clearly.
The meditation structure will be discussed later in the book, so for now I want to explain the connections that were made, and the understanding that began to flow forth into my life. It will be significant for you as well, as I explain how this unfolded.
I learned to work the MerKaBa fields around me very well and very quickly, like a bird to flight. Shortly after my certification classes, something very powerful occurred. I had built a rather large spiral of energy above my body using the MerKaBa field that I learned to operate. I was lying on my back on a table in the center of 6 people standing around the table. The energy field went out of my heart area and about 20 meters straight up. When I got it up and stable, I collapsed it and shot the energy out of my arms and hands, which were at my sides on the table. About 2 hours later I came out of this, and one of the less sensitive bystanders, named Todd, said, "What was that energy pulse about?" He admitted he was a spiritual brick, when it came to sensing things, but even he felt the energy. But in the meantime, I want to continue telling you this experience, because it's extremely important.
All of a sudden, the meditation launching place changed. Without warning, I went into meditation expecting to see the warm sunny meadow with the clear blue skies before me. Much to my amazement, the following place came clearly into view as I entered my heart.
I was standing on a terrace of sorts. Looking down I could see the pale yellow patio stone polished and laid into place with a gray grouting, flat and smooth and warm. The terrace was about 10 meters across with a couple of odd angles at the edges from which was laid a short wall that was capped with the same yellow stones speckled with tiny gray veins. The capped wall formed a short bench all around the terrace, except where the short wall had an opening allowing people to enter the terrace from the house. The place was on the edge of a very high bluff of a fjord overlooking the sea to the left.
The terrace had an open trestle made of dark wood overhead through which a green vine weaved itself populated with large pink and orange blossoms. The slats were lying on their edge about 30 centimeters apart. Each one was smooth and shiny and about 50 millimeters thick and about 20 centimeters tall. They each spanned the entire terrace and rested upon a beam of mirror-smooth dark wood with the most incredible grain that showed through the glossy polished face. These beams were about 50 centimeters tall and 10 centimeters thick. Each of the four corner posts were about 4 meters tall and equally stunning in appearance. The corners were perfect, with no twists or knots in the wood.
Hanging from the trestle were three wind chimes of a most curious design. The largest one was about 20 centimeters in diameter and was about 3 meters long. The next one was about 15 centimeters in diameter and 2 meters long, and the last was about 10 centimeters in diameter and about 1 meter long. Their construction was nothing short of flawless. Like ebony instruments, they were smooth as ceramic pipes. The wood was black and grainless. The chime wall was about 8 millimeters thick and perfectly cylindrical. There was no evidence of machining, sawing, or sanding. The edges were rounded, not like one would see from a pipe that had been cut off with a saw. This wood was finely and perfectly shaped.
They were suspended from a wooden peg in the wood trestle with what looked like a thick hair coming down and splitting into three parts about 30 centimeters from the top of each chime and passing through three small holes equidistant in the circumference of the edge, just below the round rim. The hair was deftly tied with the same knot tightly done as though part of the art of the construction.
The striking mechanism for each chime was most interesting. They each had a ratcheting wheel with a cog attached to a dried hard leaf paddle that flapped gently in the ocean breeze. The leaves were each the same size and a beautiful golden brown, shaped like a heart and so thin that the veins of its previously green life were clearly visible. They were identically curved with the stem lashed tightly to a wooden dowel that was attached to a ratchet on a wooden wheel with 12 steps carved into its 20 centimeter circumference. As the paddle waved in the cool and gentle ocean breeze, a tightly-wound animal skin mallet would ratchet up higher and higher until it would release at after the 12th step and would strike the chime. Each mechanism was separate and mounted on the terrace wall at a height that would allow the mallet to strike the chime in the exact center of its length. The random dropping of the mallets created a non-rhythmic and perfectly tuned harmony that was peaceful and musical. Depending on which chime was most recently struck, the accent would shift from high to low. The music seemed to join the scent of the fluorescently live flowers that populated the trestle overhead.
The sky above the sea was the most amazing sight. In the morning, the sun would rise red and cool. It was so large it filled nearly the entire horizon. After about 6 hours, the sun would clear the sea covering nearly the whole sky overhead. It was only partially solid. The center was about a third of the diameter. Its corona was round with ejections licking out into space like swirling pink steam frozen in almost imperceptible wafts. Surrounding the sun, clearly visible through the translucent corona, two stars twinkled to the South brightly. Two large planets faintly drifted across the sky to the North. The larger of the two was a deep-water blue and the other nearly blood red.
This was the launching place into which I awakened each time I drifted into my Earthly MerKaBa meditations. MerKaBa mediation will be explained later in this book. This was my heart place. The peace and tranquility that I enjoyed became welcome solace from a physical world that often did not feel like home. Over the years, it was difficult to tell the difference between worlds. That is to say, the noise and strife of Earth was a sharp contrast to the solitude of this terrace view. I memorized its moods and colors. The atmosphere enveloped me like a lover. And one day, after what seemed like years of waking up in this place, I became aware of my last world and my life bejeweled with the treasures I describe herein.
The emotions I had already experienced in these MerKaBa-enabled memories often overwhelmed me. It was only preparation for what I discovered in this distant and yet local heart-world. In a moment I can only equate to that of an infant who discovers for the first time his own feet and hands, I looked down at my own hands. They were golden brown and smooth like they were new. There was not a blemish or a flaw. The five fingers and one thumb were long with four joints in each. They were thin and muscular. The palms were smooth and narrow. I recall looking at them for hours, amazed at their perfection and beauty. My wrists were thin and smooth, coming from a light brown shirt sleeve with no cuff. Rather, it was a finely woven fabric that felt like thick silk and yet was warm on the skin.
In this experience of awareness, I felt of my face, which was often wet with my tears of joy of the scent, sounds, and view from my wonderful terrace. My skin was smooth, without hair or stubble like my face on Earth. In a moment like stepping to edge of a cliff with wings for the first time, I leaned forward to peer into the polished yellow capstone of the terrace wall. The beautiful realization of my own face still takes my breath as I recall the experience.
My jaw line was thin, with little depth from the lower lip to the square chin. My lips were full and could smile widely, with a shape that I memorized over the years. They were expressive and graceful, and yet noble and curved so as to convey a peaceful greeting. My large oval eyes were the color of the aqua sea, with no whites, and the black pupil was equally and concentrically oval in shape with the longer distance from side-to-side. The lids were high under the brow, which was drawn with a thick line of short golden hair. The forehead was tall and wider than the cheekbones, which were round above dimpled cheeks slightly drawn and graceful down to the chin. My hair was shoulder length, straight and thick. It was shiny and golden like metal, and yet it flowed and spilled like water over my light brown shirt loosely cut around the neck. My neck was long. Very long. My head could turn nearly 180 degrees as there were two extra vertebrae than my Earth body.
I was two and a half meters tall, mostly from the two extra vertebrae in the neck and the long leg bones. I had two rows of teeth on the sides and one row across the front. The front teeth were square on the bottom and white as snow. The pallet was high and when I touched it with my tongue; I could feel the smoothness of it. The nose was long and straight with somewhat flaring nostrils and a thin square tip.
Waking up here
There is one more thing, before I continue to describe my home. I don't know when or how I first made a sound with my voice. On Earth, during my entire life from my earliest youth to this day, I have spoken in my sleep. The language is clear and complex with beautiful tones and words that sound like something out of heaven itself. It is also undecipherable by anyone who has ever heard it. On Earth, I recall being often awakened by my mother when I was nine years old after my complaining younger sister, attempting sleep in the room down the hall, demanded she do so to make me stop talking. "Stop talking gibberish," she would scold. "You're keeping everyone awake. Who are you talking to anyway?" she would ask sternly.
Now, I have to explain something. There is no proper place to tell this, so here and now is as good a time as any in this book. I have only told this story to a very few and select persons in my mortal life. My fingers tremble even now as I seek the keys to make these words. It isn't as though I trust you. But there isn't much time for you, so I am risking my private soul to make sure you understand the truth of what I am about to tell you. Put your dogma aside. Lay down your prejudice. Prepare yourself with an open heart to read the most private and sovereign words I have ever penned.
My younger sister was born with cystic fibrosis, from which she finally died at the age of twelve. Her youth was fraught with visits to hospitals and specialists, and yet in my youth I was kept separated from this experience. While my father would take her to Albuquerque, New Mexico for treatments of some kind or another, my mother and her parents would take me camping in High Sierras. They weren't an outdoors type of people. We lived in a fine house in southern California with marble floors and foreign antiques. As though they were answering some kind of mission call, each summer they would load a tent and one fishing pole with some basic tackle into the Ford Falcon wagon and head across the desert hours before the scorching Sun would preclude such a trip. I remember sitting in the back seat with a wool blanket over my legs in the predawn chill with the hum of the tires blazing across the pavement at forty-five miles an hour for hours and hours, until the mountains would appear in the distant desert haze. I don't remember any of the actual camping experiences, except one.
In the summer of my ninth year on Earth, we arrived at the campsite. It was a well-kept area with parking for one vehicle at each campsite. There was a water spigot at each campsite, but no electricity, and a picnic table. We pitched two olive green army surplus tents. The first day we had a late lunch and played some cards. Time doesn't seem to mean much at that age, and I was a solitary child with what would be diagnosed these days as Attention Deficit Syndrome. I bounced from one thought to another like ten movies playing at the same time inside my head. Night came and with it a warm sleeping bag inside the larger tent.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Remembering the Futureby Brooks A. Agnew Copyright © 2010 by Brooks A. Agnew. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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