The Lives of the Dead

Some of the most interesting people I meet are dead…

Archive for the category “Out of Body Experiences”

Down the Rabbit Hole

The other night, I was rereading Robert Monroe’s classic, Journeys Out of the Body which I’d first read in college, and have re-read several times over the years.  (The subject has been a fascination of mine since high school.)  In his book,  he mentions Sylvan Muldoon, author of The Astral Body,  written in 1929 and one of the first books written on this subject.

I’d never heard of Muldoon; at least I didn’t note his name on previous readings, probably because last time I read it was pre-internet; before we had access to all the information in the world in the palm of our hands.  Now, with a quick Google search  my every curiosity could be immediately satisfied. I looked for a copy of his book on Amazon.  Alas, it seems to be out of print and the few copies around were relatively expensive.  (Even beat up old paperbacks were twenty bucks.)

But in my search for a cheap copy of his guide,  I stumbled upon a treasure trove of books on this subject over at Archive.org — these are free e-books and/or pdfs of a wide variety of out of print or out of copyright publications.  (Just go to that website and type the subject into the search bar.)

Not only did I find Muldoon’s book (in a pdf format) but I found a whole slew of books on astral projection,  remote viewing,  lucid dreaming, and more (including the Robert Monroe books I was reading.)   I downloaded about fifteen of them.  It’s going to take me years to work through them!

I started with the Muldoon. Since it was written nearly 100 years ago, I was a bit concerned that the language would be stilted and it would be boring to read.   In fact, it reads as if it were written yesterday.  Little Sylvsn started having spontaneous OBEs* in childhood, but as an adult endeavored to find a way to induce them at will.  He was successful to the point where he became fairly well-known in his time as a teacher, lecturer, and author.  (I’m only one chapter in so I cannot offer up a review at this point.)

Another great find was Astral Projection Secrets Revealed (2012) by Dr. Jill Ammon-Wexler,  which is set up as a step-by-step how-to book.  It’s easy reading,  so I quickly skimmed the first several chapters of that, as well.   Many of the induction methods she mentions are familiar to me,  but there were some I’ve yet to try.

She also mentions salvia divinorum,  a plant that grows around Oaxaca, Mexico which supposedly induces powerful OBEs.  Naturally,  I went searching after that, as well.  There was a lot of useful information on Erowid.org.  One can grow it oneself from cuttings or seeds, and it’s legal.  However before I’d even consider growing or buying some and smoking a bowlful,  I’d have to research it quite a bit more.

Dr. Wexler notes that there are different types of OBEs including lucid dreaming and distant viewing.  I always imagined a controlled OBE would feel like stepping out of my body and traveling around at will but I suppose it’s possible I am having other kinds of OBEs.   She writes that one of the indicators is the sensation that you are able to see clearly even though the eyes are closed.  This is a very common sensation for me but is it really some kind of OBE? Or just a vivid visual recollection of my own bedroom?  (I assume the latter.)

I wrote a few weeks ago about the sensation of seeing things in my mind’s eye which seemed like snapshots or gifs of people and places I didn’t know, usually doing mundane things.  But even if this is, indeed, distant viewing,  it’s completely uncontrolled.  I’m just watching the hypnagogic images as they flash across my mental screen. I cannot interact with them and they are too short to be interesting.

I long for the ability to leave my body and fly about the world at will. Is that asking so much???

Despite my long-time interest in this subject, I’ve been using the same (unsuccessful) methods for years. It’s time to delve into some new authors and new methods.  There is so much to learn on the subject, and at this point, I only have my toes in the water. So my journey continues.

If any of you readers are interested in attempting astral projection, yourself,  but don’t know a lot on the subject,  I’d recommend starting with Dr. Wexler’s book which, in addition to being well-laid out and easy to follow,  is free!

Please do let me know if any of you read these books,  try any of the methods,  and/or achieve success.

–aeg

 

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Ipoism?

First published January 30, 2015

HelixNebula

(Ipo again, yes.   And this is not even the tip of the iceberg! He’s got me on full-time dictation duty!)

It is a human need to explain the things that cannot be seen; to understand the things which cannot be controlled.

For the answers, some turn to formal religion (ritual and dogma). Others look to the universe without ascribing any anthropomorphic qualities or identifying a single creator (philosophy). Others rely on the scientific method, waiting for incontrovertible proof before they believe (science).

None of these are mutually exclusive. All desires coalesce at the All Knowing Eye at the top of the pyramid.   Those at the bottom cannot see the other sides. They each believe theirs is the only path to the top. But the higher one ascends, the more apparent it becomes that everyone is on the same quest, albeit in different languages. Each human on every side, is just trying to achieve understanding.

God is not a being or entity. God is a place. It is the single vantage point from which every particle and law of the universe is visible. From this perspective, the entire pattern can be comprehended. It is the place where all who quest knowledge wish to stand.

Those who pray and think and meditate will surely ascend.  They will gain wisdom and understanding.  But no soul, living or dead, can ever reach the top. They will clamber up the sides in pursuit of it, but the mystery will never be unraveled.

Those who long for absolute scientific truth and knowledge, those who desire understanding of the spiritual universe and those who long to know God, they all pursue the same.

In the midst of this great clamoring for Truth, there are many gurus and teachers, counsellors and priests who call for attention. They offer promises of enlightenment. They flourish because people are lazy. They want others give them the answers.

(continued…)

——————

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have just started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey! 
-Adrienne

 

Fly Me to the Moon

 

 

As promised,  an update on my attempt to hurl my psyche into the ether:

I’ve been reading quite a lot on the subject of Out of Body Experiences (OOBEs), but I’ve come to realize that what I need more than books is time to practice so I can figure out my own mechanism for separation.

Here’s where I’m at,  if anyone wants to play along:  First, I am still experimenting with binaural beats, such as THIS ONE   I’ve also used some verbal meditations I’ve discovered on line, but generally I find them more distracting than helpful.  (FYI, I am a trained hypnotist although I don’t have a practice, and rarely use it on others).  I am quite adept at going into a deep trance on my own.  The key in this case,  I think, is to develop my own set of suggestions and techniques.. (Some teachers suggest  reaching up with an astral hand, or attempting to roll the astral body out of bed,  or pulling the astral form up a rope ladder.  I’ve tried them all, alas, to no avail.)

According to the theory,  astral projection is about changing the energy vibration of the consciousness. (Heavy,  man…I know!)    To that end, I have visualized being filled with and/or surrounded by white light.  I have felt the full body vibrations,  intense heat from head to toe,  and a strange  sense of sexual arousal (even though my body was sleep paralyzed) — all of which are said to be precursors of liftoff.  But as of yet,  I have not been able to separate while conscious.

One of the keys is remaining awake even though the body is in sleep paralysis.  This has been a challenge for me, probably because I always make these attempts when I  get into bed at night and usually end up falling asleep.  (This is why most teachers recommend attempting OOBEs after about four hours of sleep, and somewhere other than one’s own bed.)  That said,  after such deep trances, I have had quite a few extremely vivid and interesting dreams which I was able to recall in fine detail, even days later. Nevertheless, these were obviously dreams (vs. OOBEs)  because they had a surreal and/or psychological quality to them.

If you read the initial posts of this blog, you know that I’ve had a few astral dreams in which it felt as if my consciousness had left my body and traveled to another location.  These dreams had no psychological or emotional aspects attached to them.  I simply felt as if I were flying over a different place on the planet, able to see around me with great clarity, but without much  control (perhaps because I didn’t realize at the time I could will myself to have any.)    In one such instance,  I actually had proof that I’d traveled to such a place because I was able to ask questions and get answers, which were later proven to be true.  In another instance,  I saw a beautiful mountain lake so vividly, I remembered it for years, and many decades later found myself in that place (in Tibet.)    These experiences have demonstrated to me that it is possible.  The challenge is to do it on demand.  I believe that if I can accomplish this once, I will be able to do it again and again, at will.  I believe it’s about finding the method that works for me.

Meanwhile, I have asked a friend in Italy to place a piece of paper with a single random word on his nightstand so that if I can manage to travel astrally, I can go to his room and read the note, thus providing evidence of my trip.  (LA, is the note still there? 🙂 )

 

–aeg

 

 

 

 

 

The Space Between the Galaxies

first published November 14, 2014

immense Andromeda galaxy

Ze

There is an ether separating this world from yours; a vast ocean of energy. To access the other side,  you must be willing to embark on a great journey, even knowing you will likely be tossed back upon the shore. But if you persevere, eventually you will catch the right current. It will carry you out and give you new perspective. If you are willing to go where it takes you, if you stay awake and aware, you will see Truth in new ways.

Circumstances are not always within your control. As with fishing, you must wait patiently, hoping for the right conditions.

Push aside all self-generated thoughts — certainly all the worry, fear, doubt, sorrow, anger, guilt and recriminations — but also pride and any sense of your personal importance. Let go of the egotistical belief that your feelings, challenges and achievements are uniquely important. This is what is meant by “abandoning the ego.”

Focus on the void; the empty space between your thoughts, like the darkness between galaxies. Concentrate your mind there until it becomes real. Then step into it.

Let whatever comes come. No need to force it. It is whatever it is. Allow yourself to be pulled in and carried along.  Dedicate yourself to the practice of quieting the mind; to tune in to what lies beyond. Let go of everything you thought you knew. Accept what you did not believe was possible.  Climb to dizzying heights so you may see life from a more objective perspective, then realign your thinking.

Watching the Earth from the moon, it is easy to recognize how small and insignificant you are.  The higher up you go, the more distant your view, and the wider your perspective.

Even If you can just get above your personal relationships, you’ve gone a respectable distance.

There is no shortcut.

Shed your skin. Step into the void naked and trusting.

The answers are there.

 

______

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey.

Gravitas

Originally published Oct 3, 2015

Midget-man

Note:  I am in my meditation trance and the first strong image that comes into my head is that of Peter Dinklage, the actor.   I think “aloud”, as if speaking to whatever entity is showing himself to me.   “Peter Dinklage is very much alive so I know you aren’t him.”  I try to push the image aside but he won’t move. He tells me he’s “impersonating” PD to indicate to me that while alive he, too, was a little person.

 Then, he tries to give me all kinds of personal information about himself.  I didn’t want to hear it because I prefer that all narratives be vague enough so that they could be anyone, anywhere.   I believe they have more power that way. But he keeps insisting.

His name was Kenneth B-something and he’d lived in Ohio, and had only just passed on at the age of 58. He tried to tell me more, but I kept “changing the subject.”  

Finally,  he started to get testy and scolded me:  “You don’t want to hear details because you’re afraid that if they don’t check out, your whole ‘talking to the dead’ premise will fall apart, and then what will you have?”

I have to admit, he made an excellent point. Still, it was strange being called out by a dead guy (or possibly just a figment of my own imagination)

 He became very argumentative and irascible, which is unusual. Most of the other “spirits” with whom I’ve communicated, have been, well, quite spiritual!

 I chalked it up to the fact that (according to him) his death was very recent and perhaps he hadn’t had time to process his life yet.   So, I just listened to his story:

 

Kenneth:

I was an accountant. I made a nice living, but I never got married. I never felt the need to find someone to grow old with. I had some serious health issues and I knew I would be lucky if I lived to 60. I’d probably die much younger.  I wanted to really enjoy my life and be free from responsibility during whatever time I had.

You have no idea what it’s like going through life as a dwarf. When you are a member of a persecuted religious or ethnic minority, you may be subjected to a lifetime of prejudice and abuse, but at least your own family is the same as you. And you know that somewhere on the planet there are places where there are others like yourself.

This is not so when you are small. I was the only one in my family to have this condition. I was already in my late teens before I met another little person like myself.

Everyone, and I mean everyone, including my own family, couldn’t seem to stop themselves from regarding me as a child.  They patronized me, often without awareness. A dwarf is an object of ridicule. Strangers – mostly stupid drunken teenagers – would often come up to me and make rude comments, then run away laughing, as if I were not even a human being whose feelings were worthy of respect.

I presented myself to you as Peter Dinklage because I admire him. He has gravitas which is something no other little person I’ve ever known or seen possesses.

Even though I was an excellent accountant and had many clients, there was always a separation between us. I was “other” and “less than” and forever would be. Even within my own family.

As you might imagine, this created a lot of psychological issues for me, including a deep and painful lifelong sense of isolation.

You might think that this would be a good reason for me to get married and have children. In a family of my own creation, I could finally be part of a welcoming group, albeit a small one, who would accept me as myself.   But, as I said, I knew I wouldn’t live to be very old and I didn’t want to burden others with my medical issues.

Also, I never found a woman of my own height with whom I had a strong connection. It’s difficult enough for people of normal height to find someone they can relate to and love.  Imagine how difficult it is when that pool of potential mates is so limited.   And relationships with normal-size women were too problematic in more ways than I can tell you,  not the least of which were those lapses into patronizing behavior.

 [I am shown a little woman in what appears to be a road house type bar.  She is way over-dressed – too much makeup, too many sequins, a lacy petticoat under her skirt,  big hair.  She’s dressed for dancing and looks like a real “party girl.”]

That was my girlfriend. She wasn’t especially smart. Honestly, it was hard to have a real conversation with her, but she was fun and she loved sex and. She was as much as I could handle. Or was willing to handle.  I wasn’t looking for anything deep. I just wanted company sometimes.

—–

Addendum:    At this point, I began to fall asleep. My mind was drifting into dreams (which is very different from meditation.)  I asked him if we could pick up the story the following evening, when I’d be better able to focus. (This is something I’ve just learned how to do – to go back in and meet up with a spirit I’ve communicated with in the past.)

 I was really very interested in hearing more of his story, more of his life and his lessons, more of those issues he talked about,  but I simply couldn’t stay awake anymore.

 The following evening, I went right back into my deep meditative trance (which gets easier to slip into the more I do it) and “called” for him.

…to be continued

 

______

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey.

 

Ignored Intuition

originally published June 17, 2014

forest floor

Da

He murdered me. Stabbed me to death, alone in some dark place; a basement, I guess. My life was already a mess. I knew at the first hint of danger nobody would come looking for me. He held me there, a prisoner, for three days. That was a terror I hope never to live through again.

I wavered between wanting to die quickly (when it seemed obvious I wasn’t going to be able to escape) and defiance; showing a strong will and determination to get myself out of there. He seemed to enjoy manipulating my emotions like that. He would pretend to relax his vigilance to give me false hope, but in fact, he was in total control the entire time. This was his game. It was no fun for him when I was too passive.

By the end of the second day, I was too weak to fight. I drifted in and out of consciousness. He gave me just enough relief to prevent me from dying too quickly. That’s why he took me in the first place.

When I finally expired, after he’d taken all the pleasure he could from my body and my pain, he just dumped me in a woods, barely bothering to bury me. Nobody would look for me there. Nobody would look for me at all.

He got back into his car and drove towards home, stopping in a small store to buy himself some snacks and beer. He was calm and relaxed. Nothing about his demeanor said “I have just murdered someone, and I enjoyed it.”

I watched him, knowing he would get away with it, willing his car to crash but not having the power to make it happen.

I follow him still. I try to cause him whatever discomfort I can but he seems oblivious. His need to torture and kill is so loud, it drowns out any subtle voice or message.

Instead, I try to warn other women away from him. I have succeeded in a few instances. I gave them a cold sense of  foreboding, enough to feel anxious and uncomfortable around him, enough so they wouldn’t go home with him. But not all of them listened. Some felt the hair on their necks stand on end but ignored the sign because they needed the money too badly. Or, like him, something louder (or whatever drugs or drink they used to quiet it) made them immune to their inner voice. If they had followed their intuition in the first place, their lives probably would be on a different track.

This was not how I’d expected it to end for me. It wasn’t the lesson I’d set out to learn, but I strayed off my path early on, and soon there was no redemption for me. So many missed opportunities; so many lost chances. It might all have turned out differently.

So, I try now to save others from the same fate. Do they hear me? I don’t always know; can’t always tell but I keep at it as a kind of penance.

 

______

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey.

By the Sea

 

Originally published Sept 30, 2014

 

She remains one of my favorite narrators…

http://www.trekearth.com/gallery/Asia/Indonesia/Sumatra/Bengkulu/Bengkulu_Utara/photo97429.htm

Ja

I grew up in a busy fishing town at the edge of the sea. What I remember most is the smell of the place. I can recall it even now – briny, fishy, sweaty, acrid. The scent of wood fires and charcoal burning; the oil and petrol from the boats; salt water and rotting fish.   Sometimes, after school, I would go to a small cove, away from the boats, just to have the sea to myself. I would dig my little toes into the wet sand, and just breathe it all in.

The smell of the shore is, in fact, that of decay and death. It’s seaweed rotting on the sand; small sea creatures – shellfish and crabs – wounded or dead on or under the rocks. Even the sea birds dined on death, feasting on carrion. But these aromas were familiar to me. It was the smell of my home.

Once, when I was quite young, we traveled to visit some of my mother’s family up in the highlands. Even at that young age, I marveled at how different the air tasted.

Up there, was the sweet smell of life. Of flowers and things green. Of birds and animals living in the forest. It was the organic smell of humus which is technically not alive, but from which life springs so abundantly, it’s hard to think of it as anything other than a living thing. The scent of the flowers — pink and orange and violet — was intoxicating! They grew everywhere, springing up from the ground; hanging from the trees; climbing on vines up the walls of the houses.

It was a magical place, and I could not decide which I preferred more – the shore or the hills. I wondered where I would live when I was grown.

Like many of the other men, my father was a fisherman. One of the aromas I most associated with the shore, and which I loved the most, was his scent when he held me. When the smell of his manly body odor, fish, motor oil, and cigarettes tickled my nostrils, it meant I was safe.

As most young girls, I was in love with my father. He was a handsome man, brown from the sun, with thick, black hair and straight white teeth. His strong arms could lift me up high and carry me all the way home.

He went out to sea almost every day on his small wooden boat, painted white and blue. It had a motor in the back which was often in need of repair. He spent many hours working on it.

Although fishing was the main industry in our area, there were few who had the money for a brand new motor. They all bought the best used equipment they could afford. That meant being a successful fisherman was not just knowing where to find or how to catch fish. It meant one also be good at repair; to have an understanding of how a motor worked, how to fix it with whatever parts were available or that could be cobbled together, with old tools which were always on the verge of giving out. When a motor stopped, there was no time to waste, especially not out at sea.

I knew it was not good when my father couldn’t be out on the water; when he was stuck in port trying to make that old piece of machinery sputter to life. It meant a loss of income. This situation was inevitable for every boat owner. It was time loast which none could afford, yet, it was accepted that this was just how it was.   The men used to say, “Just when you get ahead, you fall ten steps back.” Thinking philosophically instead of feeling sorry for themselves was another necessary requirement for being a fisherman.

Still, as a child, I loved the days my father was stuck in the harbor. I was happy knowing he was safe, close to home where I could keep my eye on him or run to see him. It scare me to imagine him out there, with all the many unknown dangers. It was never far from my mind that the sea might take him and I would never see him again.

My mother was as beautiful as my father was handsome. She had a stall in the market where she sold small sweets and savories, all of which she made herself; some at home and some fresh on the spot. She was famous in town for her cooking.

She’d been in that stall since she was 16. Since before I was born. Since before she met my father. It had belonged to her mother, and when she died, it fell to my mother to cook and sell, to help support her family.

That’s how she met my father. He always joked that he first fell in love with her sweets, and then with her sweetness.

My mother’s sweets were so delicate, they would dissolve on the tongue. Some of her small pastries were so spicy, they could make a grown man cry. Her savories had such complex flavors, you could still taste them, mingling on your tongue even after you’d swallowed.

Most people didn’t take the time to really savor them, which was a pity. To them, they were just a quick bite to eat when they didn’t have time to stop and sit and have a proper meal. The shoppers, the other vendors, the workmen and women passing by, they all had a need of a her snacks, but only a few took the time to fully appreciate what an innovative cook she was. Everything she made — even for strangers, even for those who never gave her refined cooking a second thought — was made with love. But if people’s palates were not sophisticated enough to recognize her culinary genius, they certainly were able to taste the care and joy that went into each piece.

Her stall was in an excellent and much-coveted location, at the outer corner of the market, which gave her maximum exposure to passersby. Her food stall was the most popular and had been so since shortly after she began there.

If the market was open, Mother was there. Usually six days a week, even through her pregnancy with me and with my younger sister.

My father and I both agreed that my mother was the prettiest woman in the town. She had big eyes and long lashes and skin the color of the sweet milk tea I loved to drink. She had long, dark hair which she wore in a single braid down her back. I, myself, wore two braids, which she plaited for me every morning and carefully combed them out every night before I went to bed. Then she would brush my hair, gently, as she sang to me or told me stories, relaxing me for bed.

Some days, after my father came in from the sea and had unloaded his fish and had finished cleaning the boat, and tuning the motor, my mother would take me and my sister to meet him in the harbor. Mother would bring whatever snacks she had left over from the day, and together we would sit on the boat and talk about our day, as we watched the sun set over the ocean. We were happy and we loved each other.

I was lucky. Between my mother and my father, there was enough money to send me to school, and in a new dress every year.

Every year, at the end of December, we celebrated a family tradition, the same as my mother had done as a child. There was an exchange of gifts. The year I turned eight, my special gift was a new pair of “big girl” shoes. They were shiny and black with a pink ribbon. I felt like a real lady in them. I couldn’t wait to show them off to my friends at school! As was always the case with new shoes and new clothes, they were purchased a bit too large to give me time to grow into them. I pushed paper into the toes so they wouldn’t fall off.

The next morning, on my way to school, I scanned the harbor. Most of the boats were already out to sea. Father’s was not there, which meant his motor was working that morning. I would worry about him until I saw him again in the evening.

And then something strange happened.

The sea peeled back from the shore, exposing more beach than I’d ever seen before. It sloped steeply down.

Some people started to panic and run away from the water, but most either weren’t paying attention or, like myself, went closer to see what was going on, not understanding what it meant.

I stood there, fascinated. And then,   suddenly, there was a wall of water so high and frightening it took my breath away even before it crashed over me. Instantly, I and everything else was under it.   My new shoes were sucked off my feet. In those last seconds, before I drowned all I could think about was my lost shoes.

We were all lost except my father, but when he came back to shore and saw the devastation, he no longer had the heart for living. He rejoined us soon.

By human standards, it was a great tragedy. So much loss of life. But it was a necessary correction which the universe must make from time to time. I do not understand the reasons.

So many souls, all leaving the living world at one time, creating so much energy. I was just a small part of it; a tiny speck in a cloud of dust, floating upwards on a ribbon of sunlight.

____

image: http://www.trekearth.com/gallery/Asia/Indonesia/Sumatra/Bengkulu/Bengkulu_Utara/photo97429.htm

______

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey.

 

The Wisdom of the Shepherd

Ib

While I was channeling The Liar, (the previous post), a different fellow came into my head as clear and powerful a picture. (Most often, stories come to me in words or as feelings).

He is an adult man, a poor shepherd in ragged clothes, tending his flock. He sits on a rock, with his rifle close at hand. The terrain is bleak and mountainous. I know we are in the foothills of the Hindu Kush… Afghanistan or Pakistan perhaps.]

“I grew up with it,” he said, showing me his gun. “It was an extension of myself. It never left my side.  I learned to shoot as a child and so I was an excellent marksman. When I was out with my herd, I was always scanning the horizon and the skies for predators – wolves, jackals. Even a hawk could take away a small lamb.”

“I also watched the narrow paths leading into our valley, keeping my rifle trained on anyone I didn’t recognize until it was known whether they were friend or enemy. In this way, I, like everyone else, helped guard the safety of our village.”

All well and good, I thought “aloud” to him, but this is not really a story. It’s just an image, and I might just be remembering that image from a photograph.   I need more.

He then “showed” me his small house – a typical low mud and brick hut. He told me he had four children, two boys and two girls. The girls were married and living with their husbands’ families.

Sorry, but this is still not particularly interesting. Yet he was coming to me so strongly,  I felt he must have more to say.

Don’t you have a story, I asked. A lesson?

And then he started to wax philosophical…

===

Living in such a small, isolated village, it is impossible to comprehend the life of a person who works in an office in a big city in another country. And the person who lives and works in a big modern city cannot fully imagine the life of a person who lives in a small village.

It is difficult enough to understand the feelings and the suffering and the pain and even the joy of your own neighbor. Sometimes, not even your own family member. Each human being is at the center of his or her own reality. The reality of others is completely abstract. You might as well be on completely different planets.

When the feelings and hopes and dreams and pain of others are abstract, and when their needs and desires conflict with your own, it becomes easy to vilify and hate.

To push aside your own limitations in order to see beyond the limitations of others is the path to compassion. But this takes a tremendous amount of work and energy, more than most humans are willing or able to expend.

It takes far less energy to hate.

Humans like to believe they are compassionate but they make so many exceptions, that they are not compassionate at all.   There are always others — a group or a class or an ethnicity or a nation — for whom they make exceptions.   “Yes,” they say, “compassion is good BUT those people….” are this way or do that.  They are somehow unworthy of compassion.

And how many humans can feel compassion for their enemy, especially if they are trying to kill them? But without compassion enemies are always plentiful.

People claim to want peace in the world as if it is the responsibility of nations or governments. But peace begins with compassion within ourselves. Each time we vilify others, even a neighbor or an old friend or a family member – even if we feel justified because they have done us grievous harm — we move the world one step further from peace.

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Addendum:  Well, I have to admit, by these standards,  I’m not very compassionate at all!  Guess I have something to work on!

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If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey.

 

The Liar

originally published September 24, 2014

Pinocchio by Caralo Collodi

 

Laq

I started lying almost as soon as I was able to talk. My first true memory of this was as a child, maybe 3 or 4. I was alone, happily entertaining myself. My mother called to me to ask what I was doing. I was playing with some toys, perfectly innocent and acceptable behavior. But something compelled me to tell her I was coloring and drawing.

It wasn’t much of a lie. My mother didn’t care what I was doing, as long as I wasn’t getting into trouble or making a mess. But for me, it was the point when everything changed; the moment when I asserted my independence; took a stand of defiance.

My play time was my domain. What was it her business how I spent it? (As long as I wasn’t getting into trouble or making a mess, of course.) I felt the first frisson of rebellion; of claiming something which was mine and mine alone. I liked how it felt. And so I continued.

At that age, my lies were small and meaningless. I didn’t do bad things, such as steal then blame it others or deny my own complicity. I simply lied as a way of keeping a private space around myself; keeping out the prying, controlling eyes of my mother.

Sometimes, I’d set things up just so I could tell a fib. For example, I’d put a toy in my pocket and take it outside, but tell her I was going out to play with something else. There was no real point to this. It wouldn’t have mattered to her one way or the other, but it was secretly thrilling to me to have this way of keeping a part of me out of her reach; to have her not know everything about me; to carve out a tiny corner of privacy for myself in my childhood life where I had so little control.

This continued and soon became a habit. When I got to school, I lied to my teachers and others in authority.   They were the same kind of small white lies that meant nothing in the larger scheme of things, but it was already an addiction. It was my identity. To me, the lying created a bubble around me which nobody could permeate.   It was a way of protecting myself from others, most especially those in authority.

When I finished university, I worked at some really bad, low-paying, worthless jobs for a couple of years. I was lazy and didn’t care much about anything. I partied a lot with friends and was often hung over at work. I got fired often. (And I lied to my bosses all the time!)

Eventually, I realized I had to grow up and put my life in order. I put together a resume and began searching for an adult job.

I knew it would go against me to list all those pathetic jobs I’d had; to say honestly what I’d been doing for the past few years. There wasn’t a single employer who would have given me a decent reference. And I couldn’t very well leave that period blank on my resume.   Instead, I created a fiction that I’d been traveling though India and Asia; teaching in small villages here and there. There were not enough details for anyone to check up on me. Besides, it had nothing to do with the job I was applying for. Not as if they were going to attempt to locate some fictional grade school in India.

I’d read enough to be able to invent a few convincing stories should anyone inquire. This made me appear interesting and exotic instead of the lazy screw-up that I’d been.

It worked. I got a good job.

I didn’t speak about my “travels”.  It wasn’t as if I’d been trying to impress my potential co-workers with my tales of adventure. Still, word got around, and from time to time I was called upon to answer a question or settle a bet. If I didn’t know the answer, I just made something up. Nobody seemed to notice or care. Back then, there weren’t too many ways of checking up on these things.

When I started dating, there were more lies…where I’d been last night, who I was with. Mostly the lies were about how I felt and what I wanted.

I mostly lied in response to direct questions, as a means of deflecting curiosity.

I didn’t make up stories for the purposes of self-aggrandizement, but rather as a way of keeping others off balance; to prevent them from knowing me too deeply; to keep them from stealing my soul.

I pretended to like the same music and books and films as others, not because I didn’t have opinions of my own, but rather because I preferred to keep those opinions private. It was more expedient to simply agree and go along than to tell the truth and risk revealing too much.

I let them see me as they wished to see me. I let them project their own thoughts, desires, and expectations on me and didn’t correct them. I was happy to remain safe from their prying eyes. I was content to live inside my own head, with my own thoughts, in a domain that nobody could enter.

I was such a facile liar, I had no tells – no give-away twitch or inappropriate smile. Perhaps that was because, for the most part, my lies were not particularly egregious. At least, that’s how they felt to me at the time. Nobody seemed to really care what I thought, anyway.

Ultimately, of course, my lies isolated me. There was not a single person with whom I was completely honest. Nobody ever knew me as I really was. What began as defiance ended up a lifelong habit that made intimacy impossible.

 

===

Addendum: This entity (male energy, I think) told me this story over the course of two days. As happens with some of these, I get images and emotions in drips and drabs during my everyday life. I can “feel” the story coming, wanting to get out, but it’s only when I sit down in a meditative state that they really come through in all their detail.     Tonight I was meditating and he came to me again, but this time telling me his stories in greater detail.   I could literally feel him as a small child in his room.

 In the middle of this meditation and channeling, however, I became distracted by other images which were also calling me strongly (more on this later). And when I came back to The Liar, he scolded me! “Pay attention,” he said. “I’m trying to tell you my story!”

 Each time my attention drifted to this other powerful image, he would reprimand me and call me back.

 The meditation was very deep tonight. I was in a relaxed and open state. As The Liar was narrating to me, I saw another figure – the outline of a human form comprised of white light. It was standing at the end of a long corridor. Behind it, a doorway – also filled with white light. I didn’t want to go there yet. I was trying to focus on The Liar’s story since he was being so insistent.

 The light figure said, “OK, come whenever you are ready. We will be here.”

 So, I went back to The Liar. And while he was talking, another unrelated spirit came into my head, with his own story. (which I will tell in the next post) The two of them battled for my attention, until I finally heard them both out to the end.

And then I was ready to go toward that room filled with light. I felt my body elongating; my arms and legs stretching off into infinity.

When I crossed the threshold, I saw it was filled with thousands (millions?) of other white light entities.   I thought, “Wow! So many stories here! Each one, with something different to tell!”   I felt like the Barbara Walters of the afterlife, interviewing and writing about between-life spirits!  

I felt very welcome there. Again I was told, come back any time.   I felt a lot of souls wanting to reveal their lessons.

I was not sleeping. I was not tripping. I was not hallucinating. Granted, I might have been “merely imagining” but then, who knows how “communicating with the other side” really works?  Or if it’s even real.

I am not making any claims.  I am merely reporting my experiences, and how the process feels to me. Make of it what you will.

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If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey!

 

 

Voices in the Calm

NEW!

 

Cla

When I grew old, I spoke to the dead and they spoke to me.  I heard them, clear as if they were standing in the room with me.  They told me their stories, just as I tell mine to you.  I answered them, and asked them questions.  My neighbors could hear me chatting through the door and the walls, apparently to no one.  They thought me odd but I was harmless,   so they left me alone. They whispered that I’d gone mad after my husband died, and my son a year later.  Some said I talked to the dead in my imagination because I couldn’t stand to be alone.  Others believed I imagined the dead to be alive because I was afraid to die.  If the dead were alive, then I need not be afraid of death.  Most assumed the dementia of old age had set in and I was just imagining things.

But they were wrong about everything.

I also spoke to the dead when I was young.  But then life got busy and I no longer had the time for them.  But the main reason was that the noise of the world, the noise of my own questions and worries inside my head, crowded out any other voices.  I could no more hear them than I could perceive a hushed whisper across a noisy, bustling train station.   I could not stop the noise, nor did I think to do so.   Whatever was inside my head was me, and that took up all my mental energy and attention.

But then, eventually, I found myself old and alone.  I had lived long enough to be philosophical about life. I no longer worried or questioned.  I simply accepted.   And finally, once again, it was quiet enough to listen.

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If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey!

 

 

Note:  this one’s kinda meta, isn’t it?

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