Synchronicity

 

How much do we really understand of the universe around us? 

I had my heart set on partaking of an Ayuhuasca Ceremony this month.  Since my sincere desire to leave this life two months ago, I have clung to the idea that this heaviness that burdens me would at last be healed and lifted by breaking outside the barriers of my brain through this particular psychodelic experience.  I was counting down the days until, about ten days before, through a brief flurry of correspondences between myself and the ritual’s host team in Monterrey, Mexico, told me they felt I was not a good fit for their team, and my invitation was rescinded.  I suppose the 1,000 pesos deposit was also refunded, although I have not investigated that.

I was devastated.

Oddly, over the weeks of waiting, in my mind the date shifted.  My mantra was, just hold on until the 28^th.  The burden will be lifted then.

The actual reservation, however, was for the 25^th.

Today is the 28^th.  In these recent weeks I have been less interested in watching Netflix fantasy, and more tuning in to the voices of the spirit world that I have discovered on YouTube channels.  Today I stumbled across a Steven Clements.  This led me to a downloadable file on YouTube through his podcast on Patreon.  This is a new digital world to me, I do not have depth of experience with them.

Clements talks about his ‘team’.  They informed him that in December there would be a strong wave coming to earth.  They offered him, and me by extension, and you, a powerful guided meditation whose purpose is to prepare we clay vessels (my term, not his) to handle these very heavy waves of energy bound for the earth.

After my afternoon weekly meeting today with a handful of other retired ladies here in this tiny Mexican village of El Pozole, we are called ‘the third age club’ (Club de Tercera Edad) and sponsored by the State’s Social Services Department, I came home to listen to this recording I had discovered around noon today.

It expanded me at my core.  My intention is to listen to it again, and often. The claim is that this guided meditation is like training wheels.  If I listen often, I will be more prepared to be a vessel for these waves of energy, assisting my fellow humans to receive this energy and make the most of it when it arrives in December.

I am still reeling.  My body feels so grossly heavy, after coursing through the expansive, limitless  Emptiness of boundless light and love.

Perhaps I will add to the file as the weeks proceed. 

https://www.patreon.com/cw/InfiniteSourceCreations

Insight of the day

 Insight of the day

Starting with an aside, I am fast getting blinder from old age.  My left eye has always been unreceptive to correction, so now it is relatively worse too.  I actually found ‘dime store’ reading glasses at a strength of +4, which makes things clearer for the right eye, but as a set, everything is blurrier.  It makes it so much harder to read the computer screen.  This is just an added distraction.

What I am actually realizing is more along the lines of preparation.  Looking back since I sold my farm, in 2023, I have been downsizing.  This is not by selection; I have been systematically robbed, generally.  Which means, that which is occurring in preparation for my future is not by conscious plan, but rather because I am blind to the spirit and unwilling to surrender.

I now am living in a borrowed house.  I have been complaining about it since I arrived here.  It is way too cluttered by a dead person’s things, along with the next door relative who borrowed the place for a few years and left more stuff.  The electricity is old and cannot power a fast cell phone recharge (using a cable with two C ends).  When I plug it in, nothing happens.  If I start cooking in the kitchen, using for example a water kettle and microwave at the same time, the fuse blows for the kitchen power.  The kitchen sink water has very little pressure, and no hot water.  In fact, the hot water faucet has no water at all except at selective scheduled times; I have trouble remembering the schedule.  And so forth; the list is long.

What turned the light switch on in my head was making a good spaghetti sauce.  The counter work space is quite small.  Storage for china and dry goods is almost none existent.  I did manage to bring one of my own cupboards here; it is at the opposite end of the house from the kitchen.  I walk the distance often, when food or drink is concerned; fortunately, the distance is not great.  The work counter is so limited, that when I prepare a complicated dish requiring more than for, say, beans and rice, I just don’t have anywhere to put things; I am tempted to put on the floor the dish with the chopped onions while I am grating, or mixing herbs, or chopping.  The curious dogs threaten the hygiene of the process.  To make things worse, I decided to water a dry tray of a seed starter kit, rather than throw it away when it turned up in my packed boxes, too late in the season.  Now it is October, the tomato plants have green balls struggling to survive inside the house, not to die of cold.  The basil plants, which belong in a sunny kitchen window box, are crowded against the tomato branches as close as possible to the tiny piece of sunshine that enters in the morning; that is on this same crowded counter top.

Here are the steps to the denouement.  First, I am blocked from obtaining Mexican citizenship.  If I had that, I could receive a small monthly pension to supplement my subsistence social security check.  I could get a card at the local convenience store; this card makes it possible to transfer money around, like for buying things on line, transferring money to and from personal loans; and myriad other conveniences that I would discover if I had it.  Not having it gives the feeling that I am still an outsider; after 8 years here, most of it with permanent residency status.

I thought I might like to live in Mazatlan.  Well, I knew I wouldn’t, but the trusted guy who has been robbing me systematically over a year, rented this apartment for me in Mazatlan, so I decided that maybe I was wrong, and I would give it a shot.  I survived there a few months before giving up. The landlord still owes me the initial month’s deposit, and supplies for agreed upon improvement.  I tried to change my drivers license from Durango to Sinaloa, where Mazatlan is, to comply with the law.  I could not, for lack of a certified copy of my birth certificate.

Mexican Federal and State laws use the Certified Copy of the birth certificate in many transactions.  I do not have a certified copy of my birth certificate.  I was born in New York State, but when I, over the past five years, have tried to get a copy of that document, using the established processes, I failed over an insurmountable technicality.  These requirements have been added to the process, paranoia lest some alien steal a native-born’s documents and use them for nefarious purposes.   I have gone through many steps.  First, following the on-line application with  instructions and forms.  Then going through the agency Vital Check.  Lastly, an Albany based lawyer.

When the Universe says ‘no’, it really is simpler to just hear it and accept it.  It saves time, energy and money.  And maybe this revelation to my destiny might have come sooner.

And in between my return from Mazatlan and my acceptance of this current tiny cluttered house, I trusted  yet another man here who, after looking at this house, said I would be more comfortable in an empty house he owns.  I believed him with little proof.  While he hired a worker to fix the house up a little, by remounting the water tank on the roof, and installing the solar boiler I had bought, I proceeded with the lengthy process of covering the crude and crumbling living room cement floor with granite, offered by such a nice man named Michael Angelo, right here in this same tiny village.  Granite does not come cheap.  The process took a month, and cost me USD$1,000.  By the end of the month, I would come to realize that the house was unlivable without thousands more invested in it.

By now all my savings are gone.  I am seriously contemplating selling the car I bought in Mazatlan.  A used car, I paid too much for it.  I do not think I could find a fool who will pay that much.  The car is five years old.  I do not know if the paint is the original, but it is terrible, and chips off easily.  In order to sell it, I will have to have it painted, which will probably cost $1,000 US.  I had a car, an SUV convenient for the life I lived on the farm, but now too big and beginning to need serious repairs.  I sold it to a nice man in Canatlan, who needed it for his family.  We made a deal, he would pay me 1500 pesos a month until it was paid off.  I don’t mind living like the other old ladies in this village, depending on younger neighbors with cars to help me get grocery shopping done.  Of course, these younger people are all related, and have a moral/social obligation to help these elders.  This is missing where I am concerned.  There is the bus, the schedule for which is unreliable as it is long-distance service, and a hefty walk back home from the bus stop with a loaded bag of groceries.  The money I gave to the orthopedist for a shot that he said would relieve my knee pain for a year was not well spent. 

Bless you for sticking with me through this depressing summary of my quixotic journey.

Here is my conclusion.  I am downsizing, and learning to live very efficiently, neat and tidy, preparing to move in with someone, or enter a community.  At last I will find a cohort.

I have been blocked from becoming a citizen.  My friendships have been ephemeral.  In spite of living in a house among a cluster of houses, I am still alone.  I try to get the reciprocal cycle of visits going, but no one comes to my door.  I am not included in community events, except when they need money.  These events often have a vague starting time.  Whether I contribute or not, no one ever follows up to make sure I attend.

I have not found suitable housing.  Aside from the clutter that prohibits my bringing in my own furniture, I am not being included in the communal society; I have lived among these people for eight years now.  In spite of my gifts, I have not found an area where I can be of service.  I feel excluded, shut out; I do not belong.

I do not accept that as what I had planned for the last part of my life.  I believe there is something more, a more fulfilling and engaged future.

Now I see the light, and I can with intent prepare for the future that awaits me. 

Let’s check back in six months, and see if this is just one more delusion. 

 

As above, so below

 

As above, so below.

 

They say it is a Chinee curse:  May you live in interesting times.

In which case, we are pretty much damned.

It is like, if you put tiny seeds in a glass of water, they float on the top until they are saturated and can’t take any more.  Then they drift down to the bottom.

Then the view changes.  From the bottom, you can see up to the top, all around,  and also see the water you are immersed in.

There is the outer world, the surface.  Emotionally turbulent, pulling and pushing us this way and that, precipitating us into this place or that, for and against, turning friends into enemies.  We long for peace, release.  Happiness and joy are found in a bottle, or in leaves, or in the senses.  For some, happiness is found in mashing others.  This world is a world of duality.  Good or bad. Yours or mine. Up or down. Brown or white.  Rich or poor.

 

Then there is the seed filled to capacity, fed up, heavy in its own fullness, dare I say sorrow, as if a seed knows it has changed and dropped out, and as if it could feel that it is now different,

But in its saturation, something in it--a germ, a kernel--is starting to awaken and expand.  When it is saturated, full up, heavy, there is no where to go but up.  Change is inevitable; it is time to grow or die.

 

For those trapped in the cyclone of duality, the soup of emotions is a bitter one.

But it doesn’t have to be that way.  We were never meant to be that way.  Our nature, in its baldest form, is spirit.  We have emotions, that is our unique gift as earth dwellers, but we are not meant to be locked into them.    There is another way of being.

The true nature of that spirit is Love.  Not transactional, or soppy unreliable romantic love, heck no.  In the core of our being, there is love.  It brings with it an infinite ability to forgive; to give; to know joy as a quiet expansive filling of light and contentment.

Why would anyone choose to swim in that bitter soup?  Insanity.

I wonder what it is that people fear to lose, that they hold on to, like clinging to a limb hanging over a cliff.  Bats.

These are turbulent times.  Some ancient spirits say it is the worst.  

Everyone has heard that there is a myth around Atlantis.  Some may even know the name Lemuria.  These words are accepted like polar ice or earthquake. Not so.  The ancients tell us, those who have ears to hear, that these were real places, were humanity’s earlier attempts at this experiment. 

If you have a curious mind, you might wonder about these myths.  To learn the truth about them, first you have to believe that you are more than your body.  See through the myth that you are no more than some meat that, when a certain essence leaves it, rots.

It amazes me, it is stunning, the kinds of fantasies that people create around that myth.  The atheists take it at face value.  Those who have been indoctrinated to any degree of religious belief have a graded sense of a ‘hereafter’.    Duality still exists there.  They might wind up in the hot (hell) or the cold (heaven).  And so forth

The truth is simpler, more beautiful, and infinitely difficult to understand.  The Bible has a simile.  ‘I am the potter, you are the clay”.  Really think on that a bit, and you have to come loose from some of your illusions.  How can a lump of clay know what hands are?  What the mind of a potter is?  What thought and intention are?

 

No, this is too scary.  “I am not a lump of clay; I have hands, I have thoughts and intentions”.  Yes, dummy, but ants have legs, too.  An ant has intentions.  Imagine you are as an ant to something in the universe that is infinitely greater than you.

And that being doesn’t have legs.  It doesn’t need legs.  Imagine that.

And so we have been here before.  Yes, even We.  It is not impossible that we participated in this experiment before, in Atlantis or Lemuria.  It may even be probable.  And what have you learned?  Oh! You forgot.

And that is the point.  The trauma of birth, of trapping our great spirit being into this clammy messy ball of flesh, has wiped all memory from us.

So we drop down onto the glass of water, a dried up seed.  We bob around; the glass is shaken, we are tossed about.  But we don’t come alive until we have had enough and we drop out, drift down, and in due time awaken the germ within and begin to grow.

 

The high volume of negative emotions, the hate, the avarice, jealousy and sheer brutality is thrashing the water in that little glass.  The dead seeds remain; the fertile seeds fall. 

I speak from a place of bifurcated vision.  I sit here on the bottom of the glass, awakened and growing, but also seeing what is happening on the surface with painful clarity.  It hurts my tender shoots to be thrashed about; to see both the victims and the perpetrators.  The victims **terrified victims of war, with no safe home nor food supply; the victims of a ‘democratic’ bureaucratic system who cannot live by fairness and reason, but must conform to artificial structures; the domestic animals that are beaten, abandoned; brother fighting with brother, each fiercely defending an illusion of their own choosing, blocking out the sunlight of the love that is in their hearts for each other.  The perpetrators **Warriors grabbing land from peaceful dwellers; producers inflating the value of their product to stuff their own coffers;  Leaders stealing money from their trusting victim followers;  siblings depriving the weaker of rightful inheritance.

It is a heavy burden, with the eyes of a tender shoot, to see these sharp objects (violent emotions) slashing about.  It hurts, because we are One.  Our tender spirits that live beyond time are actually of one cloth.  Love is at the center of the universe.  Just as a spider feels movement at a remote part of her web, so our brothers trashing love reverberates in our hearts.  It hurts.  It signals that there is disturbance somewhere in our world, and we want to scurry there to feed or repair. This desire is strong; our heats are still made of flesh and blood, and so it hurts.  One day we will lose the flesh, and we won’t be affected in the same way.  Our individual selves will exist in an ocean of Love, and won’t have flesh that can be wounded. 

I long for the day.