Let go and let Light

 

Hello friend.  Yes, I mean you, since you are the only one reading this.

I have made a somewhat disturbing observation.  I mean, once I see it I cannot unsee it, so it is not disturbing to the in-the-present me, but it rather sets on its head my long-held beliefs.

Christianity is inside-out from itself and its goals.

As Christians, we are taught to guard our hears closely.  We are taught to protect ourselves against outside influences that might be evil.  We are taught that guilt is a good thing, as it points us to repent; except for when, for various reasons, repenting cannot undo the ‘evil’ that is at the base of our guilt.

True spirituality, really being in touch with ‘God’, that sweet pure oneness that we recognize in rare moments (or perhaps for the properly trained Catholics, each time we hold the communion host in us), is at its core quite the opposite of all that.

We are composed of energy.  By now, our culture contains in common knowledge the construction of the atom.  We know that we are composed of atoms.  If we pursue that thought all the way to its natural conclusion, we realize that our bodies are composed of a huge pile (neatly and purposefully organized) of spinning units of energy.  Our ‘solid’ bodies are an illusion.  We are, at our core, energy.

Meditation, also, has entered our common cultural consciousness.  I am old now, and I cannot remember, among my earliest memories, my parents or neighbors talking about meditation.  Now the word might easily arise in our everyday conversations.

Why do people meditate?  In my youth, prayer was the means to arrive at the same end as meditation, although more restricted towards Christian goals, and more commonly comprised of memorized prayer.  Some might have encouraged us to ‘talk to God’, but we received little instruction on how to do that, so we fell back upon our rote prayers.  We didn’t understand, then, how by letting the mind relax into a swirl of memorized sounds, there was some other aspect of mind that might be released to connect with a higher reality found in non thinking, or letting go.

In letting go, we release the filters that normally confine and redirect our core energy.  Once released, the light released in that energy connects us to our true selves.  We become light.  Those moments of light-power, released, bring us enormous benefits. 

We all have within us the desire to connect with God.  For some, that desire has been extinguished by dashed hopes.  In my association with Christians, especially the Holy Rollers, also called Pentecostalists, I was implanted with the illusion that I was battling with The Enemy, who wanted to separate me from God.  For many, this was an external force.  “Get thee hence, Satan.”

I am not saying that evil does not exist in the world.  Negative energy exists.  But that is not my nemesis. 

When I experience the sweet presence of ‘God’, in that space evil does not exist.  Light and darkness cannot exist in the same space.  So then, all we have to do is live in the Light, right?  Oh, such sweet words, so facile to speak.

At birth we begin to forget our connection to the Light.  The transition from our life in spirit form to life in this crude clay mold is traumatic.  Some arrive so full of that light energy that it takes longer for them to forget.  But by around age three, we have all forgotten where we came from.  The combination of our emotions and the discomforts and pains of the physical body have all combined to create a new entity; the personality.  Our soft clay begins to toughen up, develop scars, and create a unique tough shell.  Like any bit of rock that breaks off from a mountain and falls into a stream, the constant friction of our unique journey through the water as it flows to the ocean reshapes us. 

Wait, what are we?  Soft clay, or hard rock?  Geologists tell us, at its earliest creation all the earth was molten rock.  As we pass from lifetime to lifetime, we pick up bits and pieces that cling to us, represented by the hard corners and embedded bits in that broken-off piece of the mountain rock.

You may have heard the following description of us souls.  It is universally found across beliefs, so there most likely is validity to it.  Imagine that God is one great beam of light, like the sun.  Now imagine a dome over the earth, a great mosaic of multi-colored cut glass.  Or, see a prism.  My spirit originates with that one source of light, but as it is filtered through a pane of that mosaic, it absorbs unique traits all of its own.

All of humanity has but one Source.  We come imbued with our own unique characteristic pigment. Ultimately, we want to get back to that Source, which contains all pigments, because it is the most beautiful, with infinite qualities.  If we speak of colors, as in stained glass, then we see white as containing all colors, radiating out, making all things visible.   Black absorbs all pigments to itself, unable to reflect colors back into the light.

Where is the bucket of black paint that is intent on coating our beautifully pigmented glass, obscuring the light?

We find that in emotions.  The Bible tells us about the Seven Deadly Sins.  What are these if not emotions.

As we learn to quiet our minds and allow, unfiltered, that pure light to flow through us, what feeling remains? 

Joy.

We have expressions to approximate joy.  The Balm of Gilead, for Old Testament readers.  A sweetness flowing from our crown down to the core of our being.  Peace.  Warmth.  Release from fear, anxiety, worry.  Maybe we can hold that but for a moment.  Once felt, we have begun a journey from darkness to light.

Whether we get there through partaking of Communion, or saying the Rosary, or repeating other ritualized prayers, the end result is the same.  If we focus on learning to meditate, and find it difficult to maintain the concentration, every effort uncovers a little more light.  Once we do find that light, that inner peace in our ritual meditations, we have set our feet firmly on the path.  Young souls may find it a struggle, that struggle may be off-putting.  The truth is, it all counts, it all adds up; a stroke of light that cancels out a bit of darkness.

Our goal is to live in the light, 24/7.  That journey may be a short one, or a long one.  In truth, the Light we find in one life can carry over to another.  The filters are thinner or thicker, depending on what went before. 

What does it mean, to live in the light? 

This is where, as I see it, Christianity is turned upon its head.

Different organized religions may be closer or further from this truth.  However, modern society has its roots in distortions of Christianity

We all share the Golden Rule, Do unto others as we would have them do unto us.  But overlayed are other factors that keep us from realizing that dictum; The Seven Deadly Sins

Who among us is free of envy, greed, lust, pride, gluttony, anger, sloth.  We struggle to contain these impulses, to eliminate them from our lives, each of us according to his own inherent qualities. 

We pride ourselves in saying, “I never lose my temper.”

I have my sexual desires and ambitions under control; I do not lust.  But what of that twinge in the belly when we see our child’s classmate receive a recognition that we feel our child deserves?

I am responsible, I take care of my obligations.  But what of that phone call that we put off, to a friend or relative who is going through hard times?  Or that room that I know needs painting, I bought the paint and brushes already, months ago?

No matter how hard we try, we will never achieve life by the Golden Rule.  Rules are a product of duality.  Good, bad.  Do, Don’t do.  Virtue, vice.

If you can open your heart, to absorb all that is written here, your life can change in a moment.  That is unlikely to happen.  It sounds so easy, yet so unattainable.

If we were all gathered in a lecture hall, and we all quieted our minds and focused on whatever light shines through our filters, it is theoretically possible that your life could change in that moment.  The one thing these words don’t contain is Energy.  I remember the first time I met His Holiness the Dalai Lama.  I was in a line awaiting his blessing, standing in his driveway, inching myself closer to him.  Once in his presence, I felt a great peace, and a rainbow of Energy. This is the Energy that mere words lack, that these words cannot convey.

Way back in the day, before I began my first odyssey, I was in LA fascinated with Zen Buddhism.  I would go to the Temple to sit zazen.  I tried to capture this meditation thing.  I puzzled over the Koans (what is the sound of one hand clapping).  I tried and tried.  My mind never stayed quiet for very long. 

I arrived in Israel, after waiting for the ferry three days in a youth hostel in Greece.  I met a girl there in the bunk across from mine.  We got along.  We got through the ferry ride sleeping on the deck.  We Landed in Haifa, and said our goodbyes.  She had a destination in mind.  Mine was still vague; I only knew I wanted to live on a kibbutz, but had no idea how to get there.  I spent some days in Jerusalem, the root of it all.  It was Christmas time; a trip to Bethlehem, perhaps.  The Eve arrived.  I was in a hostel with random people.  With a nod to O. Henry, we all brought something to share, from our wanderings in the lanes.  It was magical.

I honestly cannot remember the details of how I ended up as a volunteer on one Kibbutz rather than another.  When I arrived at Kibbutz Gat, near Ashdod, I was greeted joyously by this same hostel and ferry companion.  Once again, we were bunk mates.  I observed that she left at dawn each day, and returned for breakfast.  I asked her about that.  She said she would go to the edge of a field, and meditate at dawn.  A discussion ensued, mentioning my failed attempts.  This is where the magic happened.  We sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of our volunteer-housing, knees to knees.  She did not try to ‘instruct’ me.  We just meditated.  And for the first time, I felt a peace and joy flow over me.  The flame was ignited. 

In my experience, words alone are not enough.  Some souls who arrived with fewer filters than mine may contradict me on that.  For me, at the beginner stage and at a higher stage as well, I needed that live transmission.

We are meant to live in a state of joy.  We can never eliminate the basics of, as the Zen Masters say, wash your rice bowl. 

“I have just entered the monastery.  Please teach me.”

Joshu asked, “Have you eaten your rice porridge?”

“I have eaten”

“Then you had better wash your bowl.”

At that moment, the monk was enlightened.

Quoted from Mumonkan

 

Not necessary to anticipate the next lesson, nor the next meal.  It will all unfold.  We need only focus on the task at hand.  Or as Matthew [6:28-29] describes in the New Testament, the flowers don’t stress out; their beauty comes naturally.  And the birds, too.  They don’t have to plant to get all those seeds they eat.  You cannot read these too literally.  How I realize it, I no longer have to write lists before going to the grocery store.  I check my kitchen, see what I need, and go.  While I am in the grocery store, my basket fills with what I need.  In the mornings, I meditate.  I ask, what needs doing today?  Maybe I add, how may I be a blessing?  Those divinely ordained serendipities unfold.

In the Old Testament, Psalm 50, we see that when we walk in the Spirit, we lack for nothing.  The beasts of the forest, the cattle upon a thousand hills, the fowls of the mountains, the wild beasts of the fields, all the world is mine.  My hunger is satisfied, if I live in the Spirit, because I lack for nothing.

In this decade, 2024 – 2034, the opposite seems true to the naked eye.  We are in financially hard times.  To many, the roof seems to be caving in.  What used to be simple is now made so complicated.   I still broke my hip, I still walk with pain until, in due time, it is healed.  But despite my near empty bank account, the doctor and hospital bills will be paid.  I look at the blessings ensuing within my struggle.  I see people being extra nice to me, when before I was invisible.  I see a need to slow down, which offers me, if I choose to accept, extra down time to simply sit in joy and reflect.  And as I said above, the light accumulates.  Every minute I spend in joy strengthens my ability to return to it effortlessly.  More layers of darkness, more filters, are cleansed away, removed.  It is a process.  As we focus more on hope, and less on worrying, struggling, fearing, our joy increases.  Our bounty is uncovered.

Instead of being independent, self-contained, in control, now I see that happiness lies in coming to oneness with my core energy, uniting with the joy and bliss I find there, and letting go of all my musts, and I’d betters, and shoulds.  I cannot look outside and see if the world is conforming to my concepts of it.  I let that go, and let joy and love be my only filter, instead of that pompous judge.  On this we agree:  Giving is better than receiving.

Old-Age Spinster

 I need a cook!  

Maybe it would be different if I lived near a modern supermarket in the States.  Maybe there I could find more ready-to-eat meals.  Prepared salads, frozen vegetarian meals, trays of cut fruits.

I find myself hungry a lot.  I just don't seem to have the enrgy to drive downtown, and hunt through the supermarket for food that I could eat.  

A meat eater might grab hamburber meat and buns.  Or chiliquiles, which are tiny rolled up tortillas stuffed with some kind of meat, ready to eat..or maybe to warm up.  

The popular street food here are gorditas.  A thick tortilla that can be sliced in two and stuffed with a greasy concoction.  There is a variety stuffed with rajas and cheese, which is an acceptable vegertarian meal.  One need only get over the grease.  But those are the ones thaat are made early in the day and stuffed into baskets; they sit at the island at the central bus station.  The road is divided at that stretch.  This is where the train used to run on tracks through town.  Once the tracks were removed, the elevated center strip  was paved over as a tree-liined sidewalk.  The town carved out a small space where the ladies sit at road level in their plastic chairs and feed the tourists driving through, and the bus passengers traveling through.  The potato gordita is also yummy.  A perfectly good meal, if one is not counting carbs.

I have to question myself carefully to get at the truth; to separate out my prejudices.  I should compare the amount of carbs in, say, a grilled cheese sandwich, with the carbs in a typical burrito.  Unlike the ones I've seen prepackaged and chubby in supermarkets, these burritos and tacos are mostly tortilla.  Again, heavy on the carbs.  But is there really a difference?  Well, in truth, I seldom eat sandwiches,

If I hired a cook here, what would she servie?  

When I lived in Acapulco, I remember very satisfying meals.  They were heavy on the fresh fruits, vegetables and seafood; light on the carbs.  The village where I now live in inland.  Yes, it is based on agronomy.  But the main crops are corn, frijoles (a low-protein version), and oats for the cows.  I don't see these neighbors sharing their garden's bounty with one another.

I am not being fair.  The supermarket is filled with fresh tomatoes, potates, limes, onions.  There is the occasional brocolli and cauliflower, which are kept in a separate upright fridge and are often droopy or spoiled.  In the shop where I go the most, the green peppers are very few, and way at the top of the bins where I can never raech them  I must always ask for help.  Then I am embarrassed to keep rejecting the old wrinkled ones, in search of something fresh.

I am kvetching.  The truth is, I am just too old.  I feel my age.  I just don't have the energy to go reguarly into town and fight the crowds, and engage my imagination to think of meal-planning using these meager resources.  

Uncle.  

Monterrey Consul Nightmare

 

We walk by faith, not by sight

Sometimes I wonder if it is all made up.  The spirits, the light energy, the Higher Self, all that stuff.  How do I know that I am not just fooling myself?  Escaping in flights of fancy?

Once again, my passport was stolen.  Without a permit tag from the DMV, I parked in the handicapped spot at WalMart.  My surgery hasn’t been that long ago; it is still painful to walk with a cane.

Some righteous person who believes you must live by the rules must have taken offense at this.  S/he entered my car (was it locked?  I thought so, but maybe when I went back to persuade Junior to wait in the shade instead of the oven-car, I didn’t hit the button right}.  I had taken my wallet inside the store, and left the little shoulder pouch I use as a purse in the car. 

When I returned with my bag of groceries, I was only thinking of Junior and paying the ticket for the parking space.  I noticed the pouch, it was lying in the foot well.  I don’t usually carry my passport, so I wasn’t thinking of it, not perceiving that the lightness I noticed was because it was missing.

In due time, I made an appointment with the Consulate in Monterrey for a replacement.

I tried to persuade myself to go by bus, but in the end, I couldn’t do it.  I even bought a bus ticket, which disappeared.  Literally.  I tucked it carefully, intentionally,  into that same black pouch, but when I got home it wasn’t there.

The bus.  It is a nine-hour trip.  It is night when you arrive.  You must find a hotel.  In the morning, you must check out and take a taxi to the consulate.  Upon arrival at the consulate, you must divest yourself of everything, and enter the consulate with only the clothes on your back.  So where do you leave your overnight bag?  Your phone?  Your wallet? There is a small shack at the edge of the consulate grounds that sells coffee etc.  There are rows of folding chairs under a canvas. Are they traveling companions, or is this a queue with a signaling system to call them in when their appointment is up?  It does not appear to be large enough for a locker system, to check overnight bags for dozens of travelers.  And when the consulate is done with you, connect with a return bus that might get you into Durango in the wee hours.  Then there would still be the trip to Canatlan from there.

No.  That I lost the ticket and the cost of it was perhaps a relief, although it was dismaying.

My appointment was for Tuesday.  Monday I am preparing to leave on the six- to eight-hour drive.  I had just made the bold move into the ‘poor house’, that is, the St. Vincent de Paul house for the elderly and feeble. That was made necessary by my finding myself, at the third week of each month, out of money.  I have been living on my savings, which were little to begin with and dwindling monthly.  This seemed the only viable solution.

As I am preparing to leave for the trip, packing what clothes and food I would need, the mistress of the house urged me to take Gustavo along to do the driving.  She protested that since I was one of theirs now, she was responsible for me and my safety, and so Gustavo needed to accompany me.  Wow.  I was relieved.  I knew I couldn’t afford to pay someone to do that; it was a blessing that she was giving me that assistance.

Communication is the missing link in all of Canatlan society.  It is chronic; endemic, all pervading.

We arrive in Monterrey at dusk.  I check in, and am asked to pay 200 pesos extra for the second bed that is already in my room, paid for.  My car is small.  I cannot abide subjecting someone to sleep in it overnight.  Not to mention the sanitary considerations.

The appointment is for 8:30; they specify arriving 15 minutes prior.  There is always a queue.  All over the world, there are always massive numbers of people around a US Consulate/Embassy.  We leave at 7 fo a 7 km drive.  The road system in Monterrey is a nightmare.  There are roads crossing roads, curved roads, bending roads, bridges, railroad tracks, all covered in bumper-to-bumper cars.  At one point the GPS voice sent us off the highway to a narrow road of 100 feet, ending with a facing wall requiring a sharp right around a wooden light pole and requiring and another sharp right into the thick of traffic. 

We arrive at 8 a.m. sharp, according to my car clock.  But then I remember that this clock is ten minutes fast.  A relief.  Because I still have to dispose of my little black pouch holding my wallet and telephone.  I ask around and following the pointing hands until I find the shack, with its neat rows of folding chairs filled already with people.

Hobbling along with my cane, I cross a curbed driveway and realize that there are parking spaces under the consulate building.  No crass signs advertising the price.  Then up the curb onto the sidewalk, which is sculpted into many layers.  It is crawling with people.  There is a small army of uniformed soldiers labeled “private security” on their shirts.  The color of their uniforms is, apparently, semiotic.  There is gray, or blue, or white.  They are efficiently corralling the herd of people by the supplicants’ intentions.  I couldn’t even imagine.  It seems an impossible scene.  How can all these people be attended to by the limited numbers of workers inside this building?  I have been to many embassies and consulates throughout my lifetime of world traveling; it is always like this, except here in Mexico the numbers have exploded.  Hundreds of people: men, women, children, young, old, complete families, thickly lined in a cacophony of voices.

I say the right words to the rightly colored shirts, and find myself in the right queue.  I wait patiently.  This line seems slimmer, quieter.  We, the chosen few, the citizens.

At 8:15 we are thinned out further and sent to stand in front of a numbered door.  I chat nervously with the accented gentleman behind me.  He and his lover plan a trip abroad in a couple of months, and require a fresher date on their passport.

Finally, the door opens, and we pass through the screening machine, like the TSA at airports.  Men remove their belts.  No one wears watches.  Eyeglasses pass along the conveyor belt through the sensor box.  Another outside door opens, and I recognize the small cemented stone pathway to the next building.  After nearly ten years living here, I know this building.  We all take a flimsy seat in room.  There is the non-functioning clock on the wall.  No one has a time piece.  Better not to be reminded you have been waiting for exactly how many hours. There is the TV up high, with the volume set around 30, so only the guard at the desk below the TV can actually hear it.  A violent Vin Diesel movie of fighting slimy, long toothed monsters is playing.  What language is it set to?  English or Spanish? 

The bright yellow plastic chairs quickly fill up.  Inexplicably, a guard pulls one from the neatly box-formed rows and puts it down against the wall closer to the guard’s desk and the door, and indicates for me to sit in it.  Though the TV hanging in front is in the the space to the left of the rectangle of chairs, it is directly in front of me.  Better to see the mauled and bleeding bodies, the slimy drool of the narrow jawed, small pawed gray critters, the scantily clad bodies of the small band playing cat and mouse with them.

I stare in fascination.  I actually appreciate Vin Diesel’s body of work.  And his body.  Before long, I wake up and make a choice.  I close my eyes, and take myself to the perhaps imaginary space of light and energy.

I breath slowly, in and out.  A calm and lightness come over me.  I tilt my chin slightly down, to control the flow of saliva.  And soon I am at peace.  My body dissolves.  There is only my head where the Theta waves, the Delta waves, the whatever waves have no gravity.  I watch my breath.  I feel my body become a puddle of light. I am anchored.  I want for nothing.

No clocks.  How much time is passing?  The room full of people disappears.  There is only silence, occasionally broken by the sound of the microphone carrying a voice tossing out a name, and a person rising and walking to the interview window.

Yellow chairs, yellow sunlight flowing through the long windows.  Silence, calm.

Time passed, and I came out of it.  I opened my eyes.  Before long, movement and chattering returned.  But for that time, whether it was five minutes or fifty, that room was filled with light.  The light in me flowed out, and peace filled the room.  For that short period of time, I did not need faith to know a stillness that is beyond understanding. And for all my doubts, I had tangible proof that it is real. 

The rest of the day was a nightmare.  We started the day concentrating on arriving on time.  The ubiquitous OXXO never was positioned on our side of the road, through that long trip to the consulate.  I had an apple in the car, so I ate that.  In the end, I spent five hours in a chair in a room.  There was no clock, no coffee, no water fountain, no game-filled smart phone, no food at all.  No door opening to a courtyard, for a breath of fresh air.  No where to walk to except the toilet.  I got up and took a walk, a circuit around the large desk area and past the interview windows.  I could feel the nervousness of the officials at this stolen liberty. 

At long last, my name was called.  An American lady did my interview.  I took my oath and signed my name.  Then I continued to sit, while she scrolled through her computer, eyes glued to the screen, scrolling, pausing, scrolling, clicking her mouse.  What was taking so long?  At last she told me to return to me seat and wait.

The crowd was thinning out.  There were now many empty yellow chairs.  And still I waited.  The TV was now showing a cartoon, of violent square creatures cutting each other to pieces.

At last, my name was called.  This interview window was behind a door; a tiny cubicle.  A Hispanic looking man with a goatee began an interview.  He was asking me strange questions.  Like, did I know what happened to my lost passport, did I have contact with the passport, or something along that drift.  It became clear that he was trying to find out if I was selling my passports.  When I first arrived in Mexico in 2017, I took seriously the instruction that a foreigner must have their passport on them at all times, ready to identify themselves if stopped by a policeman or other official.  That this sticks in my brain may be a reflection of my age.  It ma well be that now a foreigner is told to keep their passport locked up in a secure place at all times. 

After I lost a few passports in a few years upon my arrival here, I learned the latter lesson…keep your passport at home locked up in a safe place at all times.  In 2021, during COVID, I could not get a ten-year passport to replace the most recent stolen one.  I was given a provisional one.  If I could go 18 months without losing a passport, I would be granted a full-term document.

And so I kept my passport locked up at all times.  Except the Mexican government passed a new level of paranoia, requiring that all people with telephone contracts, like with TELCEL, needed to prove who they were.  In my case, they required my passport.  I went to their office in Durango (there is none in Canatlan, an hour away) and tried to show them a photo of my current passport on my phone.  No, they needed to see it.  The very patient attendant at the large 22-counter center took the time to show me a handout that included a QR code.  She said that with this option, I could prove my identity from a distance.  Manny was with me, it was shortly after my hip surgery.  She spoke mostly to him, and he pocketed the little handout with instructions.  I never saw it again.  Nevertheless, at home I opened up the TELCEL website and tried to figure out how to register remotely.  One needed to put in a request for a code, and within a minute the code needed to be received and typed into the screen.  There was just a small problem.  The internet signal in El Pozole is slow.  Time and again, I would send off for a code, but the minut4e would expire before I could receive and feed it back in.

So I went down to Canatlan, to the internet café, and my friend Uriel who ran it.  I spent some time there, trying to complete this TELCEL requirement and another task or two.  I could not.  Inexplicably, the internet was blocked and unresponsive.  Junior and I gave up, and came back home.  The only recourse was to take the passport to Durango and go in person to show the TELCEL counter person my passport.

But first I stopped off at Walmart, to pick up just a couple of things.

And so, my passport was stolen.  TELCEL set a deadline to comply as September.  Whether I am granted a temporary or ten-year passport, it will not arrive before the end of September.  Will TELCEL have to cut off my telephone service?

This is how my passport was lost.

The goateed man grilling me in this tiny cubicle did not believe my story.  He continued to probe.  I had to tell him how I had become indigent, that stealing my passports was not enough punishment by the brave Mexican men, that the proceeds from the sale of my property was included.  Maybe he interpreted that to mean I was desperate enough to sell my passport, while I was only trying to show him the dangers of being a vulnerable single old foreign lady living in this glorious country.  He called in another man, to sit at his left slightly behind him in this tiny cubicle.  They brought me to tears.

Gustavo was waiting on the sidewalk when the five hours were up.  We had discussed this process as taking maybe an hour, so he was beside himself wondering where I was.  I did not see him at first, blinded by the rears, sucking up the snot pouring out of my nose.

We drove home.  He picked up a couple of burritos from a car parked outside an OXXO somewhere on the highway.  I was not hungry.

I put on a headset, cranked back my seat, and listened to an audiobook.

It was dark by the time we reached the outskirts of Durango.  I must have dozed.  I opened my eyes and glanced at the dashboard.  The gas gauge was on empty, the orange little tank was glowing.  We saw a sign of a gas tank at an exit ramp, and followed it.  We were on an empty, dark road.  I rather abruptly ordered him to slow down.  I wanted to have the car engine running at maximum fuel efficiency, if we had any hope of reaching a gas station in time.  I kept my eye there.  He speeded up.  I still had the headphones on; I am afraid I spoke more harshly than I intended.  I barked to slow it back down to 80/50.

After a few miles we saw the twinkle of lights above the trees; we would find gas there, finally. We made it, but that slowed us down even more.  It was 10 p.m. when we approached Canatlan.  As exhausted and depressed as I was, still I could not rest at the poor house overnight while Junior was waiting for me in Pozole.  And so we extended our final arrival by another half hour; we drove to Pozole for Junior.

Gustavo helped me carry my overnight bag and snacks into the St Vincent de Paul enclosure.  I handed him a 200 peso bill, as a gratuity.  The way he looked at it and hesitated, I realized this was a disappointment.  More drama awaited me, after an exhausted sleep.

I am still feeling raw after the rough emotional Tuesday in Monterrey.  Back at the poor house, I was having difficulty getting the attention of one of the three key-keepers, to get outside to walk Junior and for the various errands I had to run. 

I still did not have internet, to transfer money.  When I saw Gustavo, I asked him about it, and the large young lady in black at her siting.  I was told it was turned off, for failure to pay.

When breakfast was eventually served and the ensemble was at the table, I walked in.  I was told that nothing is free, that 200 pesos was far from adequate, and who did I think I was.  After a bit of gratuitous berating, I finally had a chance to ask how much Gustavo was actually owed.  I had still not had a chance to bring more money from the States, and exchange and withdraw it.  After doing that, I paid Gustavo another 1,500 pesos. 

I did not start my day with a big breakfast.  It was now 11:30, and I wanted a cup of coffee and homemade bran muffin.  As I am thinking this, I see the young woman locking the kitchen door.  They were all going somewhere, and would be back after a while.

Having nothing else to do, I went back to my room and packed.  I was hungry, and caffeine-deprived.  Although I would continue to try to work out an acceptable arrangement for my existence there, my hope was fading.

Back inside for lunch, I was called to the table for my meal.  I was given a plate of refried beans and one chili relleno.  I like chili relleno; I smiled.  The two elderly disabled people, both blind, were sitting at their table under the archway in the courtyard.  I was seated at the kitchen table.  Alone.  I finished, and moved on to my next task.  When next I approached that area, I found the four of them sitting at that same table, eating and chatting away.  Rosea, the mistress of the house; Gustavo; Jose, a general handiman and night watchman; and the large young woman, always dressed in tight-fitting black pants, whose task among others was to provide a key to the entrance when anyone needed to enter or leave.  Today a new face was there.  I do not know his role, nor his name.  I suspect he is family to someone of the other four.  He seems an intelligent upper teen.

As rough as Tuesday was, on Wednesday I was wishing for a quiet interlude in the zone of light

After trying my best to continue to clarify my standing at the poor house, my rights, privileges and duties, it became clear to me that I could not find the peace I needed at that place.  When I went back to finish packing, the large young lady came back and tried a few arguments in defense of my staying.  They were specious; promises the Mistress would not honor.  The pivotal point would be having my own key; that was not going to happen.

I had my things piled up at the front gate.  It was locked.  There were those within earshot who were official bearers of keys.  I asked that the door be unlocked, so I could leave.  Now, clearly, I was invisible.  I sat on a stack of old clothes, and waited.  Nothing happened.  Finally, I called Lupito, my friend the carpenter.  I asked him to come and rescue me.  He wasn’t too busy at the shop, and so he came.  Simultaneously, the mistress rounded the corner and entered the vesterbule.  He asked her to open the door so I could leave.  For ten minutes, she refused.  She regaled him of all the dangers that dance in her head, of all the awful things that people do to each other.  He found himself defending my right to open the door and leave.

And so, bruised and weary, Junior and eye swung by Lupe and Roseo’s house for a cup of coffee and debriefing, before finally reestablishing ourself at our pretty rened home in El Pozole, where I would continue life in the red, spending more money each month than I took in. 

I do not know if I will have a passport, after six weeks pass.  At least I should have a temporary one because, once again, my right as a citizen cannot be denied without just cause.  That doesn’t change the fact that I cannot afford to live in America.  The only real need I have for a passport is for the continued use of my TELCEL phone line.  It is unlikely to arrive before the September expiration date.  Who knows, perhaps my sister will die and I will need to attend a funeral, although if that occurs within the next six weeks, chances are I could not get an emergency passport in time for the burial; so why go.

On the bright side, the tiny village of Pozole has a tiny river.  I have the freedom every day and as often as I like, to walk and sit beside it.  In that space, my spirit is free to sour high among the 300-year-old Alamo trees, and flow with the river spirits, and feel the rising sun on my face.  There I am free to believe.  I am free to take flights of fancy with my higher selves, and imagine a better existence, one full of light and love.  I have to believe.

August update, transition

 

Passport

Rita just stopped by, Saturday evening, to catch up.  I am preparing to leave her house and move to the ‘poor house’, St. Vincent de Paul Society house, five miles away in Canatlan.  Although I will greatly miss the tranquility and natural beauty of El Pozole, my world will widen with other opportunities.

I should be able to save a few hundred dollars a month.  Then, I will have the car painted in a good shop in Durango, with an oven.  Then I will put it on the market, and try to sell it.  I can invest that money here, and gain 2% interest on it, instead of losing money on low value dollar exchange every month. 

I should be able to take classes at the historical society.  Maybe art?  Maybe music?  I can’t imagine what music classes they teach.  And I hope the art class is not just a chintzy arts and crafts exercise, with popsicle sticks and crepe paper.

I probably will no longer be able to put myself asleep with a toque of weed.  That is a pity.

Chat GPT is helping me line up an ESL teaching job online.  I should be able to earn $10/hr, and with ten hours a week it shouldn’t be a strain.  That’s $400/month!  In six months of this, low rent and an income, my situation should be much rosier.  Instead of trying to cajole and persuade a family member to house me for a few days while I try to get a knee replacement on Medicare’s dime (to whom I have paid $1,200/mo for twenty years with almost no return), I would have the cash to pay for independent housing, for as much as a week to as little as three days, depending on what the doctor will agree to.  Actually, using my medical emergency fund, I could do that right now, but now is not the time.  First, I must see about my ability to work.  For sitting at a computer, the condition of my knee should not be a factor.

Tomorrow, Sunday, I will bring a suitcase of clothing to the St. Vincent de Paul house.  Monday noon I leave for Monterrey.  Junior will stay with Puppichino at Rita’s house, for two days.  By Wednesday, I should have at least a temporary passport.  Unless, of course, they decide once again that I am risky, and issue me an 18 month document until I prove I can hold on to for the full ten years.  This happened to me in 2021, after having two passports stolen.

That still does not help my situation of legal status in Mexico.  I need my birth certificate in order to be able to sign up for senior assistance.  It isn’t much, but every bit helps.  And there are other little perks, too, like holding a SPIN card with OXXO.  Just a handy way to move money around Mexico, like to pay for Mercado Libre orders and such.  I covet one, just because I cannot have one.

Finally got rid of the pup.  A month or so ago, some smart-ass neighbor decided to toss seven puppies into my gated yard under the dark of night.  I threw them out next day, but one little guy hid out, and wound up staying.  Having such a rambunctious three-month old puppy was a bit much for me.  Everything goes in the mouth.  He learned to limit his bodily functions to the white adult diapers I placed on the floor, so that was something.  He still had accidents, though.  Eventually, as he seemed a little older and more independent, he was placed outside to sleep the night.  He really didn’t seem to mind.  He didn’t whine.  As payday rolled around this month, I splurged on a 20 kg bag of dog food for Junior.  I found a cool container on the premises, probably meant to contain ten kilos of kibble.  I filled the other kg containers I used indoors, emptying the bag as much as I could, and then delivered it and the pup to the Casa de Control de Animales. It was still around three kgs, so they accepted the pup and all were content.  I named him ‘lucky’, in French   Bon Chans. At least, I think that is what it means.  Good luck.  Not that it matters, the name ends with me.  (see earlier post for photo)

Actually, it would have been nice to raise him and train him.  He is of a unique local breed.  I would have liked to get to know his traits and qualities. 

 The cat, Samantha, will have to go.  Some neighbors passing by, some months ago, decided I wanted her, and happily handed her to me.  She is a whiny cat, not the sort I would have chosen for myself.  She is vocal, and not at all affectionate.  Far too young, she got raped and pregnant.  Three of the kittens are finally old enough to move around, and eat kibble.  I don't know what to do with her as I leave.  I may just leave them here.  They will fend for themselves.  I would normally want to neuter her.  On top of everything else, I can't deal with this.  It is a stretch too far.

The man who lives in the rubble next door used to have a bunch of cats.  One of those impregnated Sammy.  They all seem to have disappeared, though.  I keep meaning to ask him about that.  Maybe she can meet the same end.

 

 

Circling the drain

 

Fifty years ago, I was lost.  I had been led into life choices that were against my best interests, but at age 17 I had no self-empowerment.  I did as I was told, or as I imagined was expected of me. 

I broke free, and then stumbled around for a couple of years..now what?  As it so happens, the crowd I fell into vibrated with one answer.  Go to India, if you want your life to change.  You will never be the same.

Each of us is led by our circumstances.  Occasionally, we suss that things are awry and muster up courage to take a radical step, to make a radical change.

My job paid me once a month.  I gave notice, and with that one month’s paycheck in hand, I bought a cheap plane ticket to Amsterdam and began my journey.  There was little change left in my pocket.  That first night, I found a place to crash among shrubs.  The next day I wandered a bit around Amsterdam before hopping a train to Germany.  And so my odyssey began. 

I had prepared myself to see the Holyland, by converting to Judaism before leaving California.  This gave me an avenue to settle in Israel, a heart’s desire.  I was torn, between moving on to India where my life would supposedly change radically, and staying in the Holyland where I felt Christ’s presence, and where I discovered communal living in the form of Kibbutz.  While at my last job, at a University, I had kept an eye on publications that reported on the communal strain of lifestyle so popular at the time.  Here in Israel, I wanted to know what this ancient culture had to say about that lifestyle.  And so I took the necessary steps to become a kibbutz member, and experience it from the inside.  I liked it.  I liked it a lot.  It seemed to offer a safe harbor for my insecurities, my unresolved inner wounds.  I could daily sit in the communal dining hall, and in the crowd my loneliness and unworthiness were somehow soothed.

But eventually, after a couple of years of belonging to and in a kibbutz, I knew that I had not yet earned the freedom to settle.  There was that restlessness within.  While journeying across the Mediterranean and in the early months of kibbutz life, a random acquaintance with a woman, appearing as an other-worldly being, initiated me into meditation.  I had sat at an LA Zendo before, but through her spiritual energy and transmission, this time something profound began to happen.  Years later, in Kathmandu, I would run into her again and see she was very much not an apparition, but a flesh and blood person running a chai shop and being an anchor for the ex pat community in that city.

When I finally did arrive in India, to begin my search for that promised transformation, I had heard that the Dalai Lama was settled in the north Himalayan Mountains.  I was curious, and so upon my arrival in India I took what was meant to be a brief stop before exploring the Ashrams in the low lands.  I would not move on for another three years to come. 

Those years were spent in deep spiritual journeying, led by highly accomplished and authentic Tibetan high lamas.  The years passed, variously sitting in class listening to the ancient texts explained, and going into isolated retreats.  In truth, I would never be the same.  Here I seemed to come into my own.  All the years previously, I had been delving deeply into Christianity.  Not only the New Testament, but also studying the Old Testament, plumbing their depths.  This continued when I returned to the west, with my new mind, a new concept of reality and my place in it.

With mantra firmly in place, Om Mani Padme Hum, I stayed above the swampland of most emotions, harboring only the not-yet dislodged deepest rooted ego-centricity.

I went back for a refresher, in 2008.  I sat at the feet of an old friend, a lama, and, with his guidance, did ever-expanding meditations into the infinite fields of the inner and outer worlds.  I heard the tradition (from the Jataka Tales)  that, when Buddha Gautama was alive, a Being from a distant galaxy came on a beam of light and sat in his presence during his teachings.  That Being of light, purportedly, marveled at the teachings and wisdom of this Holy One.  This little anecdote taught me so much about reality beyond our tiny planet.  I grew to know deep things.  I absorbed them, and held them close throughout the following years.

And now, though in different garb, these teachings are becoming widespread.  There are so many people, many podcasting on YouTube, who are in communication with extra-terrestrial beings.  Their teachings are collectively reaching thousands and thousands of souls around the globe.

There seems to be no need to take baby steps.  The ancient and elemental teachings of the Four Noble Truths [Suffering, The Cause of Suffering, The Cessation of Suffering, the Path to the Cessation of Suffering] upon which we meditated, sitting at the feet of these high Lamas, the Geshes, seem archaic, outdated, superfluous.  For me, it was learning to crawl before I could walk.  These awakened me to the very essence of reality.  Now, I presume, those who are awakening have awareness of these elementals from previous lives.  They jump into the Ocean of Samsara and fly (pardon the mixed metaphor), soar, to find release at dizzying heights.

My solitary inner-monk’s life has brought me to a place where I seem to be living in isolation, among a population of people unaware and unprepared for the place my inner self inhabits.

Through the internet, I hear extraordinary messages and lessons coming from galactic beings.  These seem to be messages that I have been waiting to hear.  And yet, though other hearers seem to be riding the swelling waves of intergalactic societies and the wisdom beyond ours that they bring us, I seem to be circling the drain.  I hear, I understand, I have heard so much of it before, and yet as others harness these extraordinary spiritual tools meant to purify and elevate us, I seem to remain numb.  I cannot participate.  I hear, I know, but my consciousness can only dwell in an ocean of love, without activating these higher energies that are being transmitted, transferred, and which seem to transport the cohort, listening the same as I do.

What is wrong with me?  As I accept these energies graciously extended to us by Arcturians, Paladians, Sirians and such. my stubborn weaknesses become distilled, so clear in my mind’s eye, yet unmoving.  I see the generational karmic imprints.  I can isolate the times I felt rejected, uncared for, from age three all the way to just a few years ago by an ex lover.  I see, in the history of my recent progenitors, that same rejection being played out.  It is my ancestral inheritance, and that of my daughter.  I want to isolate it and surrender it up, as our teachers tell us we can and should do, if we so choose.  I choose!!!  It does not leave me.  Those same painful memories keep circling and circling, yet they will not be flushed.  What is wrong with me?

 Samantha

Kittens

 

He was going about his normal day in retirement.  The circle of life was not particularly on his mind.  Tracking down missing documents, exploring options for digitalizing boxes of old photos, when he noticed that his pet dog, Junior, was focused on the chest of drawers in the bedroom.

You know how birddogs do when they locate a bird…that attentive stillness.  That is what Junior was doing, sitting beside the chest of drawers.  It was clear, Junior had located the source of those tiny chirps we had been hearing all day.  The newborn swallows in the garage had begun flying lessons; perhaps one of them had stumbled into the house.

He picked up a corner of the chest of drawers so they could both look underneath.  Nothing.  He opened each drawer; a cursory check brought nothing. These things had a way of working themselves out, he thought, so he turned back to the business at hand and thought nothing more about it.

The next day, Junior was at it again.  This time he was pawing a particular drawer.  The boss pulled out the bottom two drawers, for inspection.  Sure enough, there was a tiny gray newborn kitten, barely noticeable next to a gray sweatshirt.  To his great surprise, because he thought that any newborn left without the warmth of his mother for 24 hours, would surely die, this little guy was moving his limbs.

Since there was only an hour until the weekly garbage pickup, the Boss tucked the cold kitten inside his shirt, close to his heart, and continued gathering up the garbage.  He was a little slow, limited to the left hand, the right hand clutching his cane.

Garbage finally corralled to a tidy heap on the street curb, he turned his attention back to finding where the kitten had come from.  By now the tiny form within his shirt was wiggling. He knew his outdoor cat, Sammy, was due towards the end of July.  The July 4^th celebrations had just passed, last weekend, so he expected there was still time.  The neighbor’s cat, however, was a couple weeks ahead of Sammy in her pregnancy.  He thought to check with the neighbor to see how that was going.  This kitten was tiger striped, like that pregnant one.  Sammy is black Calico.  The neighbor wasn’t home. 

His cleaning duties were interrupted by commotion on the colonnade.  All three dogs were barking at the clay pots, on stands.  He limped along to see what was going on.  There, inside the small mouthed planter, was dark Sammy, the lighter calico patches obscured in her tightly curled body.  Inside the curve were a small mass of squiggling things.  Four kittens, in all.  The fifth was grabbing warmth under his shirt.

All other plans for the day were quickly put aside.  First order of the day was to prepare a safe home for her, within his home.  With all the dogs and other cats in the neighborhood, she could not feel safe caring for her litter living out of doors.

First order of things, clear all the junk off the dresser top.

Second, bring the pet cage in from the garage.  Line it with a clean adult diaper laid flat.

Next, gather up the handful of kittens and carry them to the cage.  The Cat would surely follow behind her kittens.

Now the cat was ready to be introduced to her home for the next few weeks. 

While she was getting acquainted with it, the Boss took a blanket from Junior’s bed and laid it atop the cage, giving her the privacy of a cave-like environment. 

Next comes the water dispenser, and a bowl of food.  Kitten kibble is now on the shopping list, but until he could get into town, a scrambled egg would have to do to supplement the basic adult kibble.  She will need lots of additional protein over the next weeks.

He finally took a break from this hectic morning to make himself a little breakfast.  Whoops, that scrambled egg in Sammy’s dish was the last egg.  No eggs and bacon on a roll for this guy’s breakfast.  Bacon and peanut butter would have to do for this vegetarian’s breakfast.  Vege what?  Well, take a vote.  Bacon is the most popular adopted pseudo vegetable among his crowd.

Now Junior is walking back and forth, licking his lips, trying to tell him something. 

“Let me guess.  It is twelve o’clock and you think I have forgotten something.”

Putting his toasted roll to one side, he pulls out a packet of moist dog food and fills Junior’s dish. Fortunately, “By the grace of God,” he thinks, the other two dogs are still distracted with the garbage truck and other cul-de-sac goings on, to notice his juicy meal. 

Loki, the toy apricot poodle mix, gets his meals at night, at the home he grew up in nine years ago.  That home still thinks of him as a guard dog; he thinks of himself as an adorable cuddly pampered poodle.  He needed some time on the couch before he could reconcile this dissonance.  The lady who wielded the broom every time he tried to sneak into the house he thought was his place, passed away this year.  He went to church for her funeral, and was greeted warmly by all the relatives and friends he knew from the years of his struggles at that farm home.  In the midst of celebrating her departure, there was happiness in reuniting with old friends.  One by one, he would go up to an old friend and, tail wagging, jump up to say hello.  He was always warmly received.  The next day he returned to that original home, and was welcomed by the widowed husband.  Still, he was relegated to sleep outside, alongside the puppy retriever mix that maybe could fulfill that guard-dog role better than Loki.  That sweet poodle stayed sweet, getting along with everybody, but missing the guy who truly understood him.  Each night around 6, after a fun day with Junior and whatever foster dog was currently in residence, Boss would remind him that it was time to go home.  His ears would droop, the eyes grow sad, but he would turn tail and slowly walk out the gate.

Coquetta is a recent addition.  She is mostly Jack Russell.  Her longish coat, of a Champaigne color and Jack-Russell coarseness, is a ball of energy.  When the Boss, Junior and Loki would go for a walk at dawn, he would always stop at the closed-up gate behind which Coquetta lived.  She always looked forward to the treats he usually carried, and was still happy when all she got were scratches behind the ear. 

Then, just a couple of weeks ago, her master died.  He was an impoverished native Mexican of the Tepehuans tribe, whose adoptive brother settled him in this abandoned tiny triangular space of someone’s backyard.  He was of few—next to none—words, and remained a cipher to Boss.  His death, then, came as a surprise, though perhaps only so to Boss.  It is likely that he suffered with an ulcer that finally burst.  There was a flurry of activity, in that day or two, it all happened so quickly.  As soon as discretion allowed, Boss made inquiries about the disposition of Coquetta and the two puppies.  For a few days there was just not enough space to worry about the dog.  The Boss asked for permission to temporarily take care of her, until it could be decided.

What he found was a dog living in squalor, with two remaining puppies two months old and ready to be weaned.  The other two had already died.  She was infested, like the puppies.  The two who didn’t make it were, no doubt, victims of the infesting vermin.  After repeated baths, to kill off the vermin, the puppies found homes.  Everyone loves puppies; less popular are adults.

At least Coquetta was very much alive, and playful.  For the moment, she was vermin free and safe.  In a week or two, she would recover from the traumas, and bounce back to her playful self.  The fifth kitten was still not sure he wanted to stay.

Boss, in the spirit of last-ditch effort, tried to place the fifth kitten at Sammy’s breast.  Before long it was clear that this kitten would not make it. 

Next morning, Boss looked in the cage and saw the inevitable.  He picked up the limp, cold body and removed it from the litter.

And so we are reminded of the fragility of life, the inevitability of the Circle of Life.  Two puppies, one kitten, and one lonely bachelor gone, versus four wiggling lively kittens clinging to life.  And the Dance continues.

 1.  Loki     2.Samantha and her litter     3. Junior    4. Coquette   

Christ, Revelations and Fifth Density

 Light and Dark

Light can’t co-exist with darkness.  Flick the switch!  Walk into the light.

This is what I have been highlighting with my friends/acquaintances in the past few weeks/months.  But wait.  What is this?  Turns out, there are degrees of light!  It isn’t all or nothing, black or white. 

Ever since Atlas (3/I) entered our air space, I have been awakening my spiritual path.  Or should I say it more passively…my spiritual path has been awakening.  [And that is the crux of the premise of this essay]  Not that I ever left it, but seems like there it was at the center of things, until it disappeared.  Until now; something has jump-started this new age for me. 

I had followed a private, little-known channeler, Samual.  My oldest and dearest friend in the world introduced me to him, in the past decade, as I readjusted to ‘western society’.  Acknowledgement that we live in an era that quantifies invisible air waves.  I was able to follow Samual through the internet.  Specifically, Zoom meetings.  This one was a very well-guarded entity, permitting his followers--what I interpret to be--very little access.  I am comparing this scene to years of my training with the Tibetans in their home-in-exile, Dharmsala, India.  Their way of teaching feels much more interactive and personal.

Apparently, roughly 30 yeas ago the earth was swept through a particular wave field, that created an opening opening for spirit and galactic individuals to synthesize with humans.  More and more I am getting the picture that they are living amongst us in remarkable numbers, leading small groups having their private followers, very low key.  Only a few have reached the level of notoriety.  A few I have come across on YouTube are: Bashan, Lee Harris, Kelly Kolodney, and David Clemens.  There are many more having podcasts, too many for me to know about.  In fact, I do believe it is possible to take a course in becoming a channeler.  Would love to take it, I am curious, but too lazy. :-{

Samual’s teachings tend to be intellectual and at a semi-deep level.  More like a college course into dark secrets.  I was needing fuel to wake up my soul.  I need food.  These insights were nourishing guava; unripened sour guavas, but would have to do until the ripe sweet ones come along.

Samual alerted his group about the Atlas coming into our airspace.  Once, though I cannot place it as to time, he taught an exercise that he said was to prepare our bodies for the new energies coming, giving us an eighth strand to our DNA, or capacity for 8th density, or I don’t remember more than that he was trying to prepare us for what was to come.

Then, of course, I started doing more reading about this Atlas.  Step by step I was led to David Clemens.  And so my spirit led me back home, aligning the old path to this updated one, and I was flying.

I had crossed the veil, seen the light, could knowingly Let Go.  Suddenly, I was Holier than Thou!  I made it to the promised land.  I was floating on air. It was so easy!  Just let go; say yes to the warm ocean of light that flows in and unites you in an ocean of love, pure love and light.  One with the Source.  Know God.  Reunite to the Flame

Truth remains, as I discovered decades ago, once off the meditation cushion it can all disappear mighty quickly.

I thought, this time I had past the sputtering stage, and reached the Free Flowing stage, even if it were only my toes tickling the ocean.  My optimism was drowning out the Truth, again.    On the plus side, it is as if while I was dormant, I was still slowly cleaning out the muck that fought with the Light.  My impurities, egoism, judgmentalism, as well as the crippled but not dead:  self-deception, no longer relevant contracts and promises, desires; the dross that grows on us like barnacles, from birth.  Some even come along with us in birth.   It seems that they continued to grow weaker, their hold on me.  In the Tibetan years I had done many, many practices and rituals with the purpose of cleansing these more banal and negative impulses and habits.  I was glad that I got to do that during a focused period of my life.  Millions are now dealing with that, each to varying degrees, while living a householders life.  Work, family relationship, financial demands.  What a nightmare.  And now, on top of that, having to face and deal with our hidden self, the muck from deep within our souls. The cleansing work must be done, however, one way or another.  This work is done on the ‘energy ‘ level.  Our body vibrates at an energy level.  (Since the discover of the atom, which happened in my lifetime, we have known that our bodies are not as solid as we thought.  They are made up of atoms, a constant spinning around the nucleus; invisible to our naked eye, but now that we know, we cannot look away.)  The dross holds our body back from being able to vibrate at a higher, more refined energy level; a level that receives more Light, that Light of God, or Source.   I happen to prefer David Clemens path, because it gets to the core.  Not all the theorizing and philosophizing and schmoozing that others offer.  Other healers have to feed the ego while teaching their followers how to break it down; the young’ns are still fragile.

In the last few days, I could feel myself filling up again with the dross.  Why?  What’s going on?  But no, these are the wrong questions.  This is the old energy approach.  Let me introduce here, for ease of reference, 3D energy and 5D energy.  Some soothsayers, in efforts to wrap their heads around this new consciousness, say that the energetic earth is splitting into two time lines.  Those still functioning in third density (3D) vibration are living their lives as they always have, for millennium.  That is not too dramatic a time span, to give an idea of how drastic a change is coming upon us now.  That level of density is incompatible with the change in vibrational density that is now revolutionizing life on Earth, called fifth density (5D).  And so, being incompatible, our channelers are telling us that the 3D world  cannot and will not survive.  They and their societies will fade out and disappear.  They will not thrive.  When I toy with this concept in my mind, I see two highways.  One is rising, while the other is sinking into collisions and splits; the one is rising, dripping with those holding on by their fingertips, the slow pokes, the late bloomers, the procrastinators.  I am assured this is too literal.

But who decides? Millions of good Christians are trying their best to live out the life of our Christ figure, our Holy Brother, our God the Father.  They have no idea about a “New Earth”.  Of course, for those who study the New Testament they see a description that talks about a New Earth, but it is difficult to clearly see any connection between that description and what we see around us.  The traditional churches may not be doing anything to illuminate the connection, either.

Throughout the New Testament, especially in the Book of John, but in Acts as well and elsewhere, the teachings of Christ as captured by his followers seem to point at it; we see hints, if only we can  interpret them.

We are told not to let our hearts grow weary by working too hard, and worrying—being concerned.  After all, the beautiful wild flowers put on a show for us every year, but they require no fuss from us.  The birds, of which each and every feather is seen by the Eye of God, don’t worry unduly about building a nest and feeding their young.  You don’t see them organizing into unions to protect their rights.  What?  How is that instructional?  These bills don’t get paid by themselves.

The New Earth, the fifth dimension, works on different principles entirely.  There is a flowing, an alertness to this new awareness.  Usually I bring a list when I go food shopping.  I go into town for specific things.  Now I find that the list is almost not useful.  As I flow through the market, the things I need present themselves to my hand, the feet find the right aisles.  The car finds the right doorways, to pick up the little things, to pay the bills, to remember to say hi to a friend who is thinking of me.  I find the right amount of change in my purse, even if it was empty when I left the house.  The right person crosses my path, to address something I was thinking about.  To my old way of thinking, I would call these coincidences.  Accompanied by a smooth, calm and joyful mind space, I know it is me yielding to the higher intelligences, the spirits and galactic beings, that walk alongside me and flow within me.  We move in an ocean of Love, which connects us all at all times.  That being the case, I have to ask myself why in the world I would allow old memories, old habits, low-density energies to distract me from that bliss, to pull me down.

It is free will all the way.  My struggle is to maintain conscious awareness at all times, to not let these old bugaboos drag me down.  On days like this, I cannot see what muck is being stirred up.  I only know “I don’t feel like it.”  I don’t feel like meditating, I don’t feel like denying the negativity.  The chores that I ‘should’ do like cleaning house and washing dishes, are virtues totally not appealing to me today.  The concept of ‘tough love’ seems called for here.  The deeper-knowing parts of me (Me being not necessarily just my brain, but my spiritual awareness available to work together).  If I let these negativities rule the day, the stain of their dross carries over to the next day, and so and so it builds.  Then the ‘Holier than Thou’ energy rings hollow.  It doesn’t work.  It is up to me to change the dynamic. 

And so it is, the interplay of the assertive and passive, working together.  There is a momentum required when actualizing change.  How is it for you?  Can the momentum build through doing the ‘right thing’, the spiritual practices building that muscle until one day the switch is flicked and I am walking in the bountiful Light, buoyed in the Ocean of Love?   Or am I required to produce more of that forward momentum by focusing all day every day on maintaining that quiet mind, fighting off that ‘monkey’ mind? 

I know that the chaos and catastrophes that a man called Trump is subjecting the world to is tremendously destructive, and needs to end.  I would like someone to take a rifle to him and blow his brains out, with the goal to ending it all and beginning the healing.  But in fact I know that that one man is only a cog; just one particle of a greater dynamic , through whose godless machinations the old world will be destroyed, or certain essential parts of it, in order to make room for the New Earth.  This I know because of a deep awareness that there is a whole universe out there that I have been cut off from at my birth, and that I am now in the throes of being reunited with.  That is the foundation of my faith.  What is the foundation of yours?