I love Roz Chast. If you want a genuine belly laugh, and someone who will assist you in reframing what seems to be really important to you at any given time, pick up her book Parallel Universes. You’ll laugh out loud. The title of this piece is in homage to her cartoon about “Lite Literature Classics”, I think it’s the lite version of War and Peace. Events Keep Occurring. Ha!
I was canceled last night, the night of the monthly Kirtan here in Denver at Mile Hi Church of Religious Science. The first one I ever attended was just two months prior. I missed September’s, had to work. So I was unsurprised when the call came through that I was not to work last night. I was ready.
Getting that cancellation helped me have the wherewithal to make a decision, and I accepted the contract job at a local hospital. I’ll work day shift on the cardiac floor until the month of my birthday. I will make sure I have the 12-12 and the 12-21 off, but I will sacrifice a little bit of my freedom to correct this financially listing ship. I made that commitment, got spiffied up, and then wrote “Weed,” then headed off to Kirtan.
There is much from that Kirtan that I cannot language, much I choose not to language, but there are a few things that must return to the physical from that vortex of reality we conjured through voice and devotion last night. Some things must become concrete, slowed down enough to take a physical form I can then look back upon, ponder, be reminded of.
I have lived my spiritual life very quietly, and I have never talked about the things that matter the most to me until now. I have kept quiet because I have considered discussion of certain things little else but posturing, crowing, being proud and boastful. This is the crudest, most foolish thing I see, people who proclaim certain spiritual truths, and yet… and yet…
It’s not so much that speaking is in and of itself bad. In fact, I am not entirely sure what is wrong with it. Except that if I tell what is happening for me, and you are not having it happen for you, I will feel bad for you, and I will grow quiet, and I will disavow my reality to make your way more pleasant.
That’s pretty much how I have rolled. Here, dear, I will keep small. It’s ok, it really is no skin off my nose at all. I won’t speak of angels and devils, other planets, mutliverses. I won’t mention how much I love running energy, how I can feel and see and sense energy grids, how I know I am plugged into a system which enlivens, innervates, all things. I will not speak. I will be over here, observing, from a distance. Unable to fully participate in your world, or in mine, I will go into stasis. I will conform. I will bring you peace. I will bring you peace.
But something has changed.
It’s the result of a concerted effort to misbehave, I think. Partly, I sense that every time I put out one of these things, as raw and powerful as they have been, I can feel the world sort of giving, sort of bending, and allowing more and more of the same. I don’t think I am causing anything, I just think it’s a weird dance we are all doing.
I post something about something big, and then all through the day my RSS reader flashes stories to me, blog entries, video uploads, about just that subject.
It is an harmonious co-creation which is so fascinating, so enthralling, that I am very glad to state my piece now. The other side of this coin is an internal permission slip I have given myself.
I re-read some of my past blogs last night, and I saw just how pure these things are, how packed not only with imagery but also with stacked and layered concepts. There is no way I am pulling this stuff off without help. I am a good writer, but not that good, this is something else, there is something else going on. And it feels good and right to speak. I read my stuff and no longer think that I am crazy.
Do you know what a revolution that is for me? Do you understand how core the belief of my insanity, my basic unworthiness due to weirdness, runs? It is deep and wide, my friend, this raging river of fear for my sanity. It cuts through absolutely everything, and it had created some unusual, deep and blind canyons within my psyche.
So I will tell you about some of the things that happened in and after Kirtan. I don’t know what some of them mean, but I know enough to recognize that I got a wish granted last night, and another power surge met me, in the middle of the night, just to prove it.
That first Om, after we have all settled, after the stage has been cleared of announcements and introductions and thanks, in that one pristine moment, when, in the next, the leader will energetically call out, “Begin!”, in that sacred moment just before we create something which has never before come to life, dependent upon each of us participating this much, now this much, now maybe that much, in that crystalline moment, expectation is cleared, need is absolved, and the ancient smile returns, belonging to the ancient face who never stopped peering in, checking on things, feeling pleased with the progress, checking out again. This ancient face which has known deep and congruent and fixed miracles, unchanging moments of clarity, and that’s the one who came out to play.
We, as one, chanted, “Om.” The single most powerful, sacred, lovely word in any language. Om. As a group, all of us. Swirling and circling, the sound resonated within our chests, clung to the air we made swirl with our intent, and we began.
It’s not entirely possible to state what I came to understand in a linear way, because everything is hyperconnected where I went. I know one thing, and one thought, and one moment led to the next, and the next, and the next, but to place these moments alongside each other, one by one, no, that can’t be done. So I am not sure where to start, and am not certain where it will conclude. So I will start with a big one and see where it goes.
I had clear and open communication channels last night. It was uncanny, the voices, if you can call them that, were absurdly loud. Very distinct, and quite physical. As things built, I became aware that having my origins revealed to me was going to occur. I created a cooperative space where the request to have my planet of origin, the one I most closely resonate with for this earth life, revealed to me. During Om Namah Shivaya, they would explain. But they told me they had a few things to show me first.
A song of Ganesha came up, and as we asked Ganesh to remove our obstacles, I saw a huge, bejeweled elephant dancing with us. I saw him as the bringer of good tidings, the soul who gets to gift people, the one with the good news. Then Kali came into the room, dancing, the destroyer, the deconstructionist, the nihilist, the usurper. They danced around the room like the yin and yang.
Then the other gods came out to play, and round and round they all danced, manifestations of realities, of slices of time or moments in consciousness when a thought hits you so strong it must, must be put in the physical. When this happens, that also happens. When this happens, it feels, looks, sounds like this. We will symbolize this truth in this way, that truth in that way. We split off, we reconnect, fingers, we, Shiva and Ganesh and Garuda and Kali, the hand Krishna, the blue baby, the core.
Then another song came up, and I understood that I was a monk, living high in a monastery, and I have given up a lot, but I have everything, because in sacrificing a physical life while physical, I get to commune with God in a very unique way all the time. I visit others, console them, give them messages. I am everywhere, and I live on a mountain, and I am part of a group of entities who are helpful and very entrenched in the whole consciousness thing.
And yet, as the music swirled and the chanting continued, I realized that this personality cluster too is nothing but another hand, fingers on a hand. And these fingers are all beautiful and purposeful and fully conscious, but they are extensions only. I saw this group, who I feel very connected to, swirl around me, and realized that, just as Ganesh and Kali and the rest are one set of entities, so are the St. Germaine’s and ArchAngel Michael’s and Jesus’ of our pantheon of Gods. There have been other sets and subsets, a grouping for each civilizations, holy, all, contextual, all.
And then another song came on, and I was an ancient and beautiful woman. I was the one who served Jesus, his counterpart, his one true love, his energetic equal, his silent partner. We met in that space we all were creating, and I understood that love, true love, in this or any other lifetime, is all about enjoying the overlay of energy.
I saw myself as a circle of light, and then I saw his circle of light come to me and overlay, and the conjoining of the circles, making one of those graphs where the two subsets make a new subset, that is love. I allowed that energy to enter me, and to be with me. I felt a conjoining, a connection, a deep reverence and peace.
I allowed this to continue. I allowed it to exit, reenter, just to get a sense of the difference. I realize that now, plugged in like this, I will be able to recognize my kind a lot easier. Built-in radar now. And there are equals all over the earth. The ancients. The knowers. The keepers.
And I can have this now, here, I don’t have to wait, because the echoes of this love, they go macro to micro. They reverberate. It is possible. Anything less than melding with an equal, someone who can speak in this language and is unafraid of these heights, they will come, and they will be fun to play with.
Other stuff happened, but the chanting continued, and then came Om Namah Shivaya.
Without anticipation or expectation, I began singing.
What I was told is that I come from Lyra.
I had it confirmed that yes, I had a hand in the mountains, it is no accident they are calling to me now.
And yes, the first life I had here was at the beginning, as a whale, running the grids, establishing and maintaining the grids. I could have come back as a whale this time, but it made more sense to translate all this negativity as a human this time. See the plan to fruition as a human this time. More helpful. More exciting.
And then I asked, are you joking with me, or is this the real deal? Is this my origin, my planet of origin as a physical being, the planet I most resonate with? Don’t mess with me about this. No games, no jokes. Be honest.
And they told me that I needed to do some research, and if Lyra doesn’t seem quite right, search a little. I was told only two or three people have the correct, unpolluted version of this planet, so dig a little, but you’ll get confirmation. Just stop. Just quiet. Yes. It’s the real deal.
And then the end. I spent the last bit, as I did the middle bit, standing in front of what I conceive God to be, giving hearty and deep-felt thanks, ever in awe of this mercy and love I have come to treasure.
I saw each one of the singers as true giants, each with a story of origin, each with stars in their closed and devoted eyes, each remembering, each reconnecting, each reminding the other of all the divinity moving the air through our lungs, breathing us, soothing us, reminding us that we really are whole, and holy, pure and ready, full and able.
Each of us giants. Each of us lost and stumbling and hilarious giants.
I got home and looked up Lyra.
The nearest nebula is the ring nebula.
I clicked on images for the ring nebula.
It is the eye of God, the same image I have had twice since my awakening.
The first time I saw it was in my living room, in my very first state of utter bliss, having heavenly ecstasy right there in my living room, one night in the spring, after having a deep talk with my son about human love.
There it was, and I telescoped into and out of and through a bliss I would imagine Joan of Arc felt, and others, crazy nuns who have their conversions in bathroom stalls, drunks who convert during a hangover, preachers, maybe after they have done something redemptive. There it was.
The following day I woke up from a dream with that eye as big as a house, and I was looking at it through a ship’s window, and someone was saying in my ear, “It’s coming into better focus now, isn’t it?”
That was all months ago, almost forgotten, never really very far away, always lingering there in the back of my mind.
The ring nebula. Lyra. Whales. Mountains. Fingers. Hands. Shiva, Kuthumi, Christ, Buddha, even these symbols fade, even these luminaries are conjoined at a certain point, and move they together, this way and that, to watch and learn and participate and allow. Something is moving it all, something making it all grind and dance and lurch and sway.
Then I watched a little TV, I can’t remember exactly what, and then I lost interest in it, turned to my computer, and decided to re-read my work.
I started well before “My Favorite Martian,” and could not complete “Now.” I found it so rich, so mind-blowing, so deep and hearty and real, and I felt that old feeling. Here it comes again.
I got nauseated. I felt spinny. I felt very sick. I made it into the bedroom, and knew I needed to get into the bathroom. I went there and nearly passed out. So close. Flop sweat. Dizziness, compression, and the only way I maintained was to focus on my breathing. Just breathe. I could feel the universe breathing with me, and my coaches.
And then I was told to get up. I couldn’t. It was not a suggestion. So I somehow stumbled to the bed, flopped down, nearly passing out.
And then the nausea hit just the right mark.
I have to go to Goodwill today and buy two bedspreads.
Enough said about that.
I cleaned up that mess, and then I visited the bathroom again, and then I laid down. I told them as it was happening to slow things down, ease off, mellow out, and they listened. When things got too intense and I tapped out, they obliged. I can remember very clearly saying while on the pot, I am staying with this. I refuse to go unconscious with it. I will go as far as I can go in this energy, but I will do it all consciously now. I will not pass out.
And I didn’t.
Writing this, I am once again, like when I had that Central City experience, very surprised that I feel as good as I do physically. I should be dead.
I came to understand just recently what these conversion symptoms are. And I am passing it on to you so that if you are having these physical symptoms, you might benefit from what I have encountered. This is what I think is going on:
The vagal nerve is a huge one which innervates the entire body. Strain to poop or pee too much, and you can stimulate the vagal nerve, and wind up looking like you are dead. I have had young men, old women and healthy athletes look dead from the vagal response.
I have had two vagal episodes, one which landed me in the hospital, years ago, and considered myself a borderline cardiac patient since then. My doctor told me there is nothing that can be done for this, because treating it prophylactically with medication is not compatible with life. It is just a thing. He recommended Tums, or Pepcid, or something like that.
Fast forward to learning that this vagal response is connected to the opening of the heart chakra.
I heard that in a video, and all the bells went off.
When I am having a vagal response, I am not dying. I am having my heart opened.
So this morning, my bedroom floor has a huge, rolled up, smelly lump of bedding on it, and I am unequipped to get the chunks out, so I will throw away that bedding and start again. Barfing happens when the system is stressed. When the body senses a profound threat, it shunts blood flow to heart, lungs and brain. You pass out. Your belly empties because the body knows it must shunt lifesblood to where it is needed to maintain life. So you barf. You pass out. You get a flop sweat. Your heart rate plummets to the thirties. DMT is released in abundance, you have a conversion.
And now, this morning, the monologue is just that, not the screaming lunatic blaring in my head all through Kirtan, all through the night.
The waters are calm this morning.
The heights, having been reached, are there, in my view, and a part of me is peering from his mountainous perch, perfectly at peace with the whole world, and with finally being seen, and we are completely plugged into Source, The All, and everyone, absolutely everyone. My Sananda is near, and whether I am Sananda or helper, Matthew Mark Luke or John, it is all well with my soul.
I have an active imagination.
If I went to a doctor telling him of this, I wonder what he would say? What if it were a shrink? Is there a doctor out there who would congratulate me, tell me an EKG is unnecessary, give me a lollipop and a handshake, and send me on into my day? Would he pathologize me, try to squeeze me into a cardiac, or a psychiatric, or a neurologic box, tell me if I just keep small, just keep quiet, then all will be well.
But, by all means, apply no meaning to this. Do not see it as a reconsolidation of your larger personalities, do not see it as your now being plugged into the bigger of the grids.
Do not introduce into this conversation that you can now see the electromagnetic grids in everyone’s bodies, that you are now competent to run and smooth other people’s wiring if they want that. Be quiet. Be still. Be sane. Do not challenge me. Do not entice me. Do not disturb me.
Well, consider me the monkey in the wrench, the punch in the line, the plot twist in the movie.
And consider yourself one of the few people on earth who has a front row seat to the complete dissolution and reintegration of someone who looks plain and ordinary, who does not boast, who is gentle in speech and simple in action. Just an old woman you’d probably never think could blow your mind if you displayed a little bit of interest and trust.
I leave you with a miracle.
During Kirtan, when I was big and energetically on fire, I could feel the music swell, curb, come to a stop, and I imagined that when I opened my eyes the main singer would look right at me, in full recognition of what I had become as we sang.
He would open his ancient eyes, and I would open mine, and we would look at each other, cock our heads, and smile, recognizing the other, the self, the whole.
About three quarters along, the drummer did just that.
Can I tell you, well, no, I really cannot tell you, the last time I have had that kind of attention. That kind of I SEE YOU sort of attention. I remember now. It was in the early ’90’s. I was at an after-party for our performance of Boys and Girls With Stories.
It was at a house on Capitol Hill. I was alone, feeling vulnerable, feeling out of joint. My girlfriend had refused to come, and I was by myself, in a room, a house full of people who all knew each other.
In the kitchen, I encountered a man who was stunningly beautiful, such a gem, such a mysteriously beautiful creature. He engaged me in conversation.
And then, he reached out his hand, and placed it on mine, as I prattled on about this that and the other, in my awkwardness and disjointedness and ugliness. He reached right in, and he touched me, and he made me whole. I could see everything in his eyes. I could see me, and it was good to be seen in those eyes.
The evening ended, just that one touch, and then Andre was gone, he’d left, no one had seen him. I walked alone out into the night, dejected and forlorn. I went to The Teachers and asked them about it.
They told me that I was to simply feel the feeling. It was not an event to cling to, to seek to relive. It was an opening, and it was to be loved as such.
I didn’t get that, really, until last night.
Because peering from the drummers eyes were Andre’s. That drummer would not let my face go. I smiled. Bent down to get water. Averted my eyes. And I returned to that open face, and there was the smile, the eyes, the greeting, the welcome home.
I knew that he saw me, and I knew he was aware I’d seen him. And, now, here, clear, in this Kirtan, I knew that the drummer loved what he saw. And I understood he loved what he saw because it was lovely. It was perfect and perfect, and perfect.
We sat in the geometry this new understanding gave us.
After those moments passed, I had some understanding about why it is that being seen is good.
It is only through the grace of God that I woke up. But that is only partly true.
I got here because this is all that has ever mattered to me. I have cared very little for external success, sexual or friendly relationships, everything has always been secondary to understanding why I am here, what it is all about, why it hurts so goddamned much to be here, where we are all going, is ascension real, what is a merkahbah, are the Martians really the dicks they are made out to be, what the hell is the sphinx all about, on and on and on it goes.
Yes, because I am highly creative and intelligent, I can do all this work, all this longing and yearning silently, and no one knows what sort of fully activated, fully empowered creature they are handing their change to, settling a bill with, displeasing by being thick and mean and slow.
This internal sense of, “Hey! You have no idea who you are dealing with!”, was always quickly supplanted by, “Hey! The stuff that matters to me and lights my hair on fire is stuff you tell me is crazy to pursue, and will lead to disquiet and financial ruin! It sets me apart in too big a way. I need to be quiet. OK, I’ll just sit here quietly. I will be quiet. I will be quiet. I will be quiet.”
If you read my work you will know that one of my central issues is that of humility. When you have been ground to glass by the will of others, when you encounter a force which will probably annihilate you if you move just a hair-breadth, you learn to keep still, shut up, comply, get in line, drink the kool-aid. You learn to not look for miracles, because they cannot be sustained in the murky waters you find yourself being sucked into. You behave. You tell yourself to be normal, the same, not a threat, just a passenger.
Further, when you come to truly understand that for all your uniqueness, all your color and verve and enthusiasm, that this sometimes is simply not enough, and the multicolored page drains of all life, you are left with words, images, but the page cannot come alive, and others’ pages are vibrant in color and activity, but lack depth, you begin to look at those images as having life, and your own as being dead.
That drummer, that Kirtan, that vagal episode, just remind me that my colors are alive now, vibrant, and have taken on a life of their own. My drawings get up and dance when the music is right, now. My imaginings gain credence with Google searches and old, stored, moth nibbled memories of a hand being held, a mountain being inhabited, a bedspread needing to be disposed of.
As always, I don’t know where this is heading. As always, I am grateful for just the right amount of amnesia, for it makes for a terrifically powerful roller coaster ride.
I do not know if you will come to know your lover as a religious entity. I do not know if you will see Ganesha, Kali, St. Francis, St. Germaine, as petals on your flower, but I trust that you will sit there and allow me to bloom. I could have it all wrong. I could be walking down a dangerous path of psych wards and Seroquel. I could be stark raving mad.
Always, I have allowed myself to travel to the nether regions if, and only if, I can keep my physical reality together. If it starts to fall apart, then I know I need to come back, be more physical, drop the exploration, pay attention. So now that I am skint most of the time, struggling to make bills, the question comes up, when do I abandon it this time?
When do I walk away and decide to concentrate my entire focus on remembering my EKG interpretations, and I get a second job dressing the wounds of cripples who, for whatever reason, prefer to die in their homes? When do I abandon all this writing crap, as my dad so laments at his most conflicted, and just get on with my life?
I have had my hand touched by an angel named Andre. I was seen by that Kirtan drummer. And I know one thing now to be true that I did not before.
I have earned this.
I own this.
I did not get here by myself, but I would not have gotten here at all unless I was a highly trusting, imaginative and sensitive creature. There are others now who have also walked this energetic razor’s edge, others who speak my language and who have paid attention as acutely as I.
Others who go to work in mundane jobs, jobs that muffle and disguise them. The leader of Kirtan, maybe in the light he is an accountant. People who meet him at King Soopers do not know the power he possesses, may never avail themselves to the magic he can conjure by pushing a squeezebox in time to an ancient music he hears piped into his head all the time, like my words, maybe like your thoughts, or the images which swirl above you as you drift off to sleep.
We are giants incognito, and some things we just have to be comfortable with. Not being seen. Going unrecognized. Not being honored.
I have been small in this life, and I have not been honored a whole lot. When I have been honored, I often found it distressing, foreign and unpleasantly intrusive. I have not been honored by others because, until last night, I did not fully honor myself.
I sing today a song of recognition, of ancient and wondrous and living honor.
I sing in an ancient tongue to each of my brothers, each of my sisters.
We were the high priest and priestesses of Atlantis. Some of us went way off the rails there. We are the engineers of the mountains, the architects of the grids, the keepers of the secrets and the observers of this world. We have been around, some of us, since the inception, and we have returned to this time and place to make miracles happen.
To remember, through this self imposed haze of neglect and want, that we dreamed this whole thing up a long time ago, to have some fun, to have an adventure, to play hide and seek, and to wind up, joyfully and with complete abandon, singing songs of praise at the foot of our Maker. What a joyous day that will be, what a joyful day this is.
I will continue singing my song, in full recognition of the sacred texts these chants encode. They come from somewhere deep within, and from far away. They combine here in the alchemy of this singer, this writer, this little lady who lives on many planes at once, and whose most heart-felt request, of, please see me and like what you see please, that soul cry is now met by the reflection in her mirror, replying, “Why, yes, you look very nice today. Very sparkly. Let’s go have some fun.”
It doesn’t matter what comes next. I am here, and that is enough. I survived another download, another upgrade, another hit of light. I will take a shower. Get dressed. Go to Goodwill. Do my laundry. Take a nap. Hopefully work tonight. I will keep moving. Drink coffee. Eat grapes. Feed the cats. I will keep alert, and I will be aware. I can no longer be small, and it’s impossible to be quiet anymore. But it is here I will speak honestly, because I think being silent no longer serves others who have earned this as much as I.
The ones who can’t stop obsessing, maybe it’s about string theory, or ancient aliens, or the gnostic gospels, or crop circles. Maybe it’s SaluSa, maybe it’s Zepeda or Bashar or Kryon or maybe it’s the Robert Schuller crystal cathedral. A mosque, a synagogue, a peaceful forest in which to do rites.
But you have not given up. You hear the distant drums, always have, and you have always known that the stasis which has nearly killed you has now just made you that much more strong and interesting.
It is time to decloak, I think. It’s time to remember. It’s time to realize we are the ones we have been waiting for, the ones we are totally pissed off at for not showing up sooner.
And we will get on with our little lives, as we live our big ones silently, quietly, simply. And, as with us all, for us, events will keep occurring.