Deeply Awake — A New Project, A Turn Of Events 5-1-13 By Kathy Vik
I want you to be the first to know. I have been given, have called for and have accepted my next assignment.
It seems only fitting that I tell you, my first readers, just what has happened, and more importantly, always most importantly, is how it came to be.
I find it amusing, too, that I wrote a farewell letter earlier, and have, in fact, many times felt that this Deeply Awake thing was near completion. When I really, really meant, it, I spent about an hour feverishly writing this Introduction/Epilogue masterpiece, but I never posted it. I don’t know where it is anymore, actually.
I’m glad I was easy on myself, and let myself to keep making what I thought were grave errors in my execution of this thing, I just kept at it, just like I always have at the things that really matter. As solid as any immovable object. Solid in my overall discipline, so convinced I was falling apart.
We had a great morning today. My kid is sick for the third day in a row. Just low grade sick, but he’s sick enough. I sat there and wrestled with the mom thing. I finally told him, you know I really don’t have an issue with you taking some time off, I don’t, but it is just beginning to feel a tiny bit like avoidance to me. Do you sense a little avoidance in what you’re doing?
He said, yeah, a little.
I asked if he could agree to making every effort to go back, since, if he’s avoiding, it’ll just naturally feel harder the first time he does it. If he isn’t avoiding, it’ll feel like picking off where he left off, I’m guessing, although I could be wrong.
I told him it was hard, because I guess I should be a shrew, or think you’re manipulating me, but I just can’t do it. Is that OK, I asked.
Yeah, he said. So we snuggled a little bit, watching the surprise May Day snow storm (I choose that word with care. Not a snow fall, a snow storm), and ate muffins. Somehow we got around to the Tarot, and I reminded him I could read him sometime if he likes. He said Yes! And he wanted one just then.
So I did the reading, and I don’t remember much about it, which is the way. And after I got done, that little kid came over to me very deliberately, and then he grabbed ahold of me and wept and kept saying thank you.
Go figure. I still don’t know what moved him, and he doesn’t want to talk about it. So we just let it be a nice thing that happened.
And then, I decided that I would look at the book I made in 94 or 95 (again, my dates and time reckoning are just putrid, but because I think it’s also sort of cute and quirky and requires cleverness and lots of workarounds, I put up with it).
Anyhow, this book is powerful stuff. Just amazingly powerful. It is a time capsule that gave me a lucid snapshot of my spiritual development.
My friend Chris and I used to exchange booklets at Christmas time of cartoons and stuff. And one year, I decided to get real serious. I worked on that thing for months, and it is a masterwork. The keys of Enoch, biblical passages, wisdom from the channeled entities the White Brotherhood (NOT racist… I wish they would just change their stupid name…) , and tons of quotes, a whole page of wisdom from Richard Rybicki, on and on and on.
I sat there absolutely stunned. I was hardwired for this, I always say. But it is true and no more clearly evident than in that book. Oh my god, the revelations I had on that bed.
And then, I really pondered things. Is this the way, baring my soul and putting every freaking nuance under a microscope, is this necessary anymore, since I have no more doubts that everything, the slide, the microscope, the insistence, all of it is sainted and conscious and wonderfully full of light and love.
So, there you go.
How much spelunking is left, how much worry can there be, how much tension and drama is necessary, once you really get that you are a representative, a creator and participant in All That Is. How much stress can you genuinely feel? After a while, the hysterics just seem more like a grave energetic misunderstanding, at worst, rather than calamity and drama, or even their milder cousins, anxiety and worry.
And now, finally, there is enough love in my heart that when I see the hysterics, the insecurities, the vulnerabilities and therefore the defenses of my fellow travelers, all I need do is remember the words of White Eagle, who spoke to me first in a little spiritual study group in Minneapolis in 1983.
They instructed and encouraged me to feel a bit of this light body, and I had a lot of visualizations, and began to really love the star of David symbol. Now, these old words from my first ascended teachers, reminded me that in any situation, you remember the silver light of the star within you, and you shine that, and you love. It is love. This is the essence. You become this light of love, and everything just eases, everything just bends, and there is a sigh, and there is finally a peace that surpasses understanding.
And it took all this time, not a moment before.
It’s funny to me, that this would happen on the first day of May. My calendar this month is my beloved Ganesha, the clearer of obstacles. Beautiful picture of that chubby little angel to say hi to each day now.
So, I’m reading, and thinking, well, hell, I need to not squander this anymore.
I need to get so clever that I can dial back the God stuff and put this in a story form that will be palatable to many many people, assisting them, because the book will be one of benevolence and grace, the story one of discovery and unfoldment rather than chaos and strife.
So, how do I do that? I want to stop the mewling. I am done with the crowing. The fog horn has indeed gone off.
I now understand that dream I had. Sam and I came from a basement, and I told him to go to that bench. There were very few benches, and sitting was reserved for those who were honored, somehow. We sat there, although there were lots of folks who could have set there. It was a barren land, concrete for miles, sort of grey and peach colored. Sam fidgeted, and I told him to keep seated. It was about to happen.
And then there was a huge huge rectangle that appeared in the sky, like a big open heating vent, but more like a chute, and out shot terrible flames, and a really deep deep deep deep honk came out of it. A horn. It was a horn of herald. It was terrible, and I mean that in the biblical way, not in the I chipped a nail way.
And then the sky went white, littered with 3d UFO’s, all different shapes and sizes and functions.
And there were lots and lots of ups and downs, winners and losers, big battles and great fear that the end was near, lots of chaos and calamity, lots of almost-dying feelings.
And then everything was perfect, and the thing was, once it was perfect, it sort of seemed like a gyp, because it had been supposed to be perfect all along, it had always been perfect. The outcome was always assured, I heard again and again. And I was quite annoyed by this, in my dream.
I mean, how clear does a dream have to get?
The sound I heard in my dream only repeated itself when I posted the big blogs, the energetic monsters. There have been a few, HOME being the first. That was the first time I heard it inside me while I was awake. Sort of was weird. I liked it, I knew it was important, but I had no idea. No idea at all.
And then, after I decided to share, and engage in this creation finally, as I have said repeatedly in my blogs, “I see now my way has been littered with help.” and I described that sky as “littered with UFO’s”. That word choice always sort of bothered me, but I let it ride, a thorn in my side when I would re-read it.
Now I see. And the ups and downs, the near death things and utter destruction and war and chaos. Honey, I often refer to myself, privately, as a Lord of Chaos. I mean that in the best way. Sort of like the sign I have traveled with religiously, since I found it on a sidewalk way back in the late seventies: A little black square with these words in 48 point:
I like the ideas of Shiva, Lord of Death, and I love Kali, the Destroyer. A Lord of Chaos. Remember the Matrix, the one where the soothsayer, the seer says, “Neo, [the Atlantean’s} function is to balance the equation, incessantly balancing.”
Neo asks, “Well, then, what is your function?”
To which she replies, very precisely, “To unbalance it.”
Yes. To unbalance it. It all got very unbalanced and wild there. This last year has been a blur, but I know that I have been walking a good path, a lighted path, the only one I have ever wanted, the only path I was ever on, actually.
So I am sitting there contemplating how I am all that and a bag of chips, and how I need to get the word out in a pretty, and popular, and funny and not heavy and entertaining way, with tons of humor and irreverence a new and happy way to live.
There is no real literary form such as this. What the fuck am I gonna do? Complain and bitch and dissect forever?
So I thought, no, this is something I can do something about.
I closed my eyes and remembered that the truth of the matter is that I have access, in my own group alone, to some magnificent, gifted, popular and wealthy, successful writers. So I called on whatever talent was in my pool to come to me without dissonance and with my highest good in alignment with the highest love light and sound, let something come through that fits this, or it’s really ok, I’ll take lessons, I’ll listen to dictation and you can teach me how to do it, but I am not really a novelist and the thought of pummeling a reader with conflict after conflict seems a real bad way to spend my free time. So, HELP ME.
Then I heard that it would have been better to just clam up already. I heard another say, yeah. Point well taken, sullen ones.
And nothing came, but something was coming, and I didn’t know what form it would take, but it felt good to imagine that maybe I have access to the luminaries, and the I can write like Bach if I so desire.
And then I heard this.
“Patrick Hears Voices.”
And now I know what a novelist knows. An odd mixture of open-ended creation. Deliberate, intentional, but spontaneous. This is the trick to keeping one’s sanity while writing fiction. That was my block, all along. In my 20’s, I’d start doing a story, and wind up completely dissociated, like the guy at the end of Brazil. Another one lost.
But, it’s clear, just examining the idea, this block of inspiration, so quickly, my heart racing, flushed, I am saying “I believe this could turn in to a series!” on the way to Sam’s room, becoming more and more clear that I am getting a project, a series, and this is what will do the trick.
And I got to Sam’s room sort of shaking in that Holy Spirit sort of way, if you know what I mean.
And I said, “Oh! Sam! I need to tell you something right away.”
He went from his computer monitor, to the clock, and then said, “It’s 11:11, Mom”
He was referencing the time because he thought I was harassing him to come watch a movie with me before our agreed upon time of noon.
But I looked at the clock, and then I looked at him, and then I looked back at the clock and said, “Hi, Guys,” like I always do when I see it, and then it turned to 11:12.
I turned to Sam and told him about my idea.
I told him that this is our ticket. This is what is going to make it all happen, and it’s going to be beautiful, and “I have it whole son, I have it whole now!”
And I was, of course crying by that time because that’s just how I am.
And he sort of was taken aback, and he said, “God, Mom, I thought you won the lottery or something.” (We’ve been moved to play, and I have finally revealed to him that I have always known I would win the lottery and be a philanthropist. I have had many dreams, and many seers say so, and yet, here I am in poverty, right? So he knows this, and we bought a lottery ticket yesterday.)
So he says, gee mom…
What else would be appropriate? I turned to him, and I smiled, and I very knowingly and playfully told him, “We just did. Sam, we just won the lottery.”
I have always had the intent that my wealth must and would come from a complete win-win, that no one is hurt by with my wealth, ever. It has to be a win-win. Lottery. Creating something someone wants, out of thin air. Yeah, pretty equivalent.
Then we decided on names. Patrick Augustus Sweet.
Then, as I was leaving the room, Sam said, a little confused, “But wait, I thought the other book is gonna make you famous.” I told him, “Well, no, that book, Deeply Awake, that is going to bring me honor, prestige. It’s my street cred. But this one, Patrick Hears Voices, this one is meant to make us rich.”
He asked why it didn’t happen earlier, and I told him, I had to be this poor for this long to really get it. I had become unaware of the real power and meaning of money, and I had to get real clear on a few things, really trust myself, before I gave myself a whole lot. I haven’t been trusting myself very much.
So, I told him, we have a lot to celebrate, because now when we get our money, we know how important it is to those who have less, and how people who have less are just people who have less, they aren’t dumb or unenlightened or stupid or lazy. It’s just how it is sometimes, for reasons you may not initially understand. But it’s all in the weave. It’s all very purposeful and poignant and meaningful.
So I know what goes now. Sam, of course, wants to know just when he’s finally going to get cable, but things will move more swiftly than could be anticipated. I understand that the grid I was waiting for, which I used to think was being constructed tp would allow my words to be heard, I thought the grid I was waiting for was outside me. I thought I was waiting for an agent to get interested, or a publisher to get wind of me and pluck me out of obscurity. For someone, somewhere to wake up enough to read this and find value in it, and sell it to everybody. Something like that. A little messianic, very passive, but high points on not insisting structuring it a lot, letting it just be out there, in someone’s very moral and enlightened timing.
It bugged me that never happened.
But still I persisted.
And here am.
Now I understand the grid that was still under construction, which was required for my work to proceed, was the finishing of this light puzzle, sort of plugging everything in and doing mike checks, and just adding more fuel to the fire.
So, I have to tell you, after reading that little time capsule with different eyes, I do know that it’s getting closer. Things are very good here now, and I have no worries. That would be an energetic naughty thing, at this point.
Well, the day sort of slid sideways, away from our initial intent, I think, but we will gather ourselves now and enjoy a good movie, each other’s company, and then a more productive day for each of us, tomorrow.
I cannot fault Sam his avoidance. I have inhabited perverse forms of avoidance all his life, why would he have not picked up a bad habit or two? But here is the thing. I finished my work over this Wesak. This was an extraordinarily potent time energetically.
And I know that this sort of transformation has an energetic stamp, and the energetics change things physically. So, what I am saying is, I know that what I have been experiencing, Sam is being exposed to. I know this is his soul choice, but still feel awkward about it from time to time.
And then he surprises me, and there we stand, completely talking at cross purposes, yet so obviously and clearly very clearly speaking to each other in the mother tongue.
Do you see how this works?
THAT is the third language.
There is a really good example of it.
And see, this third language, that of compassion and truth and love and dignity and respect and honor and patience and wisdom, this language is not a spoken one, but it can creep into the cracks made in the sentences describing a barren desert scene, the pores of an attacker, the mind of an alcoholic. And I want to start pouring it out. I can do it in allegory, parable, narrative, dialogue.
What a feast it will be, and what a journey I am about to embark upon!
Everything in divine timing, in all ways.
We are always divinely guided.
And this guide, this power that is true knowledge, genuine power, utter knowing, who is this guiding you?
It is you, my dear. My dear sweet first readers, it is us.
I hold you in this tenderness for the remainder of my days, for it is you, too, who birthed me, but much more hands on, much more up close and personal, coaching, congratulating, encouraging, questioning, just once in a while, just now and then, just enough for me to have evidence I could go look at any time of day or night, wherever I am and whatever else I might be attending to, I can see right there your words, written to help me to know that no, I am not crazy and no, I am not really alone and yes, I have something to say that others find helpful and enjoyable and pretty.
Without you, believing I could do this, the next thing would seem really, really hard. It would be a leap of faith that would require muscles I would just rather not stretch so much anymore. The striving is gone, the ease is here, and I want things mellow. I want things sweet and lovely and soft and kind and tender. Gentle.
I have a big responsibility if this is my preference, because most are unfamiliar with the absence of fear. But I can just shine it, like White Eagle said, and I can stop talking so damn much about all the underside and mechanics of it. I’ll still do the Tool Kit, but I do believe it will, by necessity, wind up being far less confessional than originally demonstrated.
It is time to live it. It is time to incorporate and have fun with and embody it. It’s time to get my sea legs. I am ready to proceed.
I’ll still post, after some time to adjust. But there will be a different focus now, a different work ethic. I will always keep you in the loop. I won’t post the novel serially. It needs time to grow. But I’ll post on stuff as things seem appropratie.