Gates: another voice

First of all, I must comment, lest anyone think that I live under a rock, that I do know there is a disturbance in the force. A volcanic rumbling. I’ll get to this in a few paragraphs. And now back to our regularly scheduled program.

This is the fourth in a series of posts which I began a few months ago, initially to share the roughly 40 years of uplifting downloads I have been receiving from the expanded part of my multidimensional array that I call the Divine. As I looked at the accumulated pages documenting these flows, I realized that I wanted to present them to be both truthful and helpful. Helpful, I wondered … helpful to whom?

It was important to me to provide for others opening to their expanded awareness what had not been provided to me: reassurance and confidence. When I began receiving the first spurts, sometimes stories, sometimes phrases repeated over and over – waking dreams demanding attention in the middle of the day – I thought I might be going crazy. So I’ve shared a number of them in this blog, along with descriptions of how it felt to have words pouring into the top, side, or front of my head and my sense of the instructions I was receiving. It felt as if someone had turned on a faucet and my mind was being flooded with content I couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t scary once I no longer feared insanity, but was uniquely odd.

Here’s a typical entry from 1974, not one of the earliest, but a good example: “fifty million times a day I knock on the door of her consciousness and fifty million times a day she covers me up with her goodness and her joy of life, but I get in there sometimes in moments of weakness, in moments of expectation, of depression and insecurity, of frustration, and she feels my helplessness and goes crazy a little. She can’t deal with me, she feels it’s not her, that it’s someone else and she writes about me in the third person. It’s all in facets, in all in the same mold but another side, it’s all there in one soul.” And it goes on.

This particular excerpt from my journal was part of a course in intuitive training in which I was learning how to identify and integrate three main aspects of my consciousness: my intuitive self, my rational self, and my connection to the divine. This course both grounded, reassured and lifted me. I learned that the voices I felt and sometimes heard in my head were part of the natural order of an active mind  alert to the vastness of what I could  mine through the imagination. I learned techniques to encourage and moderate communication between my intuitive self and my rational mind through sensory and mental processes, and to free and revel in my connection to the divine. I learned a short prayer with which to send up for guidance. After the ask, and after the flow of the response, I learned to say, “The action has stopped. The flow has ended. May the rain of blessings fall.” And then my mind would be still.

By the late 70’s, my inner chaos subsided and  I was ready for the next steps that I’ve chronicled earlier in this series.

And so – back to the present – I was intrigued the other day to feel in my mind the long-absent persona of third person commentator, this time appearing as a world-weary, cynical woman in her  40’s or 50’s, standing in a doorway, weight on her left hip, leaning a bit on the doorjamb.

“Well, it’s certainly all helter-skelter, with no rhyme or reason,” she comments wryly in my outlying mind. I immediately know she is referring to the growing panic among the American, and even global, populace appalled that Donald Trump will soon take the oath as President. Post-election disbelief has bloomed into pre-inaugural horror. So I wonder at the “no rhyme or reason”. The helter-skelter panic makes a lot of sense to me. But I can’t ignore her completely. She is part of my authentic array, though certainly not the home into which I rise at my best.

She sits far above all Terran tumult and reminds me of the Olympian gods, unmoved by human consternation. She does not vote, because she lives in all time and all space, where nothing is elective and every moment is a pure, instantaneous reflection of consciousness. She’s heard the din but not been concerned enough to turn from her left side to her right. (Yes, the visual image I receive as part of this communication changes so that now, instead of standing nonchalantly in the doorway, she’s an odalisque on a couch.) Now she lifts her head and angles it over her right shoulder. She’s seen this before.

She doesn’t say these words, but I know that what’s she’s thinking is, “And that’s what we have here, in this spec of what we call time: a spreading fury, a bad itch over the skin that holds us all together.” She can see the multitudes gathering at the gates – some are on fire, figuratively speaking, outraged at what they know is the immanent fouling of the White House and the nation. They are burning to stop what they see as an encroachment, a shanda, a hideous travesty of the electoral process, this most unmodulated purge of inconsistencies spilling over to feed a foaming mob careless of shredding the veneer we called America.

She cocks one mild eyebrow, the verbal equivalent of which is “Why is anyone surprised?” The foolish luxury of self-delusion, I think, the soft blanket we under its comfort have pulled up over variously jutting, quivering, chilly chins since – when? How far do we have to go back to see the beginning of complacency? To Adam, who takes Eve’s apple, no questions asked?

My response to this voice carries me further into the choppy water through which we now must navigate, sails tattered and winds blowing in patterns we have not anticipated into territory where dragons surely lie.

And elections, I continue to muse,  were they ever properly impartial, anywhere? The foaming mob has always been with us and has included my ancestors and probably yours in one revolution or another.

Other ones, the ones like me, the ones not rushing into the streets either literally or figuratively, we’re making small movements. Anger doesn’t fuel me, it stops me, makes molasses of my blood. I’m giving even less attention than is my norm – never much – to the news. What can I do. Note the lack of question mark: the inner inflection is not interrogative. It’s a quiet mumble.  I want to take walks, play with art, let these words out. Friends used to grazing daily on all the news they can find are having heartburn, furious and confused all at once at their inability to digest all this fire.

Yes, of course, I am writing letters, making phone calls, making sure that if numbers are being counted, my scratch will be there just in case it might make a difference. Most of all I am honoring the clear instruction I have from my balanced cohesion to take care of myself, to act only in and stepping forth from my deepest truth.

Find the singing self, the poems ebbing and flowing whether written or not. Sleep in the sunshine.

And I see again for the second time an unpainted painting in my head called Heaven’s Gate. Or Heavens’ Gate. A canvas — two canvases, each a theology differentiated from the other by an apostrophic placement, filled with pastel suggestions and wispy birdswing arcs, the kind of paintbrush sighs so lovely for my hand to make and my hearteyes to see.

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And then the inner observer withdraws.

I am still in a pre-inaugural-shock reverie, still part of the dynamic of this intuitive activity that is part download, part inner exploration, part navel-lint examination, to be sure. In the inner scene, I find myself at the well, the quiet well, the deep well.. Those who have come here say nothing. We move slowly, taking ordered turns to draw up what we need. We watch the surging frenzy and look into our cup. We take a sip. A friend has saved a place for me in this march, and though others are rushing, it’s OK if I walk slowly, not carrying, but being my own sign.

And now my mind is still.

I’ve spoken before of experiencing the levels of awareness as a castle, the rooms of which offer a variety of voices I hear with my inner ear and images I see with my inner eye. I’ve found that when I am unafraid to enter as many rooms as possible, both my equanimity and the flow of intuitive gifts increase, enriching my life beyond anything I ever imagined.

I want to take this opportunity to thank my friends and writing buddies, Ayin Weaver and Terri Moon, for the support and clarity each has brought to our sessions and my writing of this blog. And especially to Reb Irwin Keller, who encouraged me to blog the downloads I have showed him as spiritual leader of my congregation, Ner Shalom, in Cotati, California.

In the Beginning

A friend in my workplace asked me what it was like and I had to think a minute before finding the right image. “It feels as if I am somehow standing aside, an empty tube, or a channel through which all these words and images are flowing.” I had never encountered the word that came to be so popular that we don’t even want to use it anymore: channelling.

People have asked me how I began channeling.

First of all, when it began happening, I had never heard of or read any accounts that described what I was feeling. A friend in my workplace asked me what it was like and I had to think a minute before finding the right image. “It feels as if I am somehow standing aside, an empty tube, or a channel through which all these words and images are flowing.” I had never encountered the word that came to be so popular that we don’t even want to use it anymore: channelling.channel

What you’ll read here is a truncated version of the story, and the juice is in the awkward sputterings through the faucet when I turned it on for the first time. I’m sharing these first downloads exactly as I wrote them down at the time because they may serve to bolster confidence and offer calm to anyone who is now opening to her or his own expanded awareness and experiencing words and images pouring into her head from somewhere that doesn’t feel familiar.

In 1980 I stepped up into the RV which the much-praised psychic, David Massengill, had parked on a friend’s country lawn. He told me there were guides waiting for me to be ready to receive information. Their names were Andreas and “Master Matthias.” I wasn’t into the whole “Master” thing – a carry-over, I thought, from the antiquated Alice Bailey material. But I suspended my disbelief, sat – enthralled — through a two-hour session and stepped down onto my friend’s lawn quite changed, and ready for action of biblical proportions.

David told me that my guides wanted to set up a schedule, and added, grinning at my raised eyebrows, “They have schedules, too.”

On the appointed date and time, July 30, 1981, at 1:45, I sat at my desk, a fresh sheet of paper in my typewriter, and closed my eyes. I saw a man’s face, which seemed to be laughing and twinkling. This image lasted for a second. A fullness rose in my throat, blossoming as an immense pink flower with seven rounded petals. The petals expanded. I wondered if I should stop, concerned that this soft growth could not possibly fit in my throat.

As this was happening, I had several impressions, and typed out the following words:
The water running through me creates a mirror down the center of me. Oh my soul I see you and reflects the lights lords from above. The reflection is a solid shaft of light that passes through my pink flower throat chakra into my mind where it is channeled into its proper places to begin functioning efficiently toward the purpose. The more water I drink the brighter the reflection, which is the communication they told me about.

This gobbledygook didn’t make sense in any linear way, but it felt wonderful. I trusted that there had been a connection with my guides and the tip of eternity they held open as a door into Discovery. I was content that my soul, through the opening of my throat chakra, was now firmly connected to the Source of all being, to the divine, to all I had never even dared hope would be revealed to me. And so now I felt I was one with a kind of future that would be informed by my higher self.

I drew a picture of the flower I had felt pushing out the boundaries of my throat, and tacked it up right in front of me on my bulletin board at work. I felt beautiful whenever I looked at it. (I have searched in vain for it, to include it here, but alas. Perhaps it will surface later.)

Also on July 30, my doctor called. He said that upon reviewing my record, he noticed that back in November, he had noticed a swelling of my spleen and my liver, he was concerned, and wanted to put me through some tests in the hospital. I was scared.

I continued with my normal activities as wife to Lee, mother to five year-old Seth, friend, daughter, homemaker, human services worker, writer, painter. On August 14, around 1p.m., again at my desk ready to receive, I felt an odd sensation in the lower right side of my skull, as if

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Hildegard of Bingen pictured it exactly.

someone was knocking at an inner gate. I closed my eyes. I felt words come into my head, which I wrote down.

Regarding your illness, let it be recorded that there is no illness. There is only the body’s adjustment to its own rapidiment. The cure will be itself’s action in time, but the quest might prove useful for overcoming doubt as to proper course of action. Of course the painting is appropriate for that time. Yes, this is it. We have hoped to contact you prior to this meeting but the activity prevented. Suggested that the time be put aside regularly every day for reception.It is enough. Other business at hand can be taken care of by the secretaries. The proper order is very important. Of course the anticipation creates its own impetus. Knowing the paper is there is a help to the process. I suggest you keep large paper at hand. It will be necessary – a good idea – to rest and continue to drink lots of water. The pancreas is involved as well and especially needs the water. The bile duct – it’s a matter of priming the pump – lubricating the flues so that matter is not secreted which excites the liver. Avoid starchy, fatty foods. Enough.

As the words were pouring into my head, I began thinking about the process and the source. I wanted to see how high into this expanded awareness I could get. It did not dawn on me that the source of these words was actually a being, or a group of beings, who would respond to my inner fluctuations. I had a lot to learn about the process and the senders. As I asked my inner question about the source, there was a wavering of the words, and a feeling of great distance, light, and an attenuation of our connection.

Fixed in your mind is the impression that we are here to serve – and not to ask. We have things to ask. Rest assured the information is correct. Many there are who have waited to be heard, just as there are those in great number who have waited to receive. The alignments are rare, and exquisite only are they which fulfill the requirements. We extend our hope that this will be fruitful. The height – the high Colonial (one from the high Colony) requires thin piercing. The matter of the body strains to accommodate, hence material difficulty. It would be better to accept the comments of the Laughing Face as valid which they are, and true.

Fortune is only the projection of men’s hopes impacted by the others’ hopes and projections bumping in collision.

They will not be able to harm thee by the probe or by other treatment for the body will adjust correctly to balance. Pain is sometimes unavoidable unless the negation of its existence acquires a positive cast.

As for Seth, he is well protected and guarded. It is not necessary to wonder or fear for him. He will guide his guardians for his best care.

No. Death is not in order. It would be an abrupt ceasing of process you have worked hard to establish and which now carries the greater impetus.

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My liver biopsy

With that assurance, I agreed to let the doctor book me into the hospital for three days of tests, and decided to enjoy the rest.

The next day, my birthday, I had another “transmission” – I didn’t know what else to call this blessed outpouring. In 1980, I had never heard of transmissions.

Somehow I didn’t think of this as the same process that David Massengill or other psychics regularly experienced. The transmissions came upon me at the same time every day – which usually fell conveniently in my lunch period. I took my pad of large paper to the restaurant, where six friends and I downed a lunch topped with champagne and raspberry shortcake.
8/15/80
One thing we need (want) to make certain is that foundations require tremendous insight and celebration, as well as the more somber aspects of concentration and alliance. It is certainly in our interest – in the field of common interest – to comment on the cooperative nature of this endeavor.

Now – we have a number of items to cover, and as we have said, order is of the utmost importance. So although it may seem redundant, we want to cover some previously explored territory.

The first order is the machinery of reception. As we said yesterday, the finer the tool, the cleaner and more rarified, yes, a correct term, the product. What we both want here is the exemplary detail possible from concentrated efforts. You have made it clear to us that no less than clear communication will do to firm your purpose in bridge building and clarifying muddy issues. Your teachers by previous readings have prepared your mind well enough to understand for yourself that the mind must be clear. We are dismayed although understanding of the time delay today and we would prefer that you take your imbibing at another time. We have schedules, too. Of course you don’t feel guilty. This is because guilt is a function of the incorporation of the chastisement. This is indeed not your own self chastisement, but one coming from another source. We love the process, we love the being that permeates and unites us all. You have chosen a duty for yourself that is rewarding and fun, and you understand that there are rules, of which you approve and which serve as boundaries within which you are free to romp. So on with it.

Fortunately, as we attempted to begin with before, the ground work has already been laid by some previous workers, so we don’t have to go into everything. We have been working with a number of people whose main interest and thrust has been with the theology of the workings. (It is indeed a good thing that you like to type, since this seems to be the fastest and most legible approach for us to take.) Here we are concerned not so much with the theology but with the preparation necessary to the coming enterprise.

As they – it definitely felt like a consciousness of plurality was speaking – my mind was alive with a flow of images, some clearer than others, some merely fuzzy patches of light. With the coming words, I saw Mary on the donkey traveling, and the word “travail” was a companion. I knew that this word meant “work.” I also understood that this Mary was about to go into labor. And that in my mind, the words “travel” and “travail” sounded alike. So together, they imply an arduous journey.

Yes, it is a good idea to explain the image as they serve not only to vivify the writing but also to make more clear the meaning.

In fact, as I was experiencing the transmission, I was thinking that I should record as much as possible about the experiences themselves. In others’ accounts of receiving direct communication from spirit guides, channeled entities, and other non-identified sources of information they felt in their minds, I had read that they saw specific images, and had impressions of a certain feeling of color, a mood, of multiple images combining in terms personally meaningful to them.

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When the phrase, “high Colonial,” came into my mind the day before, I saw again in my inner eye — my imagination — my first, breathtaking view of a high, sunlit-rich bank of cumulus clouds as my plane’s wingtips grazed its flank. The distillation of the flow of associations that produced the “high Colonial” is this: Such gorgeous, high glory brought an immediate sense of a place reserved for the elite. I felt the source of the information coming into me as a plural being, the consciousness of a colony. Visitors from higher (more advanced) civilizations flow into less powerfully flourishing cultures and assume control and ownership. That intuitive part of me who makes all the connections between and among ideas is not sophisticated, and not politically correct. She translates input immediately into as words and images to convey the clarity and meaning of her first impression. That’s how intuition works. It doesn’t pass through logic or ego.

And now, dear reader, I will continue in the present tense of the journal I kept of those first days of connection to a part of myself I had never imagined.
8/16/80
I have the feeling that I am waiting, perhaps out of vanity, with lonely aspect, for a new, glamorous friend whom I have heard is in love with me and whom I have heard is going to be visiting me. I feel as if I am putting my good dress on, making sure I look right – in a mirror in a dim room. It’s a scene I see, and it is my low self doing just what I have described, as I send up and open myself to whatever will come. My fear is that I will begin writing the thought in my head, undirected, thinking that there is direction – but I trust that any writing coming from within me will serve some good purpose.

There is a change in the internal atmosphere – all needs to be still – and the words come.

Foolish it is that men’s eyes do not recall the beginning of the history for it was told to them as babies in the most basic means possible, and reinforced through the lessons of each group’s times. Few there are who remember the purpose of being, which this receiver sometimes doubts, a measure of the poor mirror presented by the rest of the world. This purpose being JOY – to be written large, adorned, copiously fulfilled – it is a mandate. To this one we have taught it from birth, so it will be the flavoring direction of these notes. Keep in mind that the seer sees only through the only eyes the seer has.

The world is indeed different to each person, for the world that is the perception of existence as it appears to each being is according to the equipment played. Here the world seems precious, fair, poignant and having the ability to love. There are yes many paths to the One and “different strokes for different folks” is surely the best and indeed the only way we can go.

We said we would be covering some history and some beginnings. So back to darkness is perhaps the best approach.

Seeds of the Divine

How powerful are we? How powerful could we be?

What if I, I alone, by simply abandoning every shred and iota of resistance to who I really am, could be the cure of every disease and cause balance to flow so pervasively that there would be no more war, cruelty and all that feeds on hatred? It sounds like hubris, but maybe that’s the point: when is humility a lie?

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 We come to this planet, seeds of the Divine. We come to this planet with the pulse of the cosmos in our hearts. We come to this planet to express the Creator in myriad possibilities.

We look out of the Creator’s eyes and listen with the Creator’s ears with hungering zest, pulling in the shapes and sounds of all creation.

We swallow all we perceive and all that we do and we call it our own. But it is not our own. We are stewards, using these bodies, filtering information through our yearning hearts and complex minds, and we make the lives we call the World as agents of that which blew life into us.

“God has come to visit and has chosen you to be guide and host.”

These words were on a piece of paper in my handwriting. On a ratty little piece of paper. And it reminded me of how small scraps of awareness can bring such richness. It was one of those pieces of paper that swim in the mess in the car, that I grab whenever I need to write something down. Other things that were written on the same piece of paper were: “fruit, yogurt for Rosette” and “find a Trader Joe’s nearby.” And then there were phone numbers upside down from where I had written on the paper turned the other way.

I was writing on the go, maybe at a stoplight. In the stream of life happening topsy-turvy, one bright flash makes it through and we find our clues and our direction becomes clear.

In the Brownian movement images suspended in my imagination, I see a huge, rolling metal cylinder, a perforated  lantern that lets some, but not all, of the light out. The cylinder rolls and turns ceaselessly, releasing pinpoints of its light. I catch some of them. I lose some in the tumbling cacophany of my life.

Of all the images that might have rolled into focus, the cylinder seems almost cruelly primitive, an outdated, rusty, creaky relic of the industrial revolution.  I take this image as a clue to get with it and advance my mechanism to a more current technology, but I don’t know how to do this. So I ask for a few reminders. I know that we are, in fact, nano-second by nano-second, repairing the world by our very existence on this planet:

  1. We are God at the show that life is, each of us a multi-dimensional constellation of awareness, our eyes, ears, and pores all open, witnessing creation, even as we are every character in the drama and every member of the audience.
  2. We are finite manifestations of the infinite, exquisitely unable to grasp the whole of which we are part.
  3. Although most of us neither understand how it can be possible nor believe it with every wave and fiber of our being, we are not only every character in the drama and every member of the audience (see #1), we are also the director of the show. Each of us.
  4. Because we cannot possibly keep everything in our limited consciousness balanced all the time, we stumble, and sometimes our missteps appear in others’ perspectives as intrusive, cruel, premeditatedly hurtful. Sometimes their perceptions are not incorrect.
  5. Every moment of our existence, we are worthy of every kind of love, no matter how we or others feel that we have failed.
  6. This spot is available. (I still think something may appear here. This is the empty chair.)

The Divine knowing is not just present in each of us all the time, but is who we are, you, me, the people whose choices we doubt or judge,  looking, listening, and soaking up every nuance of impression in every moment of our lives. We are the Great Experiment, we on this Earth. We come to this place to heal our wounds, living the collective consciousness through individual experience. We live each of our nano-moments under the cosmic microscope and dance on ever-balancing scales, which we polish with pride through our achievements, driven by our passions.

The enormity of the possible scenarios we might create and facilitate is overwhelming. Lakes of tears can not wash away remorse, nor rid a human soul of sorrow.   Our hopes, prayers, and visions float upwards whether we intend them or not into the heart of the longed-for savior whose hands we are, whose eyes brim with our own salt tears.

I read Michael Harner’s book, “The Cave and the Cosmos”, relishing the accounts of shamanic journeys by people who grew up more or less as I did, in a first-world country. There was a sentence in one woman’s narrative that reached in past my heart and shook me a bit more awake than I had been the second before. It was this: “We are more powerful than we can possibly imagine.” I was deeply identifying with her story, and so I took this very seriously. Now, I have a very good imagination. What could I not possibly imagine?

I  cannot  imagine what it is like to be God. Not just to know that God is walking around in me, that I am a conduit, a cosmic outpost as we all are, but to know the totality of God. How can I? I am finite and God is infinite.

But there we are. Could it be that that grasp is available to me? And if so, then what must I do to stop short-changing my authentic self?

What if I, I alone, by simply abandoning every shred and iota of resistance to who I really am, could be the cure of every disease and cause balance to flow so pervasively that there would be no more war, cruelty and all that feeds on hatred? It sounds like hubris, but maybe that’s the point: when is humility a lie?

If I could be that, would I? Would you?