Sand overview

SAND: a story illustrating concepts relating to the nature, purpose and process of human and nonhuman earth-existence (ontology), including a critique of the dominant culture and its micro and macro effects on mankind. Presents general ideas about the earth and our bodies as oracles and conceptual ideas about how humankind can regain connection with these.

Purpose: The purpose of this story is to make people pause and consider the nature of the existence we are living and their status as beings with histories that are literally incomprehensible to any of us. Its purpose is certainly not to proclaim this story as “truth”, the “way it is” or even the way one “should see things”. It was written only to allow the reader another opportunity to consider the immensity of Life.  

Target Market:

·         People interested in basic ideas around ontology.

·         Those believing religion is the only way to joy and/or enlightenment/heaven.

·         People vaguely familiar with and interested in the basics of Eastern thought, particularly the practice of meditation. 

·         People concerned with the environment that might be interested in thoughts about the “why” to protect it from a “spiritual/consciousness” standpoint.

·         Those interested in a different view of the immensity of Life.

A note about:

·         Punctuation: I’ve capitalized words and phrases that have to do with the realm of consciousness. The title “earth” for example, if referring to the planet as a sentient being, is spelled “Earth”. If I were referencing dirt, the spelling would be in the lower case. The language she speaks is called “The Language”, since it exists with or without humankind, or even mortality. The title “Intelligence” is another example. As the most basic form of connection to All That Is (or “God”), it is capitalized. If the word were being used in reference to someone’s intellect, it would be “intelligence”.

·         Science: Particularly at the end, I can think of no science that would remotely agree with the final scene. But this is not meant to be a treatise on science; the events described are used only to point to the author’s view of the enormity of Life. Or in this case, Enormity.

·         Footnotes and Endnotes: No need to get too serious about this topic, although it’s worth an investment in time to look at it. Some of the footnotes are there to bring additional thoughts to the subject and some are my attempt at interjecting humor. The endnotes usually provide more substantive commentary.

·         God: This is a word that is so charged with pre-conceived concepts that I rarely use it. The terms “All That Is” or “Creator” are generally used instead, but they mean basically the same thing. Or, Thing. “Creator” is meant to mean several different roles and is left vaguely defined on purpose.   

Foreword

“There is no greater disaster in the spiritual life than to be immersed in unreality… when our life feeds on unreality, it must starve. It must therefore die.”- Thomas Merton, 1915-1968

“There is no such thing as a way or ways of consciousness; individual ways turn up merely by virtue of consciousness making itself understood.” - Longchempa

At first glance, these two statements appear to contradict one another. One statement implies that it is incumbent upon us to know “reality” and the other says there are no set ways to experience consciousness at all, meaning, by my unlearned interpretation anyway, that there is no one correct way to experience “reality”. Thomas Merton was a true Christian mystic, meaning that while he certainly saw truth in his way of experiencing reality (namely Trappist monkhood), his writings embrace an essence that can be found in mystic writings of many different religious traditions the world over. So while it might be assumed that Thomas Merton would insist upon a certain way to see what is “real”, I suspect from what I have read of him that he would be more concerned that people do not believe in incorrect things. Taking this view would open one to truth from wherever it might fall, from many traditions, as long as it did not offend the innate sensibilities of our individual spirits. Suspected truth discovered from this point of view would also almost necessarily retain the same fluid quality as the attitude which birthed it, leaving the learner to hold to what seems “true” at the time, while being open to being taught from whatever source is able to teach as she progresses through life. This would include higher truths that we are increasingly ready to apply, that seem to contradict ideas we once held. Of course there are “teachers” with impure motives in this world, so a spirit of discernment is needed by the potential student about what messages can be trusted and, maybe more importantly, how the suspected truth should be applied in this existence. In “Sand”, the idea is presented that true concepts themselves should be our teachers. Only Truth knows what the student is ready to hear and implement in their lives. It is therefore incumbent upon the student to place themselves in a position to be taught; in a place of humility, play and exploration, as free as possible from belief in incorrect things which, I suspect, have mostly to do with whatever distracts us from the peace that is the nature of our eternal souls. May we find our truths from that place, and may we seek as humble children to find commonalities rather than divisions in whatever we choose to call reality, or the way of consciousness.        

Sand

by Eric Marley

Inspired by “Hyperborea” from the album of the same name by Tangerine Dream… and also a lot of driving around looking at things and paying cursory attention to my mind, but not necessarily doing a damned thing about it.

Preface

The conversation you’re about to read happened not long ago. It is the contents of a dream I had after a challenging day. The conversation wasn’t too long, but it has infused my life ever since. It’s as if all the colors that meet my eyes have been changed. The whole world looks new, lit from it’s very energetic vibrations, physically brighter, substantially deeper, like seeing things in three dimensions for the first time. And, where once I had seen mostly decay and immorality, dishonesty and bad luck, I now see the Earth and life, Life, as something entirely new. The difficulties remain, but there is an undercurrent I had forgotten existed.

Another result of the experience of the dream is that everything now seems to move too quickly, as if Western culture simply wants to prove how fast it can go without regard for anything but the speed it can generate. Even though I am in it too, it feels like it did when I as a teenaged young man would rev my car beyond its capability. At first, the engine would respond with greater speed, but the increase in speed would eventually taper. The increasing noise of the screaming engine would not translate to a corresponding increase in speed. It was less of a roar and more of a complaint. When this occurred, it was time to shift. I think the same thing could be said of our culture.

The enlightening effect of the dream was matched by my frustration while trying to communicate not only the events within it but the meaning of the concepts that were presented. Indeed, it became known to me in the course of the dream that not only was I under no obligation to tell anyone anything about it, but to do so may well harm the hearer in some way. The reasons for this were two-fold. First, spoken language is not appropriate to use when communicating certain concepts. It is simply too much to ask of the language. The words are not there. Of course the concepts can be approached on some level, but care should be exercised for I came to understand that the desire to discuss these things may well be more a function of my own egoic needs rather than a genuine concern for a fellow traveler. Secondly, each human is in the midst of their own walk and, in a sense, their own world. Of course concepts relating to the unseen can and should be spoken about, but the elephant in the room has to do with the nature of the concepts themselves; they pertain to an existence that is literally infinitely larger than that which we as mortals experience. Therefore, more sensitivity should be used in discussions pertaining to these keys because we don’t know their power, nor can we truly conceive it. The effect on the soul can be enlightening or devastating to the soul’s awakening or rather, the mortal remembering on some level their true nature. In the end, it should be the concept itself that informs the student, not a fellow mortal. Therefore, far more emphasis should be placed on preparing the physical space and the hearer to receive whatever concept the hearer is prepared to hear rather than foisting a preconceived curriculum upon the student, established by one that is supposedly further along the path. In the end, a type of spiritual anarchy is what serves mankind best.[1]  

Sand

Chapter 1: Pain

The emptiness in my heart held constellations. It had been a day of disappointment compounded exponentially. All the teachings of Jesus, the Buddah, Krishna, Lao Tzu and Sitting Bull wrapped the emptiness but could not penetrate it. Instead my heart stood still; a lonely star in a distant and cold galaxy.

I sat on my bed for 30 minutes in my work clothes, mulling the day. A coolness lay untouched just under my skin. I didn’t have the strength to get out of my clothes, brush my teeth, meditate and crawl into bed in a more peaceful manner as was my normal routine. I knew somewhere in my soul’s void that peace would have knocked quietly and then filled the space, had I capitulated. After all, many times I had felt despair, and many times I had forced myself to assume this position of humility and self-compassion, clearing the chorus of criticism in my own mind. I knew that if I went through the motions, however begrudgingly, the beastlike beings would quiet before the majesty of light that would infuse itself into every dark corner of my inner being.

But tonight the cruel coolness dampened any light. My star stood eternally alone.

I swung my feet on the bed and kicked off my shoes. I didn’t get under the covers. I lay there, looking for patterns in the texture on the ceiling, but was unable to find any at all.

At the back of my skull, my brain began to shut down. A fatigue that seemed to murder every cell it touched hit my eyes as they closed. The last thing I remember was my body sinking further into the bed. The bedspread rose over my body like water.

My eyes shot wide. His face was just fading, like when one looks at a bright light too long and then, looking away, the negative light obscures one’s vision for a moment. The last things to fade were his eyes; eyes that were twin suns made of something that felt like my childhood, a time of freedom and play, joy, newness, laughter – an essence that seemed to recall a hummingbird (but I didn’t yet know why). The two suns eventually faded and I was left to look in wonder at my ceiling with no patterns. But something remained.

I leapt from my bed of nails with the newness of a spring bud just breaking the earth. I needed to write what I could before any of it faded. Literally running to my desk, I skidded, nearly falling. This produced a joyous giggle, spontaneously plumbed from the same depths that had seemingly produced such agonizing despair only…minutes? hours? eternities? before. But it wasn’t the same depths at all. The giggle was borne of eternity, of a “cool and starbright laughter”[2], as Hermann Hesse put it, while the despair was decidedly of this mortality with its assumed disease and illness. No matter what, it was certainly the same day, or early the next, that I had lain down sick and nearly suicidal. What a difference a dream makes.

 

The Dream

In my dream, I was walking on endless dunes, and I had been doing that a long time. Shade was nonexistent, almost as if it were a planet made of nothing but sand. There were no trees in existence, not a blade of anything that looked like grass, no lichen, no rock; only ankle deep sand. My walk was labored. I saw my face, sunburned, peeling in white strips in places, exposing red skin that looked like it could never heal. I had a towel over my head to protect my brain from sunstroke. This was futile because the towel itself was nearly ablaze, making my head feel like it was in an oven. I wore some type of white tunic. I remember thinking with some irony that I was glad it was white and not some dark color, but it didn’t really matter. I was dying from the inside out of thirst more than anything else. My throat was closing with multiplying scars inside it. Every breath brought burning air past my infernally dry mouth into my hesitant lungs, scorching them as well. Even my teeth felt hot. But the worst of all was my feet. Barefoot, they were nearly the color of blood. I had long since stopped looking down at them for fear that I would watch one lift out of the sand to take a step and it would simply detach, or come up black. The sky was that kind, inviting blue that is the favorite of children. To me, it only looked like water. But instead of the color of a cool, life-saving stream, it was the color of a beautiful but undrinkable, briny ocean.  

As I watched myself trudge through the sand, I realized that this poor lost soul (from here on, the Wanderer) was indeed searching for water and my observing dreaming self (the Dreamer) knew that it was nearby. The Wanderer might well miss it, but the Dreamer could see it. It was there.

The Dreamer’s eyes began to burn with tears from shear empathy. “Please,” he said aloud to the Wanderer, “turn just to the south. It’s there.”

To his surprise, the lonely Wanderer stopped as if he had heard something very faint, very still; a breath almost, less than a whisper. He looked up at the sky towards the cruel, determined sun, and then to the south. He frowned. He seemed to be considering something. There was a sand hill in the distance, an enlarged dune that stretched to the east and west for maybe a mile before diving back into the featureless desert.

Using the sun as a marker, the Wanderer began his labored walk south. When he reached the bottom of the incline, he looked at it with the eyes of one facing the method of his own death; the charging grizzly, the tsunami wave, the car sliding sideways toward the careening truck. I saw his knees begin to buckle and his lower lip begin to tremble. But incredibly, just as suddenly, I saw new strength – maybe his last – still both his lip and his knees. His eyes turned hard and determined and, with the purposeful gait of a man walking to the gallows, he started up the hill. I somehow felt proud of this supremely suffering man for moving onward at all.

Slipping, seeming to slide a foot backwards for every step forward at times, he labored up the hill. His breathing seemed to both intensify and decrease in efficiency. I could tell that his body was shutting down. I began to think in terror that he might not make it to the top of the hill. He doubled over and swayed. He wanted to cry, but he simply had no strength. He was ready to succumb, to tumble to the bottom of the hill, to let his body mummify and be consumed by the eternal white sands. Would it be that bad? But then, with the last strength he had, I saw the weary, worn Wanderer look upward to the top of the hill.

It was within reach.

With renewed courage and the very last of his reserves he struggled and stumbled to the top. He stopped. It was rock. Oddly, the rock was the color of blood, stretching straight out like a carpet in front of him. He had never seen this color in the desert, but in his bewildered state he asked no lasting questions. One thing for certain: there was no water in this place. He could see what appeared to be a cliff directly ahead, its edge maybe a hundred meters away. Aside from that, heat waves, not rippling waters, burned though his eyes and hopes. He frowned as he doubled over, putting his hands on his knees, trying to recover his breath.  I saw him look at the sky with rage as red and searing hot as the rock in front of him.

He yelled to the sky with all the rage that had built within him, “Why did I waste the last of my strength to come here to die? I could have done that in the dunes! My intuition is worthless, and so are you!”

Sobs wormed their way up to the throat of the man, only to be choked back by anger more intense than his sorrow or disappointment. The thought occurred to him that he could throw himself off the cliff. After all, he was standing on rock. Maybe the deep red tint of the rock meant that it was to be a place of his death, a divine sign. And maybe this was not the only rock in this eternal desert. Maybe it ended in a sheer cliff with a jumble of compassionate stones below that would mercifully remove the little life force that was left in him. It was this thought that now gave him resolve.

He walked forward with the halting step of a man walking to a gallows.

Suddenly, as if he had been slapped, his eyes sprung open wide. A cool breeze. To you and I, this would have been searing, but to him it was cool in contrast to what he had experienced in the shapeless sand under the apathetic blue eternity above.

“No,” he thought, “please…” as he moved forward.

First a thin blue line bounced up into his vision. Another step made the line thicker, and then thicker. Ten steps after he had first seen the blue line, the man stood that the edge of a precipice maybe 30 feet high. There were rocks below, but they were part of a sheer cliff that stretched away under water bluer in many gradients than any sky, turning the submerged red stones into a delicious eggplant purple.  

A single tear from what seemed like the last molecules of moisture in his body started down his cheek before being slurped greedily by the resolute, angry sun and his moisture-starved skin.

His tunic and towel fell to the rock at his feet. The Wanderers eyes were new. He stood at the precipice, feeling cooler air than he could ever remember feeling come up from the lake and caress his body as a lover. The air was medicine - a body and soul salve. The water would be even more so. 

Naked now, he took two steps forward and with form that would make a competitive diver jealous he arched his back and spread his arms as an eagle spreads her wings. Seemingly suspended by the heat, by all his pain and hope, he paused in mid-air before starting down with increasing speed.

The air on his skin felt warm, but it cooled him nonetheless as he fell. However, it was nothing compared to the water.

Pressure on the crown of his head ears muffled with the sound of water rushing into them eyes burning not unpleasantly as he opened them to see nothing but blurry blue. But what he noticed more than anything was the pain in his feet diminishing by the instant. Rising the last few feet to the air above, he opened his mouth to feel coolness in it, the first he had felt in as long as he could remember. Cool water caressed his teeth and the inside of his mouth. Slurping gratefully, he urged it past his swollen throat. Nothing had ever been sweeter. He smiled a sigh, and then laughed with joy. The sky no longer seemed like the enemy it had been. He turned on his back and, turning his head as he backstroked, surveyed the lake in which he swam. It was a perfect circle, framed by sandstone cliffs.

Cliffs! A terrifying thought came to him: what if there was no way out of the lake? What if it was all framed by sheer cliffs? Could the Universe be that cruel, to give a man dying of thirst a lake that would only drown him? Given his brutal wanderings, he had no comforting answer for that question. He turned over in terror from backstroking to look in the direction he had been swimming, for to this point there was little in his memory that gave him any indication of enduring Universal mercy.

But there it was.

In fact, there was only one way out of the lake. It appeared to be directly ahead of him, maybe a quarter mile from where he effortlessly kicked at the present moment. Moreover, there seemed to be a small stand of trees at the same site. Trees! Noting the distance, it occurred to him that he should be in no shape to swim even the distance from his present location to the bank, let alone that he had swum a fair distance in addition to it. But the water seemed not only to buoy him without effort on his part, but to be pushing him along towards the lake’s exit.

He looked back and to his monumental surprise, the cliff from which he had jumped was far in the distance.  He could barely make out the place from which he had launched, now only what appeared to be a distant red rock fall, the only one like it in his sight. Somehow he had swum the vast majority from the cliff to the bank without even knowing it. His body still felt depleted, but there was a type of electricity flowing through it that felt of vitality, healing and deep health.

        

The Wanderer looked back towards the edge of the lake in the direction he had been swimming, put his head down and started stroking towards shore. His strength had mysteriously returned and even increased.

Now the Wanderer stood waist-deep in the water and began to walk out from his swim, naked as before. His body hummed with life. He hadn’t felt this energetic since his youth, far in the past. In front of him was a lush, well-kept oasis. At the base of the first tree was a small bundle of cloth, tied with a red silk sash. He approached it, sensing it was somehow meant for him. Untying the sash, he unfolded a tunic of fine cotton. He slipped it on, wincing out of sheer habit from anticipation of the pain of cloth against his burned skin, but there was none. With a relieved smile and laugh he tied the tunic with the red sash and looked at the miracle around him.  

Within a few moments he had walked to and was standing under the first shade he could remember experiencing. It was a tree that was not indigenous to the area – none were - but he was not arguing. He plucked a ripe mango and tore into the pregnant orange flesh. Sweet, sugar-laden juice flowed down his skin which seemed to take nourishment from it as well. Looking around, he saw papaya, lemon, almond, fig and guava trees. Spinach, dandelions and asparagus grew in clumps nearby. Each of these lost a small fraction of its persistent production to the starving man.

The Wanderer noticed some other kinds of life around him. Flowers buzzed with bees, and a hummingbird especially drew his attention. He had always loved hummingbirds, had had a natural inexplicable affinity for them. As he watched in awe as one raced about from flower to flower, he found himself face to face with another that appeared to be… it was too odd to even think… smiling at him. He tentatively smiled back, and the tiny bird sped away.

The Wanderer was suddenly exhausted. His belly full of water, nuts, fruit and vegetables, he laid his body on cool, wet sand on the shore of the savior lake. His eyes were shaded by leaved limbs that fanned him and the man slept for what seemed like a month.

Chapter 2: When The Student Is Ready…

When he awoke, there was another man in front of him.

To say this was a man, however, is to give the moniker far too much credit. The term “Being” was far more appropriate and will be used henceforth, although it is still insufficient. The Wanderer had never seen anything in all of creation more beautiful than this. The Being radiated something that could only be called acceptance from every fiber of his body. But it also contained humor and a deep sense of playfulness mixed with fathomless wisdom. Even his clothing, which matched his except for a multicolored sash, radiated this message.

“Who are you?” the Wanderer whispered in wonder to the Being before him as he began to stand.

“I am your Oversoul,” the Being replied. “I created this.”

The Wanderer had never heard the term “Oversoul”, but he was too taken with what he had told him about creating the oasis to ask. Instead he said reverently and with wonder, “You created this little oasis? Let me assure you, sir, this has saved my life. I am forever in your debt.” The Wanderer bowed humbly.

“Thank you,” the Being said with humility that matched the others’. “But I mean I created it all.”

The Wanderer’s face lit up. “Oh, the lake, too?” he exclaimed in the deepest gratitude. “You can’t imagine my feelings as the lake came into view after so long in the desert! You can’t have any concept of what it meant to me to plunge into the lake itself, to drink the water, to swim in it. And look,” the Wanderer said, pointing to his feet, “even my feet are healed. They don’t hurt! The skin is all back to normal. How did you do that? Is this really healing water? I can’t thank you enough!”

The Being smiled with an expression that one might give a child that is discovering a subject that has been just beyond its comprehension for as long as it has lived.

“I created the desert, too.”

The Wanderer’s face fell. Darkness like a thundercloud obscured the light of joy and thanksgiving in his eyes. Something akin to violence contracted his heart.  

“How could you?” It was more an accusation than a question. “Do you know how much I suffered there? I suppose you made the sand, the heat, everything? I thought when I saw you that I felt… something… something that felt like love coming from you. But there’s no way you could feel love and create what you did… I can’t believe it.”

The Being smiled with, if it were more possible, even more light than before.

“Come,” he said gently, reaching out his hand.

As furious as the Wanderer had been, it was a mortal’s furor and was, hence, no match for the love of the Being. He looked down and placed his hand in the Being’s hand. The Wanderer looked up into his face and blinked.

In the split second that his eyes were closed, they had been transported somewhere. They were standing on a cliff directly across from the one from which the Wanderer had jumped. He could see through the rippling heat the red stain that led from the top of the cliff from where he had jumped into the water. He knew it was the same place because there were no other red rocks to be seen. The Wanderer looked down the face of the precipice where they stood and saw the small oasis where he had recently been happily napping.

He looked back up into the face of the Being. His demeanor had changed slightly. His face seemed the same, but his eyes were no longer smiling with the intensity they had been.

“Why are you here?” The Being asked.

“How did you… I guess you brought us up here,” the Wanderer answered, frowning. “Right?”

The Being’s eyes softened slightly. “Sometimes even I forget the way a Wanderer sees the world. Your view is generally limited to what you see at the time. Let me rephrase: why are you alive?”

The Wanderer thought of his life. He couldn’t remember a time in his recent past that wasn’t fraught with hunger, thirst, loneliness. He knew there had been a time when he was with people. He had lived in cities, traveled to distant lands, driven cars. It seemed as if he had had a family once. But these things were all recognized in an almost conceptual, dreamlike way. There were no specifics. All he had as a specific, recent reference was the pain of the desert and the relief of the lake and oasis. These seemed to have no clues as to the answer that The Being sought. 

“I guess I don’t know.”

The Being nodded. “I know, and it is acceptable that you do not know right now. You lack the perspective you need to truly understand. I am going to ask you to follow my instructions. If you do so, you will begin to begin, to begin, to begin to gain some tentative understanding, which will bring perspective. Will you do what I ask?”

The Wanderer nodded solemnly.

“OK then. Look into the lake.”

He turned his gaze from the Being’s eyes towards the lake far below. Suddenly, the blueness of the lake filled his vision. The hue grew progressively darker until darkness was all he saw, as if he were many fathoms under the water, encased in cool, deep blue weightlessness. A light came, blinding. He saw around him stars and a sun appear, and then multiple stars and suns. He saw them live and die, comprehending their interactions. This comprehension filled his body as if with light. He smiled in wonder not only at the order but at the aliveness that infused everything he saw. Last of all he saw a new star, somehow recognizing it as familiar and homelike. It was the very sun that had recently tortured him so thoroughly in the desert. Only now it looked not only innocuous but made of a figurative, even spiritual light he could not quite comprehend based on his recent experience. Among the planets in its orbit, he saw a small red, spinning Earth, presumably the one upon which he stood. It was young and alive, now filling his vision as it drew nearer. As the Wanderer watched, enthralled, he felt the presence of the Being next to him. He was safe, secure. They stood together as the new Earth cooled and oceans formed.

The Being spoke in awe. “This is among my greatest creations. This is not only part of your reason, but part of mine.”

“What do you mean?” the Wanderer asked.

“Take as much in with your eyes as much as you can, and let what you see inform your soul,” was all he said in return.

At the explosion of a star traveling close to the new Earth they watched life begin upon it. Whether the life came from the star or if the star was merely a catalyst to awaken sleeping life upon the Earth was unimportant. They both watched in stillness as the new creations coagulated, multiplied, mutated, transmutated, bred and cross-bred. He saw individuals and species come into being, thrive and then die. He comprehended that the Earth was a manifestation of the love of the Being. He comprehended that there was a common Language that was understood by all life on the Earth. It was not only instructional, it was conversational in a way that the Wanderer could never have imagined. To say the Earth spoke telepathically was the closest thing he could think of, but it was woefully short of being adequate. Moreover, the conversations he witnessed were less like two entities communicating and more like a type of holy self-talk. Every interaction was an illustration of connection – Connection - between the Being and the inhabitants of the Earth. Towards the very end of the throng of Life manifesting in almost infinite mortal incarnations, he saw the birth of mankind. He saw their terrific rise after Earth’s millenia without their influence. He saw fantastic machines, wondrous inventions, uses of Earth, animals and fellow humans. Cultures were conceived, grew, flourished and passed, many into obscurity, forever forgotten. It was a great play, the greatest of all, being enacted before the Wanderers eyes. He began looking for someone he knew; maybe a family member or friend could be identified in this grand production. He was certain this was his home. However, while some of the characters seemed familiar, none were exactly the same.

With the formation of the question in his mind, the vision faded and The Wanderer found himself again on the cliff overlooking the oasis. He looked at the Being.

“I saw things that looked like cars, but not quite. What were they? What was I seeing?” the Wanderer wanted to know everything about what he had seen.

“You were seeing the Earth; essentially the same one you live on now. “  

“I was? Well, how come I didn’t recognize those things? Some of those tools they used and other things I saw seemed… different. But the landscape itself looked familiar.” Believing he had seen an age as modern as his own – and maybe his own – he asked, “Are my parents and my siblings and friends somewhere? Could I see them, too?”

There was a great, thunderous pause. “They do not exist.”

“What? Why? How can my parents not exist? I don’t understand.”

Chapter Three: Creator to Intelligence

“Please concentrate on what I am going to tell you,” the Being slowly spoke. “To understand this, you will need to loosen your grasp on everything you think you know about the nature of reality. Everything must be a question for you at this moment to have a chance of comprehending on any level what you are about to see. You are in a dream state right now, in your mortal body. This is an advantage. So what I say to you I also say to your dreaming self who is observing our interaction: let go of what you think you know…” at this he gave a slight chuckle, “and watch.”[3]

The Being again pointed towards the lake. As he obeyed, the Wanderer saw a reflection and was again enveloped in what he saw.

Encased in the deep blue, they saw a single light begin from its depths – similar to what he had seen before. The light grew to uncomfortable intensity and exploded. This time as the light faded, instead of a universe the Wanderer saw something that could have been the center of it; a miniscule portion of the Creator and all of Creation at the same time. This portion contained all knowledge and yet was only an experiment, it held the DNA to all answers, yet itself was only a question. As such, it was the ultimate riddle, the intersection between all opposites. There was a palpable feeling of love, happiness and play that emanated from this tiny portion of the Creator. But it was wiser than that. This was no mindless thing. It was far gone in wisdom borne of all manner of pain as well, yet it laughed; not only in spite of all that it had encountered but in joy because of it. As the shape of the center began to gain detail, to his horror and indescribable wonder he recognized this portion as himself, although far, far more by a spiritual recognition than a physical one. There was an innate beauty wrapped in the most delicious, humble sense of wonder and desire to explore that he could ever imagine. In his experience, the closest thing to this thirst to learn was something akin to that of a three year-old child, but it had the life-experience of a very, very old man. This could not be himself. Could it? There was no way. Still, there was a familiarity that he could not explain. He had to know.

“Is…is that me?” the Wanderer asked in a reverent whisper.

The Being smiled. “It is what is called your Intelligence. That means that what you see here is to be and is simultaneously clothed in all the physical manifestations the spirit will endure and enjoy. The reason what you are now seeing is not called a “spirit” is because your Intelligence is shapeless until it pre-informs each physical form it will take, in turn. The pre-informed essence is called ‘spirit’.”

The Wanderer looked back at the Being with a blank expression as the vision withdrew, and he found himself gazing into His fathomless eyes. Coming to himself more fully he said, “There are about three concepts there that make no sense to me. What did you mean when you said my Intelligence is simultaneously… what?”

“This is a distant concept for you because of your incorrect understanding of time as a linear dimension. I referenced it simply so we can come back to it later.”

“Make that four concepts I don’t understand…” the Wanderer said to himself in mock frustration (for he was immediately and completely comfortable with the Being as he would be any wise friend). “What do you mean that “time is a linear dimension?”

“It means that, like many things observed in nature, Time turns in a circle. More accurately, it is in the actual shape of the symbol for infinity. Not coincidentally, Time looks like the number 8 in your language. Your culture views events like clothespins on a clothesline. It’s not how it is.”

“And it makes that much of a difference?” the Wanderer asked, eyebrows raised.

“Well, it makes no difference to Time, but it certainly makes a difference to any beings that concern themselves with it!” the Being said with a laugh.

“Why does it matter?” the Wanderer frowned.

“You are, to an extent, a product of the culture in which you have been immersed, whether by choice or chance. This is why you see Time as a linear function. If any time-based culture is to survive, at some point in its existence the individuals in it must come to the point where such information is important to comprehend, if not mentally then certainly as a “felt sense”[i].”[4]

“What’s a “felt sense”?

It’s not easy to describe in your language, but it has to do with the state of mind that precedes identification with an object. It’s the moment when the object is presented but before it is named by the mind. In the end, ideas of this nature are not discoverable by the mind, only by conscious awareness.

You mean I have to be aware of the concept before I think I understand the idea behind it?

No, it’s more like allowing a sense of stillness to flow through you, dissolving the “you”, so you become one with the truths that alight.” Seeing the Wanderer’s confusion, he added, “Don’t worry. I’ll help you see as we talk about these things. For now, just allow concepts you think you understand as rigid and set to begin to soften. Hear more with your heart than worrying about the concepts making sense to your mind, ok?”

The Wanderer nodded and the Being continued. “In any of Earth’s incarnations where humanity is introduced, there are cultures that rise to dominance. If a culture is based on a view of Life that honors it, the culture thrives and all of life on the Earth benefits from it. If the culture is not based on this view, life suffers. There are a few conceptual caveats enjoyed by every healthy culture in eternity and space. A view of Time as non-linear is one of them. It allows an inherent wonder that is otherwise universally missing, at least from the members of the temporarily dominant culture.”

“But why is it so important?” The Wanderer asked impatiently. “I still don’t understand.”

“It’s important because it honors the idea of karma – again less dogmatically, and again, more by way of a felt sense. It helps humanity initiate and eventually wholly integrate a kind of self-care that is critical for the survival of not only the culture and species, but of all of life. Again, this is true on any of Earth’s incarnations.”

The Wanderer considered this, his brow furrowed. “So, it’s kind of like a simultaneous reincarnation? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“In a sense, yes. The same Wanderer experiences different realities simultaneously, each affecting the other.”

The Wanderer looked confused. “Well, if all my incarnations are simultaneously clothed, as you put it, and they are affected by each other, wouldn’t the “later” ones be affected in such a way that they would consider their lives as pre-destined? I’ve never believed in that.”

“A good enough question, but you’re still trying to see this as a mental concept instead of feeling your way through the idea. That’s ok, and it is enough for now on this topic except to say your incarnations feel what they feel, understand what they understand. Some of these understandings are based in truth or in various degrees of it. But when one makes a decided leap in consciousness or in understanding, all incarnations benefit. Pre-destination is a false concept that grew out of the very concept of linear time that we are discussing. But to further answer your question - and to potentially create a few more“, he paused and smiled, “your spirits, which are literally without number, travel in “packs” of similar levels of understanding and consciousness – not together with all levels. Growth happens incrementally, not exponentially. Think of glacier travel, slow it down and multiply the slowing by eons and you’ll begin to get the concept. But that’s another conversation.”    

The Wanderer considered this and replied, “OK, so for now all I need to remember is that I have other parts or incarnations of me that affect each other in any given moment and that Time is not linear. I guess I can deal with that for now,” he smiled. “It’s a lot to take in, though. Why isn’t there a religion that teaches this stuff?”

The Being chuckled and shook his head as he looked down at the lake, taking a deep breath. “It’s a lot to take in with the mind, but as humanity awakens and begins to sense the value of Creation independent of it as an asset to be dominated, they are usually overwhelmed. All Beings belonging to the Earth understand her Language at birth, inherently. It is the Language of the Creator, of Intelligence. It is familiar. It speaks of Home. But almost as a condition of mortality,[ii] humans get distracted from her, hearing her communications in fits and starts depending on their level of awareness at any given moment. A desire to communicate matters of consciousness or spirituality to others without the listeners having paid the price to gain the knowledge themselves…this is where religion comes from.”

“Wow,” the Wanderer said, eyebrows raised, “that’s another new concept to me; that religion is some kind of short cut! I always thought it was going about things the hard way. Can you give me an example of what you mean?”

“Sure, in general. A man that has forgotten the Earth’s language finds himself without distractions in a place where the Language is spoken.[5] He feels and hears ideas in ways that seem familiar. It fills him with joy, wonder and knowledge – three things that are always present when the Earth speaks. He feels these things not so much flowing into him, but as a feeling of recognition, as if he has always known the truth that is being communicated. He feels expanded, enlightened, and in actuality he is. Now he wishes to share his experience and his new paradigm. There are no spoken words to communicate what he has learned, or rather remembered, so he does the best he can. But in his exuberance, borne of a beautiful desire to share the fruit of his experience, he forgets that he had to learn in a certain way: no human could tell him these things. Moreover, he may come to believe that he is a new vessel, called to tell the world what he has learned. But this is almost always counter-productive because except in very rare instances this is a thought tied to egoic wanting. Since he cannot begin to fully communicate what he was able to receive – let alone what he did not – he only gets part of the message to his audience. He may build a whole philosophy or dogma - or religion - around what he felt, but this serves ultimately to alienate his followers from their Source because the people that hear and believe him now think they understand the topic to the exclusion of others that they perceive as a threat to it. Therefore, they cease to be true to the very essence of who they are; the tiny spark of light you saw at the center of yourself and all Creation; their Intelligence, the essence of concentrated play and joyful seeking - and finding.”[6]

“So I could never share the things you’re showing me?”

“Certainly they can be spoken about, as long as it is remembered that they can’t be fully described in any language of humans, although some languages are closer than others. Sanskrit, for instance, in the current Earth’s incarnation is one of the closest, as are a few of the indigenous languages insofar as they are still pure – but at the moment with which you are most familiar now, most are dead or dying.”

The Wanderer frowned. “What’s the point of having deeper knowledge if someone can’t communicate it with anyone?” Then, answering his own question he added, “But I guess communicating it isn’t the point as long as it is internalized by the recipient. A mute man can be inspired as well as any other, right? The point is to remember the Language.”

The Being nodded in affirmation and added, “But man’s ability to communicate spiritual truth is not really the core of your question. It is that mankind, once he thinks he understands a concept, immediately begins to wish to share it in the easiest way possible. This is both especially true and especially harmful when it concerns concepts related to consciousness and spiritualty. Since matters of this nature are not easily quantifiable and since concepts can be communicated via the Language so quickly and thoroughly, the Teacher often ends up teaching calculus to a third-grader, figuratively speaking. Add the Language barrier, and you have a situation where the teacher ends up describing, in essence, the pointing finger rather than that to which the finger is pointing. To continue the example you requested, the man returns to his friends and instead of describing to them how he rid himself of distractions and meaningful communication came to him, he will describe what was communicated to him as some kind of universal truth.”

“Well, isn’t what was communicated to him, in actuality, Universal Truth?”

“Of course what came to him was Universal Truth, but it cannot be adequately described or placed in its proper context because it was meant for him and him alone, for his benefit in that space and time according to the level of his preparation to receive it. Even if the message does apply to all of mankind it has to be individually felt to be communicated fully and internalized.”[iii]

“I remember a teacher saying something about not giving someone “milk before meat.” Is that what we’re talking about?”

“That’s very close. The point is that only the Giver of the Language knows where each individual sits in relationship to their mastery of more basic, “building block concepts” at that particular time, dimension and particular incarnation. Therefore, action must be taken by the listeners to duplicate the experience to attain real grasp of the concept. Words never suffice.”

The Wanderer paused and then said, “It sounds like the onus is more on the student than the teacher, particularly with concepts of consciousness. You can have a good teacher or a bad teacher, but if the teacher is the Giver of the Language, then it’s assumed the communication is perfect. So… again, it’s up to the student to put himself in a place to hear the Speaker, which in that case would be the voice of Intelligence, the Language of the Earth. Am I right?”

“Yes. Moreover, what the would-be mortal teacher might actually have heard might not have been truth in and of itself at all, since the Earth teaches by way of parable as well. The Earth also often allows the spirit of the Trickster[iv] to teach. This aspect is an able teacher, too, but it is often labeled as something less than “good”, if not wholly “evil”.”[7]

“Oh my gosh. So someone hearing the Voice of the Earth has to be careful of being fooled, too?”

“Well, trickery requires assumptions based on the one being tricked, right? Assumptions are a result of ‘knowing’, which is a result of a loss of curiosity and probably a rise of pride which, as the Biblical adage goes, “comes before a fall”. The thing to remember is that to value any communication from the Earth is to sit in stillness with it and feel its message and the nature of it – whether a parable, something from Trickster energy or something to be taken literally. No religion teaches this because there is no value in it for the religion. And all religions – which always stem from the mind of mankind - are ultimately self-serving.” 

“So no religion can have truth?” the Wanderer said skeptically.  

“That’s not what I said at all. Of course they can, and they all do. That is the point. They all start with the intentions of a person or group of people. Usually these intentions are honorable and honest. But because of the nature of the topic they end up not only falling short but fighting the very truth they were so enamored with in the first place because they can’t fully describe it. The ideal “church” then, would be the most accessible of all: stillness in nature, free of both corporeal and mental distractions. With basic physical needs provided for – warmth, food, shelter – in time any man can hear the Language and get the experience for himself, which is as it was intended. Let’s say the person that had the experience hearing the voice went back to her people and instead of communicating the message, she communicated the method for hearing it, having faith that each individual would receive what they needed in the way they needed it. Eventually, a felt sense of concepts that are conducive to Life would begin to guide more and more humans until they begin to make decisions that safeguard themselves, all of earth life and the Language of the Earth, which is really the Language of Intelligence, of Creator. When this occurs, eventually whole cultures simply begin to value the Voice more than the distraction from it. That’s an amazing and beautiful thing to behold if they do it before the culture becomes seriously destructive.”

The Wanderer smiled back. “There’s certainly a lot to this… even more than I thought.”

“To the mind, yes, it is a lot. But to bring it full-circle, your original question was quite simple. You asked, ‘Is that me?’ and I replied that it was your Intelligence. Before we move off this topic, let me add this; Intelligence is to Spirit is to mortal existence what the subconscious is to thought is to action. And that is true for all the incarnations of Intelligence simultaneously.”

The Wanderer sighed and looked down at the ground and gently shook his head, considering this. “I can live with that for now, I guess,” he said.

“What I wish for you to hear at this moment is that at your core you are a part of All That Is, the ultimate Creator, and that your nature is to experience and learn, from the deepest depths of curiosity and play. You call yourself the Wanderer, and indeed you are. But while that name may have connotations of loneliness in your language, you will come to see that loneliness is not a concept that has any bearing in reality; only in an un-awakened mortal setting, and then only as a form of insanity.”  

“I still don’t really understand, but I guess that corralling all this information into something that can be put into words, even to myself, is destructive to the message.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” the Being smiled, nodding.

“So that’s where this “felt sense” comes in? I need to feel the message under the words because that’s where the truth lies, right? Because as soon as I try to put the “truth” into words, since language is limited, part of the truth is lost to me. Right?”

“Precisely.”

“So I guess once someone starts to learn the Language of the Earth and begins to hear her messages to them specifically, if enough people hear this, the earth is saved, right?”

“It’s not quite that easy,” the Being said to the Wanderer as he turned his gaze back to the deep blue lake.

“I should just watch?” the Wanderer said with a wry smile, following the Being’s eyes. 

“You’re beginning to get the idea…” he smiled back.

Chapter Three: Intelligence to Hummingbird

Enveloped again in the lake, the Wanderer saw something begin appear to come up from behind his formless Intelligence. It was an earth, growing larger and larger until it dwarfed it. As the earth had approached, the Intelligence itself had simultaneously changed in shape until it was the form of a tiny, beautiful hummingbird.

“Did the earth just come up behind my Intelligence? And am I now a hummingbird?” the Wanderer laughed.

The Being smiled. “The earth appeared to come up behind your Intelligence, but they are actually made of the same thing. More accurately, the world came into being around your Intelligence. And yes, your spirit form, and your soon-to-be mortal form, is in this case that of a hummingbird. It was – and is – your first foray into mortality.”

The Wanderer turned and looked at the Being in wonder. “The earth was created around my Intelligence?”

“You’re beginning to comprehend, but remember what we were talking about before. Mental concepts such as that can actually be more destructive than constructive because your mortal nature is to identify an idea and make it absolute before it is complete, rather than to let the concept alight gently – like a hummingbird – allowing it to inform your Intelligence in all its complexity and simplicity. Failure to do this is how earnest, religious people can become inhuman monsters in the name of their gods, as happens from time to time throughout the histories of the worlds. Again, simply watch. And instead of merely taking in information with your mind, try to feel what is behind all of what you see.”

As the Wanderer looked, his vision appeared to zoom in on an egg that was tucked into a tiny nest in a huge tree. The egg began to stir and was soon cracked from within. From it, he saw a tiny hummingbird emerge. He watched the parents of the bird feed it and keep it warm and safe from predators. In time, the tiny bird took flight. He saw it interact with other birds, eat food, drink water. He saw it mate and do everything a hummingbird would be expected to do. It lived a happy and relatively long life – before a snake caught and ate it.

The Wanderer laughed aloud, rejoicing in this play. He looked at the Being, who smiled back with the laughter of a child in his all-knowing eyes. The concept that he had lived more than one life was fascinating enough, but as a hummingbird as well? Was this why they had always been so special to him, especially as a child? [v]

As he looked on, the Wanderer saw the snake live a while longer before it was crushed by a large stone that rolled off a mountain in a windstorm. From this point, he saw the same progression he had seen before; eons followed by humans. But this time, he observed something in the lives of the humans he had never seen before. There was a great cultural war between those that had heard the Voice of the Earth and those that ignored it. The ones that heard it had spent their mortal time and effort learning the Language. Indeed, nothing else was ultimately of interest to them. Therefore, they did not play by the rules that had been dictated by the culture and it’s spokespeople. They looked and acted at increasing odds with it and them. The powerful mortals on the other hand, while sensing at times a certain unknowable depth, had spent their time learning how to rule, govern, and make new products and systems that served the mortals in the short term, sometimes with devastating long-term consequences. When the ones that loved the Language rebelled against those that did not, the powerful ones attempted to quell their voices, which resulted in war and further insulation against the Language of the Creator. When the powerful ones later became tired of the insurrection, when it no longer served their needs, they used methods to control the others that were at such odds with the Earth that the Earth itself retaliated – it actually defended itself - in myriad ways. Eventually the Earth won, ridding itself of the thing that was destroying it, preserving the physical Language of the Creator for another day. The depth of sorrow that the Wanderer felt emanating from both the earth and every being upon it was previously unfathomable to him. It was almost without end. It felt like the moment at the end of a child’s scream when nothing is left to give, and yet the child continues to push air. Moreover, the depth of death was previously unfathomable to the Wanderer. There were no living things. Everything, from trees to viruses to mammals to birds to the creatures of the sea, was dead. The vast amount of trash, crumbling buildings, bones, roads, vehicles, power plants, dams, and other detritus of a so-called progressive species lay rotting on an earth that seemed less than lifeless. Nearly speechless, he turned to the Being, who returned his gaze calmly.

“It’s almost too much to take,” the Wanderer said in a whisper.

“Well, that’s a good observation. It actually is too much for a mortal to take – which is why it is only shown in dreamtime, and then only to certain individuals, and then only in pieces.”

“This is only a piece?” the Wanderer spoke to himself in wonder. Then, looking back at the Being he added “Is the Earth dead?”

“The Earth will never be entirely destroyed and it is older than mortals can ever comprehend. The carbon dating that some cultures use doesn’t begin to touch her age because the assumptions made are incorrect.[8] But it is not entirely immortal; it will one day pass away into another form like all I have created. However it will not allow itself to be destroyed until it is time. Moreover, because she is not only conscious but a highly-evolved consciousness, she will always defend herself when the time is ripe for her to do so. As a Being devoted almost solely to service, she does this for the sake of the others that need to hear her Language at any present or so-called “future time”. It’s important to know, too, that it is not mankind’s nature to destroy the Earth any more than it is in an infant’s nature to commit genocide. Both are acts of unconsciousness so extreme that they can only be termed as insanity. Mortals and cultures at this level of unconsciousness are so disconnected from the Language that they are eventually ruled solely by the desires of the moment and individual strength and will.”

“Well, it seems that everyone should see this! Maybe then we could do a better job of hearing the Voice through the Earth?

“All that is required is for the mortals to see the pain they are causing themselves, one another and the Earth with enough compassion to awaken. They will begin to ask a very important question of themselves whenever a new technology is introduced. The question is: “at what cost?” When powerful, creative mortals ask this question in sincerity, the answer will come. They will know where – and who – to ask, and they will not be disappointed in the instruction.”

“But from what I saw, the powerful ones had no interest in hearing what those that knew the Language had to say.” The Wanderer frowned.  

“You’re right, in the incarnation that you saw, they did not.”

“Then how will they ever make something different happen?”

“How do you think?”

“Well, the ones in power would have to care about the ones that know the Language or learn it themselves. Or care enough about the Earth herself.”

The Being nodded. “And? What would happen then?”

“Well, I guess once they hear the Language themselves the ones in power would know what to do because the Voice, her voice – and yours - would tell them. They would know the right way to be; not just for themselves, but for the ones they govern.”

Nodding, the Being said, “Their actions begin to be infused with wisdom. And not only wisdom, but Intelligence.”[9]

“So, war…?” The Wanderer asked.

“…ceases. Period.” The Being spoke with finality.

“Pollution?”

“I think that’s obvious?”

“Well,” The Wanderer observed, “from what I’ve seen, the ones in power are so insulated from the Voice of the Earth that they will never hear it, let alone that of a puny human in their control that says they hear the planet talking to them. They would think they’re the ones that are insane! Why would someone in power ever change, anyway? I mean, they’re in power because they want to be in power, right? They choose power and insulation over a small voice in the wilderness. It’s their decision.”

 

The Being nodded. “You’re right, it is their decision. They make the choice to be in power, even if they are born into it. A little aside here: what many people don’t realize is that those born into what many call ‘privilege’ or ‘power’ are handicapped in a very clear way and deserve sincere compassion. They are, in effect, born into an insulated life. They are shielded from the Earth’s Language almost from birth. Certainly it is an easier life as far as physical comfort goes, but the cost – remember the question “at what cost” – is tremendous on a spiritual or consciousness level. But to get back to your question about people in power hearing the Voice, you’re right. There is no impetus for them to change, to look at their actions, except one.”

“What is that? What makes a person in power change to want to hear the Voice of the Earth when they have an easy, comfortable life?”

“Remember that rulers are still spiritual creatures at their center. They all look like you before you saw your essence changed into a hummingbird; full of light, play, curiosity. Early on, especially if they are born into privilege or power, they begin to insulate themselves from it, from the Voice of the Earth. They begin to see themselves as part of the culture primarily, rather than part of All That Is. They identify themselves through mental concepts that are incorrect, that are infinitely less. They hear the voice of personal egoic need rather than the Voice of Life through the language of the Earth. They begin very early and then very permanently to see no separation between their wants and themselves. This is at the heart of all war, all hatred, all heartache, all apathy: the identification of the Self with the Object. And that is inherently inconsistent with anything that points to consciousness, which is the definition of eternal.”

“So how can that ever be changed?” The Wanderer held his hands and dropped them to his sides in exasperation.

“Pain,” the Being spoke, almost reverently.

“Pain? Well that doesn’t make sense to me. I mean, they know they bring pain, don’t they? Those in power always bring war, right? That’s practically the definition of pain.” 

“They do, and yes, they know and justify it. But I mean personal pain.”

“OK…” the Wanderer frowned.

“Understand: if the culture is to awaken, those in power must also awaken. You’ve felt the truth of that statement. Those in power only awaken when they begin to see their current wants as separate from their deepest Selves. This takes a spiritual “crowbar”, so to speak, because those two things, wants and the supposed “self”, get fused pretty tightly. This crowbar has to have a physical or mortal aspect so it is handled by the Earth – the governing God of the physical realm. It also has a spiritual aspect because it is being applied for a purpose that is applicable to pure consciousness. For those in power to understand the difference between their eternal Selves and their wants in this space, the crowbar is used. Since those in power are focused on themselves above all others, the only Voice they hear is that of personal pain.”

The Wanderer frowned. “So... they’re so devoid of empathy that the only things that will motivate them to change the way they do things is if they feel something personal to them get taken, beyond their control?”

The Being smiled, raising his eyebrows and nodding.

“I don’t know about that. I’ve seen political leaders cry because of poverty, or war.”

“Of course they cry, Wanderer. They feel pain, but until it is personal they are not motivated to go through the pain of change; of changing viewpoints, habits, procedures and policies. They know they face the pain of loss of status and that of humiliation by those that grant their power if they decide to change. If they feel the impetus at all, they’re like children approaching the end of a diving board for the first time. They face the fear of the unknown and the uncontrollable, of the wild and the wilderness, of anything untamed, because of its unpredictability. But this is the nature of Life. In short, they are afraid of Life. And many are simply unable to make the change.”

“Well that’s insane.” The Wanderer shifted on his feet, looking toward the desert that had caused him so much anguish.

“Of course it is!” The Being laughed. “You saw the destruction they allowed or caused.”  

“Well, is there any hope then?” The Wanderer looked like he was going to cry.

The Being paused and smiled softly, compassionately. “There is always hope. No matter what happens, there is hope.[10]”

“Well, how? I mean, it seems like there would have to be enough pain felt by the powerful before they wage that final war on those they control. That culture I saw went from sick to really sick very fast. That’s probably a pretty small window of opportunity.”

“You’re speaking right now of any one incarnation,[11] which is an inherently flawed and mortal view. But let’s begin there with an example. Right now in the Northeastern part of the United States, a man in power resides. He is powerful in every visible way. He is handsome and in excellent health. He is in is late forties, with graying hair, but his body is that of a man about two-thirds his age. He drives a car that costs far more than the median income of the people in the United States and his home is palatial, with the finest appointments and the most beautiful of art. He runs a company that is successful by every standard as well. It so happens that it supplies his government with materials that are used in defense. He receives awards, honor and praise for the defense of his homeland, even though he knows full well his products are used to go on the offensive as well. This man is divorced, and his ex-wife abhors him. He knows why but he doesn’t think about it much because there is nothing that can be done, in his mind at least. This is generally indicative of his manner of coping with materials pertaining to consciousness – and mortal relationships of depth always do pertain to consciousness and karma. But the acceptance and perceived love of his sixteen year old daughter – her name is Maya - is the one thing this man covets more than his power, more than his status and more than his possessions, although he would seldom admit it even to himself. Of all he experiences on a day-to-day basis, her adoration is the one thing for which he would give it all up. Right now she is taking a class in her private high school. Her teacher, Amy Mays, is one who consistently hears the Voice of the Earth and that knows the Language well. Amy has spent many weeks in solitude over the course of her life and has developed a love of stillness. She has developed ways to find it even in the midst of the temporarily dominant culture in which she necessarily and temporarily lives. She teaches Environmental Science but she finds a way to work in some social and political science into her curriculum. She is about to assign a project that Maya will likely accept that will change the course of her life. Maya will awaken as an environmental and political activist and her passion will get the interest of her father – especially when she refuses the gift of a very expensive sports car simply because it is not fuel efficient. He will try to shrug it off as youthful exuberance but her act of defiance will sit with him and will prepare him to hear facts that she subsequently relays to him in her enthusiasm over the following weeks. These will all work themselves into his subconscious. He will be disturbed, bothered, because he has been trained by Maya to pay attention to her when she speaks. This strong young woman insists on that kind of attention from him for her to return his adoration. The facts themselves will be compelling. He will feel a measure of cognitive and spiritual dissonance that has been unknown to him for many years. It will be a very real dissatisfaction on a level that he did not even feel when he passed through his difficult divorce. At first he will not know how to deal with it. This is where many who wish to remain unaware and fearful may attempt to cover their pain with further distraction – alcohol, women, drugs, spending and murder among other things. But if he indeed goes into the pain to see what it is about, the result will be that he will take some time to arrange his affairs and then completely shutter the company. He will cease his service to the destruction of the Language of the Earth. And his life,” here the Being chuckled again and shook his head in wonder, “will be unfathomably richer for it. As will his daughters’.”

 

“How will we know if he takes the path of going into his pain? What’s that look like?”

“He will have many paths that he can take, including, as I mentioned, the path of further distraction. But looking at him now, I feel his spirit is ready to take another. The project that Amy is about to assign Maya’s class has its start in a three-day excursion to some islands off the coast of the eastern United States, in Chesapeake Bay. Here they will study soft shell crabs to document the effects of the very chemicals that Maya’s father’s company has discharged for years into the rivers that feed the Bay. As always, Amy will introduce a subtle spirituality to the excursion that will include meditation and other stillness practices before and after the days’ work. At her request, Maya’s father will attend with her as a chaperone. He will see the event with some cynicism at first but, as I mentioned, he will likely be swayed by Amy’s enthusiasm and the depth of her soul along with Maya’s enthusiasm, illustrated initially to herself by the act of the refusal of his expensive gift. As he deepens his interest in what is his daughter’s passion, he will be visited by the spirits of the beings his company affects: the soft shell crabs, sea birds and fish of the Bay. They will come to him in thoughts during the day and also in the dreams of the night. If necessary and if they feel he will be receptive, the indigenous peoples that were displaced generations before have power to visit him as well, also usually in dreams, but sometimes making their presence felt in odd occurrences and seeming coincidences. Instead of going into distraction, I believe in this incarnation he is ready to remember the Voice of the Earth.” With a smile he added, “I’m usually not wrong.”

“OK, that’s one guy…” the Wanderer said, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head.

The Being’s face fell and he looked at him sternly. “That’s how it always is, and that is always the response of the unaware, Wanderer. Just as it takes millions of snowflakes to make an avalanche, cultural shifts and revolutions always start with the first human. Always. Your response completely dismisses the force of momentum, the idea that one plus one can, in effect, equal three.” He paused then added, “And it also illustrates the belief of the one making the comment that that they actually know what’s going on in their plane, and that they actually know how things work, hmm?”

The Wanderer looked sincerely chastened as he said, “I’m sorry…can you show me how it works? How is it effective for this one man, as powerful as he is, to make a change?”

“Well, I want you to understand that it didn’t start with this man. It didn’t even start in his family. It started three generations ago in Amy Mays’ family when her great grandfather decided to make the sacrifice to save the family farm in upstate New York, rather than sell it and move to Albany during a few particularly difficult years. Asahel Mays is his name. It was the property that he preserved that Amy’s grandfather, father and then Amy herself used to learn the Language. The Language taught and requires, as it always does, a type of stillness that inhabits those that know and can remember it in spite of distractions. The Earth becomes their temple and oracle; not something to worship, but something to worship within. Amy spent as much time as she possibly could with her father, also a small farmer. So you might say that the first snowflakes in Maya’s father’s avalanche started generations ago. It will continue in this way, with a young political activist named Maya, and then her father. Many people will lose jobs when he closes his business, but because his core is still good it is still in his nature to be more than generous to those that are so affected so their suffering is minimized. These people will know the reason; indeed the whole eastern seaboard will be aflame with talk of the powerful business owner that shuttered his company after “the environmentalists got to him.” Most of his competitors will be happy for the sudden void in supply and will rush to fill it, but the fact that the well-respected businessman left will be the first inkling of awakening for a few more powerful people. Several will reach out to him personally, by phone, in a restaurant or golf course and really ask him about his choice. Some may be similarly affected. One of them will likely be a man in Chicago that owns a company that supplies Maya’s father’s company. He is made of different stuff: he is happily married and has been faithful to one woman with several well-adjusted children. He will call Maya’s father on the phone and they will have a series of communications that will affect the way that the man from Chicago does business as well. He employs seven hundred people. Most will note the change in the way the business operates and understand why; to preserve the earth, at least according to the owners’ new-ish beliefs. Some will be personally moved to do more themselves in their smaller spheres of influence. Without going into more detail, the effect of the closing of Maya’s father’s business will spread to powerful men and women in San Francisco and Seattle, and from there to Japan. So you can see… it’s fruitless to say, ever, “it’s only one guy.” It’s always only one guy, alone with his pain, or fear of pain. And pain is the ultimate crowbar to separate what remains from what is temporary.”

“Well, wait a second,” the Wanderer interjected. “It seems like this guy might be motivated by love, not pain.”

“Yes, it does seem that way. But as “good” a man as he is by many standards, he is still consistently unaware of anything greater than himself. Inasmuch and to the extent that as this is the case, his love always has a component of fear. In this case, it is the fear of loss, specifically the loss of the love of his daughter. It is this pain he wishes to avoid.”

“Hmm…”

“Now, his motivation is not only that. He has a natural curiosity, a level of self-honesty and inquiry, standards of behavior and an ethical base that will serve him even when his understanding expands and he begins to hear the Voice. He is not always unaware. It is important to note that he is simply consistently unaware.[12] This is true of the vast majority of the players in the culture in which he resides. They are generally sleepwalking, with moments of inspiration. These moments take hold when the mortal is ready.” 

The way the Being was talking to the Wanderer…this was really something to behold. The words sounded at times like chastisement, but there was a feeling of lightness and laughter underneath it that is indescribable. The topic was serious; there is no doubt the Being was not joking with the Wanderer, but it was a message that traveled on pure love, on the holiest concern for his audience. That as much as anything has helped me communicate more effectively since The Dream. It can’t be faked, the type of love that the Being demonstrated, but it can be imitated until it can flower. That’s what I’ve done as I’ve tried to go into stillness and to learn the Language, and it is slowly working (as fast as I allow).

But what about remembering what it is that we’ve learned? For many of us, we find ourselves caught in the trap of making the same mistakes over and over. Some of us pay for expensive spiritual retreats and are not disappointed; we truly come back inspired, with new tools to help us in our quest to meet our expectations of ourselves. But anyone who has made these investments knows that the feeling and newfound inspiration only last so long before we find ourselves in the same ruts as before. There may be a little different flavor to them (or not), but they are familiar at the very least. So how can we remember what we’ve learned? The Wanderer asked the same thing.

“You’ve mentioned distractions, and how this is the main problem with the temporarily dominant culture. When the culture was rising, I saw the number of things that people had to distract themselves grew as well. You mentioned the people born into wealth and privilege, how insulated they are, so they forget so soon and have to re-learn the Language. The more powerful the people, the more things they have to distract themselves, and the more they want. Getting more and more distractions into someone’s life gets to be an addiction, from what I saw… ” the Wanderer commented.

“Yes, that’s true in almost every incarnation. What is your question?”

The Wanderer added in a thoughtful voice, “Even things like food – something someone needs to live – gets to be a distraction. Music, sex…I even saw some people who call themselves spiritual seekers distracted from the Language of the Earth by their so-called “seeking”. And those that the powerful ones ruled...sometimes they were as distracted as the powerful, just in a different way. Towards the end of the earth incarnation that I saw, hardly anyone experienced stillness.”

“Those are all correct observations,” the Being replied. “I still don’t hear a question.”

“Well, does it always have to come down to pain? Is that the only… crowbar? How can a person that is addicted to distraction ever hope to learn the Language of the Earth, let alone implement it? It seems like those that value the Language can see their need to get away from distractions, and many do just that. And when they’re away and they feel the language of the earth - they feel the words of the animals and rocks and clouds and trees, and they cry because it’s so beautiful and they vow to not forget…and then they get back into the culture and within a few weeks they’re right back in the thick of it, like they never left. So I guess my question is, exactly how toxic and addictive are distractions? Is it possible to ever really break free from them, or is it that the moment they appear and work themselves into everyday life, that the person is doomed to suffer pain?”

“Good question, but you’ve seen part of the answer, haven’t you?”

The Wanderer nodded. “I’m curious about Amy. She seems to have figured out ways to live without distraction. Well, less distracted, anyway.”

“There are many others as well, but yes, Amy Mays will work well in this example. Look into the lake again. I think that will illustrate an answer to your question.”

Chapter Four: Amy

Standing on the cliff, the Wanderer and the Being looked into the now familiar glasslike water and were swallowed by the great blue. They saw a little dark-haired girl about nine years old running full-speed out of a small farm home holding a paper bag. The screen door slammed against the house as her mother yelled something after her. Dust leapt up from the tired earth under canvas shoes of the same color. She wore jeans and a t-shirt. It appeared to be late summer. Everything the girl passed was green, lush. The earth was showing its abundance in the fruit that hung from vines and trees; grapes, blackberries, blueberries, plums and apples. But the little girl, running as fast as she could with grey explosions of dust behind her, was not interested for now.

“Is that Amy?” The Wanderer whispered.

“That’s her, as a little girl in this incarnation,” the Being whispered back, reverently.

As the Being and the Wanderer watched, the little girl ran up behind a green tractor making its way to a field at the end of a long dirt road. “Daddy! Daddy! I have lunch for us!”

A ruddy, bearded man with kind eyes stopped the tractor and, with a huge hand at the end of a proportionate arm, hoisted the little girl and her package up onto the tractor and sat her on the fender next to him. They sat under a canopy of oak trees, eating sandwiches commensurate with their respective sizes. There was no music to turn off, no headphones, no motor. There was nothing besides the natural world around them.

They talked about Amy’s day so far, and where her father was going on the tractor and why, further building her already impressive knowledge of seasons and earth’s rhythms. Then they ate in silence for a few minutes before Amy spoke.

“Daddy,” Amy asked, “you know how Amber moved into the city?”

“Yes,” her father replied, looking into her eyes thoughtfully.

The little girl swallowed and looked at the ground. “She says they’re going to be rich now because her dad got a job there. I’m going to miss her.”

“Yes, it’s hard when friends move away, isn’t it?” 

“Why do we stay out here then? Why don’t we move into the city, too?”

“Well, your mother and I have thought about that, sweetie. We used to talk about that quite a bit. You know, I went to college. I graduated with honors.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means I did well there. My professors thought I was pretty smart. I could get a good job in the city somewhere. But there are tradeoffs your mother and I chose not to make.”

“Tradeoffs? Like what?” the little girl asked, frowning.

“Yes. For instance, if I worked in the city, I couldn’t sit outside with you on a beautiful summer day with my favorite girl in the world, eating lunch on my tractor. I would have to be in an office, eating lunch while I worked, probably. I would have to drive a couple hours each day – and that whole time I would be far away from you and your mom and brother. It would be an easier life in some ways, but harder in all the wrong ways for our family. It would have been too high of a cost for us. Does that make sense?”

Amy frowned. “What do you mean by high cost?”

“Well, I mean that sure, it would be nice to have a newer truck or car and believe me, there are times in March when it’s raining sideways and I am cold and wet to the skin and it’s only noon…,” he chuckled, “sometimes an easier life sounds pretty good. But trading all the good times, like this one, in because of a few bad ones seems like a bad trade for our family to your mother and me. It would come at too high a cost. Does that make sense?”

“You mean you wouldn’t trade lunch with me for anything?” The smile was sincere and priceless.

Amy’s father’s eyes laughed as he smiled. “You got it, cutie.” And then he added in a serious tone, “Always remember, Amy, to ask what things cost. It’s not always in dollars. Sometimes the cost is measured in how good or bad life will be after you get what you think you want. It’s like eating cherries. You think you want to eat a whole tree full of them when they first come out, don’t you?”

Amy nodded, her mouth full.

“Well, what would be the ‘cost’ of eating all those cherries?”

Amy smiled and laughed. “Diarrhea!”

Her father chuckled with her and tousled her hair. “And we wouldn’t know anything about that, now would we? So the cost of too many cherries is a sick tummy, right? So it makes sense to eat a few so you can really, really enjoy them. You mother and I used the same idea to make a decision about how to live. Some money is good, but wanting too much can make you make choices that make you sick. We feel like we have enough. It seems like it would be nice to have more sometimes, but… let me ask you, Amy, what do you think the costs of me working in the city would be?”

“Well, I don’t know…I guess you would have to get a new job?”

“Yes, and if I got a new job, what would that mean for the family?”

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[1] 1 Corinthians 3:2. In this Biblical verse, Paul is speaking about doctrinal “milk before meat”. The concept has to do with the hearer being prepared to understand concepts hitherto unknown. The point is that only the concepts themselves thoroughly “know” the level of preparation of the student.

[2] “Steppenwolf”, by Hermann Hesse. The man understood and could illustrate concepts without damning the souls of his readers. On a personal note, I’ve read that book dozens of times now. I get something new that pertains to my life every time.  

[3] Any study of concepts relating to the nature of reality (ontology) require a flexible mind and an admission that what we think we know may not reflect reality. In fact, the more we “know” the more we should suspect that knowledge, and possibly the source of it.

[4] A “felt sense”: getting the idea without placing words to it. In fact, the placing of words diminishes the thinker’s ability to apply the concept. It is the science behind the koan, the true haiku, honest art and other practices including meditation. It is pure consciousness that flows into one’s heart, before the mind gets hold of it to make it “useful”, which the mind usually messes up. 

[5] Solitude is one example.

[6] In the book, “Siddartha” by Hermann Hesse, an ardent follower of the Buddha meets up as an old man and after many years apart with Siddartha, who had once been the follower’s dear friend and fellow ascetic. His name is Govinda. In the discussion, Siddartha says to Govinda, “What should I possibly have to tell you, oh venerable one? Perhaps that you're searching far too much? That in all that searching, you don't find the time for finding?" Those that consider themselves “seekers” would do well to remember that finding should also be a part of their lives. Of course it is really all one and the same, the seeking and the finding. Because if the finding doesn’t bring more questions with it, it is probably a dead end or the “seeker” is becoming lazy or, worse, “knowledgeable”. 

[7] Whether either exists without the other or if either exists at all is a question for the philosophers. Certainly we all have our preferences, but this is not the same thing. All too often we label that which we do not understand or wish to understand as “evil”. Certainly there are aspects of “contrary energy” that seem to fly in the face of all of Life, but even these can have an effect that can be viewed as flowing with the energy of Life, or a final “positive outcome”. However it takes more insight than we can usually muster to see this in the moment. 

[8] Don’t be impatient. You’ll see why later.

[9] …or Intelligence, capitalized. Same thing.

[10] In fact, there is no need for hope on a spiritual level because of the Is-ness of Life. Hope springs from desire for an outcome. It is one thing to hope to be able to remember a passage from a favorite book. It is another to hope for “everything to work out” in some other life, or this one for that matter. This is not condoning apathy. It is condoning contentment with “what is” in spite of or because of our worthy efforts. That this can be difficult is an understatement. It is one thing to be content with a less-than-perfect work or family situation; it is another to be locked in a cage for a quarter of a century - like Nelson Mandela for instance - and come out of it inspired and equipped to do great things.

[11] At this point, most of the Wanderer’s questions have to do with his current so-called incarnation. It is his only frame of reference. After all, he is a mortal, dreaming man. Therefore he is taught from that paradigm until it expands. Which it will. 

[12] He’s not dead, he’s only mostly dead. Sorry. Princess Bride.

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[i] The Central Oregon mystic and dear personal friend Jeb Barton introduced this concept to me. He describes it as I have attempted to do so here, as a fully developed idea that is simply best understood without words, even inner chatter. The trick is to sit in stillness with the tiniest particle of the concept and let the rest of it inform the soul, but without words. Of course, with a mind like mine, making it sit still takes practice, and not just meditation. In our conversations, Jeb has been generous enough to lend me some phrases he has collected or noted from different mystical disciplines from around the world. Here are a few: “Creating and transcending itself simultaneously;” “nothing is as it appears, nor is it otherwise;” “beyond timelessness;” and maybe the most directly informing in this case, “perception without images.” It is in the space in our understanding between the apparent contradictions inherent in these statements that the “felt-sense” comes into play. Without a sense of stillness, the statements appear to be nonsensical. But if we sit with them and let them inform us, we open ourselves to instruction via a deeper means of perception, understanding and communication than we usually enjoy through our common language. Indeed, common language, as will be illustrated later, is of very little use for subjects in the field of ontology (simply put, the study of the nature of reality).

Another individual, the phenomenologist Maurice Merleau-Ponty (1908-1961) described in his book, Phenomenology of Perception the experience of standing in the dark as one which can point to a sense of depth, which is really what we are talking about.

“We will not necessarily find an experience of pure depth in every experience of darkness. This is because the experience of pure depth is a pre-perceptual experience. It is not something we see, or hear, or touch, in the darkness that ushers us into an experience of pure depth. Rather, the experience of pure depth is revealed when our perceptual experience is momentarily confounded and confused.” (Emphasis added).

It may seem odd that sitting in the dark and/or considering seemingly nonsensical and contradictory sentences would be practices that would bring one a greater understanding of things unseen and unable to be articulated, and they may not work for everyone. The reasons for this are spoken about by the Being and the Wanderer later. But it has certainly proven true that the human mind is capable of inventing all kinds of “truth” that later end up being anything but. Whether the practice of setting aside the mind to bring us to concepts more in line with reality has any practicality is up to each person to decide.      

[ii] That is more true of spirits immersed in a culture that is dedicated to distraction.

[iii] Note: the teacher receives truth. Wants to share. This is human nature in two ways. In a healthy way that is in accordance with Intelligence, it is to spread wisdom, to make life easier, to bring people along. In a way fraught with ego, he wishes to be seen as someone who knows more than another. In either case he aligns with people that are presumably have the same understanding of the basics as he does or that want to know them and the he teaches the basics to the ones lacking in understanding and imparts truth to the ones that are “already there”. The issue is that the Teacher never fully knows what his students really need. The idiot may be far more advanced in spiritual matters than the intellectual. It is up to the spirit of each man to receive what he can. The problem is that when the Teacher assumes he knows who to teach, he may say things that even a spiritually advanced man’s mind gets hold of to his own detriment. They are spiritual things that have to be understood before words are put to them, even the words of the mind, because words never do a spiritual concept justice. Spiritual truth is ultimately communicated and understood without words, discerned by the spirit only.

[iv] Most “medicine men” of the Lakota Sioux are called “heyoka”, meaning they do things contrary to standard ways of acting. There may be many reasons for this, but I find it significant that their holiest men are called to do things “backward”.  

[v] Throughout the conversation with the Being, the Wanderer had what is often known in spiritual circles as “downloads”. As you might imagine, a conversation with any Being of this nature would be full of them. At this point in the conversation, what flashed in the mind of the Wanderer was an event that occurred early in his childhood. More than a memory – as all communication in this dream was more than