Spent a fair portion of the day yesterday in the Santa Clarita area. Both church services I attended focused on Thursday’s events at Saugus High School. When I returned at 7 PM for the vigil in Central Park, the park was packed with people – I ended up standing 200 or more feet from the stage.
I did the best that I could to support the speakers, several of whom teetered on the edge of emotional collapse.
I was heartened that both of the deceased children were memorialized. I’ve been to several cities after such shootings, and this was the first time the shooter was remembered as a loving, active presence in the community. I consider it a huge step forward.
Those of you who have followed my blog will have noticed that I have gone silent. In part this reflects a shift in focus: I’m still producing creative material out at Hypnosis Rising. But the work that I began here continues, it’s just shifted into another phase.
So why not continue writing here?
It’s not that there’s no point to the writing.
So what was the point?
Around sixteen, I placed love at the center of my intellectual universe. Listening to the confused public discourse of the ’70s, as splintering demographics set out to stake out their rights and privileges, I realized that the word had become degraded. So I set out to reclaim it.
What I realize now is how critical that decision was to my intellectual growth. We can either wrestle ideas into our service or we can facilitate their interaction. Any serious attempt to assess the material here will confront its astonishing breadth and depth. I know, because when I have free time and go back and look at it, I am flummoxed. Where did all of this come from?
Well, it came from ideas that were allowed to seek their natural place in the service of love. To understand that statement, I guess I should clarify that I see ideas as little angels. I don’t try to force them into my possession, I allow them to use my brain as a means of reorganizing themselves. They seem to enjoy working with me.
So to explain my silence: I don’t write because I can no longer see the borders of the universe that they have formed around me. They seem satisfied with what we have accomplished. No, “satisfied” is too weak. They are joyous.
Unfortunately, we live in an era that uses mass communication to suborn ideas to the end of self-promotion. That practice chews away at the periphery of my intellect. Most of my energy is spent holding the chaos at bay.
For those familiar with the phrase, “the center will hold.” The events will probably surprise you as they unfold. I point you to Martin Luther King Jr.’s last speech. I’m not about to allow those that control the mechanism of exchange to pollute my intellect, nor will I cede our power to them. Instead I pity them, for in attempting to do either (as proven in “Love Works”) they destroy themselves.
They subscribe to the prerogatives of selfishness and the outcomes of Death. I have chosen Love and Life.
After describing the manifestation of the Tree of Life, I concluded with the rhetorical question “What comes next?”
I went back to LA Ecstatic Dance on the 19th. We had a great warm-up workshop on full contact improv. When allowed the initiative to establish contact, I found all my partners smiling enthusiastically, but when waiting for contact, found myself passed by.
During the dance experience, I did my usual work. It’s high-energy and not really meant for participatory engagement, but I always enjoy those moments when a lady of substance calms the waters – I’ll freeze in place, hands cupped in front of me, anchoring the energies I’ve raised in the Earth until she passes by.
Usually I’ll find someone to interact with more deeply, but something held me back. Finally, I pulled the Tree out of the ground, pressing the populated branches into the sky.
And then gathered it up and set it for safeguarding in my heart…
Driving home, I realized that I’ve done it – I’ve completed the work I was set for this lifetime. All that remains is to carry it back to heaven – intact.
Awakening at 4 AM I began the drive up to Sunnyvale, the way point on my journey to Berkeley for Greg’s graduation. As I drove along the coast outside Ventura, the full moon greeted me, casting its homage to the sun on the darkened waters. She was so pleased with me – just a real joy flowing forth. So I stopped at Carpenteria to snap this photo.
Is that Venus hiding in her skirts? Sweet promise!
I haven’t succeeded on human terms – that will certainly be said. But after so many sterile years offering truth to humanity, I’ve lost my attachment to your recognition. I work for my Abba – and my reward is the joy of the goddess that honors me.
Selfish personalities aren’t capable of sustaining anything from within themselves – they know and desire only what they are in this moment. To stay alive, then, they have to steal creative power from others.
Once caught out in the adult world, the only option left to the predator is children. Sadly, it is only the youngest that are innocent enough to accept the abuse while also being dependent enough to be unable to imagine that they can escape. Paradoxically, being so vulnerable they also lack the means to deliver material support to their abuser.
That leads to two outcomes. The harshest is to be sold into abuse by others. The second is to become spiritual victims: the abuser steals their creative capacities and thus their future.
This is why victims of trauma are drawn back into their past. In the moment of abuse, the abuser is stalking them in their future, stealing their vitality, energy and hope. Through time the abuser follows the victim like a shadow. In the most painful cases, relationships with friends and lovers are infected, sowing pathologies and fears that allow the abuser to suck energy out of those that love the victim.
There are two solutions here: one is to recognize and confront the spirit of the abuser and reclaim what they stole. The second is to cheat them of their sought-after reward by reaching back through time and whispering this to the younger self:
I love you.
We are strong enough.
Come to me.
Trade war with China, correlating nicely with the latest hour-long private conversation between Trump and Putin.
The latter being the only party to benefit from this debacle.
You hope that the world understands that it isn’t a U.S. policy – it’s actually a Russian policy implemented by the toady in the White House.
While the material aspects of existence have been troubling, over the last four months I’ve had sublime experiences in the spiritual realm.
Since starting hypnotherapy full-time in January, the practice has been a financial disaster. I won’t go into the details, except to say that it appears that destiny is testing my commitment. By stretching out my credit cards and pulling down my 401(k), I should be able to make it through to September, at which point I’m going to have to throw myself on the mercy of strangers.
But hypnotherapy is only a metaphor for the greater work, and having freed myself from the projections of anger and greed contingent upon my employment, what emanates from me now stimulates grace-filled events.
When walking to Ecstatic Dance LA on Easter, a drunken youth waiting with three friends at a bus stop calls upon me for a blessing.
During a conversation with a new friend, I ask if she would mind if I projected the song she had offered to play for me. It resonates powerfully on the right side of my mind, and my female friends in the office building whisper and bow their heads to me the next day.
Having overcome the political cabal that has sought to suppress my business, female friends start showing up at Dance Tribe on Sunday. In the early morning hours, I have a terrible dream about trying to research hypnotherapy on the web. While one of them waits in the background as a passive support, I can’t type the terms into the search box. Another female presence tries to push me toward her, but I cry out to heaven, “Father! Help me! I can’t do it any more!” I wake up and announce to the air “You’re just trying to beat me down,” while I fix my attention on the female Chinese hypnotherapists that had set up the scenario.
And again today at Ecstatic Dance LA, where on Easter I first called the Tree of Life from the center of the floor. A graceful young beauty appears for the first time. She assumes that I’m trying to seduce her until I project that I’ve got far more important things to worry about. We skirt each other for two hours until the end of the dance, when I hold space for her as she winds herself into my energy. Assured, I reach down and raise the Tree of Life over the gathering. While I project the broad canopy from my outstretched palms, she starts to dip toward the floor before flinging her arm imperiously upward. And suddenly my heart cracks open and I scream in grief – two long agonizing cries before I realize that multitudes of men are escaping my heart. Men that died for love, now seeking healing among the leaves.
I guess that I’ve got your attention, ladies. What happens next?