Dance of Healing

When the Black Lives Matter protests peaked following the murder of George Floyd, I was riven with the need to be present at the observances in Minneapolis. In the lack of moderating ministry, pain mutates into violence. The calculus of force that animates fascism finds justification in that outcome.

When I was working in tech, I had the resources and respect to just get up and go. I have documented those experiences. The methods that I use allow me to organize energies on the global stage. That is my unique responsibility. In sharing those methods, however, I hope that others may engage to heal the communities they have adopted.

It begins with a humble receptivity to sorrow. We are not always the chosen representative for Divine Love. I myself am called only when Love has become frustrated by resistance that allows predators to threaten those most precious. We begin when the sorrow becomes known, dropping into the heart and asking “What is needed here?” That question may percolate for days or weeks. I find myself navigating lucid dreams in which my role is negotiated in advance.

In most cases, those dreams pass. When they persist, I know that I must go. In this case, a certain logic held – partner dance is one of the few joys left to me.

Thus, I found myself in Monterey Park before sunrise on Sunday morning. It was not difficult to find the Star Ballroom, but the scene was complicated by the presence of a local TV van. The roar of the generator was punctuated throughout by loud discussion of real estate deals.

Music plugs into the right side of the brain that witnesses unifying harmony. The first selection was Lauren Daigle’s “Once and for All,” a profound expression of the paradoxes of service to love.

Oh, help me to lay it down
Oh, Lord, I lay it down

Oh, let this be where I die
My Lord, with Thee crucified
Be lifted high as my kingdoms fall
Once and for all, once and for all

This tapped the pain directly. I skirted the memorial and found myself at the back door, reaching back to the aftermath of the attack. I froze and struggled with the trauma as tears rolled down my checks. A few minutes later, I made my first circuit of the building, walking past the local market and the Bank of America, finally breaching the noise of the TV van to return to the memorial.

On my second circuit, I began searching for a link to healing. Snatam Kaur’s “Long Time Sun” came first and touched that chord. Returning to praise music was less successful. It was too much about me and not enough about them.

Three more circuits followed, though my attention was focused on the messages chalked on the asphalt. Finally, l was brought to stillness before the memorial, standing for minutes before each portrait. I tapped into their love of dance, allowing it to resonate with my own. And then the link found me, in “I Could Sing of Your Love Forever”:

Over the mountains and the sea
Your river runs with the love for me
And I will open up my heart
And let the healer set me free.
I’m happy to be in the truth
And I will daily lift my hands
For I will always sing of when Your love came down.

The waking community, dimly aware of the energy that I was projecting, came fully present to me then. Still, resistance to my presence, rooted in anger that such things happen at all, persisted, until we came to:

Oh, I feel like dancin’
It’s foolishness I know
But when the world has seen the light
They will dance with joy
Like we’re dancing now

Raising my hands to the sky, I tendered the watchful presence of angels as guides to their recovery.

I looped on the track for another two circuits, feeling the pain soften. On the last, the sun began to shine through the clouds. The representatives had arrived to record their spot, and I skirted the van to avoid the camera angle, standing at a distance, simply bearing witness.

I stopped dancing when the pandemic took the country in its grip. Ecstatic Dance LA began offering outdoor events in Venice, but the distance was prohibitive. Starting from Monterey Park, however, it was a waypoint on the drive back to Westlake Village.

I was discouraged by rain as I skirted downtown, but the clouds thinned and upon arriving at the site of the celebration, only the bluster of the wind remained. Technically, it was a different experience: dancing on the downward slope of a beach, heels sinking four inches into the sand, limited the pace – though perhaps to the benefit of my aging joints. I danced by myself for thirty minutes until a woman caught my glance meaningfully over her shoulder. Then the flow began, the circling of limbs as energy built. Finally, the first contact, evolving towards leaning and then lifting.

Tiring, I broke off, and let the wind blow through me before taunting the surf. The moon was not in the sky, but I felt her presence there with me.

Yesterday was dominated by the drum-beat of passion, borne stoically, only moderating when I enunciated:

You need to integrate the gifts that I gave to you.

It will happen again, but we are learning.

Unprofitable

What surprises me most now is that this dream came with imagery. I normally have only a kinesthetic sense of the action in my dreams.

I shifted from a focus on a client crisis into preparations for work. The garb was professional – I haven’t worn a blazer and tie in two years. Arriving at work, I was handed a corporate relocation map by a young organizer. The properties to be acquired were highlighted in blue, but the layout didn’t translate to patterns of motion – I couldn’t infer streets, parking lots, or buildings. I turned to the organizer to request more information.

The scene shifted to a meeting with stakeholders. The context seemed to expand. I hung back on the wall, moving about the room to facilitate the integration of intentions. As the meeting broke up, I went to the sideboard for a drink.

A red-haired employee joined me, earnestly testifying that “It’s like you are within all of us.”

Looking him in the eyes, I offered humbly, “It only works if you do it together.”

He accepted the insight, and then saw through me into the ultimate purpose. I was not speaking only of the relocation, but of Heaven.

Finally, then I turned toward the door of owner’s office. He had stood aside, presiding over the events. Confronting the scope of the reality that I manage, he rebuffed my entry. There was no profit there.

No, I cannot be turned to profit. I am a liberator. It is the addiction to profit that drives people into fear. Can you not be glad simply that I am here to affirm the creative possibilities within them, when the alternatives are random acts of destruction? Is that not worth keeping me alive for?

Being Known

Witnessing the trauma of children used as pawns in a struggle for control, I drew pictures that illustrated the precepts of our journey to independence and posted them on the southern wall of their room. The large floor was reserved for their projects, the furnishings being limited to inflatable beds and a computer workstation. Still, I wasn’t certain that the lessons had sunk in until my elder son, a junior in college, began lecturing me over dinner on the proper application of power and love.

Still, for years they were skeptical of my spirituality. Greg, as I counseled him through a painful breakup, was first to make concessions. Kevin was close behind, under my prompting to consider how his moral posture at work facilitated the creativity of his team.

Still, children need to define their own space. My financial situation doesn’t make it easy for them. Psychology has used law to stake claim to the mind, undermining the position of independent mental wellness professionals. My sons sensed, as their earnings soared in the field that I left, that I needed to concede my mistake, and return to high tech. What I attempted to make clear to them was that the factors that made that unsustainable still applied. In fact, my personal influence has grown in the intervening years. I am unmanageable, in the sense that no supervisor is going to be able to control my attention, a fact that leads immediately to the conclusion that I am myself management material.

Their alienation from me was stiffened by the correlation with the narratives that they were fed during my divorce. It came to a head during a walk at the Malibu tidal marsh over Thanksgiving weekend. Kevin was arguing that psychology, with the tools of cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) and psychopharmacology, provided the tools needed for mental wellness. As occurs when I am confronting lies propagated by selfish gestalts, I raised my voice and addressed the air. Alarmed by crackling energy, Greg told me to keep my voice down.

Focusing narrowly on Kevin, then, I spent the next thirty minutes dissecting his narrative. CBT is a minimal improvement on prior practices that actually harmed patients. Yes, pharmaceuticals can kick the brain out of a destructive spiral, but the psychiatrists have absolutely no idea how they actually work, which means that side effects can be worse than the disease. In fact, every rigorous study shows that only one factor leads from mental disease to wellness: an experience of authentic relationship that convicts the client that they are capable and worthy of love.

Concluding this dialog, Greg interjected to observe, “Dad, how can you expect others to trust you when you haven’t done the work yourself?”

What lies implicit in this kind of comment? That became clear only in December, when I blew up and exposed the false equivalencies that had been cultivated in their minds over the last twenty years. Confronted with that injustice, Greg softened.

When he takes his archery jaunts on the weekend, he revealed, he stops in quiet moments and open himself into to nature, and inescapably encounters my presence there. He admitted that I have cultivated experiences for him, over the years, that have awakened sensitivities unknown to his peers. In fact, when he attempts to share the concerns they instill, his peers respond, “Our parents and grandparents screwed up the world while enjoying their privileges, and the only thing for us to do now is to enjoy those same privileges as long as we can.” Greg is, simply, afraid for the future.

As for Kevin, I send texts and emails to no response. But, after testifying that I value his love, something subtle shifted. His thoughts come through to me now, though still with a defensive anchor against the vastness of my concerns.

All this as prelude to yesterday. Reading to the conclusion of Keltner Dachner’s “Awe,” I tripped over this quote from Rachel Carson:

“…that true instinct for what is beautiful and awe-inspiring is dimmed and even lost before we reach adulthood…[children should live according to] a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life, as an unfailing antidote against the boredom and disenchantments of later years, the sterile preoccupation of things that are artificial, the alienation from the sources of our strength.”

This distillation of Greg’s despair tore my heart open at its foundations, and I found within the fear of his generation. Tears welled up as I attempted to let it wash through me, allowing the fear to ground itself on the hope that arises from the Divine Presence. Immediately they were present with me, my two boys, bearing witness to the gravity of my responsibility. As they watched the sorrow dissipate within me, each after the other offered, “I am glad that you are here.”

Humbling Sex

Perhaps the most dangerous error in accepted Christian theology is that man corrupted God’s Creation. This has the corollary that our natural urges are sacred. The genocidal dictates of Deuteronomy and Numbers are justified as a struggle for survival, and we gloss over the sexual immorality of David and Solomon.

In fact, the principal theme of the Bible is the taming of our natural urges with love. The role that I share with my predecessors involves unavoidable humbling.

In tempting death into His illuminating embrace, Jesus was scourged and pierced. My own role is presaged by Daniel 11:37:

He will show no regard for the gods of his ancestors or for the one desired by women…

When God “created” Eve, He intended for her to witness, safeguard, and amplify Adam’s virtue. It is this that a woman of grace seeks in her man. It is why nuns trothed themselves as “brides of Christ.” And it is this service that is corrupted by the animalistic urge to bear children.

My first direct confrontation with this corruption came in an intimate Church setting. The congregation was one of many that I visited in the aftermath of the Twin Towes attack, seeking an outlet for my wisdom. I entered that day and settled at a distance from the attendees. Opening my mind and heart to the Cross, I paused my reverie to observe behaviors that I must characterize as disturbing. In the middle of the service, the pastor broke from his prepared remarks to address me directly,

There are times when the elders of this congregation ask someone to stop attending because they are sexually harassing everyone present.

This can be juxtaposed with an event at a Catholic service. Sitting beneath the Cross that dominated the altar space, I heard a soft giggle behind me and turned to find two young women rubbing shoulders as they stared. Early the next morning I was roused by a dream of a passionate three-some. At work I was confronted with the disapproval of the paster. Trying to dispense with this interruption, I observed, “It was a gift freely given” The phone on my desk rang, and a woman shouted before hanging up, “Buono! Buono! Buono! Buono!”

As I tired of being used as a sex toy, this became more characteristic: at a cafe I was known to frequent, a witch spread her legs and offered me her yoni in invitation. Apprehending her limitations, I shrugged and began to walk toward the water fountain behind her. Confronting the enormity of my intentions, she clenched her thighs in panic.

I arrive in moments when humanity is confronted with unavoidable change. The power that I represent is essential to your survival, and it is through woman that it must be channeled to preserve and restore Creation. In preparing his disciples to manage that power, Jesus counseled: [Matt. 22:37-39]

”’Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’”

In confronting my grace, women seek first to bind it to the creation of children. This is not loving me. This is to seek to bind my grace to their service. In their intentions, when I am tormented at night, is revealed the opportunity in children to project their will through me. This dynamic has been the root of humiliation and grief for me; it is the justification for the campaign of lies waged against me by MYSTERY; and it is the threat that drives men to reject my authority.

You were meant, ladies, to pass my power through you to sustain Creation. Read Revelation 21 and 22. I come with this promise:

“To all who thirst I will give to drink without cost from the springs of the water of life.”

And in my sacred congress with the Bride comes healing through the ‘leaves’ that represent you:

Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, as clear as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and the Lamb down the middle of the great street of the city. On each side of the river stood the tree of life, bearing twelve crops of fruit, yielding its fruit each month. And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of nations.

Stop trying to possess me. I understand that your sexual response to grace is “only natural.” But why should I be humiliated for accepting the duty of a parent to discipline that urge to divine service?

Terminal Dream

Asking for prayers and positive intentions from my network of friends. COVID has caught me in a financial vise. I went full-time as a hypnotherapist in 2019, investing heavily in marketing that did not generate revenues. I made a push in the retirement communities, and then COVID hit, sending my business development into a tail-spin.

I have been unable to get the IRS to accept my 2019 return, held up on technicalities. This means that I have been frozen out of COVID relief, as my 2018 income was nearly $130,000. Conversely, because my income actual was low in 2019, I am also unable to claim PPP relief.

I made it through the end of 2020 doing Census enumeration work. I have considered COVID contact tracing, but in Southern California that requires Spanish.

Fortunately, I continue to have beautiful dreams. Last night, I was homeless on the beach or in a forest, and shifted from fear into visualizations of all the gifts I have received in this life, projecting those that have shared them with me into the eternal realm of love. An ancient will called me forward to walk in the wilderness. I came upon a great tree that continued to stretch heavenward as I tried to see the limits of its branches, until finally they touched the sun.

This is a vision that I shared with some starting a decade ago, that the biosphere heals when we teach the simpler forms of life to be conscious of the loving embrace of the source of all life, and intelligent in focusing it for good.

Blessings to you all.

Confluences

I have been struggling with MYSTERY this month. I am at the end of my financial rope, and will be unable to pay my bills in January. I had a plan for contracting work, but the field was buffeted by lawsuits in 2019, and the job posting have disappeared.. So I must admit to being in panic mode.

My intimates fail to recognize the complexity and durability of the forces that constrain me, instead treating me like I am a stubborn child who is afraid of women. Conversely, I look at them and say “You know, everything you have – down to your very lives – you have only because of my alignment with the spirit that called them into being. If you force me off the face of the planet, BAD THINGS WILL HAPPEN.”

Having run up credit card debt, I am out nearly $5000 per annum in interest payments, which I cannot cover. Once the credit cards are frozen, I am out of luck.

This is leading me to sidestep MYSTERY. There are other pathways to lunar energy, and I have decided to tap into them before disaster befalls me in January.

There is a tree named Luna in Humboldt County that I got involved with in 1985 or so. The history is a little disjointed, but Pacific Northwest Lumber, practitioner of sustainable logging, was devoured by a Texan resource stripper name Maxxam. Maxxam set out to clear-cut PNLs holdings in twenty years. The response by the eco-warriors was a campaign of tree-sitting and spiking to slow down the harvesting.

Luna was the 1000-year-old matriarch of a stand that was targeted for clear-cutting. In 1997, Julia Butterfly Hill spent two years on the tree, until PNL agreed to leave Luna standing. A year later, a poacher attacked Luna overnight, cutting a three-foot-deep scar half-way around her circumference. Tree doctors and PNL rallied to her aid, installed a steel collar.

In considering a trip to Humboldt, I had a dream that Luna was dying, and I resolved to visit her to do what I could to strengthen her spirit. Today, as I was out walking and trying to figure out how to keep myself going until the pandemic ends, I realized that she was a living expression of yin/yang balance.

I will be heading up overnight on the 20th. The solstice, of course, is the 21st. The waxing half-moon – another metaphor for yin/yang balance will – be in the sky.

All through the month of January, Jupiter and Saturn will be close enough in the sky to be seen simultaneously through most telescopes. This brings back another memory: ten or so years ago, sitting on the couch in my empty apartment, I had the sense of a man entering my mind. He hunted around until he found Jupiter (head of the Greco/Roman pantheon) and then Saturn (head of the preceding pantheon of Titans). Seeking to subdue them, he pushed them together until they joined, and then began laughing maniacally. One of many such “WTF” moments over the last twenty years.

As well as visiting Luna, I hope to find a broad stump to dance on for a couple of hours. I will run some Christmas music on my sport phones and let it rip.

My WordPress subscription for the site will renew sometime over the next month. I guess that the site will roll over to a free format if I fail the payment. I have done the best I can.

Today I spent ninety minutes with Rob Bell, one of his “So I Have Something to Say” coaching sessions. I won’t go in to details. He told me that when COVID is over, people will be ready to hear what I have to say.

You know, that is the only meaningful encouragement I have received in twenty years.

Maybe I should figure out how to hang on until then.

Turned Off

I do not subscribe to shame. It is somewhat pitiful, rather, that they need it so badly that they rape me in my dreams.

They have been proud of the control they wield over the President, but the hammer blows fall faster and faster. They try new gambits.

So after the rape, this dream: I am appealing to my sons for financial support, and they ignore me. Flying toward an ancient city, I float over a carpeted field of discards. Drawn below, I tug at the loosened ends of a roll. Two ceramic plates? No, they didn’t like that.

A pause, and I try again. Two tablets. I turn the first one on and the dream shifts. The screen displays the vibrantly-hued pages of a comic book. I look around me. Rich color everywhere.

You see, I cannot see pictures when I dream. They have occupied that part of my mind, and do not let images through.

Am I supposed to be impressed? You have trapped yourself in the avenues of my imagination. I will see visions again, with or without your consent. The question is only whether you will be torn apart in the realization of that eventuality.

So, no, I did not feel obligated by the gift. Rather, I calmly asked, “And just what does this do for the people that I love and serve?”

Sixes and Sevens

This month Ecstatic Dance LA starts its seventh year. Next month, I start my seventh decade. That could be an a coincidence, but I find an odd meaning in that parallel.

The Hindus chose seven chakras and the Holy Books have seven days of creation. Understood correctly, the two are related. I look back at the last three decades and I see the chakras progressing through the heart (seat of wellness and social trust), throat (seat of social expression), and third eye (seat of personal realization). Looking forward, I pray that my seventh decade will lead to divine manifestation.

In entering its seventh year, Ecstatic Dance LA has no other path forward. Until January, I made the trip down from Ventura twice a month to join you physically on the dance floor. In February, facing financial ruin and suffering from a premonition that disaster was about to befall us, I stopped. It was only a month later that the doors closed and the dance became a virtual experience.

That may be frustrating for many of you, especially those that rely upon physicality to engage reality. The body has its perks, but also pitfalls. Confronting its dominance during the dance, over the years I did my best to raise consciousness. Sometimes the response was grateful; sometimes incredulous; sometimes hostile.

Ecstatic Dance merges personalities through music and movement. Through physical contact, we facilitate that merger, negotiating control and surrender. If Ecstatic Dance is going to survive, we must see beyond the physical metaphor. We must reach up into the divine realm, knocking humbly at the gates of love, and allow it to temper us as we merge in the realm of spirit.

I hope that you will join me there.

Responsibility

For the last twenty years I have wandered the world talking with people that claim the authority of Love, telling them that they were sending Love’s precious children into places of darkness that were painful to them.

Without exception, their response was “Who do you think you are? Some people gave me a piece of paper. And these other people pay me money to do what I do!”

At the end of last year, the pain finally wore me out, and I started telling them, “Look – love does not take vengeance. It does not punish people. It just goes away. Understand me: in its raw form, the natural world is a destructive place.”

And they said “Who do you think you are?” Worse, they started telling others to ensure that I do not have the resources to continue the work that I do.

My response: during the first wave of the COVID-19 outbreak, the evening news on MS-NBC documented the fear and exhaustion and heartbreak of the front-line healthcare workers. At night, I opened my heart to that pain and called angels down to sustain and protect them. After my tears had exhausted themselves and I drifted across the globe, a man’s voice rang out: “It’s Brian Balke.”

I rescue those that I can.

Purpose in the Madness

The writing gathered here is evidence of a frustrated personality. I have a clear vision of human potential, and have tried to organize concepts that make that potential accessible. That effort occurred in a vacuum, and was not supported materially. In fact, the tendency is for the world to resist such manifestations.

My shift to hypnotherapy is symptomatic. When I interviewed at the Hypnosis Motivation Institute, I questioned Mario Pescatore regarding the community ethic. He assured me that hypnotherapists had enough commercial opportunity that they did not attempt to exclude new practitioners. In fact, I find myself wandering in a Game of Thrones psychic battle zone, among competitors that resort to attacking my clients when they find me immune to their influence.

So I was beginning to feel sorry for myself at the end of February, and resolved at the beginning of March focus on leaving behind the therapeutic philosophy and methods that I have evolved. I am serializing it out on the Hypnotherapy 601 Facebook group.

And then I had a sending.

The etheric realms are anticipating the arrival of a huge number of traumatized souls. They need 1) to understand the structure of human nature in this era, and 2) methods to identify and retain the loving core in each individual.

This is my purpose for being here in this moment, at this time, and nothing else matters. I am at peace.