Rebecca and I leave here in about one hour. Here’s the link:
I take pics, and maybe notes. We’ll see.
Rebecca and I leave here in about one hour. Here’s the link:
I take pics, and maybe notes. We’ll see.
Well, well! It turns out that I appreciate one-hour work parties even more than extended community dinners! There’s just something so magical about people pulling together to quickly achieve a limited goal. Last night the challenge was to clear most of the remains of the dead tree that Brady and Michaele took down, in a long, slow dance with a lift, chainsawing that sad old tree, little by little, from the top. It didn’t have many branches, but it sure was tall. So last night, for our work party, we got together, Rebecca on the chain saw, Shy with an ax, and the rest of us — that’s Evan, Logan, Dan, Mariella, and me — moving the wood, once cut, to the side yard of the third house in a procession, with wheelbarrows.
Plus, Evan, Logan and Dan, who all hail from Boonville Indiana and have little experience with an ax, took turns trying out their arms and their aim. So a sort of side workshop was held while we awaited large enough loads. Shy to Evan: “Make sure you stand with your feet apart, so the ax doesn’t hit them!”
It turns out that when Rebecca was a kid her family went to the woods every fall to get wood for their fireplace in the Sierras. It is one of her favorite memories, cutting and gathering wood with family. No wonder she’s such an expert with the chain saw!
Meanwhile, as a lead-in to the work party pics, consider these: photos of the new beds at the new DeKist house front yard, thanks in part to Grant, our I.U. intern:
Next, this week’s haul of snow peas and a beautiful little new sculpture and exotic plant garden, thanks to Rebecca . . .
And now, on to the work party, after which we enjoyed organic ice cream.
I love sott.net’s running commentary on this Obama puff piece from The Guardian.
BTW: I foolishly spent some time awake in the middle of last night watching the weird protocol at the Vatican as the Trump team made its entrance. Made me want to get in that slow moving line and start cartwheeling, screaming . . . See Bombard’s running commentary on the body language . . .
This video did somewhat soften the strangeness of the photos I put up yesterday. And was, in its own weird way, riveting.
Oh, and BTW, Robert David Steele says that Trump’s trip to the citadels of patriarchal monotheistic religions may not be what it appears.
Plus, Steve Pieczenik says Trump’s elaborate welcoming reception in Saudi Arabia was highly unusual, something he’s never seen in his lifetime.
Me? I’m watching Trump’s face get puffier and redder over time. And the man doesn’t even drink alcohol. Maybe the pope’s joke is no joke; what IS Melania allowing him to eat? But I doubt she, or anyone, can really rein him in. That’s the beauty of this man, and the terror! Who knows what’s next? The world hangs in the balance, second by second, awaiting this unpredictable Sun/Uranus figure’s next impulsive? intuitive? move.
Meanwhile, from perusing videos with all these world figures, he sure does seem like a good schmoozer. Much more so than Obama.
I find this pic both iconic and unfathomable. Zombie women (wearing veils for Catholic patriarchy but not for Saudi patriarchy?) with grinning Trump and dour Pope.
Both women appear glassy-eyed, especially Ivanka. I bet neither one can wait to get through this “audience.”
Reader Rose has turned me on to a new website: The International Reporter. Interesting. Not sure what its overall bias is at this point. But she’s right. The following piece, by William Engdahl, a repost from NEO, just cries out to be read. The title itself speaks volumes.
My own discernment process often involves watching a site for a good while before I think I can sense “where it’s coming from.” Because every site is coming from its own point of view. There is no such thing as objectivity. There are, however more or less interesting points of view. I tend to read widely, across a number of spectrums (oops! should have said “spectra”), and then to nose my own way through the various shifting cross-currents of contradiction — following the wide rolling river of human imagination through portals to infinity.
A contradiction itself, what left-brain logic views as “that beyond which one cannot go,” “because otherwise, anything’s possible, ANYTHING!” — this was my logic professor’s actual sputtering remark, when, as a graduate student I asked in all innocence, “But what’s wrong with contradiction?” — I view as itself an opening. Contradictions as nodes, locations where, if we can see/feel them from close to, open into spaciousness.
All of which reminds me: this morning puppy Shadow and I visited a good friend who is in a care center. Her husband, who lives in his own room down the hall, was present in his wheelchair during my visit. I stayed only a few minutes, as she had just fallen and was feeling weak. I stood by her bed, held her knee and spoke quietly, encouraging her not to judge herself for falling, told her I’d return tomorrow, and turned to go.
I looked at him, said hello, and smiled. Surprisingly, he spoke up! I’m used to him not saying a word to me. However, he has just undergone a hellish two years of medical torture — and has emerged, still alive! In fact, I’d say now that somehow, the prolonged torture transformed him; because this morning he felt very present and approachable.
So. On my way out the door, when I turned to smile and say hello, expecting the old, usual, rebuff, in response, he remarked: “I’m trying to discern the differences in my fantasies, what’s real and what’s not.”
I paused . . .
“For example, I had a vision of you and a friend of yours buried in the ground up to the neck. Is it real?” His question seemed urgent, as if he had to know. I was of course, stunned. “No,” I answered. “Really?” he continued. “But it was so detailed.”
“No” I said again. “Not in this reality.” He looked somewhat dumbfounded. I added: “I have long had the sense that anything that can be imagined is true in some reality or other. So though what you saw is not true in this reality, it may be in some other reality.” This kind of response is not what someone of his background was expecting. A retired I.U. mathematics professor, prior to his prolonged hospitalization I have a feeling he would have not just scoffed at my remark, but the thick bias of his scientific consciousness would have felt so intimidating that I wouldn’t have said such a thing in his presence. Why “throw pearls before swine?” Or more to the point: why invite ridicule?
But today, he was listening. I went on: “My husband, a mathematician like yourself, used to say to me, “Just remember Ann, we’re making it all up!” He would say this whenever I tended to get too judgmental or sure of my own opinion. Since his death, nearly 15 years ago, I have become much more comfortable with the ever-expanding spaciousness his consciousness was immersed in. Indeed, I feel that I seemed to have taken this banner up; that in his dying, he handed it to me.
So now, with the husband of my friend this morning. Amazing that there we were together — him in a wheel chair, me just about to turn and go — inside a mutual spacious presence, chewing on what 3D and scientism would call absurdities.
And now, seeing how this beautiful being is transforming, I take back everything I’ve ever said about “medical torture.” Who knows what anyone needs to open fully to his or her own soul’s promise in this lifetime? Even torture might be in order, depending on how stiff and unyielding our brittle point of view.
Truly, this retired math professor feels like a much more spacious being than I remember. His Asbergian tendency is simply GONE.
Walking home with puppy Shadow, intensely grateful to be alive.
I start to grind my teeth when I think about the wonderful young people I know who, experimenting perhaps a bit too far with edges of many kinds, have been “diagnosed” and allowed themselves to fall into the pharmaceutical trap. As the wise doctor says, “What I see is a continuum. These traits [bipolar, schizophrenic, ADD, ADHD etc.] are present to some extent in everybody.”
The point is: when you go a bit too far, then just pull back a little. Begin to notice what happens in your psyche when you begin to allow certain states to creep in. Rather than medicalize, meditate! It’s YOU who are in charge of your one wild and beautiful life.
I do sometimes wonder about my propensity to focus on the very worst that the human race has to offer. Along with both writing, speaking and acting on templates for what might become the very best (see, for example, www.greenacresvillage.org), I contrast our beautiful new world of earth and community regeneration with a simultaneous and seemingly obsessive focus on the very worst that operates behind the scenes, everywhere, fueling the entire predatory political, religious, and capitalist system.
“WHY do I focus on darkness, when I could just bask in the light? Is something wrong with me?” Oops! That’s my old Catholic conditioning rearing its head. There must be something wrong with me if I go against the grain. Wake up, Ann!
Even now, most of those in my immediate circle are either not aware, or in denial, and/or truly terrified of facing, head-on and with out flinching, the disgusting, murderous underworld gunk that infects the entire global civilization. And until a critical mass of us do wake up, nothing will change.
So. Yesterday evening and the evening before, after work in the garden I found myself glued to the screen, watching episodes 1-3 (out of 7) of “The Keepers,” a Netflix documentary that delves into the social context and complexity of the backstory to the murder of a young, energetic Catholic nun in Baltimore, Sister Cathy Cesnick, back in 1969. Of interest especially to me, are both the community cover-up (the main pedophile priest happened to be also the chaplain for the police department) and the Catholic immersion: Catholic schooling, Catholic rituals (First Communion, confession, etc.), Catholic guilt, shame, blame, Catholic authority figures (priests), and how all this can and has set the scene for mind controlled sexual abuse of children. Much like MK Ultra, some psychologically sophisticated Catholic priests know how target likely victims, split their young minds into disassociated personalities, and thus ensure not just “obedience,” but “silence,” and even unwilling, utterly confused, shame-filled amnesiac complicity.
I am reminded of my own youth, and how much of a Catholic “saint” I endeavored to be, reading “The Lives of the Saints” over and over again, how St. Andrew was roasted on a split, and when one side was done, asked to be turned over . . .
It took me until I was 26 years old to wake up to the extent to which I had been mind-controlled by god-fearing Catholic theology and culture. Which makes me admire very much those who, like my young friend Kelsey, told her mother when she was five years old that the parish priest made her feel like she was a bad person and her mother said, well then, we just won’t go to church anymore. Astonishing, both Kelsey’s awareness at such a young age and her mother’s conscious belief in and protection of her daughter.
In the middle of the night, two nights ago, the signal for an “Amber Alert” on my phone. A three-year-old in nearby Columbus Indiana, disappeared. I used to think that Amber Alerts were just fear-mongering, until I started researching the dark underworld of global networks (“ratlines,” independent investigative journalist George Webb calls them) of pedophilia, satanism, human trafficking and organ trafficking.
Wouldn’t you know, at that same hour, 2 A.M. (my regular hour for awakening. I know, I know, it’s “liver” time), last night I found myself drawn to delving into George Webb’s astonishing youtube series, and of course had trouble getting back to sleep. One provocative fact from Webb’s research: drug-running and the C.I.A. began together, in 1947. Because the C.I.A. didn’t have congressional monetary support, it began clandestine drug running to fund its operations. For an expansion of this astonishment see the revelations of Robert David Steele. In an earlier post —
— I noted: “Fascinating, Steele’s claim that the reason why the MIC still supports 1000 military bases overseas, is not for so-called national security (this phrase makes me want to gag), but to ‘facilitate the smuggling of drugs, cash, gold, guns, and small children for the elite.'”
Here’s George Webb on the Richie Allen show:
I did manage to fall asleep after about 45 minutes of this. Plan to finish at 2 A.M. tonight.
Wouldn’t you know, I received an email from Julian Rose this morning. He has also just written on the scourge of elite Satanic pedophilia in England (and worldwide), as that which underpins all the other political, cultural, and environmental pathologies.
Note: Click on this title to download the word doc.
“The County has now agreed to work with us on a proper weed plan. Thank you so much for spreading the word.” Via Alex
by Jeffrey Jaxen
Azure Farms CEO David Stelzer recently went public with this statement:
”We just went through the hearing with the county commission and the weed board and I want to thank all you loyal customers for giving your opinion. For spreading the word far and wide. Not only did it spread the word far and wide about this but it opened up a whole new level of debate about organic agriculture, organic farming…I think it’s done wonderful things. It’s given opportunity for people to hear about the benefits of organic agriculture – and healthy food – that have never had it before. Thank you so much. I will say that even thought here in the county there was lively debate, the level heads have prevailed. The county commission has now agreed to work with us on a proper weed plan.“
What are the next steps for Azure Farms and Sherman County? Stelzer states:
“We still have a couple more meetings to get this [a proper weed plan that doesn’t include toxic chemicals] worked out. But those meetings have been set up and I’m very optimistic that this will work out in a good way.”
Azure Farms has been working, Certified Organic farm located in Moro, Central Oregon, in Sherman County. It has been Certified Organic for about 18 years. The farm produces almost all the organic wheat, field peas, barley, Einkorn, and beef for Azure Standard. Sherman County changed the interpretation of its statutory code from controlling noxious weeds to eradicating noxious weeds. These weeds include Morning Glory, Canada Thistle, and Whitetop, all of which have been on the farm for many years. Sherman County intended to issue a Court Order on May 22, 2017, to quarantine Azure Farms and spray the whole farm with poisonous herbicides, contaminating them with Milestone, Escort and Roundup. The court-ordered action would essentially destroy all the efforts Azure Farms has made for years to produce the very cleanest and healthiest food humanly possible. To add insult to injury, the court was also planning on putting a lien on the farm to pay for the expense of the labor and chemicals used.
With the watchful eyes of a nation on Azure Farms and the next moves of Sherman County, it appears that Stelzer’s optimism is rooted in reality. The precedent has now been set for rapid, mass mobilization of the population in defense of local, organic food suppliers who face government overreach. The pebble has hit the pond water. How far these positive ripples resonate out is anybody’s guess.
News of the Azure Farms victory comes less than 24 hours after members of the European Parliament objected to the EU Commission plans to authorize imports of products made from genetically modified maize and cotton which are herbicide-resistant. They highlight concerns raised by independent research and member states, and repeat Parliament’s call for an overhaul of the EU’s GMO authorization procedure. Are we seeing the next phases of a shift in consciousness around organic food, local farming and the move away from long outdated agrochemical farming methods?
Like everyone else addicted to this hyper-connected internet world, I tend to want to “connect the dots,” searching high and low (and often in rutted paths) for new dots that will flesh in my old ones, lend them “credence.” Show how smart I am to see one dot and realize? pretend? it’s connected to others.
In doing so I’m creating patterns, “weaving meaning” out of the constantly shifting, inchoate, tangled, off-on digital mess.
Because of course I’m only human. I want to see meaning in events so that I can predict the future, keep myself safe.
Well aware of this tendency, I also at least pretend to hold any “beliefs” that arise out of my dot-connecting patterns as at best, provisional, and most likely, stepping stones to either an even larger conspiracy, or its complete disintegration. But then, of course, those dots (“facts,” “factoids,” pretend or real or fake, who knows?) are still there, blinking, winking at me. Asking me to “understand.” To stand under them. To stand on something solid.
(Where do the dots come from? Can I substitute one dot or mass of dots for another? Of course! What determines which dots I see? My internal expectations? Can I change my internal expectations so that I see different dots? Of course! Dots themselves are like atoms, or genes. We’d like to think of them as unbreakable, inviolate, the stepping stone substrate of “reality,” but guess what? They too, morph!)
Some dots sift downwards, when put through my screen of “what can’t possibly be true, can it?” forever or temporarily lost in the unconscious dark. Others clump together, sit on top of the holes of the screen and refuse to budge. Unless, of course, I manage to disintangle them into smaller particles that themselves can sift down through the screen.
Of course, you might ask here, how and when did I construct the screen? Of what is it made? How do I know my screen is helpful? All good questions.
Without even knowing it, I, and I suspect, others, are continuously juggling bits and pieces, trying to see where they hang together, sifting out the “junk” while looking for patterns, something that “makes sense.” The webs of meaning that we weave with our dot-connecting propensity either congeal into stuck dogmatic ideologies, scientific, religious or political “world-views,” — what I call our “conceptual helmets” — or they don’t. When they do, then life tends to become more and more circumscribed, as the number of possible allowed actions are reduced to whatever the framework of that particular world-view allows. Gone is the capacity for emergence, the arousal of possibilities that defy all my preconceived categories. Instead, somehow, aliveness gets truncated, stuffed, stiffed into tiny little boxes. And no matter how large the box, in the context of infinity it is always tiny; and no matter how large the box, to obey its constraints feels stultifying.
Which is why I like to “keep my options open.” Not because I’m a relativist, believing that truth is a matter of what I want to be true, for now, but because I’m a skeptic, a searcher, one who is never satisfied that I truly have come to the final conclusion, that, once and for all, I KNOW.
I don’t know. Instead I suspect, I dream up, I hear tales of, and I sense that everything that can be thought up has probably been thought up — and most likely materialized, in some universe or other: I sense that there truly is “nothing new under the sun.” Well, maybe not our sun. But what about other suns, other galaxies? What about the idea that the universe itself is infinite, has no end and no beginning? I.e., no frame, no box, nothing to curtail the immensity?
Now, how did I start out with conspiracy and end up here, in a sort of surreal cosmic dizzying dream of endless opening? Well, go back and read it again. Read it again and again. Learn how to focus on any point, any “dot” as it continually opens into the void. There really is no “under-standing,” no place to stand, no lever from which we can move the world. We are making it all up as we go.
So we might as well have fun with it, eh? And meanwhile, open the heart. Move from the heart. Allow the heart to guide you in where you focus your attention next. Moving from and with the open heart, we can’t “go wrong.”
Here’s a well thought out article about “conspiracies” in general.
And here’s another one about one person’s view of what seemed to be the case did turn out to be the case. (Maybe).
And here’s the original book that gave me personally the notion of “conspiracy” as “breathe together”: Marilyn Ferguson’s tremendously popular “The Aquarian Conspiracy,” from 1980, a sort of New Age bible which itself, by the way, turns out to have been a part of a larger conspiracy? I’ve just begun to plumb the links in the following amazing article, and plan to dive down this rabbit hole:
Ye gods! Why do I still get surprised.
Those old enough to remember Harmonic Convergence, that fabled August weekend back in 1987 promoted by Jose Arguelles and others that was to create a set point for the 25 years following, all leaning towards the Mayan Calendar end date of December 21, 2012, probably want to stop after reading this sentence to shake their heads. What got into us? How could we deceive ourselves so thoroughly, all at the same time?
(Indeed, the much-hyped lead-up to the Harmonic Convergence reminds me of our early feminist days, and our early anti-war days, back in the late ’60s, when we really did think we could change the world, and all in a blink of an eye.)
Now, nearly thirty years (one full Saturn return) following the Harmonic Convergence, I’d say that yes, it WAS the beginning. That truly time CAN be divided into before-HC and after-HC. For one thing, I think — please correct me if I’m wrong — that this was the very first time that the idea of synchronized global meditations entered the mass consciousness. For another, within only two years, the seemingly permanent Berlin Wall was suddenly dismantled by activists on both sides, and within another two years, in December 1991, the Soviet Union itself disintegrated, so that the traditional “enemy” of the U.S. was no more. Peace was at hand . . .
So we, in our abysmal ignorant idealism thought. Because look what happened next! The American hyperpower, along with its hegemonic Project for A New American Century, was born. And proceeded to wage continuous war on how many countries since then? Twenty-two? And create new U.S. bases everywhere. How many? 1000? And oh, BTW, of course Russia is still the Number 1 enemy, it has to be; we have to have a #1 enemy to justify the constant and increased spending of Americans’ blood and treasure on military hardware, the sale proceeds of which then get grabbed by weapons manufacturers and big banks, and the leftover equipment of which then trickles down to police departments here in the states. Indeed, we former idealists, now turned cynics, are still working to even become aware of, much less free ourselves, from the accelerating clamp-down by our very own police state, now identified as the Deep State, and increasingly recognized as the real enemy in our midst.
Even so, I’d say, even so. That extraordinary Harmonic Convergence weekend set up a resonant field that has been sweetening and thickening ever since, as a nourishing, miraculous counter movement to Deep State machinations. We who are immersed in this resonant field of love, we who sense its subtle, gentle, regenerative power, know that the race is on. We are in the end game. Can we enlarge and enrich the resonant field of love further, deeper, faster, than the police state Deep State can clamp down on us?
Only time will tell. Meanwhile, it’s worth remembering the beginning, way back in August, 1987, nearly 30 years ago, one Saturn cycle ago . . .
by Ann Kreilkamp
Welcome to Planet Earth, Libra edition
The woman directs me to sit on top of the desk. “I want you up high so we are at eye level,” she explains. Maxina has asked to do a trade with me — an astrological reading in exchange for what she calls a “soul portrait.” I am skeptical. I have no idea of her art, whether she really can do “soul” portraits — whatever that means. This Scorpio woman from Manhattan is one of 30 people from all over the country with whom I’ve been thrown together during these past few days of harmonic convergence. I am exhausted from the intensity of the continuous experience we have undergone as a group, and glad there is just this one sitting to do before I can leave and go home.
Maxina sets up her easel and many colors of pastel chalk. She is ready. “I want you to look at me directly, face on, as if I am a mirror,” she instructs. I am going to be moving around, and I want you to continue just to look at me.”
She goes to work. Selects a beige piece of paper and brown chalk. Eyes flashing back and forth from my face to the easel, her hand works quickly, translating what she sees to the page. Embarrassed, feeling slightly stiff, I do as I am told.
Five minutes go by. “I want you to look at me directly,” she says to me quietly, attending to the line her hand is tracing. “Notice how your face is slightly turned. When people don’t look at me directly, it means they aren’t quite with me, aren’t quite sure whether to trust this experience.”
Caught in the act! My God, this lady sees like a hawk! Something in me changes. I settle in to the experience and face her, head on.
I had trouble facing the upcoming convergence head on, too. For months, I had found it impossible to read the literature on the subject. Not because I didn’t “believe” in it, but because something kept diverting me away. Then, in late July, a friend pointed out to me that my waking dream about a flying dragon was Quetzalcoatl! Needless to say, I was astonished.
Once the link between the symbol of the Mayan god and the object of my perceptive imagination was pointed out, I had no further trouble reading about the event to come. It was as if I had to understand the primacy of the imagination before I was allowed to proceed in my usual way of gathering information.
The decision to join a group of 30 strangers for the convergence did not come easily. For months before I had wondered where I was supposed to be during those two days. The only definite decision I had come to was that I was supposed to be home, in my beloved mountain valley, during that time. I assumed that also meant I was to celebrate with friends somewhere in or near the Tetons. With that in mind, I had even cancelled a trip to Seattle.
Driving home alone in early August from Portland, I had plenty of time to again ponder the coming event — and my place in it. I recalled a conversation I had had with a friend from Laramie, who told me there were going to be two different celebrations there. “Even on the convergence, we can’t converge!” she lamented. “So you fail unless you all do the same thing?” I asked her, and spoke of how we continue to need to all do the same thing, as if there were only one right way. Even as we resurrect a more ancient, and deeply familiar, nature religion, we still bring with us the same competitive urge that drove the Christian crusades, burned the witches, led to the Protestant Reformation!
As I was thinking about this, how our old/new vision of the planet as a sacred living being conflicts with our inherited territorial conditioning — a new realization suddenly broke through. I am supposed to be in my home valley during convergence, but not with my friends. What?
I run that one through again. Really? Yes. It feels right, solid, not a matter of debate. Well then, does that mean I’m meant to be alone? Alone on some mountain top? If so, which one? Somehow that way of honoring those two days doesn’t feel right to me. Or does it?
Arriving home, I check my answering machine and discover a call from a woman whom I had met briefly during a trip to California in the spring. “I’m calling about the convergence,” she said. “I’m hoping you will join us, and give us some information about the astrology of the event.” Gay Luce is a nationally known shamanistic worker who had brought a group of 30 people to the valley for a workshop. They were to remain her for the two days of the convergence.
Aha! Is that what I’m supposed to do? Be with a group of total strangers during those days? Or am I supposed to be on some mountain top, alone?
The question of exactly where I should be during convergence preoccupied me increasingly as the days went by. I knew that, for some reason, I was supposed to be in some specific place, and that in order to discover just where, I had to attune ever more deeply to my inner being.
Finally, a couple of days before convergence was due to begin, I decided it was time to decide. Throwing the I Ching, I obtained “Increase,” changing to “Fellowship with Men.” The tide had turned. The direction was clear. I called Gay and accepted her invitation.
I had noticed during those weeks prior to convergence that my question of where I should be was shared by others. And that, like me, these people were awaiting an inner turning before making up their minds. For some strange reason, we were taking this event, and our place within it, very seriously — even though very few of us could discuss coherently what the event was supposed to mean, an dmoreover, we weren’t that interested in reading about it either! Somehow, the coming significance of this event was intended to be felt and perceived directly rather than through verbal interpretation.
Though we didn’t know much through primary literary sources, we did hear a lot about it second hand. Part of the lore that grew up around the coming end-time was the idea that certain people, “144,00 rainbow dancers” to be exact, would “full awaken to their dream bodies.” That during those two days these people would be given their direction, put in touch with their true destinies. This, coupled with rumor that aliens from the “galactic federation” would be among us during that time, caused many of us to think in very literal terms, the way we used to as children. As if an angel would suddenly materialize, tap us on the shoulder, and point the way.
“Just about ready for a first showing,” Maxina says, after about 20 minutes. She has worked continuously with the brown chalk, and wonders out loud whether she will be able to complete the portrait in color. “O.K., why don’t you hop off the desk and take a look at it,” she says, stepping aside.
I do. And am struck with wonder. Usually the most problematic part of a portrait is the eyes. But these eyes jump out at me, they know me, they are me. Maxina, in portraying the soul, has focused on the eyes, windows to the soul. And what she has captured is amazing.
The eyes appear to have recently opened, and are still sensitive to light. They look wounded, but brave. As if this opening were a dangerous and risky undertaking. She asks me to talk about what I am feeling. I tell her that it seems as if this person is, after a long and difficult struggle, just coming to, waking up — into a sort of second innocence.
That she — or is it a he?, the being appears androgynous, perhaps more a very young man than what it is supposed to be presenting, a 44-year-old woman! “Well,” she responds, “is there an aspect of yourself that feels like a very young man?” I have to admit that yes, there is, and that I like it.
“I feel as if this person would not harm anyone,” I continue, “and that feels good! But I am not happy with the bottom part of the face. The lips don’t seem like mine — too sensual!” (I am embarrassed.) “And the entire bottom half seems less definite somehow, as if it isn’t really formed yet.” Maxina, listening, smiles. Suddenly, I realize that this is an accurate description of how I feel about myself at this time. That the expressive part of my personality hasn’t really formed yet. That though transit Saturn and Uranus have both been working on my 21° Sagittarian Ascendnat and 27° first house Sagittarian Sun, Saturn has, so far, been the stronger, forcing me to keep a rather tight lid on my expressive self.
She nods as I give her my perceptions of myself. For a moment, we are silent. “And is there not a question in the eyes?” Maxina muses. “Yes,” I say decisively. “They are saying, “What next?”
I join the group on Friday night, in time for the closing ceremony to the Druid workshop they have been doing all week. We are to witness performances they have prepared in small groups. Afterwards, I am to give a talk on astrology.I feel awkward, out of place among these people who, by this time, have created their own community. In order to situate myself, I become acutely aware of the other people, searching, by their looks, dress and behavior to make sense of them and the situation. A certain look in the eye, one small gesture — either of these is enough for me to figure them out — so I think. Actually, I didn’t think about what I was doing at that point. I simply did it. Now, as I look back and notice what I did, I realize it was what I always do when faced with a strange situation that I need to integrate. I go into my mind. I become hyperaware, so mental that I lose contact with feeling. Instead of softening my gaze so that I can receive their energies and gradually absorb who they are in a full way, I close down to a laser beam, focus narrowly, and try to figure them out. This, unfortunately, has the opposite effect to that intended, reinforcing the distance I already feel.
As that evening stretched into several days, I began to notice that my initial perceptions of people had been way off. That in almost every case I had constructed an identity that was much too limited for the person’s burgeoning reality. That of these people, as an individual, was much more interesting than I had given him or her credit for. I have noticed this before, of course. Who hasn’t? But for some reason it affected me profoundly during this time. Never before had I experienced both the power and pretension of left brain activity quite so starkly.
Maxina has begun to use colored chalk now, and is moving rapidly, eyes flashing back and forth, hands grabbing first one color than another. Absorbed in this task, she has forgotten me. I am no longer myself, but simply the subject for her work. I lose myself, too, and concentrate on watching her as my mirror.
Another 20 minutes have gone by. Abruptly, she stops again, asking me to hop off and take a look.
This time I am shocked by what I see. Now the eyes are expressing extreme difference. The distinction is even more pronounced when, at my request, Maxina covers first, one half of the face, then the other, with a piece of paper. With the right half of the face covered, the entire left side and especially the left eye look suffused with light, as if lit from inside with a supernal glow. The gaze reaches beyond time and space, into the vastness. The set of this entire side of the face is unearthly, awe-inspiring. I think of Avalon. I think of Neptune, it’s position at my Midheaven, raining on all the other energies in my chart. I feel humbled, grateful. Truly, I am in the presence of an archetype.
The right side of the face, on the other hand, sits in shadows. The gaze of the eye is direct, unflinching. The look is serious, intent, experienced in the ways of the world; a master of the physical plane. “But I still don’t like mouth,” I tell Maxina. Especially the right side of it, the way the corner turns up.” “Well, let’s look at that corner; what does it remind you of? How does it feel?” “Well, maybe like it’s feeling detached, separate, kind of cynical . . .”
Oh my God. She’s right.
We are sitting in a circle in a giant white yurt 30 feet in diameter. It is night. The yurt glows from many candles. Five altars have been set up around the perimeter, each by a small group which is to present a short drama.
The evening begins. We attune to each other by standing, holding hands, in silence. Sitting down, we watch three people enter the center of the space. The first drama is wordless, three people dancing slowly, ceremonially, around an offering of wildflowers and feathers. Their movements are graceful, hypnotic, synchronized; a reaching for the heavens, a bowing to the earth. Our circle enclosing them is silent, still. Only our eyes move, entraining us with their rhythmic motions. Together, as one, audience and performers are lifted into a dimension beyond the ordinary.
By the time this first drama is over, we have entered ceremonial space and time. A space/time that is open, timeless, acutely sensitive and aware: sacred. As a group, we are both energized and infinitely patient. Waves of feeling wash around the room. Even I, so recently the stranger, am no longer watching so closely to see who is who, and how I fit.
The dramas follow one another in magical order. Who planned this? — we whisper to one another, in wonder. We know no one was in charge of the overall sequences of these performances, yet the flow is wondrous. Silence is followed by story; deep gravity by tear-jerking laughter. The rhythmic movements from one to another act of this Goddess-produced play are exacting and perfectly timed.
Many hours later, the final drama begins. We, the audience, are holding hands, and moving to a circular dance around the performance inside. Our dance changes periodically according to timed signals. A woman and a man, both spotlighted, take turns talking about their own personal experience with snakes, first as children, then as adults, and now, as transformed beings. Their stories are acted out by two others; the snakes are killed, and killed and killed, over and over again, as over and over again kundalini rises only to be destroyed by fear.
At the end, the woman, who had been soft and lovely, almost demure during the entire performance, suddenly lifts up her head and starts screaming. Her voice rises to a pitch that is so high it irritates, causing restlessness, a desire to strike out, strike her down — or else scream too, loudly, expressing that massive kundalini energy is rising, rising in all of us and we scream and scream and turn into wolves howling our horror and our love.
Suddenly, music fills the yurt. We dance, frenzied, until the energy is spent.
The revelation shocks me. Sears my soul. I feel immobilized. Don’t know what to do next.
“I think it would be a good idea if we were now to do a healing,” Mzxina says, in her usual, timely manner. “Let us hold hands, and help you to ask forgiveness for whatever you need to forgive.”
Numbly, blindly, I do as she instructs. The words tumble out. I ask forgiveness for excessive mental development, shutting me down, shutting me off from others, refusing our limitless possibilities.
“O.K. Now Hop back on the desk and we’ll see if we can finish this.” As I climb on the desk and compose myself, I feel changed. Subtly, imperceptibly, I feel softer, more receptive. I am here, present, with Maxina in this room. The future and the past are both contained and expanding into this one perfect and everlasting moment.
It is midnight, time for my talk on the astrology of the convergence. The group, sitting on the floor, moves in close to me and my easel. I am in a state of profound humility, so moved have I been by this evening’s performance.
I begin by placing a point in the middle of the page, symbolizing earth, as a heavenly body. I trace concentric circles around it: the planets, their orbits, as spheres of influence, dimensions of understanding. Our task on earth, I say, is to expand our consciousness, attune to larger and larger space/time fields.
Join with us now, as I summarize that midnight offering.
“The larger the orbit, the longer the planet takes to make a full circle. As a planet completes its full orbit for the first time we begin to sense it as a whole, understand the field in which it operates, learn to use it for our own purposes.
“The outer planets — Uranus, Neptune and Pluto — have cycles which are so long that we cannot understand them within one lifetime. Our attitude towards them must be one of surrender, trust, release to the mystery that they represent. These energies are collective and generational in nature; they represent the deeper unconscious mind, and its evolution through time.
“The harmonic convergence is primarily an event involving a message brought to us by the outer planet Uranus, as the kingpin of a rare grand trine in fire involving seven of the ten known planets. The stage has been set this year by the near conjunction of Saturn and Uranus in Sagittarius. The influence of this conjunction will continue through next year, during which time these planets make three exact conjunctions.
“The conjunction is the astrological significator for the paradigm shift that Arguelles and others talk about, the changeover from the Newtonian to the Einsteinian worlds. From a world of polarity, duality, comparison and competition, of the survival of the fittest — and may the best man win. We shift into a world wherein every point is described as an energy, occupies its own unique place and significance, is in resonance with every other energy, and all participate in the ongoing open-ended creativity of what Arguelles calls a ‘resonant field.’
“The symbolic meanings of the planets Uranus and Saturn seem contradictory. Uranus, heralding the new age, seems to conflict with Saturn, guardian of the old. Alternatively, we can embrace the paradox, and allow Saturn and Uranus to fuse. We seek coherence (Saturn) within the resonant field (Uranus). Through focus, centering, and discipline (Saturn), we learn to discriminate between what is of value and what is not in the so-called ‘new age.’”
[Earlier, one extremely gifted member of this group had done a brilliant and savage parody of a so-called “channel,” calling himself “Brian Ryerson.” And for weeks before the event, Trudeau’s Doonesbury cartoon had poked fun at the “moronic convergence.” Thank God we in the “new age” are beginning to find the humor in what we do, using it to help us make those needed distinctions.]
“Since March of this year, the planet Jupiter has proceeded into the sign of Aries. 1987 is a year of new beginnings, of initiative, of fiery courage. Since June, Jupiter has been within orb of a trine to Saturn/Uranus. So, two points of the fire grand trine have been in place since June. Now, during these days in August, the third point of the triangle is completed, as Sun, Mars, Venus, Mercury all move into place in Leo, 120° away from both the Saturn/Uranusa dn the Jupiter positions.
“The performances here tonight display Leo energy at its finest. We have brought forth the expressive energy, sustained creativity, and high dram and theatricality of which Leo is famous. The actual sequence of the performances, though unplanned, made sense. All five dramas found their rightful places in the larger resonant field. Together, they created a whole which was more than the sum of their parts.
“The generation born between 1938 and 1958, who have Pluto in Leo as their unconscious signature — and that includes most of us here tonight — are especially affected by the convergence. The time has come for allowing our creative Leo energy to manifest. The curtain opens on our own play here tonight. We are to determine the fate of the earth in how we choose to express ourselves.
“Let us open ourselves to the fiery energies now raining upon the planet, and use our own bodies to create the channels necessary for this energy to ground. As the industrial age, now ending, mined the earth for its inner wealth, and left it only barely able to sustain itself, so now the post-industrial age will mine the inner wealth of human beings, and this font is inexhaustible, it can enliven the entire planet in limitless joy.
“The grand trine in fire is above all else, a signification of the spirit. It is as if the holy spirit is again descending to earth. We are being given a gift — not of tongues this time, but of one tongue. The second coming has arrived; this time we are to speak, not many different languages, but one language, the language of the heart, symbolized by Leo. As we move into our hearts, and learn to speak from that place, we enter the resonant field, and find acceptance everywhere.”
It is late Sunday night, the final night of convergence. For hours now, we have been confessing, telling each other of our shadows, how those dark sides of ourselves have been rearing their ugly heads, even during this holy time. This has been occurring simultaneously with an unusual — but subtle, joy we are also inhabiting, both as a group and as individuals. Over and over again, plans (Saturn) have been abandoned, as some other current (Uranus) spontaneously moved us into a new form, a new process, a new way of expressing energy.
During this time, I, too, have continued to wrestle with my personal devil. Feelings of judgment, comparison, jealousy, desire for attention, loneliness, alternate with feelings of being swamped, engulfed, suffocated (all Saturn). Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, both extremes fall away as over and over again Uranus drops me, shuddering, into an open field, open space, a totally shared and unitary feeling of being one with the whole, where anything goes and all is love. This all-accepting and inclusive space extends from this group to the other small groups I am aware of also celebrating in this valley and beyond — to the thousands of places throughout the world of which their sacredness is being honored by small groups in spontaneous ritual and celebratory communion.
Now, afterwards, I hear of the 200 drummers in concentric rings on the Haleakala volcano in Hawaii; of the 3000 people who created a giant serpent out of sand on an Australian beach; of the entire first page of the “Science” section of the New York Time sbeing devoted to harmonic convergence. I hear of my friend Chris who celebrated alone, finding her spot on a mountain side and falling into a trance which lasted for five hours; of a couple who kept waking up the night of the 16th and going into their suburban backyard to sit there, simply sit there, on the grass; of the many stories of group rhythm and harmony; of altars built on hillsides, in living rooms, of celebrations as diverse and manifold as are we, the people, who have inherited the earth and, emerging into the Age of Aquarius, are awakening to our common planetary responsibility.
At midnight, one member of our group teaches us how to twirl in the Sufi manner, going counterclockwise, with the right arm extended up and the left curving out and around. We bring in energy from the universe with our right hands, and twirl it into the planet with our left. Thus do we help balance the earth as she spins.
The spinning begins, as a few of us try it out in the center of the circle which, as usual, is bounded by the rest of us, and which, by this time, feels like a security net, a way of feeling safe as we venture into the new. Once in a while a person loses his or her center and falls to the floor, to be picked up and comforted by others. We are learning how to spin, we are learning how to keep our centers in the midst of constant change.
As I twirl faster and faster, another revelation breaks through. This time I see the meaning of the struggle I went through to find my right place during convergence. I realize that the angel was tapping me on the shoulder all along, nudging me in the direction I finally agreed to take. That my context here, and my original “place” as a stranger struggling to come into harmony with this group of highly creative and expressive people, needs to be seen as the seed pattern for what is to come in my life. That this context, for me, points in the direction of my future.
Since then I have asked many people about their convergence experiences and attempted to understand them with this in mind: those who did struggle, who did take the question, “Where am I to be during convergence?” seriously, were indeed, handed their destinies during those two days. Each of us needs to see our specific circumstances during those two days as symbolic, creating seed patterns for our individual and collective futures.
We have been reborn. And the natal chart for all of us is that fiery grand trine, inspired, open, inventive, creative, fierce, dramatic, expressive, and above all, loving.
“O.K.,” clapping her hands to get rid of the chalk, “it’s done. Take a look.”
Now I see that the left eye is not quite so supernal, so removed from this earthly reality, that it is somehow more grounded, more present. And the right eye has gained, too. Without losing its directness, its focus, there is now a sadness in this eye. It’s as if it had come to terms with its memories, and had embraced them — with compassion. With the eye changed, the curl in the right side of the lip no longer gives the impression of a feeling of superiority. Instead, it is more an awareness and a willingness to work with what is.
The left, more receptive yin eye has gained something from the earth wisdom of the right; the right, more expressive yang eye has gained from the infinite compassion of the left. By incorporating the polarity represented by the other within itself, each eye is now both expressing more individuality and yet resonating with the other.
Our vision begins to converge, emerge — in harmony.