Matters of the soul

Matters of the soul

My long-time friend who embodies a scholarly shamanic approach to life, Gordon Baker, spilled out this treatise-like email response to me in the wee hours of the morning last week.  We had been sharing our inner metaphysical experiences and I am accustomed to his thoughtful replies but was blown away but this spiritual missive.

Dear Vanita,

Matters of the soul:  O my, I could expound on this, for many pages… reams of paper, entire books… matters of the soul…   What does this mean?  In a simple sentence or two…  To me, matters of the soul, are… what matters to my soul… what matters to all souls, is, I believe, what purposes souls have for incarnating in this very moment of the apparent here and now.  Or, put another way, the way I like to say it, the Soul Contract….   I have spent a great deal of time thinking about Soul Contracts… and I have come to some conclusions, formed some very strong opinions about what a soul contract is, and what it is not… and I suppose, not everyone would agree.   That’s obvious.     But let me say this, Soul Contracts do not exist in isolation from the mechanical operations of the entire realm of spiritual evolution of the planet.  So, in order to understand what a soul contract is, a fairly complete understanding of every aspect of the spiritual realm is required.   So let me summarize my beliefs-
As I said in a previous email, each of us incarnates into the material form of body, with an ego and identity, and physical form, a gender and historical context… over and over again, and the part that lives and dies, the body, is merely a vehicle of a temporal nature, and in the larger picture, this particular body is insignificant.  And, at the same time, there is also an eternal part, apart that is never born and never dies, it lives entirely in an ephemeral dimension, in the trans-consciousness, the mind of God, the shamanic realm.  This is also called, the Soul.

Now, here is what I believe, based on this idea about the soul…  (that perhaps might be different from what others may say.)  I believe that the act of incarnation is, from the perspective of the soul, an act of great forgetting.   The whole process of being incarnated, the act of procreation, of male and female joining and inception, and gestation, and finally, birth itself are like squeezing toothpaste out of the tube.  Entering this world is like a kick in head.  We forget everything, we forget our divine nature, we forget our soul purpose, we forget why we came and we forget what we are doing here.  We forget our soul contracts, and we show up, as if we were empty vessels.  We are not, of course, empty vessels, far from it.  We are, merely forgetful, and with good reason.   It takes some getting used to being in body.  It takes a dozen years, it can take two decades, to fully embody… or more correctly, we forget everything when we are born, and it takes a couple of decades to remember why this particular body and this particular life was chosen.   Remembering, the act of the soul re-entering the physical form takes place in such strange and unpredictable ways, it really is amazing to watch.    Sometimes, it is like “zot!” a hit on the head, other times, it happens slowly, some people come on strong early, others wait till the moment they are about to leave this earth plane!  All very strangely arranged by the soul, as if there were some grand design run completely amuck.  Who can say?  I certainly have not figured it out.   And I have spent a good deal more time than most looking directly at it, looking directly into the nature of the soul and its thousand ways of awakening, and all I can say, is no two souls have the same journey, no two souls wake up their host in the same way and no two souls can ever follow the exact same path.  For some, waking up is a moment of epiphany, for others it requires being cut low, for many it has no ostensible cause at all.  One day, you just find yourself awake, and then life goes on.  It is very Zen thing, and nobody, at least nobody I know has figured out any sort of formula.   Which is to say, it’s personal, and either you get it … or you are still sleeping, and those that are asleep don’t know it, until they wake up, and those that are awake have no way of knowing how or why they woke up, but they do know one thing, you can’t wake anyone else up, until their time to wake up has arrived, and then you can’t stop them once they start, they wake up entirely on their own, on their own schedule and by causes that are completely independent of any intention that might pass reason.  And that might seem a bit discouraging, but really it is not.  It is, in fact, the mystery of the process is the source of eternal hope, and faith, that world can and will wake up… just not necessarily on my time schedule.
So, I don’t really know when I woke up.  I had… tremors of awakening when I was very young, age 11 or 12 maybe.  I was visited by masters when I was 15 or 16… but really, awakening, I mean, getting the big picture, the full understanding, or as full as I understand it now….   Not until I was 40…  Even when I turned 50… I don’t think I was fully awake.   The last ten years, waking up, has been a very slow process.  But there were all sorts of wake-up calls in all my life experiences, some very dramatic, some very subtle, but in the end, it has been a very personal process, and not one that lends itself to offering a model for any other person.  My process is so personal that to try and generalize it to others is a waste of time.
Am I fully awake now?  It is a peculiar question.  Let me ask a different but related question.  Can you be happy but not satisfied?   Everyone knows you can be satisfied but not happy.  Think of the person who finally gets the job, or the car, or the house, or the relationship they always wanted.  They can be satisfied, they got what they wanted, the universe finally gave them something they had been seeking, a goal was met, they have something that satisfies their desires, but… in the end, they are not happy.  We all are familiar with that sort of scenario.  I think everyone has had some version of that play out in their lives at some point.   But that is not what I was quarrying about.  I wanted to know, can you be happy and not be satisfied.  Can you be happy, and longing, wanting, needing, in essence, can you be happy and yet, not fulfilled?   I believe every spiritual teacher I have ever had has indicated this was not only possible, but a necessary understanding that is a prerequisite to spiritual advancement.  Counter intuitive as it might seem, there is a deeper level of logic to this spiritual injunction.   Happiness is independent of satisfaction, and in fact, happiness can only be achieved in a state of perpetual dissatisfaction.  That is a tough pill to swallow, in our consumer oriented instant gratification, live in the moment, don’t regret anything world of spiritual advisors.  Being dissatisfied seem like it should be a disqualifying attitude in the greater pursuit of happiness.   But that is simply not the case, at least, it is not case if I correctly understand all the most advanced teachings of highest masters that made it clear to me, that … indeed, happiness and satisfaction are very different affairs, and one needs to master dissatisfaction, make it the centerpiece of one’s life, before one can truly enter the Kingdom of Eternal Light and the pass through the doorway of our human-self and into our roles a benefactors, avatars, and the bodhisattva consciousness that is our greater destiny. Happiness, lies in the greater destiny, not in what this or that moment might provide or deny to our material self.  And that is the hard lesson to accept.
But teacher, my teachers any way, have been kind in rolling out this lesson.  It is not something one has to learn on the first go-round.  For a long time, it can be resisted, it can be resented, it can be denied, it can be played at the edges and experimented with, over and over…  you can win the lottery, and see if that makes you happy, you can recover from great tragedy, and see, does that make you happy?  You can have great love and lots of money, and see, does that make you happy?  And only when all of it, all the human experiences are passed and done, even then, a part can say… but maybe if I get this or that, one more time, then I will be happy…. And the teachers, they, wait, and smile, and ask… are you done yet?  Like children who have gorged themselves on ice cream, the stomach acre that follows is worth it!   And the teacher just smile, are you done yet?    Happiness, is found in the absence of satisfaction.  The fast, the abstinence, the self-control, these are all metaphors, mere teaching devices.  Ways of manifesting, the deeper lesson, which is, nothing that is, makes for happiness.  Only in things that might be, is true happiness found.   Heaven on Earth is not a possibility, it is an ideal never realized, never experienced, a hunger never satisfied, and it is, of course, the source of true happiness.  Not as an expression of what is, but only a longing for what might be but is not.   Every teacher says, the student who longs, has arrived…
So, what practical matter engages me?   That is a better question than am I awake? (or fully awake)  you see, to be awake, is not the same as being satisfied, to be awake, is to long for things that will never be in this lifetime.  And in that way, that longing, creates desire, and desire is the fire that burns and sometimes destroys and sometime creates, and never really satisfies.  No, I am no Buddhist.  I reject that teaching, I a western mystic, defined by my earthly mission, which is happiness, not in the absence of desire, but in all the work that remains to be done.   Eternal vigilance, was what one of my teachers called it, and that stuck in my head.   Time to get back to turning the wheel.  This lifetime is lived under the whip, and I grateful for each lash on my back, because it wakes me up.  In that sense, my burning backside where the swift kick reminds I have to get up and do more work, it the essence of be wakefulness, and the source of all my happiness, even as I never get what I want, can never get what I want, and in deed, would need to go back to sleep to be satisfied with whatever it is that has arrived.

Authored by Gordon Baker

If ya wanna chat with him some more:

I am sure he would love to hear from you.


Thank you, Big Dipper

Thank you, Big Dipper

Thank you, Big Dipper.

Scoop the creamy starlight

Into my sugar cone.

Me licks it up!


Thank you.

You eternally invite me:


Live wide open,

Embrace Immensity,

Great Love is here.


Thank you,

Tail of the Great She-Bear.

Sashaying across the dark night.

You shift,

Ever so minutely,

As the eons crawl by.


Thank you, Great Compass.

Ever pointing me to True North.

I am part of your great galaxy.

We are never alone.

Mick Zippert Easter Beauty, Easter Grief

Mick Zippert                                                                 Easter Beauty, Easter Grief

As the spring holiday approached, the not unfamiliar dread of being alone without any plans or built-in companions threatened to deepen my despair but I wouldn’t allow it much airtime. I found myself Sunday morning at a local women’s meditation retreat accompanied by a friend. As I walked towards the carefully designed and expensively built simple zendo it was the petite solo tulip tree with her huge lush royal magenta flowers that was the first to en-trance me. Next was the overflowing flower and vegetable gardens bursting with fresh color and fragrances as I wound through on the narrow cedar-shaving lined paths. The gentrified barn housed several gorgeous far-from-feral longhaired cats.  Two huge koi, one a golden yellow, lazily swam the turtled pond. A powerful, well-groomed but gentle horse was roaming the grounds. I recognized the casually prettied-up shed on the far side of the garden from the email invitation that drew me to this idyllic slightly overcast Easter gathering.

As the meditation practices were coming to a close, I sensed, for the first time in three months that I might barely possess a sufficient quantity of courage to visit a long-time friend. Two days before I had authorized his entering into hospice care through email. I had awoken the morning of “signing day” feeling overwhelmed and chose, for my self-preservation, to remotely give the go ahead to this change in his care. My unusual friend had been existing in this “nursing home” in a nearby town since summer, however, it was a marked improvement over his last living situation. Yes, nurses served there but to refer to that drab institution with its decaying urine stench as a home was far-fetched.

I had only spoken to my friend on the phone twice since my partner died two months before. I was emotionally unable to visit him and face more sickness and death. When I had called Mick in early February, he immediately asked how Jeff was doing. My sweetheart had befriended Mick after  meeting two years before. Jeff was intrigued by Mick’s spiritual insights. My partner, in turn, had helped Mick solve various electronic and practical issues when our aging friend was living in senior housing. Jeff also visited our infirm friend weekly for months after Mick had been shipped to this facility. out of town. Mick was distressed knowing my sweetheart, who was considerably younger, had been quite ill. “He died, Mick.” “Oh no,” he cried out, “that is horrible!,” and his generous expression of anguish soothed something in me.

The “home’s” social worker had called to tell me my friend was declining rapidly. I knew he was confused in the fall but he always recognized me when I came to visit. Now this bear of a man was consistently 350 pounds and hadn’t gotten out of bed for weeks. The brand-new synthesizer he had purchased with the money from the sale of his paint-stripped, malodorous and dandruff strewn gray Honda had never been played. I was impressed that my diabetic hand-trembling friend had successfully engaged the ombudsmen (with some coaching) to persuade the “health center’s” administrator to allow his sizeable synthesizer to be in his room. The space was now more crowded with his bed, cheap furniture, wheelchair, walker, commode and tattered belongings. The social worker made it clear the music equipment was her proverbial thorn.

I dreaded facing my friend’s death since my own yawning grief wounds were rendering me so fragile. On the other hand, I couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving this realm without one final visit. Timidly, I walked into his room noticing a different roommate. The new addition was thinner and more virile appearing than the previous one. This handsome slightly graying man was sleeping on his side, facing the door I had just entered with the white sheets pulled up mid-chest. I sensed sleep had been inspired to escape the odd situation of having an irregularly breathing stranger on the other side of the drab curtain.

I walked to the far side of the dim room wondering why the blinds were always closed. Their Russian immigrant nurse Elena followed me. As a nurse myself, I was impressed that Elena always seemed genuinely invested in my friend’s care.

Mick was lying on his back with his head slightly propped on the institutionally white pillow, staring blankly ahead towards where the wall and ceiling mate. “Oh no, he really is leaving!,” grabbed at my guts. Then I gratefully noticed his crisp linens and gown and finally he was well groomed. I approached his right and called “Mick, hi, it’s Vanita.” His head turned barely noticeable towards the familiar voice with eyes remaining unfocused. “Hi Sweetie,” he said. I knew he recognized me though I had never heard him use a term of endearment in the twenty-six years we had known each other.

Sadness flooded me. What can one say? “You are going home Mick. You are going to see God”. He nodded slightly and another wave of uninvited grief overtook me.

To the strict but compassionate nurse witnessing the intimate exchange I offered my excuse. “I couldn’t come before. With my partner dying I just couldn’t bear it”. Her skilled response eased my burden, “It is okay, you did what you could. You have been through a lot yourself. Yes, he is going home.”  She seemed grateful that this obvious spiritual fact was being acknowledged. I had posted on Facebook and a local community website about Mick’s situation but had only gotten a handful of responses. “Have others come to visit him?,” guilt inquired. “No, just you”.

I doubt the staff had any idea what an advanced being Mick was or the secrets, good and bad, this clairvoyant knew about them. Mick was more evolved than I and he pointed this actuality out intermittently over the years with a very factual tone. He had guided people at psychic fairs on the West Coast with his creative and insightful readings. He was a gifted music channel proud that he had opened for the famous spiritual teacher Ram Das. I had never heard of music channeling before Mick made his debut in my life. This being’s greatest pleasure was to lazily stroll in the forest playing his silver flute while communing with Nature. He attempted several times to convey his light-filled visions but I could only grasp the edge of his perceptions and resultant bliss. Once when he endeavored to describe his experience of the “Eternally Swirling Eye of All Creation,” I was able to briefly glimpse the awe-inspiring enormity of God. Didn’t I realize that God was creating everything in existence in every moment?

I suspect we all often feel alone but Mick’s loneliness was extreme. He was born with a birth defect that resulted in violent projectile vomiting whenever he fed and he underwent major surgery at six weeks of age. He was severely neglected as a child with frequent bonding ruptures and an assortment of caretakers. His mother banished him to a military school at age 5 and his absent father barely tolerated him when he was around. My friend’s dismal socialization plagued him. Add his unique view of reality and his intuitive awareness of people’s hidden selves and he had a large load to cope with. Top this off with his beloved wife’s sudden car-wreck death in 1991 near their home. He was incapable of metabolizing this mountain of grief and never recovered.

I met him six months after the accident that he recounted incessantly for decades. His music, ecstatic spiritual experiences and increasingly infrequent readings were the only things that kept him inching along. His most reliable and comforting companion was the excess food that kept him sedated from the pain of years of inadequate meaningful human contact.

Though he had been briefly in the military and had attended college, Mick was unable to function in everyday practical matters.  Showering regularly, wearing somewhat clean clothes or keeping his dwelling from smelling like a garbage dump were impossible tasks. Despite his shortcomings, he was a rare precious lifeline for me. He casually informed me one afternoon that my guiding essence in life was the “Heart of Love” and encouraged me to always follow it. Whenever I was upset and felt lost he would guide me to an expanded perspective and soothe me with divine wisdom. “How could someone so dysfunctional with so many unresolved issues be so clear and wise?,” I often wondered. Let me tell you about my introduction to this extraordinary, fascinating and complex human being.

I was deeply in love with a man Mick later announced was “my essence twin”, the closest of the soul connections and commonly referred to as a “twin flame”. My twin had met Mick the evening before and received a personal channeling that thrilled him. The next day he wanted to take me to the psychic musician’s home for a couple’s reading.

My twin warned that Mick was quite depressed since the trauma of the tragic accident. We arrived at the beautiful rural three-acre property with its respectable manufactured home. As the front door opened the smell of rotting garbage startled me. This huge man, 6 feet tall and well over 300 lbs, invited us in. He moved and spoke heavily but I was drawn to his deep resonant voice.

The home was filthy and Mick pointed out the garbage “zones” throughout the house. He was proud that the trash was contained in a myriad of large cone-shaped piles. The kitchen sink and counters were laden high with thickly crusted dishes, glasses, cups, pots, and pans with an array of dirty utensils strewn about. Dropped or carelessly discarded food was drying up everywhere including on the floor. He explained he hadn’t been able to keep the house up since the loss of the woman who was so dear to him.

The unkempt man ushered us into his bedroom to our left. “What do you want the reading to focus on?,” but before our reply formed he interjected, “don’t bother, most people are too stupid to know what to ask anyway.” Surprisingly I didn’t feel offended by this, later to be learned, very accurate observation.

The bedroom was cleaner and the odors less. His queen-size bed was elevated four feet off the ground and pushed up against the left and far wall; his black synthesizer faced the foot of the bed and the room was devoid of chairs. “Climb up on the bed,” he instructed. I scanned the sheets and deemed them clean enough to sit but first went to the adjoining bathroom which was another unbelievable scene.

Now we were seated on the cushy bed stage and Mick settled in behind the keyboard that happened to bear the uncommon name of my essence twin in big white block letters. I never expected the musician to casually invite, “Feel free to make love while I play.”  Stunned, but eternally curious I asked, “Has anyone ever taken you up on that?”  “Yeah”, mentioning the names of a couple we were acquainted with. Notably the vibe from him wasn’t perverse which struck me as even more odd. “Uh, we’ll just sit here”.

He began playing his silver flute while watching us. After the haunting opening he put the flute down and created a melody on the synthesizer that touched into the deepest part of me. He began his spontaneous song referring to me as “Anita” but despite that faux pas I was weeping with profound relief of finally being seen and known by another. He sang of an ancient bond and indescribable love between my essence twin and I. He sang of the joy of finding each other after many years of searching. He sang of my vibrantly colored strands of emotion that often got entangled and overwhelmed me. He sang how my twin would help me unravel them into something manageable and useful. “I can’t go on anymore,” he suddenly announced overtaken by a wave of pain. He abruptly pushed his wide slumped shoulders away from the keyboard ending my sorely needed influx of divine grace and I was hooked.

Our friendship grew and deepened but he never recovered from his soulmate’s death; she was not his essence twin he explained but another type of deeply fulfilling but less tumultuous soul connection. He lovingly spoke of her in most every conversation we ever had and clearly was idealizing her. I knew they were in the process of separating just before her death which he rarely remembered. About ten years ago he announced that part of her soul had reincarnated in Australia. During a vision he had seen her home and he gazed on the newborn through the window. He was comforted she was again on the planet with him.

I had numerous intriguing experiences with him as the years passed and also plenty of frustrating ones. His honed spiritual abilities were always dramatically contrasted by his inability to function in the world and his drug of choice, food, was doing him in. His undeveloped interpersonal skills constantly plagued his intermittent attempts at relationships. His wife had founded the popular local metaphysical bookstore with his support and they had been well known though now he was an almost forgotten hermit. By the time he entered the nursing home, he hadn’t seen his middle-aged daughter since she was a toddler, was estranged from his family and one by one managed to alienate most of his few friends.

Now it was time to leave him on this late Easter afternoon. I had been with my partner throughout his illness and only rarely left his side during the last week of his life so it felt really wrong to desert a dying friend in this bleak institution. But I needed to buy groceries for the week and attend a support group that would be able to console me. I was sitting  in a chair on his left side. “Mick, I have to go”. Was that a nod?  “You will be with Joan soon, you will be so happy to see her again. Mick, I love you”.

I knew from studying grief that saying goodbye to his physical form, saying farewell to the friendship we had shared was crucial. Our relationship was eternal but I also knew I needed to utter that powerful word while dreading the anguish that was sure to follow. I finally mustered my “goodbye,” but immediately copped out with “I will be back,” knowing that wasn’t feasible. Though his otherworldly stare continued the entire visit and he hadn’t spoken since his brief affectionate greeting, I was startled when he began whispering the last words I would ever hear him say. “It is so….. beautiful.”

“I am glad Mick, I am so glad,” and I knew he was okay.

Pierce Michael Zippert was prophetically born on April Fool’s Day. His body died March 31st, 2016. He would have been 74.

















The Great Confusion

The Great Confusion

So many confused.

Christ is not a man who lived long ago,

Nor a woman.

The Christ is not of this world.


Men and women, even a child,

Can realize the Light.

It will not come through the body’s eyes,

Glory supplants our binary earthly existence.


Wish to become fully the Light?

Be not fooled. Pain will be involved.

How are dense gray rocks transformed into transparent crystals?

How is gold purified?


The Christ is Quietness.

A snowstorm scribbled a solid excuse to stay home,

Relief washes over you,

Your daily burdens miraculously lifted.


Peace envelops the forest, or city street,

Blanketed in pure heavenly white.

Sunlight transfigures the brilliant wonder,

into a unexpected in-breath of long-awaited awe.


This same Love reaches through a young woman’s

Fatigue to comfort her cranky infant,

Or sensed as a man opens his heart

To his woman’s upset directed at him.


It is felt as skillful compassion is extended to a distressed addict,

Understanding the incessant attempts to keep the inner demons at bay.

It shines through a neighbor’s soaking of a small dog’s infected wounds,

As day after day, she coaxes the little creature from death’s claws.


Christ is the Eternal Remembered,

Not a religion.

Christ is those who embody the Deep Stillness,

Those transmuted by the Joyous Emanation of Immortal

Radiant Light.


God’s Peace


As you were drawing your last breaths,

I made an altar on your body,

Stuffing your hands full with raisins.

You would have plenty to eat as you journeyed.


Your last breath, 3:54am

Another came 3 minutes later surprising me.


A spacious medical suite overlooking the bay,

We could see the hospital of your birth from our



I sat in the dark, cross-legged

A high backed cushioned chair

Next to your bed

Listening for you.


I didn’t experience much

When I let go of my wanting to

I sensed you.

Quiet , dark and deep

To my right.


The months of sickness began to ebb,

I remembered

Who you really are

And why I softly fell in love.


Our connection was nurturing and sweet,

Quiet and deep.

It took me time to trust it.


As I sat in the dark,

I remembered how your presence calmed me.

The first time we cuddled,

Fully dressed,

We feel asleep in each other’s arms.


The first time I stepped into your home,

Higher up in the mountains,

Surrounded by tall trees,

Peace enveloped me.


I have many Jeffrey’s in my life.

“What number am I?,  you asked and I laughed.

Well, both wasbands have your name,

My son ‘s middle name is that,

My grandson is Jeffrey and

then our Atlantean spiritual brother too.


We called you Jeffrey the Sixth.


You have some weird pattern some have commented.

Jeffrey means  “God’s Peace”, I tell them.

This is what you are for me.



An Eclipse’s teachings about Christ

An Eclipse’s teachings about Christ

On August 21st, I was at my sister’s cabin in the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina and all were grateful for an uncharacteristically clear day. Though I had originally planned to experience the eclipse from a music festival in Oregon, I had been led to fly east to be with my family.

Anticipation had been building for months and millions were staged across the diagonal swath of our country where totality could be viewed. Kayaking that morning on a huge lake we joined excited spectators who were camped along the shoreline and on the water for the event. I was heartened that multitudes had detached themselves from their terrestrial fascinations with sports and tumultuous political happenings and were focusing on a momentous cosmic event.

The moon’s courtship with the sun extended over hours, though totality would last for less than three minutes. My first inclination was to meditate indoors as totality approached but I found myself instead on a forested hill above the serene cabin with a clear line of sight. I wondered if darkness would descend that early afternoon with totality, but a surreal gray sepia enveloped our surroundings as crickets began their harmonious chirping. “This is disturbing,” my niece announced as our normal reality was mysteriously being rearranged. Gazing upwards with now naked eyes, we were spellbound. A solid black sphere, the moon, was surrounded by a mesmerizing halo of vibrant, dancing pure white light as if encircled by innumerable fast darting white fire flies. I had not researched the eclipse phenomena beforehand and was gratefully unprepared for what occurred next.

Some background information might help you comprehend my experience. There is growing awareness in spiritual circles of the ancient knowledge that the deepest level of existence is infinite, non-visible black light. Some traditions refer to it as the Void, Nothing, Beingness, Dark Light, or simply the Unmanifest. Even the mystics of common religions refer to this in their writings and I have heard it from Zen Buddhists and the Mexican Toltecs. This black light is the “Source of All” and not to be confused with the destructive psychological and emotional darkness caused by human repression. No, the Unmanifest is profound stillness, deep silence, the peace that surpasses all understanding and the source of all manifestations and infinite possibilities. Shamans access and use this power for regeneration, healing etc. However, most religions and spiritual paths focus on finding or realizing the visible spiritual light. Many overlook this dark light inside them since it is “no thing” or they may experience abject terror peering into eternal vastness.

A spiritually awakened man guided me to this awareness when I was in my twenties. When I looked within myself, I saw what appeared exactly the same as the clear night sky dotted with stars. Turning away, I screamed imagining I would disappear if I went into it. Interestingly, for many years now, I no longer see any stars or visible light in that blackness but find comfort as if being enveloped in a velvety soft black blanket. One shaman-friend reports seeing it as a dark purple black.

I refer to this deep inner reality as God/Goddess and some ancient cultures named it the “Great Womb” or “Mother.” Obviously on a physical level, humans and mammals are conceived, nourished and grown in the dark of the womb before these beings emerge into this outer realm of visible light. Women are known, for a variety of reasons, to have a spiritual advantage in being able to access this inner reality more easily than men.

Now, back to totality on that hill I was perched on. The celestial mating now complete, the moon began her leisurely slide to the left off the sun. Shockingly brilliant, absolutely pure translucent white light burst out at one o’clock on the black sphere. I gasped at the miracle before me and finally understood what the words the “Glory of God” meant. My awestruck educated niece uttered the astronomer’s label for the phenomena, “the diamond ring.”

Though I have studied the Course in Miracles intermittently for decades, I had never before understood how the Unmanifest or Black Light created us. The white light or Christ was born in a single burst and is the one and only “Child of God.” Light is genderless and that afternoon it struck obvious that the “Son of God” would more accurately be named the “Sun of God.” Jesus fully realized he was that light and referred to his Creator (the Unmanifest) as “His Father.” Now there was infinite black eternity and also pure white light but they are somehow inseparable.

How this single burst of white Light became the “10,000 things” is another tale. Our physical eyes perceive innumerable forms today- people, animals, birds, insects, trees, oceans, etc. But whether it is realized yet or not, everything contains the brilliant white light which some refer to as the Christ. The term Christ comes from a Greek word meaning the “Anointed One” which is one who remembers their divine origin. The man named Jesus Christ realized this fully and spent his life attempting to awaken others to this fact. When we remember we are immortal light and not primarily an impermanent body we are “saved” or enlightened. Other Christed beings have walked the Earth including Buddha, Krishna, Rama and Sita, and alive today are Eckhart Tolle, Adyashanti and the female hugging Indian guru Ammachi to name a few.

If you resonate with the great teacher and our powerful loving brother, Jesus, honor him. His entire existence is dedicated to helping us remember who we are. Everyone is the beautiful immortal Light of God/Goddess (Christ consciousness) though purification is often needed to become aware of it. Do you think you are primarily a body that is changing every moment? How depressing is identifying with a decaying form? You, as well as the rest of all physical forms, are made of light! A practical way to train yourself to remember who you really are is to begin to look past the physical forms of people, animals, objects etc. to the light of who they are. Each being you choose to see as light reminds you that you are light also! How cool is that?

What to do with any resentments, hard feelings or grievances you carry about yourself, others or the world? What to do with deep disappointments or judgments you may be addicted to that form the dark clouds blocking your sunlight? This year I have been learning about the stupendous power of true forgiveness. Not the world’s version of arrogant forgiveness that says, “I am better than you so I will bestow forgiveness on that awful thing you did.” Not the namby-pamby version that feigns holiness while suppressing anger or even murderous rage at what happened. True forgiveness accepts our human emotions and works through them until we realize we are all the same. As we forgive others we begin to undo our own shame and guilt about all the errors and mistakes we have also made. We learn to forgive ourselves more quickly. It is a purification practice that is a free ticket to inner peace and freedom. A enlightening book you can delve into is, “Radical Forgiveness” and I invite you to consider committing to a practical forgiveness practice in the coming year.










Wake Up!

Wake Up!

“Wake up,” inside nudges

A column of Dark Empty Light within.

Some fear such subtle things

They are Power True, they are my Home.


Spirit’s precious pre-dawn gift

I surrender to it,

Or maybe just focus

Remember it?


I sit on my dusky lavender pillow

A sick dog drugged sleeps at my side.

Soft light gently begins seeping in,

“Open your eyes,” the nudging whispers.


The trees are in love with me!

Quietly ecstatic she has awoken.

Sweetness dances,

I remember who they are!


The world would say a breeze

Moved their sensuous union,

Science not my God,

We know what is true.


July 4th, 2017. May all remember we are free.