Thirteen Days in Tibet

In June 2010 I completed my preparations for ‘Over Nine Waves’, a sacred play designed to promote integration of the coming ninth and final wave of the Mayan calendar. This was the last piece of work I could foresee arising out of my Sahara vision quest in January of that same year. Anticipating the end of a major cycle, I felt a need to leave Ireland and go to a country I had never been to before but badly wanted to visit now. That country was Tibet. The next day an email arrived from Kata inviting people to join a trip to reactivate the Blue Flame at Lake Mansarovar and Mount Kailash as part of her Lemurian Awakening programme. The itinerary was perfect for my needs and I became the first to sign up.

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Our group met in Kathmandu, the capital of Nepal. On our first morning we visit Budanikatha, a Hindu temple whose central feature is a giant statue of Vishnu lying in water on a bed of snakes. This reminds me of a legend concerning Lake Mansarovar which tells how Vishnu floated there for eternity, dreaming until creation sprang forth from the water’s infinite potential. This association of the lake with powers of Void and pure creation is crucial to my motivation on this journey and I am heartened to find it mirrored here on our first day. A local legend also tells how Vishnu swallowed poison to save humanity, causing his throat to turn blue. Resonance with our Blue Flame theme is quickly noted.

I find the voluptuous sensuality of Hindu popular religion almost overwhelming: its vivid colours, shapes and smells. Petitioning devotees queue to offer gifts of flowers and coloured scarves to the dreaming god. Sounds of chanting waft in from an outer pavilion. After Budanikatha we drive to the temple of Pashupatinath on the banks of the Bagmati river, a tributary of the Ganges. Here corpses are burned openly on wooden pyres. Ashes are discharged into the water and carried to the Great Mother River, symbolically evoking a perpetual recycling of material form(s). Local saddhus, refugees from the world of form, pose cheerfully for photographs and a modest fee.

After lunch we visit the Buddhist Swayambhunath Stupa. This occupies an elevated site somewhat removed from frenzied traffic and – after one has climbed many steps to its upper levels – offers a magnificent view over Kathmandu valley and a sprawling city that awes despite its squalor, chaos and pollution. On the way up I encounter a larger than life statue of Buddha which has a startling impact. I have never travelled in a Buddhist culture before and it’s my first time to come upon a material representation that concentrates energies from this great tradition. The effect is quite arresting. I can feel it preparing me for more that is to come.

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Next morning, Air China carries us to Lhasa. ‘Welcome to China’ says the young border guard and I don’t demur although spiritually, I feel, this is certainly another country. In the arrivals area, after we have cleared immigration, a short powerfully built man holds a notice welcoming John James Graham to Tibet. I don’t know how this came about but welcome its benign reassurance.

We board our bus and immediately start drinking lots of water. At 3,700 metres plus it’s necessary to guard against altitude sickness. The afternoon is bright as we enter Lhasa. Apart from Chinese inscriptions, its outskirts resemble those of any modern city. Our first stop is the Bank of China and our second an international hotel. Only glimpses of the Potala (the Dalai Lama’s former winter palace) confirm that we have come to the right place.

We visit early the next morning. Entering the Potala feels less like a pilgrimage than a journey of specific recollection. Nothing is unfamiliar. Rather I sense that much has been held in trust, awaiting a moment for my soul to remember. Now that moment has arrived. I walk as if in a dream, half-hearing information offered by our guide. There are thirteen levels to the Potala’s construction, so we have many steps to ascend and many different impressions of Buddhahood to absorb.

I make two primary connections: one with the Buddha of Compassion and one with Maitreya, the Buddha of the future. All other artefacts – statues, scrolls, effigies, thangkas – leave me unmoved. My spiritual observance has tended increasingly towards formlessness since C’s passing but it is nonetheless surprising to find how unattached I feel on finally visiting a place I have dreamt about since childhood. We continue our passage through countless dark corridors and rooms, all crammed with spiritual paraphernalia. In the end I am glad to be thrust back into the sun.

Crowds of pilgrims circulate around the palace, wielding beads and prayer wheels. I catch the eye of an old woman and bless her from my Heart. She nods to acknowledge my blessing and carries it on. I am honoured to have connected in this way with a living stream of indigenous spirituality. All of a sudden then I feel very tired. There are two reasons for this: the energetic download I have just received and cold symptoms which are clearly starting to manifest. I have no energy to go out that afternoon. Instead I stay in the hotel and rest, hoping to integrate spiritual vibrations and clear my cold at once.

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Prior to 1949, Tibet was largely protected against invasion by its location high on the Himalayan plateau. Up to the fourteenth century, it was affected by internal rivalries. These regularly generated conflicts. Then the first Dalai Lama appeared. It is said that he is a human incarnation of the Buddha of Compassion. Compassion is the first manifestation of love. Thus Tibet became the first country in human history to be governed according to principles of love. Idealisation notwithstanding, geographic isolation and spiritual constancy have combined over centuries to allow the landscape of Tibet to become a Heart of Compassion for all Earth. Likewise, beyond international politics, its people hold this Heart for all humanity (1). That is why we are travelling to Kailash and Mansarovar, where this gift is most richly concentrated.

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Just as we are leaving Lhasa, an incident occurs. We need snacks for the road so our jeeps pull in at what looks like a supermarket. It proves to be an obstetrics clinic outside which parking is forbidden. Realising their mistake, our drivers move to pull away. Only one succeeds before a Chinese policeman rushes over, salutes and starts haranguing the other two. He shouts for a long time, berating them as if they were obdurate children. There is nothing they can do but stand and absorb.

In the end, they are forced to accompany him and pay a fine. No comment is made on what seems to have been a totally unnecessary humiliation. It offers a sharp reminder that Tibetans are not masters of their autonomous state. This feels like a sour note on which to start our journey and I know I must digest its bitterness in order to re-establish innocence. Whatever may lie before us, compassion is not exclusive and neither is love. I seem to have my own purpose with regard to this, in addition to that of the group.

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En route to Shigatse, we go over two high passes (above 4,600 metres). My cold makes for breathing problems and I experience headache and other symptoms of altitude sickness. Despite this I manage a brief meditation at the second pass, during which the country opens figuratively for me. My dreams that night reveal that there is a new level of masculine potential waiting to manifest and that it is necessary to clarify patterns of ancestral conflict in order for this to be achieved.

The next morning we visit Tashilunpo monastery, a large fortified establishment and home to the Panchin Lama, the second spiritual leader of Tibet. I am drawn through a door into a small courtyard off the main corridor of our clockwise pilgrims’ progress. The courtyard is disused and familiar. I stand in the centre of its overgrown, roofless space and turn through 360 degrees counter-clockwise, opening my Heart and calling dissonant impressions home for healing integration.

Many aspects of my soul come flying in, causing tears to well as lost traces are restored to the flow of present awareness. Then other waves of conflicted tendencies stream through, dating from the early history of Tibet up to episodes from the past of this monastery. Monks here, I gather, have been involved in warfare, even against other monks from rival institutions. I must digest this bitterness also to find innocence in relation to it.

Companions from our group have followed me in and are wandering around. I make my way up a staircase to a terraced balcony, once vividly adorned with now fading murals of protective deities. This also feels familiar. There is no need for processing. My purpose here, I think, has been accomplished.

I walk respectfully through remaining precincts of a temple whose forms – it seems to me – have had their day. Buddhas of the future will be born of open Hearts, not images of gilded copper. At the same time, I feel a deep sense of gratitude to all who have held the vision of peace through centuries of strife.

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I left for Tibet feeling very strong, physically and spiritually. Now, a combination of cold and altitude sickness has left me feeling weak, vulnerable and remote from the accomplishment of preceding months. Nevertheless a pattern starts to appear. I had learned through earlier work to connect with the Hearts of Heaven, Earth and Void, and to coordinate these for purposes of creative manifestation. I also lost all sense of personal agenda through this period, leaving me at a loss as to what I should manifest.

The Blue Flame expresses the essence of Divine Will and of resolutions like ‘I will that Divine Will be done through me’. Realising this expression in human form presupposes a balanced inner marrying of masculine and feminine aspects and the attainment of a power of pure creation that exceeds merely personal creativity. This is my point of contact with Kata’s programme. For now I can do no more than wait and see how the association will unfold.

[We cannot strive to love ourselves since this implies forcing and division. Rather we must drop all striving to experience stillness and in this remember our first nature as love. Equally, it’s not possible to attain unity solely in oneself. This condition needs to be achieved in relationship with others. Otherwise, impressions of separateness that arise with respect to them simply reflect our unacknowledged inner dividedness. This is why I had to eat bitterness with regard to Chinese police and monks of rival sects.]

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The next day finds us on the road to Lake Mansarovar. We stop for a break on the plateau and I am drawn into meditation with the mountains. A song of the land comes to me. I begin to hum it inwardly. It establishes perfect resonance between human beings and the naturally occurring temple of this landscape. When it abates I turn and walk slowly toward our jeeps.

Suddenly I am compelled to stop. Attuning simultaneously to the Hearts of Heaven and Earth, I see a series of inner doors opening, creating a corridor effect. At the end of this corridor lies the darkness of Void, which is also the Heart of Love. An image of Maitreya issues forth and lodges in my Heart. I hear the words ‘See me first in the people of Tibet and then in all the peoples of the world’.

I return then to my jeep. A young Tibetan on a motor-bike happens by in that moment with a little boy strapped behind him. The man has long black hair, worn loose, and fierce warrior energy. He resembles a Lakota brave. Unbowed, he stops his bike and regards us without greeting. Being the nearest of our group, I approach respectfully, bowing slightly and extending my hand in salute.

Tentatively, the young man takes my hand. Once contact is made, our grip grows  warm. Then I shake hands with the little one, who follows his father’s lead. We are held now in the love of One Heart and I can see Maitreya in them both. After a discreet salute I return to the jeep. The man revs his bike and speeds away. I greet everyone I see from that point on. Almost always, Tibetans rejoice to find themselves called out. Their faces light up and broad smiles illuminate their being(s).

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The next day we awaken at Mansarovar and have our first meditation by its shore. My guidance is to stay apart from the group and so I do, attuning first into the Heart of the Lake and from there into the Heart of Earth and then of Void. These links are vivid, clear and ripe with promise. We drive that day to a new lakeside location close to Kailash which we cannot however see, due to unremitting cloud.

That night I cannot sleep and spend hours in half-wakeful spontaneous meditation. For most of this time, I pass between the body of the lake and that of the mountain, moving easily between and inside both. I am aware of this but exercise no control at any point. I have had a tacit, intuitive sense of what is to be done here since before leaving Ireland and understand that preparation is well in hand. This is a matter for soul, not mind. I agree to let it be in innocence and trust.

Later we visit Chu Gompa monastery. Here Padmasambhava, who brought Buddhism to Tibet, meditated in a cave for seven years before flying out through a hole in its roof. As we approach the cave a group of Tibetan pilgrims is just leaving. One of them, a young man, has been greatly affected by the experience. His body is charged with resonance and tears well in his eyes. For me this is more moving than the cave.

I feel no call for attachment to our past beyond securing healing and inspiration towards fulfilment in the Now of Presence. After the cave, we go to the top level of the monastery, a walled balcony high on a hill over the lake. The voice of a solitary monk is heard clearly from behind closed doors, chanting. I kneel in remembrance of my half-waking dream and feel my spirit carried on his song away from Lake Mansarovar to nearby Kailash.

One function of the monks’ chanting has always been to maintain humanity in right relationship with a Sacred Earth of which – under the guise of many traditions – we are still stewards. The voice of this lone monk preserves the coherence of the world here in this remote, utterly centred outpost, gathering gifts of a rich past for harvesting by Buddhas of a future which is Now.

Some of us climb a wooden ladder to the monastery roof. The monk comes out then, a short man who is angered by our trespass. He shouts and gesticulates furiously for us to descend before removing the ladder. A dark haze clouds his aura. My colleagues drift away. I kneel once more to restore interrupted harmony between the sacred lake and holy mountain. When I come to, the monk is standing by the wall not far away.

He smiles at me. Although we have been directed not to touch the monks, I am moved spontaneously to approach him, extending my open hand. He clasps it heartily and without hesitation. Then we fall into a god-filled embrace, this zealous keeper of a rich tradition and all that I am. We stand side by side then for some minutes, binding lake and mountain with the power of our mutual longing.

I salute him warmly as I turn to leave. He reciprocates brightly, radiant once more. I walk then to a low adjoining mountain whose summit is strewn with coloured flags spread above a bounded field of prayers inscribed on stones. While I am paying respects to this site and generations who have made it, the clouds vanish and snow-capped Kailash is revealed. Majestic and ethereal, it stretches from deepest Earth to highest Heaven, pristine against a clear blue sky.

This is my first sighting of the mighty being that has nonetheless served as a cardinal point of orientation throughout my spiritual life. Seeing it now, I also see something novel and unanticipated about myself, a potential for which as yet I have no name. I am pleased to note that it aligns with the monastery and prayer garden. Air is precious here and very, very fine. I have forgotten about being sick.

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Today we are due to visit Kailash. It is also the day on which our group mission is to culminate. I took part in Kata’s meditation last night to prepare. Later, spontaneously, I draw sketches, presumably to do with what is waiting to unfold. In these sketches, the mountain rises like a metaphor for all existence from unfathomed depths of the sacred lake (Void). Despite my breathless coughing, all feels good.

We first drive to Tarchen, from which we will follow an old pilgrim trail to Seralong monastery. This belonged to the ancient Bon tradition, which preceded Buddhism in Tibet. From what I can gather, Seralong honours and maintains a fusion of both traditions. Our visit there offers a promise of beautiful review and integration.

It is monsoon season on the high plateau. Our intrepid drivers undertake to get us to Seralong in their 4×4s. This involves negotiating many precariously flooded tracks. As always, they manage. Stunning vistas open as we climb to heights of over 5,000 metres. This at last is real Tibet, hidden from political intrigue, a domain of gods and pilgrims who know what it means to walk on sacred Earth.

Our mechanised prowess might have felt impious but doesn’t, even when we pass an indigenous group making the ascent on foot. I would certainly be unable to do so in my present condition, and we don’t have the time. For me this is a day of destiny, on which a long-standing appointment must be kept. I daresay that it feels so for us all.

Our vehicles pull up a hundred metres below a red-bricked ruin that I take to be the monastery. It looks deserted. Nima, our guide, ventures through a narrow door into interior darkness. Eagerly, I follow close behind. The floor is muddy due to many leaks. A monk gestures to us from above. We ascend a perilous set of cut rock steps, worn by time and use. We are beckoned into the first of two rooms which are proudly maintained, despite being musty and damp.

This larger room displays in its collection of artefacts the impact of Buddhist refinements. The second, to which we are also admitted, preserves energies of the earlier tradition. Not for the first time we are joined in our devotions by a Tibetan group which, as always, proves gracious and fore-bearing, even when we gather for ceremony in the smaller, Bon-inflected shrine. Sounding an ancient drum according to Kata’s inspiration, will secure access for each of us into the mountain’s Heart. Mine has already been secured but I follow suit, knowing that I also have a part to play in the work of the group.

Outside we relax in the sun ahead of a final steep ascent that must be made on foot. At 5,000 metres plus this will be a challenge for us all, not least steadfastly coughing me. I kneel on a rock beside a stupa decked with brightly coloured flags: blue, white, yellow, red and green. Instinctively, it seems, I tune in to the Hearts of Earth and Heaven before drawing in energies of Cosmos and of Source. I bow then into the soft clay of the mountain, proclaiming my imminent arrival and asking permission to do what must be done. A path opens inwardly for this, more specific than that implied by my dream.

Then it is time to walk. The air is thin and I find it hard to breathe. These last few hundred metres rise like an impossible task before me. I can’t even see where we are going but, motivated by spiritual instinct, lead the way, unable to do otherwise. My body functions as a mechanism to bear consciousness to a place where it must act to express the pattern of my essential life in a way I have aspired unknowingly towards since childhood.

The path grows steeper. It becomes harder yet for me to breathe. There is only one way I can continue, by entering wholly into the vibration of the mountain and making this the vehicle of my ascent. Again instinctively, I adopt a meditative mode that soothes my straining lungs, breathing in and out the Breath of God, through nose and mouth by turn, matching my movements to its rhythms, placing my feet intently so that the mountain swells to greet my every step.

I am gliding now as if entranced, in the grip of a total concentration that is also effortless. I know that I will get to where I must. John has been set aside so that Divine Will may be done. This arrangement needs only to be sustained for an essential soul appointment to be kept. Soon I am nearing the crest of the highest ridge. I can feel the power of Kailash behind a bank of cloud that hides it from me. A flat rock beckons. Perhaps this is where my prayer must be made?

I draw closer to it. No. I must go farther, closer to the edge. A depression in the ground bids me kneel. I do so lightly and immediately connect into the Heart of Earth. I feel one with the being of the mountain and yet also distinct. What now will be my prayer? No words have been vouchsafed. I have no script, just unadulterated longing. To be One! I feel this without words, concepts or reflection. My Heart bursts open. Waters of love flood through, surging towards Oneness. In that moment there is nothing else – no thought or formulations – only love, pure love, naked, trembling, surging and unadorned.

It shatters a human form which keeps me separate even as I long. Shattered then, I am restored to Unity. Humanness transcended, I soar with the mountain, part of its ascending cascade of existence, integral through becoming, innocent and free. Then, as consciousness grows used to this ecstasy of shattering, it amplifies a billion-fold. I cry aloud, infinitely opened, unrestrained and boundless save as a fragile conduit through which the yearning of a species now pours forth.

My prayer, this desolation of vast yearning, is given only in one form, to be given away, released into the soaring of the mountain, the urge of all existence to be One. I know this now in stillness, hushed and replete. It has been my mission all along: to crave mercy for my people, all peoples of the world, Tibetan and Chinese, Maitreyas every one. As I register this awareness a new wave breaks. I no longer kneel before a mountain crying into mists of the Unseen but am again part of it, borne by its flight above a primal lake that enfolds its invisible base, from which tides of Grace erupt to power ascent.

One such is gathering now. I sense it clearly, rising from fathomless depths to impel a new leap in the unfolding of existence, released through a Heart of Compassion on the roof of our world. Intuitively, I know this to be premonitory of the final wave of the Mayan calendar (which charts the unfolding of Consciousness through existence in space-time). I feel vibrations of this rising in my body as if it were the sacred mountain, absorbing frequencies with a view to digestion and relay.

This is a figure of speech, retrospectively applied. In the moment I have no view, only experience. I am seized by maelstrom, lost to great waves that I can neither track nor comprehend. It feels like a downloading that will take time to unpack. For now I know only that new energies of pure Creation have been released from Void into existence. That is the essence of the dynamic relationship between sacred lake and sacred mountain at this time. I will that Divine Will be done through it.

In this regard, finally, a wave of pure Blue lodges in my throat and I will that Divine Will be done through me. Then, just as abruptly as I was drawn into the storm of transformation, I am let go, released back to a human form perched on the edge of a high ridge beneath a lofty snow-capped peak that is almost visible now through dissipating cloud. Unsteadily I get to my feet and make my way down to where Kata’s meditation is evidently waiting to begin.

I take my place and enter into the spirit of her journey. Its story is not mine to tell save for details I must note below. For now, I say only that it was calmly delivered, an oasis of structure after the ferment from which I have emerged. I need to cough constantly throughout but try not to for fear of interrupting Kata’s flow. I hear wheezing chimes of infection un-cleared from the base of my lungs and remember a blue-throated god who swallowed poison.

I have brought it here from Kathmandu for reasons which I am too tired to consider and devote what remains of my energy to our group journey. When this is over Tashi approaches anxiously, eager to supply oxygen. I assure him that my problem has been not-coughing rather than breathing per se. Released back to my own rhythm, I breathe in and out the Breath of God to find stability again.

My companions are taking their ease after our meditation. Many seem engaged in private journeys. I walk back towards my ridge and lie on a rock, conscious that this place truly is an abode of gods. Numinous presences manifest easily here. I close my eyes and almost fall asleep.

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Next morning we begin the journey back to Kathmandu, made longer by checkpoint delays and circuitous detours occasioned by roadwork. We stop that night at a pilgrim lodge that connects us to an ancient stream. Although we are travelling in the wrong direction, we have offered energy and effort in service. This qualifies us to be borne by a great host and we sleep well, despite open toilets with a deep past.

Next day, the land speaks to us more easily. Another long bout of travel brings us to a new campsite. Owing to physical discomfort, I would gladly have been spirited back to Mayo but see now that a process of unpacking is at work that needs to happen in the land of a blue-throated god. It is easier to relax now and enjoy the high plateaus, knowing that essential work has been done and that its pattern is still unfolding.

On our last full day in Tibet we head for Niyalam, dropping 1,000 metres in the process. Before reaching it, we stop at a final high pass (5,280 metres as I recall). Here we make a closing ceremony that for me serves as an opening. I kneel after its words have been spoken and am immediately connected to the Hearts of Heaven and Earth. Cosmic energies flood in without request. A Void opens in me. Energies of pure creation stream out in all directions over the sprawling Himalaya, falling like fireworks from great heights.

A fourteen year old boy, the guardian of this place, asks Tashi what we are doing. Sending love to the universe is his reply. The boy nods easily, unfazed. Nourished by the frequencies of birthright, he is so enlightened that he doesn’t even need to know it. I catch his eye from my kneeling posture. Like complementary magnets long lost, we fly together in heartful embrace. Living at such altitude affects brain chemistry and perceptual range. I receive many memories from this boy.

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The next morning we approach the border. Monsoon rains have demolished the last sections of road so we have to complete our descent on foot. This injects new consciousness into our seeing and underlines the arbitrariness of human frontiers. Roadside dwellers on either side of Friendship Bridge are One People, despite the claims of China and Nepal. Immigration is relatively unclogged due to access problems. We pass easily from one fiction to another, leaving our sad Tibetan guide in a story that invites transcendence. May we all soon fly out from such caves.

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Having crossed the border we begin a long drive through the towering Himalaya back to Kathmandu. It is a novel experience to be surrounded by titanic beings rather than on top of them. The green world feels very different, prolific and new. Trees abound, and cascading waterways, all coursing towards a Great Mother River, expressing Her largesse as we do, descended from our lofty peaks. I see everything as if for a first time, bursting with vitality and love. Mountains rise in my Heart and rivers flow, within as without.

For six hours I salute people sitting by their homes, facing the road and impressions of our speeding bus rather than the jewels of constancy behind. Only four wave back in all that time. This is a land where innocence has been challenged to a point of compromise, where dollars and dignity negotiate in fragile alliance, working towards remembrance that Maitreya must be found in all the peoples of the world.

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I was wrong about traffic in Kathmandu. It is not chaotic but finely choreographed, even balletic. I saw this after Tashi had brought us to his home. Then this Maitreya of a man, our gracious host, sat astride his motor bike and sped like an arrow through oncoming vehicles before slipping easily into an equally raucous stream on the other side. It’s all a matter of attunement. I just hadn’t caught its rhythms, the frequencies that work.

When our first companions come to leave I almost cry. Kata says our disengaging happened at the last high pass but not for me. I go within and visualise a multi-layered geometric structure that has formed over these days. Giving thanks for all the beauty that was made, I allow its surface to unravel in my Heart. Then, returning to a lobby in the Yak and Yeti, I say goodbye to Randy, Marta and Manuel. That night poison starts to release from my Blue Throat.

                                                                    *

I have been home over a week and my throat is a different shade of blue. Miracles have unfolded in this time. While writing these words, I located a music of pure love by means of which Kailash awareness will be danced into the world. The Goddess has begun to sing anew, from beneath the depths of ancient poisoning. Her song carries the Dream of a New Earth, and power to sing this Dream alive.                                                                    

Afterword:

The core of what happened in Kata’s meditation is that we travelled to the Heart of Mansarovar to engage the essence of the Divine Feminine and carried it to the Heart of Kailash for marrying with the essence of the Divine Masculine, thus establishing a balanced unity. Christa and I spent years working to achieve this balance within and between. Remarkably, the process has continued since her passing. Essentially, all aspects of her Goddess creativity that were unfulfilled on Earth have been gathering since for expression through me.

When I arrived home from Tibet, I got sicker still. I had been obliged to hold myself together while travelling. On reaching home, I was able to let go. The ‘poison’ that released then, in sickness and through meditation, entailed a formal dissolution of patriarchal curbs on Goddess creativity that remained un-cleared through the course of Christa’s human lifetime. Within days I find myself, astonishingly, responding to situations with her enlightened sensibility, which remembers its first nature as Love.

This extends a pattern that has been unfolding since her ‘death’ and parallels on an individuated existential plane the symbolic trajectory of Kata’s Kailash journey. It means, quite literally, that (the aspect of our soul that was my Twin Flame) Christa continues to engage this dimension through me, especially with regard to Blue Throat creativity by which Divine Will is expressed. This is no case of reactive sentiment but the substance of a unity consciousness that develops as we realise the illusion of Spirit’s apparent limitation by form. There is much more to come in this regard (2).

Notes

(1) I have read accounts of failed attempts by Tibetan armies to invade Bhutan, for example, and have no cause to doubt their authenticity but am certain that such efforts were not instigated by people like those I met on the Tibetan plateau. On this certainty I rest my case.

(2) A first example will be a sacred play called ‘Dreaming A New Earth’. This also crystallised through last week’s illness and dates back to a dream of December 2006 in which I sing over a ‘dead’ Christa to bring her (the Goddess) back to life. We had no inkling at that time how radically this trajectory would unfold. Its principal stages are documented elsewhere.

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