Waitaha: Impressions of a Fool


I have been sleepless for forty hours through five airports and as many planes when I finally step into the Auckland air. I am greeted by a woman called Angel and whisked off to a marae in the suburbs. Protocol is explained on the way. On arrival, we are called forward by a haunting song of welcome. Approaching in single file, we remove our shoes and enter. Drunvalo and about thirty of our number line one wall. A group of male elders sits by the door. At the far end stand the Grandmothers, dressed in black, arranged like ranks of a Greek chorus. We are welcomed individually by all present. Soon afterwards a new group arrives and the process is repeated. There are one hundred and twenty of us coming from 37 countries all over the world.

We assemble gradually into the following day. Te Porohau, who seems to be our main guide, says ‘We have been waiting for you and you have been waiting for us.’ I certainly feel that and, if the meticulous programme circulated is any indication, we are due an intense period of healing and instruction. About ninety of us sleep tightly packed on mattresses in the hall. I wake up early out of deep blackness with a burning impulse to ask Te Porohau for my spirit name. This is not usual for me. I am not given to subordinating myself and am thoroughly content with my given name. Yet if ego is resisting a soul mandate, it must be set aside. I approach a sleepy Te Porohau and convey my request. He says my name will be given on the following day. Excellent!

We set out North after noon in three buses and an assortment of vans and cars, about 150 strong. There is a great feeling of adventure as we leave the city. Te Porohau has said that we will not be going to the far North as expected. He dreamt that a shadow would impede our way, posing threats to our safety. Since I have no knowledge of local geography, this makes little difference. I am pre-surrendered to anything that needs to happen and enjoy the passing countryside for as long as the light lasts (it being wintertime in the southern hemisphere). 

On the way, we stop to visit Tanae Mihi, a giant Kauri tree which is sacred to the people. Over 100 of us cram into a small clearing. Following intense meditation and exquisite singing, a difficult moment arises. I gather from within my altered state that one of the Waitaha men – known to me from the Auckland greeting ceremony – perceives an element of disrespect in the conduct of a non-Waitaha Maori. I have little understanding of this distinction and, like everyone in our group, hold my peace to facilitate harmonious resolution of what must now be acknowledged. It feels as if an ancient tension has been activated but is well contained by our large number.

Drunvalo speaks eloquently of a need to let go of old wounds if we are to fulfil our purpose. Tension abates but the incident adds an edge to the question ‘What is Waitaha?’ Two principal stories contend: 1) the Waitaha were original inhabitants of Aeoteorea who were later overwhelmed by a warlike people now known as Maori but transmitted their way of peace through female lines for generations, and 2) Waitaha evokes an ancient cultural heritage, hidden from white colonisation but carried on in secrecy by many of the native tribes known collectively as Maori. Everyone I ask has a different angle but the group that is directly sponsoring our visit seems to favour 1) while most others seem to favour 2). I have no grounds or need to judge.

We drive for nearly two hours in the dark before stopping. It seems we have reached our marae. It’s pitch black outside so I have no sense of where we are. Another welcome awaits us. I am near the back of our group when the song begins: the same plaintive, haunting quality as before. It feels as if ancient yearning is being expressed, even in a moment of apparent homecoming. I know it in my Heart as a poignant evocation of Oneness that is sundered – or apparently sundered – when Consciousness commits to entering the world of space-time. The great thing about this is that when ‘others’ recognise it also a wonderful, celebratory sense of illusion transcended arises. Unity prevails anew or, at least, its Dreaming.

The effect is heightened as we huddle in pitch darkness while over twenty rows of six abreast form, waiting to be admitted into our newest home. I remember Te Porohau’s words: we have been waiting for you. The depth of this yearning is carried by the song. Looking up an ascending ramp, I cannot see the woman singing. Her last tones still linger as I find a place at the back of the marae. We are in. Local elders greet us in Maori and Te Porohau responds on our behalf. Judging by the laughter it provokes, his address blends humour with assurance. We then sing to our hosts. The hall throbs with energies of good will. After eating in an adjacent dining room, about a hundred of us pile mattresses into the hall. The rest are driven to a smaller marae nearby. I fall quickly into a deep, dreamless sleep.


I rise early and go walking. Our marae is in a beautiful valley, ringed by mountains of eloquence and majesty. One in particular, topped by a pyramidal form, attracts me. I channel my Heart signature into it and get a preliminary greeting by return. The whole valley is like a chalice, perfect to contain our adventure. I find Te Porohau sitting on a low wall back at the marae. I join him and another of our group. Still enchanted with the energies of my walk (and not realising that his home is on South Island rather than here), I say ‘You live in the Eye of Creation’. Corny in retrospect, perhaps, but that is how I express my sense of the valley as a centre of creation. ‘Is that what it is?’ he answers tartly. His tone astounds me but on a deeper level I am not surprised, especially after my earlier encounter with Don Alejandro, the Mayan elder. Unfazed, I continue looking at the mountains.

Te Porohau then speaks of Vietnamese refugees who sheltered here from war but, reminded of home by the jagged peaks opposite, decided to leave. He is silent for a moment, then turns to me and asks ‘What is your field of expertise brother?’ I might have said lapsed scholar, dancer or some such but my soul jumps in straightaway with ‘Nothing’. This could sound boastful or dismissive, but I have said it. Te Porohau turns to our companion. ‘Our brother says he has no field of expertise. That means he has much to discover.’ He turns back to me and repeats the second sentence. I feel calm, pleased that he’s not offended and relieved that he doesn’t query what it means to be expert in ‘nothing’. I am committed to writing on this subject but for the moment have nothing to say. My first task is to stay innocent. After a while Te Porohau goes in for tea.

Breakfast is a miracle of good-humoured abundance. The kitchen staff, I gather, are volunteers donating their time and are endlessly cheerful and obliging. Our food is served with love. Someone is always waiting to sing. There is lots of laughter and good will. After eating, I go out to the land again, eager to deepen my connection. When I return I learn that I missed an impromptu address. Apparently Drunvalo spoke of once being shown how to move through rock. He noted the lesson without knowing why it had been given. Te Porohau said that we would now prepare for going through rock, although we wouldn’t be doing it today. We are to go into our Hearts, cover our heads and connect with the mountains in silence. They hold keys from our Sirian ancestors that go back 60,000 years and much farther before that.

I heard and report this second-hand. I was not part of Drunvalo’s group that travelled here in 2007 and didn’t know that he told members of this group that the purpose of a return visit in 2009 would be ‘to shake hands with the Sirians’. Nevertheless, I had a dream late in 2008 in which a giant whale came into my Heart, informing me that our Sirian fathers would mingle with participants on this Waitaha journey, and that I should be present. Things seem now to be heating up. I’ve already made a start with Pyramid Mountain. (I was not functioning in a mode of naming on this journey and this name didn’t entail any hint of disrespect. Despite not knowing its sacred name, I honoured the mountain constantly in my manner of relating to it.)

Soon after, we assemble in the hall for a further briefing and meditation. Te Porohau’s opening words are ‘Do you remember why you came? Let Nature put her arms around you and you will remember…’ I think I am remembering. Tears form behind my eyes as he begins to chant in Maori. I pull a scarf over my head and absorb his sounds, my Heart thrown open to the winds. We are to get a glass of water, drink half and give the rest to Nature before setting out on our attempts to walk (as if) into a mountain.

In acquiring language we became different. We became the difference between Nature and ourselves. This pattern has been consolidated by our human institutions, so that now we damage Nature just by doing what we must to keep going, includes our own first nature. To commune, we must approach in silence. We can also flow on the sound of sacred vowels back to our Sirian ancestors and before them back to the Pure Light from which Drunvalo and possibly all of us have come.

I walk physically on a mountain after drinking and offering my water as directed. The experience is beautiful but little different than my experience this morning, or at home where I have communed with mountains over many years. In Gaelic mythology, the Tuatha De Danann (people of the God/dess Anu/Dana) are said to have retreated into hollow mounds following the coming of the Celts. In early stories, my ancestors moved effortlessly and without remark between these worlds.

Later, Te Porohau says that both angels and Mother Earth have told him that a pole shift is imminent on our planet. This doesn’t fit my intuition. I am now pitched without evidence against scientific prediction, ancient prophecy and indigenous wisdom but can’t change what I feel. I have tried to ensure that I am not reacting out of fear or attachment, so that what remains of my innocence can sense its truth. This attracts little support but is as it is. I think it has to do with ‘nothing’.

Te Porohau also says that Drunvalo is to be initiated as a Waitaha Elder that night in a ceremony that we are invited to witness. He (Drunvalo) will then unify the tribes on higher dimensional levels and we will do the same on Earth collectively, bringing back the memories and gifts of all by reawakening our deep soul connections. Great magic will return as a result, which the Waitaha consciously suspended in 1735 for fear of its dilution and usurpation by colonising groups.

Drunvalo’s initiation is a deeply moving experience for us all, driven by the power of sacred chant and ritual gesture. Spiritual treasures of the Waitaha are on open display. It feels to me like a marvellous step forward, the first of a series required to bring ancient and modern strands of human civilisation into creative alignment. Directly after the ceremony, a young woman is brought into our presence, disoriented and fatigued. By some anomaly she had been left behind in Auckland and is only now being united with our group. A welcoming ritual is improvised on her behalf. The elders express deep regret and take full responsibility for her difficulties. I am moved by the depth of their concern.

It’s late by the time all this has happened. We will soon be converting our room from its ceremonial appointment back into a crowded sleeping space but for now it is thick with the hum of awed congratulations. Then I realise that my backpack – containing night-gear, passport, wallet etc. – is buried somewhere under stacked mattresses on which people are still sitting. I tell one of the Waitaha men. He says he’ll ask Te Porohau to make an announcement: many eyes permit easy retrieval. We go to him. My companion speaks. Looking at me, apparently remembering, Te Porohau’s face looks blank. ‘What?’ he says, as if roused from a more interesting dream. My escort repeats. I add a description of the bag. Te Porohau sighs. A mattress is shifted to my left and the missing bag comes into view. I retrieve it and say that the matter is now resolved.

He breathes deeply and says ‘While I’m gathering my breath let me say that we have no gurus or leaders here.’ My companion looks surprised by the apparent randomness of this declaration and I don’t know what to make of it either, except that it’s not random. I hold my innocence. My Heart has been expanding all night and is now open beyond vulnerability. The episode feels like a kind of (unwitting) test but raises also a prospect of deeper love, beyond mistrust and apprehension. Why do I keep mis-connecting with this man? I realise that the day has passed and my spirit name has not been bestowed but my mission was to ask, not necessarily receive. I say ‘I was just looking for my bag, thank you’ and retire.


I awaken from another night of deeply dreamless, endlessly refreshing sleep. Again my sense is of having been immersed in a black void. My travel fatigue has gone and I feel as if I have at last fully arrived. Stepping carefully over still snoozing members of my international family, I head for the bathroom. Passing through a small outer room, I notice that Te Porohau is stirring. He sits up, blinks and rubs his eyes. I stop, go back and kiss him on the lips, saying ‘I love you brother’. His face lights like a beacon. We have been swimming by night in one ocean, I surmise.


We visit a small marae with exquisite ancestor carvings. Once again we are made very welcome. Later we hear stories of the headlands overlooking Hokianga Bay and then, following some confusion, arrive at a beach to perform a ceremony with Te Porohau. Drunvalo is evidently expected but doesn’t arrive. My sense is that it doesn’t matter. Te Porohau proceeds in any case. We are to attempt something which hasn’t been done since 1735, namely to revive an ancient pact with dolphins whereby they drive an ample amount of fish into the bay to feed the people, who agree not to disturb them in return. A ritualist has prepared the scene for our arrival. We direct our gaze into the centre of the bay and send forth the vibrations of our sacred sounds. This also restores an ancient mode of communing and stimulates us to remember the inner depths from which we call. We maintain our chant for roughly twenty minutes. Next day, word has it that the fishermen report a record catch.

That night we engage in further ceremony under the elders’ direction. This involves us men honouring the women of our group by painting their face and hands in a ritual setting of heightened consciousness and expectation. This empowers them to embody and us to serve the Sacred Feminine. The accord seals our collective adoption into the ranks of Waitaha. Full of strong power and subtle beauty, the ceremony inspires me to an even deeper, darker dreamless sleep. I learn much later that a 4 am assembly for another ceremony at the beach had been announced over dinner but I didn’t hear and anyway seem to need extraordinarily long periods of sleep. I accept what comes and doesn’t.


Next morning we assemble in the hall. One of the elders quite unexpectedly expresses concern at our feeling that we’re not getting our money’s worth. I have no idea what he means or why he’s saying this. Even if our food is ‘simple’, it’s nourishing and served with such love that none of us – I’m certain – would even think to complain. Drunvalo answers promptly, saying that we’re not concerned about money, that we bring something the Waitaha don’t have and vice-versa.  He doesn’t specify what we might offer ‘the ancient world’ by way of advancing our mutual effort to build a new civilisation and evolve successfully to the next stage of our development. No-one else has ever done so either, to my knowledge. He also says we can’t discover what needs to be done unless we explore options together. I am delighted when these words are well received.

That afternoon, we hike to the river for another ceremony, stopping at a cemetery to honour golden-haired (Scandanavian) ancestors who visited long ago, contributing their DNA to Waitaha genetics. Te Porohau then draws our attention to the pyramid mountain opposite, saying that Egyptian ancestors travelled there in the past. The group resumes its journey to the river. I kneel a while communing with my pyramid ancestors before following. Strong energy builds in me as we walk the remaining 2-3 kilometres. Soon I have caught up with Drunvalo and Te Porohau at the head of our procession. As the river draws near, I can’t help but outpace them. The road is overlooked by stones on both sides for a stretch. I feel them vibrating strongly as I pass, as if amplifying the build-up I continue to experience in myself.

At the river, Te Porohau wades in waist-high before calling on Drunvalo and a female guardian to flank his grandson R, for whom this event seems to be an initiation. I enter the water to knee height, standing in the front rank of our group. Te Porohau moves to one side as we begin our chant. Energy builds powerfully and quickly. In seconds I am filled with a prodigious, lung-bursting surge that expresses as a song of primal yearning. It has a Native American quality and urges a plea for high, high communion that goes way beyond Sirius. In fact the only Sirian influence I discern is in my hand movements. These are subtle, geometric and precise by contrast with the untrammelled vitality of my Heartsong. Their function is to assist downloading of a powerful light beam that streams through my body into the river and Heart of Earth. Total engagement in this process leaves no room for thought and I can say no more of it except that it lasted as long as our ceremony, perhaps 10-15 minutes.

I also note subtle threads of energy streaming out from Pyramid Mountain. Much of the descending energy feeds specifically into R, who kneels devoutly as our singing fades. He is waist high in the water. For a short while, I am moved to stand before him. A corridor of light streams from my Heart into his and then the process is for me complete. I feel full to over-flowing as I dry myself and pull on socks and shoes. Te Porohau waits until everyone has left the river, intones some final prayers and takes a van back to the marae, still in his wet clothes. I embrace a magnificently shining R and begin my walk home, feeling that I truly do belong here now.

Half way back I stop off at the churchyard where the cemetery is. This time it is possible to kneel alone and contemplate quietly impressions as they arise. My thought was simply to greet the ancestors again and thank them. My sense beholding neatly ordered rows of crosses and headstones is that yes, we have come to this centre of the Peace Nation to align our memories and gifts, cultural and genetic, with theirs and each other’s, building a common vision through shared dreaming that will birth from our efforts to establish peace among  ourselves. I am wording this now but that is the feeling, more or less, with which I left the cemetery.

Words press more insistently as I walk the rest of the way, slipping in and out of sequence until a stable order is achieved: ‘We are capable of true memory, impossible love and divine creation. 2012 is already upon us. We are not spectators of this process, nor merely participants; we are its creators. 2012 will be what our love, our daring and our creativity ordain.’ I am at first nervous of these words. They commit me to an unprovable, unfashionable view. I write them down on getting back and put them away.

There is singing over dinner that night, not international cabaret but joyous, deeply-felt Waitaha soul-singing that bridges worlds and makes of our apparent separateness a lesson for all existence. If I were a Creator, I reflect, I would love to hear my creatures singing in this way. We are all Creator give or take effects of concealment and disguise, but these people love to live and live to love. It is a joy to be sharing this ceremony with them and to have helped create another for the sake of all at their Sacred River this evening. My hope for this journey – relations of equality between indigenous and modern people, including shared spiritual creativity rather than just privileged witness – is being well met. Only shared creativity, with its prerequisites of shared trust and remembered love, can see us through. Even the potentially stressful terms of our enforced intimacy here ordain a promise of great triumph for ALL OUR PEOPLE.

Te Porohau calls for silence then, which is respectfully forthcoming despite the lingering excitements of our day. He asks us to retire quietly to the hall and sit silently a while, allowing a cone of silence to form by the time he comes to speak with us. We leave the dining room in dribs and drabs, still talking and still animated by high energies from our day. This continues. Te Porohau arrives in due course. The opposite of a cone of silence is in place. As a unit we are fractured, adolescent, inchoate. He talks in English only, which is not his medium for magic. I close my eyes when he speaks to feel the energy. There is very little. He is polite and restrained when he says that a reward will come to those who are humble and persist.

Next morning, after breakfast, there is no sign of Drunvalo or Te Porohau. I go for a walk alone and commune with Pyramid Mountain. All the elders have disappeared when I return. Word has it that all are off attending some high initiation elsewhere. A session will be starting shortly in the hall for the rest of us. I attend out of curiosity and respect. How is our world group to function now, lacking not only a programme but the presence of those who helped to form it? Three secondary Maori teachers have stepped forward, making the rest of us – by default – students. This arrangement no longer accords with my dream. Although their efforts are admirable and sincere, they pre-empt challenges which we would otherwise have to face. What follows is clever and well-presented but also schematic and ersatz. I have spent years doing what it evokes along my own country’s trail of tears, and others’.

We are told at lunch that we need to sleep for an hour because we are feeling drained from processing the morning session. I have already chosen to follow the river to the ocean, which can’t be far beyond the site of yesterday’s ceremony. The landscape feels more familiar as I go, opening to me, receptive and generous in its disclosures. I feel more grounded now in Aoteorea. What is happening at the marae feels like travesty. Chaos stirs and controlling hands step in. I do not think about this further. We are each responsible for our choices and I follow the path of my Heart. That principle has brought me to this point and will sustain me beyond it. I am glad to have the river and the ocean to myself.

I kneel at the Pacific, chanting ancient sounds that rise up from my bones, mindful of a language that I used to babble years before, when I was studying Druidry. It came to me particularly during long mountain walks, as a sense of separateness by which I had previously been bound began to dissolve in stages that came to include all plant, animal and mineral life. This language bears resemblance to that of the Maori, although mine used to feel more guttural. Singing it here brings me into accord with crashing waves. I continue for a while before surrendering, soundless and wordless, to a mighty presence that rises behind my closed eyes. The Ocean being of the Pacific salutes that of the Atlantic, which has long known how to dissolve me in love. I fall silent then, allowing Ocean thunder to dismantle and remake.

When I come to, the sky has clouded. It is overcast and dark. I thank my Mother and leave quickly, while I can still pick a visible way between receding beach and encroaching tide. I have just made it when twilight fades, leaving me 4 kilometres of dark walking to get back. By the time I’m half way the space around me is pitch black, plus it’s raining. I feel exhilarated. My cells are singing and my step is light. Dinner is still available when I arrive. I join two friendly stragglers and we talk. Te Porohau comes in with a companion. He sits beside me and she opposite, although there are many free tables available. He is flushed with the energy of high ritual as I am with that of the ocean. He strokes my sweaty arm affectionately, then turns to his companion and starts a conversation that we have no business overhearing. He exudes the energy of a mountain the whole time. I wondered later why this happened but did not understand till now. When some later felt that Te Porohau was a charlatan, my cells held a memory of his mountain to my ocean.


Rumour has it that we will not be leaving here, despite the multi-venue notice of our itinerary. I am neither surprised nor disappointed. The logistics of accommodating our number is forbidding and Grail Valley has become a good home for whatever must happen or try to happen between us. We are told formally that Drunvalo will address us after breakfast. He will tell his personal story with a view to activating deep memories in us all. Millions of years ago, he says, he set out from a place where there are no planets and stars. I close my eyes, open my Heart through infinite space and listen. His words hold no mystery. This realm of pure light feels familiar in the non-time of his recitation but he has explicit recollection of the descent process whereas I have none at all, except intuitively.

Then I experience a deeper vision breaking through the dazzling splendour of pure light. The light vanishes and I am in a field of pure darkness. A swirling, spiralling motion is faintly discernible at the centre of its blackness. I know this is the beginning of my soul. A complete download of patterned realisations happens in a flash (1). They register implicitly as I continue listening. Although I hear Drunvalo’s words, it isn’t by way of absorbing information. Rather they float inside my consciousness, evoking vivid pictures which also float before they are replaced by other waves. I experience this as an archetypal sequence which evokes far more vivid imagery that is normal for me. Afterwards I can’t remember very much, despite a very clear impression of ‘remembering’ all.

Afterwards, particular expressions rest luxuriantly in me, such as ‘My great, great, great grandfather sang a song and it became a dream’. I cherish the image of two year old Drunvalo – diapered in my vision – playing with enormous blocks on the Pleiades, manipulating patterns till he ‘gets’ the whole design. When he reaches Sirius in mid-adolescence, ears prick up. He and B, another Waitaha elder, have found that they hold almost identical memories of this time. Both remember being principal officers on a spaceship which was bound for Earth with a crew of 400. Current speculation is that our group were members of that crew, assembled now for a prophesied return of Sirian ancestors tomorrow. My dream mentioned Sirian ‘fathers’ specifically. I take this to denote the group which dreamt humanity into existence, complementing the role of a Nephilim mother with whom we must also be reconciled in due course.

I return to hear that Earth is the most important place in the Universe right now because ‘this’ has never before been attempted. I don’t know what ‘this’ refers to but am too entranced to ask. Nobody else does either. My eyes open. Our whole company is focused on the unfolding of Drunvalo’s tale. He says we can’t simply leave Earth without incurring vast karmic debt. We must leave the planet exactly as we found it. Thereafter we will never go back into polarity again but will remember lessons we have learned. Something about this doesn’t resonate. It raises an old theme concerning ‘we’. Who is ‘we’?

Drunvalo then leads a Heart meditation, using methods from ‘Living in the Heart’. I have had my own practice for years, working from the spiritual Heart. I learned his way out of respect before attending an Earth Heart Sky workshop. This worked well also but my intuition soon after was to revert. I follow Drunvalo’s method at first but am impelled to switch back to my own. As I do my Heart expands, as if to encompass infinite space. Hundreds of children march through dressed in white. The atmosphere is of innocence, tenderness and love. At the end of their procession, an image rises of my mother’s death-bed eyes, pale blue and refined to a state of absolute clarity. A condition of pure feeling obtains between us. This pure feeling is also pure love. It overflows inside my Heart and pours out in all directions. Sublime tears well behind my eyes. I see a field of massive standing stones, adorned with spiral and lozenge designs, bequeathed by ancestors. I couldn’t possibly feel more open, no matter what method I use. I tell Drunvalo about my alternative approach. He isn’t interested but says he will check it out when he has time. After twelve years ‘checking’ myself, I experience a moment of liberation.


Drunvalo also said earlier, apparently for no reason, that the Waitaha aren’t very good at accounts. They under-budgeted for our visit and that’s why the food we’re getting is so simple. As a result they are now financially stressed. The kitchen workers aren’t even getting paid. This disclosure feels inappropriate. I love our meals, whatever we are given, because they are presented with such love. Nevertheless, I hear questions about the organisation of our journey for the first time over lunch. The dominant sense is that the Waitaha should not be experiencing difficulty when we have paid so much to our US organisers to be here. Everyone wants to support indigenous efforts and is mortified at the thought of our hosts incurring loss on our account, even if they lack experience of groups our size. My first thought is that this is a misunderstanding triggered by Drunvalo’s (to me) mysterious comment. It will be sorted out. The arithmetic is not difficult and our good will, I think, is universal.


I go walking to remember why I am here and to commune further with my Pyramid. Expectations have been stirred concerning the prospect of visiting sleeping Sirians in a cave. This seems excessively literal to me, beyond problems posed by our number. And what is to happen if we should meet them so? Will we take photos? The impulses I have been feeling since Egypt last February are far subtler. I kneel in a secluded place before the mountain, attune to it and settle quietly into my Heart. I stay this way for some time, registering vibrations that come to me as pure feeling, without sense. Then I return to the marae. On the way, a pattern crystallises in awareness. The theme of this Sirian quest, at least for me, is to be about ‘my Father’s business’ – which is a mythological code for doing exactly what I was born to do. All our human issues to do with aloof, abandoning and uncaring fathers have been projected on to a primary Sirian group and clearing of this is necessary before we can come into right relationship with Divine Father and later (via the Nephilim) Divine Mother aspects of our being. If we can manage this, we can grow into full remembrance of ourselves as Divine Children born of Heaven and Earth. Sirian encounters feel to me like a stage in this process. I don’t associate them at all with visiting caves. It feels simply like a case of freer association, with them taking initiatives in engaging us and not necessarily collectively.  

I get back in time for dinner. Drunvalo and the elders are nowhere to be seen. Afterwards, a haka session gets underway in the hall. At other times, I might have had an appetite for this but tonight it just feels coarse and loud. I borrow a torch and go walking under the stars. The road away from the marae is pitch dark. My Heart needs darkness to see. I walk in blackness a long time, hardly using the torch. Sounds of night-time wilderness surround me. I feel tender, as if an ocean of tears is waiting to release. There is no emotion associated with this but also no lack of feeling. I am not numb, hurt or angry; just unborn. When I get back, haka noises are reaching a crescendo. From outside, I hear a loud voice say ‘If we are to make this change we must move as one.’ In my tender state, this feels horrifying. It violates the spirit of Tao and Grail alike. If we each do exactly that for which we were born, Unity is already perfect, without need of regimentation. I wait for clamour to subside, find a mattress and fall into a deep refreshing sleep.

The next day is when the fateful shaking of Sirian hands is scheduled to occur. Peculiarly, it is also the only day when we actually go on a scheduled journey.  We travel first to a marae situated opposite a sacred mountain dedicated to the first ancestor, Kupe. Again we are beautifully received. Then we go to Waitangi, where a treaty was signed between the British and native leaders in 1845. We trudge through a dull colonial residence before splitting into groups to inspect landscaped grounds and a wonderfully carved marae, in turn. Carving was a primary means of story-telling before the imposition of literacy. Being inside this marae is like inhabiting a story. Carvings of ancestors adorn every wall. Along both sides, carved images depict male and female representations of fourteen principal tribes of the region.

They highlight distinguishing features of each tribe in a stylised manner that evidently harks back to stellar origins. Every type has a distinctly extra-terrestrial aspect. I try to sense affinity with particular ones but don’t succeed. My response is strongest when I stand in the centre of the room and call vibrations from all of the star tribes into my Heart. Every one also displays aquatic features, indicating that they once spent lots of time in water. This presumably relates back to Lemuria. I stay through the visit of our second group as well. When I finally leave, I am super-charged with strong, vibrant energy and would love to perform ceremony on an extensive lawn that stretches down to the sea.

I feel as I did at the river a few days back, overflowing with energy that longs to be expressed. Between Ocean, Earth and Sky, this treaty could be sung to dissolution in my Heart and something far more wonderful conjured in its stead, but Waitaha elders are nowhere to be seen. Drunvalo looks as if he’d rather be shaking hands in a cave. This is the day and nothing seems to be happening. My family wants to go shopping! After a cursory evocation of universal love, truth and peace, we are called back to the buses. My sense remains that something truly wonderful might have happened here had we been better focused. I have enacted the archetypal Grail pattern of failing to follow primary impulse on first exposure.  I accept responsibility for my short-coming in this matter and pray that evening may prove wiser than the day.

Drunvalo and the elders are missing after dinner. There is no communication, notice or instruction. Our secondary teachers set up a waka (sacred canoe) in the hall, ingeniously fashioned out of blankets, mattresses and pillows. I borrow a torch and go in search of Sirians. My first thought is to head for the cemetery but something stops me. I don’t know what. The night is overcast, allowing only fleeting glimpses of the stars. I stop at a rugby club, about half-way to my intended destination. I close my eyes, centre and sing yearningly into the dark, half-longing that some 5th dimensional emanation will embrace me. A thought arises that part of me is still afraid and not yet prepared. This surprises me but fits the circumstances well. What part of me can be afraid? I am not new to crying in the dark but I am also not in the cemetery. I dream ways of extending the window in which a miracle is scheduled to occur. The voice of blackness says only ‘True meeting will happen in your Heart’.

Chastened, sad but also feeling strangely inspired I return to the marae. This time I am deeply moved by the sight of my family’s colourful tableau. It conjures a unity of purpose that was missing at Waitangi. H invites me to paddle the upholstery canoe but I decline, unable to countenance physical effort in that moment. Other rhythms are alive inside me. Later I fall into a dark, dreamless sleep and remember to embrace my brother H the next morning.


Drunvalo will address us after breakfast. We cram eagerly into the hall, wondering if some recuperation of yesterday’s no-show may yet be disclosed. He stands to speak, slowly and deliberately: all indigenous cultures are different and we moderns can’t impose, wherever we go. We don’t control what happens here because it isn’t our land. He, Te Porohau and B have been talking. More accurately, B has been quizzing him about their mutually remembered story. Unfortunately, B has written his version and won’t be persuaded of Drunvalo’s authenticity until he says something that isn’t in the written account. This has now happened. B cried and Te Porohau retired. Drunvalo says they hadn’t really thought a day would come when they would have to open up that cave.

This refers to a cave in the vicinity where ship-wrecked Sirians are believed to be sleeping. Regrettably, since his 2007 visit, right of access to this cave has passed to another family which is not prepared to admit us. Another elder has said there is a different cave we can get to but he has disappeared. Word comes that he has been sighted and Drunvalo goes to engage him. He promises to return in twenty minutes but doesn’t. Rather he leaves having created a fresh expectation that it may still be possible for ‘us’ to enter a cave.

We have a ‘free’ afternoon after our late lunch. Vans drive us to various attractions: shops, canoeing, thermal baths. I set out early for the ocean. Again I find a quiet place and kneel before the crashing waves. It is a beautifully sunny day. I open my Heart and evoke the spirit of the Orca whale that filled it in Mexico nine months before. Amazingly, I feel the same resonance again, as if vibrations of the sea are being remembered in me. Reminded by the Waitangi marae that our Sirian-Lemurian ancestors spent aeons in water, I ask that memories of the whales and dolphins be returned to me. This happens vibrationally. My body shakes with energies of upheaval and release. Tears gush. My sensibility is overwhelmed. A whale swims through my Heart. Energies of the ocean engulf me. I feel as if I am being dismantled and remade. Then I am impelled to dance, giving shape by the moment to impulses that now flow freely in me. I move as light, a dolphin and a fish – three modalities that Drunvalo noted in his story. I practise, imaginatively, rolling in and out of bodies, rocks and hard places: a good way to spend free afternoons.

There is a rumour when I return that Drunvalo has gone with the elders to a cave on South Island to which ‘our’ families control access. Angry feelings are expressed concerning the responsibilities of leadership and handshakes that for us will not now happen. I am unsurprised, having previously witnessed Drunvalo’s single-mindedness in relation to a spiritual task. The elders, I daresay, are attempting to keep faith. All are compounding effects of abandonment in our now ‘fatherless’ group. I have no doubt that this is part of a design which is not attributable to our leaders’ foresight but some greater unfolding. Their excursion seems to me ill-advised. Some of us retain faith, others are aggrieved. My sense is that we are all being asked to assume the authority of our own experience, admit surface chaos and find our own orientation in its midst. There is no semblance of a programme after dinner. We slouch gradually towards bed where I retrieve, in dreaming, a part of me that had been afraid to encounter Sirians in the dark.

Next morning, despite renewed speculation that Drunvalo is to return, there is again no word. I no longer care, although I am concerned that our beautiful ancient-modern Waitaha concord appears to have been badly compromised. In any case, our teachings must be sought in what we have created and continue, in this moment, to create. Great blessing would follow on a withdrawal of all dependencies from iconic figureheads. A Buddha met on the road isn’t known within. Our secondary teachers have arranged a ‘sharing’. I attend to see what we have made. Only half of us are present. What follows is an exchange of cultural gifts – songs, dances, stories – rather than streams of complaint and critique. I sing words of Gaelic into the wooden frame of our marae, honouring a specific request from my Irish ancestors.

After lunch a range of leisure options is again made available. Our hosts are doing all they can to reduce the shadow of our disappointment. I go again to the river and the ocean, this time with friends, bidding farewell to the landscape as I pass. We enjoy a wonderful feast that night, again lovingly prepared, without figureheads. I slip early into a last marae sleep. A once-scared part flies enthusiastically through my dreams.


Next morning, our last at Hokianga, we learn that Drunvalo has returned. We will meet after breakfast in the hall. He starts by talking about money, saying that the original Waitaha budget was under-estimated and enhanced in US costing of the trip to protect against anticipated shortfall. He didn’t say by how much but did say that almost everything now had been committed to the Waitaha and/or to cover expenses associated with our journey. He also said accounts would be prepared to show how every penny had been spent. Others get involved in questioning and defending this, sometimes angrily. I hope an account surfaces and proves that a due portion of the half million plus NZ dollars collected found its way to our hosts.

Drunvalo then spoke about his journey South with the elders. He told how, rounding a bend at 75 miles per hour, the rim of one wheel had been struck by a projectile, causing it to spin out of control. The occupants might have been killed but weren’t because they managed to stay centred. There is an implication that dark forces were involved. The story sounds more silly than heroic: why 75 mph!? Anyway, they got to the cave and went in but the Sirians failed to show. Drunvalo went into meditation and saw a face with two glowing eyes, so contact was made. He and B hold two keys which, when turned simultaneously, will initiate a huge change of consciousness on the planet. We will be among the first to feel this. Our mission has been a success. He looks anxious, drained and only half-convinced. I know that he plays a sacred role and feel great compassion for him. Our necessary talk cannot happen otherwise.

There is a pause then as elders from our host and neighbouring maraes come in. I am glad they have not needed to witness our drama. Te Porohau follows and immediately chides us for bitter talk at the expense of Brother Drunvalo, who is blameless. A member of his own family robbed him blind and when this happened, it was Brother Drunvalo who stepped in. I assume that this is true but I had never up to then heard a single member of our group speak bitterly at any time, despite spartan conditions and dubious example. Also, Te Porohau’s withdrawal has not endeared him to many, especially after the gracious invitation he extended to all of ‘us’. Then something miraculous happens.

I think Te Porohau says that he will take us back before the origins of humanity. My consciousness shifts immediately so it’s hard to remember. I kneel as he begins what I hear as a magical chant, directly opposite him at the far end of the hall. My Heart expands in all directions. Tears form at its centre, as at a Point of Pure Creation. Slowly, this Point of Creation at the centre of my far-flung Heart begins to weep. The tears have a crystal quality, like liquid quartz. They awaken a depth of love in me, so sublime that I can hardly bear it. My Heart radiates light in all directions. I AM one with infinite space, centred in that still breaking-open point through which a stream is flowing now, then a river, small at first, then mighty.

Soon a waterfall is cascading in my Heart. I cup my hands before me, eyes closed, and see it washing over them. The flow seems to regulate itself, issuing smoothly as from a fountain, filling my hands with clear water that swirls a bit before spilling uniformly. Water is now streaming in my Heart and I am rapt by a vast ineffable love that knows all, comprehends all and forgives. Every harsh word of this morning rises in an instant, hovers in my Heart and dissolves. Any thought I might have is clarified instantly. I don’t have any thoughts but keep my eyes closed, vaguely conscious of Te Porohau’s chant, radiating this boundless love I feel out all around me. Water is still flowing through the centre of my Heart.

Then a great sun rises in my expanded sphere, which before had felt dark. Although this great sun fills me, I seem to view it from behind. I cannot project it but changing the size of my Heart sphere changes its size also. Golden-yellow-red, it can be as big as my Heart allows. Words from a song ‘The Crying Light’ come to mind: ‘I was born to represent you/ To carry your head into the sun/ To carve your face into the back of the sun’. I don’t understand but sense that this vision will govern the rest of my life. Te Porohau’s chant has stopped. I open my eyes and the sun disappears. I can still feel water streaming through my Heart. I am in the room but the room is also in me. I am held in an ocean of love.

Closing my eyes, I find I can extend my Heart sphere instantly, and contract. My body is tingling and aglow. It feels as if this love envelops our hall and everyone in it. Te Porohau calls people from our various countries up to sing, speak and bid farewell. Then he calls on Elders from communities which have hosted us. ‘You came to us’, one says, ‘and showed respect, tolerance and love.’ Absolutely, though I found more to marvel at than tolerate! I savour the words, the speakers and the beautiful feelings they express. Then they sing. My people love to sing, and how we sing! My Heart soars with joy in all existence, modelled perfectly by wo/men I would be privileged to meet in any world, country or dimension. And they have called me Family!


A vibrant crowd treads warily on a waterlogged lawn, struggling to load cases. I meet Drunvalo coming up a stone ramp to the hall. He looks haggard and drawn. I move to congratulate him: ‘Well done brother.’ He stares blankly and says ‘Maybe tonight at the hotel.’ I long to ask ‘What ails thee?’ but again he is unable to receive. It seems we will be put up at a hotel to end on a high note. No-one has told Te Porohau, who expects a resumption of farewells at the Auckland marae. This is settled fast. We are given ‘Waitaha beneficiary’ certificates on the bus and a choice to stay at the marae or King’s Gate Hotel. Many opt for the first. I too feel strongly drawn but intuition says that I have had enough. I have already experienced visceral tearing from our womb-space at Hokianga. King’s Gate will be my transit to another forty hours of planes and airports. This has been my first visit and although Waters of Life have broken, I need and want to come again. Even if my Family has dysfunctional aspects, it remains my Family and is worth troubling to perfect. It is where parts of God remember wholeness, making Home and making One.


As soon as I reached Ireland, I wrote up the Sun and Water vision for sharing with C, who was still in Germany. Two days later an email came from Te Porohau. Addressed to the group, it repudiated our visit and asked us to return to our worlds in peace while leaving the Waitaha to theirs. Dismayed, I replied at once, including the account of my vision. Hours later, I received a generous response from Te Porohau, relaying words from Grandmother Rahui – the clan matriarch – that affirmed my waterfall vision as a core aspect of Waitaha spiritual culture (1).

I also wrote to Drunvalo , querying a possibility that the face he saw in his cave might be related to the sun aspect of my vision, which the Waitaha hadn’t commented on. He has yet to reply but I did get a group mail acclaiming him as a Master Teacher who would soon be teaching more about unity consciousness from the vantage point of his exclusive access. I see a contradiction in this stance which we all need to overcome if we are to disengage from futile careers as sellers of water in a River.

Soon afterwards Christa fell ill and attention turned to what my Celtic ancestors used to call ‘the true meat’. Her condition was physically treatable but her soul chose to forego this option. After she had moved through a passage of Heart-rending beauty, I slowly came to grasp what my Sun vision had been about. I received confirmation of this and directions on how to proceed while on a Vision Quest in the Sahara during January 2010. I have begun to implement this vision now and will share details soon (2).


(1) The next day, Te Porohau sent a conciliatory group mail, encouraging dialogue. Fresh waves of doubt and affirmation followed, stirring expressions of resentment to do with moral relativities and colonial fall-out. Such issues need to surface to move encounters like ours beyond levels of superficial politeness which impede the possibility of achieving real unity across ancient-modern, Christian-Pagan and other such fabricated divisions. Notwithstanding signal lapses into the illusion that some souls are more equal than others, the resolution of Waitaha to welcome us as equals cut through layers of mannered posturing and allowed new depths of unity consciousness to incubate amongst those of us who slept and dreamt together.

(2) See ‘On Becoming the Grail’.

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