As a result, my daily walk in life became an endless series of distractions. I ate, but despised that I had to. I worked and even enjoyed the feeling of accomplishment, but resented through my teeth the need to work for money. I hated money, yet with a modern family in a modern world, I obviously had to have it. I would often begin a hobby only to quickly begrudge the vanity in which I partook. This world was cruel and boring by comparison and I constantly sought things, anything, to distract me from this harsh reality.
There was only so much that I could accomplish with the mind-images I saw, and thus with the good came the bad. Increasingly I felt trapped with the memories of a life that I could neither prove nor pursue. Thus, work became my friend in that it brought the diversions and exhaustion I desperately needed to escape conscious thought.
Increasingly nothing seemed to satisfy. My soul was in full rebellion against the limitations of this world and at times I became a bit unthankful for the things that I did have. Yet while in this body I fully realized there were bottom-lines—money, food, water and breathing; all things that simply could not be circumvented. At times I pondered the madness of my transition: the birthing process, a life moving from the familiar into the unknown. I was in the birth canal of consciousness, literally somewhere between two worlds—unwilling to stay within the norm, yet unable to ascend into something better.
I pushed forward, however, sensing that somehow there was so much more to be had—and thus my reckless abandonment of life as I’d known it till then. I still hunted, even though it too was losing its appeal. I had always hunted for substance; nothing went to waste. We ate what we harvested; deer, rabbit, turkey etc. So while I fully accepted the dynamics of the circle of life, that something must die in order for something else to live, whether a carrot or a quail, a beet or a buck, I began to see the vanity in all things. Few things, besides an angel, choose to die—food for thought.
I obviously couldn’t stop eating but found myself questioning why I had too. I was never a bleeding heart, but now pondered the madness of even life out of death. The religious folk in my life confidently asserted God’s intentions that the plants and animals were made for our consumption. They pointed to Genesis 9:2 and other verses as proof to their point.
Yet I couldn’t help but wonder that if the process was so great, why didn’t they join the food chain? It seemed hypocritical to think it a “blessing” to kill and eat yet a horror to be killed and eaten. In other words, if being killed, gutted, skinned, and eaten was so great, then why were there no volunteers?
Ignorance is bliss I suppose. Cognitive dissonance is the coping mechanism of all creation. What’s more, humans even have scriptures to reinforce such beliefs. How else would we manage in our own little worlds, small as they are, to know the truth? What would happen if we awoke to realize the horrors of our doing, the state of separation and ignorance: that, in fact, every living thing feels; that all things desire life; that the food we eat also felt and feared, and that many mourn the loss of their own just as we do?
On the other end of the spectrum came the argument that we should all be vegetarians and thus stop the inhumane killing of animals for food. But these folks too seemed cowards in my eyes, for at least the deer had a chance to run away, while the plants in their garden had no chance at all. Just because you can’t hear a plant’s plead doesn’t mean it wanted to die for you.
Besides, if being a vegetarian was so pure and moral, why pray tell do so-many plants grow thorns in defense? Why, if devoid of consciousness, would they concoct their own poisons to prevent consumption? Ironically even the plants and animals often have more faith than do we, instinctively believing in what lies before them instead of the accepted norm of political, religious and social programming. Oh to be back to that light again.
Indeed, while the sheep may be for slaughter, we in fact often lead ourselves to slaughter. Our minds are separate, each bit of God asleep in billions of bodies, each going their own direction. Instead of harmony however, come the wars of race, religion and regions. We wage the battle of the sexes and the daily grind all due to our separation from the realm I witnessed.
Make no mistake, almost all life in nature chooses to live just as you do. Yet they too partake of this world’s madness and the brutality as well; they too battle for space as does humanity. In our fallen and blinded state we perceive nature as beauty, but why? Show me the mythical “ecosystem” in which we fantasize about trees and animals living in harmony. No less than the barbarous human, the trees also choke and crowd to gain advantage. As a war is slow motion, each seeks to rise above the rest, each to own the sunlight, as does man’s religion to own the light of God. This is in fact the fight of this world in which we are all blindly joined.
I had come to terms with the fact that real death is not of the body; that real death is in fact the dimension in which we live. Death is a state of mind, a mind separate from the knowledge of God. Had this not been so, then nothing would ever die. Yet it all does die, not just at the end of life, but every moment of every day we fight the struggles of the un-illumined.
Our soul struggle from the moment it is born; it cries out from the moment of its conception. From the bed upon which it enters this world, to the bed upon which it dies, it mourns. Indeed, our deaths begin at the very beginning of this flesh and blood life. Are there moments of happiness? Of course; but temporary they are, as all things in this physical world.
Strangely, however, something else was now controlling my destiny. I was changing. Increasingly I found myself being fed inwardly from another source, fulfilled, not with that which I put in my stomach, but by that which emitted from my heart. It was a heart within my heart, not flesh and blood, but a very real spirit-Element. And the more I remembered Heaven, the less I felt obligated to partake in this world’s affairs.
There was a great shift in my consciousness. I was consumed by that event, the portal. Like our food, my thoughts now digested into a new mind; my very being absorbed into another, increasingly in union with its mind, His mind, my life in this world now laid upon the alter of transformation. Progressively I was no longer my own, a man of this world, but a man who remembered something beyond as well as a long forgotten past here on Earth.
I saw a reflection from a former life; I beheld an ancient face, in my imagination, the image of a Wiseman. The one I recalled was stunning, his eyes aglow with the light from another world. The intensity of his stare, the power of his persona—supernatural. He was just barely contained in his body; translucent, transcendent, nearly able to sail the skies but by the will of his mind.
Who was this person and what did it mean? Yet somehow he seemed oddly familiar: Is this the creature that I had forgotten? Is this who I really once was, perhaps who I had once been? In the mirror of my mind we came face to face. There he stared directly into my eyes as if awaiting a response; alive and looking at me.
More and more the memories returned, not just from the beginning, but to the very beginning. From far before the fall, and into the ungrund I could see—I envisioned eternity and now, evermore clearly, what the little old man told me. I could see in my mind his face that day when he said he was here to help me remember. And now I could remember. My Lord, my God, I remember . . .
With this came the realization that the countless images I’d seen were not created by another but were indeed of my own making, by this same ancient man that I now beheld. Now also I knew why I had made them and exactly how profound they truly were. Most bizarre of all, however, was that my fall from Heaven was not in this life, in 1991, tumbling from that counter in the kitchen as I had supposed, but instead many eons ago. I was ancient indeed, but only recollected my prehistoric fall that night. Indeed 1991 was but a flashback from a long lost time, a post-traumatic incident in which the past came back to haunt me once again.
The more I remembered about that life and time, the faster its memory returned. I saw others as well, a small group of beings. I recalled their faces and pondered their n
ames. They were, we were, the ancient magicians, the real magi of old. As crazy as it sounds, I recalled the grand undertaking with which we were charged. Their stares beckoned me to action, to wake and to work. With only their thoughts they commanded, Open the seals; tell them the truth; tell them the science; tell them everything. Daniel—it is time.
I came to realize the great wealth of knowledge and wisdom embedded within those sacred images. I knew now that I hadn’t dreamed about the portal, but that it was real, that it had closed immediately after the ancient fall, but also now how to open it again. Now I understood my attraction to the ancient scriptures and that indeed the formula on how to open the portal was hidden within them.
There was a connection, a sacred thread that the magi themselves had penned all those centuries before. How precious those works, those words that were written, a gift for your cultures to read, a perfect spell that would realign your Earth to open the gateway to a place you call, Heaven. They are not what you think they are. Those words are not what you were led to believe. Now the revelation of the ancient mysteries was complete in me. Now I saw as they saw, and I knew what they knew.
Yet the fall haunted me ever more. Indeed I beheld its horror nightly as the pictures played across my imagination, mixed with a childhood dream. They all started the same: each time I walked toward the bluff that overlooked the valley of the old farm. I had come there to fly, and as I approached the edge of the cliff came the feeling of separation, my mind from my body. The rush was fantastic and enveloped my being—the chill-bumps of ascension through the air and true freedom.
But then, just as my spirit soared, flying high above the clouds nearing the precipice of escape, came the predictable jolt—falling again through space identically as I had that night, screaming uncontrollably. The outcome was always the same: I awoke in bed with a shock, sweating, pondering that I was still here, still a prisoner to this world of insanity. Each time I was left with the same thoughts, wondering why God had led me to this end. Why was I given a knowledge so grand but that yet led to nowhere?
Either way it matters not, as I see now how the scriptures were designed to manage our barbarism for a time. The goal was not to teach the human animal truth, but for a far greater cause than even the life of the human itself. You see, dear friend, it is God who hunts the suffering of all things in this world. We indeed are the garden of his choosing, the sacrificial animal that brings life to Him. Humans do not own the food chain as we supposed but are at the bottom of God’s own need of life. Yet in Him, we are all truly one…
Now I will tell you: I never saw the little old man again, never; but I did however feel his presence, inwardly, more than once. I heard his voice within, and I still hear him today, in my mind and as my own imagination. He scolded me once, very rightfully so; a story of which I’d like to share:
Many of my relationships had faltered; some, the cause of which others had contributed, but much of which I could blame on no one besides myself. In hindsight, this one was on me . . .I had not spoken to my father in over a year, and harbored a bit of resentment for some seemingly poor choices he’d made in recent years. It had accumulated into a lot of unnecessary drama that complicated the lives of everyone else in the family. He was quite the enigma however, the best of times and the worst of times.
Dad was certainly old school in his outlook and would have easily matched the Hatfield’s and McCoy’s for toughness. He’d grown up through the Great Depression and learned how to survive in a way that many folks today simply can’t understand or relate. He demanded respect yet seldom yielded it in return. No doubt he had his demons; he could be harsh and unforgiving, but underneath the veneer he had a heart of gold—usually, but certainly not always.
He was old and frail now, hunched-backed at 75 years; his eyesight was failing and was quite the pitiful sight. That said, he was still quick to anger when provoked and was a fearful entity even as an elderly man. In his youth he was known for his fists and now, even now, for his skill with a pistol. So, naturally I respected him as both a father should be respected but also at the cost of strong retribution had I forgotten my place.
What he had accomplished however, is what a father is supposed to do: he worked, put food on the table, and protected me from harm until I was a man and out on my own. He spared not the rod of correction and, I think at least, did not spoil the child. Beyond that he was there for me even when I stumbled as an adult and on more than one occasion.
He had raised me to be fearless as well, though I probably will never be as naturally bold as him. He taught me things about people, life, honesty, dishonesty, farming, fighting, shooting, hunting, equipment, trucks, logging, and love, you name it—a luxury of practical learning that many never have. I was lucky that way, yet his occasional mean streaks were often excessive and downright ornery.
What’s more he was probably the most unapologetic individual I’d ever met, sometimes to the point of narcissism. I will admit that he was a product of his environment, the end result of a life full of hardships. The man had suffered more than most ever knew, much of which wouldn’t come to light until many years after he passed. To discover the depth of abuse in his childhood and what he’d kept to himself all those years would one day change the way I looked at much of what he’d done.
We had always been close, but I had finally had it with his stubborn belligerence. His insensitivity in matters of relationship had in fact terminated most of his friendships. I wanted him to hurt, as he had hurt the rest of us, and I knew that my avoidance cut deep. This evasion was fine to a degree, but I’d admittedly become a bit self-righteous in this game. Indeed I had broken my own rule of simply spitting out what I thought. I was playing the cat-game instead of confronting and telling the truth about how I felt. What’s more, I felt superior in my decision to act this way as, at the time, everyone else in the family was also disgusted, thus justifying my own feelings—or so I thought.
He knew, too, that the family was unhappy with the path he’d taken. I myself had purposely avoided him in the last year, hoping it would force him to look at things through a new lens. Avoidance was easy too, especially considering that he was basically blind in one eye and couldn’t see out of the other (A country slang for generally poor vision). That and the color of his truck was like a beacon and could easily be spotted at a distance. It was a bright raspberry-red, of all colors—derived upon from his favorite drink: a Big Red: This was a concoction of his own invention, consisting of Bourbon over ice, red grenadine and topped with of all things, his favorite fruit: a raspberry.
Now, I need to switch directions for a moment so that you can understand where this story is headed. Let’s go back about two weeks before. It was mid-November and I was deer hunting as I had every year since I could remember. One day while in the woods, I heard a gunshot on the property next to ours, not over a couple of hundred yards to my right. The shot made a shrill, shrieking noise as it crossed the open field, ending with a dull thud, the familiar sound of a good hit, presumably a deer. As it were, within only a moment or two a buck jumped the fence, wounded and badly limping. There it stopped and stood within 30 yards or so of my position, breathing heavily and bleeding profusely from its rib-cage.
He had an uneven rack, his right antler being normal, bowed well outside his ear and was very stately, while his other was deformed and bent straight down in front of his face. I’d heard of this deformity before, typically the result of a prior injury, but it was quite the sight to see. Not wanting the animal to suffer further, I too shot, hitting the deer squarely in the boiler room and knocking him flat. But for some reason, instead of staying down, he quickly recovered and ran off as though uninjured. Baffled by this, but convinced that he couldn’t possibly run the length of another football field, I began to track what was sure to be my dinner. As tracking goes, this one was easy; his blood left a distinct trail and I was confident I’d be filling the freezer with meat by the end of the day.
However, a
fter tracking the buck for over a half mile, blood everywhere, I decided to stop and let him lie down, and die (which they typically will if not pursued). After a couple of hours I continued and, sure enough found where he had bedded down, bled a lot more and then continued on his way. Again I tracked him for another half-mile or more, still to no avail. The sun was waning and it would be less than an hour before dark. Seeing as the blood trail had stopped, and not wanting to lose the harvest or protract the animal’s suffering, I called a couple of friends to help me track.
Thereafter the three of us looked for the buck well into the night but with zero luck, searching over 100 acres and with two dogs, both of which were good trackers. Needless to say, I was frustrated for the failed hunt, and more-so for the deer’s suffering. I wasn’t opposed to the harvest yet felt an overwhelming pity for the pain and fear of a creature that simply wanted to graze the fields and woodlands yet was now doomed to a slow and agonizing death.
Now, what happened next is where the science of the ancients parts with the dogma of modern thought and reasoning. I understand and agree that the outer mythologies of our religions were often childishly simplistic. I also comprehend that much or even most of these myths can be neither validated nor confirmed in a historical context. What’s more, it makes sense that people want proof of what is real and what is not. I get that.
As you are going to see, however, those mythologies were only a cloak for the real knowledge that lies beneath their surface. So I have promised to show you the ancient study in detail and I will. Before I do that, however, I would first like to share the power of the Element into which the ancient science tapped. What happened next with that deer is indeed exemplary of this greatly misunderstood substance, but only a mild example of its potential.
The substance or, Element of which I speak and of which the magi knew, was more than the raw results of input and output, numbers, formulas, and the like. Indeed, the science of the ancients delved into and quantified the very matrix of the subconscious soul. Here we are immeasurable, countless, and without limits. In this science, things go beyond the boundaries of periodic tables and atomic structure. Here we plunge into the infinite.
The Book of Daniel and the Mystery of the Resurrection Machine Page 10
