The Celestine Prophecy: An Adventure

by James Redfield

  I remembered the feeling exactly, and the person that came to mind was Jenson.

  “So my father was an interrogator?” I asked.

  “That’s what it sounds like.”

  For a moment I was lost in thought about my mother’s drama. If my father was an interrogator, what was my mother?

  Sanchez asked me what I was thinking.

  “I was wondering about my mother’s control drama,” I said. “How many different kinds are there?”

  “Let me explain the classifications spoken of in the Manuscript,” Sanchez said. “Everyone manipulates for energy either aggressively, directly forcing people to pay attention to them, or passively, playing on people’s sympathy or curiosity to gain attention. For instance, if someone threatens you, either verbally or physically, then you are forced, for fear of something bad happening to you, to pay attention to him and so to give him energy. The person threatening you would be pulling you into the most aggressive kind of drama, what the Sixth Insight calls the intimidator.

  “If, on the other hand, someone tells you all the horrible things that are already happening to them, implying perhaps that you are responsible, and that, if you refuse to help, these horrible things are going to continue, then this person is seeking to control at the most passive level, with what the Manuscript calls a poor me drama. Think about this one for a moment. Haven’t you ever been around someone who makes you feel guilty when you’re in their presence, even though you know there is no reason to feel this way?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well; it’s because you have entered the drama world of a poor me. Everything they say and do puts you in a place where you have to defend against the idea that you’re not doing enough for this person. That’s why you feel guilty just being around them.”

  I nodded.

  “Anyone’s drama can be examined,” he continued, “according to where it falls on this spectrum from aggressive to passive. If a person is subtle in their aggression, finding fault and slowly undermining your world in order to get your energy, then, as we saw in your father, this person would be an interrogator. Less passive than the poor me would be your aloofness drama. So the order of dramas goes this way: intimidator, interrogator, aloof, and poor me. Does that make sense?”

  “I guess. You think everyone falls somewhere among these styles?”

  “That’s correct. Some people use more than one in different circumstances, but most of us have one dominant control drama that we tend to repeat, depending on which one worked well on the members of our early family.”

  It suddenly dawned on me. My mother did exactly the same thing to me as my father. I looked at Sanchez. “My mother. I know what she was. She was also an interrogator.”

  “So you had a double dose,” Sanchez said. “No wonder you’re so aloof. But at least they weren’t intimidating you. At least you never feared for your safety.”

  “What would have happened in that case?”

  “You would have become stuck in a poor me drama. Do you see how this works? If you are a child and someone is draining your energy by threatening you with bodily harm then being aloof doesn’t work. You can’t get them to give you energy by playing coy. They don’t give a damn what’s going on inside you. They’re coming on too strong. So you’re forced to become more passive and to try the poor me approach, appealing to the mercy of the person, guilt tripping them about the harm they are doing.

  “If this doesn’t work, then, as a child you endure until you are big enough to explode against the violence and fight aggression with aggression.” He paused. “Like the child you told me about, the one in the Peruvian family that served you dinner.

  “A person goes to whatever extreme necessary to get attention energy in their family. And after that, this strategy becomes their dominant way of controlling to get energy from everyone, the drama they constantly repeat.”

  “I understand the intimidator,” I said, “but how does the interrogator develop?”

  “What would you do if you were a child and your family members were either not there or ignored you because they were preoccupied with their careers or something?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Playing aloof would not get their attention; they wouldn’t notice. Wouldn’t you have to resort to probing and prying and finally finding something wrong in these aloof people in order to force attention and energy? This is what an interrogator does.”

  I began to get the insight. “Aloof people create interrogators!”

  “That’s right.”

  “And interrogators make people aloof! And intimidators create the poor me approach, or if this fails, another intimidator!”

  “Exactly. That’s how control dramas perpetuate themselves. But remember, there is a tendency to see these dramas in others but to think that we ourselves are free from such devices. Each of us must transcend this illusion before we can go on. Almost all of us tend to be stuck, at least some of the time, in a drama and we have to step back and look at ourselves long enough to discover what it is.”

  I was silent for a moment. Finally I looked at Sanchez again and asked, “Once we see our drama, what happens next?”

  Sanchez slowed the truck in order to look me in the eyes. “We are truly free to become more than the unconscious act we play. As I said before, we can find a higher meaning for our lives, a spiritual reason we were born to our particular families. We can begin to get clear about who we really are.”

  “We’re almost there,” Sanchez said. The road was cresting between two peaks. As we passed the huge formation on our right, I saw a small house ahead. It backed up to another majestic pinnacle of rock.

  “His truck isn’t here,” Sanchez said.

  We parked and walked to the house. Sanchez opened the door and walked inside while I waited. I took in several breaths. The air was cool and very thin. Overhead, the sky was dark gray and thick with clouds. It looked as though it might rain.

  Sanchez walked back to the door, “No one is inside. He must be at the ruins.”

  “How do we get there?”

  He suddenly looked exhausted. “They’re up ahead about a half mile,” he said, handing me the keys to the truck. “Follow the road past the next ridge and you’ll see them down below. Take the truck. I want to stay here and meditate.”

  “Okay, I will,” I said, walking around to get in the vehicle.

  I drove forward into a little valley and then up the next ridge, anticipating the view. The sight did not disappoint me. As I crested the ridge I saw the full splendor of the ruins at Machu Picchu: a temple complex of massive, carefully shaped rocks weighing tons sitting atop each other on the mountain. Even in the dull cloudy light, the beauty of the place was overwhelming.

  I stopped the truck and soaked up the energy for ten or fifteen minutes. Several groups of people were walking through the ruins. I saw a man wearing a priest’s collar leave the remains of a building and walk toward a vehicle parked nearby. Because of the distance, and because the man wore a leather jacket rather than a priest’s robe, I couldn’t be sure it was Father Carl.

  I started the truck and drove closer. As soon as he heard the sound he looked up and smiled, apparently recognizing the vehicle as belonging to Sanchez. When he saw me inside he looked interested and walked over. His build was short and squat, with dull brown hair and pudgy features, with deep blue eyes. He looked to be about thirty. “I’m with Father Sanchez,” I said, stepping from the vehicle and introducing myself. “He’s up at your house.”

  He offered his hand. “I’m Father Carl.”

  I glanced past him to the ruins. The cut stone was even more impressive when in close proximity.

  “Is this the first time you’ve been here?” he asked.

  “Yes, it is,” I replied. “I’ve heard about this place for years but I never anticipated this.”

  “It is one of the highest energy centers in the world,” he said.

  I looked closely at him. Clearly he sp
oke about energy in the same sense it was used in the Manuscript. I nodded affirmatively, then said, “I’m at a point where I’m consciously trying to build energy and deal with my control drama.” I felt somewhat pretentious at saying that but comfortable enough to be honest.

  “You don’t seem too aloof,” he said.

  I was startled. “How did you know that was my drama?” I asked.

  “I’ve developed an instinct for it. That’s why I’m here.”

  “You help people see their way of controlling?”

  “Yes, and their true self.” His eyes shone with sincerity. He was totally direct, with no hint of embarrassment at revealing himself to a stranger.

  I remained silent so he said, “You understand the first five insights?”

  “I’ve read most of them,” I said, “and I’ve talked with several people.”

  As soon as I made this statement, I realized I was being too vague. “I think I understand the first five,” I added. “It’s number six that I’m not clear about.”

  He nodded, then said, “Most of the people I talk with haven’t even heard of the Manuscript. They come up here and are entranced by the energy. That alone makes them rethink their lives.”

  “How do you meet these people?”

  He looked at me with a knowing expression. “They seem to find me.”

  “You said you help them find their true self; how?”

  He took a long breath, then said, “There’s only one way. Each of us has to go back to our family experience, that childhood time and place, and review what happened. Once we become conscious of our control drama, then we can focus on the higher truth of our family, the silver lining so to speak, that lies beyond the energy conflict. Once we find this truth, it can energize our lives, for this truth tells us who we are, the path we are on, what we are doing.”

  “That’s what Sanchez has told me,” I said. “I want to know more about how to find this truth.”

  He zipped up his coat against the late afternoon chill. “I hope we can talk more about it later,” he said. “Right now I would like to greet Father Sanchez.”

  I looked out at the ruins, and he added, “Feel free to look around as long as you would like. I’ll see you back at my house later.”

  For the next hour and a half, I walked through the ancient site. At certain spots I would linger, feeling more buoyant than at others. I wondered with fascination about the civilization that had built these temples. How did they move these stones up here and place them atop one another in this fashion? It seemed impossible.

  As my intense interest in the ruins began to wane, my thoughts turned to my personal situation. Although my circumstances had not changed, I felt less fearful now. Sanchez’s confidence had reassured me. I had been stupid to doubt him. And I already liked Father Carl.

  As darkness descended I walked back to the truck and returned to Father Carl’s house. As I drove up I could see the two men standing close to each other inside. When I entered I heard laughter. Both were busy in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Father Carl greeted me and escorted me to a chair. I sat down lazily in front of a large fire in the fireplace and looked around.

  The room was large, and paneled with wide boards which were lightly stained. I could see two other rooms, bedrooms apparently, linked by a narrow hallway. The house was lit with low wattage bulbs and I thought I could detect the faint hum of a generator.

  When the preparations were completed, I was summoned to a rough plank table. Sanchez offered a brief prayer, and then we ate, the two men continuing to talk. Afterward we sat together by the fire.

  “Father Carl has spoken with Wil,” Sanchez said.

  “When?” I asked, immediately excited.

  “Wil came through here several days ago,” Father Carl said. “I had met him a year ago and he came by to bring me some information. He said he thought he knew who was behind the governmental action against the Manuscript.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Cardinal Sebastian,” Sanchez interjected.

  “What is he doing?” I asked.

  “Apparently,” Sanchez said, “he is using his influence with the government to increase the military pressure against the Manuscript. He has always preferred to work quietly through the government rather than force a division within the church. Now he is intensifying his efforts. Unfortunately, it may be working.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Except for the few priests of the Northern Council and a few others like Julia and Wil, no one else seems to have copies any longer.”

  “What about the scientists at Viciente?” I asked.

  Both men were silent for a moment, then Father Carl said, “Wil told me the government has closed it down. All the scientists were arrested and their research data was confiscated.”

  “Will the scientific community stand for that?” I asked.

  “What choice do they have?” Sanchez said. “Besides, that research wasn’t accepted by most scientists anyway. The government is apparently selling the idea that these people were breaking the law.”

  “I can’t believe the government could get away with doing that.”

  “Apparently they have,” Father Carl said. “I made some calls to check and I received the same story. Though they’re keeping it very quiet, the government is intensifying its crackdown.”

  “What do you think will happen?” I asked them both.

  Father Carl shrugged his shoulders and Father Sanchez said, “I don’t know. It may depend on what Wil finds.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “He appears to be close to finding the missing part of the Manuscript, the Ninth Insight. Perhaps when he does there will be enough interest to create worldwide intervention here.”

  “Where did he say he was going?” I asked Father Carl.

  “He didn’t know, exactly, but he said his intuitions were leading him further north, near Guatemala.”

  “His intuitions were leading him?”

  “Yes, you’ll understand that after you get clear about who you are and go on to the Seventh Insight.”

  I looked at both of them, at how incredibly serene they appeared. “How can you remain so calm?” I asked. “What if they come crashing in here and arrest all of us?”

  They gazed at me patiently, then Father Sanchez spoke. “Don’t confuse calmness with carelessness. Our peaceful countenance is a measure of how well we are connected with the energy. We stay connected because it is the best thing for us to do, regardless of the circumstances. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said, “of course. I guess I’m having trouble staying connected myself.”

  Both men smiled.

  “Staying connected,” Father Carl said, “will be easier once you get clear on who you are.”

  Father Sanchez stood up then and walked away, announcing that he would be doing the dishes.

  I looked at Father Carl. “Okay,” I said. “How do I start getting clear about myself?”

  “Father Sanchez tells me,” he replied, “that you already understand the control dramas of your parents.”

  “That’s right. They were both interrogators and that made me aloof.”

  “Okay, now you must look past the energy competition that existed in your family and search for the real reason you were there.”

  I looked at him blankly.

  “The process of finding your true spiritual identity involves looking at your whole life as one long story, trying to find a higher meaning. Begin by asking yourself this question: why was I born to this particular family? What might have been the purpose for that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Your father was an interrogator; what else was he?”

  “You mean, what did he stand for?”

  “Yes.”

  I thought for a moment, then said, “My father genuinely believes in enjoying life, in living with integrity but making the most of what life has to offer. You know, l
iving life to the fullest.”

  “Has he been able to do this?”

  “To some extent, but somehow he always seems to have a run of bad luck just when he thinks he’s about to enjoy life the most.”

  Father Carl squinted his eyes in contemplation. “He believes life is for fun and enjoyment but he hasn’t quite pulled it off?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you thought about why?”

  “Not really. I always figured he was unlucky.”

  “Maybe he hasn’t found the way to do it yet?”

  “Maybe not.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “She’s no longer living.”

  “Can you see what her life represented?”

  “Yes, her life was her church. She stood for Christian principles.”

  “In what way?”

  “She believed in community service and in following God’s laws.”

  “Did she follow God’s laws?”

  “To the letter, at least so far as her church taught.”

  “Was she able to convince your father to do the same thing?”

  I laughed. “Not really. My mother wanted him to go to church every week, and to be involved in community programs. But as I told you, he was more of a free spirit than that.”

  “So where did that leave you?”

  I looked at him. “I’ve never thought about it.”

  “Didn’t they both want your allegiance? Wasn’t that why they were interrogating you, to make sure you weren’t siding with the values of the other? Didn’t they both want you to think their way was the best?”

  “Yes, you’re right.”

  “How did you respond?”

  “I just tried to avoid taking a stand, I guess.”

  “They both monitored you to see if you were measuring up to their particular views, and unable to please both, you became aloof.”

  “That’s about it,” I said.

  “What happened to your mother?” he asked.

  “She developed Parkinson’s disease and died after being sick for a long time.”

  “Did she remain true to her faith?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Throughout it all.”