*******
Distracted by the sound of raindrops from the incoming storm, you put the papers down. For several minutes you sit still, just thinking and remembering old dreams. A shiver of cold runs up your spine as the rain intensifies, dimming the hut to a dull gray. You look around through eyes whose color you do not remember, seeing no decorations, not even a mirror on the five tomblike walls. Reaching up with both hands to touch a face you cannot picture, your fingers catch in thick hair on cheeks that feel stretched and gaunt. Are you beast or beauty this evening, a specter or solid being?
You look at your hands for reassurance pressing them tightly to sense the flesh, the human life that flows through them. But to whom do these appendages belong, and what have they done in the past weeks and months? Writing and dreaming, dreaming and writing. Is that all there is left of you, only dreams and words on paper, desperate scrawls that are the final imprints of a dying man now vanished? No body, no memories, just a deluded specter floating from one aimless day to the next, a waning swirl of desire and hope and fear that ultimately dissipates into nothingness?
The dinner bell rings faintly through the patter of rain to bring you out of your morbid contemplation. You are comforted to feel pangs of hunger in your belly, to hear it rumble in response to the promise of food. Yes, you still feel a part of the living, the breathing, the cold. You put on a jacket and grab a turquoise umbrella as you head out the door for bodily sustenance. Upon entering the dining hall you make a special effort to meet Guruji’s friendly eyes—and you are reassured that he acknowledges your corporeal presence.
Thoughts of beasts and specters are fast fading as you return with full stomach to the hut. You light two candles then place the open umbrella inside the door hoping it will dry by morning. The afternoon brought enough introspection and analysis, you decide, so you grab the Rushdie paperback and settle into an enjoyable evening of reading its first few chapters. A stream of prose, the rhythm of rain, the cadence of the rising Ganga carry you into the night and another mindless sleep.
JANUARY 6 – the following day at noon
The usual morning routine is complete as you walk from the meditation hall towards the dining room through a light mist. You wish that you had an umbrella instead of just a jacket this damp day. But only a puddle remained in your hut by the door upon awakening this morning—no umbrella and no recollection remained in your forgetful mind that you had placed it there after dinner last evening. It vanished from your hut in the night to become another undetected mystery in your life, another clue shrouded by your forgetfulness.
You enter the dining hall and look for the single plate-setting by the far wall mentioned in this morning’s instructions. Along with the expected metal plate, cup, and spoon, is a bright turquoise object at your spot. As you walk closer you identify it as a folded umbrella. The elderly swami sitting by the kitchen motions with both hands towards you, then at the umbrella. You reply with a quick bow and a look of appreciation, surprised to receive such a nice gift. He smiles back as the cooks enter with lunch.
TRAIL BOSS: Time for a big whoa-now. This umbrella episode is highly suspicious and methinks there is more to the overall trail of amnesia than meets the eye. In fact, now would be a prudent time to circle the wagons and take stock of what is really going on. But I have no sturdy Conestoga to peer from behind or any control over my forgetful host. And that Shoshoni gal made it perfectly clear that she’s no help as she follows the prime directive not to interfere with the journey.
Dare I ask the subconscious mind for some perspective at this point? Perhaps a couple of specific questions would keep his mind on the relevant path. For instance, who crept into the hut at night to snatch the umbrella? And why did Guruji pretend to give it back as a gift?
[The wine is not ready, the hand is not steady. Drunk as a skunk with no recall to cushion the fall. Umbrellas walking into the night cause a fright if you bind the mind underneath. So keep it dark, let the shadows dance against office walls, not in empty mirrors or halls. Candles and keyboards flicker away into the forgotten abyss, without a kiss goodbye or a means to fly away from the plunge. So submerge like a yellow submarine, a cowardly machine that runs from the terminator of time. Glub.]
TRAIL BOSS: Well, if there be clues in this missive they are beyond a trail boss’s ability to detect. I have to admit, too, that I’m getting a mite discouraged about the lack of progress this wagon train is making in our attempt to camp beyond the cloud of amnesia. Looking ahead, I still see my host stuck at Phool Chatti in the same daily routine. No new insights, no money or passport to support a great escape, and of course, no memory.
SHOSHONI: No need to despair, dear one. Are not the nights darkest just before the dawn?
TRAIL BOSS: Maybe in a poet’s mind, missy, but not for a wrangler caught at midnight on the open prairie with no clue as to which way to gallop home.
SHOSHONI: Well, I defer to your experience in those matters, although rest assured that our wayward cowpoke will soon receive direction to put him on a fresh trail to new adventure and insight. In fact, if you look to distant horizons, perhaps you can glimpse a little surprise that greets Steven as he returns from dinner a few days hence. Care to do the honor of initiating this leap forward to that spot in the trail?
TRAIL BOSS: With pleasure, missy. Giddy-up there.
JANUARY 11 – evening
The flashlight beam shines a path through the garden as you approach the hut after dinner and enter its darkness. You retrieve the Rushdie novel and open the candle box in anticipation of reading yourself to sleep. Atop the candles, however, is a small, plastic zip-lock bag containing a folded slip of paper that grabs your attention. You quickly light two candles, free the slip from its plastic protection, and scrutinize its writing. Initially it appears to be an indecipherable jumble of Hindi characters, a few English translations (Haridwar Train Station stands out), and markings in pen that clearly include your signature. Then in a burst of excitement, you finally recognize the slip for what it is—a claim check for three bags left on December 14th at the Haridwar depot, the next major station down from Rishikesh.
Hope surges as you immediately begin the planning process to retrieve these bags, although puzzlement arises as well. Why haven’t you previously gone to Haridwar to get these important pieces of your past that might even hold the key to getting out of your rut of amnesia at Phool Chatti? Your amnesia veils the answer, which is simply that none of your forgetful prior incarnations has seen the baggage claim check—it was slipped into the candle box while you were out bathing this afternoon.
You spend the evening gleaning information from old diary entries, previous notes, and other writings in order to compose precise instructions to your awakening self on how to retrieve the luggage tomorrow. The safest bet, you conclude while writing the note to your tomorrow’s self, is to keep to the usual daily routine but to cut the Ganga bath short and then head to Ravi’s Place in Laxman Jhula to ask for directions to the Haridwar Train Station. Rupees are limited, but you estimate that there are enough for tomorrow’s transport with a bit to spare. You end the message to your tomorrow’s self with best wishes for a fruitful journey, and soon fall into a restful sleep.
TRAIL BOSS: Oh-oh, seems as if those best wishes don’t help with his trip tomorrow. Is that a pesky fly—or some sheep dip—in the ointment, missy, that I see looming ahead?
SHOSHONI: Quite so, I’m afraid. Before getting into the stickiness, however, let us bring our literary friends up to speed so they have the eyes to see, as well. Initially, all goes fine toward our protagonist’s goal of retrieving the three bags from Haridwar storage the next day. Steven arrives in Laxman Jhula in mid-afternoon as planned where Ravi directs him to catch the 4:40 p.m. train from Rishikesh to Hardiwar—about an hour’s trip. At the Haridwar depot, he can pick up his three items from the station’s baggage storeroom and promptly return on the final evening express to Rishikesh. It will be dark upon his return, but the loc
al jeep service can safely drive him from the Rishikesh station directly back to Phool Chatti Ashram, the young man assures.
Our eager traveler thanks Ravi and rides an auto-rickshaw to the Rishikesh station in plenty of time to catch the 4:40 Haridwar train. Onboard he takes a window seat that gives him a pleasant view of the passing scenery, which eventually includes a colorful, if stubborn, herd of sheep blocking the tracks. The effect of the ensuing half-hour delay becomes painfully obvious upon his arrival at the Haridwar station.
JANUARY 12 – evening
“But you have to let me into the baggage room!” you plead to the station manager. “It was your stupid train that made me late in the first place. Oh, come on, its only 6:15.” You are beginning to sound like a teenager who is grounded for missing curfew.
“The baggage room closes at six o’clock every evening, and that means six o’clock, mister. We don’t make exceptions even for someone who thinks he needs his luggage or the world will end. And that’s final.” The Haridwar station manager turns his back and walks away.
Damn. Little does he know that your world of memory does end tonight. And the options don’t look good. Jump back on the train to Rishikesh and leave this task for another day? No, not after spending nearly all the remaining money on this afternoon’s trip to Haridwar. Okay, so instead wait around in this strange city until morning and reclaim your three bags when the checkroom reopens?
You are distracted from considering this option as chaos unfolds on the next platform where a train pulls up for loading. Hundreds of orange-clad men who had been sitting peaceably on the platform now vie to enter the small doorways of the old cars, crowding their way onto wooden benches that soon fill to overflowing. More sadhus continue to pour into these third class train cars and pack even the aisles; some men standing, some sitting on newspaper on the filthy floor. Further forward, porters help wealthy travelers enter a few first class sleeper coaches while other Indians and some Western backpackers make their way into cars marked, 2nd Class Sleeper. A bilingual announcement tells you this is the Allahabad Special, the express train to the Kumba Mehla festival.
The announcement reminds you of the material you read at the hut this morning describing the Kumba Mehla and mentioning a dinner date there scheduled with some woman on January 18th, a mere six days away. All right, there is no time to fiddle-fart around with a second trip to retrieve the three bags from storage. You hitch up your pants and head into the streets of Haridwar to spend your final rupee bills on a cheap room that will be your refuge until retrieving the bags in the morning.
CHEAP IS INDEED the keyword as you look from your hard bed at four bare walls and a ceiling fan. The only other furnishing in this Haridwar hotel room is a small black-and-white television on plywood stand. You again close your eyes but sleep still won’t come. Too many nights you have spent with the Ganga’s lullaby instead of city noises, and in fresh air wafting through paneless windows instead of a stuffy room. Plus you are nervous thinking about morning, about getting lost, about running out of money, about awakening in a strange Indian city without a memory or identity—armed only with the note that you wrote this evening to guide your forgetful self to three bags in storage at the Haridwar train station, followed by a trip back to Phool Chatti Ashram.
You pull the blanket up around your chin, wondering what tiny creatures inhabit the thriving ecosystem of your mattress. Whatever they are, you seem to be at the bottom of the food chain. You scratch and slap and reposition your body, unsuccessful in your attempt to launch into the bugless world of dreamland. Giving up on slumber, you flip on the television where batsmen swing at a little ball, then run to and fro. Even after two hours of watching, you have no clue as to cricket’s rules, scoring, or purpose for existing. Despite the boredom, however, your agitated mind and itching flesh are no closer to slumber than when you went to bed three hours ago.
And then a surprise occurs. The alarm on your wristwatch goes off with a sharp series of beeps that you try without success to stop by pushing the watch’s two knobs, one of which seems permanently stuck. After a couple dozen beeps the alarm stops on its own accord and you are left to wonder what you may have inadvertently done earlier to activate it for 1:00 a.m. But your thoughts suddenly turn hazy, your eyelids become too heavy to keep open, and you descend into a deep, deep sleep to merge into oneness with the night and the mattress ecosystem.
JANUARY 13 – the next morning
Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full. Thank you very much. The baggage claim office was open when you arrived early at the Haridwar train depot and you got your luggage out of pre-paid storage without a glitch. One is a large briefcase positioned safely on your lap. Another is a suit bag around which your left arm is strategically draped. The third is a canvas suitcase wedged under your legs on the floor of the swaying train carriage. These defensive positions result from your general feeling of insecurity this strange morning as well as caution towards your fellow passengers heading from Haridwar for Rishikesh. Prudence overrode curiosity and you decided to delay opening the bags until you have some privacy.
Actually, you are more interested anyway to know your personal identity than the bags’ contents, and to figure out what the hell is going on this strange morning. So you reread the long message to which you awoke in a cheap hotel room, trying now to get a better sense of yourself and situation. The information is scanty, the directions are clear, your money spent, and your memory gone. But not completely, you discover, for as you glance down at the four-digit briefcase lock, the numerals 1-2-5-1 drift in from some distant memory bank.
No harm in trying the numbers now, is there? You do and with a click, the briefcase latch snaps open. Your seatmates are quite interested in your actions and not at all shy about showing it. You decide to take a peek anyway and as you open the briefcase lid you are greeted with the sight of a USA passport and two crisp stacks of hundred-rupee notes wrapped in Bank of India seals indicating that you are the happy owner of 20,000 rupees. You breathe a sigh of relief upon discovering this four hundred-dollar boon and smile for the first time today.
Your focus then shifts to a cover page atop a pile of papers in the briefcase which announces, “The ReMinder, SECTION THREE; November 2000; McLeodganj.” For the remainder of your hour-long train ride, you read these pages of a forgotten past.
The ReMinder: Chapter 12
I did not consider a simple dinner invitation from Lorraine to be of much significance that fateful week preceding the Ides of March, 1992. But it was the shift into high gear that sent me careening down the fast lane, past my old life, off some obscure exit ramp, and into a maze of brilliant avenues and disturbing alleyways. No maps guided this ride, no fixed routes or destinations provided security for the upcoming years. Only blind faith is my beacon as I currently putter along in India with less acceleration and fewer squealing turns, but still plod steadily forward to new perspectives on life, spirit, and the pursuit of clarity.
Even my view of scenery is quite different this morning than in past weeks. Rooftop beauty atop austere hut has given way to a large, carpeted room with cursor blinking at me from bright computer screen. The primitive paradise of Phool Chatti Ashram has been exchanged for the modern convenience of town life thereby making this wordy task far easier to pursue. Electricity is available at all hours, restaurants abound with varied menus, and I can now write The ReMinder with both hands upon efficient keyboard rather than scrawling with one in pendulous prose. No excuses remain for delay in leading Identity to its final reward.
Reward is a strange term for death, but then in order to get Identity to take that final leap into the abyss, some manipulative words of comfort and false promises are highly recommended. In fact, this recent move from Phool Chatti to the pleasant town of McLeodganj is little more than a bribe to coax my ego to cooperate in composing its benediction and burial. And if coaxing fails, then at least Identity can be distracted from its ultimate fate by a comfortable setting plus a plethora
of pasta, sushi, and other international cuisine—something like a prolonged Last Supper but without twelve devoted followers and the promise of resurrection.
As you experts in geopolitics have guessed, Tibetan suppers rank high on the list in availability and delight. McLeodganj is the home-in-exile of His Holiness the Dalai Lama and of thousands of Tibetan refugees who have carved their new lives into this former British hill station between rocky peaks and fertile valley. No roar of the Ganga is here to lull me into slumber and lead into dreamtime wonders, but plenty of Tibetan grace and India’s natural beauty provide both inspiration and distraction when desired.
Speaking of distraction, yes Alberta arrived the other week at Phool Chatti to wreak havoc on my writing progress and contemplative state. But I complain not, for after working in the rarified Ganga atmosphere alone for weeks, her pull into the world of flesh provided useful grounding—and a most entertaining diversion. She too has made the journey to McLeodganj but resides up the hill a way to leave me to write with newfound computer and a hearty recommitment to the cause.
That cause, as you recall, is to finish The ReMinder with the anticipated result of fully clearing myself of old habits of an obsolete Identity. This purification, along with successfully re-Minding myself through dreamtime awareness, is designed to affect a great leap forward into bliss and clarity. Or at least that’s the optimistic theory of cause and effect that keeps me motivated. Reluctantly, I concede to having little if any control as to where this whole nonsense leads, a fact I am acutely reminded of as our story enters the life-altering dinner with Lorraine in Crestone that March evening of 1992.
It was not the menu or cooking that bent my perspective and sent me off to the races. It was Lorraine’s confession that she—my grounded, sane, and reliable neighbor—had recently received a message through telepathic communication. Rather than being beamed from friendly Arcturians, Lorraine’s message came from an unidentified source that suggested she obtain a computer in order to efficiently record further telepathic contact. Then as we ate the last of dinner, a new telepathic message started to arrive through the receptor of her mind. Lorraine grabbed pen and paper and began scribbling quickly across the page. I retired to the couch where after a few minutes Lorraine’s hand rested upon my shoulder as she read aloud the words she had received telepathically, directed to me from source unknown.
“My son, welcome. Imagine tumbling down through galaxies with radiant lights surrounding you, enfolding you ever so gently and lifting you buoyantly then to rest in the arms of your Mother. Oh child of the One, how could you ever fear in your heart or feel dispossessed from the source of your nourishment? You are at home here as in the heavens, for when you recognize yourself, you know the universe is your home, your family, your love, and your destiny.
“Gently, ever so gently, dear son. There is no need to rush into yourself, for you are your way and your goal. Be at peace. You are complete, harmonious, and whole.”
End of message. Intrigued, touched, and open to an adventure into the great unknown, I immediately went to retrieve my laptop computer. Over the next days, Lorraine and I spent many hours together in communion with a source of information, wisdom, humor, and support that neither of us could explain—but the tremendous feeling of love that accompanied her connection to the telepathic source made Lorraine trusting of the unknown. Plus, the lack of judgment, doctrine, and commands from the guiding source helped us to keep open minds to this unorthodox mode of teaching.
The general format involved Lorraine receiving a telepathic message that she spoke as I typed it into the computer. We would then pose questions, the source would answer through Lorraine, I would type, and we would be left with fascinating food for thought. Topics of the guidance related primarily to our personal journeys as souls on a planet that is entering a blessed and challenging time.
Regrettably, the verbatim transcripts of the messages lie half a world away in Colorado storage, thereby limiting my current ability to wow, titillate, and amuse readers with the amazing details of a world in transition and two souls caught up in the adventure. I do, however, retain a few directs quotes in my memory as well as a handful of selected excerpts carried with me to India.
The first otherworldly quote that comes to mind is, “There are no right decisions, only right actions,” a prompting that reminds me to get this narrative moving so that nurse Ann can enter the picture at the end of this mind-bending week with Lorraine, presumably to slap me back to my senses. We quickly shift therefore to another quote from the guidance that I can clearly recall: “In moving about this fragile web, you may envision yourself as Son of Spider Woman.”
No, this is not a comic book character but a reference to an earlier description about how Earth is held in balance by an etheric web metaphorically spun by Spider Woman, as told in Native creation stories. The source went on to explain the vital role that water plays in keeping this supportive web flexible particularly as our planet enters a new phase of critical strains and shifts. Degradation of water by human carelessness and greed is leading to dangerous stresses that weaken the web and threaten to create global instabilities. Thus, the role of a Son of Spider Woman was described as helping to mend frayed trouble spots in the web through my water-related work with American Indian tribes as well as on extra-dimensional levels of energy.
A final quotation recalled at this time is, “When feeling nauseous, remove yourself from the company.” This sounds like useful advice for all social occasions, but it actually accompanied a suggestion from the telepathic source for me to venture into the wilderness for three specified days in late March in order to directly receive important intuitive messages. These three days were said to be auspicious for inter-dimensional communication (in other words, even a dense control freak like myself could receive telepathic messages then without Lorraine’s help) so long as I was located away from people, power lines, and other energy interference. I, in fact, journeyed into such a setting two weeks later where the nuances of the nausea warning and the subtle meaning of company became abundantly clear as I was down on all fours violently losing my lunch.
But more immediate company arises in tale as the Ides of March arrives, a day ending this strange week where first, We the Arcturians surfaced as recommended reading, then a footlocker of ego was tossed just short of fiery demise, and third, exciting but inexplicable messages had landed from the ethers through Lorraine. Next on the agenda is Ann’s scheduled arrival at my cabin on March 15, 1992 to rescue me from shifting realities, an earthly angel of mercy and unswerving foe of metaphysics to pull me back from the brink of a magical, mystical world from which I might never return.
Pragmatic nurse Ann arrived at the cabin on schedule, and after a pleasant dinner together, I dared to describe what had happened with Lorraine and our personalized telepathic messages from on high. A part of me wanted Ann to believe and embrace the miraculous messages, while another part was eager for her skepticism to bring me down to earth and to a state of normalcy. And all of me was anxious about her response that might involve a quick return to her trailer, electing to never see this crazy man again. The safest route, I felt, was to read the telepathic messages aloud so she could evaluate for herself the tone and content of the material received with Lorraine the previous days.
My fear that Ann would immediately cut me off proved unfounded. She listened, and listened intently as I continued reading through several pages of the telepathic transcripts. Ann seemed interested but also began to appear disturbed and distracted, so I stopped to ask her the problem. I came over to sit with an arm around her—and immediately sensed what was happening. She shook her head while grabbing her left ear that, she said, was distressingly hot.
Without a word I stand up, retrieve pen and paper, and sit next to Ann who now has her eyes shut. A few moments later tears seep from between her closed lids as she begins to speak in steady voice: “Ann, daughter of the light, welcome. You are loved by many and shall be a wonderful
part of all that is to come to Earth. Our love and happiness emanate through you.…” She continues speaking the brief telepathic message of welcome to herself as I write the words, knowing that her life and mine will never be the same. Just as with Lorraine, the higher source of guidance had found a new, if reluctant, spokeswoman for interdimensional communion.
And thus, in the land of shifting realities, the Ides of March betrayal by nurse Ann came to fruition. My desire for normalcy with a pragmatic sweetheart—BETRAYED. My hopes for a simple, controllable life of family and home with beloved nurse Ann—BETRAYED. The future of Son of Spider Woman with a Daughter of the Light—unknown.
The ReMinder: Chapter 13
Okay, I admit that Ann’s betrayal wasn’t all that dastardly, or even disturbing. In fact, her ‘betrayal’ of failing to keep us grounded to a known, controllable world flung me into a thrilling period of life where mysterious quests unfolded aided by dear friends—some corporeal, some invisible—along a trail of wise communion and high adventure. Admittedly, I was not certain as to what was real and what of this telepathic communication stuff might be hogwash-from-on-high. But I knew that Lorraine and Ann were each sincere and, so long as I kept my sense of humor, the worst that could happen in pursuing this mystical quest was a good laugh at myself if it were later exposed as mere delusion.
Rather than pause for a retrospective on delusions, perceptions, and good intentions, we forge forward with events that became my reality that spring of ‘92, as I explored with joyful abandon new paths that led me, among other routes, into the arid New Mexico wilderness for the period of three auspicious days that had been recommended by the higher guidance for my direct reception of important intuitive messages. Once there, I made certain to locate myself far from both power lines and nauseating company.
As was often the case in the coming years of cosmic exploration, what I expected to occur diverged significantly from the events that actually transpired. My expectation in desert solitude was reflected in the blank paper and pen at-the-ready for transcribing telepathic messages I anticipated receiving at any moment. Although a message ultimately arrived, it was delivered to my mind not in word form but in vision, primarily through vivid imagery teamed with emotions and memories of events occurring circa 1870 that left me incapacitated and stunned.
The vision arrives swiftly and unexpectedly while relaxing alone in an isolated natural hot spring. It begins with waves of nausea followed by images entering my head of such intensity and vividness that I feel as if I am living the scenes. I find myself in the shoes of a U.S. cavalry officer riding horseback into a setting of horror where his Company of soldiers a few days earlier had, without his approval, massacred a peaceful encampment of Indians. Smells and sights from this 19th century scene overload my senses and send me reeling from the hot spring onto the grass where I violently vomit while reliving the emotions of the officer, experiencing his anguish at what had been done by his troops.
The scene in mind’s eye then shifts to where I am in full-dress military uniform walking towards a circle of tribal elders. I know without thinking what needs doing—to remove myself from the Company. I proceed to give my horse to the Native elder on my left, my cavalry boots to the warrior across the circle, and my sword of command to the chief, experiencing a sense of deep healing and release. My nausea passes and the vivid imagery ultimately ceases as I slip back into the hot spring for warmth.
A few days later at my Crestone cabin, I shared a cup of tea with Lorraine along with the story of my experience of the officer removing himself from the cavalry company. We then took a walk outside and, while passing east of my garage, Lorraine abruptly grew pale and could barely drag her feet to keep moving. Tears streamed down her distraught face as I helped her stagger back into the cabin where she continued receiving vivid imagery while reliving the horrific emotions of a terrified ten-year-old American Indian girl during the butchering of her people by cavalry troops.
After the horror subsides, Lorraine retrieves her sacred pipe that she has used in many sweat lodges, Sundances, and other Native ceremonies over the years. Together we extend prayers and offerings at the place where she had started receiving visions of the massacre—this site east of the garage being the precise location that Roger, after seeing my Crestone cabin photographs the previous December, had mentioned was holding a negative energy due to multiple killings there. Following our brief ceremony and soon after we go inside for more tea, a telepathic message arrives. I type as Lorraine speaks the incoming words of gratitude along with an explanation of what had just transpired:
“…Then there was the dramatic and emotional remembrance of times past, of tragedies long held in vibrational patterns. Bringing these to consciousness and releasing them carries deep healing for all parties concerned, both physical and nonphysical.
“The pain of souls who are held in bondage by the emotions of fear and anger, so destructively cut off [in the cavalry massacre], is released by the recalling of that moment in a vibration of love and forgiveness. Well done. Let this be a reminder of how simple healing is when one brings love into the moment. Emotion and will overcome all obstacles when directed by love. This lesson will serve you well and can be applied on many levels and in many situations.”
QUESTION by Steven: “Is more help needed in clearing the pain here on the land?”
ANSWER: “The pain of the land is caught up not just in the suffering of tortured souls, but also in the suffering of the spirits of the land itself. To this end, you are already addressing yourselves… Earth, in its multiplicity, yearns for personal contact with the ones whom she succors. The Mother in her constant sacrifice asks only for the light of love in the eyes of her children as they sing and dance upon her body.
“Children, forget not your Mother who birthed you, sustains you, and carries you forth to your destiny. In your spirit, you are star children. In your bodies, you are children of the Earth. This is your blessing and your confusion. Soon the polarities fade and you will know you are One.”
The ReMinder: Chapter 14
The preceding chapter should be sufficient column space to chronicle superhuman efforts to save the planet: a true story of a mild-mannered reporter who for a brief period got to costume his grand quests in past life memories and a big red ‘S’ on his chest as Son of Spider Woman. Unfortunately, a movie version is unlikely to further sing our hero’s praise, since Dances with Wolves seems to have cornered the market on a great White hope leaving cavalry company to leap tall teepees in a single bound.
Let us use, therefore, a slideshow format to move the tale forward with additional scenes from 1992 that arise randomly in the projector of my memory. Lights out, and...
Click. There is Ann awakening me in the middle of an April night and urging me to transcribe a crucial telepathic communication. She and I are requested by the guidance to distribute to the public a message about dramatic global changes that will occur ‘with a twinkling of an eye.’
Click. There I am coming out of the spiritual closet and distributing the essay, In a Twinkling of an Eye, to family members, colleagues, and friends who now learn about my new reality, my openness to channeled communication, and my multi-dimensional approach to problem solving. It meets with mixed reviews.
Click. And there’s Roger’s neighbor, Betsy, at the beginning of her new seminary with six of us in attendance listening to teachings channeled in from an invisible but wise extra-dimensional faculty.
Click. There I am at my Crestone cabin sifting through the ashes of footlocker memorabilia burned shortly after the Ides of March reality shift, picking up the only identifiable charred remain: A shard of bronze plaque reading vertically, Mo… Ci… Cla…, a final testament to basketball glories at the 1971 Motor City Classic.
Click. With Ann again, explaining my notion that experimenting with abstinence from sex could be an important component of the spiritual path.
Click. There is Ann scurrying under cover of darkness to her e
x-lover and his attentive Self to escape unpopular notions of celibacy.
Click. Dear me, there’s Ann’s ring sailing across an empty lot in a spontaneous heave-ho ceremony. Thunk.
And lights up. Damn, how did those last couple of slides get into the projector when there are dozens of more upbeat and interesting experiences to choose from during those mystical months of 1992? I guess when the psyche is given free rein to pick, one must simply swallow the selected medicine including, in this case, the reappearance of Ann’s former physician-lover to administer a rather bitter pill.
Ann having sex with the doctor in response to my suggestion that we experiment with celibacy as a spiritually correct practice neither ended our relationship nor destroyed our hopes for a brighter tomorrow together—despite its initial shock to my system and to the airborne ring. It provided instead a rather dramatic lesson to me that the spiritual path was not about disciplining myself, let alone others, into the right kind of thinking and action, but rather in getting more truthful with what really goes on inside myself and Self.
SHOSHONI: The remainder of this lengthy chapter describes our protagonist’s subsequent efforts in 1992 to get more honest with himself. This introspection primarily involves penetrating into his repressed psyche as well as into nurse Ann’s anatomy in order to jar loose hidden pieces of his shadow. A commendable exercise, but for the sake of brevity and for the honor of a respectable nurse who has not consented to full frontal public exposure, we shall forego description of these intimate affairs.
TRAIL BOSS: I’m pleased to see you have a refined sense of propriety, young lady. No reason to flaunt one’s dirty laundry or sexual secrets, is there now?
SHOSHONI: Actually, a compelling reason for such uncensored exposure shall arise near stories end, a time at which, dear one, you will see that sexual propriety is of little import in my liberated universe. For the synopsis at hand, however, suffice it to say that during his probes and pokes described in the omitted text, Steven discovers three heretofore hidden pieces of his psyche, a trio of inner rogues whom he identifies as: 1) the Ogre, a heartless creature with insatiable appetites, 2) the Coward who craves self-acceptance; and 3) the mindless Madman who lurks as a nemesis somewhere in his dark underworld. After discovering this rogue’s gallery, Steven closes The Reminder chapter with the following observation:
…Perhaps the horizon will turn an emerald hue as tomorrow dawns complete with yellow bricks and a mysterious wizard at the end of the road. For I came to realize some months back that the archetypes of my three greatest fears—of being a heartless Ogre, a Coward, and a mindless Madman—were not unique to my psyche and perhaps not as dreadful as I picture them. The trio had appeared annually at Halloween televised from Topeka: One who had no heart, one no courage, and the other no brain. A tin woodsman, cowardly lion, and scarecrow picked up along the way by a friendly female guide to round out a merry foursome. Four plus a wizardly one who awaits their arrival in the Emerald City. And Toto too.
The ReMinder: Chapter 15
Chronology. Chronos. Crown. The study of the crown looking down through the window of my head to see what makes the story tick. Seconds clicking away, thirds and fourths caught in the sway following in proper sequence. Chrono-logic-ally. Logic, an old ally, prompts me to bring temporal order unto chaos in this story of Identity’s dismemberment during the wild and wacky 1990’s. For without the former guidepost of the auspicious Ides of March on which to focus, The ReMinder chases its tale haphazardly past inner rouges, through channeled communion, and down yellow brick roads leading to nowhere fast.
Ironically, the very notion of orderly chronology sent my mind off in the train of thought chugging haphazardly through the preceding paragraph. More ardor from chaos as my fingers find the computer keyboard such a fun companion to poke, probe, and tickle that they get carried away in the unstructured play. Perhaps I should take the thumbs as my role model rather than the eight flying fingers. For their sole job in this wordy task is to make space, just to push the bar at the bottom of the keyboard with great regularity and clear purpose, prying open space to give context to message. Otherwise, ahellofamesscanresultifthefingerswerelefttotheirowndevices. A hello fame what? No, a hell of a mess would result without space and the steady plodding of thumbs to give context to disparate words of Identity’s plunge.
Before spacing out further, however, I spot a directional beacon shining brightly from the southern New Mexico desert one evening in the latter half of 1992. The tableau opens at Betsy’s spiritual seminary, and marks a turning point in my relationship both to God and to nurse Ann. For the record, I use ‘God’ as a shorthand term to synopsize the concept that the world is pervaded by a lovely unifying force that lies in us all. Whereas the term ‘Ann’ I apply to a woman who does not lie with all, but who laid with one too many that fateful night.
The evening arrives after having had a difficult day at the seminary that leaves me feeling alienated from leader Betsy and my five study-mates. I telephone Ann in Colorado for some long-distance comfort only to find that another man is there receiving her succor up close and personal. Upon my returning to the seminary group with a cuckold’s pain, anger, and vulnerability, Betsy kindly suggests that now would be an excellent time for me to pray for God’s presence, an opportunity to truly experience the eternal divine source and its infinite support.
I do in fact fall tearfully, intensely to my knees in prayer—and come up empty in heart and solace. Zilch. Apparently, my beloved God is only a construct in my mind rather than a living, felt presence from whom I can draw spiritual sustenance. This scenario ends with my staggering out to collapse in my pick-up truck, bereft and stripped of both the notion of Godly support and dreams of a future with a nurturing sweetheart. (A sweetheart who, to be honest, had wisely looked elsewhere for a reliable breadwinner for her family—and to whom I now send my fondest hopes that you have found your heart’s desire, dear.)
So with that catharsis complete and beloved nurse Ann able to move forward without further whining or grasping on my part, a more upbeat beacon appears on the horizon, this one casting illuminations of psychic glow. Just prior to entering a ten-day silent meditation retreat, circa 1993, I step into an attractive New Age shop and am approached by its even lovelier New Age owner. This personable stranger kindly informs me that two old spirit friends of mine in another dimension of reality are asking her to make a communication bridge between themselves and me. Always ready to help span the great unknown, I follow this psychic channel into her private office where she proceeds to give her voice and body over to the disembodied spirits that wish to chat. This dramatic form of direct channeling is new to me and a bit disconcerting, as my more grounded media of Lorraine, Ann, and Betsy had always held the reins and had spoken the telepathic messages without fanfare.
But drama and lively intonations are the order of the day in the voices that emerge from this psychic woman. First, I listen to an elderly gentleman who fondly reminisces about our years together in ancient Egypt when we built grand structures, cutting and levitating stones with our collective power of thought. The second disembodied visitor is a woman warrior who is re-experiencing the moment she had died in my arms on a battlefield during our last incarnation together. It seems that she and I had fought on behalf of the Goddess in many lifetimes and she wanted to touch base again for old time’s sake.
In retrospect, I wish that I had been a more open and interactive participant during this channeling session. For I now believe that regardless of the reality or fiction behind offbeat experiences, they come into one’s life with a purpose from which discerning minds can glean information and insight. Such novel experiences based on past lives seem to be available from old energy remnants of thoughts, emotions, and experiences that linger from those who have lived and died before us. Thus we sometimes catch and internalize these past-life threads as our experience of the moment—such as the anguish of a cavalry officer whose troops massacred women and children, t
he joy of building lofty pyramids, or the pain of a love lost in battle—to enhance our inner journey and perhaps help in some collective healing process as well. Or so goes the current theory of my inquiring mind about past-life memories and voices from the beyond.
The inner voice that is calling for my immediate attention is not from the beyond, but right here rumbling somewhere in my gut. With Alberta up the street—a McLeodganj road lined with international cuisine, at that—I gladly follow the signal provided by appetite, delaying until the morrow further trips down memory lane.
The ReMinder: Chapter 16
The morrow has come and gone, along with another couple of days in which I have had time to gather and reap—as in gathering thoughts and reaping the benefits of McLeodganj delights. Prodigious good food, brisk hikes through nature, and Alberta’s lively companionship have been well sampled and appreciated, as have times sitting at a Tibetan temple listening to the rumbling incantations of maroon-robed monks that inhabit this town.
I even got to shake the hand of the Dalai Lama yesterday morning as part of a line of eager Westerners that filed by in quick succession while being carefully eyed by security guards. His Holiness had me pause for a moment as I passed, sharing a laugh at our difference in height and saying a few words in Tibetan perhaps translated either as, “You are the Chosen One of God,” or “What an overgrown jerk.” My Tibetan is a little rusty after a dozen or so lifetimes with no practice, so it was hard to be sure.
Actually, the former translation involving God is probably incorrect since a monolithic Lord has little place in Tibetan Buddhism which teaches that all sorts of beings and deities abound in the universe of Mind to assist in our earthly journey towards enlightenment. The trip is an arduous path unfolding over many lifetimes until the moment of full liberation arrives when the enlightened individual, called a Buddha, has the choice to meld back into oneness with all, or choose to become a Bodhisattva with pledge. Those souls who wax courageous with this latter choice vow to hang around in one form or another until all sentient beings in the universe are liberated. Heck, maybe the Lone Ranger started handing out silver bullets and Superman took up journalism just to relieve the boredom while waiting for a few billion ego’s to give up the ghost.
Attempting to synopsize an ancient religion is probably imprudent by one whose prayer technique has been critiqued by Lakota spirit guides as reflecting the cultural limitations of a white guy. But I can jump, or at least could back in the day when it mattered to me to retrieve an orange ball bouncing off netted hoop or to leap into the fray to save a friend in need. Both basketball rebounds and dramatic rescues have diminished in importance in my current life phase, while nighttime dreams have taken up the slack in the drama department, having become more vivid and extensive in scope the past couple of months.
Last night, however, may prove to be a turning point in my dreamtime world. Full lucidity arrived. A goal achieved. A breakthrough dream arose in which my waking consciousness fully entered to participate in the nocturnal vision. In the dream, I encounter a large wall upon which is draped a beautifully woven Tibetan tapestry. I suddenly realize I am dreaming but remain asleep while my wakeful consciousness begins to scrutinize the intricate dreamtime cloth. Spirals of gold, whorls of rich color, bright threads create lovely patterns as I freely choose where to look and how long to stare at this magic carpet that hangs on the boundary between aspects of my lucid mind.
I awaken briefly to record this breakthrough experience on tape, thrilled to have finally achieved the goal of sustained lucidity. Slumber quickly comes again and a new dream flows. A goggled old Japanese man in a kamikaze uniform is throwing recording equipment out his window, while a neighbor in British military garb (the actor, Darren McGavin) films the event. The Kamikaze then blasts away with a machine gun at the British soldier who ducks for cover as his camera is destroyed. McGavin then pops back up with a friendly voice shouting through a megaphone telling the Kamikaze to cheer up, old chap. But on closer scrutiny, the Brit’s megaphone is actually a rifle pointing in his own mouth.
Why does the Kamikaze fear being seen and recorded? What in my psyche would rather die than be exposed? Last evening before retiring, I had written a short note to focus my dreams on an intended goal for the night, a technique I often practice in my dream work. This time my good intentions seem to backfire, since the note had courageously declared:
“Tonight I feel open to exploring/exposing the military link that is so prevalent in my dreams. All those dark dreams with enforcement officers, military troops, underground control rooms, secret agents, and grayness. It’s time to shed a little light on the subject, and see what my hidden connection is with all this strange stuff.”
Ka-boom, the surveillance equipment is suddenly blasted to smithereens, while one old soldier shoots at another military man. Such conflicts between inner aspects of myself have been popping up with increasing frequency in recent dreams. I am often fighting the dark-haired, female guide for control in dreamtime, although a second female archetype, fair-haired and kind, has emerged in a more harmonious partnership. On the male side of the twins equation, a disturbing dreamtime nemesis has emerged, sort of like my evil twin with whom I have an ongoing rivalry, perhaps a deadly one. We have yet to make actual contact in dreams, but came disturbingly close in the latest encounter.
That dreamtime episode took place after military captors toss me into a lunatic asylum filled with men who clearly belong there. I feel quite at home and comfortable with these madmen, until I see my nemesis staring at me with eyes that could kill. Overcome by fear, I immediately gather with the other inmates in a circle, right hands joining as we shout in unison, Team, as if a game were about to begin. I awaken with a start.
And what is about to start, I wonder? What sporting competition between opposing players in my psyche is ready for kickoff? For now, I do not know. But it feels certain that the time must soon arrive when I voluntarily enter the shadowy underworld to meet my twin nemesis head on.
--- End of Section Three of The ReMinder ---
SHOSHONI: Yes, Steven eventually does find the courage to enter the underworld where we shall meet his nemesis towards story’s end. For now, however, let us focus back to the current setting on the train from Haridwar to Rishikesh, January 2001. Shortly after finishing reading Section Three of The ReMinder, our protagonist arrives at the Rishikesh station where, regrettably, no yellow bricks or dreamtime twins await to guide his path home to Phool Chatti. But with four hundred dollars worth of rupees safely in his briefcase and with two other cumbersome bags, he takes the easy route of hiring a taxi that carries him all the way to the ashram gate. Upon arrival, Guruji greets him warmly and with relief after our traveler’s unexpected overnight absence. Steven, however, remains tense as he tries to negotiate the unfamiliar ashram grounds through his fog of forgetfulness…
JANUARY 13 – late morning
You give the elderly swami a respectful bow then attempt to appear casual as you desperately look for the path to a garden hut described in the morning’s directions. Just past the meditation hall, the note said, so you stroll that way with your luggage, grateful to find a well-worn path through the garden. Guruji continued watching you with interest but you do not believe that your behavior gave away your amnesia. And what a beautiful setting, you think, even if the garden hut is a bit plain. But now for the best part, to open up the bags of unknown goodies to make up for all the Christmases forgotten.
As a child you would attack the least eye-catching package first while saving the best for last. This unconscious habit persists as you zip open the simple suit bag. You are surprised to find a simple suit along with two ties, tailored black pants, and three dress shirts, one black, two white. Small wonder you left these checked at Haridwar to avoid the unnecessary burden of semi-formal wear at Phool Chatti Ashram.
Next on the gift list is the canvas suitcase that also holds its share of surprises. First, there are simply more shoes and cloth
ing for the pragmatic foreign tourist. Beneath these, however, is a suede leather wrap-around that looks like something Tarzan would wear. Your puzzlement grows as your uncover a pair of pants patterned with colorful crescent moons and stars, appropriate perhaps to a sorcerer’s apprentice. Right behind comes Cinderella’s stash, as a silver box of jewelry emerges filled with clip-on earrings, necklaces, and a couple of fancy bracelets.
But the most baffling items are at the bottom and are not quite jewelry. Perhaps accessories is the appropriate word as you stare at a black leather choker with matching fetish gloves and wristbands covered with menacing silver studs. All that is missing is whip and chains. No, make that chains only, as your puzzled self pulls out a black bullwhip below which lie four lengths of rope padded for the comfort of a bound sex slave. You quickly stuff these findings back into the suitcase, unconsciously glancing over your shoulder to ensure that no one is peering through the hut windows.
Briefcase surprises are fewer and less exotic. You feel another wave of relief at seeing your passport and its validity for six more years. Visa entry stamps indicate that you arrived in New Delhi sixteen months ago via Thailand. The stack of 20,000 rupees is safe and comforting, although 600 rupees (about twelve dollars) lighter now thanks to the taxi ride from Rishikesh. Beneath The ReMinder Section Three manuscript, you find clean underwear, toiletries, and papers that include a theater script with your handwritten notes in the margin. This last find makes you think that maybe the studded accessories, effeminate jewelry, and strange clothing relate to staged theatrics rather than to your personal fetishes in a sordid, forgotten past—or so you hope.
Finally, spying a colorful souvenir tile at the bottom of the briefcase gives you a pleasant feeling, almost like seeing an old friend. You pick it to look closely at the tile’s depiction of a multicolored gift box below which lies the cheery message, There’s no gift like the present! You absently turn it over and see “Sedona, Arizona” imprinted on the plain clay backing along with a message scratched into its surface: Take me to the Kumba Mehla Festival.
At that moment, a wave of memory washes through your mind. The surge is brief and only involves thoughts of one topic, the Kumba Mehla. You instantly recall what you have learned about this festival—and with unambiguous certainty you know that it is imperative that you attend, that you must become another pilgrim among the millions of seekers at the Kumba Mehla, a man searching for his memory.
TRAIL BOSS: Hallelujah, something finally lit a fire in our hero’s ailing brain! I can feel the adrenaline rush through our mind as he immediately responds to the stimulus triggered by the souvenir tile. First he reads the material in the hut to figure out how best to leave for the Kumba Mehla pronto. Next, he catches the local three o’clock bus that takes him back to Ravi’s Place in Laxman Jhula where he reserves a first class berth on the 6:30 p.m. Allahabad Special for January 15th, two days from now. He takes care of other details in town then hightails it back to Phool Chatti to write up a bunch of instructions including telling tomorrow’s self to sleep outside in order to free up the following big travel day. Good thinking, Hoss.
Anything you wish to add, Miss Shoshoni?
SHOSHONI: No thank you, dear. You seem to have the wagon train moving quite smoothly and efficiently. Just don’t move so hastily that we lose some of the passengers relying on our words to keep up along the trail.
TRAIL BOSS: Fair enough. Needless to say, folks, I’m eager to arrive at the Kumba Mehla festival and see who or what might prod our fellow back into memory. So with a crack of the whip and a big yee-haw, we get the show on the road, skipping over some regular routine and trip preparations to find our character in the garden hut on the eve of departure, busily writing a letter to greet his forgetful, and soon to be traveling, self who will awaken the next day on a sandy patch by the river.
JANUARY 14 – late evening
Dear Steven J. Shupe,
Yes, that is our name. India is our host. The Ganga is the river in front of you. Phool Chatti Ashram is the white compound behind. And amnesia, no doubt, is smack in the middle of your current concerns.
But not to worry. All is well, if a bit convoluted by forgetfulness. We have awoken in this confusing state for weeks while living in a garden hut at the ashram. Attached is a map to guide you to said hut. Once there, please proceed to take the morning hours to carefully read the awaiting information, messages, synopsis of diary entries, and detailed instruction on what to do this afternoon. In short, after lunch, a taxi is scheduled to take you to Ravi’s travel agency to pick up your prepaid train ticket for this evening’s Allahabad Express bound for the Kumba Mehla festival.
The Kumba Mehla rings a familiar and compelling bell, does it not? Upon awakening to my one day of existence, it was the only thing that stood out to me through the fog of amnesia—including an irresistible urge to get there posthaste. Apparently, our Kumba Mehla recall was triggered the other day by a Sedona souvenir tile you will find in the hut. On the back of the tile is scrawled, ‘Take me to the Kumba Mehla’, so don’t leave home without it.
I have already packed some items in the backpack here on the riverside beach, including money and valuables that I did not want to leave overnight in the lockless hut. Please, too, enjoy the bananas as a little treat. More are in the hut along with other snacks our previous self bought for your twenty-hour train ride.
Best wishes on your leg of the journey—one that, with luck, may lead not only to the Kumba Mehla but to full recall of our past. At least, we can hope so anyway!
The Nyxall Chronicles: The Now or Never Page 8
