‘ASCENSION IS NOT A MYTH’ (continued…)

DARK SIDE OF THE SUN   Excerpt, Copyright Andrea Hansen 1993 – 2011, FireFlower Communications, All Rights Reserved

In the starlight, parked at the foot of a mass of sandstone not quite mountain yet sheer and inaccessibly dangerous nonetheless, the bus shines indigo.  And against the stars, the rock glows a deeper shade of black.  Soon a blanket is laid out on the ground, spread with Skye’s abducted bottle of vodka, a cooler of watery beer, the usual tobacco offerings and some very very small tabs of innocuous looking paper.  This is it.  This is what they’ve all been waiting for. All I want to do is crash in the back of the bus on the purple shag carpet.  More than anything I want to sleep.  But that would be rude.  They’re all wide awake, in party-mode, and I don’t want to be a loser.  I’ve already made a less than good impression on the hippie-strangers I’ve been traveling with into nowhere the last three days.  Old as Methuselah, I am 23. Almost 24, I’m supposed to be as young as they are.  When Haley hands me two small painted squares, I follow her lead, not quite sure whether to chew or swallow. Dutifully, I swallow my fair share.

TK takes his drum and leaves us. Walking towards the massive rock, he settles onto a smaller formation adjacent to the giant mother.  Rhythmic, his hands pound out a song that in the desert air is thin and at the same time fills it with a vibration that mimics the pounding of my heart. Haley’s voice echoes round the base of the crag. Everyone has disappeared.

Filled with trepidation, I decide to follow Haley’s call. I step from the asphalt to find the ground sand-merged rock and each footfall uncertain.  Haley’s laughter urges me forward, around the perimeter rung with dead trees and cactus.

“Haley?”

“Over here-ere-ere,” the answer comes. “Look at the tree-ee-e!”

Gnarled, arthritic fingers reach towards us, the remains of a dried and toppled tree trunk. Haley strokes the shored driftwood millennia old. She speaks softly to it, runs her fingers along an ancient, scored surface that belongs to the complexion of the rock. Then she jumps up and runs down a slight grade, stopping abruptly to let out a yell which flares into the night.

Here!!

Curious, I move towards her, and freeze. Concealed in the black curves of strange hills and thorn covered dunes of rock, we are at the edge of a canyon.  The mountain behind suddenly becomes more solid than at any time in its history and I back towards it, stricken with profound terror. Toes over the ledge, Haley stands comfortably, smoking her cigarette.  Just then Skye and Roz appear atop the rock, faces bright with reflected light.

“We’re coming down!”

They are balanced on a sheer cliff yet moments later they too stand admiring the view into the abyss.  I cower by the dead tree.

“C’mon you!” Roz orders.

Skye glances over his shoulder directly at me.

“Aaah, death,” he says, and his voice floats hollow between the canyon walls.

He says it as if I am already dead and unaware that I am without life.  Undead.  A walking corpse.

“Come stand with us,” he continues, coming easily towards me over the stones, his beauty perfect and cold as sculpted rock.

Unreasonably tense, I am on guard.   Skye takes my hand and pulls me to the brink.  I try to relax. I concentrate on my breathing.  There they stand, the three of them, warriors, fearless. Who have they become?  This is not the bus, this is not home, this is not my ‘members only’ club.  I long for my living-room and my TV but here familiarity is a dirty word. The Fool Bus has brought me to another planet. In the land of dark stars I am a foreigner.  ‘Aah, Death…’  Skye’s voice reverberates in the windy caverns of my mind. Back to the bus. I’ve got to get back to the bus. I stagger, the ground rushes to meet my face and I have not fallen and no one has pushed me. The air is fresh, I cannot trace its movement or tell where it comes from. The earth is muffled through my shoes, I know, I know what to do.  I pull my flip-flops from my feet and throw them over the edge of the canyon.  No more obstruction now, I am connected, the sand is cool beneath my feet, now I can walk, the ground will guide me.  I sink to my ankles in sand, I pull out, onto the rock.  Fire-needles, pin-pricks of pain shoot through my skin. Fire-walking cactus candles, I walk.  I try to find the path, a rift in the darkness, but there is none.  I’ll have to make my own.  If I can follow the drum, I can make it back to the bus.

But beneath my feet the ground begins to shift, pulsing in long forgotten measure, so new, so strange.  Where will it take me, where will I end up…  I follow the drumbeat, I stumble past TK, the drummer on the stone.  The sound pounds through my body, through my brain, each cell returns its response.  I strain to catch the air, it hangs before me, it swings through me.  I chase the independent breath, it wants to follow the white lines, white lines painted on the tarmac.  Previously stark and straight now soft, shining starlit arrows that zag a jagged path to the horizon, they dance in the darkness and I am more afraid than before.  The earth is no longer still.  It never was.  What once appeared substantial is now viscous, a towering wave of black liquid asphalt sweeps shimmering towards me. A vast reflective opaque sheet, the mirror of the world is about to break over my head.  I turn to run.  If I can’t see it, it will go away; body-surfing concrete is not my thing. The asphalt swells large beneath me, there is no escape.  It hits me from behind the knees and I greet the rippling earth, water-bed of royals and me the princess who cannot sleep, disturbed by the hapless, twirling pea of what turns out to be my third eye lodged permanently in my brain.

I cannot move.  Where is the bus, of god, I raise my head and there it is.  Out of nowhere right next to me, I anchor myself, fingernails scraping the windowpane. The bus rocks blue from side to side.  Laughter and overly loud music flow out the door, laughter and a sky filled with lucys and all I can focus on is Horsey, the mascot hobby-horse sticking out the hood minus an eye. A checkered scarf billows out behind him, Horsey and his mane of blue yarn ride the night.  I wish I could run away with him, but I have to get inside the bus.  In Pandora’s funhouse the stairs slide from side to side. The purple carpet is made of rubber.  I bounce on the purple shag, there is no light.  The Fool Bus is one big box, through the windows laughter rains in, everyone is laughing. But now where to go, where to hide myself, amongst the rocks. I lurch across the cement, the parking lot appears an endless curve, it heads towards the highway, I make the connection. There is a bush where the highway cuts the desert in two.  Like a wild, threatened animal, I crouch behind it.

My shoes, where are they…  Dropped into a bottomless grave, I’ll never find them.  The laughter crescendos.  This was supposed to be fun.  Haley circles on a day-glo bicycle, where did she get it, her legs stick out as the pedals pump without her.  Free-style, she loops lazy arcs like a freestyle skater skimming black holes while Roz cartwheels around the bus and Skye watches them both and their laughter bubbles around me.  Laughter which to my ears is so raucous and terrible I wish I had never climbed aboard the damn bus to begin with.  Faces zoom in from the dark, they come in for a close-up and then they are gone, the Beatles singing an infinite loop of select songs that circle the night.  Quiet is what I want, to sit by the bus, but the ground-swells are getting bigger, I am a greedy fly stuck to a mega-bowl of dark, jiggling jello. There is something wrong with this picture, something in the way we move which does not correspond to the original silent stillness of a landscape whose essence I cannot decipher but whose dishonor I sense with a shame so final, so complete…

Buried under concrete and bound with highway, shrine desecrated with fumes of exhaust, and me the perpetrator, transgression unabsolved. Adrift on materialism’s false ocean, there is no further succor on the bus.

I must plead the sand and stone.

I can do nothing but flee, into the wasteland.

Again, the white heat of cactus spines spike the soles of my feet. The cold, dry arms of a desiccated, Paleolithic ancestress await me. Prehistoric amniotic fluid sucked dry eons ago, life’s first waters long reeled away, there is no comfort here. Saltimbanque of the blue bus fades behind me and my absence is not noticed.  Safe here, safer on this rock I tell myself.  I try to grip my panicked breath, it continues to breathe me, in, out, in, out the balloon of my lungs.  Legs tied in the cross-legged knot of difficulty, I face the desert alone. The unrecognized beauteous depths of canyons unconquerable and the supreme mystery of worn peaks in unscaled starshine range in every direction.  I am overcome with inexplicable sorrow, a sorrow greater than the sum of all injuries sustained and perceived.  Nails pierce my being, nails of grief absolute for the magnificent loneliness before me. Nails driven deep by an unknown executioner, I cannot carry the load of heaven on my shoulders. I cry for help and yet utter not a word.  Through the darkness I know that Skye has heard me. I see him coming, behind me on the right, even though I lack eyes in the back of my head. The pain is not mine, has he come to claim it? To my left, Roz appears and sits cross-legged beside me. Sharing the low flat rock with easy grace, they are unable to erase the anguish.

Again I try to speak but speech is lost, and I am caught, for no apparent reason, between the shadow of the stars and a planet of shades and I am not going to cry. No one is going to see me cry.  I stare into the horizon to no avail, the levee is going to break under the strain of this new pain, unbelievable and immense.  And the tears I have contained for so long spend themselves in a river of mercy whose existence has been secret, a river so deep and so wide I realize I am going to drown, the spear of pitiless compassion stuck in my side, strengthless to remove it.  Gazing at the sightless plane, I know where I am. It is the place of sacrifice, my own personal Golgotha. Then Roz speaks:

“Do you know Shiva?”

My heart cracks into a million pieces and I recognize the looming gate, twin mesas of the moon eternal heads raised to the vault of night except this night is numbered thirteen and there is no moon.  From the river a seer crawls forth.  The leafless tree on its bank springs to life with the wings of a hundred fluttering black birds and the desert calls me by my true name.  Looking deeper, I travel into the presence of a being who is not god, a flame colored ball of light, and know that it too waits. Who or what it is I cannot say, but there on the threshold, it dwells and will not be denied. With no retreat, I throw forward the offering of my greeting:

“Take it, whatever it is you want.  Take it.”

And with that I cast my glove and fling my soul into the fire.

Stretched out, my body hangs on the windy rock, twelve seconds, twelve hours or twelve days, I am lost in the smoke and mirrors of time’s timeless haze.  Desert rock smooth and grainy against my skin, the stone conforms to the contours of my body, eroded sandstone the softest bed I’ve ever known.  Rock and wind, wind and rock hollowed to receive my person, my skull, my flesh, my bag of bones and blood.  My flesh, my blood, I and the rock are one.  The wind sweeps harder, whistling down every crack and fissure, no yielding space unexplored.  Boulder crossed with body inert, rock table set for the stranger, I do not resist as it comes close.  The hot shadow of its approach, shift, shift shimmers in colorless wind.  A caress of warm air hovers around me.  An introductory whisper circles the length of my neck, a breeze of frost that carries a lambent flame, the down of my neck a rustling sea of crackling grass.  Awakened by this gentle kiss the pain of the ages burns away and beneath the influence of molten breath I pass into the realm of the dark sun…

My eyes are opened and above me the purpled sky is covered by the slow filigreed spin of time and fortune’s golden wheel.  Across the universe in ultra-violet revolution, slowly, slowly it spins.  And I see with my heart that as it moves it holds me in its center and that each spoke carries the scripted songs of humanity in every color and every form and every creed and every language ever imagined or imaginable.  Drawn along the arms of a song to the outer rim and back to the center again, and on and on in direction doubled, I sing each song and can no longer tell which way the music moves. Inward, outward, outward and inward, along radiating spokes of the measureless, whirling wheel of the atmosphere of existence I am first a center, then the center, then a center; and I see that every point is its own and yet every point is the same and every point leads to the center point of centrality.  Captured in the morphogenetic field of mind, vortex of memory, future past and present, where the three are one there is nothing to do but regard the symbols of time and listen to the cymbal clash as love holds my hand.

The kiss of awakening lingers.  Invisible rays disturb the ether, the colorless energy grows in strength and I witness the centrifugal birth of a spiral wind that explodes outward in the hanging fire of a burst of brilliance that moves faster than the speed of light-time.  Snakish tendrils of white heat shatter the bonds of space and time as west becomes east and east becomes west, north goes south and south goes north, and south becomes east and north becomes west, there is no place the winds of my mind do not blow.  The whirling mass gathers force and expands ever outwards, it has to stop but there is no stopping it.  I go with it and I am the force and it whorls and whorls, a whirling Andromeda flooding creation and the void.  Rendezvous with joy magnified, the first energy divides itself in two. A second force joins the first and it spins inwards as the first spins outwards.  The double strand of brilliant white light contains the combined force of the universe, the combined force of the universe the total force of mind and the total force of mind is thought.  The total force of thought and it is so obvious and I am struck with wonder and I am free of fear because I cannot fear myself.

The body the temple of the spirit, the earth the temple of the body, the galaxy the temple of the earth, the known universe the temple of the galaxy, infinity the temple of the known universe, the unknown infinite the temple of infinity and the temple of the unknown infinite the unknowable void.  This is the place from whence I come and the journey is there to return.  I am from before the beginning of this trip and will be ever after it is ended.

And the first luminous ring of the many-headed white-fire snake of being writhes outwards without end, joined in eternal dance with the inward spiral of the second.  And the first consumes the second and the second consumes the first, heads to tails and tails to heads. The wind of white flame then turns to scarlet.  Returned to the body, I part my lips to accept the gift.  Engulfed in an inner blaze that fuses the water of my flesh with the desert’s barren rock and limitless air, I waltz with the devil and jump with the lord.  Primal essence of the universal force manifested in me ascends, a pillar of internal fire that I know I can stop but at what cost so I let it rise and as it rises it burns to ash the concept of all I am.   Lotus of fire, a spinning star flares around my body, seated in yogic posture.

The kiss of the beast, the kiss of the sun one and the same.  Annihilating flames of destruction, nurturing ray of creation, burning light eternal, the one and the only indivisible fire, burning without and within.  Manifested in the stars, the sun, earth’s hidden scarlet core, and wo/man’s secret hidden spark, inheritance of the many named and unnamed gods who bear the gift of the inner sun, prodigal daughters and their sons, mothers and fathers all, bringing themselves the worlds of their selves and the selves of the worlds into being with the power of their attention.  All that ever was or will be exists forever now.  And now is not evil and now is not good, now is action and consequence, cause and effect, stillness held in the arms of peace, the point between birth and death’s revolving door.

Increasingly expansive and alternately contractive, the sentient breath breathes itself into being, the sentient breath which directs itself and all the relative realities born of its being.  The sentient fire breath of oneness increases in intensity by three, a triangle of gold that fills consciousness.  The false mask of ego burned away in invisible atomic blast which foams the waters of my blood and earth’s rock and all air in consciousness directed, I realize the entire mass of the universe in one unweighable stone.

Again returned to the body, at the edge of the canyon’s abyss I stand.  There its dark glory waits and the dark of the fall no longer holds terror for I am life itself and with that I outstretch my arms and embrace death’s grinning head.  Death, whose toothless smile has flirted with me before.  Death, before whose door I quake no more, death whose door is the door of life.  I fly into the canyon of the shadow of death and the force of my landing throws me prostrate to my knees.  Arms flung forward, palms impressed to the stone, my forehead is bowed to the ground.  When I raise my hands there are three lines cut along triple lines of influence, three lines cut red with blood as if sliced with a knife and as they bleed they glow with phosphorescent green light.  Healed before my eyes I know then that my blood is my gift to the earth, and my healing her gift to me.  Trust long dead sparks inside. My blood is earth’s blood, and our blood has mixed.  We are one.  And while I live earth dies.  If the sun does not rise earth will die, and when earth’s heart stops beating, and earth’s lungs stop breathing, I too will die. For earth’s heart beats with my heart.

The rock follows the horizon, not the stars, and I fall forward. The rock catches me, the mother’s stony skin caresses me. Like a baby, on my knees, the rock flows the way I will it, I am atop the mountain and for a time I wander unaware.   Cold, so cold, so dark I cannot see.  I must rescue the earth.  I must rescue the night.  I must give birth to the sun. I must find Skye, before it is too late.  He finds me, I raise my hand to his face. Without the sun earth will die.  Frightened, he cannot look at me.  He does not understand why we must create the sun.  Still he does not look at me. Shackled with remorse, I have failed, for I alone cannot give earth the sun.  In mourning for a world without life, I have nothing to live for and nothing to gain.  The profound uselessness of my sorry garments make me ridiculous. Widow’s weeds, my clothes cannot cover a dying mother and her stillborn son, not warm them.  But earth will not die alone. I will die with her, stripped of the trappings of a physical existence made meaningless on a waterless orb of dust and rock.  I am cold and the world is dark.

“Be with yourself,” Skye says, gently.

Be with yourself. Command made perfect, I am the word made flesh, the rose risen on the mountain of the sun. Within me I carry the light-filled understanding of a conscious universe.  I have the power to bring up the sun.  From below my heart the long hidden star comes up, the sun of the spirit that lives inside, and I see the light within and what I see is beauty.  Forgiven the fogged indulgence of empty visions and false gods created in the crucible wellspring of my own thoughts, I hear the charge of true love.  Life-fire burns in every atom and every particle of energy known and unknown, repulsed attraction the holding and directing force of thought manifested in the dimensions to which I am privy.  Yes! To each ever weaving thread in the glorious web of life. The inner light shines and dances before my eyes and I know that if I never again look upon my true self’s face, I know where truth lives.  Truth is within.  The voice is my voice, the will is my will. Command made perfect, prodigal daughter, I am the word made flesh,

Slowly the sky lightens and a thread of green and another and another emerge from the glowing rock.  My finger in my mouth I wait for the sun to come and it is the longest sunrise I’ve ever seen.

There have been many worlds;  there will be many more.

And I witness the birth of a new world in a world without time. Face towards the newly risen sun, Earth takes her first breath.

There is a New City.

At last I sit, on a rock on a rock on a rock. Dust-covered naked & shivering cold, lost in exhausted thought, I ask the Divine one last lingering question:  What is my mission??

 

Be.  Just Be.

 

Spent, weak, filthy & shaking, pain from somewhere in my physical body begins to break through.  I look at my knee and it is blood and the word is ‘Be’.  On a rock balanced on the rock, overlooking the risen sun and the newborn world of canyon and desert and bird and snake, cactus and juniper.  No mission.  No plan. A practical joke of cosmic proportions…  Be.  Just be…  Grace pours over me.  Free of expectation and illusion, the shadow of a smile glisters across my face.  I move to stand.  My leg is covered with blood from the gash of my right knee.  My body is stiff.  Oh god.  The others.  Haley & the nightwalkers.  I have to go back to them and what am I going to say?  What can I say, I don’t even know where my clothes are.  Slowly, slowly, I make my way down the mesa.

It is the first rock I’ve ever seen and my eyes are once again my own.  In formation of solid waves the rock ripples, a frozen ocean of red.  Over there, Haley and Roz wait together, topless in the sunlight.  I try to say good-morning, but I can’t talk.  I have to say something but it feels like everything hinges on my first words and I can’t think of anything.  Which words to choose when words convey nothing??  “Talk to me,” Haley says, gripping me by the shoulders, concern etched across her face.  The words well up.  With great effort, I speak.

“I want to laugh.”

“I’ve heard you laugh before.  Go ahead.”

Then Haley and Roz are hugging me and I’m surrounded by love and here we are.  Just one naked and two half-naked women on top of a giant rock in the middle of the nowhere desert.  Near an uranium mine.  Laughing, at nothing in particular, the absurdity of it all.  They lead me to the ledge of the rock and together we sit on the warming stone.  I gaze at the boundless canyon, the distant highway, the parking lot and the bus.  My knee is smashed raw.  TK brings me a long-sleeved white cotton shirt.  I slip it on, to find a red rose embroidered across my left breast.  Here, on the canyon’s lip, Skye stands proud in his nakedness, hung at the edge of the drop.

“Aaah Death, he says, and everyone laughs.

***

Not a day old I am forced to rediscover my body. Each footstep an exercise in agony, I can barely walk. Bent over, practically crawling, I use my hands as extra legs, and make my way alone along the river stones.  The coolness of the stream does not relieve the pain. Then the walls of rock come together, and the river’s calm becomes a boulder studded rapid. On a sunwarmed slab, I find temporary refuge. Tired, so tired I absorb the heat… And now I see, the soles of my feet are incised, peppered with the pliant spines of barbed-wire cactus.  I hadn’t noticed. With a blind woman’s touch I pull the needles out; soak my ankles in eddying froth; all the time in the world is mine. I follow the circling flight of a hawk overhead. It dives, and there, half-way down the cliff, white lines bleed from the ochre. I read a procession of stick-figured men with wings tied to their heads, some standing, others knocked on their sides, encircled with arrows and luminous filaments. I listen to the record of the longest leap. I hear the stories in the stone, petroglyphic messages from an ever present ancient past.

Alone I move on, till the gully roars in impenetrable impasse. Dead end rock wall split with the thunder of life, I stand mesmerized before a chute of liquid crystal that foams the intense wild gush of a waterfall. Rainbow bubbles bead the aquamarine surface of an overflowing cup focused ever skyward.  The catchment pool’s round reflective eye looks upon me and I do not mind its mirrored gaze.  Stripped, awkward on the sliding stone, I hazard in, woman on the half-shell.  Immersed to the neck in desert water coldly, deeply emerald, the iced water lifts my brain from my body as my skin tightens in the startling chill.  With my toes I stroke my way across the floor of the natatorium and glide the distance to nature’s shower.  Trembling, I raise myself to the raised rock undercutting the fall.  From the waiting throne in the hidden well the pressurized flow sluices triumphant over my head and the dust and the blood are washed away. Pink flesh over the bone of my knee emerges and it will heal and I will walk stronger, farther than before. The passage of water over the rock has sanded it the slick of the ages and my hair becomes as silk and my eyes match the pool and the falling wetness crashes over me and the power of its thunder matches the rush of lymph and blood in my body.

I go to the secret spring, the origin of emanation, a crack between the inner and outer realms. Fount replenished from the pulsating source, I allow myself to be carried.  Down the river, along the banks of life, I become the swishing sand. A nugget of gold chaffed to amber by grains of quartz, I hurtle through my self-made runneled bed, I grind the earth to water.  And the water turns to wind and with the wind I spin tornadoes and cyclones, stitch the trades and hurricanes, drive clouds counter and clock-wise, sculpt the skies and pummel the mountains back to sand.  And when the jungles die and the oceans dry, I will still be clothed, in shifting shades of gold and silver.  For after gowns of shining blue and verdant leaf, I will wear the arenaceous desert.  Desert that gives the gifts of  prickly pear and buttoned peyote.  Desert that kills and then kisses you before dying.  Desert that buries the rock in thousand foot dunes.  Shift shift shimmer in the wind, I dance the dance of sands… Unstoppable shivers rattle me, an unseen spirit lays hands on me…  I follow the river.  I must find the sea…

‘PLANET X’ IS NOT A MYTH – NEITHER IS ASCENSION

Today I learned for certain that Planet X really is real; and it is pretty much ‘here’ – having on its three closest alignments in 3,500 years caused the recent Chile, New Zealand & Japan earthquakes.   Three down  –  with the two closest flybys yet to go this coming FALL 2011  –  right in line with Calleman’s interpretation of the Mayan Calendar!  But the People of Earth are still standing, in spite of ‘HAARP’s’ best attempts to take humanity down in conjunction with Planet X.  So, there’s not much point in holding anything back anymore.  Not when it is our Collective Planetary Ascension that is at stake.  Briefly, regarding my previous post ‘Drunvalo – Circle of Hearts’  –   many incredible events had occurred before I placed ‘the Rock’ in the center of the Washington D.C. Medicine Wheel; and many incredible events have happened since then, even in just the last two weeks. For example, Friday we participated in an Earth Day Walk to ‘save the headwaters’ of 5 rivers from the mega pit-mine I’ve recently written about – the protest walk made the tv news & a cover story in our national newspaper. This walk was organized by Danny Beaton, Mohawk Warrior, Turtle Clan, Environmental Activist Extraordinaire.  Danny walks his talk and puts his money where his mouth is.  Before I found myself in the desert in 1991, I helped Danny organize a major Earth Day Event where we brought 40+  Indigenous Elders to Toronto for three full days.  One of the Elders was Hopi Messenger Thomas Banyacya, who Blessed me. At the time, I really did not know what that meant.  Out of the blue & less than 3 months later in Hopiland, I underwent the Yacqui Indian Initiation that Castaneda so eloquently wrote about:  ‘The Eagle’s Leap.’  

‘Context is Everything.’

So before I tell you what really happened that night in the Utah desert, a little more background is necessary:

The night I died at 23, I may as well have been 103; I had done everything expected of me to the letter, and everything had fallen through, like dust between my fingers.  The conditions of real spiritual awakening perfectly set, my faith in romantic love, family, societal institutions and people in general thoroughly betrayed & trampled, for years I blamed my step-father.  From a highly respected Anglo-Scottish military family, descended from the painter William Gainsborough & Bonnie Prince Charlie, he tried his best to do what was expected of him.  He loved jazz, big band, the blues and classical guitar, good scotch, poetry and adventure.  To the shame of the decorated war heroes of his family, he was kicked out of the Royal Canadian Airforce as a young man for insisting on joyriding military aircraft without permission.  Dad needed a war to redeem himself, and in his middle years, in Central America in the early 1980’s, he found one. A minor player, at the time Dad believed he was fighting Communism.  With disastrous results for the family, in way over his head, too late Dad discovered that life is not a spy novel. At the age of sweet sixteen, it was a game the Big Old Boys played that I had no business knowing anything about.  Debating what to say here, a 60’s song comes on the radio:  ‘Evil grows in the dark, where the sun never shines, And every time I look at you, evil grows in me.’  Enough said.   It did not help that my mother knew nothing at all – because Dad never confided in her.  To this day mother (a child refugee of World War II) insists I’ve ‘made it all up’.  A childhood survival mechanism, it is how mum deals with whatever she can’t deal with. Just one aspect of my family dysfunction, this ‘core denial’ has essentially cost me everything.    ‘Loose lips sink ships,’ Dad always said cheerily. That, and ‘People get bumped off, you know.’ He died of cancer six years ago; we had made our peace, and he has made his.  Still, Mother refused to invite me to his memorial.   She knew how to pick ‘em, ‘macho men’ she thought could protect her. As a cadet, my biological father had got himself kicked out of the Royal Canadian Navy.  He’d joined up because he wanted to travel, and when they docked in Edinburgh he jumped ship, rented a Bentley and took off with his buddies to go party in the Scottish countryside.  Like my mother, he too was a child casualty of WWII; he just expressed his unresolved trauma & pain a little differently.  I love & forgive my parents  –  but I digress.

The night I died at 23, I was not supposed to live to tell the tale. 

Please understand:  ‘Evil’ does not always take human, physical, flesh and blood form.  But through Divine Grace, I survived.  And if I could do it, anyone can.  Through Faith Holy & Grace Divine, we can all embrace our fear, and that which most frightens us, in order to transcend the Illusion.

Historical Proofs of the Galactic Human Potential Awakened and Fulfilled: Prince Siddhartha, who became the Enlightened Buddha; Yeshua, King of the Jews  (under Roman Law Pontius Pilate would have been put to death for acknowledging Yeshua as Royalty, had it not been the actual truth);  the first Tibetan Lamas descended from the Bon Kings;  Quetzalcoatl;  the living Quan Yin before  Ascension…;  the original Incan, Vedic and Egyptian Royals… ;  Joan of Arc.  There are so many, unsung, and unknown, who have faced the Darkness of Fear, of Death, and the Void.  At the threshold of our collective planetary Ascension we now stand, and the Forces of Darkness have gathered for their last stand.  It is now Earth and Her Children are most vulnerable…  Unless we, the Light-Workers, the incarnate Starseed, can face the Darkness, embrace it fully with Love Divine as the face of our own personal & collective Shadow, without judgment or separation… No matter how messy, inconvenient, terrifying or shameful.

ALL HUMANITY IS OF DIVINE SEED.

ALL HUMANITY IS OF ROYAL SEED.

GALACTIC ASCENSION IS OUR HUMAN BIRTHRIGHT…


It has taken almost two decades to come to terms with what I experienced that desert night in Canyonlands, Utah.  AS LORD MAITREYA ONCE TOLD ME  (IN A CHANNELLED SESSION for which the channel had no reference whatsoever):

 

IN A BIT OF A HURRY  – 

 YOU WERE A PERFECT EXAMPLE OF WHAT NOT TO DO …


I wrote what follows at age 24. With the exception of Ram Dass, author of ‘Be Here Now’, who did ‘get it’, of course, as stated in a cherished letter which arrived on a subsequent birthday, I shared these words with only a few close friends and family – with disastrous results.  Now, over 18 years later, I am finally sharing it with you.  ASCENSION, Before, During and After…

 

DARK SIDE OF THE SUN   Excerpt, Copyright Andrea Hansen 1993 – 2011, FireFlower Communications, All Rights Reserved

 

ASCENSION PART ONE  –  ‘BEFORE’

The screaming producer reached for her purse.  As she rummaged desperately through it, a sheaf of papers caught her eye.   “What the f…??”

The film crew gasped.

The mutinous cover page of my carefully researched and revised ‘eco-proposal’ for the show’s next ‘green’ season was in Belinda’s shaking grasp.  Too late, I realized Belinda had the wrong bag.   Showbiz rebellion crushed underfoot, the ace up my sleeve was ripped into shreds all over the concrete floor.

“I hope you have a good lawyer!” Belinda shrieked with hurt and with rage, while I seethed silently and stood my ground.

My beautiful non-career screeched to a stunningly humiliating halt, the sword of dissatisfaction had hung by a thread above my head  –  and I was the one who’d cut the cord:  I’d given Belinda my purse.  Blood-stained scissors still in hand, it was hard to let go of the familiar bitterness fast inside…  Between the loss of Antonio’s affections and my ‘mcjob’, what else was a girl to do – but get on the bus with a bunch of beautiful losers, and ride into the sunset?? A bright yellow ‘Cool Bus’, dear Lord, homage to Ken Kesey & Ram Dass, I’d never even heard of them.  Far from my ‘members only’ club, my home and my hotel, the wild bunch was about to take me much further…

I exit the recreation center and walk quickly across the empty parking lot.  The morning is fresh and my hair is still wet from my clandestine shower. The gouged earth awaits seed, half-finished houses with double garages, swimming pools and bald lots await owners who may never arrive.   Back at the bus, I sit on a block of sunwarmed cement and wait, for the questions to come. TK slips something over my shoulders.  My jacket, lost and now found.  I check the inside pocket.  The hard edge of a credit card cuts into my thumb.

Good for a few meals yet.

Parked outside a donut shop, we’ve made a pit stop at another strip mall, ubiquitous legacy of Anyplace, North America, ugly as sin. The entire morning so far spent waiting for the autoglass repair man.  From the patio, my associates share the paper and sip coffee from styrofoam cups.  How civilized.  At a safe distance, the ‘donated’ toilet paper roll now nailed to the ceiling of the bus dispenses a streaming banner on the breeze, a double-ply dove swoops out the door, tail-feathers fanned by shimmering asphalt heat.

In a phone booth, I make another collect call to my gran. Nini. When I called her ‘grandma’ at the ballet she kicked me in the leg and looked the other way. I struggle for the right words, a way to tell her where I am.

Nini answers the phone right on cue.  She spends the better part of the day on the horn, tracking her friends, her friends’ friends, her frenemies and her family. But not until she’s styled her hair, applied black eyeliner and touched up her nails with pink enamel, the same color she’s worn her whole life.  I can see her now, settled comfortably on her chaise, command central.  ‘You never know who is around the corner,’ she always says, sipping coffee from her Pope John Paul II mug; and she’s not even catholic.  Motor running, she’s ready for the second coming.  Nini accepts the charges.  She always does.

“Hi Nini. I’m calling from out of town.”

Out of town…’” she ruminates.   “So what is it you are doing all day?” she asks for the thousandth time.

“I assist the producer,” I lie.

My answer is always the same.  So is her response.

“So what is it you are doing all day?” she asks again, suspicious that although I’m unavailable days, it isn’t because of work.  I try to explain myself, within the parameters of my old job.

“I set things up.”

“What you do mean, you ‘set up’?  ‘Who’you are setting up?”

“I organize shoots.”

“You shoot people?!”

“No, no, I don’t shoot people, I talk to them…”

“You talk?  For what you are talking?  You talk too much!  When you want talk, talk to me. How much times I have tell you, you don’t talk to people at work.  Especially women.  They are evil.  Evil-deevils.”

“I…”

“Charlatans! I want that you be somebody!”  She’s on a roll, I’m less than zero…  “Be someday somebody!  You have a slippery tongue, be a lawyer.  Why you aren’t a lawyer?”

“I-don’t-want-to-be-a-lawyer.”

Nini pauses to catch her breath.

“Why you don’t want be a lawyer?”

I rest my head against the dirty-cool glass of the phone-booth and sigh. Because lawyer without the ‘w’ spells slayer as in slaughter.

“O.K. Be a doctor. Your hands are good, I feel it when you massage the arthritis in my feet. Why you don’t want be a doctor???”

No answer.

“You meet lots of nice doctors working in hospitals.”

“I fucking hate hospitals and if you like doctors so much why don’t you marry one.”

“Are you crazy?  I am over eighty years old woman! These legs are good only for burning!”

“That’s not what Mr. Hoffman thinks.”

“What a dirty mouth!”  Nini’s bellowing now, and swearing, and enjoying every minute of it.  “I am married at seventeen. Seventeen!”  If she were a gorilla she’d beat her chest.  “I am married to same man for sixty-three years.  Sixty-three years!  I was virgin!  Virgin! And you dare to criticize me.  Me!  Your over-eighty years old gramma?  You – you – alley-cat!”  she spits.  Nini hates cats; calls them ‘germ-carriers.’  “You are twenty-three years old and you don’t even have one husband!”

It doesn’t look good. I haven’t even asked her for the money yet.

“Look Nini, I’m going to be stuck here for a few days and I need you to water my plants.” And pay my rent…  “I don’t have time to do any banking and Belinda forgot her credit card and she promises to pay me back as soon as we get back to the city.  Can you advance me something on my card?”

The pause is long and heavy.

“That bitch.  I give you eight-hundred.”

My plan is to put the windscreen repair on my card and just keep charging stuff that looks vaguely businesslike.  Nini won’t clue in till I’m deep in the heat of the desert southwest.

“So, my Grande Duchesse…  What exactly is it you are doing out of town?”

My Nini knows me too damn well.

“I love you Nini.  I have to go now, they’re calling me.  Kisses!”

“A million million Guardian Engels to watch over you!!!”

 

“A million million Guardian Engels to watch over you!!!”  I hear my Gran say in a dream, and in the dark I wake exhausted.  TK is snoring near my shoulder.  Overtired, I can’t sleep so I stumble over inert bodies from the back of the bus and sit up with Roz as she drives us through the rest of the night.

“You can’t go back to something you’ve never left,” she says simply.

“What do you mean?”

“All this crap about getting back to nature.  It’s a total crock.  We’ve never left.  It’s just our society, the Western didactic, this temple of reason that tells us what we’ve left behind – to justify not needing it.  To justify its destruction.  If we don’t need wilderness, it has no value.  Except for a few rocks or trees that look pretty on someone’s lawn and happen to increase property values at the same time.”  With a short pause, Roz asks me squarely, “What if I told you all the answers you are looking for exist in the wild?”

I look suspiciously at the cold midnight wilderness that stretches to infinity on either side of the highway as we speed by.  Hands loose on the wheel, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to do right then, Roz removes her dress.  In lace bikini lingerie Roz continues driving and talking.  I pretend not to notice.

“The part that’s really scary – the terrifying, maligned, mysterious wild – is inside of us. Part of our deepest psyche.  And because we choose to ignore it, we have forgotten how it feels to be real human beings.”

If I’m uncomfortable she doesn’t notice or care.  I don’t feel mysterious or natural.  Just cold and kind of scared.  Maligned, yes.  Confused, definitely.

“We destroy wilderness. Then we blame God for everything. And accept AIDS and starvation as examples of divine punishment. Dissatisfied with this particular interpretation of holiness, we decide in our wisdom that God does not exist.  What if God is us, God is them, and everywhere you find God you see the Devil also?”

I really don’t know what to say.  It’s three in the morning and we’re nowhere near the mountains.

Dawn brings a crescent moon of cloud across the sun in an otherwise pale and cloudless sky. Ageless peaks birthing rivers of mother’s milk line the horizon and towards these mountains we are drawn by an invisible magnet buried deep inside the rock.  I can almost feel it as mile by mile we are pulled closer, till finally, nestled in the rocky cleavage, we come to rest in a mountain pass.  Day three of our road trip, I have not slept more than a few hours.   Under soft drizzle, in the small mountain village we buy a spatula and a few pots.  The Boulder, Colorado luxury hotel I’d stayed at just a few months earlier is less than half an hour away. Tramping back to the bus, a large blue eyed husky bounds at my feet.

“Free!” A guy with dreads and light green eyes approaches the bus. “Hey guys, how’s it going?”

Turns out Huevo is an old friend of Roz’s and he knows of a pay-phone in town that takes a dime and lets you call anywhere in the world for as long as you need.  A multitude of ten cent calls are placed and then we stop in at the local liquor store. Everyone piles in; checking labels and switching prices for fun we purchase a single giant bottle of cheap wine.  Back on the bus, Skye proudly contributes a bottle of contraband vodka.

Then, on a dirt road up the side of the mountain the fine drizzle turns to pelting rain. While TK and Roz catch up with Huevo, Skye and Haley strip down and shower under the double arch of a Rocky Mountain rainbow.  Bathed in mist, unaffected by wind and cold, their faces are lifted to the clouds. Even though I’m dying for a bath, I’m too self-conscious. Timid, I shiver for them. Through the window, glass opaque with condensation, I absorb Skye’s profile, watching covertly as he stands in the rain. I am becoming obsessed with his simplicity. All is struggle, yet for him the struggle is effortless.

Around switchbacked corners the bus swerves to the sound of TK’s drumming. We burrow into available blankets and wait for the cold air of the mountains to warm as we challenge descent into the desert’s heat.

“Have you ever thought about acting?” I ask Skye; his sister is an international beauty queen.

“No. I don’t think.”

One day he will run away and join the circus.

The hours pass.

Hills of purple under a sky streaked with sunset disappear with the slow absence of light. Roz drives on through the run of night, following hairpin turns, each curve pulling us irresistibly downward. Towards the rock strewn wasteland, a place with no name and a gravity all its own pulls the Fool Bus further. Lips crossed with knowing, a slight smile covers Roz’s face. Three days and three nights and hardly a stop, three days and three nights of straight driving, complaints met with little concern. Roz has a deadline.  At last the air is soft and warm as baby’s breath. From our sleeping bags we emerge, pupa stretching new, crinkled wings.

The drumming continues, quiet, so quiet I can barely hear it.  Black velvet air brushes my skin.  With each curve in the road I swing from window to window, hammock dancing with the wind that pours in, my body an earth-bound pendulum in a box of speeding space moving against the motion of tires that eat up the miles.

“There’s nothing here, man,” TK says, travel-weary.

Exhaustion has set through the group. The whole point was to get there, and there’s no ‘there’ here.  The drumbeat brings me to the edge of sleep, the edge of a dark dream I can’t see or hear or speak, only sense.

“Roz, how far is it? C’mon man, how much longer?” Haley asks, impatient.

“We’ll get there when we get there,” Roz says, stoically non-commital.

In the backglow of the headlights her breasts are firm against the thin cloth of her dress.  A movable flow of light plays against her profile, the set line of her mouth, hits with staggering clarity the banks of crumbling sand and carved rock through which we journey.  Thick with glass smooth as tar, the road to nowhere is exceptionally well paved.

“The desert, man,” Roz says, without explanation.

The bus finally stops.

I hurry out, eager to investigate the campsite. For sure, Roz has made a mistake. Surrounded by pitch darkness, there are no welcoming campfires or neighboring tents, no restrooms or hot dog stands.  We can’t even see the desert we’re parked in the middle of; it’s just another giant parking lot.  I don’t want to leave the shelter of the Fool Bus.  Through the darkness my eyes adjust to the bare outline of a lunar landscape. The form and immensity of the great rocks is not immediately comprehensible. Here we stand, heads upraised to a night firmament studded with crystal blue flame.  No one speaks.  Never have I been in such a desolate place.

TO BE CONTINUED… 

‘DRUNVALO – CIRCLE OF HEARTS’

Yesterday I woke up from a dream of Drunvalo Melchizedek.  For the first time that I remember he said my name out loud in front of a large gathering of people.  I don’t see him in the dreamtime as much as I used to;  dreaming him all the time was emotionally exhausting.  I remember once I dreamt that we were crouched together beside a wall and giggling uproariously and whispering.  Then I asked him, “Why are we whispering??” and then we just kept laughing even more.  A couple weeks later there was an announcement that his wife teaches people how to remember everything they dream from the moment they fall asleep to the moment they wake up; and how the next night to continue their previous  ‘dream’  from where they left off,  when they go back to sleep again.   My experience with Drunvalo has been a little confusing, because on this plane of reality we have barely spoken, yet profound events have occurred in the outer world whenever our paths have crossed.

Like Drunvalo says, confirmations always come in threes.  First, yesterday, he showed up in the dreamtime.  Second, yesterday, I randomly found an old flyer with a Vesica Pisces on it that I had not seen in thirteen years…   ‘Circle of Hearts’ …   When I first heard about the Roy LittleSun solstice ceremony,  I didn’t think anything of it, because I did not have the funds to go anywhere.  Then out of the blue my beloved grandmother announced that she wanted to go to Washington before she died and that she was taking me and my mum with her.

From Roy Little Sun’s Ceremonial Flyer:  “U.S. Government consented to the Circle of Hearts Medicine Wheel Ceremony to take place at the Heart of a System that must lead to the Awakening. The Sacred Space that the circle holds will be used to dissolve the separations that have kept us from seeing that we are ONE.   The Prayers sent by the smoke (of the Sacred Pipe Ceremony) concern the Union of All Races, particularly the Black and White Races  –  Healing of the African Wound.”  The ‘Star-Map’ significance of this location is incredible  –  the site of the Medicine Wheel actually corresponded to the location of the face on Mars & the Pyramids of Giza  (see work of  Star Map Scholar Wayne Herschel) .

Circle of Hearts

A Sacred Ceremony With Roy Little Sun 

Sunrise, June 20, 1998 until Sunset, June 21, 1998

On the Grounds of The Washington Monument

With Drunvalo Melchizedek, Ken Page, Chelsea Flor, et al.

Thirdly, as I started writing this morning, my ‘pre-edited’ blog post which included a copy of a non-email registered letter I had sent to Drunvalo Melchizedek  over a  year ago and which I had requested he burn after reading,  my wordpress account was actively accessed through Messenger Connect, which I have not authorized on my account. Certain parts of my pre-edited blog post were deleted, and the font  size on  my entry was changed to a very small almost unreadable type, which I managed to fix.   I was not planning to make the letter to Drunvalo public, but I’d rather everyone know what I have to say than just the ‘self-chosen’ hidden hackers.  With some minor editing & bolded sentences with extra information added for those who were not at the D.C. Medicine Wheel, here is the Excerpt from my Letter to Drunvalo  –  which I wrote when I was feeling quite frightened & alone:

Dear Drunvalo,

…This last weekend I went a little more public with my website (www.thefireflower.com) – and discovered that the photo album with some of my spiritual pilgrimage pics I wanted up, is missing. (Not an unusual occurrence either, by the way). I think the photos in question were ones from my one and only trip to Washington D.C.  –  for the Hopi Medicine Wheel Ceremony with Roy LittleSun.  I told you what happened over dinner the following summer at your weekend workshop at the Omega Institute.

The day before the big ‘placing of the rock’, so to speak, I had wandered over around noon to find only Roy in the teepee and the hearth-keeper in attendance. The hearth-keeper was in the middle of handing me some sage for the fire, when suddenly there was a huge racket and two Naval Helicopters landed, oddly, a stone’s throw away on the lawn.

“This is the third time they’ve landed,” he said, looking concerned, as the both helicopters’ stairs lowered and serious looking men in full uniform (white hats and gloves, etc.) emerged to stand guard.

I thought it was weird, but had no idea what was going on. The hearth-keeper wasn’t exactly chatty. All I knew was that I had to get inside the circle and walk around and round ‘to protect it’. That was my gut reaction. Meanwhile, Roy had emerged from the teepee with his drum to start playing, and the hearth-keeper finished putting sage in my hand. I had picked up a small rock from the Mall on my walk over.

“Is it OK if I add my rock?” I asked.

The hearth-keeper didn’t say anything, he just ushered me into the Wheel as quickly as he could. Where I said my prayers of protection, placed my little rock very carefully, and watched the helicopters pack up and fly away.

You know the rest. You were there the next day. I was about to say your name (Drunvalo) to Roy and everyone present when to my shock it dawned on me why I couldn’t.

In the presence of Drunvalo and the gathered, Roy explained it was the first time a Hopi Medicine Wheel had ever been conducted outside of Hopiland, and that the U.S. Government had given special permission for the ceremony to be held at the foot of the Washington Monument. That it was a very special ceremony, because instead of the usual 108 stones, there were actually 109  –  Roy said raising the 109th stone in the air – and that whoever placed the 109th stone would lead the world through the Gates of Ascension.  And that he had written President Clinton inviting him to come and place the 109th stone.  And that three times the Presidential Helicopters had landed (when it is the President, there are always two helicopters, apparently). And that each time the President had not appeared.  Roy then asked if anyone disagreed with him placing the 109th stone, that if they felt it should be someone else, to speak up.  I would have gladly said Drunvalo – except that for better or worse and by complete accident I had placed the 109th stone the day before when the two Helicopters had landed for the  3rd time.  Ooops.  Story of my life, wrong place, wrong time. 

After the closing ceremony of the wheel everyone was invited to take a rock. I did not. The hearth-keeper came up to me and asked only one question:

“Are you alright?”

I nodded yes.

Then, as I was walking away, a youngish man in a pastel button-down shirt and khakis approached me.

“You didn’t take a rock.”

“No, it’s OK.”

“Well, I think you should have a souvenir of Washington,” he said, opening his back-pack .

With great care he lifted out a small bundle and unwrapped it. Inside it was a porcelain dish with a covered lid. He lifted the lid. The dish was filled with earth.

“From the hills overlooking Washington,” he said.

He dug around in the earth and handed me a marble.  I thought he’d lost his, but accepted his ‘gift.’ I had a bad feeling about it but I didn’t want to be rude. He was clearly an establishment Washingtonian and very proud of his illustrious roots.  He then invited me to a Christian prayer group to be held on the Mall a month or two later.  I declined, and quickly walked away, wondering what the hell he’d just given me.

That night in the dreamtime I was attacked by a Native American warrior who was determined to scalp me. I woke up in my hotel room, exorcised the stone, and sent the Warrior on Home. The marble had been taken from his resting place, where he had fallen in battle on the hills overlooking the capital.  The guy had said it was from his family’s property. 

The next day, my grandmother and I got in a cab and I asked to be taken to the Washington Masonic Temple. Instead, the driver drove us all the way to the George Washington Masonic National Memorial, ‘Shooter’s Hill’, Alexandria to the stepped temple on the hill.  Where again, there was a  one man ‘welcoming committee’ in requisite khaki pants and button-down shirt.  As well as two very tall, well built blond men who did not make eye-contact with anyone and who were clearly disgusted with the whole scene.  I still do not know who they were.

I’m a little concerned.

This last week the level of attention I’ve received has changed. A little more out in the open, including someone I’ve trusted completely who has turned out to have had a serious agenda all along. And when I say serious, I mean serious.  I think I am at the point where I really do need some help.  And you are the only person that I know of who might actually be able to to do so.  Or know of someone who can.  Thank-you.

Love, Andrea

Today’s Blog Post, continued:  After the ‘rock’ debacle at the Medicine Wheel in D.C. about which I said absolutely nothing at the time, I did end up having lunch with Ken Page, and with the brilliant Chelsea Flor and her then partner, who I had met along with Roy Little Sun at a New Mexico Star Knowledge Conference months earlier.  We ended up doing some spontaneous grid work together at the Vietnam Memorial.  As much as I would have liked to have spoken with Drunvalo at the D.C. Medicine Wheel,  Spirit had other plans.

The first time Drunvalo and I did actually meet in the person I was invited to join him and his group at dinner.   It was at the Omega Institute in New York State, the same weekend that John F. Kennedy Jr., his wife and sister-in-law were all killed.  I knew before checking a map that the tragedy had occurred on the same grid-line upon which Omega was located, which runs back up through my Toronto home-town.  But that night at dinner, I had no idea what had happened, and I’m not sure anyone else did either.  We were in our own higher dimensional bubble.   It was then I told Drunvalo what happened in D.C.

Drunvalo’s response:     “Leave it to a woman.”

Several years later I finally attended a ‘Living In the Heart’ Workshop, for which the prerequisite ‘Flower of Life Level One’ was waived because of my own personal direct experience / spiritual initiation of the Flower of Life and my own already fully activated Merkabic Field.   This was held at Blue Mountain, Ontario (very near the proposed location of the open pit mine featured in my previous blog post).  One of the things that happened at the ‘meeting’  – someone in the group asked him if he had a female counterpart on this plane of  existence.  He said yes, but that she was  ‘not public’.  Immediately afterward in the restaurant, a well dressed man not in the workshop asked me point blank:  “When are you going to break the news?”  I did not know what to say, partly because I had no idea how to go about doing so.  I can’t for the life of me remember the rest of the conversation except “Stay in your heart,” I ended up telling the stranger.  “I’m already dead,” he said in response.  “Just stay in your heart.”   Who was he??   Again, I have no idea.   The next time Drunvalo came to Toronto (I did not attend his workshop) we had the giant power black out in the entire north east.

Why did Spirit have me place the 109th stone?  That is the 64 million dollar question.  Why did Spirit send me into Canyonlands, Utah, in the middle of the night?  Some of the stuff that got ‘deleted’ from this post stayed deleted – for now.  Fortunately or unfortunately, as the case may be  –  I’ve already Ascended  in this lifetime.  The Ascension part was great – the hanging out here in 3D afterward  –  I would not wish it upon my worst enemy.

http://thefireflower.com/about.html

So, I really hope you enjoy ‘Ascension: The FireFlower.’  I wrote it just for you.   It is designed to transcend duality and specifically heal ‘the African Wound’ as Roy Little Sun put it.  We are all born of Mother Africa.  It is time to remember…  ‘Ascension: The FireFlower‘  is the book I was looking for twenty years ago, and could not find. It took me over ten years to complete, as there were things I could not write about until I had processed them completely. It is through my writings that I share my being. Other than a single novel, I don’t have anything to sell you.  I can’t sell you a direct experience of the higher realms, based on a promise and a wish and a prayer, and neither will anyone else who’s actually ‘been there’.  Knowing this, I cannot set up a structure of teachings or hierarchical degrees, trade-marks or initiations to be bought or sold. Spirit is beyond the grasping paw-prints of the marketplace or human ego. There is no mystery school anyone can establish greater than the Mystery of Spirit and Creation which abides within you.  All I can do, based on personal gnosis, is assure you beyond any doubt, of the eternal existence of the divine presence within; the holy presence which hides behind the mind, the body, the personality, the ego, memory, emotion, and the illusion of time. There is so much more to life and reality as we know it.

IS THIS EGYPT? THE CHIEFS HAVE SPOKEN

About a week ago I was informed that a Boston Hedge Fund intends to excavate what is slated to become possibly the 2nd largest open pit mine in North America.  Problem is, the proposed site is only about an hour from where I live, right here in the province of Ontario, Canada  –  in an environmentally sensitive area named ‘Hills of the Headwaters’, right on the edge of the Niagara Escarpment, an officially declared UNESCO Biosphere Reserve. Said Hedge Fund has acquired huge tracts of land, which they bought from potato farmers who had no idea when they sold that the trees and houses of their well established farmsteads would be completely destroyed and razed to the ground.

From what I understand, the plan is to dig  beneath the water table, to a depth that is more than the height of Niagara Falls.   The water table:  a precious aquifer that feeds the headwaters of five rivers, which in turn support life for entire ecosystems as well as provide 1/4 of the daily drinking water for the people of Southern Ontario.  Not only that, the unique soil of the region is so fertile it produces up to 25 lbs of potatoes for each person living in the Toronto area, a major metropolitan center.  A large portion of these fertile fields  –  over 7000 acres  –  will be destroyed in the excavation process.  Of course, the Hedge Fund has a local address that is a UPS Store, and the ‘suite’ it occupies is a numbered mail box.    The ‘gold’ in ‘them thar hills’ is limestone; and once the headwaters of the rivers re-direct themselves, 600 million litres of pure water per day may end up gushing into the pit.

The people ARE protesting.

At the town meeting I attended on Saturday, someone yelled out:

“The money is from South America!!”

Indeed. ‘Who’ exactly, in South America, inquiring minds would like to know??  And why come all the way here for limestone, when there are all kinds of mineral deposits all over South America, just waiting to be exploited??  Is it about the water, owning it, controlling it for sale and export?  Or is there something else going on here??  I may be completely off base – but – the proposed site for the 2nd largest open pit mine in North America is at the highest point of the Southern Ontario landscape – known also as ‘the roof of Ontario’.   I’m not a geologist, but it is  limestone pretty much all the way through, which acts as a filter for rain and meltwater all the way down to the Great Lakes.

This is where things get interesting.

Based on the incredible work of Dr. Carmen Boulter in Egypt, and her studies of ‘forgotten ancient technology’  –  underground waters and the flowing Nile ‘charged’ the ‘stone mountain’ of the Great Pyramid with massive free energy telluric currents powered by the moving water itself.  According to Boulter, the Great Pyramid was a sophisticated generator that not only provided light – but well being, ‘positive life-force’ and healing energy throughout the ‘Band of Food and Peace’ of the Nile temple complex which was far more extensive than just the Giza Plateau.

I believe the ‘Hills of the Headwaters’ is a North American equivalent of  the Ancient Egyptian ‘Band of Peace’, a fertile plateau atop a major aquifer that is a naturally occuring  ‘mountain generator’ of healing life energy produced as water flows through the massive deposits of limestone and down towards the lakes, thus charging major ley lines that run across Canada and the United States. The Native Elders have always known this region to be a special place.  It is where ideas of  unity, confederation and co-operation have been rooted for centuries.  Southern Ontario is one of the most stable, peaceful, abundant and agriculturally self-sustaining places on Earth.   It is also a place where every language group, nationality,  religion and race in the world is now represented, and where most of the population lives together in mutual appreciation and respect.

The Chiefs of Ontario have spoken, via their chosen messenger ( at another meeting I attended earlier in the week hosted by www.ndact.com & www.citizensalliance.ca ) that they will do everything in their power to protect the ‘Hills of the Headwaters’ here in Ontario. Please pray for the protection of these pure waters, these pristine natural energies which bless and feed all of us here in North America, that they remain forever undisturbed.  Mother Earth needs your prayers   –   please hold this sacred watershed in your hearts.  Thank-you.

Please note, the above links are correct.  If for some reason they do not work, please cut and paste.   For more information on the Ancient Egyptian ‘Band of Food and Peace’ please watch ‘The Pyramid Code  ‘  – www.youtube.com/watch?v=rlSssnh4b7Q

LOVE, ANDROMEDA

www.thefireflower.com