‘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… 

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