Instructed to keep what I’d learned to myself, how did that help anyone else? Angry, I challenged the authority of angels and/or any emissary of God to tell me how to live after all the pain and suffering I’d gone through. I was the one living on Earth plane, not them! The voices told me to cool down, that they were looking out for me as best they knew how. Honoring both of our rights to expression, I conceded any connection between the dimensions had to include time because I was in it. Then in a scene right out of Babylon 5, I took a stand and told the forces of light and dark, the angels and the devil and the voices – whatever side they were on, that I didn’t want to play games anymore. Tired of being pushed and pulled in directions I never knew existed, I was going to make use of my time as best befitted me whether they liked it or not.
Cocooned in a bubble of absolute silence, I now stood alone, yet unafraid. Fire burned within. Reborn into an unwritten world with no road map, no knowledge of the language, no resources, no money, no tools other than my own being, I searched for any sign of guidance. Mind swirled in the evolutionary richness of language: hieroglyphic, petroglyphic, brush-stroked oriental script, ancient Sumerian, Indian, Islamic, Cyrillic, Gaelic and English in all its forms: old, middle and modern – and those were just the spoken ones! Where did sign, telepathy, love and feelings and sensory perceptions fit into the picture? And that was only on the Earth plane.
Around me my family of beings stood silently waiting in the wings. I opened my mouth to speak, then stopped. What language did angels, demons, aliens and extraterrestrials speak? By logical inference, all languages had a mother tongue. If I could find it then maybe it’d connect me to everything in the Universe no matter where I stood in it.
By asserting myself how would they know I hadn’t rejected them? But how could I tell them without the right words. Feeling grossly inadequate for any form of communication and transaction, my being resonated seismically. Fearing another earthquake, I slunk into aloneness. Once more Shakespeare called out from the grave with his most famous quote: ‘to be or not to be.‘ By asserting my right to be what was I going to write, draw, sketch or doodle on my canvas now?
‘It’s time to go back now,’ a gentle loving voice said, interrupting my self-absorption. “What? Go where?” ‘Back’ “yes, but back where?” I said, not knowing what it meant? ‘Back to Earth.’ “What? But I like it here. It’s so … so peaceful, loving and accepting.” ‘Yes, but you still have to go back. It’s your job. You chose it’ “Job?” “No, I …” A thought sparked in the recesses of mind. I instinctively tried concealing it, but stopped. I didn’t want to begin my new life with a lie. “But I don’t want to go back! I like it here. I don’t like it there. It’s cold and it hurts.” Memories percolated. I remembered my job: to clean up the wreckage of my life and find home for the completeness of knowledge. “Do I really have to?” ‘Yes. We’ll still be there with you. All the time. All you have to do is ask.’ Had I been wrong all along? Was it really that simple? Confused, I sat down and surrendered to the inevitable. Within moments I descended through the dimensions back to the Earth plane; back to sitting on the ground, back against the wall of Macs on Davie.
With the voices and guides not as visible or audible as before, life returned to normal. According to the old Chinese proverb: ‘philosophy is like a bird with no legs, it can only fly around, but never land.’ But I had knowledge of what lay on the other side and had landed as well. Standing in the light amidst the dark ruins of my life, I smiled. I’d have to work like never before in the physical realm to bridge the two dimensions together and secure a home.
The magnitude of the hurdles before me slowly materialized. Physical sight grew dimmer, senses needed feeding and life needed living. Feeling forsaken by my spiritual heaven, I slipped back into old patterns of sleeplessness, drugs and escape abuse. Turning to a street friend for help, he said: ‘instead of being handed a clean slate, I’d been given my slate to clean. I should feel proud to know that. Most people didn’t.’ Hurt to not have a clean slate, he was right. False pride in what I didn’t have – no matter how much I wanted it wasn’t the way to go. Now the real work could begin.
© Michael J. Varma, The Gong Show, 2011 –
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