Gone Mad

 

October 31, 2020

As I stated in my first article, “Getting Organized It’s Been Awhile”, this blog is very different from my previous efforts at Woody Hollow Distributors. That blog concentrated almost entirely on the Annunaki and historical information where we talked about snow ball earth and other far flung topics, here too we will discuss that; but here in Serving the Grail, I intend to be far more personal. Here I want to try to express the joy in spiritual realization, the pit falls, the chaos, and most importantly, the serenity.

When I first began this incredible journey, I thought that the only recovery would be from the wounds inflicted by things like my article, “Ice Water Mansions”. This story is disturbing  I had no understanding that my or everyone’s injury was far deeper and much more insidious than physical or emotional. Spiritualism was for the church, and there was something wrong with folks who could not find it using the church’s means. That may seem odd for me to say, but it was my truth in my teens, and continued to be through until my latetwenties. Throughout much of that period, I was agnostic, meaning I had no belief system. Not having a belief system brought me a shit load of both personal and spiritual trouble.

Throughout that entire time period, the above image perfectly exemplifies what was really going on inside me. I, like most folks, refused to acknowledge that anything was amiss. In my case, that was particularly easy to do because of all the internal shielding I had erected, which was extremely helpful in allowing me to be entirely out of touch with my emotions.

  Little did I realize that there was true life and light inside the safety bubble where I truly lived, and it wanted out so that it could rejoice in me.

But for those years, the chaos was fun, my mother being almost entirely responsible for it. I had never been allowed to express my anger, fear, sadness, or physical pain. I had been taught that I was an ingrate, selfish, and should be ashamed of my own existence. Add the extraordinary bullying from four hundred school kids, and why I did not suicide is a testament to my ego. There were two times where I wavered extremely close to suicide, once between grades 8 and 9, then again as little as 5 years ago. In both cases, I nearly broke instead of learning the necessary lesson.

“The Oxford Dictionary of current English 1991” defines ego as: the self, the part of the mind that reacts to reality and has sense of individuality, self-esteem. Hmm self-esteem, well for most of my life that has been near nonexistent, so the lesson has centered on that sense of individuality. So who am I? Am I egotistical? Am I conceited? Do I think that I am better than anyone else is? In answer, no, no, and absolutely not. Then why the consistent attack on my individuality? The fifty year effort to cause me to become egoless? Krsna assures us that we are immortal; the Akashic record assures us that we are the same individual person in every incarnation. The difference being that we take lessons learned forward in every incarnation. And it means that, infractions committed during our previous incarnations are payed for in the present, almost karmic.

As a boy, that extremely sad, lonely lad who suffered the bullying, I could not figure out how it was that 400 kids hated me. I thought it was my fault, I just did not know why. I did not realize that 99.9% of them were just sheep, too afraid to stand up on their own, and it is likely that they are the same way to this day. They are the yes people in the office, or warehouse, the sniveling whiners who cry when they have to work late, or the fault is anyone’s but theirs. These types of individuals vibrate at very low frequencies, and should be avoided, so that they do not bring your vibrancy frequencies down.

As I first became aware of likely past incarnations, I at first thought that all those kids had been part of whenever had been, and had followed me to this realm to exert some kind of vengeance. That was a most uncomfortable moment I assure you! Their attitudes then may have helped destroy my sense of self-esteem; however, it too, is likely that I was at the same time teaching them a life lesson as well. The ferocity of those encounters was too intense for something greater to be not happening.

 Ego, what does the bride of Christ have to say about it? The power of your ego.  Here we have an Essene talking about ego.
Mary Magdalen said to Yeshua: “Tell us what your disciples are like and how they should be in the world when you are gone.”
Yeshua replied: “Their life is like a FARMER [one with a spiritual path] who discovers STRANGERS [temptations] traveling through,
and they camp in the FIELD ‘of his heart.. where they do not belong’. And when the Farmer of the FIELD [disciple] discovers these temptations, he orders them Out of his heart-space, so the intruders quietly depart, leaving his mind and heart-space unburdened.”
So be as wise in this world as those who are users of the system. If someone knows to expect trouble before it happens,
like expecting a THIEF at a certain place and time, [like a temptation which regularly arises in one’s life]
then be prepared against the dangerous entry,
block the way and protect your consciousness from painful mistakes.
Be wary of the world system, with its dominating influences and its down-pulling temptations, persons, and attractions.
It will make you its brother and its honored guest.
And then like a THIEF in the night, it will rob you blind
in your unsuspecting darkness. Therefore, prepare yourself daily.
Seek your divine Awareness Early, in your day and in your life that you may always feel the Presence within, while you work and while you play. When you go in and go out in all your activities, maintain this watchfulness on the Inner Presence, and it will lead you and live through you as you, and you shall feel insight and power that is humbling.
Ever before you sleep, graciously and with gratitude Surrender the operation of your consciousness [temple-path] to your all-knowing Self, that Original Soul Spirit Expression whose divine right is to live this life, that you thought belonged to your ego-habits and daily patterns.
It is up to you to surrender the past of the ego personality.
It is up to you to willingly release your consciousness back to your I AM, before you sleep at night, with consent and harmony.
Let it be like keeping an appointment with a lover, that is honored 

  

Finding Hope

 

August 1, 2020

These articles are not usually consecutive, meaning they do not need to be read in any particular order. However, that said, my last article Ice Water Mansions, and now, Finding Hope, should be read in order. Yes Ice Water Mansion is a true story; yes, it really did happen to me, yes, it is told in a brutally frank way, and I offer no apologies for that. Those are the facts, as I know them. The story was not told to embarrass my dead parents, the story was not told as a form of catharsis, I would not have you suffer that.

In our first two articles, I allude to the abuse that my brother and I suffered, and what the long-term effects were on me. My brother is in far worse shape than I am. The fact that I have not spoken to him in almost 30 years, speaks volumes about the depth of animosity that exists between us. Most of this can be directly linked to my mother, and her senseless violence committed against us. I mean seriously when I was in grade one in Scarborough, the first thing I would do when I got home from school, is look to see where her fucking red stick was. If it was on top of the fridge, I would relax a little, if it were on the kitchen counter, I knew I would feel it before dinner, and if it was on the kitchen table, where she was often sat, I knew that I would feel it before I even had my coat off. When that was the case, I would leave my coat on for the extra protection, problem was, the cunt realized that, and would rip my coat off me. Her red stick was 18 inches long by 3 ½ inches wide by 3 inches thick, and she would swing that thing with her arm fully extended for maximum impact.

Now I am not saying that a kid does not deserve the odd slap as discipline, because kids do need to be disciplined, maybe even the odd slap upside the head, but what was happening in our home, (home, I use the word very loosely because it wasn’t a home) was abuse plain and simple. Back in those days, the nineteen seventies and early eighties, there were no extra laws to protect children, what happened behind closed doors was the real thing. There was no divorcing your parents, or the school stepping in, the only way out was to get through it, and leave home at as an early age as possible. That had been my intent, I had found a decent paying warehouse job and I was making plans at 15 years old.

That was where I had found hope, get the fuck out of that house, get my life back on track, finish school somehow, hopefully grow my relationship with the nanny of whom I had met that year. Then life gets weirder. Dad is fired for smoking a joint in the men’s room, and then goes in to rehab, I find about the incest, I find out I was not wanted and should not have been born. My relationship with the nanny crashes and burns, my mother commits suicide, dad kicks my brother out of the house, dad suicides 11 months later, the violence between my brother and I explodes exponentially. That culminating in his smashing a full bottle of beer over my head, me somehow picking myself up and breaking his jaw for his trouble. I was not to be fucked with.  So there it was, it was over. Mom and dad were dead. I did not have a family. My aunt and uncle were estranged from me, and that was okay. I did not need anyone, except I was wrong about that. What I needed was for someone to tell me that it was going to be okay. The whore of whom I had married had no concept of gentility and cared nothing for anyone else’s suffering. I could not reconcile my parent’s behavior with their spiritual leanings, but I did understand that without a happy spirit, you couldn’t have a happy person.

That weighed on me heavily as I struggled with life in general and the generalized idea of some kind of recovery. I knew that I was in love with the nanny, but being able to actually say the words was going to be like turning Mt Everest in to gravel using the side of my left hand. I was hard, cold, and entirely out of touch with my emotions . It was less than helpful when I found a self-help book that I had picked up thrown in the garbage and that the whore, belittled the idea of recovery. That was just another nail in the coffin of the relationship that died when I had found out about how she had facilitated the rape of a minor by an adult male.

So what does all of this have to do with the Holy Grail? In a word, EVERYTHING. All right, let us have some fun now. You will recall that to truly understand the Grail, you must let go of all of your previous mis-conceptions about your belief systems. You have no doubt heard your clergyman speak about the hall of souls, and I am sure he/she filled your head with a lot of gobbly gook about it that did not make a whole lot of sense.

 In reality, it is just another instance where the Roman Catholic Church has stolen material from the Grail and twisted its meaning beyond all recognition. Properly understood, the hall of souls is where we really come from, not where we go to, to wait for an eternity for Jesus to come back here and fuck us all over. As I have said previously, we exist in another plain of existence called the Kundalini, and we have lived there and in other dimensions for billions of years. Back in 2006, the television show host Oprah Winfrey had a guest on her show, of who showed compelling evidence, that all of us speak a common language upon arrival in this present realm.

Yeah freaky eh? When I mentioned this to my mentor, , he was uncertain what to make of it; however, he did encourage me to research it further because we were often on the same page, if sometimes paragraphs apart.

So what does this have to do with the insane violence that I lived with? There are theories out there, that state that we inter-changeably exchange roles with our parents. In one incarnation, we parent them, and in the next incarnation, they parent us and so forth. I do not hold with that at all. There too, is the church’s version, where we have choirs singing, we float around with wings,

and every relative you ever had is waiting for you at the pearly gates to welcome you home. Nope too contrived. If I have learned anything from more than 20 years of studying the Holy Grail, it is this. We come to the Grail as independent spirits, we experience life independently, our friends cannot do it for us, and we must live it. Our friends, parents, neighbors may be part of the experience, but we live it from our perspective only. Why though? What’s the point? It’s funny, and not funny Ha-ha, that the most commonly reported uptick in crime during this pandemic is domestic violence. Men, women, and children are locked behind doors that hide hellish violence

I offer these two articles, Ice Water Mansion, and this, Finding Hope, in sympathy, and as a way that those suffering too can find the same serenity as I have. It will take work, hard work, but you can do it, you have made it this far. Your sacred self, will recognize the truth here, listen to him, or her.

The Resurrection Begins

 

July 25, 2020

With this essay we're taking a bit of a left turn. This blog is about spiritualism, and how our lives effect our spirit. What our Avatars experience has direct meaning for our light beings. The following, and many more after are going to explore my journey, the chaos of my light being's lesson. On the most part, that involves ego, and the rearranging of starts here. At least as a coherent story, the events that hospitalized me as a 4 year old child, are perhaps thankfully lost for now in the past.

What follows then, is a trip into hell. And the transmutation of darkness into light, as my soul found not reanimation, but resurrection, the truth of our journey.

The Ice Water Mansion of her Soul

I was seven years old; the family was at a cottage in the Muskokas, a favorite vacation area  about 2 hours north of Toronto.

The family had vacationed in the area for as long as I could remember, sometimes with my father’s childhood friend and his family, other times with my mother’s sister and her husband. On this particular vacation, it was just us, my mother, father, brother, and myself. I had been typically excited to go, having missed the water, the lightly wooded surroundings, and the understated danger in the idea of running in to a black bear, or other wildlife. That particular year, I was really looking forward to actually getting up on water skis, the year before I had almost done it; problem was I was six, I was too small yet. I was hoping that I had grown enough and, gotten stronger too.

To my young mind, it seemed vital that I did get up on skis, because it was an important way to bond with dad, who always seemed distant and unable to lower his thinking to a child’s level, and almost equally as important, to be able to do something my brother could not. Anyway, we were there, and on the day in question I was up with the sun, I made myself some toast with peanut butter, made a mess with the jam and outside I went. It was a glorious morning, sunny, a few clouds, cool but humid enough to be warm, and I had the run of the place, no kids, no adults, it was just me, nature, and my imagination, pure heaven.

As the day wore on I had very little to do with my brother and mother, and I had not seen my father at all, I was far too wrapped up in whatever game I was playing. Around nine in the morning hunger interrupted whatever I was doing, and I reluctantly approached the cottage to refill my tummy. From a vantage point of about 30 meters away from behind a screen of trees, I saw that mom was sat on a lawn chair on the dock, looking extraordinarily pretty in a halter top, short shorts, and her long dark hair up in a bun to keep her cool. Dad and my brother were loading fishing gear in to our boat, a 14-foot fiberglass thing that seated 4 and had a 50-horse mercury outboard on it. That my brother and dad were going fishing seemed odd to me, the two of them spent very little time together, far less than dad and I. This turn of events made me nervous for reasons I could not quite understand. I was ordinarily nervous around mom but this was different. A ball of lead formed in the pit of my stomach and stayed there the entire time that they were gone.

It was now around 9:00 a.m., the appetite that I had worked up in my play vanished with the ball of lead. As the boat pulled away from the dock, I tried to recreate that magic place I had found earlier in the morning, but no, the sense of dread stayed with me. I expected them to be gone for several hours, so I was quite surprised to hear the unmistakable sound of our boat approaching the dock far faster than normal, and this soon. They had been gone for about an hour; I was now playing in the lake’s shallows near the dock, and I could see dad’s face as he docked the boat and tied up. He looked scared and semi-panicked, and then I saw that my brother was crying, and that he had suffered some kind of accident. I could see a fishing hook dangling from fishing line in several loops that looked as if they went entirely through the palm of his hand.

Mom had been on the dock still in her chair, demanded to know what had happened, and the two of them began moving hurriedly towards the car, with my injured brother and talking about the local hospital. Meanwhile I said, “Wait! I need to get a t-shirt and my shoes”, and I raced to the cottage to do precisely that. I scrambled in to a shirt, slipped in to my sneakers, ran to the front door, locked it, and hightailed it for the car. Only there was no car. They had left. As I ran to the private road that led to the municipal road, all that I could see of them was a pall of dust hanging in the hot summer air. They had left their seven-year-old son behind.

At first, it seemed impossible, and I fully expected to hear the growl of rubber tires on gravel, and see dad hurriedly reversing to get me. But as those first several minutes dragged by, it quickly became obvious that I was on my own, and it terrified me. As I dejectedly returned to the front steps of the cottage, I tried to take stock of my situation; I knew the immediate area so I was not lost. I was hungry and the cottage was locked, that was a problem. The elderly folks in the next cottage 50 meters away were unfriendly but might possibly help me if I was in real difficulty. I knew the real problem was time, I knew from my own visits to different hospitals that it took forever to get help. I was a good swimmer, but I stayed away from the water just to stay safe. Late in the afternoon the unfriendly woman next-door gave me a piece of fruit, which I truly appreciated, and early in the evening, they allowed me to sit quietly by, but not close, to their bonfire, which helped stave off the quickly cooling air.

It was now full dark, and it was cold. I was in a t-shirt and bathing suit; I needed long pants and a sweatshirt. Finally, headlights cut through the darkness and dad’s car pulled in to his allotted parking spot. Mom and dad got out of the car and dad got my sleeping brother out of the back seat. I was down by the bonfire pit, trying to coax the last of the heat from the remaining coals for warmth.

My mother marched to the cottage door, unlocked it and went in soundlessly. I followed dad at a distance, uncomfortable with the strange vibes coming from them. I watched silently as dad put my brother to bed, then wordlessly walk past me and walk out of the cottage. I stood there looking at my mother waiting for some kind of acknowledgment/explanation; I had been left alone for more than 14 hours.

I could not understand the look on her face, her eyes were glacially cold, her face icy, and the tone of her voice so cold that it sent shards of terror through my soul as she said and I quote, “how dare you tell people about our family problems”. I was dumbfounded; I could not begin to understand what she was talking about. That entire day, I had said nothing to anyone, about what was going on out of terror of her saying this exact thing.

Terror struck at where this was undoubtedly going, I wordlessly went in to my bedroom and got in to my jammies, and pretended to go to sleep, hoping that if I played dead she’d leave me alone and not beat the fuck out of me. I was laying facing the wall, my back to the door and I could hear her enter the room, and out of nowhere, with no warning, WOMP! I screamed, WOMP! WOMP! WOMP! I had no idea of what she was hitting me with; this was different than her normal redstick. WOMP! WOMP! WOMP! WOMP! Again and again the blows landed, I was writhing trying to curl in to as small a target as possible, trying to cover up, trying to protect where she had hit already, someone was screaming I did not know who, it was probably me. WOMP! WOMP! WOMP! POP! As I writhed and rolled, her out of control blows connected with my skull. I was on my back, now unable to move, my arms and legs paralyzed in to the dog playing dead pose, the snapped in half blade of a wooden oar about two feet long was what she was beating me with, then connected solidly with my testicles.

In that hollow timeless agonized moment my vision cleared, I saw clearly in her face how she mentally and emotionally shrugged off what she had just done and, determinedly decided to do it again. I had been hit in the nuts before, playing street hockey or other kid stuff, this pain was different, the agony here was ferocious, burning, tearing pain, she had done real damage and it would be five years before it would be repaired.

I remember nothing after the second blow to my testicles; I believe that she beat me unconscious. The following day when I awoke, it was the agony in my groin that woke me; my face and hair were stuck to the pillow with congealed blood from the head wound. I could not get out of bed normally, I had to roll on to the floor then inch my way on to my feet using the bed frame as a crutch, I could not stand up straight, I was bent over at the waist nearly double. I could not stand to pee, I had to sit, when I looked in the toilet bowl there was probably more blood than urine in it. That lasted for weeks, when I returned to school that September my urine was still pink.

That morning after the beating, dad was nowhere to be seen, mom looked at me like I did not exist, and my brother was too young to realize just how injured I was. The heaven I had known just 24 hours earlier had turned to hell thanks to the soulless she -cunt that my mother was.