Sethnet Journal: September 1, 2008
A monthly e-zine that highlights the creative energy of over 1,500 souls exploring the work of Jane Roberts and Rob Butts.
Volume Forty Seven
Unfolding by John Beder
In This Issue:
Nothing: An Excerpt from "Revelation:Joseph's Message" channeled by Michael G. Reccia
Nothing by Hal Manogue
A Dream, a Question, and a Promise: Chapter 6 by Pamela Gibson
Childhood is a Difficult Time by Justin Smith
Nothing
An excerpt from Revelation: Joseph’s Message channeled by Michael G. Reccia
Joseph: ‘Nothing’ is a fascinating subject and something that the soul works towards subconsciously, because, in rejecting everything corporeal and material, the soul gains insight into everything yet realises, at the same time, that there is no everything – that there is nothing there.
I should talk about simplicity as well, because the two go hand in hand – nothing and simplicity. The way forward for souls is through nothing and simplicity. You attach, as conscious beings, weight and significance to every object that you come across; to every concept you come across; and you attach degrees of significance, of importance, to objects and to occurrences. You draw everything out of the Nothing, but instead of returning concepts to the Nothing when you have finished with them, you are solidifying those concepts constantly and they then become a barrier around you – like bricks, like a turret in a castle that surrounds a prisoner.
This creates a difficulty we find when many souls return to the ‘nothingness’ from which they came. I do not mean non-existence, I mean nothingness materially, corporeally. Because they have attached such great significance to objects, to concepts, to ideas, to beliefs whilst on Earth, that these things often have to be chipped away at from within the soul in order for it to realise that it has moved on.
At your point in evolution you should be living longer than you do, but your quality of living has actually diminished. You have created for yourselves a living hell because you drag along with you, like Marley’s Ghost, the baggage of life on so many different levels.
Even in meditation, souls make it so difficult for their minds to be free of the concepts around them. What a fabulous meditation for people to stop daily and say: ‘I exist. All exists. Nothing exists.’ Try it: ‘I exist. All exists. Nothing exists.’
Nothing is a state of rest of the field through which all material things are drawn; ‘Ether’ or ‘Proto-matter’ is an infinite, creative tool.
In painting or gardening, for example, in doing these things you are both drawing from the pool, and you are solidifying through creativity what you desire to witness in front of you at a particular time. This is what we, as souls, also do, but we don’t do it with an easel or with tools, we do it by thinking, by using the palette of the mind, the palette of the spirit, to create what we want from the ether around us.
This does not mean for a moment that we exist in a void; but we are aware of the void existing… if something that is Nothing can exist, that is. You see the paradox? It doesn’t mean that we exist in a white limbo or in a mist. We exist in a state we find comfortable, and that is our right as souls who are evolving, and we have to have points of sensory reference.
For example, if I wanted to visit you and to talk to you and you and I were both on my level of existence, then we would ‘draw’ around us familiar surroundings, surroundings we were both comfortable with; somebody’s house or a park, for example, and then, when we had finished, all of these things would go away and be stored in the proto-matter – in the ether, as it were – until we needed them again. What I am trying to say is that, with each step we put in front of our feet, (and feet is a relative term here) what we need at that particular time, but we’re not locked into that landscape to the extent that it blinds us; that it cripples us; that it imprisons us, and this is what is wrong with the Earth plane at the moment.
The human race has steeped itself in its constructs and has complete faith in those constructs – which are perceived as being outside of itself – and no faith at all from within; in the God within.
If a part of each day was used to meditate, to understand that your ‘reality’ is a field that can go back to Nothing according to your will then, as you mentally took back to Nothing the things around you that you did not need, you would release yourself from illnesses.
You should consider regularly reverting all to Nothing by simply saying I am – and this is what Jesus talked about, this is what I am means – it means I am and nothing else is necessary, and that is all you need to know. If you were to contemplate that for a short time each day you would become healthier, you would become more focused on the things that do matter in life, and all problems in life would be solved from within.
There is only consciousness and the field, and the consciousness and the field are one, but the consciousness is not the Nothing. I know that sounds like a paradox. The consciousness is the consciousness. The field is created and activated by the consciousness as a tool, but it is not the consciousness. The consciousness runs through the field to enable it to form into the myriad shapes and ideas that are possible within the field, but the field is not conscious in the way that the consciousness is conscious. The consciousness is the controller of the field and also the creator of the field. The field is the child of the consciousness but it is not the consciousness, and this is the mistake people make. They imbue the field with its own volition. Its volition, its trends, its manifestations come from the wills of the consciousness – from the desires of the souls who manipulate it.
There has to come a time when the people on Earth abandon, let go of, their grip on material possessions, but again they get this wrong. They say, ‘In order to find enlightenment I must forego all material possessions!’ No! If you were instead to forego them for a few moments each day, you would get them into perspective and then you could bring them back out of the field, enjoy them and put them away again for the next day, with clarity as to what to do each day of your lives. But no, again there is this misapprehension that all material things must disappear in order to find enlightenment. Not so. You are living in a particular density – a particular vibration – of the universal field and material things brought out of the field are your tools, not your masters. That is the distinction I am making.
It is as much of an error to say, ‘I must forego all material things’ as to say, ‘I embrace all material things and nothing else.’ They are tools. They are Nothing.
There is a great pleasure in spending a great deal of time immersed in the Nothing, because in the Nothing all kinds of concepts and communications and constructs and blossomings of thought are possible. Indeed, we do sit as a number of souls – a number of expressions of God – to indulge in what you would perhaps describe as think-tanks; to experience the wonder of Creation, the wonder of the I am, and we draw great pleasure from being close to other expressions of God, to other souls. There is great pleasure in communication. There is great pleasure in simply being with another expression of God. This is something mankind has also lost.
By placing as a race such value on material things you miss the opportunity simply to be with another soul... to be, to be... without communication; just to – in love – experience the one-ship of all souls. What a fabulous gift! And what a fabulous gift you are missing on Earth! What a fabulous gift you are not experiencing, because so many of your relationships are tied up with solidifications from the field, so you cannot have a relationship without the relationship being tied into a car, a house, a fridge, some food, some clothes, some money.
Tied into the mental field of the souls within a relationship are material expectations, when the only expectation should be, ‘I love to be with you... and together let us experience more of being.’ That is a relationship. That is love. Not the twisted expectations of many couples on Earth at this time .
When at its purest, love is simply, ‘I love you and wish to be’... not ‘with you’ as you understand it, because that is confining, but ‘with you’ in the sense of being one with you, at peace with you, in harmony with you; at one with your wishes and desires, at one with the direction your vibration – our vibration – is taking you/us in.
So love is a shedding of things, of material things, and comes back to this concept of the field being a tool. True love does not come with conditions – with concepts from the field – attached to it. It doesn’t come with baggage, yet it is tending to do so at this moment on Earth.
Relationships on Earth are suffering because they are often not true relationships. You invest time and value in the transitory perception of what someone looks like, but built into that surface concept of the person you love is a natural decay that is part of the field, generated by aeons of the field operating in the way it does at present. The vehicle, the façade, has to decay and change, but people love the façade and not the soul. Once they learn to love the soul things will change, relationships will be perceived as permanent because they are known to be so from the soul, and will not be based on a physical attraction that fades so rapidly.
In leaving I say to you, ‘Nothing matters’, and I would like you to think of those two words, Nothing matters... There is a deep secret, a deep truth, within the phrase Nothing matters. Because Nothing does matter. It matters that you realize that your perception of everything is malleable dependent on your wishes, because that is how you will operate when you come to the higher side of life, and that is how you operate now if you were only to acknowledge it.
Professional medium, Michael G. Reccia, from Rossendale, UK has channelled spirit communication for over 23 years - during which time he has conducted thousands of private readings, given countless public demonstrations (including trance), held workshops, taught meditation, produced spiritual books and CD’s and is regularly involved in spirit rescue.
He firmly believes that the true importance of spirit communication is not simply to prove evidence of life after death but to provide a blueprint for a better life before death through channelled spiritual teachings that will make a difference to this World. With his life-partner, Jane, he co-authors a free website offering uplifting spiritual teachings from his guides (www.michaelandjane.co.uk).
Michael regards his book Revelation: Joseph’s Message, as his most important contribution to spiritual awareness to date (see www.thespiritguide.co.uk. for excerpts and further details) and is currently channelling the second book in this amazing trilogy.
Nothing
by Hal Manogue
Nothing Springs Into Life
And
Forms Another Symbol
Of God
Nothing Creates Itself
On A Blank Page
And
Becomes A Work
Of Art
Nothing Shapes Space
With Dark Matter
And
Consciousness
Fills The Earth
With Mystery
Nothing Becomes Itself
And Earth Moves
To The Music
Of Eternity
Hal Manogue www.shortsleeves.net
http://halmanogue.blogspot.com/
hal@shortsleeves.net
A Dream, A Question, and A Promise
By Pamela Gibson
Chapter 6
Wednesday, February 22 (continued)
By Pamela Gibson
Thursday, February 23rd, continued
My getting-ready-for-work routine had me slicing carrots and apples to take for snacks and selecting a book to read in case the evening was slow. A-shift was on duty, Vic’s shift; that’s how I still thought of it. Could it really be less than two weeks since the light in his azure eyes died? The days between then and now felt like decades.
As it turned out, “The Nature of Personal Reality” lay unread in my blue satchel. The gusting tradewinds played fast rat-a-tat tunes on the fronds of the palm trees skirting the station’s front lawn but the evening’s tempo slugged slowly along with only two routine F-4 engine standbys and one downed power line. Consequently, the firemen and I had time to bat the breeze for hours. The topic of conversation was, of course, Vic and Jaaku. I hoped some of the guys would be willing to talk to the detectives about Jaaku’s various nefarious crimes. After all, Vic had been their friend as well as Jaaku’s. Surely, I told myself, the men felt sufficient loyalty for the valiant fellow firefighter they’d nicknamed “Greased Lightning” to tell the truth for him. Surely.
I already knew that Jaaku pantomimed some of his far-fetched stories for a few of his firemen pals. I knew he punctuated his tales with outrageous lies, calculated to create a bad-ass image of himself. What I didn’t know but learned that night was that Jaaku bragged to every firefighter who’d listen about a broad spectrum of crimes he’d committed. He told them everything he’d told me and more.
He acted out slapping the chief (“Thwack, thwack, thwack, three times across his Tweety Bird face”), ripping off the station’s VCR and entertainment center (“My Mafia pals went load da stuff in a van wit no license plates. So no can trace ‘em, eh?”), cutting Bob’s brake lines when he promoted somebody else (“Dat fat asshole, I shoulda wasted him”), sicking his thugs on Tom Jones and, when Tom wasn’t home, beating his mother and brother so badly that they ended up in the hospital (“Fuckin’ hypocrite. Mess wit’ me, brah? You messing with da Cosa Nostra.”) He pantomimed setting fire to his car in the cane fields so he could collect the insurance money (“What I gon do? Da fuckin’ payments too high.”) He bragged about how he and his partners in crime burglarized fancy houses east of Honolulu and sold the TVs, VCRs, cameras and jewelry they ripped off at the swap meet (“Da rich fuckers get insurance, so let ‘em collect.”)
Yet none of the firemen mentioned any of this to the detectives, nor did they intend to. The only exception was Emilio, whose conscience bothered him for keeping quiet about Jaaku packing loaded guns at the station. After all, Emilio and Vic were pals even before Vic rescued Emilio from the wheels of a C-5 cargo plane when the brakes failed and the plane rolled backwards.
Emilio’s statement implicated Lino and Mike. They’d also witnessed Jaaku brandishing loaded guns at the station. But they agreed to testify only because the chief ordered them to either tell the cops what they knew or be fired.
Since the firemen didn’t know I’d been spilling my guts (well, some of them) to the detectives, they talked to me freely. When I asked them if they planned to tell the cops what Jaaku’d told them, they said, “What for? If the cops don’t already have enough evidence to convict Jaaku, what good would it do to tell them what Jaaku told me? It’d only get me in hot water for not telling the chief earlier. Anyway, the chief’s the one to blame. Why didn’t he fire Jaaku when Jaaku slapped him? Besides, it’s all hearsay evidence. I didn’t see Jaaku commit any crimes.”
Their rationalizations reminded me of my own. If Jeff hadn’t put the heat on me I never would have fingered Jaaku for a criminal and a liar. But firemen were supposed to be brave, weren’t they? Their silence saddened and angered me because I thought Vic deserved better friends than these “panties,” the locals’ moniker for gutless wonders.
Fear squeezed the firemen until they shuddered like dry drunks with the DTs. The worst case of the shakes belonged to the Skipper, our nickname for the crew chief on the huge P-15 truck he manned with Jaaku. Skipper was so spooked out about Jaaku that, on nights when Jaaku was strung out on reds and too looped to respond to alarms, he obeyed Jaaku’s order to cover for him, though he sweated bullets the whole time that the chief would find out. The rest of the crew knew about it too but no one turned in bruddah Jaaku. When the P-15 rolled out of the station, it was often one man short, if you could call Jaaku a man. Actually, I was beginning to think Jaaku was The Man, the way he ruled the station with fear; the way so many firemen rolled over for him. Hell, they even saw him packing loaded guns at the station and kept their lips zipped.
The Skipper slept in the same bunkroom as Jaaku, who assaulted his ears with many a tall tale. This fifty-something, alcoholic man was a jittery fellow who trembled at Jaaku’s stories about his criminal friends who drove a brown VW van and tracked down guys who “double crossed” Jaaku. “They’re the same guys Jaaku sent to beat up Tom Jones’ mom and brothers,” the Skipper told me, his rheumy eyes wide with fear.
“I understand why you tread lightly around Jaaku,” I said. “I certainly did.”
“I thought you’d understand,” he said, warming up to me. “I ever tell you what he said after him and Vic had that fight in the structural stalls?”
“No.” I’d heard about that fight, motivated by Jaaku selling Vic a defective camera and Vic demanding his money back. Jaaku’s hair-trigger temper flared and he threw punches at Vic, who simply held him at arm’s length so he couldn’t reach him with his wildly flailing arms. The firemen chuckled about it among themselves, saying Jaaku looked like a fat bellied clown, punching and missing. Vic finally let him go and Jaaku stomped into his bunkroom to vent.
“That asshole think he big and bad,” Jaaku told the Skipper, “but I’m da guy gonna cut him down to size. You watch. One day, you watch.”
“‘I says to Jaaku, ‘don’t talk like that,’ the Skipper told me. ‘Don’t even think like that. It ain’t right.’ Jaaku split out the door but he must’ve thought about what I said ‘cause he comes back an hour or so later and says, ‘Yeah, you right, Skip. You right. I nevah mean ‘um, yeah?’ I told him, ‘That’s great. Vic’s your pal.’ And before I knew it, them two were friends again.”
“Did you tell Vic what Jaaku said?” I asked.
“Hell, no,” the Skipper said. “Anyway, he must’ve known Jaaku had a screw loose. Them two were buddies.”
“Did you tell the detectives about that, or about the brown VW van?” I asked.
“No! And if you tell them what I said, I’ll deny it!” he shrieked. He looked at me like I was the devil incarnate. His voice wobbled with fear and his large belly shook like jello.
“Who said anything about telling the detectives?” I toyed with the idea. Maybe I should. Would they pressure the Skipper and the others to tell the truth like they’d pressured me?
“Jaaku’s a nut case. He’s sneaky as a sidewinder and just as deadly. I ain’t doing nothin’ that’s gonna give him the idea of sending his punks after me, no way, no how, no, never. Got it, Pam?” He glared at me. Fear radiated off of him like the noon day sun off a hot tin roof.
“It’s your decision. I understand. I know all about what fear feels like.”
“I’m not afraid,” he bristled. “I’m smart. I know how Jaaku operates. Leave him alone, he’ll leave you alone. You’d better be smart too, if you know what’s good for you.”
A flush of anger heated up my face. “Stay cool,” I told myself. “How can I blame him for adopting the same survival strategy I used all these years?” I took a deep breath and said, “Thanks for sharing but I’d better get busy now.” He turned on his heels and stomped out.
The most shocking news that night came out of the mouth of Sam Tolofa, a strapping, hard-drinking Samoan fireman. The previous December, on a cool Friday night, Sam went nightclub hopping with Jaaku and Vic. Afterward, the three of them shared a booth and wolfed down a midnight meal at some neon-lit, 24-hour greasy spoon restaurant. Jaaku nudged Sam and looked down, whereupon Sam followed his eyes and saw Jaaku pointing a gun at Vic under the table. A loaded gun, Jaaku told Sam later, pointed at, “Dat fuckin’ haole who thinks he so big and bad but really ain’t nothin’ but one fuckin’ haole.” The freaky thing, Sam said, was the way Jaaku acted like he was Vic’s best pal, laughing and joking with him the whole time.
I pulled my jaw up off the floor and said, “Did you tell Vic?”
Jeremy looked at me like I had bats in my belfry. “You know I couldn’t do that. As straight forward as Vic was, he’d have confronted Jaaku. After that, my ass would have been grass. But I did what I could; I warned Vic to stay away from Jaaku. Right after them two fought about the camera, I told Vic, “Hey, man, Jaaku’s a nut case. Don’t hang out with him, dude. Don’t do it.’”
The only question I trusted myself to ask was, “What did Vic say?”
“At first, nothing. He just kept wiping down his truck. Then he said with a deadpan face, ‘Aww, he ain’t so bad for a little sawed off shit. He can’t help himself, being a perp and all.”
“Perp?” Sam asked Vic. “Like in perpetrator of a crime?”
“That, and Puerto Rican Portagee,” he said. “Perp. A short name for shorty, don’t ya know?”
“Perp was such a stellar name for Jaaku, it made me laugh,” Sam said. “Then Vic was chuckling, too.”
I, however, was not. Somehow I managed to keep my voice low when I said, “Vic wouldn’t have hung out with Jaaku any more if he’d known. Couldn’t you have found a way to tell him?”
“Vic knew Jaaku had guns.” Sam frowned. “He knew a lot more about him than we do. Don’t forget, them two were running buddies. Hey, I’m not the one who killed Vic, sweetheart. Jaaku was.”
“But you helped,” I thought, “by remaining silent. You tied Vic’s hands. You readied him for the kill. You led him to the slaughter. The only thing left for Jaaku to do was pull the trigger.”
Friday, February 24th
Light from a triangular shaft of sunlight slicing through my open jalousie window woke me around 8 a.m. Tired as I was after a fitful night’s sleep and unsettled by the knowledge that the firemen were unwilling to testify, my appetite was nil. I forced myself to eat a few Cornflakes sweetened with apple juice to keep my blood sugar from dropping to zero, which would have thrown me into a depressed, hypoglycemic state.
The prospect of being the only one to testify against Jaaku except for Emilio, Lino and Mike, who would only say they’d seen Jaaku bring loaded guns to the station, tied my stomach in knots. I thought about how the chief, after he discovered that Lino and Mike witnessed the loaded guns, put the squeeze on them to talk. And they talked. Surely the firemen would do likewise if Jeff put the squeeze on them.
Telling the cops what the firemen knew struck me as a brilliant strategy. It was one thing, I reasoned, for the firemen to keep information from the chief when Jaaku worked there, under the misguided notion that they were protecting a fellow coworker who was just trying to act big. It was quite another to withhold evidence about a man who had, in cold blood and with malice aforethought, murdered one of their own. I dialed homicide. Jeff answered the phone.
I told him, “I called to tell you that some of the firemen at work are talking about crimes Jaaku committed, that he bragged about to them.”
“Like what?”
“Like how he wrecked his car for the insurance money, how he and his thugs stole the station entertainment center and—“
“So?” He interrupted. “When are they coming down to make a statement?”
“They won’t. They’re afraid of having to testify in court.”
“Just wait until Jaaku’s out on the street again,” Jeff hissed. “Then we’ll see how afraid they’ll be. Then they’ll want to come down and talk to us but it’ll be too late. They expect the police to protect them but they won’t tell us the truth.”
The seed of rage that had been planted inside me by the firemen’s lack of conscience withered at the thought of Jaaku, in my mind a confirmed sociopath, free to walk the streets. I shuddered. “I understand where they’re coming from. You said you can’t guarantee anyone protection 24 hours a day. And Jaaku gets even with people. He’s spooky. He’s—“
Jeff interrupted me again, “Think about what I just said. Think how you’ll feel,” he stressed the word ‘you,’ “when Jaaku’s out on the street again.”
My heart thumped painfully inside my chest. “Why do you say that?”
“Is your conscience clear? If you haven’t told us everything, you’ll have to live with it for the rest of your life. You said Vic was like your brother. As long as you’ve told us the whole truth, don’t worry about what Jaaku told the others.” Jeff paused, waiting, I imagine, to see if I’d speak up. But I couldn’t say a word. After a long silence he said, “I have to go.”
I followed the ‘click’ of his receiver with the slam of mine. “What good would it do anyway?” I yelled. “Vic’s dead. Nothing I can say will bring him back. And if I go to court, Jaaku will get even with me, guaranteed!”
I paced the floor, back and forth, like a caged animal. There was no escaping the claws of fear that squeezed the breath out of me and gripped me tighter and tighter. I screamed, “Jeff’s an asshole,” kicked the couch leg, hurt my toe, and cried until I felt wrung out like a dish cloth. Fatigue forced me down on my futon and propelled me into slumber.
I awoke with a start. It was dark and I didn’t know where I was. For a panic-stricken moment I imagined I’d slept through work until I remembered I was off until the following morning. I popped the top off a cold beer from the fridge. Beer for a stress release drink, an elixir to ease my mind and downtrodden soul.
Normally I don’t drink much, maybe half of a light beer sometimes when I return home after midnight, so wired up after dealing with some heart-stomping emergency that I can’t sleep. Half of a beer, that’s all it takes to knock me out. But tonight was different; I drank to ease the pain. The second beer found me slumped in the overstuffed living room chair, one hand circling the can that rested on the chair’s splintered wooden arm, the other pulling yet another tissue out of a box. The only light in the room shone through the open jalousie window behind me, from a yellow, bug-repellent bulb that dangled above the walkway. I took another swig of beer and thought about Vic, about times we’d shared and times we’d never share again.
My mind traveled back to a night seven months prior. Vic sat at the back desk in the alarm room, looking scrubbed and smelling of clean soap after his shower. He was telling me about his breakup with Molly, his hairdresser girlfriend who had shared his small studio.
“I took a can of oil and poured it on top of her car,” Vic growled between bites of an orange. He took a section of orange and extended it to me.
“Why on earth did you do that?” I ate the orange and put my hand out for more.
He gave me the last three juicy slices. “I had good reason,” he defended himself. “She owed me a hundred bucks. And she refused to pay me back.”
“Maybe she didn’t have the money?”
“Yeah, that’s right, she didn’t. Because she comes bopping into my pad with—” he imitated a woman’s voice and gestures, “three totally cool outfits from Liberty House.”
I chuckled. “One of those shop-until-you-drop types?”
He scowled. “Yeah. On my money. The nerve of her.”
“Still, I’m surprised at you, that you’d do such a thing,” I said. “I think of you as more mature than that.”
“Yeah?” He thought about it. After rubbing his chin for awhile he said, “You’re right.” He curved a corner of his mouth downward and nodded his head. “It was beneath me to do that. And not fair to Molly. But she tried to take advantage of me.”
“You act tough around people but they know you’re a—” I searched for a more masculine word than “pussycat” and came up with, “nice guy.”
He growled and donned a mean expression, one eyebrow raised, eyes squinted, the corner of his mouth dropped in a scowl – a studied expression I called his “pirate” face. “I know it!” He banged the desk with his fist and the phone jumped. “I don’t like it!”
“Getting even just doesn’t sound like you. That sounds more like something Abe would have done, always ‘getting even’ with people. But he’s living on Kauai now so I don’t have to put up with that stuff anymore.”
“Isn’t he coming back?” Vic raised an eyebrow.
“Just between you and me, no. Promise me you won’t mention it to Jaaku, okay?
Vic nodded and crossed his heart.
“I know I told everybody Abe would be back. But the truth is, we split up.”
“Because he was on a revenge trip?” Vic’s eyebrow went up another notch.
“That and I got fed up with constantly having to loan him money when he got fired from a job. Money he couldn’t pay back because the next job, he’d get fired again. When he got fired from his lifeguard job last month, it was the last straw. I didn’t want to help support him anymore.” A lump formed in my throat as I thought about the real reason for our breakup: Abe two-timing me. When I found out I lost the willingness to try any more.
“Aww. You wouldn’t even help support your old man?” Vic shook his head, a sad expression on his face.
“For years I did.” My face flushed at the suggestion that I didn’t help when I’d helped too much, to the point of enabling Abe’s behavior. “Finally I threw in the towel. It’s not my fault he always gets fired. For years it’s been the same old thing – he gets a job, gets into an argument with somebody, gets fired, and borrows money from me until he gets another job. Money he can’t ever completely pay back. You got pissed about $100? Try a couple of thousand.”
“It’s okay now, Snake,” Vic said kindly. I realized I was talking too loudly and too fast. “Are you all riled up?” I nodded and took a few deep breaths. “Why was he fired this time?”
“He was surfing.” I spread my hands apart, palms up, in an exasperated gesture. “A lifeguard surfing on the job instead of keeping a watchful eye on the crowd. Can you imagine?”
“Surfing.” Vic shook his head and rolled his eyes and I had to chuckle at his humorous expression. “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he clucked. “Abe’s a lemon, then?”
Vic always knew what to say to make me smile. “Yes. Not a pear, not a peach. A lemon.”
I knew Vic didn’t like people who failed to pull their own weight. I thought about the time Fire Captain Jack popped his head into the dispatch office and said, “Hey, Pam, your pal’s got kitchen cleanup duty and he’s going ballistic in there.”
Jack told me Vic was smashing dinner dishes against the wall. A few minutes later, Vic stomped into the alarm room and leaned against the console beside me.
I teased him, “I heard you got a little wild in there.”
He scowled and pounded the back desk with his large fist. “The dishes were caked with nasty smelling food because some lazy ass firemen didn’t bother to rinse them off,” he growled. “Those lemons upset me. Big babies, don’t even clean up after themselves. I ain’t no nursemaid.”
“I hear you. The least they could do is rinse their dishes. If I were in your shoes, I’d feel exactly the same way.” I felt flattered that he’d seek me out to talk about how he felt, and happy that my words seemed to sooth his ruffled feathers.
Vic was quick to take my part in a dispute. The firemen spanned the spectrum of human interpersonal behavior from faithful, mature family men, to faithful, immature family men, to single guys who’d make good husbands one day, to promiscuous heartbreakers who thought nothing of lying and cheating on their wives and girlfriends. Norman Roberts was of the second variety, a young, happily married, military firefighter and amateur wrestler who believed he was a reincarnated American Indian. After I told him I was one-sixteenth Blackfoot Indian but knew nothing whatsoever about that culture, he “schooled” me on the ways of the Indians, sometimes for hours. He attended every Pow Wow that made its way to Oahu, danced in tribal dances, and was an honorary member of numerous tribes.
Norman and I and several of the other firefighters were “talking stories” in the alarm room when, out of the clear blue, he lowered his big wrestler’s body onto my lap. I was shocked and instinctively slugged him as hard as I could. My blow to his broad back hurt my hand more than it did him but, surprised by my reaction, he quickly stood up.
“Pam! I thought we were friends,” he protested, a serious expression on his face.
My mouth was still hanging open when Vic rushed to my defense. “Norman, you moron, how’d you like it if somebody sat on your old lady’s lap?” We all knew Norman was protective of his pretty wife. Vic’s words got through to him, his face flushed, and he apologized.
I told him his red face made him look like the Indian he wanted to be. That remark got a laugh all around and broke the tension. He asked me if I was mad. “No, just surprised,” I said. “But don’t do it again. My legs still feel squashed from the first time.”
Vic hung around until everybody else left so he could tease me, mimicking the way I slugged Norman with all the force of a wet noodle. I chuckled at the memory. “Vic always cheered me up,” I thought. In an instant, my smile dissolved and tears sprang to my eyes as I once again felt the voidness created by his death. “Don’t dwell on that now,” I thought, not wanting to fall into a crying jag. “Remember the good things.”
I thought about the time Vic protected me from Assistant Chief Maxwell (AKA Mad Max because of his hot temper.) He seemed to carry a lot of suppressed rage and hostility but, ironically, spoke so softly that I couldn’t hear him speaking over the radio unless I sat at the console with my ear abutting the speaker. One night I missed his announcement, “Alarm secured, Control” because I‘d rolled my chair some six feet away from the console and into the adjoining assistant chief’s office, the better to talk to the guys who were hanging out there.
When Mad Max returned to the station he demonstrated how easily he could raise the volume of his voice tenfold by yelling at me, much to my shock and embarrassment. He accused me of leaving my post and ordered me to stay in the alarm room at all times. I trembled at this unexpected attack but took solace in seeing the distress in Vic’s eyes. At least I had a caring friend in this all male environment.
Subsequently, when I stood in the doorway and talked to people in the adjoining office, Vic gently reminded me not to cross the threshold. “Remember what that crazy Mad Max did,” he said. “We don’t want him blowing up at you again, do we?” I’d shake my head, smile, and say, “Thanks for the reminder.”
Memories tumbled over memories in my mind as I finished the second light beer and the first box of tissues. In spite of my best efforts not to cry, my eyes swelled and stung from salty tears and my stomach churned from the unaccustomed second beer. I flashed on the blues line sung by Gregg Allman: “The sky is crying, can’t you see the tears roll down my cheeks?” and cried even harder.
I squeezed more eye drops into my puffy eyes. “I have to try and sleep now,” I thought, and spread my futon out on the floor of the darkened living room. I placed a new box of tissues within arms reach on the worn, stained brown carpet. The last thing I remember feeling before I fell into an exhausted sleep was that all hope had washed out of my eyes, swept away by those raindrops falling from the sky.
Saturday, Feb 25th
Ice cubes on my eyelids reduced the swelling enough that I could wear my contact lenses to work. A heartbroken friend had told me years earlier that work had become her refuge, but I only half-believed her until now. I liked it when A-shift duties kept me busy with reports, club closings, routine refueling fire truck standbys, and emergencies. But the fire station was a depressing place to be at other times, like when I typed up the manning card and had to type someone else’s name besides Vic as the Ramp 7 driver. The first Saturday after Vic’s murder, I burst into tears, even though Mad Max looked on and the last thing I wanted to do was weep in the presence of that iron man. My fingers should have been striking the typewriter keys to form Vic’s name and Vic should have popped his head into the alarm room after roll call, a big grin on his face, and said, “Take a break, Snake?”
With unaccustomed gentleness, Mad Max lightly placed a hand on my back and asked, “Are you all right, Pam?”
I managed to answer, between sobs, “It hit me hard just now…I won’t type Vic’s name as the ramp driver again. Not tomorrow, not next week. Never.”
“That’s tough,” he said. “That’s real tough.” After a long pause and another pat on the back he added, “I’m sorry,” before he walked out into the crash stalls to inspect the work of the men wiping down the trucks. I’d never felt so appreciative of Mad Max as I did then, and resolved to think of him as Sergeant Maxwell from that moment on.
I did not, however, think kindly of some of the other firemen. Grief as a primal response to loss can take other forms than the gloomy emptiness of a loved one gone for good. It can change in a heartbeat to disbelief, anger at the lost one, or blame. I piled blame deep and wide that afternoon on Mark Stiver, merited, I believed, by virtue of his abominable silence.
Mark was a ladies’ man, far more stuck on himself than he was on any lady. He was good looking in a rakish sort of way, slim and suave, but couldn’t commit and left a string of broken hearts in his wake because he seemed to think that the girl he hadn’t met yet was bound to be sweeter than the ones he had. After he talked to me that afternoon, I lost any concept of him being a handsome one. In my eyes, he metamorphosed into an incredibly ugly man.
Without a hint of shame or embarrassment, he told me he’d witnessed Jaaku pointing a loaded .357 magnum at the back of Sergeant Maxwell’s head, not just once, but several mornings when he rode away, homeward bound, on his bicycle. Mark, as casually as if he were relating the weather forecast, described how Jaaku yelled, “Boom!” and acted out pulling the trigger and feeling the recoil from the powerful weapon.
“How did you know the gun was loaded?” I asked.
“Duh!” Mark said, and gave me his are-you-a-dumb-blond-or-what look. “He showed me the bullets.”
“Why was he mad at Mad—?” I started to ask but knew the answer before I finished the question. “Because he kicked Jaaku out of the alarm room.”
“That’s right, Sherlock,” Mark smirked.
“Well, Watson,” I tried to squelch the anger that seeped into my voice, “did it ever occur to you to mention it to anybody? Say, like Sergeant Maxwell or the chief?”
Mark looked at me like I was totally coo coo. “Are you nuts? You know how Jaaku is. He’d have gotten even with me, for sure.”
“Even if you’d gone to the chief confidentially and sworn him to secrecy?” I knew I should shut up but anger took possession of my mouth and made the truth spew out. “So somebody could have searched Jaaku’s bunkroom, or his car, and found the loaded weapons, and never implicated you at all? Ever think of that? Ever think of anything besides your own safety?”
“I don’t have to stand here and take insults from a —” Mark’s face flushed and his fist clenched, and for a moment I thought he would punch me in the face, “—lame woman who’s missing her lover and taking it out on an innocent guy.”
“Vic wasn’t my lover,” I said and thought, “Innocent my ass.”
“So you say but some say otherwise. Whatever. I don’t care what you do. Anyway, I didn’t kill Vic. Jaaku did. And maybe you. Who knows what you and Vic and Jaaku had going on?” He rubbed his chin in a teasing way but his eyes were angry. The man had definitely gone defensive.
I regretted losing my temper and with it any chance of getting more information out of Mark. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Vic’s death hit me hard but I shouldn’t take it out on you. Guess I lost it.” Mark mumbled something like “forget it” and stumbled out of the room.
I thought it over and decided it was pointless to blame Mark or anyone else who didn’t feel an emotional tie to Vic. I’d come forward because I cared deeply about Vic and knew in my heart that our friendship obligated me to tell the truth about Jaaku. Jeff obviously was hip to this and knew how to get to me. His words, “You must tell the truth for Vic. You said he was like a brother to you. Won’t you tell the truth for your brother?” still bounced and echoed through my mind.
Feb 26, Sunday
Thick gray clouds gobbled up Sunday’s sunrise and painted the dawn bleak and overcast. I recognized an anguished unwillingness in myself to remain in my too-quiet apartment until I had to leave for work at three, for I couldn’t face the cavernous aloneness that gaped at me from the corners of each silent room. I’d formulated a plan the night before, to drive up into the mountains, somewhere where the houses were old and stately, and take a walk down streets canopied with golden and crimson shower trees, past lawns enclosed with dew-dripping hibiscus flower bushes. But the on-again, off-again rainy weather discouraged me and I decided to drive to a nearby nursery instead, where I would search for a replacement plant for some marigolds that had recently died on my patio despite my best efforts to revive them.
I’d lost my umbrella so I tied a water-repellent scarf around my head and donned a hot yellow plastic raincoat that, even without factoring in the high humidity of the windless and steamy day, would have had me soaked with perspiration. By the time I reached the nursery I was burning up and decided it was preferable to be wet from rain rather than sweat so I removed the plastic coat and tried to outrun the by now pouring rain as I dashed from my car into the nursery. Rain fell thickly through the open ceiling and spattered off my rain bonnet to roll in little rivulets down my neck until I retreated to the outside perimeter of the courtyard of plants and walked around its outskirts, protected from the rain by a rim of the tin roof.
A short woman with a yellow nametag pinned to her blue uniform shirt approached me, a friendly smile on her round face, and asked if she could help me find anything. “Just looking,” I said, returning my best imitation smile. She retreated back to her cash register, leaving me alone with my relentless thoughts, the lone customer in this huge nursery.
A much welcomed serenity overtook me, surrounded as I was by all that silent greenery, the only sound the hypnotic pitter patter of raindrops on leaves. The air smelled exquisitely fragrant from the tropical flowers and, as I slowly ambled along, I inhaled long, slow, deep breaths, using a technique I taught in my yoga classes. After a few moments, my cranked-up mind unwound and wandered lazily over the multitude of growing shapes and colors before my eyes.
It was then that I spotted it—a green plant about six inches high with spiky leaves and clusters of royal purple flowers blooming so thickly that they looked like a fat, prickly purple ball. The really special thing about the heavy-headed plant, for me, was that it looked like the twin of the one I gave Vic when I visited him in the hospital after his nose surgery.
Memories mushroomed in my mind then, images of Vic joking and laughing with me, teasing me, standing up for me, confiding in me. At the same time, I felt Vic as an unseen presence, paradoxically as solid as flesh. I’d felt him in spirit before, his joyful essence like sunlight on waves, sparkling and free, but this time was different. His soul cried out as if his heart had been hit by a cannonball. His deep grief stabbed me through and through and instantly became mine. It was as if the rain filled up all my inner spaces and turned me into an ocean of pain, burning tears flowing from my eyes, uncontrollable. I sobbed and felt an exquisite loneliness, as if I was trapped inside a void, each beat of my heart heavy yet hollow.
The pain was so overwhelming that I tried grabbing onto any shred of reason, something concrete, for a respite. Why was I crying? I desperately needed to find out so I could try and talk myself out of whatever was making me crazy with agony. But before I could muster up an answer, the answer came, like a voice, a knowingness, an indictment from heaven: “You didn’t tell the whole truth for me.”
“That’s it, isn’t it, Vic?” I shouted. Quaking sobs cracked open the ball of pain in my chest and my tears started washing the debris away. “You would have told the whole truth for me! Oh, I know you would have!” Understanding spread through me like a warm soothing elixir. Jeff was right. I should have told him everything.
A hand on my shoulder made me jump and spin around to face the worried frown of the cashier. “Are you all right, ma’am?” she asked hesitantly.
I nodded, speechless, spun on my heels and ran out of the nursery and away from my misery and guilt. When I arrived home I immediately dialed homicide. Against all odds, Jeff was there, him saying he was tidying up some paperwork from one of his umpteen cases, me knowing that him being there was a fully realized miracle.
“What’s up, Pam?” His manner was conversational and friendly.
His voice reeled me in. I admired this detective’s astuteness that enabled him to play me like a violin, stroking me with kind words when I gave him the facts he wanted, stabbing at my conscience when I tried to hide the truth. I trembled, anticipating his anger when he learned my testimony was less than complete. Fear seized me and my mind flailed around for some convincing excuse to hang up. I wished I could at least hint at the stupendous event that had transpired in the nursery while he was caught up in mundane paperwork but “I didn’t tell you everything” were the only words I could force out of my mouth.
His voice instantly changed to an angry growl. “Like what?” he snarled.
In one long breath, I said, “Jaaku told me he cut Assistant Chief Henderson’s brake lines; he told me he had the soldier’s family beat up, that he set fire to his car in the cane fields so he could collect the insurance money, and he told me things he might do in the future — set fire to the station; put a bomb in the chief’s office.” I gulped a breath of air and felt glad I’d gone through with it.
“The defense attorney will say you came to us four times. That you’re not a credible witness.” Jeff’s voice was stiff with anger.
Ashamed of my cowardice and chastised by his anger, I whispered, “I didn’t want to be the only one to testify. Jaaku told those stories to everybody.”
“I can’t see you today.” Some of the anger faded from his voice.
“I’m off tomorrow until 3 p.m.,” I said.
“Nine a.m. Monday, then.” Jeff banged the receiver down.
“Good,” I thought. “That’ll give me a chance to write the whole thing down. I’d rather write it down than talk about it.”
Pamela welcomes feedback on her story. Please feel free to email her at lyricpam1@yahoo.com
Several months ago, Pam asked her friend John what he thought of her latest chapter. John wrote that he hadn’t read it yet because, “It's been a sad week around here. We had to put our 13-year-old Labrador Pepper to sleep. Right now anything having to do with death is a little tough to deal with.”
Pam wrote back, “I'm so sorry to hear about your Pepper. I know how that must feel. If I lost my kitty (now 8 years old) I'd be devastated. My condolences.”
Then she told him this true story: “My mom and dad had a pet quail named Buddy. Dad (who was part American Indian) loved that bird. Buddy had a crippled leg but he didn’t let it stop him; he limped all through their Tucson home. Buddy loved Dad too. Somehow he managed to hop up on Dad’s belly when he slept in his recliner. They looked so cute; Dad’s belly rising and falling as he snored, Buddy curled up and sacked out on Dad’s undulating chest.”
“Mom and Dad went on a trip in their camper and took Buddy with them. As Mom held him on her lap in a little travel box, something made her glance up at the clouds. ‘Oh honey,’ she said, ‘Look at that cloud! It looks exactly like Buddy.’ Dad looked up and said, ‘Damn! It sure does.’”
“Just then Mom looked down and noticed that Buddy had stopped breathing.”
Pam thinks it was a clear sign that Buddy wanted them to know his spirit flew free, no longer crippled. She told John, “I wrote Dad some verses about it later. They began like this:
Little Buddy had a date
Can’t be late
Pearly gates opened wide
He slipped inside
Left a sign to let you know
He loved you so
He had to go
Free at last to fly a vast spirit sky
The Indians knew
The good you do
Comes back to you
I swear it's true
“I wrote that last part because Dad bought Buddy from the pet store when no one else would take a crippled bird. Mom told me later that Dad cried when he read it.”
“I believe you and Pepper are still connected, will always be connected, by the tie of love.”
John wrote back, “Wow. That was a great story. Even though I know Pepper is fine and I sensed her running around us shortly after we left the vet's office, I still love to receive this kind of validation so I can get rid of the nagging doubt that says it's just imagination. Thanks.”
Pam hopes her stories will validate her readers’ experience as well. She says, “The communication I still have with ‘Vic’ carries me through the tough times. Some people’s religions and/or belief systems shut out any possibility of exchange between them and the so-called ‘dead.’ My hope is that you, like John, will recall my words when loved ones ‘die’ and you doubt that you can still connect with them, or else imagine they’re so transformed that you cannot know them. My inner senses tell me that ‘Vic’ did not change into some amorphous form of un-individualized energy, but rather exists as the same unique and specific “I” he was before he ‘died.’ In some ways, I know him better now than before he exited the planet.”
“In ‘The Afterdeath Journal of an American Philosopher’ Jane Roberts quoted William James as saying that the ‘dead’ know how lonely the living are for them. When we dismiss them as dead and gone, I think they become lonely for us, too. But when we keep that love connection open, oh Lordy, Lordy, my oh my. Their higher love makes us whole again.”
See the April issue of SethNet Journal for the first chapter of “A Dream, A Question, and A Promise.”
Childhood is a Difficult Time
by Justin Smith
Childhood is a difficult time —
Each season — an arduous birth.
Playing amid unnoticed grime —
Drawn taut between Heaven and Earth.
Graven masks in memory’s shadows —
From times and tales long lost
Haunt their moonlit meadows,
Endowing lives — storm-tossed.
Each awakening stirs a fear —
No adult’s terror can match: —
To pristine eyes — new worlds appear —
New minds must grasp from scratch.
Where they find childhood’s courage, though —
Is a secret — only children know.
Announcements, Links and Shopping
Introducing Wisp E-Zine
Though we are no longer in the age of the stylus and clay tablets, there is still some truth remaining in the Latin saying "verba volent, scripta manent" (spoken words fly away, but writings remains). Especially in our fast paced world of instantaneous communication where written words can become as fleeting as spoken words once were.
Brought together as a group of people with similar interests, through social networks of all kinds, personal acquaintances, chatrooms and newsgroups from all over the world, we soon found out that there was a fascinating magic at play in the beautiful interweaving of our stories.
And it often all happened so fast, that time for contemplation was reduced to a few seconds.
So we decided to start some new adventure, to let us expand this natural beauty, and give it a fertile ground to thrive.
A sort of lively garden nestled in the swarming buzz of the city, where time is suspended and true sharing can occur.
Thus, Wisp was born. Wisp, like a flock of birds, or like a wisp of smoke...
Wisp is above all a playground, where everyone desiring to share about his or her own adventure is welcome.
It follows the flow of the energies involved in its creation, and the good-will (o'wisp) of its contributors.
The next issue is planned for July. Till then, feel free to browse the archives at http://wisp.focusphere.net and who knows... you may want to get involved :)
Online Energy Games
Join Dale Evans each Tuesday 4-5 p.m. (Eastern) on Yahoo Instant Messenger for Group Energy Games. Connect with IntuitiveFacilitator on Yahoo IM for an hour of energy fun and games.
Free and open to the public.
Dale Evans is an Intuitive & Psychic Coach and Energy Worker who has been studying, teaching, and exploring metaphysical phenomena for over 40 years. Her teachings incorporate direct personal experience in order to foster and nurture self-acceptance and trust in one's natural abilities. Dale is also a published poet, newspaper reporter, and freelance journalist whose work is seen in print and on various websites, e-zines and online journals. Visit her website at http://www.itallbeginsnow.com/Home_Page.html
SUMARI SHOPPING
A collection of products and services offered by Seth fans around the world.
If you have a product or service you'd like to see listed here, feel free to contact us at SNJ@newworldview.com
Explore the works of Visionary Artist Shirley Hadley!
The photographs you see below were created by Shirley in her studio, and not through electronic manipulation. Each photo is available in 5x7 or 8x10 and includes a poem that goes with the photo.
Entrance to Awareness
The journey of the self is
to see without using your eyes
to hear but not with your ears.
Listen to your inner voice, it will lead you
to an awareness of new ways to view your
selves and the world you live in.
Rainbow Dimension
Mysterious shadows suspended in the sky
rainbows connected, self-awareness is reflected.
Shades of color and dimensions of light,
holographic images, illusions of night
To see the full selection of photos and for purchasing information please visit Shirley's Gallery.
New from Sharon Hackleman, author of Marion the Magnet
MIND TIME CARDS
"Mind Time Cards are a deck of 31 inspiring positive daily affirmations created by Sharon Hackleman and illustrated by Jessica Glickman. The SOUL purpose of creating the Mind Time Cards is to teach teens about the magical powers of positive thought and the importance of feeling good about themselves-
Spirit, Mind, and Body!
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when ordered on mindtimecards.com
"We are all connected...intertwined...by a universal energy so divine." - Sharon Hackleman
Free Seth CD from New Awareness Network
This CD contains additional Seth excerpts that are not on the sethlearningcenter.org website)
This CD contains selections of Seth speaking on a variety of topics along with explanatory notes by Rick Stack, former student of Seth and Jane Roberts and President of New Awareness Network.
For ordering information, Click here.
Sethworld - A board game based on the Seth Material
Explore your beliefs! Stretch your imagination! Delve into your dreams! Challenge your creativity!
Seven years in the making, I am so pleased to be able to offer you SethWorld - The Game of All That Is! SethWorld is a totally unique game, the first metaphysical board game based on the Seth material - maybe the first metaphysical board game, ever! It is designed to explore and uncover beliefs while having fun. There are no winners, no losers, and NO RULES! A 24-page pamphlet included with the game gives a probable framework for play, 6 sample "moves," and a glossary of 61 concepts.
SethWorld -- You've never played anything like it!
WHAT A COINCIDENCE Understanding Synchronicity In Everyday Life
by Susan M Watkins
Overview:
What if all those seemingly insignificant little What a coincidence! moments you've experienced were actually connected, were part of a larger, more complex coincidence story?
What if they were hinting at something very personal and important about yourself—and about the workings of human consciousness?
Would you listen?
Susan Watkins does. For more than 35 years she's been documenting and studying the coincidences that have happened in her life. What she's discovered is that seemingly simple coincidences—thinking of an old friend and their calling seconds later, for example—are often pieces of larger, more complex and meaningful "coincidence clusters."
A former newspaper reporter and the author of five books, Watkins has always been intrigued by coincidences—what they mean in our everyday lives, and in the grander scheme of things. What, she asks, do these coincidence clusters say about human consciousness and human connection? In What a Coincidence! she presents coincidence clusters that are utterly astounding. What they reveal is life- altering.
What a Coincidence! is an exciting, groundbreaking journey. Along the way Watkins offers profound insights as well as practical pointers on how to become aware of the coincidence clusters in our own lives. She also shows us how to document coincidences so that we, too, can reap their valuable rewards. We'll never brush off those What a Coincidence! moments again.
Party Like It's 2012
Just one of the great metaphysical t-shirts, bumper stickers, greeting cards, buttons, mugs and clocks available from the Conscious Creation Shop by Kristen Fox and John McNally
SETH CONNECTIONS
Meetings of both the physical and non-physical kind
If you have a Seth group or are planning a get together for Seth fans, and would like to see it advertised here, email us at SNJ@newworldview.com
BAY AREA SETH GROUPS
If you live in the San Francisco area you'll want to check out the new Bay Area Seth Groups website. Their calendar is chock full of events hosted by seven different groups around the Bay area.
Seth Network Japan
Dear friends, I'm happy to announce that Seth Network Japan,was created in December 2005 by a small group of Japanese Seth fans. We also have a website that introduces the Seth Material to our visitors.
If you know any Japanese speaking person who might be interested in Seth books, we'd be glad to welcome him/her on the site. For those who feel like having a look at Japan, we have a small slide show that presents different parts of the country.
So, you are all welcome. :-)
Cheers,
Masa
Greetings from the Portland-Metro Seth Readers' Guild
We meet the 2nd and 4th Tuesdays of every month. Our first meeting of the month is for reading aloud and commenting. Right now, we are reading "The Seth Material" in the first half of the meeting, then we take a break for drinks and treats and conversation. During the second half of the meeting we have started reading "Seth Speaks". We end the meeting variously with a psy-time, or reading from the Seth deck of cards. Of course the reading goes slowly, because we always have a reason to stop the flow for comments--current events, family or personal tie-ins, etc. This is how we use the material, and it seems to work.
Our second meeting of the month is what we call the experiential
meeting, which can range from a past-life hypnosis psy-time, to a video of interest on a current topic, or a time of general discussion. We did some remote-viewing experiments with pretty good results.
Our meetings start at 7 PM and go to 10 PM. The host provides tea, coffee or other drinks, and we bring finger food. There is networking, friendship, and stimulating talk on all kinds of subjects during the break. We aim to keep our focus on our primary reality, and learn from each other how to deal constructively with the secondary reality of our greater world.
Drop-ins are welcome--call Marie 503-232-6469 or email harakne@yahoo.com for our meeting locations or any cancellations."
Cool Conscious Creation Resources on the Web
2008 Conscious Creation Calendar of Events
Sethnet Basics - get the most out of Sethnet
Sethnet Archives - lots of free articles and material
Random Seth quotes
Conscious Creation Links – Conscious Creation Publishers, Book Stores, Websites, Journals, Newsletters, Mailing Lists, Message Boards, and more.
The Elias forum - website by Paul & Joanne Helfrich contains an expansion of many of the conscious creation concepts introduced by Seth/Jane Roberts, channeled by Mary Ennis.
What if the Seth material was a foundation to be expanded later by other channeled sources? Can any perennial source ever be considered complete AND infallible?
Seth readers will want to check out:
Introduction & Overview
A Seth, Elias Comparative Overview (Updated!)
Digest: Seth, Jane Roberts
Essence of Rose Website - The new website for the entity Rose as channeled by Joann Helfrich. For more about the nature of Rose, see the essence of Rose in the Elias forum.
The Kris Chronicles - an expansion of many of the conscious creation concepts introduced by Seth/Jane Roberts, channeled by Serge Grandbois.
A Kris, Seth, Elias Comparative Overview (Updated!) - a preliminary comparison of core concepts in the Seth material, information offered by Elias, and Kris Chronicles
Otherfocus.com the personal website of Donald R. Johnson
Explore the creative worlds of John McNally and Kristen Fox Cofounders of the Conscious Creation Website and Email group John and Kristen share interests in writing, art, photography and cooking which they explore on a variety of websites:
John and Kristen's new Green blog: It Should Be Easy Being Green
Intuitive Astrology site: Psychic Weather
Writing: Mind Altering Fiction
Photography: Telepathicfrog
Cooking: Food Follies
Shop: Telepathic Frog Designs
Shop Powered By Tshirts
Kristen's weblog: FoxVox
Art & Photo Gallery: Art of FoxVox
Art & Photo Prints: Deviant Art
T Shirt Reviews Tshirt Casserole