A Message From “The Family”: Seasons of the Soul

There are many seasons in the soul. Some are fresh and green; others, old and brittle; others, a rampage of hungers and searches for satiation. When one is caught up in a wash of internal seasonal weather, one can feel cast adrift, out of control, spinning into unknown waters.

At such times, Knowers—those for whom reality is best perceived [and dealt with] via spiritual, religious, intellectual, or scientific practices—often seek to stand back from their [emotional] experiences, observing them [from a distance], whether in meditation or scientific study. Other Knowers may seek to avoid getting in touch with their internal experiences [at all], sometimes even going so far as to insist that humans have no internal consciousness; that consciousness is an illusion manufactured by the chemical factory of the brain.

Consciousness deniers frequently seek solace in their intellectual constructs, which reduce the world to biological process, and treat emotions as no more meaningful than sparks emerging from a car battery, mechanical problems that distract from the broad tasks of pattern assessment and phenomena analysis.

There are Doers, [those for whom reality is best perceived as a series of practical problems to be solved or tasks to be accomplished], who also treat internal experience as unworthy of contemplation, unless they can see its practical applications for survival, task completion, and biological needs gratification. “Of what use is a feeling unless it triggers action of some kind?” these Doers may think. So for them, Love is not real  unless it is expressed in giving another objects of value, enjoyable shared [physical] experiences sexual and otherwise, and enhancement of physical and economic stability and power.

For Feelers, reality is what is experienced internally, and Love is an internal sensation of longing, belonging, and consolation. What to Knowers is a pattern of understanding and identification with the Other, and to Doers is a relationship useful for creating mutual external experience, to Feelers [is what fills the emptiness they feel at their core].

–Channeled October 14-21, 2017

 

A Message From “The Family”: On Finding the Love You Want

There is a story running about in physical reality that all one has to do in order to be happy forever is to locate, connect with verbally, and interact nurturingly with another human being who embodies every aspect of spiritual, intellectual, emotional, and moral value which the seeker feels is missing from  him- or herself.

beautiful_couple(For the sake of this blog post) we shall call the ideal beloved ‘the Cheese’, and the one seeking the beloved ‘the Mouse’.

Mister Rand is appalled by this analogy. “We are speaking of an intimate human relationship here,” he objects, “not a relationship of predator and prey!” To which we reply, “You could have fooled us.” [<- jest] For in looking over Mister Rand’s shoulder, as it were, while he is exploring different online dating sites for possible suitable partners, we are struck by the preponderance of attribute-lists and photographs presenting the seeker as not so much a person as a tangle of goods dangling in the shop window of the heart. “Purchase me!” cries the tangle of dangling goods. “Purchase me!” But how can one poor tangle of goods hope to attracts purchasers when there are so many other dangling tangles for the tangle-seeker to choose from?

“Ah!” exclaims Mister Rand. “That is where the concept of ‘soul mate’ comes in! If It Is Meant To Be, I shall meet my perfect mate if I simply stay open to the blessings of love.” The difficulty, as we see it, with this concept is multi-fold. Firstly, we see humans as expanding experiential consciousness constructs/vectors, always expanding experience of the One during their time in physical reality. To say that Mister  Rand has a “perfect” mate suggests that at some point in the expansion experience one reaches a state of completion. But we do not see this as the case.

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Moon-Pie & I, 2008, Santa Fe, New Mexico

Secondly, we do not see Mister Rand as requiring a savior, because we do not see Mister Rand as, ultimately, in peril. In his vision of November 2013, when his earthly consciousness intersected with the part of him that dwells on the Plane of Light and Sound, Mister Rand temporarily awoke from the dream of spacetime and found himself Home in the deepest sense of the word. He found himself in a “place” so safe that he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that nothing whatsoever could take from him anything essential to his being and becoming. He experienced reality as a plane of utter Love, aware of him down to the smallest flap of skin on his tricep area, utterly accepting of him, utterly supportive of him, utterly lacking in the slightest need to change, chastise, or vilify him in any way. And It could take this attitude towards Mister Rand because It was complete in Itself, and therefore free to love without stint or condition, requiring from him in return no praise, no worship, nor even thanks.

For Mister Rand, the most striking factor of this experience was the sense of its ordinariness. It felt completely familiar to him, this place of quiet, total, acceptance and support—so familiar that he could not understand how he could possibly have forgotten that this ultimately was Reality. [To mistake] the constantly changing subreality of spacetime [for] core reality felt absurd to Mister Rand.

So to Mister Rand, whom we love, we say, “By all means hang up on the Internet whatever dangling bits you feel proud of and happy with. But do not, we beg of you, seek one who will complete you. You are already complete, and so is he. Seek one who can recognize your beauty and celebrate it, even as you recognize his beauty and celebrate it. For of this is the Kingdom of Heaven. •

— Channeled Monday, August 14, 2017, by Rand Lee.

 

On Seeking Safe Haven

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I’ve spent most of my sixty-five years of life looking for a person, doctrine,  or organization that I could build my life around. I started out looking to my parents to fulfill this role. I found early on that I could depend upon my father to provide us with shelter, clothing, food, and the luxuries of upper middle class Anglo life, but that he was largely unavailable emotionally and could not protect me from my abusive older brother. My mother I found I could depend upon to provide me with delicious meals, delightful books, affection, and consolation, except when her alcoholism and borderline personality disorder symptoms turned her manipulative, vindictive, and sexually abusive.

For years I felt torn between the two of them, and my ambivalence took an odd turn.

Mother put pressure on me to choose her over my father, which—let’s be frank—it wasn’t hard to do, given his loud, gritted-teeth complaints, self-isolation, and demands for absolute obedience. But I liked the fact that he was a writer, and I think I sensed his self-loathing, and I identified with him more than I liked to admit at the time. Now in the bedroom they shared, my father slept on the left side of the bed, my mother on the right. So at night I felt torn. If I slept on the left side of my bed, would I be symbolically choosing my father over my mother? If I slept on the right side of my bed, would I be symbolically choosing my mother over my father? So I compromised: I taught myself to sleep flat on my back, a habit I tend to follow to this day.

Once I entered adolescence, I more or less gave up trying to find refuge in my parents’ world and I sought refuge in my private dream world of comic books, science fiction, fantasy, mythology, and chaste fantasies of joining Robin Hood’s band of Merry Men, or being adopted as innocent school mascot by my brother Anthony’s Air Force Academy classmates. When I became aware of my homosexuality, I began fantasizing about finding a Mister Right, the perfect man who, in exchange for my exclusive devotion and access to my body, would console, protect, and give shape and direction to the rest of my life.

The problem was that, owing to incest trauma, I felt sex was dirty—not just homosexuality, but all sex. I got this feeling from my mother. So I decided that I did not want to be sexual at all. After my father’s sudden death in early 1971, I sought out the sexuality-free surrogate family I’d always fantasized about: I became a celibate Fundamentalist Christian for seven years.

The people with whom I worshiped were good people, genuinely trying to live by Jesus’s teachings of love and forgiveness. Although my self-betrayal ate away at me, the love and acceptance they showed me had a healing effect on me. They gave me a refuge from the storm of my life. But in the end I left the church, and Fundamentalism, in large part because I felt I had been putting on an act. Though I was indeed celibate for most of the seven years I was with them, I now know the difference between celibacy, born of lifestyle conviction, and sexual anorexia born of abuse trauma. And I was not the only one who left. Several years ago I discovered that the pastor of the last church I attended had been gay, and had committed suicide because he had not been able to reconcile his faith with his physicality.

All this took place many decades ago. Today, at 65 years old, five feet seven inches tall, and 290 pounds, I am far from healed; I like to joke that I have more issues than National Geographic. But I have a renewed faith in Divine Love, from Whose womb I was born and to Whose womb I shall return, and for Whom my homosexuality is a natural species variation, not a monstrosity or a curse worthy of damnation. And I have been fortunate in meeting numerous fellow travelers, straight, gay, in between, and undecided, whose kindness has consistently reached out to me in dark times.

So if you are tempted to give up who you are to get love, don’t give in to that temptation. Start asking for help, and keep on asking until you start getting it. It can and does get better, but only if you refuse to let your abusers win. •

A Message From “The Family”: On The Beloved Dead

Victorian_seance[On January 27, 1988, I walked into my love Stuart’s bedroom and found him dead on the bed. He and I had been lovers for only 2 years. We worked as psychics together in Key West, Florida and Santa Fe, New Mexico; we met originally when he came to me seeking Louise Hay-type guided meditations for boosting his immune system. One day, during such a meditation (which he claimed did indeed make him feel better), Stuart manifested a feminine information source he called “Alexandra” whose calm, understated manner was a stark contrast to his Aries exuberance.

[About a month before he died, Stuart—who was suffering from AIDS symptoms at a time before the current, longevity promoting, AIDS “cocktail” of meds had been developed— told me that he had dreamed he was in a coma in hospital, and that I was sitting beside his bed. He said that in the dream, I understood that it was so beautiful where he went when he was in deep trance, that someday he would not come back from there, and that I was OK with it. When I found his body that morning in 1988, I realized then that his account of his “dream” had been his way of letting me know he was planning to kill himself with a heavy injection of painkiller that he had been hoarding since his job as a med tech at Key West Island Hospital.

[The following channeling discusses my experiences regarding Stuart since his passing. -RL]

When Mister Rand first walked into the room where he found his lover’s body, he had no sooner set eyes upon Stuart’s prone form than he felt, floating somewhere near the ceiling on the lefthand side of the bedroom, two energies or consciousnesses. One of the consciousnesses was in fact that of Stuart, Rand’s lover; the other, that of the so-called “channeled entity” that 2 years previously had, at its first appearance, announced its name as “Alexandra”.

Now “Alexandra” was the feminine persona of the channeler, Stuart. In a sense, Mister Rand feels she is still present in his life; at other times she seems a very distant memory. Stuart himself feels to Mister Rand even more distant. Mister Rand’s younger brother, Jeffrey Robert Lee, died in 1990 from AIDS; his consciousness, by contrast with Stuart’s, seems much more present in Mister Rand’s life, particularly when Mister Rand is channeling or doing psychic readings for clients.

Why do some dead feel more present to us than others? The answers in part depend upon our ultimate view of reality. An atheist-materialist-ethicist [might] say that the memories of the dead, not the dead themselves, are present with us in direct proportion to how willing we have been to release those relationships and move on to new ones in physical reality—in other words, the more emotionally attached you are to the memory of your dead friend or relative, the more present they will seem to be. By contrast, a spiritualist might say that some dead feel more present to us than others because some of our dead have been willing to “move on”—detach from identification with their former self, former life, and former acquaintances (us)—and others of our dead have not.

We see the situation as possessing elements of both explanations. Let us say that Mister Yiffniff dies. At first, depending upon his spiritual practises in the life just ended, Yiffniff [may be] a bit disoriented; he may even feel that his death is a mistake, that he has so much “unfinished business” to attend to before he is ready to depart fully. Other, less conflicted individuals, may be ready to “move on” immediately—may be even glad that they have died, for now, if they wish, they can take on a new physical form in a new place or position in spacetime. Still other beloved dead may select to remain focused in our physical plane in order to keep watch over the physically living—to act, in a sense, as spirit guides to those whom they have loved and still do love. Mister Jeffrey, Mister Rand’s baby brother, is just such a one—committed,  as it were, to stay by Mister Rand’s side until it is time for them to become balls of joyous light together. Each case is different, however, and must be evaluated as objectively as possible by the psychic researcher. •

My Landlord’s Dog

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My landlord’s dog is a white female American bulldog named Julie. She is 8 years old, and exudes sweetness and love to such an extent that nearly everyone who meets her tells my landlord, whom I’ll call Jim, “If you ever decide to give her up, I’ll take her.” I rent a room in Jim’s house, and when my cat Urdwill was alive, Julie accepted him as one of the pack; if anything, he, not she, was the more aggressive and territorial of the two.

For the past few days I have been caring for Julie. About 4 days ago, Jim was taken to the hospital, where he has been ever since, with a cracked pelvis from a fall, a deep upper leg infection, and urinary difficulties. Jim is a very large man, and it took a four-man team of paramedics and firefighters to transport him from the upper tier of the bunk bed where he sleeps down to the gurney they had waiting for him. When I spoke to him on the telephone yesterday, he sounded disoriented and frightened. In his deep bass voice he said, “I’ve never felt so helpless before.”

I can believe it. Jim is 74, with a lifetime of international sales, business ownership, and professional rugby behind him. When I met him, about 2 years ago, he had been reduced to spending most of his time in a chair in front of his large screen TV, watching sports programs. I learned that some years back he developed a brain embolism that impaired his hearing, eyesight, balance, short term memory, and completely erased his sense of smell, which in turn has reduced considerably his ability to taste anything. A Type Two diabetic, and a heavy nighttime vodka-and-cranberry-juice-cocktail drinker, he is also a hoarder. Nearly every square inch of his house is filled with sports equipment, boxes of books, clothing, heaps of old bills and letters, tools, memorabilia, and trash, and the yards around his house sport several huge, inoperative vehicles, including a chartreuse van and two trucks, one of which has a mobile hot tub attached to it. (In the Seventies, Jim used to drive this rig around Santa Fe, renting it out to partying hippies.)

Despite his brain damage and short term memory loss, Jim notices at once if anything new appears in his vicinity, or if anything is thrown away or moved from one spot to another. “Is that your towel on the washing machine?” he asks. “Did you move that [tiny scarlet] tag from the desk to the side table?” Severely depressed, he goes to bed around midnight and gets up around 1 or 2 in the afternoon. “It just doesn’t seem worth it most days to get out of bed,” he told me.

Jim is on Medicare, and has had a string of caseworkers who come by now and again, disappear, and are replaced by new caseworkers. This is not because Jim is a difficult client to deal with; he is remarkably sweet tempered for a man with his background and in his condition. It’s because New Mexico, one of the poorest states of the Union, does not allocate much money to social services, and typically caseworkers are paid little, overworked, and overscrutinized by middle management longtermers anxious not to lose their jobs. Still, it’s a good thing Jim has Medicare, as he tells me he will be in hospital for at least another week, and in the meantime I am more or less in charge of taking care of Julie. “She misses you a lot, Jim,” I told him. “I miss her a lot, too,” he said, and his voice broke.

I find myself grieving, for Jim’s pain, certainly, but also for my own. My father, pictured above, was a big man, too, with a bass voice, and like Jim had little liking or talent for asking for help. Tonight I miss my father keenly. I was scared of him, much of the time, and angry with him, much of the time, and yearned for his approval and acceptance all of the time. He filled the house I grew up in with his presence just as Bill fills this house with his, and after my father died, of the last in a string of heart attacks back in 1971, the house loomed vast and empty without him in it.

I have no reason to believe that Jim will die, not this time, anyhow, though the events of the past week are clearly a wakeup call for him: change your ways of handling your pain, or make a humiliating, and possibly protracted, exit, stage right. But however long he is in hospital or rehab, and however many changes must take place in his house for it to accommodate his new fragilities, for now, I am here with his dog Julie; and our hearts, both hers and mine, are aching. •

 

 

 

 

A Message From “The Family”: On Sexuality

beautiful_coupleWhenever two persons meet in physical reality, there is the opportunity of shared experience. Sharing experience with another conscious entity is a basic drive in all physicalized beings, or “becomings” as one New Age commentator might put it (Mr. Rand winces at this neologism). Which kind of experience is shared depends upon the consciousness-level of the participants and their premanifestation agreements. In some cases the shared experience is sexual in nature.

Joining with another conscious entity is a passion intrinsic to humanness. On the Plane of Light and Sound, our term for the level of reality that is home to the human spirit, two entities meet, merge light-forms completely, absorb all of the others’ stored experiences (and vice versa), then part, each possessed of full knowledge of how it is like to be that other person, perceived as that person itself and not as an outsider. This level of intimacy is sometimes achieved through or as a byproduct of human sexual expression. Some religions, fearful of God’s wrath, condemn the body as intrinsically evil, and the body’s natural impulses as intrinsically shameful. Our experience is that the body’s impulses are neither good nor evil, they simply are. It is the level of consciousness through which they are expressed that determines their moral quality.

There has historically been much effort put into Western culture by way of analyzing, dissecting, and determining the structure and variants of human sexuality. In ancient times, some forms of human sexuality were condoned that modern people would naturally condemn: in ancient Rome, the paterfamilias or head male of the family possessed the legal right to beat, rape, and kill his wife, children, and slaves, because the law viewed wife, children, and slaves as the possessions of the paterfamilias. Non-consensual sex is now recognized as an expression of the restricted consciousness-level we call To Force and To Be Forced; as such, it is unacceptable as a societal norm. And many religions would agree with this assessment we have made.

Many religions vilify certain kinds of sexual behavior: homosexuality being one of the chief targets of their wrath. This is largely because [from the viewpoint of the heterosexual observer] homosexuality appears to blur gender roles and gender-behavior lines. Western culture has its roots in militaristic culture, and in most militaristic human cultures, the gender roles are strongly divided or distinctive, and deviations from them are seen as a threat to the power hierarchy at the core of militaristic culture. For the same reason, cross-dressing, gender-neutral dress or behavior, [and] transsexualism are also condemned in militaristic cultures. Yet from our viewpoint in the nonphysical, none of these forms that human sexuality takes possess intrinsic moral value, whether negative or positive. Everything depends upon the level of consciousness with which the sexuality is expressed.

Sexuality is necessary for reproduction, but that is not now and never was its sole purpose. It is through our bodies that we experience the rhythms of spacetime itself: its ebbs and flows, its scents, its textures, its flavors, its sounds. Enjoying one’s body and its capacities for pleasure is one of the gifts that wayfarers on the Earth plane are granted to help ease their progress here. •

— Channeled May 29, 2015 by Rand B. Lee.

Aftermaths

MAJORTRUMPS.XXI.DeathOne of the most painful things about the death of a beloved is not how much difference it makes in one’s days afterwards, but how little. My sweet 14-year-old cat, Urdwill (a.k.a. Burd), was as much part of my day and night as any close family member might have been; but I still have to get up in the morning as usual; shower as usual; make my basic three daily meals as usual; go to my Twelve Step meeting, counseling sessions, and supermarket as usual. I spent part of this week repotting sweet peppers and tomatoes I am raising from seed; shmoozing with my landlord’s sweet American bulldog, Julie; accessing and returning my friend Lee’s car, all as usual. How, I ask myself, could I have gotten over my pet’s demise so quickly? “You never really loved him, that’s how,” the Accuser whispers.

Of course that is not true. The mourning that began with wails of grief has simply shifted, that’s all, downsized itself, gone largely underground. My rented room feels empty, now, without him. When I am out chatting with a friend I think, “Oh, I had better get home now, Burd will need his dinner,” then remember that Burd’s dinner is no longer my concern. When I come back to my landlord’s house and unlock the outer door, I automatically check the area around my feet to see if Urdwill is crouching there, ready to spring past me into the street. At night, whenever I would wake (and I wake up several times a night), Urdwill would be there, ready for affection, action, food; I sometimes nearly tripped over his black-furred body, invisible as it was in the darkened room. The relaxation of my hypervigilance concerning him—the relaxation issuing directly from his death—has been a relief. But it has also been a source of enormous feelings of guilt. How, I ask myself, could I be so heartless as to feel relief over Urdwill’s passing? “You never really loved him, that’s how,” the Accuser whispers again.

Such accusations would have no power to affect me were there not a long, old history behind them. In Ireland, where they had lived for six or seven years, my mother died of alcoholism in 1991, a year after my younger brother Jeffrey, her caretaker, died of AIDS. I hated my mother for having emotionally and sexually abused me, and I felt as liberated by her death as I had felt devastated by my brother’s. It took years before I could acknowledge my love for the part of her that was good and kind, and feel any  grief over her passing. “You could have saved her from drinking herself to death,” the Accusers whispered at the time, but this was a lie easier to shrug off; I knew by this time that alcoholism is a progressive illness, and that she had not been willing to do the 12 Step work that could have helped her find relief from it. The Accuser’s other whisper, “You could have saved Jeffrey from dying of AIDS by insisting he return to the USA for treatment,” was harder to shrug off. At the time in Ireland, so strong were the laws against birth control that one needed a doctor’s prescription even to buy condoms in Ireland; AIDS treatment was even more primitive and limited by public prejudice than it was in the US, where our present cocktail of meds had not yet become available.

In the end I have been forced to the conclusion that my brother, my mother, and my beloved cat Urdwill had their own paths to follow, their own stories, and their own Higher Powers. I have been asked by Spirit to accept that I, like they, am a student of Love rather than a master; and that no matter what the Accuser says, I could no more have rescued my little brother from AIDS than I could have cured my cat’s cancer. The only power I have is in the here and now: the power to choose Love right now, today. •