A Message from “The Family”: Soul Winter

Many individuals periodically undergo a transformational process characterized by a numbing of response to physical events and relationships. This process can be confused with depression, for they bear a certain likeness to one another: lassitude; lack of interest in recreational activities; a tendency to allow personal  cleanliness and grooming to languish. But the transformational process, which we call Soul Winter, goes far deeper than simple depression. It is a process whereby the soul decides whether or not to stay in physical reality.

The bulk of this process is not conscious. That is, the owner of the soul is usually unaware of the decision being weighed by his or her innermost self. But when the decision is finally made, the conscious self may be struck by a sense of urgency, a feeling that his or her time may be running out; or by a feeling of absolute certainty that nothing more can be accomplished or experienced in physical reality that would be worth the effort of doing so.

What happens when a soul decides it is time to shed the body and move on? Often, death takes place, and not necessarily by conscious suicide: an illness that has lain quiescent suddenly worsens; an accident sweeps the body away; another human, apparently randomly, causes the soul’s body to cease functioning. And sometimes the death comes by the soul’s own hand. This happened with Mr. Alex, Mr. Rand’s lover, who took an overdose of pain killer when he had decided that he did not wish the experience of a slow, painful death from AIDS.

Does this mean that every human who dies through illness, accident, suicide, or another’s violence decides to do so? No. Most individuals in those situations are not ready to die, and if they had the power to avert their deaths, they would do so readily. But individuals undergoing Soul Winter are different. Such individuals’ deaths take place after a lengthy process of disconnecting from spacetime, characterized by three stages: comprehensive life assessment; increasing detachment from relationships once treasured and activities once engaged in with joy; and, finally, a release of identification with career, loved ones, and body. Whereupon death usually comes quickly.

And that death can take two forms: physical death, culminating in the soul abandoning the body to the earth; or, more rarely, complete transformation of the personality, including all its passions, its purposes, and the focus of what it wishes to create and experience while still in the body. This latter experience of death while still in the body is often referred to as the “walk-in” experience, in which personality transformation is assumed to be caused by the original soul leaving the body and a different soul taking its place in the body.

While not ruling out the possibility that such a thing might conceivably take place, it is our observation that most cases classified as “walk-ins” do not involve a soul being replaced by a new one, but a soul maturing into its true life-purpose.

Mister Rand asks us why we have selected this topic to write about tonight. It is because the current upcoming winter season will be bringing many individuals into the process of assessing whether continuing in physical reality is worth doing in their present bodies and period of history. And we wish to make it known that suicide, whether conscious and deliberate or via apparently random accident, is not a sin which some God will punish. For God is Love in all parts of Itself, and thinks nothing of Itself, but only of Its creation, and how It can win Its children back into conscious union with It.

Mister Rand expresses fear that our saying this will encourage some readers to kill themselves. We do not expect that such a thing will happen, for most of the readers of this blog are interested in furthering their personal growth while still in the body. We say these things, rather, to offer consolation to any readers who may have lost a loved one to suicide. Your beloved is safe in the womb of the Celestial Mother, a womb so vast that all of physical reality might fit within it. And some day, when it is right, you will rejoin your beloved there.

And we thank you for sharing. •

— Channeled December 7, 2017, 1:04 A.M. U.S. Mountain Time.

 

 

A Love Letter To Alex, On the Anniversary of His Suicide

Dear  Alex,

Today, January 27th, is the anniversary of the day I found you dead on your bed in 1988. My elderly cat has been sick, and though I love him dearly and will miss him terribly when it is his time to pass, my weeping was so intense today, and my feelings of guilt and shame so pronounced, that I knew what I was feeling had to be about earlier losses, too. Hence this letter.

It’s not the only letter I’ve written to you, by any means; for years I struggled with the persistent notion that I could have saved you from your suicide; that somehow you had killed yourself because I had failed as a partner and lover. Now, so many years, therapies, 12 Step programs, and heart-openings later, I know that your story was not my story. Had I opened the door that night at 10pm when I returned from work to find the light on under your door, I might have delayed your death, for the coroner told me you had died around midnight that night. But in the end, if death is what you wished for (and your ex-wife told me over the phone you had attempted it before, during your marriage to her), you would have found a way to hasten it. After all, a month before you died you warned me what was going to happen.

We were in the car going somewhere, you driving, me in the front passenger seat. You said, “I had a funny dream last night. I dreamed we were in a hospital room. I was lying in bed in a coma, and you were sitting on the chair next to the bed. And I knew that you were all right with my condition, because I’d told you many times that the place where I go when I do deep trance is so beautiful that some day I may not want to come back.” Maybe it was that dream (if it was a dream and not your way of hinting what was to come) that prompted me on some level to realize our time together remaining would be curtailed, for it was in mid-January that I sprung on you that surprise birthday party, where all our friends gathered, and we played a game, and you had cake, and laughed, and said, “No one has ever had a birthday party for me before.” Less than two weeks later you were dead.

My inner child has always been terrified of death. Death, in fact, is my Life Theme, the greatest truth this incarnation of mine has been learning to accept, assimilate, and adapt to. Maybe that’s one reason I was attracted to metaphysics after my rationalist upbringing and my ensuing 7 years as a Fundamentalist Christian—I sought to find evidence that the body is not all of us; that physical death is not the death of something deeper and more core in us; and that somehow Tarot, trancework, channeling and so forth would console me in ways that conventional religion failed to do. And it has helped. After my little brother Jeff, you were the greatest spiritual inspiration in my life. Your deep-trance channelings, which I (suspiciously at first, then more and more credulously) helped you attain with my guided meditations, changed my life completely. My entire spiritual world view has evolved from the talks you gave in your spirit-persona of  “Alexandra”, and I’m not the only one you helped by any means.

I can still recall clearly the sense of peace and nurture that flowed through your Alexandra persona to me and everyone else who attended our meetings in Key West, Florida, Ireland, and later Santa Fe, New Mexico, where you died. And I can recall vividly that the morning I found you, the moment I put my hand on your doorknob at 10am to rouse you for a meeting with a client we had scheduled for 11, I knew you were dead. I opened the door, saw you on the bed, and felt you and Alexandra—not the same person, but two personas—”floating” near the ceiling, witnessing me. I’ve had spiritual experiences since then, several in which I caught a glimpse of that Heaven of Light and Sound which made you so blissful whenever you tranced. But the experience I had that morning was my Lightning-Struck Tower.

Thank you for all you gave me. Thank you for my sense of your continuing presence in my life. I have loved other men since I met you, but you remain uniquely precious.

P.S. Please watch over my cat, and help me release him to the arms of Love when it comes his time to rise. •

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To Blame

ImageTo Blame is the fourth least creative level of consciousness after To Control Absolutely, To Force, and To Threaten. As To Threaten focuses the soul’s attention on the future, thus inhibiting balanced creative action in the face of fear, so To Blame traps the soul in the past. Persons focused on the consciousness level of To Blame cannot stop hating, and therefore can never be free of those forces that have hurt them.

To Blame consciousness not only traps those focused within it, forcing them to relive over and over again the hurts of the past; it also erodes, slowly but surely, their sense of proportion and responsibility, until the original hurt and its perpetrators loom larger and larger in the consciousness until they become a sufferer’s Higher Power. To Blame consciousness also erodes one’s sense of responsibility, tempting the soul to attribute all its travails to the persons and incidents who have harmed it, therefore robbing the soul of its power to make positive choices.

Does this mean that we must crush our anger over wrongs done us and throw ourselves with gritted teeth into the arms of forgiveness? Of course not. The only way to forgiveness is through anger: acknowledging it; using it to help us take positive steps to extricate ourselves from harmful situations and people; and when we feel safe enough to do so, slowly beginning to permit ourselves to soften around our anger and the memories that gave rise to it. Eventually the hurts become part of the landscape of the inner self, like the soft eroded hills of the Appalachians, which once, eons ago, were massive and forbidding.

The flip side of To Blame is To Accept Blame One Does Not Deserve. Unjust guilt feelings and the shame that accompanies them can drive people to suicide. Abused children and spouses frequently blame themselves for their abusers’ actions; rape sufferers have often been accused of “asking for it” because they were dressed in a sexually appealing way when they were violated. Religious groups regularly target specific fringe populations as particularly hateful to God. And when members of such fringe populations internalize that hatred, accepting that censure, terrible things can happen.

My former pastor, a kind and brilliant man who ran the Evangelical Presbyterian Church I once belonged to, committed suicide because he was homosexual. He was not a child molester. He had not hidden his attraction to men from the board of elders who oversaw his stewardship of the church, and had vowed a celibate life. He had continued to pastor his congregation with wisdom and prudence, and was known in the larger community for his work in comforting dying AIDS patients. But in the end, his acceptance of our religious group’s censure of homosexual desire killed him.

To Control Absolutely, To Force, To Threaten, and To Blame are the four least creative consciousness levels. And they are not static; once the consciousness starts to collapse, it tends to keep going. People who blame others tend to be easily threatened. Fearful people tend to turn to force to protect themselves. And violent people engender violent societies in which individual freedoms are eventually abrogated entirely.

How does one stop the collapse of one’s consciousness into less and less creative levels? How does one lift oneself out of To Control or To Be Controlled, To Force or To Be Forced, To Threaten or To Be Threatened, To Blame or To Accept Blame One Does Not Deserve?

NEXT: To Accept With Intent To Learn.

Stuart In the Sky, With Diamonds

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The week after my lover Stuart died, I took our wolf-dog, Kaz, out into the wintry New Mexican woods. Snow had softened the ground’s harsh clays. The sun was shining brilliantly off the white-clad junipers and little piñon trees. Kaz led me in a romp-and-tumble over the hills and down some arroyos until we both ended up, limp and panting, in a valley floored by a frozen brook.

I was in that state of heightened awareness that often accompanies deep grief. I’d hardly eaten for a week. For all the two years Stuart and I had spent together as lovers, best friends and channelers, his sudden death had taken me utterly unprepared.

He had developed ARC after having been infected with HIV in an accident at the Key West lab where he’d labored as a medical technologist. We had assumed that either AIDS would kill him some day or old age would. The former had seemed less of a possibility as, one by one, his ARC symptoms had gone into remission. We’d put it down to clean living and the effects of our metaphysical researches. (This was before advances in medical science provided AIDS patients with chemical cocktails designed to bolster immune response.)

But I had found him one morning anyhow, body cold, vacated, and neatly arranged on his bed. The medic who examined Stuart after I had called 9-1-1 later told me that Stuart’s death had been a reaction to a painkiller he had taken for an abscessed tooth due to be extracted the following Monday.

I came to a different conclusion. A month before Stuart had told me he had had a “dream” in which he had gone into a coma and I was sitting by his bed in the hospital. After his death, it struck me that, consciously or not, he had been warning me that he was planning to commit suicide. I still believe this to this day.

That winter afternoon in the valley, I hunkered down and watched Kaz nose cattails. Gradually the sunlight seemed to take on personality. It seemed to shine not on me but for me, and I knew, abruptly and impossibly, that the sunlight was Stuart, somehow. He seemed undismayed that I had been calling him a selfish bastard all week.

You must understand that I am not given to visions. My psychic experiences tend to be quiet, undramatic, noticeable mainly because I have trained myself to recognize them when they occur. Stuart was the visionary. Every time he surfaced from a deep trance channeling session, he said to me, “It’s so beautiful there, where I was; one of these days I’m just going to stay.”

In the valley, dusk fell. I called Kaz, started carward, and in my altered state got lost in the shadowed streamcourse. Nothing looked even remotely familiar to me. The moon came out, and there was Stuart again. Guard-dogs barked at a farm. I felt afraid. I glimpsed mental images of barbed wire, German uniforms, German shepherd dogs pulling at leashes, and myself at a dead run for a clipped fenceline. In my fantasy memory, Stuart was there, saying, “Through here!” He pushed me ahead of him so that it was he, not I, whom the dogs brought down.

As I have said, I am not given to visions. That night I asked the sky, “How do I get out of this arroyo?” A prominent star winked, then burned steady. By its light, I spied a side-track I had not noticed before. Following the track, Kaz and I found ourselves back on the road we had taken from the spot where I’d parked our station wagon.

Stuart again. You’ll have to take my word for it.

Up to that time, Stuart’s death had been the most devastating thing that had ever happened to me. This has changed in the years since. Since that winter I have climbed the years to sixty-two. I have lost Kaz, to a hit and run driver, and three subsequent dogs, one to old age, one to liver failure, and one to cancer. I have lost friends to AIDS, including my beloved little brother; lost my teeth, my health, my career in horticulture, my self-respect, and most of my financial resources. And since Stuart’s death I have never had another lover. I have kept love at arm’s length from fear of having to go through a loss like that again.

Stuart’s death was the most terrible thing that had ever happened to me. But I am certain that it was not the most terrible thing that ever happened to him. The night in the arroyo taught me that. I’m certain that death, for Stuart, had been an explosion of joy.

I drove home that night with Kaz’s paw on my right shoulder. Three months later, on an empty road near our house, some guys broke Kaz’s back with their speeding truck and I had to say goodbye to him, too. I buried his body in my rented garden, between the French tarragon and the double coreopsis. For two weeks I had nightmares that somehow the vet’s needle hadn’t put Kaz out of his misery; that somehow I had buried him alive; that he had awakened, stifling, with dirt in his lungs. Of course it was I who felt buried alive: trapped in the physical plane, unable to get free of the pain and horror of it.