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GLORY on PROPS

A Penitence From Skrivnous, the First Tier of Purgatory

Documentary “Is It Easy To B Young?” 1986, Riga Film Studio. In the center director and cameraman Juris Podnieks

Juris Podnieks (1950-1992), Latvian distinguished cameraman, director and producer, his documentary “Is It Easy to Be Young?” put Podnieks’ name on the map of the International Cinema. 

Tata: I live in Los Angeles. Sometimes mediums meet wonderful spirits in most unexpected ways. It was the end of this April, I washed my dishes and was all set to go for a walk.  Instead I dried my hands and switched on my laptop.  From the world of spirits, it was Juris Podnieks, who got my attention during dish washing, when our heads are “empty,” and not occupied by thoughts and emotions. He was finishing his stay in the first tier of purgatory Skrivnous, and needed to talk about things that may speed up reaching the normal level of the astral world.  The description of Skrivnous can be found in Daniil Andreyev’s book “Roza  Mira,” Eksmo , or in English in Daniel H. Shubin’s translation “Rosa of the World,” A New Translation of Selections from the Russian for the American Readers.   

J.P. – You, Tatyana, as a film critic and the author of “Prisoners of Fame,” you have seen how glory may cripple a person, isn’t it true? Glory had touched me as well, but it I was a lucky one. Due to my short life on earth, it did not last for long. Fame unduly corrupts a person. I will give an example. When I was 20 years old and returning from forced military service in the Soviet Army, I found out the director of the Latvian film studio and asked him to lend me an outdated camera and allow me to shoot some episodes for the news programs. Naturally, my modest and polite request was denied. I was upset because I did not realize that by refusing my request, the director had laid the cornerstone of my future success.  That refusal would become the central item in writings that promoted me and my films. Instead of getting angry, I had to water and feed him the rest of my life.

I will miss the details how friends from America sent me a used camera, and how much it was superior than our new cameras. I was lucky. Otherwise, I would climb out years, and here I was –clicking a button on that camera, and footage of perfect beauty started flowing out of that camera! Then you know what happened next! I became the one who was loved by critics of various small and frail film festivals, I was strewn with insignificant awards, but their number made a difference leading me to the serious festivals with coveted, career making awards. Attention and awards of these festivals created my fast fame. Soon I learned that I had bad temper. I discovered my ability to brush aside gluey followers, and did not drag, like you, all of them into my future. You, on the contrary, yes, do, because you feel sorry for them. Sitting on your neck energetically, they write monstrous denunciations of you, even those of them whom you, as an alternative healer, dragged literally from the death threshold back into their lives.  And this is true …

J. P. – But the sweet introduction with the art of avoiding the scammers turned out to be only the beginning, the first step on the path to success … Now came the next step – the execution of instructions. And here it all began — the struggle with your own conscience, the effort of quieting the aching voice of conscience in the name of the right to say at least something.

Tata: – What do you think today about this “commodity exchange,” the exchange of a dulled conscience toward “the glory on props”! The conscience is not happy, and the glory on props is not happy either! Maybe it is too much to put it this way?

J.P. – Unfortunately – it is what it is: “the international glory on props”, this expression may well become the title of this publication.

Tata: – Want to talk about the nature of the errands in question?

J.P. –  Let talk! In the USA, I have many friends, and one day they call me to entrap those nice people who sent me an American working camera. Initially, it cost a lot of money, and it was used to shoot only two boring documentaries and after sent to the warehouse for eternal rest. The cameraman was already buying the same brands’ next generation camera. My friends persuaded him to offer me his previous camera for a third of its value.

Again, I’m talking about money, my American friends were doing a lot of charity work, helping filmmakers in need, including arranging screenings for their forgotten but absolutely wonderful works, organizing and publishing articles about them, and I was asked to compromise their flawless names. I was in trouble for a week, but then I found a mendacious bastard who testified that, supposedly, these people were sucking millions out of charity while making comfortable living for themselves. The article said that Rothschilds and Morgans have given millions of dollars for making documentaries. But my friends did not use more than 10 percent for support of film makers, but spent the rest on purchasing and resale for a profit the pleasure yachts … And the mean list of their wrong doings continued. Cinematic public turned away from my former friends.

Then they, the KGB representative, demanded that I would return my “dirty camera” to my friends, which I did not do. And the “disclosure” of my fame appeared in the press immediately after my refusal to return camera.  However, it was already late, and no one noticed this disclosure. But for this deal and for several more such masterpieces of my resourcefulness, I received, as I believed, well-deserved prizes at international film festivals and was accepted into the most sophisticated circles of filmmakers. The same rich people’s money paid for our gatherings, because we were always “short in cash,” and “full” credit cards in our eternal pursuit of the latest equipment. And as a result of the slandering of people who got me on my feet, I was sentenced to 10- years at Skrivnous, in still innocent first tier of purgatory.

Tata: – Did the glory change you, did you notice it? Mostly who make up the contingent of Skrivnous residents? Or what for they get there?

J.P. – Yes, fame changed me, and I was well aware of this. Sitting in the company at any table, I always sat down so as to be the center of attention. And in some incomprehensible way, I always managed to push away all the small stumps, demanded from people whom I needed to deal with my problems firstly and immediately. In fact, I forced them to help me as if putting mentally a sharp kitchen knife straight to their throats.

J.P. – The same thing colored my relationships with women. In the companies, I marked a girl as “mine,” and, somehow, I found myself sitting next to her, or she immediately appeared next to me. Without hesitating, I quickly moved toward the intended goal. And then I learned how to quickly get rid of her.

J.P. – I was not interested in them further, I did not remember and often did not ask for their names, addresses, or telephones, and never gave my phones. And when I came across a stubborn girl who demanded my contact info – for her I had “outdated” business cards with non-working phone numbers, and everything ended smoothly. And it also contributed greatly to my entry into Skrivnous.

Tata: – But did it happen the other way around that you came across beauties capable of captivating you and who were denying you?

J.P. – Of course it did, but I always had so little time that I did not worry about this kind of failure for no longer more than a few minutes, and immediately forgot about it.

……………………………………………………………………………………………… ..

Juris Podnieks Speaks About His Transition To Another World

Juris Podnieks 1950-1992

Tata: – Now we have the year 2019. Therefore, 27 years ago you died on Midsummer Day, June 23, 1992. On that day, without suspecting anything bad, you went to relax with friends, maybe joking, “Let go fishing for some mermaids in Daugava waters!”

What thoughts and feelings flashed through your mind in the last moments of your life, when something fatal happened to scuba equipment or something else?

J.P. – Of course, I had plans for the future. World fame does not last long, and you need to prove again and again that you are a genius, as lovely film criticesses labeled me once, and media had disseminated it over the world. This is a terrible feeling when you suddenly realize that for some reason you have nothing to say. And it seemed to me that the heaven had deserted me. I was full of my false significance and I wanted to wash off all this in our Daugava. A lot of things went through my mind. I was tired of so-called friends. The premonition of death enlivens a strange angel of awareness. Suddenly you become completely indifferent to things that used to be important to you. I remembered that I had read about it somewhere — fame, all sorts of rewards and even love for children and care for their future fades.

J.P. – When I was down at the bottom of Daugava, suddenly some bulbs began to blink, some motors stopped to murmur, the lights went out, and total darkness and silence reigned. I understood that something had happened, but that this was the end, had not yet reached me. I began to look for the alarm wire, but it was not nearby. In the dark, soon I stopped looking for it as I realized that I had no air to breathe. I will skip retelling of the next minutes, when I grabbed for air only! We descended into the water, of course, in different scuba diving equipment, and there was no one to help me.

J.P. – I stopped fighting, and suddenly calmed down. Finally, I had nowhere to hurry. From the bottom of the river they lifted up my corpse. Meanwhile, down there, I freed myself out of the tight-fitting hydraulic suit with amazing easiness. I felt freedom that no words can express. I passed into a different hypostasis, into a different state of mind, and to my amazement I realized how small and how wrong, and how insignificant my glory was. But all my feats, on the contrary, suddenly sounded like voices of  Jericho trumpet, they seemed to shout, “You lied, you took a wrong note.”  I realized that there would not be a stricter critic of my works than myself. In my mind, the price of truth has increased of staggering hundred or two hundred times.

But where was I, what happened to me? What happened to my comrades, where is my wife? Who will tell her that tonight I will not come home!

— She has already been told. She cannot understand anything.

The voice was unfamiliar. But the presence of a human who spoke to me, told that I was not alone in this fog that surrounded me.

Of course, my friends returned, as they were supposed to return … without me! My wife survived me only a few months. She died in a car accident. She suffered before her death, I was with her to the end, but she saw me only in the astral plane, and she was very surprised how did I find her.

And then, immediately after the transition, I did not see the light, it was still foggy, as if before sunrise on earth. Here I met my guardian angel and egregore, or “friend” of glory, or the parasite birthed by emotions of my followers some place in the 4th dimension. I did not get yet how lucky I was to have such a small and weak reptile witnessing my fame. He quietly disappeared without giving me any worries. My cares began when I was told to appear at an emergency meeting of the Judges to resolve a certain issue. It was then that they announced me a ten-year sentence in Skrivnous.

Tata: – For what? For silence, or for something else? Cheating, betraying friends?

J.P. – You spelled it out for me?

Tata: – Did they show you the photos or videos of your friends’ reaction when they learned how that terrible article about their so-called possessiveness and greed was concocted?

There was no answer to this question.

J. P. — Time passed quickly. I am free, and I think what to do next. I am drawn to my collection of film cameras. Over the time I have accumulated many of them …

I would like to give away these cameras to the young filmmakers in my country who have never money, and will never have it, if the technology will be updated on monthly bases forever!

Now I know that content is more important than expensive technology, but do young people believe me? Who will believe us? It is time to round up this story. Thank you for listening to my confession.

 Tatyana Elmanovich, medium and alternative healer, certified by James Van Praag’s  School of Mystical Arts.

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The Sirotin Brothers in Spirit

Lost on the Crossroads of History

This is a story about  the extraordinaire power of the negative thought forms that may create most dramatic family events through generations.  Say, one such significant event happened in year 1918 near St. Petersburg when my grandmother was raped and murdered by Kronstadt navy. In two decades later, this fatal event echoed in destiny of Anna’s two sons, Victor and Erast, who perished faraway in a Siberian Gulag.

… Up to present days, speaking about Soviet mass deportations of average citizens to  Gulags, Estonian call them “free trips to Siberia.” The Sirotin brothers, White Army officers,  lived at that time in Estonia.  And despite being Russians, they were taken tо this “free trip” on the very first day when Baltic states were occupied by The Red Army in 1940. The Stalin’s “falcons,” the spies trained to infiltrate life at West by all means, including homosexual relationships, probably, obtained the list of members in Tartu White Officers Club long before the annexation of Baltic States occurred.

In Siberia, they were sent to different Gulags, but brother’s managed to reunite only to be killed in the strangest accident thinkable. An unexperienced inmate, a Tadzhik national, who did not speak a word in Russian, and therefore, could not be instructed or stopped, started a root bulldozer and this behemoth moved both brothers who were resting nearby in high grass during their lunch break. Was this double death orchestrated by destiny, or a meaningless accident?

In 2015, about 75 years after their transition, Viktor and Erast, now in spirit, showed up in my California apartment asking for a healing and advice how to learn some English. Sensing that they were interested more in talking, we reduced healing to a shower of the golden light. In some 30 minutes the brothers reported experiencing lightness, and it meant that they were ready for a talk.

Affable Viktor asked some questions how such kind of healing works and recalled suddenly that once I asked about times, when Yudenich’s army was treacherously disarmed by Estonians, and the victorious general, according to the records of his successes in WWI battles, was arrested.  “Moving toward Petrograd, we were sure of victory, but Trotsky emerged as devil out of the sniffing box, out from nowhere on our way. No one ever heard his name, and we were taken by surprise and secrecy. We were not ready to meet him. Later, we learned that Stalin murdered Trotsky somewhere abroad. Trotsky gave him a victory over the White Army under Petrograd, and claimed, as it should, the position of the leader of the nation. They called it a position of the First Secretary of their party, or some committee, I am not sure that I remember their political titles.

“Trotsky began to drive us back and we found ourselves again at Narva, the Estonian border town. A fast train covered the distance between Petrograd and Narva too soon to learn what had happened meanwhile in Estonia. When train stopped at Narva railway station, we were met by Estonians armed to the teeth. We took them for friends, and did not throw up our rifles, and instead of hugs, we were showered by bullets! Our losses were big, we had to fight embracing the enemy’s bayonets. Nevertheless, we killed and dispersed them despite the deception and betrayal. The wartime betrayal is a terrible thing.

“I cannot stand Estonians ever since, and as I heard, Estonians cannot stand us after Stalin’s betrayal, when “the father of all nations” ordered mass deportation of Estonians. to Gulags.”

The free trip to Siberia was granted to intelligentsia charged with cosmopolitism (what it is, really, who knows? I did not know what it is! — T.E.) and to farmers who were suspected in resistance to collectivization of the Estonian farming. In brief, Estonian farmers who  did not want to join kolkhozes and give up their lands and horses and cows and lambs that they had taken good care of during centuries on stony shores of the Baltic Sea were doomed to deportation leaving behind whatever they had. The mass arrests were supposed to brake the nation people’s  resistance. Arrested people were put in the the cattle wagons on very long trips in trains that crossed the flat part of the Russia, then entered the Asian part covered with Taiga thick forests, forests and forests that could swallow an uncountable number of prisoners and return home only very few ones. But in year 1918 Baltic people got a short break enjoying 20 years of independent existence.  Victor and Erast happened to be the involuntary witnesses how this coveted independence was achieved.

“In independent Estonia, we lived in Tartu in poor conditions. Erast and I, we worked for Estonians in their construction business. We were trusted only with manual jobs, as your father was. We knew that he dug marsh near Paide for drying turf pellets. Our manual jobs did not turn us and Estonians into friends, and your father was not happy with his manual job either. They treated us like Americans treated their black slaves, it was all the same slavery everywhere. Estonians did not let us to fight Trotsky forces that would stop Bolsheviks, and Bolsheviks turned Communists paid them with mass deportation to Siberia. Such was the small tragedy that took place on the railroad between Narva and Petrograd in times, when the fate of small and large nations was decided!
I wanted you to know how it really was.”

“You ask, how did happen that the sons of a Russian priest attended the school of cadets, designed for nobility’s posterity to become officers. Our father was a soldier who became officer for his military merits. When we grow up to go to school, father wrote a letter to the Excellency Nikolai the Second, and we were accepted into the cadet’s school for our father’s military achievements, as he distinguished himself in the Caucasus. No one knows if his stories contained exaggerations or not. Maybe he spoke the truth after all, because if he would lie, no one would accept us as the cadets. You are right, in his soul, our father was a warrior, not a priest, a smart man who was left without any education whatsoever, so, growing up in monastery, the only thing he learned was to play a role of a priest and make it a source of his income. Warrior and priest can hardly become friends, and this conflict, I think, was the root of his alcoholism. He was a reveler and alcoholic and at the same time a lost clever man. We became Cadets, and after school, we were sent straight to the front line of WW I.”

 

“You also asked about our life in the Siberian labor camp. I tell you one thing. After my Estonian experience, for me and Erast, there were no difference between our Estonian life with being doomed to the manual jobs, similar to manual jobs in the Gulag! We understand that getting a better job in future, we have to learn English, but how?”

What could I tell them? Many and many generation of immigrants has proven that the most prolific way of learning a spoken language is casting himself or herself into the environment where no one speaks a single word of your mother tongue, and the miracle happens, the foreign language will open up to you, it will embrace you and, suddenly, you start understand it.  Thinking about Victor’s story how Yudenich was betrayed,  I found оn Internet an article “Nikolai Yudenich” written by a professional historians. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nikolai_Yudenich

It contained the listing of Yudenich’s victorious battles on the WWI fronts, the base of his reputation as a distinguished war commander. The same article included the description of the disarmament of the North West Army and arrest of Yudenich by Estonians when was time to fight Bolshevik’s upheaval in Petrograd (St. Petersburg)  This article confirmed the “ghost story” told by Viktor and Erast, the testimony of the participants of the Yudenich’s army last battle during the Russian Civil War. Estonians fought for their independence by all means, and it included the betrayal of Yudenich’s White North Western army. It helped considerably Trotsky to take the power from The Provisional Government and turning it to Bolsheviks.

Estonian independence, received in 1919 for switching sides, would last, as already mentioned, two decades and in year 1940, all three Baltic states would be annexed by Stalin, in other words, swallowed back into merciless and always hungry guts of the Stalinist Russia. Estonia independence will be restored as part of collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991.

Wikipeda had also another article “North Western Army” about the same Russian Civil War episode written from the Estonian point of view.  According to this article, the Estonian “switch of mind” from supporters of the White Army to supporters of the Trotsky came from the political views of Alexander Kolchak, the leader of Russia at a time. Kolchak refused to consider autonomy for ethnic minorities. In other words, Trotsky was more flexible than Kolchak, and he recognized the autonomy of ethnic minority that sought freedom from tsarist Russia considered to be the Imperial prison for multitude of nations all around the skirt of that giant country.

http://www.estonica.org/en/North-Western_Army/

For explanation of the disarmament of the North Western Army at the most critical moment of the fight against Bolshevism, this article said only a couple of words: Yudenich’s army “was finally disbanded.” For more details, the academic authors of this article send readers to Trotsky’s archive, pointing at the real force that granted them their swift independence!

Soon we, Viktor and Erast met again, and I asked how it happened that the Sirotin’s family left their mother Anna behind, fleeing to Estonia when the Reds terrorized the Russian Church? Of course, no one could foresee the size and cruelty of Bolsheviks war against their own church. Probably father Mikhail wanted to shield his already elderly and fragile wife from dangers of the boat trip across the stormy lake Peipus to Estonia where no one was waiting them with open arms. Viktor told that at first, he did not get what was happening.

“Father said that we will return in three days and our mother will wait for us at home with the hot samovar, and we will have tea together, and mother will bring jam preserves from the storeroom… We believed him, we sailed in boat crossing Chudskoye or Peipus, in Estonian, the natural border between the Russia and Estonia. I was with the fisherman Vasya on the oars. I was already strong and agile, and by the today’s standards, I would fit to be a member of some hockey team. Thank God, today I’m not attracted to football or hockey, but to something else, like healing animals. I’ll try to find out what is wrong with your cat’s kidneys.”

“Thank you! I will be grateful! When did you realize that there was no return home, and your mother was left alone home, and she could be exposed to mortal danger.”

“I understood it soon. I can see when my father was telling a lie. I began to jerk him, asking when we go for our mother back to Russia? He did not answer, and then, suddenly, he shouted ‘Let it go, it’s not your business!’ I wanted to sail back alone. But I did not have the spirit to act, and I still cannot forgive myself for it.”

“How did you learn the truth?”

“As a member of the White Officers’ Club I visited it quite often. Over there, a person whispered in my ear the terrible truth and introduced me to his friend who had arrived from Russia shortly. We met in the same officers’ club, and he shared everything he knew — the names of many murdered people, including the names of our mother and the widow of neighboring priest’s, whom my mother was friends with, and whom she had visited the day, when they both were murdered.

“This officer who brought this terrible news took my word that I would not say anything to my sisters. I gave my word. I learned the whole truth from him, to the last details. And he said that everything is being recorded… and our tears will be avenged. Were they avenged? I knew what had happened to Kronstadt sailors and how they fled after their failed uprising. Estonians did not take in a single man of them. Finland did, they sent them to North to do timber, where these bastards were fed and paid for their work.

“Za upokoj dushi, a burial sermon “for soul’s peace” was ordered in a local Russian church in Estonia. I asked my father to cross the lake one more time and bury our mother according to our custom. But he doubted that we, or someone else would find her body in that mess? I think that at that time he was right. How would we find her there? We raised the cross in the cemetery near the place where we lived in Estonia. Of course, father was right, who would know where the rapist threw her body? People were shaking from terror.”

“All this horror was returning to me in my nightmares,” Victor continued. “I hated myself for obeying the fool and failing to go for my mother’s body alone. I did not have money, fishermen of the Old Believers in Estonia were the ones who crossed in boats that sometimes stormy Peipus, and, of course, they asked a pay for this two-way trip and I did not have any money at a time.

“We arrived as beggars, my father fled in terror. At home, in Russia, he has told us such wonderful tales of his courage, but when it got to the point, he turned to be a coward. Now I see that he is not a spiritual person, all his priesthood thing was a sham only!

“You know that in year 1940, the Reds arrested us immediately after their arrival to Estonia. They had to have the list of the members of the White Guard Club handy. Traitors were everywhere. Our Club’s charter recognized the Russian Tsar, the authority of his government, and everything that Reds fight to change. The Reds sent to Gulags all white officers to the last member of Tartu White Officers Club. The Reds had to have the membership list long before occupation of Estonia, they knew where to find us, they get us where Erast and I were painting a new apartment… The Reds get us at the very first hour of marching into Tartu in 1940. Instead of going home to change our working clothing, we were guided straight to the Tartu Railway station where a train was waiting us and our “free trip” to Siberia began.

“How you got in your psychic vision how we died?” – Viktor asked me. “You saw that we were laying in the tall grass to rest during our brief lunchtime. The sun was shining straight into the eyes of the motorist who was moving the bulldozer, sun was blindingly bright, and he did not see us.

“I even smelled that thick grass, but it can be my imagination.” – I added. “The grass was high, straight and very thick.”

“Yes, once, the grain seed bags were hidden there probably by farmers in the War Communism time, when all the wheat was appropriated by government in the name to “feed the hungry.”  The seeds were sprouting every year making their way to the light. Finally, wheat grew wild and then it was overgrown with wood, and we sat there during the lunch breaks. On that fatal day we fell asleep and did not feel a thing.

“Only suddenly I woke up screaming, “Erast, Erast,” and his face was cold, and the next instant I was gone as well.

“We met later, already in disembodied state, in the astral bodies. We got used to the fact that sometimes you fly and swim and you can move around in space, and your thoughts, and imagination create things, happenings and situations. Talk to Erast, he does not know you, but he can tell a lot.”

ErastErast’s voice was softer and quieter. “This is true. In Gulags, we found each other and reunited as the saying goes, only to die together! But in astral world, we began to look for each other, because, at first, it was very lonely here. You do not understand at once what is going on and, like on earth, maybe more openly, some strangers try to take advantage of your hesitations. Good that we were immediately dragged to the Palace of Justice, and as you did, they questioned me about life in Gulag. They asked humorously, whether we liked that life and laughed… Yes, I forgot to say that I found Viktor, and they let us through the judges on the same day.

“The judgement court passed quickly, because what demands they could make on us? We judged ourselves for leaving our mother in Russia alone to meet her terrible destiny. Was the unwilling murderer an Uzbek or Georgian, or some other national? At a time, we did not distinguish them, we had never heard about, say, Tajikistan. But there we were, all in the same Siberian camp, created by Bolsheviks and their brainchild, the Communist Party, and Felix Dzerzhinsky, the executioner of the Red Terror, the red hell to us all. Here, on the Astral Plane, on the contrary, we learned that each nation has its own “heaven,” in other words, here we have right to be different from others.

“As you also asked about our life in the Siberian labor camp, I would like to confirm that after our Estonian experience of manual jobs, we were well prepared to face Taiga logging operations. But it was not logging that killed us in Gulag, it was our consciousness regarding our mother’s destiny. It was our painful sense of guilt that did us in.

“Finally, we met our mother in our Russian heaven. We kind of made up, but I know she did not forgive neither me, nor Viktor. I know, we’ll still ask for her forgiveness, because we loved her very much. I know, she will forgive us, because we purged our souls to the extent that we went through the same thing, we died the same way, as she did being raped and murdered by Kronstadt matrosnya — navy! It had bonded us, maybe for eons!”

 

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Waiting for a Miracle

Орен со щенком

I was about six years old, when I healed our puppy after it had suffered an accident 

The Unusual Meeting with Oren Zarif  

In my Inbox, I found the interview with the sensational Israeli healer Oren Zarif, forwarded by one of my Russian-speaking friend. My attention was attracted by the interviewer’s questions. They were impolite and carried a shadow of arrogance toward the controversial healer, as the interviewer called him. But who was this healer? Google’s search bar returned a list of pro and con opinions. The happy healed sang praises calling Zarif a miracle man, but the ones who did not recuperate labeled him as sham.

The healer does not work for free, and the price for treatment is considered high by those whom the healer did not help. They shout, “Fraud, fraud, fraud,” because they were promised to experience the miracle of the instantaneous recovery, as we see it in films, or read about it in Bible, or was trumpeted by unprofessional marketer. They say that for Zarif there are no incurable illnesses! Paradoxically, it is true! If not Zarif, or medical doctor, then, sure, mister Death will do it! One stroke of his mythical scythe releases pain from wounds, cancer, hunger, thirst, diabetes, anemia — you name it!

In addition, I found on the Internet the Oren Zarif’s photo that was supposed to stream healing energy to every onlooker for free. For some reason, I recalled the Biblical story of a woman who having “a flow of blood for 12 years” touched the hem of His garment and was healed. Jesus turned around and said, “Be of good cheer, daughter; your faith has made you well.” (Matthew, chapter 9, 20-22). I strongly believe that faith or strong wish to become well helps the healer to do his job. And lack of faith, doubts, jealousy, anger, disbelief, hopelessness, desperation, depression may wreck any caretaker’s good healing work.

Here I have to squeeze in two words about myself. I am a medium who communicates with the dead, and had written some books based on spirit communication. I tell you this in hope that you will believe me when I tell what happened next. Suddenly I became aware that the spirit or consciousness of the Oren Zarif was in my room. Was he stepping out of his photo? I had never met him in flesh, but I could talk with him, as I talk with the spirits of the dead!

He offered me help. My God, but how to take advantage of this offer? I was lately hospitalized, and the doctor assured me that every single test they did on me was off. Doctor let me go, adding, “See you soon again!” Being aware that negativity is the reason of all our diseases, I asked Zarif, if he can fix my loud irritability, the common companion of the elderly people. When my inner volcano explodes, I throw into faces of people what I think of them. This nasty habit had wrecked my relationship with good and bad alike; in long run, I have lost many friends, and gained many enemies.

Zarif in spirit asked me to continue sitting behind the computer relaxing as in meditation. During the “treatment” I did not feel anything at all. Nevertheless, soon I noticed that “angry screaming fits” started losing its power. I get a second or two for preventing volcano outbursts. Every little victory in irritation department brought me relief. I did not expect a miracle to happen, and Oren Zarif did not produce one. Way more important things started to happen. I obtained inner freedom to say “no” to pushy people who tried to take advantage of me, causing unbearable irritation in my entire life, practically ruining it! Could I doubt that Oren Zarif was a “real thing”? And I was not able to pay him a penny, as being out of body person cannot take money and put it into his pocket. I asked where I could send money for healing, he laughed. He did not need any money from me. As truly talented person, he was not a greedy one.

It was obvious that his life would be anything but easy! The stronger the healer, the more people will demand miracles from him, and the bigger will be the helpers circle surrounding him, including naysayers. They would doubt healer’s ability to stream healing energy to the sick, as not all diseases can be healed instantaneously, many of them need long term healing and cooperation of the sick person, his will to become well.

Similar attitude is known to professional mediums. When a client does not believe the produced messages from the beyond, the medium can experience a severe blow into the solar plexus open chakra area. Leslie Flint told me that some doubters’ blow can be so strong that you want return it and sank your fist into client’s stomach. But what will happen to your rep, if you start a fist fight with a paying client? A patient of a medical doctor will tolerate the mistakes in diagnose, wrongly prescribed medicine, and pay for unnecessary expensive tests conducted using shiny, mystical high-tech devises. The cool look of these devices instills trust and respect toward science! Nevertheless, too often, the sick person winds up seeking miracles from the healer, because “nothing helped”. Still, if the miracle of instantaneous recovery did not occur, he blames the healer. The respect did not allow him to blame science, but it allows to blame a healer, because his instrument  — high frequency energy waves are invisible, recognizable only to the chosen ones! But how do you know who is who in this highly regarded world of the science versus invisible world of healers and shamans, filled with shams and few the chosen ones?

The Internet reports that the oldest medical journal “The Lancet” has funded a study to determine how often doctors prescribe unnecessary procedures or medicines, how many incorrect diagnoses are made. 30 experts studied the relevant statistics of different countries of the world, and an amazing picture had emerged. All over the world, the number of incorrect diagnoses is huge.   http://www.pharmocean.ru/articles/nepravilnyy-diagnoz.

The truth is that on both sides are the chosen geniuses and normal average professionals, on both sides happens mistakes, great healing and breakthroughs. And both, doctors and healers know that patience, or clients are their “partners in crime”, they depend on each other.

An American alternative healer D told a funny-sad story that speaks about any energy healer’s greatest problem. “Once upon a time, a nice lady arrived for healing. We put her on the therapeutic table and treated her with a stream of good energy. We melted loads of darkness out of her.  Soon she felt better. Having no much time, she jumped off the table, paid us money, thanked, and rushed toward her car parked near our kitchen window. I looked at he through the window and saw how the mindless “motor” of her negativity started pulsing in her aura automatically. It filled her energy system with darkness fast. When she started her car, all my treatment was literally eaten up, and swept away by the flow of firmly entrenched negative thoughts. Probably, arriving home he would think, why I paid them, my headache is back, my back is burning from pain again…  Nobody can help me!  How wrong she was!  Help was so close to her, so available, if she only knew that she could help herself more than any healer does, if she will stop the automatic circulation of her negative thoughts.”

I have heard that there is one more problem chasing healers — the danger taking over client’s stuff during healing. … It was time to ask questions from Oren Zarif as long as his out of body consciousness was in my room.

If the person whom you heal has doubts, regrets and he resists to accept your energy considering it “not enough pure”, or “coming from some suspicious energy source” what would you do? Will you ignore gossip mongers, or have other means to overcome client’s resistance? 

Oren Zarif: — I have never confronted this problem.

Does it happen sometimes, that you finish healing, your patience feels better, but his automatic negativity wakes up, and thoughts like “no one can help me,” “the healing was too short, I am wasting my money here,” “he is a sham as all doctors and healers are,” “they are thieves” starts revolving in the person’s mind, because the person was used to see a thief in everyone who offered services for pay, and this would impact the healing results, diminishing or ruining them?

O.Z.: — This is a very interesting question, the answer may need about 25 pages explanations how it really works, what these thoughts are, and how people create these monsters in their minds. These negative thoughts are real robbers who can leave them penniless, ruin their careers, family life and relationships with children and grandchildren, but reader will not understand what we are talking here. All I would say, if you decide to meet a healer, learn to trust him, he will never harm you on purpose. An honest healer will give you always more than you are capable to pay for, do not worry about “wasted money”, worry about your negativity. Negativity can create and oftentimes does the effect of losing what healer was giving you, rob them from their money, wealth, leave …

Do you feel compassion toward your clients, or maybe too much compassion will transfer clients’ stuff, or junk from their chakras into yours? How do you protect yourself from this to happen?

O.Z. — It has happened to any healer, if he or she had healed someone with compassion, and sometimes, it is very difficult to get rid from other people’s dirt in your own energy system.  Sometimes healer’s come together to cleanse each other’s chakras, helping each other as doctors cannot do this to us. Of course, we feel compassion to a sick person, but good healing needs compose, concentration and you think only about streaming light into right places in the person’s body. If I would meet you at your age 17, I would train you as a seer and healer, as you could become a capable healer. Now  I can only encourage you to continue meditation, relaxation, and concentration on resolving your personal problems. By the way, I would recommend meditation technique to all people, healthy and sick alike. Say, a compassionate surgeon is operating, if he did not switch from compassion to concentration on what he is doing with his scalpel, does he can operate? Same is with the healer, compassion connects you with higher power that will work through you, but in the process you switch to concentration on patient’s damaged organs or difficult emotions while working on his or her problems.

How old you were when you understood that you can heal the other person, who was that person, family member, a pet, a friend?

O.Z.: — I like this question, it was a pet, a puppy who liked me and was my true friend.  There was an accident, his leg was broken, and I took him in my arms and hold him about an hour, maybe longer, without questioning what I was doing, I think, I knew what I was doing, but yet not realizing it. And when I put him down on the floor, his leg was healed…  And no one believed that this leg was ever broken.  And I learned that I was a bit different than my family members, and I started seeking my soul mates everywhere I could reach out, but there was none of them, and I had to trust myself, and I learned to keep such stories to myself, as many healing stories started to occur spontaneously. There  was a bird with damaged wing, there was a boy in our neighborhood who needed help, and when I did help him, they forget to thank me, because they liked me, but could not imagine that I helped nature to heal their kid. So I learned both, to heal and to shut up about this preventing harm from grownup people. I was about 6 years old when healing with mysterious power, as if awakened by compassion, started flowing out of me.

Do you know who is working through you?

O.Z.: — I know him, but he does not like me talking about it.

How many people do you heal daily?

O.Z: — It varies. But there was once a case when I had to heal over 100 persons after an earthquake in Uzbekistan.

How many have you healed already?

O.Z.: — I have no time or energy for a diary. After healing you fell asleep for recuperation of your depleted energy supply.  They tell, I have healed thousands already, but I truly did not care how many …  I am not interested in statistics.

How you handle money, do you pay for your helpers?

O.Z.: — I do not need much money for himself, but I need money for doing this work and quite a bit of money for living, transportation, paying assistants, marketers, appointment setters, cleaners, accountant, and security guards, you name it. Yes, I need guards, and sometimes good ones who can protect me from attacks of any kind of street aggression that can occur in our days, including guards for protection from attacks of too hot love of my fans.

Do you have time to enjoy life on earth?

O.Z.: — Nothing can be compared with the joy, if you can prompt the recovery of a doomed child or an elderly who had said his goodbyes, signed his last will, and readied himself for the last breath on earth. Instead, he discovers that he can stay some time longer on earth. If he likes it, it makes me happy as well.

How long do you plan to stay on earth?

O.Z.: — As long as my body can stand of what I am doing right now, healing others.

Do you say that healers like you sacrifice themselves inevitably in the name of a mission? What mission it is?

O.Z.: — The mission is to spread the knowledge about the exclusive power of high-vibrational energies, freely available to everybody on earth. It will heal and bring good life, health, wealth and happiness. God did not send us here to suffer. God had given us tools to be happy. All we have to do is to learn to use these tools, open given channels to receive good energy to satisfy our daily needs. About this mission can be said that the healers pave the way for future prophets who would change the word by building the next civilization, higher and more sophisticated than the present one. The prophets need the people who would understand them, crowds of them, and we try spread the knowledge by showing what is available for people if they lift their consciousness. We, the healers, help lift consciousness of as many individuals as possible.

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Cleansing the Spirit of My Mother Tamara

November 23, 2017

Cannot say how others passed such tests, but in my case, when the attempts to support my spiritual growth with prayers and meditations enabled me to communicate with spirits, when I started to hear them, and could talk to them, it made me face my childish idealizations of  my loved ones. In brief, instead of finding more love in my heart, oftentimes  I found vacuum…

…and the real struggle began to learn tо love what I saw, not what I believed to be there!

For instance, for me the idealization number ONE turned to be the belief shared by so many that death will make us omnipotent, will increase our memory about 100 times, will better our ability to assimilate knowledge in no time, and make us, if we chose so, to become guardians for people on earth. And I had mentioned it in my book “Prisoners of Fame”.

Today it has become common knowledge that death is not a baby sitter.  It helps a soul to fly over limbo abyss to the astral world, but it would not change the soul immediately, on the contrary, it freezes the soul’s change! Stupid remains stupid, talented remains talented, angry remains angry…  Mediums, OBE travelers, alternative healers started write about it already some years ago. Still, in most cases, readers do not think that this revelation goes to them as well.  The power of a long enough nourished superstition is strong, indeed!

The next shiny idealization of mine crowned what I was thinking about the seers! I will not point my finger at any soul adviser on earth who had become drug addict or alcoholic in our so-called heaven, as a matter of fact “a couple of spins” away from us, as a talented spirit said once! In brief, I saw seers almost like saints on earth, and experienced true shock discovering that after their transition some souls of them dwell on the lowest levels of the astral world – for considering themselves above people like you and me.

And, there is a hardest to deal with idealization of our parents that we try to avoid dealing with as long as possible.

… On one fateful day, back in 2005, I could not stop thinking about my mother in Estonia. There was no reason for a call as we had talked some days ago about everything we had to tell each other.  I tried to think about some decent excuses to call, found none, and called anyway – from my Los Angeles apartment to Tallinn, Estonia. My brother Vsevolod happened to be in her room at that late hour in North Europe, and picked up the phone. He said that Mother was having flue and he dropped by to check that she had taken her medicine and now she was trying to get some sleep. Nevertheless, he announced my call and advised my mother to talk to me on the phone. Mother did not talk, she was listening… or sensing what was coming from me to her. She was glad that I had called as she had to tell me something important beyond words… I also stopped making up words, and fell in silence letting our wordless messages to fly back and forth from Tallinn to Los Angeles. “Mama, talk,” my brother rushed her. However, she kept her silence, we continued to listen in quietude how our souls were conversing, and this was the best, and maybe the only sensible “conversation” we ever had.
In four hours, brother called me from Estonia. After my phone call mother fell asleep and died shortly, leaving her body for good in sleep! She was 3 weeks short from her 99th birthday. Here comes a funny picture of her at that age.
Yes, granny, look, my house is now on the other sxde of this little lake

Once visiting Estonia, her grandson Vladimir Elmanovich, American architect, walked his grandmother to the beach and joked, “Look, granny, across that Atlantic lake, over there, by the sea, is my house, do you see it?’ Granny laughed, and played along, “looking across the Atlantic lake!” Despite her age, she managed to keep her sense of humor alive and mind clear up to the last day on earth. 

After my mother’s transition to the better world, I received two spirit messages from her.  She asked me to light a candle when I was thinking of her as the same candle would appear in her dwelling nook enlivening the sense of being in touch with family on earth. In the last message, she said that my father Vladimir, who was enlisted into army at the beginning of the WWII, and whom war had never returned to her, found her, and now they were together in their afterlife.

However, “they lived happily ever after” turned to be the next idealization – now theirs, not mine that they had let go. Father’s war, and mother’s joyless life on earth had changed both. And this was not my father, but my mother who made me rethink everything that I have learned about her so far. I was approached by a spirit of a Hollywood star of the 50s who asked solemnly to be heard out regarding my mother’s situation. He said that my mother was … pregnant! He added, “She will give birth to a creature and she will be fine again, but…” I decided that my guest was rehearsing a role of a sci-fy movie in his upcoming incarnation. However, my guest was not done yet, as he had more to say. He reminded that after my mother’s transition she was met nicely by everyone who shared their afterlife stories for the book “Prisoners of fame.” Nevertheless, she misread that kindness and crossed the boundaries. In other words, I was asked to talk to her, and explain her who was who in the astral field allotted for the Golden Hollywood stars. He said that time to time they had similar problems with family members of some successful actors and, especially, actresses. My mother arrived to visit Golden Hollywood garden on her own pestering actors in search on certain experiences.

The cold shiver ran down my spine. My promise to take care of her improper intrusions onto their lives wrapped up our pleasant conversation. He left, and I started my investigation what did happen to my mother on the other side of the veil. In short, my mother fell in love with a suspicious stranger whom she met on the streets of the astral world. Or he befriended her, as a promising subject? I was told that he was a handsome brunet with sexy mustache, friendly smile and very white teeth that helped him, a recruiter of volunteers to be Guinea pigs for researchers in exchange for a small piece of independent living space. My mother Tamara was introduced to the boss of these researchers, and she agreed … to give birth in experimental condition to an experimental entity… The new man in her life was supposed to wait for her on “their bench” in a small park close to the laboratory building. But he was not there when my excited mother was looking for him to share the great news that she was accepted, and that since now, since the very moment in her “now” she was already earning independent space for him and her – for living happily ever after independently, in a small house or apartment as long as it would be needed! She said that she was impregnated artificially immediately, and released back to the streets to share with him this great news.

The only problem was that there was no one to share this news. The new man in her life has disappeared in thin air. My mother was looking for him, the one whom she preferred to my father. Soon the truth started to dawn on her that she was used for becoming a volunteer to aid a dark undertaking.  The rumors that these researchers were in Frankenstein business started to catch up with her. And she started annoying men in the streets with certain offerings. She hated when her acquaintances tried to straight her out. She asked them to stop moralizing as they had no idea what her life on earth was all about. All she knew was hard work, and no fun some months short from 100 years on earth. She was convinced that it entitled her for compensation so freely available in her afterlife! She, the daughter of a Russian priest, will not burden God with her problems, instead, she will take her destiny in her own hands. She continued to terrorize her acquaintances with hypothetic question why they were itching to educate her now after she had dragged children, husband’s sick mother, and her two helpless sisters through the war, then across the hungry and dangerous post war decades, the terror of mass deportations to Siberia, and being persuaded to become a KGB informer, and looking daily at her hook in dusty attic for hanging herself, if she would be not able to get them off her back. At that time, nobody taught her how to survive and make hay for the cow to feed children. She threw into their faces, “Mind your business, leave me alone!” to all her former relatives, friends, and – me included!

However, the day arrived, when she accepted my modest offer to attempt to heal her.

After usual preparation for healing, prayer and meditation, I appealed for help to my mother Tamara’s guides and asked my IT,  stands for Invisible Translator, to turn the current energy of healing into metaphorical images for guides to erase or transform them.

When I focused on the condition of Tamara’s solar plexus chakra on earth, I got images about her hay making days. … She was in a hurry to remove dry hay into barn, because the dark heavy rain clouds were thickening above her head, above her rented piece of land where the hay was growing, had been mowed, dried, and transported to the barn. Dry grass was scratching her hands and legs, it slipped under her shirt, but she continued to lift pitchfork after pitchfork with heavy loads of hay on the cart to get it under the protective roof of the barn. When the first heavy drops of rain began to fell on her sweaty face, hay was already removed, she managed to save not only hay, but all her unbearable haymaking overwork, at least for now! I prayed asking LIGHT to remove these hay images out of her solar plexus area. Of course, the cleansing did not end there, it continued…

Later I was approached by a spirit friend, and the load of hay was taken out… from my third chakra area and instruction was given how to avoid picking up trash from my relatives’ and friends’ solar plexus area, the energy center that is so readily harboring our and other people’s negativity, if we do not know how to let it go!

Mother’s spirit did not show up anymore and the day arrived when I thanked her in my mind, sending her light and love and releasing this woman who once gave me body into her life, her experiences and her future incarnations. This was when we parted for good!

She did not needed my love, or healing, or family any more. All what she was looking for was freedom of expression. Instead of fulfilling obligation almost 100 years on earth, she started on her path of self discovery that did not included me or my father or her parents any more.

 

Слава на костылях

4/27/2019 11:22 AM

Juris Podnieks (1950-1992), Latvian distinguished cameraman, director and producer, his documentary “Is It Easy to Be Young?” put Podnieks’ name on the map of the International Cinema. 

Tata: I live in Los Angeles. Sometimes mediums meet wonderful spirits in most unexpected ways. It was the end of this April, I washed my dishes and was all set to go for a walk.  Instead I dried my hands and switched on my laptop.  From the world of spirits, it was Juris Podnieks, who got my attention during dish washing, when our heads are “empty,” and not occupied by thoughts and emotions. He was finishing his stay in the first higher strata of purgatory Skrivnous, and needed to talk about things that would speed up reaching the normal level of the astral world.  The description of Skrivnous can be found in Daniil Andreyev’s book “Roza  Mira,” Eksmo , or in English in Daniel H. Shubin’s translation “Rosa of the World,” A New Translation of Selections from the Russian for the American Readers.   

СЛАВА на КОСТЫЛЯХ

Ю.П. — Что такое слава, и как она калечит человека, вы, Татьяна, насмотрелись на это, когда писали «Узников славы» , так ли это?  Меня это также коснулось, но на мое счастье, не сильно, потому что это длилось в связи с моей короткой жизнью, недолго. Слава непомерно развращает человека. Приведу пример. Когда мне было 20 лет, и я вернулся с принудительной военной службы в Советской Армии, я разыскал директора латышской киностудии и  попросил дать мне устаревшую камеру и возможность снимать сюжеты для новостей.  Естественно, мне было отказано.  Я огорчился, потому что еще не догадывался, что отказав мне в моей просьбе, директор заложил краеугольный камень моей будущей славы. Отказ неумного человека сделается коронным номером в статьях, продвигавших меня и мои фильмы. Вместо того, чтобы сердиться, мне надо было его поить и кормить всю оставшуюся мою жизнь.

Пропущу, как друзья из Америки прислали мне камеру из Штатов, и насколько эта поддержанная камера оказалась лучше наших новых камер. Мне повезло. Я бы годы выкарабкивался, а здесь я кнопку нажал, и потекли кадры невиданного мною ранее совершенства.  Далее вам известно, что произошло, я стал  тем, кого полюбили критики разных маленьких и хилых кинофестивалей, я был усыпан ничегонезначющими наградами, но их количество привело меня на серьезные фестивали, и далее вам все известно о моей быстро-состоявшейся славы.  Характер у меня оказался скверным, и я научился отметать прилипал мгновенно, и не тащил, как например, вы, всех их на себе в мое будущее. Вы, наоборот, да, тащите, потому что вам их жалко, и они, сидя на вашей шее энергетически, сейчас пишут чудовищные донос на вас, даже те из них, кого вы буквально оттащили от порога смерти обратно в их жизни, и это правда…

Ю. П. — Но милое вступление с искусством обходить доносщиков оказалось лишь началом, первыми шагами на пути карьерного успеха…  Следовало иное – выполнение поручений. И здесь все началось, и борьба с собственной совестью, и преодоление ноющего голоса совести во имя права сказать хоть что-то.

Тата: — Как вы сегодня смотрите на этот «товаро-обмен», на обмен ноющей совести на подозрительную славу!  И совесть «недовольна», и слава на костылях – или я слишком круто это обозначила?

Ю.П. —  К сожалению —  это так и есть.  Мне нравится – «слава на костылях», это выражение вполне может стать заголовком этой публикации.

Тата: — Хотите поговорить о поручениях?

Ю.П. —  Давайте! В  США  у меня много друзей, и в один прекрасный день меня вызывают поссорить тех славных людей, кто прислали мне американскую работающую камеру. Изначально она стоила кучу денег, на ней сняли всего два  скучных документальных фильма и отправили на вечный покой в склад, потому что оператор был выниужден купить следуюшцее поколение этой марки. Мои друзья уговорили отдать эту камеру мне за треть ее стоимости.

Я снова говорю о деньгах, мои друзья занимались много благотворительностью, помогая нуждающимся кинематографистам, в том числе, устраивая выступления их забытым, но совершенно прекрасным работам, организацией статей о них и их публикации, а мне было предложено скомпроментировать их безупречные имена. Я маялся неделю, и нашел мерзавца, который дал показания, что, мол эти люди высасывали из благотворительности миллионы обеспечивая себе безбедное существование. Мол разные ротшильды и морганы выделяли им миллионы в помощь развитию кинематографа. Но присосавшиеся к ним мои друзья использовали на благотворительность не более 10 процентов, а остальное тратили на покупку и перепродажу в тридорога прогулочных яхт… И список гадостей продолжался.  Кинематографическая общественность отвернулась от моих бывших друзей.

Далее от меня потребовали, чтобы я вернул моим друзьям «грязную камеру», чего я не сделал. И в прессе тут же появилось «разоблачение» моей славы, но было уже поздно, и никто этого разоблачения не заметил.  Но за эту сделку и еще за несколько подобных шедевров моей изобретательности, я получал, как мне казалось, вполне заслуженные призы на международных кинофестивалях и был принят в самые изысканные компании кинематографистов, в которых за нас нередко платили те же доллары богатых, а не наши деньги, которых у нас всегда не хватало в нашей вечной погоне за новейшим оборудованием.  И в результате очернительства людей, которые помогли мне встать на ноги, я попал на лет 10 в Скривнус, во вступительный слой ада, в еще невинный первый ярус чистилища.     

Тата: — Стала ли слава менять вас, замечали ли выэто за собой? Преимущественно кто составляет контингент жителей Скривнуса? Или за что туда попадают?

Ю.П. —  Да, слава меняла меня, и я прекрасно осознавал это.  Садясь в компании за какой-либо стол, я всегда усаживался так, чтобы оказаться в центре внимания. И каким-то непостижимым образом я всегда, отталкивая всяких там мелких сошек, заставлял нужных мне людей иметь дело со мной немедленно, отвечать на мои вопросы и делать то, что я у них просил. На самом деле, я требовал помощи, приставляя  мысленно острый кухонный нож прямо к горлу моей жертвы, заставляя ее работать на меня задаром.

Ю.П. —  С женщинами происходило то же самое. Я намечал какю-либо девушку в компании, как «свою», и оказывался почему то рядом с ней, или она тут же оказывалась рядом со мной, и я, не стесняясь, быстро приближался к намеченной цели.  А затем я научился также быстро избавляться от нее.

Ю.П. —  Я никогда не интересовался ими далее, не помнил, а часто и не спрашивал их имен, адресов или телефонов, и никогда не давал своих телефонов. А когда попадались упрямые девчонки, которые требовали телефонного номера,  на такие случаи, у меня были  уготовлены «устаревшие» визитки с неработающими телефонными номерами, и все обходилось гладко и просто. И это также очень способствовало  моему попаданию в Скривнус.

Тата: — Но случалось ли наоборот, что вам попадались красавицы, способные увлечь вас, и которые вам отказывали?

Ю.П. —  Конечно бывало, но у меня всегда было так мало времени, что  неудачу такого рода, я не переживал долее нескольких минут, и тут же забывал о них.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

Рассказ  Юры Подниекса о его переходе в мир иной

Тата: — Сейчас на дворе год 2019,  следовательно, со дня вашей гибели в Иванову ночь 23 июня 1992 прошло 27 лет. А тогда, вы, ничего не подозревая, отправились отдохнуть с друзьями, как говорят американцы to have good time and relax . И они бы пошутили: … and dive to the bottom of Daugava river looking for some mermaids for fun!

Какие мысли и чувства проносилось в вашем сознании в последние минуты земной жизни, когда нечто фатальное случилось с оборудованием, аквалангом или чем-то еще?

Ю.П. —  Конечно, у меня были планы на будуще. Мировая слава не долго длиться, и тебе надо доказывать снова и снова, что ты гений, как прекрасные кинокритикессы обозначили на ярлыках, распечатанных прессой. Это ужасное чувство, когда ты вдруг понимаешь, что тебе почему то уже нечего сказать. И мне казалось, что стихии небесные покинули меня, а я был полон моей ложной значимости и мне хотелось отмыться от всего этого  в нашей Даугаве. Многое проносилось тогда в моей голове.  Я устал от так называемых друзей. Предчувствие смерти странное чувство, тебе вдруг все совершенно безразлично, вдруг все доселе важное теряет всякую значимость. Я вспомнил, что я где-то читал об этом — слава, всякие там награды, и даже любовь к детям и заботы об их будущем меркнут.   

Ю.П. —  И какие-то лампочки стали вдруг мигать, какие-то моторчики перестали журчать, лампочки погасли, и воцарилась кромешная тьма и тишина.  Я понимал, что что-то случлось, но что это конец, еще не доходило до меня. Я стал искать провода сигнализации, но его поблизости не оказалось. В темноте я продолжал искать его, и почувствовал, что мне нечем дышать.  Я пропущу пересказ последующих  минут, когда я хватал воздух и искал не шнурок сигнальный, а воздух. Мы спускались в воду, естественно, в разных аквалангах, и помочь мне было некому.

Ю.П. —  Я не видел и не слышал более никого. Я перестал бороться, и вдруг успокоился.  Наконец-то, мне было некуда спешить. Со дна реки они вытащили мой труп. А я вышел с какой-то удивительной легкостью и удовольствием из тесно-обтягивающего гидравлического костюма, и ощутил чивство совободы, которое невозможно передать словами. Я перешел в иную ипостась,  в иное состояние, и к моему изумлению понял как мала, и как неверна, и как ничтожна была моя слава. А все мои подвирания, наоборот, зазвучали вдруг как иерехоновы трубы, ты, мол соврал, взял неверную ноту, и я понял, что не будет на свете более строгого критика моих работ, чем я сам. В моем сознании цена правды возросла раз в сто или двести.

Но где я, что со мной происходит? Что сталось с моими товарищами, где моя жена? Кто скажет ей, что сегодня ночью я домой не приду!

— Ей уже сказали.  Она ничего понять не может.

Голос был мне незнаком. Но чей бы голос не говорил со мной, это означало, что я был не один в этом предрассветном тумане, каким мне привидилось неведомое мне окружение.  
А товарищи, конечно же, вернулись, как им и полагалось вернуться … без меня!  Моя жена пережила меня только несколько месяцев. Она погибла в автомобильной катастрофе. Она мучилась перед смертью, я был с нею до конца, но она меня увидела только в астрале, и очень удивилась, как я ее нашел.

А тогда, сразу после перехода, я не сразу увидел свет и какую-то поляну. Тут я встретил моего ангела хранителя и эгрегорчика славы. Я тогда еще не понимал, как мне повезло иметь такого малого и слабого рептилия в свидетелях моей славы. Он потихонечку пропал не доставив мне никаких забот. Заботы мои начались, когда мне сказано было явиться на экстренное заседание судей, для решения какого-то вопроса. Вот тогда мне и объявили 10 летний срок в Скривнусе. 

Тата: — За что? За умолчание, или за что-ти иное? Обман, предательство друзей?

Ю.П. —  Вы все сказали за меня?

Тата: — Каким образом они предъявляли вам обвинения? Вам показали огорчение друзей, когда они поняли как была состряпана статья об их так называемом стяжательстве?…
Ответа не последовало.

Ю.П. —  Время пролетело быстро. Я свободен, и думаю, чем мне далее заняться.  Меня тянет к моим камерам, в конце пути у меня их столько накопилось…

Пусть раздадут мои камерыновым неимущим, которые нас смемнили, и у которых денег никогда нет, и не будет, если технология будет каждый месяц обновляться.

Теперь я знаю, что содержание важнее дорогой технологии, но разве молодежь мне поверит? До и вообще, кто нам поверит?  Тата, я вас замучил. Спасибо, что вы меня выслушили.

By Tatyana Elmanovich, certified medium, JVP School of Mystical Arts.

 Татьяна Эльманович, медиум и хилер, сертификация
JVP School of Mystical Arts, школа Джеймса Ван Праага

Impromptu Healing

Healing a Spirit

The healing of the SPIRIT of my paternal grandmother Luba was spectacular thank to participation of powerful but quiet healers and loud camp of former Soviet Hierarchy overlookers . Hard to believe, but they still exist in the astral world. The “supervised” healers were Big Barlaam in astral body, the spirit from the extinct race of Giants. And there was I, the 84-year old woman. Was I still able to heal? By the way, in folklore, legends and myths women with abilities, good wise women or evil witches were oftentimes depicted as elderly ones. So I give it a shot!  And we had a guest, who looked like ancient Egypt demigod, had body of Greece Olympic champ and Roman eagle nose. A simple bandana controlled his shoulder-long black hair.

Before we started the healing, a quiet sound of а distant drummer reached my ear, provoking a lucid dream type vision of a Maui shore. Red sunset was coloring quiet sea water symbolizing The First Chakra world. The quiet drumming continued, and my fingers, hitting the computer desk, tried to catch the rhythm of that inviting drumming. The door into another world was opening.

Suddenness of the Soviet “angel’s” angry voice, “Stop drumming, it interferes with my thinking!” wiped away the vision. As a teen caught by stealing test answers from a source more reliable than pupil’s memory, I stopped. Nevertheless, another vision appeared. In the open doorway between the two worlds, threatening like a footage from Andrey Tarkovsky “Stalker,” stood our Cosmic guest. Now he reminded me an Indian shaman with missing feather stack into his bandana…

Angel continued talking, “In her last incarnation, Luba suffered terrible Parkinson’s disease, Tatyana, you know it. Luba passed the God’s test courageously showing the rare patience of a real warrior, which you, the medium, do not have. Your military incarnations were short and proceeded when you were still in the lower ranks of complete subordination and died early, before living to the true agony of incurable diseases, like now. Your birth in the aristocratic family was given for many reasons, by the way, so it touched both you and your brother, also your father’s brother, Andrei’s children. Do not think that everything was ashes … everything will wake up in the children of Tallinn’s Volodya and in the girls of American Volodya, what will completely separate them from other people, as it has separated you from others.  Medium, I know something about you. We admire your indifference toward awards and titles, but you are lonely.  We found you a husband,” and the “angel” named my future husband’s name.  After healing I asked Barlaam to pass to “angel’ my thank for thinking of me and my request stop meddling with my marriage problems. I would not marry the man, named by him. No more arrangements behind my back!

I have no healing table in my apartment.  We laid Luba’s astral body on my bed covered with a new comforter. Barlaam set five pairs of two vertical hollow trunks with discharge straight into imaginary ground of Mama Earth around former chakra centers. It would lead the cleansing stuff straight into the ground. In this setting the energy would flow in two opposite directions, the red one came from earth and was lifted  up into overflow back like open umbrella. The other flow, the mix of golden and violet energy, flowed from above through the body into distribution device and into earth, being cleansed by layers of ground that worked like filters. They kept the dirt, and let through the cleansed one into energy flow.  It appeared again divided into multiple small jets around the discharge. The flow pressure made these jets turn back through “earth” into air forming another open umbrella laying upside down on floor. Two flows met some place in the middle and “bottled in” Luba’s astral body. The “bottle” revolved increasing its speed. Inside the “bottle” the energy mixture was stirred to look as if it was boiling. Luba’s body was literally washed by this stir of red, violet and golden energy.

My business was to call golden and violet light from the upper layers down to earth. I channeled my sacred prayers, including Our Father in Heaven… I was not behind my computer anymore. My inner self  was some place else that I was not able to describe, I called light, more healing light to cleanse my grandmother.

Barlaam brought transparent red energy from earth and lifted it toward umbrella-like overflow.

And our guest, the cosmic traveler, made the mixture revolve, as in washing machine.  Sometimes he lifted his head and hands and increased the flow of gold and violet energy tenfold…  I knew I had seen him some place, but when and where and what was his name?

Finally, the “washing machine” stopped, as if measured amount of energy, or measured length of time were over.

Without any pause or stopping, I proposed to proceed with attempt to heal the Luba’s  ether field having in mind only one topic – the haughtiness and arrogance of military commanders and aristocrats. Refocusing my eyes, I saw a large field of stoned ground of gray-beige monotonous color. The surface was not flat, it carried configurations of hillocks and a mountain grid of same color.  Now, the three of us Barlaam, the guest and I—we were calling in light above to judge, to measure, to forgive and melt these configurations together with the stony ground.

It took some time, but it started to melt the gray-beige stony ether field, the cause of Parkinson and other chronic illnesses. On places of hillocks and mountains the boulders and stones exploded flowing upward into light, as it has been described by Vadim Zeland in his books about transferring, and mine unpublished cases of cleansing my dump  around my “beautiful soul”! It seemed that heaven took in it all, but still, some “bouquets” of slivers and rubble fell back on ether field – as if reminding that no cleansing, neither during stay on earth, nor during life in the astral world was final! In material world, and in spiritual world alike, we manage to produce new dirt on daily bases. Who would argue with this? As above, so it is below, how long it takes to  mess up a day ago cleaned apartment.

Luba’s appearance changed under our very eyes. Her husband, my grandfather Grigori kneeled next to her, kissed her hands and mumbled, “You are so beautiful, how I deserve this!”

Luba was shocked, “I need to be alone and stomach it all. Tatyana , I thank you later. Gregori and I, we will walk home.”

When the healers were done, the “angel” had chance to teach some more how to organize the proper healing without endangering outlookers with flow of stones from heaven onto their heads. Finally, I interrupt him in order to thank our guest for participation. He looked into my eyes, and touching the desk, repeated the dram’s beat that I heard at the beginning of this healing.

“Call me Tam-Tam, if you like!” – was his answer.

And I recalled where we had met. It was a year ago, when I worked on “Meditation in Memory of Grandmother Luba,” and Tam-Tam, talking to Yogananda, the Indian guru, offered me a miraculous time-travel session through granny’s relevant past incarnations as a war leader in various cultures, eon after eon, until we landed in America facing a fence adored with bloody scalps. It was the spot, where   Luba asked, if she was done with her male incarnations. Her guides agreed, and she moved to her next circle of female  lives revealing only in rare cases the manner of commanding not used to arguing or disobedience.

After my memorable speedy fly into Luba’s past incarnations, I asked her, if she recognized these incarnations, or they were play of my imagination?

Granny did not question any of it. She confirmed, “I know, my problems come mostly from my male incarnations. Yes,I was a warrior repeatedly.. I prefer not to dwell in these lifetimes again.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Waiting for a miracle

tatyana.tallinn

The Unusual Meeting with Oren Zarif  

In my Inbox, I found the interview with the sensational Israeli healer Oren Zarif, forwarded by one of my Russian-speaking friend. My attention was attracted by the interviewer’s questions. They were impolite and carried a shadow of arrogance toward the controversial healer, as the interviewer called him. But who was this healer? Google’s search bar returned a list of pro and con opinions. The happy healed sang praises calling Zarif a miracle man, but the ones who did not recuperate labeled him as sham.

The healer does not work for free, and the price for treatment is considered high by those whom the healer did not help. They shout, “Fraud, fraud, fraud,” because they were promised to experience the miracle of the instantaneous recovery, as we see it in films, or read about it in Bible, or was trumpeted by unprofessional marketer. They…

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“Moj laskovij dedushka” – my kind grandfather . The Continuation.

Sorry, if at the beginning, an overlapping occurs with the previous post. I need to start from here to arrive to the conclusion of this story…  Initially it was posted in one post. But probably it was too long and the end of the story disappeared  into the thin air without any explanation or apology!

Father Mikhail’s Childhood 

Once I said to Father Mikhail that I was curious to know why his children and his wife had never spilled a single word about his parents, about The Sirotins, the seniors, and how he got his last name “Sirotin” that stemmed from word “Sirota” – “Orphan.” Was Father Mikhail an orphan or abandoned infant, and the last name “Sirotin” was invented during registration for the Christianizing ceremony?

Grandfather confirmed that there was a thing that prompted this last name, but he was not found under the cabbage in the monastery vegetable garden, because the story of his birth was very simple. He observed with some hellish curiosity, if I would continue writing down what he had to say. I did! And he continued his story.

— I was conceived outside the law, in the church. A drunk young man desecrated a nun who gave birth to the unwanted child. I grew up in a monastery as the son of a drunken janitor. According to rumors, his wife had died in childbirth – birthing me, the gadenish, “the bag of misery,” or “unholy creature, birthed by snake-type inhabitants of hell.”

— Do you know who was your father?

— Who would tell me this? They told that this was a passing by traveler, a stranger. But why she, the nun, my mother, did not tell me the truth? What she was afraid of? Gossip said that my alleged “mother’s” death because of me had broken the janitor’s heart. Bullshit, he had no heart.

— Did someone pay for your upbringing?

— I had no idea. But my so called “father” was always drunk, maybe someone did pay him for keeping his mouth shut. I grew up in muddy environment being beaten constantly. In that situation, my only way out was to become an altar boy. And this was my only education I ever had. And observing priests, I learned the church language and how the priests conducted the sermons. The janitor got rid of me at the very first opportunity when an army recruit showed up in our city. Janitor introduced me to him, saying that my dream was to become a soldier to protect our tsar and otechestvo – the land of our fathers.

The same day, I was taken into an army can for rookies, and both men proceeded to the kabak to celebrate the opportunity to turn some government money into a vodka feast. What do you want from me? This was how I became a priest after my discharge from army, as all I learned in my life was how to conduct church sermons.

—In your astral world, did you meet your mother?

—Yes, I found her here, and I marked her with an eternal curse, and promised to tell the world about her shame…

— What was her name?

— Do not dig too deep into this shit.

— I am sorry to hear it. Why did you curse your mother? Cursing her, you cursed your children and grandchildren, and your entire family! My brother and me too, your grand-grandson and his lovely daughters… As Bible says about cursing…

Suddenly I felt my blood boiling, I was his granddaughter after all! Strange words started to flow out of my mouth!

— I think, you know your father’s name, and you curse aristocrats and nobility, because your real father, the stranger, the passing traveler, rejected his paternity, and later, when your mother, seeking better life for you, met that man and pointed out on too obvious resemblance between your father and you, what that coward did? This similarity did not soften your real father’s empty noble heart. He accused your mother in harassment. And you never forgave neither your father, nor your mother that they had abandoned you, and now you try to keep your kids so close to you as possible. Your pain made you keep them home against their will, my God! Now I can see why you were doing this? Times change, changing us as well. Let your kids fly out of the nest into their adult lives.

— It is easy for you, being so much younger than me, to teach me! You are impolite, to begin with!

— Impolite? You better ask – how did your curses had ruined my life? I tell you how! I cannot remember my mother, who grow up in the atmosphere of your curses and fights hugging or kissing me at least once in my childhood. But I remember her shouts, full of irritation. They suggested that I was not smart enough, not quick enough, did everything wrong, she instilled this in me. My brother Vsevo told me once, that the cascades of evil shouts at home made him think that this was the normal way how people communicate at home. Strange, he was the Sirotin’s favorite, but suffered more than I did. Once he asked, when I lived already in California, and he was visiting from Estonia, if he seems completely normal to me? He said that he cannot get rid from idea that everybody else was better than him.

“Stop it, it is silly to think so!” I interrupted him. My brother was and is now nearing 80, a good-looking man, he did not become alcoholic or user, he kept steady job up to his retirement. He was married twice, was liked by women, his hobbies included mountain skiing. Today, nearing age 80, he still comes every year to USA to ski in Colorado skiing resorts. How did he come to conclusion that he was worse than others? But time to time the dark shadow of his grandfather’s curses were crossing his face revealing hidden nameless fears nesting in his heart, and blocking his real potential.

I said to my brother that I was thinking about myself the same thing, until America healed me from low self-esteem in most peculiar ways. Arriving to this country, I worked a year as a receptionist in a dry-cleaning enterprise. Tons of people brought their stuff for cleaning, paid in advance, and then arrived to pick it up. My work day lasted from 8 am to 10 pm. During the day, I had barely time to sit down to rest. I saw and talked to a lot of people. My English improved, and along the way, I noticed that having the same question in mind, I was examining the clients and waiting to meet an ideal person who did not have any psychological problems. But I never met one! All people had their problems, everyone had problems. An Armenian was convinced that a spot was left on his shirt because he was an Armenian national! I asked him, if he had put a stamp on his shirt “I am an Armenian national”, how the cleaners would otherwise know to leave a spot on his shirt? A lady without any specific national features, asked her money back for spots before examining her cleaned dresses. To cut long story short, I assured my brother Vsevo that there were no ideal people, some were hilariously limited, some stingy, some pretended to be stupid, some were conniving, some demanded a discount harassing me with comparison our prices with prices of the previous owner of this business, some were dying from self-importance, and a local priest was busy keeping holiness of his image submitting for cleaning his pants and underwear. Nevertheless, all together they were nice and funny crowd that healed me from my fear that I was worse than them! But if they get it out of me completely?

Today, I am over 80 and still afraid to ask money for my work… Once I was paid $150 for translation of couple of pages an easy text – from English to Russian, and I could not believe that I got so much money for so little work. Was I normal? And then I recalled that my mother used to mention with pride that she had never read a book in her life! Now I knew that this “pride” of despising reading came from her father, the priest! In my Estonia, I became a decent journalist and film critic pressing my entire life through hostile home environment that despised and hated books and reading…  And today, facing soon transition to the next world, I am still afraid to ask money for my books, as if that money is burning my fingers, as if I had stolen time from God himself for working on them. The “pride” of living by his own mind and refusing to read was, no doubt, the worst hellish shadow left by moi laskivij dedushka on our family.

Sex in Monasteries

We took a short break in our conversation, and then Father Mikhail continued.

—You asked about sexual assaults in the Russian Orthodox Church. It was there, but I will not talk about it.

— How many altar boys served during the church sermons?

— There were two of us, Petya and I. Petya did not say anything to me, but, in my opinion, he succumbed to the temptation in hope to improve his life, and probably he achieved his goal. He was fed better than me. By the evening time, he was summoned somewhere, and he returned home at the dawn. He used to grumble and he did not look me into the eyes. Sometimes he shared a pie with me. And if they gave him more food to bring home, it happened that I got a chicken leg as well, it went down like a heavenly treat.

“How the Petya came into picture, was he an orphan, or also a “gadenish”?

“Do not ask me about him, his end was terrible. He was beaten to death by drank priests for being a gay, or for not keeping his mouth shut.”

In the monastery, altar boys were not entitled for vodka, but when the servants of God became drunk, they were pouring vodka violently down of our throats. It was how I became an alcoholic.

“During this type of feasts did you leave the nuns alone, or if they leaved the altar boys alone?”

“I would not say so. When nuns were drunk, they called us to themselves. And it seemed to me that they did not pray as they should. But this was not my concern. I saw there everything, so I got full sex education in the church environment.”

“Who were the nuns by social affiliation, from what social stratum did they appear?”

“Oftentimes, they were penniless orphans and widows, who came for the monastery for roof and daily bread. I was still small, and did not know much about such things. But sometimes something slipped through their gossip talks.  Once, a drunken merchant was robbed and murdered by nuns. They buried the body, but not deep enough. I remember clearly, when at the spring time the snow started to melt, the corpse’s body parts surfaced becoming visible, after rain that white washed them. The involved monastics disappeared from the monastery. Our town was small but life was boiling in it. Merchants brought any kind of merchandise to sell, to trade, to resell and this attracted people to market places. I could not stand the merchants, I hated this rude, drunk and cynical crowd, but nevertheless, I did not realize that slowly I was becoming like them – cynical rude, a Russian drunkard!”

“Sometimes I think about Vysotsky, if he was beaten in his childhood, then there is nothing to be surprised that he had become who he is today in the afterlife. Beating children is a crime, I know, I passed it. My “papa”, the janitor, who hit me regularly was a retired Cossack.  He was redheaded with cockroach-brown whiskers, and instead of “daddy”, I called him “the f… cockroach” – of course in my mind, or behind his back. He was a cruel man, he beat because when he got drunk he felt sorry for himself, and he did not beat me, because I did something wrong, but because he needed to pour his anger on someone.

“Whether there were animals in that monastery, children love animals, and animals love children, did you have some animal friend in your years in that monastery?

“Of course, there were any kind of animals, I liked horses and learned to ride a horse. Later, in my army years it turned to be a very useful skill.”

“Did army paid you some salary, did it help you?”

“Yes, I should put some pennies aside, but I did not do it, of course! Some squandered their salary playing cards, I treated so called friends for drinks and drinking parties. And it was a fun, the only fun I had in life. Army years were my only joyous years of my life.”

“Father Michael, how was your personal relationship with God?”

“I served God, but I did not believe in God! Instead, I believed in the existence of hell, as I had seen it, being drunk.”

“Did you crave for a real friend?”

“Of course, everyone does! But I had no friends, it did not work out, I scared off people with my fury and hatred, because I could not contain my boiling anger in my heart. It was always buzzing in me … And the older I got, the louder the buzz became. I have never met aristocrats personally, but I understand your question.”

“And how did you manage with nuns?”

“Well, we celebrated holidays together, and when they got drunk, things happened. I said that I saw everything especially on Easter feasts. There I saw things that a child was not supposed to witness. They did not hide anything, they said, learn, you may need it in future. None of them believed in God whom they served. The church folks were always drunk and thievish. I thought it would be better in Estonia, but nothing came of Estonia either.”

Jose Martinez

Jose Martinez, the spirit helper who showed up to be part of Father Michael’s healing team, couldn’t boast with parental support either. Disagreements with family’s way of life made him leave home and face his financial challenges alone. Somehow his story echoed Father Mikhail’s one. Both Russian army and American army discharged their heroes on the streets. But comparison of Mikhail’s and Jose’s stories forms the interesting juxtaposition of passive and active approach in search of solution what to do, if you are abandoned, penniless, without any prospects for future. The Russian man without faith in heart became angry cursing alcoholic and a priest in name only. He used up his observations as an altar boy, how priests conducted the church sermons, and imitating the priests, became the priest himself. The American man, Jose story will unfold below.

Once, in a hot summer day in year 2017, I was uploading to my computer some photos of Oxnard beach and beautiful residential area nearby, where I had spent a week seeking refuge from July heat. Suddenly I felt presence of a spirit who wanted a word with me. It was spirit of Jose Martines who said that he was attracted by these photos of houses where he was supposed to live, but instead he winded up in a cheap match-box apartment in LA Downtown. After honorable discharge from army, Jose found himself penniless and alone in LA.

“We, the Korean veterans, were neglected and thrown on the streets as kittens. I know that you did not like much the film “The Best Years of Our Lives,” but this film was about me from A to Z. And the film got Oscar, and it was a fair award. I know that you think differently, but it was my film, and my time.”

I tried to chirp in my meager sorry for being not too excited of the film “The Best Years of our lives” because of misuse of a real wartime invalid’s powerful image for inventing a politically correct, and in my mind, unethical ending of the film. But my sorry provoked only more irritation in him.

“No one can get that pain, Eetla, the Estonian psychic who introduced us on earth, helped me to overcome the thoughts about suicide. The worst was meeting Scientology people, they wanted Eetla to work for them as well, and there we met, and became friends. She refused their offer, and she was my only moral support, when I decided to commit suicide. She saved my life. Instead of killing myself, I started to heal and teach others and it helped me. One day, Eetla sent you to see me for getting some advice how to survive in the status of an immigrant. You were like dark forest, you knew nothing, but you turned to be a fast learner. But you were short-tempered, you could yell and shout and I grew tired from cleaning the same thing that you attracted with your nasty and senseless anger outbreaks. You felt it and disappeared. Nevertheless, you were invited to the celebration of my 60th birthday. But I died before the time from, of course, overdose. I already celebrated with that son of the bitch, mister X from Chicago, the white guy who was lazy and was not able to keep any job in Los Angeles. He was your friend as well, he was interested in your that time so hapless astrology, now it is so much better, but you already do way more interesting things. OK I have talked a lot. You saw, how I lived in my Downtown studio, washing 10 times a day my toilet after every client who went to shit there. You were an exception, you did not run in my clean WC, you respected what you respected, I liked you for this. Look, did you really can see something?”

“I have no idea, let me look.”

“Work, gal…”

I could not believe what I saw.

“My God, Jose, you had poison, a poison liquid in your kitchen shelf, and you could add it in any cup you wanted, in my cup, for instance, as well!”

“So, you get it! You found my euthanasia kit with poison. Eetla got it for me to commit suicide. But changing my mind, I did not toss it away. I kept it in case, if they come to arrest me for drug possession. But how do I live, what do you think? I got drugs from Mexico, I bought my share and sold it to my clientele, and one day I overdosed myself for all my sins.  …I had no idea that you get it so soon and so easy. Yes, you, get things.”

“You were bold enough to sell drugs under the nose of police, and probably, there were enough neighbors who reported that too many guests were milling around your apartment. When you overdosed, did they find money in your matrass?”

“It was stupid, I was rich, but pretended to be poor, and I should give you some money and connections, but I was not sure, if you were ready to clean some apartments. You did it later, and I regretted… I was not sure how to talk to you, and what to offer you.”

“You told once that you murdered 3 or 4 people leaving no traces behind, when you, out of desperation, accepted Scientology offer to work for them punishing people for leaving the Scientology establishment or refusing to pay what they owned to this “healing” organization?

“I killed more, about ten of them, and my work was traceless. I simply cut their silver cords, as I could walk out of my body freely, any minute, if this was needed. In all these cases, the heart attack was officially named as cause of sudden deaths. But then I started thinking what was I doing, and I started looking what else I could do for living… I was afraid to give away money, I should do that, but my stinginess was my problem, like it is the problem for many people from poor family, like yourself… Let’s work with stinginess for the starters…

“I do not know how to work with your stinginess, when I look at your future, all I see is that in your next incarnation in New York, you become a standup comedian. You will be good and you will be film actor.

“Stop it, stinginess is the enemy, work with my stinginess!

At that time, I was not able to help him. But still, time to time Jose showed up on my horizon, like in case of healing Father Mikhail, as if feeling some connection to the lonely soul of that sinner.

Yes, there might be a connection, both were left alone and helpless in society at young age. But the reactions to the same problems were so different, and so much depending on “the nation’s idea about itself!” It may determine how an individual will behave in their destiny’s pivotal situations. Later, this discovery made me write an article of degradation of Russian egregore, and its impact on the image of Russians.

St. Seraphim found me and asked again, if I would be interested in healing not so shiny souls, but ones who dwell in the lower levels of the astral world. “I have my list of souls who need help, and I know, you have your list of such souls. But are you ready to continue healing? «Придется копаться в жуткой грязи, уродством, порождением злобой, завистью, ревностью»! – “We will deal with terrible dirt birthed by anger, envy and jealousy. Can you handle this? Think before you answer.”

“Let me try out one more healing of Father Mikhail, and I learn, if I can digest what a healer must digest in such cases, maybe I am already too old and sick for this kind of free work!”

One more healing of Father Mikhail

It took place on January 10th, 2018, soon after I had written down Father Mikhail’s childhood stories. I declared that the theme of the healing would be search of thought forms reflecting the beating him as a child by his tormentor, the monastery janitor whom he called behind his back “the cockroach.”

As always, I started with prayer, asking help and protection from the Mikhail’s guardians. However, what was shown to me exceeded all my expectations proving one more time that our guides chose healing goal for a healer, not healer’s mental speculations. Instead of beating scenes, my third eye stood passive and in pitch darkness behind my closed eyes I heard the quiet cry of a baby.

Was someone crying behind the window? But people never stopped on our clean streets for a talk or rest, there were no benches for sitting there and letting babies cry. Nevertheless, the sound of a baby’s cry became louder. Suddenly, my “third eye” vision lit up, and I saw a country bed. The stretched hands of a nun were holding a crying baby: a newly born was taken away from the woman in the bed. The cry became heart breaking. I, who stopped crying decades ago, broke into tears watching how the baby was taken away from the nun who had given birth for her son, conceived in sin according to the Church believes at a time.

The visions about Father Mikhail’s early ages continued to flow. Now the baby’s cry came from the monastery’s large and so old-fashioned kitchen. The naked child was stretched out on a meat cutting table on a rag next to a milk jar. A joyful nun, pacifying baby with quiet lullaby, poured some milk into saucer. In one deft movement, she tore a piece of cloth from the rag on the table, wrapped crumbs of bread in it, dabbed the bread roll into milk and popped it into the mouth of a screaming baby. The child fell silent for a moment, and when it began to cry again, a new piece of torn cloth appeared in the hands of the merry nun, and the process of feeding the child in the monastery kitchen continued.

A pair of blackish eyes stopped joyful nun’s lullaby. Baby was packed fast into the remains of the rag beneath him and the bundle moved from kitchen table onto greedy hands of a man in janitor’s typical uniform. Then he saw a pack of money on the table… The janitor put the bundle with the baby back on the kitchen table, and sunk into money counting pleasure. Often wetting with saliva his right hand’s big and pointing fingers, he decided to recount the unusually thick pack of rubles. Then he put this pack into his pocket and started to move away from the table.

“You forgot something,” said the ironic voice of an older nun who appeared from nowhere. Janitor returned and pick up the baby who lifted its eyes and meeting janitor’s face started to cry hysterically.

Was it shown me exactly as I described it here, or it was my imagination that finished the description of this exiting transaction in the monastic kitchen? I was emotionally involved in my “3rd eye video” to this extent that there was no way to separate one from the other… Maybe I must to determine for myself, in what genre this story would unfold? In Bangsian style, or by rules of supernatural fiction, like some ghost story?

Suddenly, the colorful wave filled the healing space – my “third eye” space, or the 4D space, where we were allowed to train our imagination, so crucial to have it in afterlife. A strange voice told, “You would see as much rolls in your healing space, as you saw empty alcohol bottles during your previous healing.” The same voice added. “The time for this cleansing is over. Please, close the session and take some rest.”

I asked “But what about the “cockroach” whom I was supposed to whip today?”

“He was not a reason, but rather a consequence of circumstances!”

OK, I have imagination, I know it. But now I ask, what would happen, if I allow my imagination move forward into future of this soul, and seek an answer to the question, if the day would come, and he would reconcile with his mother, how it may look?

My imagination obliged, the scenes of reconciliation of Father Mikhail and his mother started to prop up in my mind involuntarily.

Yes, the day arrived, when Father Mikhail, now in spirit, took the ride toward monastery N, now the astral copy of once an earthy monastery where he was born. At the entrance gate, he asked about the nun named Vera and received a suspiciously swift answer that none of their monastics were ever been called Vera, in English – Faith!

“Is she still alive?” – was Father Mikhail’s next question, as the fierce denial of the existence of the nun named Vera means for him exactly the opposite. He assumed that they had expelled her from their ranks and decided not to talk about her. The icy look of the nun at the gate told him that if he would not be aided by share luck, he will return home empty handedly.

From afar, a cart loaded with empty metal cans was rushing against us. The metal surfaces beat against each other producing sound of timpani in a modern orchestra where ardent drummers beat them with a reason or without it, as if keeping the melody from sounding too simple and old fashioned for ears of contemporary folks. The nun at the entrance gate stopped the driver, and said to Father Mikhail that this carriage can give him a free ride to the city, to the church near the University.

“They want to get rid of me and my questions as soon as possible, something is fishy here,” thought Father Mikhail and soon enough found himself examining the crowd of the beggars who had positioning themselves on concrete porch around the church, as it was a custom to do down there during centuries.

… He recognized Vera immediately despite her being cloaked as a very poor commoner. As other beggars, she was begging for living, sitting on the cold concrete porch next to the legless cripple on the cusps. They seemed to be well acquainted, because time to time they exchanged a quiet word or two.

Father Mikhail found a bench near flowerbed across the church and being sure that busy Vera will not recognize him, sat to look what would happen next.

The church bells started to buzz inviting the parishioners to attend the evening sermon. And as the believers were moving toward church entrance, the coins and sometimes paper bills were falling into beggars’ outstretched hands or into cups set on the ground next to them.

When the flow of parishioners started to thin, out of the church appeared a young and joyous nun in professional outfit that looks familiar to Father Mikhail. She was heading straight toward Vera, and it looked that Vera was waiting for her. She produced from her professional uniform a sparkling bottle of vodka, and stretched it toward smiling Vera. It was a professional exchange. Vera surrendered to her two bowls, hers and the crippled one’s that disappeared into rich folds of her gown. It turned out that they were begging for collecting means for repairing the monastery. Now as the had given money away, they had free time, and they could enjoy a drink or two of sparkling vodka. The legless cripple was rubbing his hands joyfully.

But suddenly Vera, in astral world young, as if years had no impact on her, who was looking straight forward at a man on the garden bench across, froze, and then whispered, probably intending her words to the crippled man.

“Go away, my son has come to see me!”

“I will better stay,” he answered. “A presence of a witness never hurt.”

Father Michael looked absent minded, lost. Maybe he regretted coming so far. But the presence of the crippled man was holding him glued to the bench. Vera recognized him, and his hope to slip away unnoticed would not do anymore.

“Follow me,” — Vera waved her hand to Father Mikhail, pointing in direction of uncut bushes on the back side of the church.

Vera with sparkling bottle of vodka in her hand, was leading the group, and crippled man on his cusps were closing the rank, as if guarding the priest in case, if he would suddenly change his mind and attempt to escape!

The wild bushes formed a gazebo-like area with a small table and two simple garden benches. Vera picked from the ground some used paper cups, washed them under garden watering hose and proudly placed them on the table. The cripple had already opened the vodka bottle, and Vera poured equal amount of transparent liquid in cups. She said, “Na zdorovye!” – “For your health,” or “Bottoms up!” and swallowed her portion of vodka without hesitation, as a person used to down a galp of strong alcohol without the snack. The other followed the suite.

Nobody could produce a single word. There was silence. Crippled looked aside. Vera poured the second help of transparent liquid into cups. And they downed it again wordlessly. Father Mikhail looked at the crippled with vexation. The latter looked again aside but did not leave the scenery.  No one had a word to say. Vera poured the third cup of vodka into cups.

Father Mikhail get it down, put cup back on the garden table, an old one, washed by so many rains for so long years that it has swelled, crumbled, and had decorative green moss spots here and there.

“Forgive me!” pressed Father Mikhail through his frozen lips.

нищенка и девочка в розовом

The crippled threw up his huge brown eyes, suddenly burning, with a glow of unearthly light of forgiveness, and then he lowered them again, looking aside.

Father Mikhail asked suddenly, “Zhivesh to kak?” – “How are you doing?”

Vera smiled.

“I am fine. You saw, I am now a somebody, I raise money for reconstruction monastery church. I help Vanya, you see, he gets more money than I do, but he cannot get anything from store being legless. So, I take care of him. Now I have someone to exchange a word, to talk. He never rebuked me, did not shame me, he’s a good man. And you came along. I am now OK!  You will be OK as well.”

Father Mikhail

Moj laskovij dedushka – my kind grandfather

As it has been already told, Anna, my grandmother met her husband Mikhail, the army officer in the rank of lieutenant-colonel in her family estate. He started as a soldier, and was promoted for his courage and initiative in battle situations. However, Anna’s problems with her husband became unbearable when he changed his military uniform toward priest’s cassock?

Father Mikhail’s children, my mother, her brothers and sisters, have spoken about two very different reasons why did it happen. The first reason stems from Mikhail’s army heydays, and the second one was inspired by the practical considerations.

How a Militant’s Uniform was Changed for a Priest’s Cassock

FamilyGrandpaMichailMama with kin

Father Mikhail in year 1920. From left to right Yevgenia, Alexander, Yerast, Tamara, my mother, Victor, Valentina in Estonia. Father Mikhail’s wife Anna was left in Russia in hope to return for her when “things come down in Russia”. 

Once upon a time, when Mikhail served in Caucasus mountains, he met Muslim dervishes in a remote tavern near Turkey boarder. He was returning from a fair where he procured several thoroughbred horses for his army superiors. At the tavern, he stopped to take care of horses and taste delicious food like soup kharcho and shish kebab from the freshest mutton. Muslims who feasted around the camp fire on a meadow, the tavern’s backyard, invited him to share their friendly company. At home, the alcohol was tabooed for Muslims, and time-to-time they crossed the border of some neighboring Christian land, like Armenia, to enjoy the “forbidden fruit” and they downed their manly meals with local crystal-clear grape liquor chacha. They told Mikhail that he was one of them, a dervish with super powers, but he was not aware of this. The compliments did what they always do – took a person off the guard, and Mikhail fell asleep. He woke up when bonfire was already turning into a handful of gray ashes, the sky was dark blue, and night was enveloping the splendid mountain views that attracted tourists to this region. But at night time, moi laskovij dedushka discovered that dervishes cheated on him, they stole his thoroughbred horses and disappeared, letting him sleep and feel a fool, when he would open his eyes. Who would help a man in despair? Only stars were flickering on the nightly skies. Terrible loneliness and despair had crawled into Mikhail’s heart and he started his bargaining with God: if Almighty will return him horses, he will switch his army uniform toward priest’s cassock. As Muslim dervishes were magicians, he prayed hard asking for an extended amount of Divine support!

The covenant with God was confirmed by tavern’s owner who offered an old mare to Mikhail to chase the thieves. Mikhail commented later that he was partying with the Devil himself, but with burning love toward God he straightened things out. The cloudless night gave him victory over treacherous, but also drunk thieves and at the dawn he returned the old mare to the tavern’s owner, paid for meals and chacha that dervishes forgot to do, and proceeded to his fortress together with his horses and dervishes’ horses as well. When Mikhail was asked how the dervishes would get home without horses, my laskovij dedushka muttered under his breath, looking aside, as if cutting off more questions, that they would not need horses anymore. His courage was recognized by his army superiors and he was promoted to the rank of army officers.

Mikhail kept his promise to God, and became a priest! Another time, at a twilight hour, my mother, Mikhail’s daughter Tamara, being in not so romantic mood, spilled a strange sentence, “Oh, these stories!” and added that her father came from very poor background and became priest hoping for a lucrative and not too exhausting occupation. When I asked who were his parents, my mother pretended that she did not hear my question…  It was swept under the rug that my grandfather was a typical armejski gulyaka — a military carouser, and that his life story contained exciting facts that normal commoners would prefer to keep in darkness. The resulting fear of letting his children out of the nest to face the real world made Mikhail tried to keep his children home if possible, guarding them from meeting the world. During the transition called death this strangeness did not leave him, on the contrary, in afterlife, it reached the stage of maniacal passion of keeping his children so close to home as possible.

Zhenya, his daughter and my aunt whom we met in the chapter “A Spinster’s Big Dream”  told me that when she announced at home that she got a position of assistant of the teacher of singing and dance in the school for orphans, and she was also offered a small place to stay in the same school to help administration, if needed, instead of joy, as work was hard to find, Father Mikhail’s reaction was wild and out of control. He yelled loudly, “No, I did not allow you to leave home and abandon your aging parents!” Zhenya continued, “My mother, grandmother Anna, had opposing opinion, she suggested that I have to accept the offer and return to school right away, before the vacant position would be taken by someone else. But gone mad Father Mikhail continued condemn loudly the thankless youth and shouted threats to kill himself! Despite absurdity of this threat – as killing himself in astral world was hardly possible, Zhenya stood at home and her heart was bleeding!”

I asked Zhenya to drop by my studio what she did! We talked, and from my studio, Zhenya went straight to school.

During following six months since Zhenya left the family for the school, Father Mikhail did not “kill” himself. Zhenya stood in school helping both teachers and administration, in other words, doing everything what was needed to be done. Of course, she needed to learn English faster, but already she surprised me with some English sentences that she used for greeting students in her singing class.

The word what really happened to Zhenya before she left home, came from the third party, a friendly spirit Jose Martines, who had died on the eve of his 60th birthday from OD in Los Angeles. He divulged that Father Mikhail was caught red handed beating Zhenya for her decision accept the job and stay in the pupil’s dormitory. Jose, as an advanced seer on earth, was in the know of this interesting information because he was invited to join the group of other souls to examine the situation and assess the problem. Mikhail was arrested, and Jose added that the old bunk was locked up to a mental institution. The Russian Hierarchy sent their Great (St. Seraphim from Sarov) to examine the situation personally.

Then Jose recalled that St. Seraphim asked him to contact me, and ask, if I will heal Father Mikhail. Jose added that if I do, he would like to be part of that healing and volunteer as a helper.

“Consider, you have the invitation already,” was my answer.

Serafim Sarovski 222  St. Seraphim from Sarov (1754—1833)

Soon a circle of the invisible spirits gathered in my studio. The soul of the St. Seraphim from Sarov was presented. The best way to introduce him would be to read his two quotes about the purpose of our lives on earth. “Acquire a peaceful spirit, and around you the thousands will be saved.”

“It is necessary that Holy Spirit enters our hearts. Everything we do for Christ, has been given to us by Holy Spirit, and prayer is the most decisive tool, as it is always available to us.”

Wikipedia: “Saint Seraphim of Sarov (1754 -1833), born Prokhor Moshnin is one of the most renowned Russian saints in the Eastern Orthodox Church. He is considered the greatest of the 19th century startsi (elders). Seraphim extended the monastic teaching of contemplation and self-denial to the layperson. He taught that the purpose of the Christian life was to acquire Holy Spirit. Seraphim was canonized by the Russian Orthodox Church in year 1903. Pope John Paul II referred to him as a saint.”

If we translate his advice in the modern language, it would say, “He taught that the purpose of the Christian life was to acquire from cosmos energy of so high vibrational frequency as possible and as much as possible considering the prayer to be the most effective tool for creating direct connection from human being to the realms of Divine Light and truth vibrations.”

On February 18, 2017 Father Mikhail was the first to arrive, he chose a seat and smiled ironically. Not very inspiring beginning of the healing. Nevertheless, I started with my quiet prayer and, as usual, appealed to Father Mikhail’s guides and angels offering them a chance to work through my body and grounding channels. I tried to call in “Golden Light” as much as possible.

Seraphim of Sarov took the seat next to Father Mikhail. I thanked him for honoring our modest gathering with his presence. I started calling in the Divine Light to increase the presence of high vibrational energy in the healing area. My Third Eye showed me how Jose Martines was pushing his cart for collecting negative thought forms, if such would be released during the upcoming healing.

I was suggested to work with coming up images of Mikhail’s throat and heart chakras. We set up a similar screen as we did cleansing Anna, and soon the stream of already familiar curses was flying across the room toward the gluey screen, the Hildegard’s invention.

The energy moves intensified when I reached to Father Mikhail’s heart area. It was bright red and flaming. His heart should be a very angry one. It was surrounded by the color of the burnout desert tones. There were no traces of emerald green, the basic colors of the heart chakra. I left it as it was for now, and moved to the Solar Plexus area… filled with empty bottles of alcoholic beverages.

Jose Martines was already collecting these dirty bottles into his cart for moving them out from healing area toward … my dump? Would I find them in my solar plexus area? The more bottles Jose picked up, the more bottles seemed to appear from all thinkable corners in my studio.

Maybe you have seen horror movies when targeted by dark forces characters started seeing snakes in their living space, they attacked humans everywhere, appeared in bathtubs and washing sinks. In my studio, instead of snakes, empty bottles multiplied everywhere. I started to pray in terror calling for help from the higher powers. A burning furnace appeared from nowhere, and I started to burn whatever appeared to look like released thought forms of Father Mikhail’s occupational attributes. I did it, or someone else did it using my mind and hands? Father Mikhail stopped smiling ironically. His spirit face was stoning into a contortion of fear. I was on the brink to give up cleansing attempt, because I had lost control of what was going on in the studio during that healing.

I saw that the amount of negative thoughtforms connected to Mikhail’s persona was bigger than his physical flesh form could accommodate. Where the soul of Father Mikhail was accumulating them? If I was not able to understand it, how could I hope to heal him?

Nevertheless, I stopped asking questions, and decided to continue throwing into flame whatever was on my way as long as the flaming furnace was there, and my stamina could take it! I was throwing into burning stove his clerical garb, asking forgiveness from the Heavenly Powers for allowing to drag myself into this world without clear understanding what I was stepping into. I continued working through my imagination so long as I could.

Finally, I called for the closing of this healing session thanking cordially all participants, Father Mikhail included. But he left the scenery without looking back, and soon the darkness behind the window swallowed him, as he had never existed. Thank came from Seraphim of Sarov for attempt to help a troubled soul. We spoke in Russian.

“Tatyana, I cannot talk to you right now, as you are really falling apart. Overall impression? I did not understand a thing what you did, but he was clearing before my eyes, how did you do it?”

“I called the cleansing light, prayed and asked for help! I saw what was inside of his energy “frame” as much, as it was shown to me.”

“Your work will be reckoned, but I did not understand, how you did it. Tanya, go to bed, you’ll pass out in a faint …”

Same healing
from the point of view of Jose Martines

The next day, Jose Martines, on earth Korean war veteran and clairvoyant in his own right, showed up to discuss the healing session of Father Mikhail. We both were impressed by the release of empty bottles of alcohol in described amount. I asked Jose, what did we saw – real bottles or only images of these bottles? Jose answered that they, the bottles, seemed to be real things. But they came and disappeared so strangely, as if being something else, not real. Maybe on the given astral level, thing and its image are one and the same?

And then the idea struck me that if it is one and the same in astral world, then it is the same here, and the ancient India sages’ conviction that everything around, including our bodies, is Maya, a dream, is the harsh truth after all! Marlene Dietrich spilled once – in astral world, everything is a pipe dream only!” But if this is so, the cosmic law of oneness would whisper in your ears that as it is up there, so it is below, and whatever we see, comes from a “pipeline,” someone’s imagination, from a dream, from a … God’s dream only, or my dreams matter also? My head was spinning, I came so close to overturning my materialist worldview. It was nesting strongly in my childish “common sense” consciousness despite being challenged by my “second sight” experiences since childhood.

Jose seemed also to be lost in his thoughts. His assessment of the effectiveness of our healing attempt was brief. “We were aided, it was heavenly to be aided!” After sharing his opinion, he fell back into silence!

Then he said that my decision to destroy the images of his clerical garb, to burn it in our field furnace was an excellent idea! He was jumping out of his socks when I shouted to the old man to remove his black cloak, or whatever it was, and a flood of dark gluey liquid gushed out of him in such amount that Jose was afraid that we would be swamped in it. But it did not happen, the liquid disappeared into ground. When I asked Jose how he saw the chakras of grandfather’s throat and heart areas, did his spirit body revealed it at all? The Jose’s answer was shocking.

“They looked terrible! Both former energy centers were occupied with parasites, as Mr. Gogol’s stomach appeared to be, when we cleansed it. I washed them with a garden hose.

My childish common sense made me ask everybody whom I considered to be smarter than me, did astral world carries biological matter as we have it on earth? Paramahansa Yogananda assured us that astral world did not have it. Yukteswar answered that in astral world everything is possible and therefore he cannot say “yes” or “no”, as only experience can bring some clarity in this question. I asked the same from St. Seraphim from Sarov. His answer was most intriguing. He said, “How interesting question? I had never thought about it.”

Jose tried to find out what the Russian Hierarchy guy thought about our healing. St. Seraphim from Sarov confirmed that he could not understand a thing how it was done, but he liked results. This time he asked some questions regarding the healing technique. We talked about 40 minutes and he encouraged me to keep detailed diary and write the book about my healing experiences – giving people hope to be able to heal themselves without spending tons of money on alternative healers. I asked about obvious discrepancy between the quantity of empty bottles and the small measures of the soul. How can little soul carry so much bottles?

St. Seraphim from Sarov answered the following.

“Human spirit is built from many levels of different energies. And every level shows the soul differently depending on the particular levels’ frequencies…”

Paramahansa Yogananda had spoken about it in “Prisoners of Fame” in lengthy matter.

St. Seraphim of Sarov added:

“The soul of one and the same human being can look on different energy levels surprisingly different. On some level it may look like the soul of an angel, and on the other level, it can look like soul of an angry monster.”

Was he pointing to Father Mikhail? I decided to dig a bit deeper into childhood of moi laskovij dedushka.

Father Mikhail’s Childhood

Once I said to Father Mikhail that I was curious to know why his children and his wife had never spilled a single word about his parents, about The Sirotins, the seniors, and how he got his last name “Sirotin” that stemmed from word “Sirota” – “Orphan.” Was Father Mikhail an orphan or abandoned infant, and the last name “Sirotin” was invented during registration for the Christianizing ceremony?

Grandfather confirmed that there was a thing that prompted this last name, but he was not found under the cabbage in the monastery vegetable garden, because the story of his birth was very simple. He observed with some hellish curiosity, if I would continue writing down what he had to say. I did! And he continued his story.

“I was conceived outside the law, in the church. A drunk young man desecrated a nun who gave birth to the unwanted child. I grew up in a monastery as the son of a drunken janitor. According to rumors, his wife had died in childbirth – birthing me, the gadenish, “the bag of misery,” or “unholy creature, birthed by snake-type inhabitants of hell.”

“Do you know who was your father?”

“Who would tell me this? They told that this was a passing by traveler, a stranger. But why she, the nun, my mother, did not tell me the truth? What she was afraid of? Gossip said that my alleged “mother’s” death because of me had broken the janitor’s heart. Bullshit, he had no heart.”

“Did someone pay for your upbringing?”

“I had no idea. But my so called “father” was always drunk, maybe someone did pay him for keeping his mouth shut. I grew up in muddy environment being beaten constantly. In that situation, my only way out was to become an altar boy. And this was my only education I ever had. And observing priests, I learned the church language and how the priests conducted the sermons. The janitor got rid of me at the very first opportunity when an army recruit showed up in our city. Janitor introduced me to him, saying that my dream was to become a soldier to protect our tsar and otechestvo – the land of our fathers.

“The same day, I was taken into an army can for rookies, and both men proceeded to the kabak to celebrate the opportunity to turn some government money into a vodka feast. What do you want from me? This was how I became a priest after my discharge from army, as all I learned in my life was how to conduct church sermons.”

“In your astral world, did you meet your mother?”

“Yes, I found her here, and I marked her with an eternal curse, and promised to tell the world about her shame…”

“What was her name?”

“Do not dig too deep into this shit.”

“I am sorry to hear it. Why did you curse your mother? Cursing her, you cursed your children and grandchildren, and your entire family! My brother and me too, your grand-grandson and his lovely daughters… As Bible says about cursing…”

Suddenly I felt my blood boiling, I was his granddaughter after all! Strange words started to flow out of my mouth!

“I think, you know your father’s name, and you curse aristocrats and nobility, because your real father, the stranger, the passing traveler, rejected his paternity, and later, when your mother, seeking better life for you, met that man and pointed out on too obvious resemblance between your father and you, what that coward did? This similarity did not soften your real father’s empty noble heart. He accused your mother in harassment. And you never forgave neither your father, nor your mother that they had abandoned you, and now you try to keep your kids so close to you as possible. Your pain made you keep them home against their will, my God! Now I can see why you were doing this? Times change, changing us as well. Let your kids fly out of the nest into their adult lives.”

“It is easy for you, being so much younger than me, to teach me! You are impolite, to begin with!”

“Impolite? You better ask – how did your curses had ruined my life? I tell you how! I cannot remember my mother, who grow up in the atmosphere of your curses and fights hugging or kissing me at least once in my childhood. But I remember her shouts, full of irritation. They suggested that I was not smart enough, not quick enough, did everything wrong, she instilled this in me. My brother Vsevo told me once, that the cascades of evil shouts at home made him think that this was the normal way how people communicate at home. Strange, he was the Sirotin’s favorite, but suffered more than I did. Once he asked, when I lived already in California, and he was visiting from Estonia, if he seems completely normal to me? He said that he cannot get rid from idea that everybody else was better than him.”

“Stop it, it is silly to think so!” I interrupted him. My brother was and is now nearing 80, a good-looking man, he did not become alcoholic or user, he kept steady job up to his retirement. He was married twice, was liked by women, his hobbies included mountain skiing. Today, nearing age 80, he still comes every year to USA to ski in Colorado skiing resorts. How did he come to conclusion that he was worse than others? But time to time the dark shadow of his grandfather’s curses were crossing his face revealing hidden nameless fears nesting in his heart, and blocking his real potential.

I said to my brother that I was thinking about myself the same thing, until America healed me from low self-esteem in most peculiar ways. Arriving to this country, I worked a year as a receptionist in a dry-cleaning enterprise. Tons of people brought their stuff for cleaning, paid in advance, and then arrived to pick it up. My work day lasted from 8 am to 10 pm. During the day, I had barely time to sit down to rest. I saw and talked to a lot of people. My English improved, and along the way, I noticed that having the same question in mind, I was examining the clients and waiting to meet an ideal person who did not have any psychological problems. But I never met one! All people had their problems, everyone had problems. An Armenian was convinced that a spot was left on his shirt because he was an Armenian national! I asked him, if he had put a stamp on his shirt “I am an Armenian national”, how the cleaners would otherwise know to leave a spot on his shirt? A lady without any specific national features, asked her money back for spots before examining her cleaned dresses. To cut long story short, I assured my brother Vsevo that there were no ideal people, some were hilariously limited, some stingy, some pretended to be stupid, some were conniving, some demanded a discount harassing me with comparison our prices with prices of the previous owner of this business, some were dying from self-importance, and a local priest was busy keeping holiness of his image submitting for cleaning his pants and underwear. Nevertheless, all together they were nice and funny crowd that healed me from my fear that I was worse than them! But if they get it out of me completely?

Once I was paid $150 for translation of couple of pages an easy text – from English to Russian, and I could not believe that I got so much money for so little work. Was I normal? And then I recalled that my mother used to mention with pride that she had never read a book in her life! Now I knew that this “pride” of despising reading came from her father, the priest! In my Estonia, I became a decent journalist and film critic pressing my entire life through hostile home environment that despised people who read books. Today, facing transition to the next world, I am still afraid to ask money for my books, as if it would burn my fingers. The “pride” of living by his own mind and refusing to read was, no doubt, the worst hellish shadow left by moi laskivij dedushka to hover above our family. It had power of an invisible stone wall that I had to break through alone. Today I am 84 and I am still not done with the issue. The members of the camp of my maternal ancestry explain me tirelessly who is who in family, some do it from behind their graves… Probably, this was how my karma was humbling me.

Sex in the Monastery

The spirit dialogue with my grandfather continued… He was angry and recollection of the past seemed to hurt him badly 

We took a short break in our conversation, and then Father Mikhail continued.

“You asked about sexual assaults in the Russian Orthodox Church. It was there, but I will not talk about it.”

“How many altar boys served during the church sermons?”

“There were two of us, Petya and I. Petya did not say anything to me, but, in my opinion, he succumbed to the temptation in hope to improve his life, and probably he achieved his goal. He was fed better than me. By the evening time, he was summoned somewhere, and he returned home at the dawn. He used to grumble and he did not look me into the eyes. Sometimes he shared a pie with me. And if they gave him more food to bring home, it happened that I got a chicken leg as well, it went down like a heavenly treat.”

“How the Petya came into picture, was he an orphan, or also a “gadenish”?

“Do not ask me about him, his end was terrible. He was beaten to death by drank priests for being a gay, or for not keeping his mouth shut.”

In the monastery, altar boys were not entitled for vodka, but when the servants of God became drunk, they were pouring vodka violently down of our throats. It was how I became an alcoholic.

“During this type of feasts did you leave the nuns alone, or if they leaved the altar boys alone?”

“I would not say so. When nuns were drunk, they called us to themselves. And it seemed to me that they did not pray as they should. But this was not my concern. I saw there everything, so I got full sex education in the church environment.”

“Who were the nuns by social affiliation, from what social stratum did they appear?”

“Oftentimes, they were penniless orphans and widows, who came for the monastery for roof and daily bread. I was still small, and did not know much about such things. But sometimes something slipped through their gossip talks.  Once, a drunken merchant was robbed and murdered by nuns. They buried the body, but not deep enough. I remember clearly, when at the spring time the snow started to melt, the corpse’s body parts surfaced becoming visible, after rain that white washed them. The involved monastics disappeared from the monastery. Our town was small but life was boiling in it. Merchants brought any kind of merchandise to sell, to trade, to resell and this attracted people to market places. I could not stand the merchants, I hated this rude, drunk and cynical crowd, but nevertheless, I did not realize that slowly I was becoming like them – cynical rude, a Russian drunkard!”

“Sometimes I think about Vysotsky, if he was beaten in his childhood, then there is nothing to be surprised that he had become who he is today in the afterlife. Beating children is a crime, I know, I passed it. My “papa”, the janitor, who hit me regularly was a retired Cossack.  He was redheaded with cockroach-brown whiskers, and instead of “daddy”, I called him “the f… cockroach” – of course in my mind, or behind his back. He was a cruel man, he beat because when he got drunk he felt sorry for himself, and he did not beat me, because I did something wrong, but because he needed to pour his anger on someone.

“Whether there were animals in that monastery, children love animals, and animals love children, did you have some animal friend in your years in that monastery?

“Of course, there were any kind of animals, I liked horses and learned to ride a horse. Later, in my army years it turned to be a very useful skill.”

“Did army paid you some salary, did it help you?”

“Yes, I should put some pennies aside, but I did not do it, of course! Some squandered their salary playing cards, I treated so called friends for drinks and drinking parties. And it was a fun, the only fun I had in life. Army years were my only joyous years of my life.”

“Father Michael, how was your personal relationship with God?”

“I served God, but I did not believe in God! Instead, I believed in the existence of hell, as I had seen it, being drunk.”

“Did you crave for a real friend?”

“Of course, everyone does! But I had no friends, it did not work out, I scared off people with my fury and hatred, because I could not contain my boiling anger in my heart. It was always buzzing in me … And the older I got, the louder the buzz became. I have never met aristocrats personally, but I understand your question.”

“And how did you manage with nuns?”

“Well, we celebrated holidays together, and when they got drunk, things happened. I said that I saw everything especially on Easter feasts. There I saw things that a child was not supposed to witness. They did not hide anything, they said, learn, you may need it in future. None of them believed in God whom they served. The church folks were always drunk and thievish. I thought it would be better in Estonia, but nothing came of Estonia either.”

Jose Martines

Jose Martines, the spirit helper who showed up to be part of Father Michael’s healing team, couldn’t boast with parental support either. Disagreements with family’s way of life made him leave home and face his financial challenges alone. Somehow his story echoed Father Mikhail’s one. Both Russian army and American army discharged their heroes on the streets. But comparison of Mikhail’s and Jose’s stories forms the interesting juxtaposition of passive and active approach in search of solution what to do, if you are abandoned, penniless, without any prospects for future. The Russian man without faith in heart became angry cursing alcoholic and a priest in name only. He used up his observations as an altar boy, how priests conducted the church sermons, and imitating the priests, became the priest himself. The American man, Jose story will unfold below.

Once, in a hot summer day in year 2017, I was uploading to my computer some photos of Oxnard beach and beautiful residential area nearby, where I had spent a week seeking refuge from July heat. Suddenly I felt presence of a spirit who wanted a word with me. It was spirit of Jose Martines who said that he was attracted by these photos of houses where he was supposed to live, but instead he winded up in a cheap match-box apartment in LA Downtown. After honorable discharge from army, Jose found himself penniless and alone in LA.

“We, the Korean veterans, were neglected and thrown on the streets as kittens. I know that you did not like much the film “The Best Years of Our Lives,” but this film was about me from A to Z. And the film got Oscar, and it was a fair award. I know that you think differently, but it was my film, and my time.”

I tried to chirp in my meager sorry for being not too excited of the film “The Best Years of our lives” because of misuse of a real wartime invalid’s powerful image for inventing a politically correct, and in my mind, unethical ending of the film. But my sorry provoked only more irritation in him.

“No one can get that pain, Eetla, the Estonian psychic who introduced us on earth, helped me to overcome the thoughts about suicide. The worst was meeting Scientology people, they wanted Eetla to work for them as well, and there we met, and became friends. She refused their offer, and she was my only moral support, when I decided to commit suicide. She saved my life. Instead of killing myself, I started to heal and teach others and it helped me. One day, Eetla sent you to see me for getting some advice how to survive in the status of an immigrant. You were like dark forest, you knew nothing, but you turned to be a fast learner. But you were short-tempered, you could yell and shout and I grew tired from cleaning the same thing that you attracted with your nasty and senseless anger outbreaks. You felt it and disappeared. Nevertheless, you were invited to the celebration of my 60th birthday. But I died before the time from, of course, overdose. I already celebrated with that son of the bitch, mister X from Chicago, the white guy who was lazy and was not able to keep any job in Los Angeles. He was your friend as well, he was interested in your that time so hapless astrology, now it is so much better, but you already do way more interesting things. OK I have talked a lot. You saw, how I lived in my Downtown studio, washing 10 times a day my toilet after every client who went to shit there. You were an exception, you did not run in my clean WC, you respected what you respected, I liked you for this. Look, did you really can see something?”

“I have no idea, let me look.”

“Work, gal…”

I could not believe what I saw.

“My God, Jose, you had poison, a poison liquid in your kitchen shelf, and you could add it in any cup you wanted, in my cup, for instance, as well!”

“So, you get it! You found my euthanasia kit with poison. Eetla got it for me to commit suicide. But changing my mind, I did not toss it away. I kept it in case, if they come to arrest me for drug possession. But how do I live, what do you think? I got drugs from Mexico, I bought my share and sold it to my clientele, and one day I overdosed myself for all my sins.  …I had no idea that you get it so soon and so easy. Yes, you, get things.”

“You were bold enough to sell drugs under the nose of police, and probably, there were enough neighbors who reported that too many guests were milling around your apartment. When you overdosed, did they find money in your matrass?”

“It was stupid, I was rich, but pretended to be poor, and I should give you some money and connections, but I was not sure, if you were ready to clean some apartments. You did it later, and I regretted… I was not sure how to talk to you, and what to offer you.”

“You told once that you murdered 3 or 4 people leaving no traces behind, when you, out of desperation, accepted Scientology offer to work for them punishing people for leaving the Scientology establishment or refusing to pay what they owned to this “healing” organization?

“I killed more, about ten of them, and my work was traceless. I simply cut their silver cords, as I could walk out of my body freely, any minute, if this was needed. In all these cases, the heart attack was officially named as cause of sudden deaths. But then I started thinking what was I doing, and I started looking what else I could do for living… I was afraid to give away money, I should do that, but my stinginess was my problem, like it is the problem for many people from poor family, like yourself… Let’s work with stinginess for the starters…

“I do not know how to work with your stinginess, when I look at your future, all I see is that in your next incarnation in New York, you become a standup comedian. You will be good and you will be film actor.

“Stop it, stinginess is the enemy, work with my stinginess!

At that time, I was not able to help him. But still, time to time Jose showed up on my horizon, like in case of healing Father Mikhail, as if feeling some connection to the lonely soul of that sinner.

Yes, there might be a connection, both were left alone and helpless in society at young age. But the reactions to the same problems were so different, and so much depending on “the nation’s idea about itself!” It may determine how an individual will behave in their destiny’s pivotal situations. Later, this discovery made me write an article of degradation of Russian egregore, and its impact on the image of Russians.

St. Seraphim found me and asked again, if I would be interested in healing not so shiny souls, but ones who dwell in the lower levels of the astral world. “I have my list of souls who need help, and I know, you have your list of such souls. But are you ready to continue healing? «Придется копаться в жуткой грязи, уродством, порождением злобой, завистью, ревностью»! –

“We will deal with terrible dirt birthed by anger, envy and jealousy. Can you handle this? Think before you answer.”

“Let me try out one more healing of Father Mikhail, and I learn, if I can digest what a healer must digest in such cases, maybe I am already too old and sick for this kind of free work!”

 

Reconciliation in the Astral World

One More Healing of Father Mikhail

It took place on January 10th, 2018, soon after I had written down Father Mikhail’s childhood stories. I declared that the theme of the healing would be search of thought forms reflecting the beating him as a child by his tormentor, the monastery janitor whom he called behind his back “the cockroach.”

As always, I started with prayer, asking help and protection from the Mikhail’s guardians. However, what was shown to me exceeded all my expectations proving one more time that our guides chose healing goal for a healer, not healer’s mental speculations. Instead of beating scenes, my third eye stood passive and in pitch darkness behind my closed eyes I heard the quiet cry of a baby.

Was someone crying behind the window? But people never stopped on our clean streets for a talk or rest, there were no benches for sitting there and letting babies cry. Nevertheless, the sound of a baby’s cry became louder. Suddenly, my “third eye” vision lit up, and I saw a country bed. The stretched hands of a nun were holding a crying baby: a newly born was taken away from the woman in the bed. The cry became heart breaking. I, who stopped crying decades ago, broke into tears watching how the baby was taken away from the nun who had given birth for her son, conceived in sin according to the Church believes at a time.

The visions about Father Mikhail’s early ages continued to flow. Now the baby’s cry came from the monastery’s large and so old-fashioned kitchen. The naked child was stretched out on a meat cutting table on a rag next to a milk jar. A joyful nun, pacifying baby with quiet lullaby, poured some milk into saucer. In one deft movement, she tore a piece of cloth from the rag on the table, wrapped crumbs of bread in it, dabbed the bread roll into milk and popped it into the mouth of a screaming baby. The child fell silent for a moment, and when it began to cry again, a new piece of torn cloth appeared in the hands of the merry nun, and the process of feeding the child in the monastery kitchen continued.

A pair of blackish eyes stopped joyful nun’s lullaby. Baby was packed fast into the remains of the rag beneath him and the bundle moved from kitchen table onto greedy hands of a man in janitor’s typical uniform. Then he saw a pack of money on the table… The janitor put the bundle with the baby back on the kitchen table, and sunk into money counting pleasure. Often wetting with saliva his right hand’s big and pointing fingers, he decided to recount the unusually thick pack of rubles. Then he put this pack into his pocket and started to move away from the table.

“You forgot something,” said the ironic voice of an older nun who appeared from nowhere. Janitor returned and pick up the baby who lifted its eyes and meeting janitor’s face started to cry hysterically.

Was it shown me exactly as I described it here, or it was my imagination that finished the description of this exiting transaction in the monastic kitchen? I was emotionally involved in my “3rd eye video” to this extent that there was no way to separate one from the other… Maybe I must to determine for myself, in what genre this story would unfold? In Bangsian style, or by rules of supernatural fiction, like some ghost story?

Suddenly, the colorful waves started to multiple, filling the healing space – my “third eye” space, or the 4D space, where we were allowed to train our imagination, so crucial to have it in afterlife. A strange voice told.

“You would see as much rolls in your healing space, as you saw empty alcohol bottles during your previous healing.” The same voice added.

“The time for this cleansing is over. Please, close the session and take some rest.”

“But what about the “cockroach” whom I was supposed to whip today?”

“He was not a reason, but rather a consequence of circumstances!”

OK, I have imagination, I know it. But now I ask, what would happen, if I allow my imagination move forward into future of this soul, and seek an answer to the question, if the day would come, and he would reconcile with his mother, how it may look?

My imagination obliged, the scenes of reconciliation of Father Mikhail and his mother started to prop up in my mind involuntarily.

A Road Ahead 

Yes, the day arrived, when Father Mikhail, now in spirit, took the ride toward monastery N, now the astral copy of once an earthy monastery where he was born. At the entrance gate, he asked about the nun named Vera and received a suspiciously swift answer that none of their monastics were ever been called Vera, in English – Faith!

“Is she still alive?” – was Father Mikhail’s next question, as the fierce denial of the existence of the nun named Vera means for him exactly the opposite. He assumed that they had expelled her from their ranks and decided not to talk about her. The icy look of the nun at the gate told him that if he would not be aided by share luck, he will return home empty handed.

From afar, a cart loaded with empty metal cans was rushing toward the gate. The metal surfaces beat against each other producing sound of timpani in a modern orchestra where ardent drummers beat them with a reason or without it, as if keeping the melody from sounding too simple and old fashioned for ears of contemporary folks. The nun at the entrance gate stopped the driver, and said to Father Mikhail that this carriage can give him a free ride to the city, to the church near the University.

“They want to get rid of me and my questions as soon as possible, something is fishy here,” thought Father Mikhail and soon enough found himself examining the crowd of the beggars who had positioning themselves on concrete porch around the church, as it was a custom to do down there during centuries.

нищенка и девочка в розовом

… He recognized Vera immediately despite her being cloaked as a very poor commoner. As other beggars, she was begging for living, sitting on the cold concrete porch next to the legless cripple on the cusps. They seemed to be well acquainted, because time to time they exchanged a quiet word or two.

Father Mikhail found a bench near flowerbed across the church and being sure that busy Vera will not recognize him, sat to look what would happen next.

The church bells started to buzz inviting the parishioners to attend the evening sermon. And as the believers were moving toward church entrance, the coins and sometimes paper bills were falling into beggars’ outstretched hands or into cups set on the ground next to them.

When the flow of parishioners started to thin, out of the church appeared a young and joyous nun in professional outfit that looks familiar to Father Mikhail. She was heading straight toward Vera, and it looked that Vera was waiting for her. She produced from her professional uniform a sparkling bottle of vodka, and stretched it toward smiling Vera. It was a professional exchange. Vera surrendered two bowls, hers and the crippled one’s to nun, and both bowls disappeared in depth of her gown. It turned out that they were begging for funds to repairing the monastery. Now as they had given money away, they had free time, and they could enjoy a drink or two of sparkling vodka. The legless cripple was rubbing his hands joyfully.

But suddenly Vera, looking young in astral world, as if years had no impact on her, was looking straight forward at a man on the garden bench across, froze, and then whispered, probably intending her words to the crippled man.

“Go away, my son has come to see me!”

“I will better stay,” he answered. “A presence of a witness never hurts.”

Father Michael looked absent minded, lost. Maybe he regretted coming so far. But the presence of the crippled man was holding him glued to the bench. Vera recognized him, and his plan to slip away unnoticed would not do anymore.

“Follow me,” — Vera waved her hand to Father Mikhail, pointing in direction of uncut bushes on the back side of the church.

Vera with sparkling bottle of vodka in her hand, was leading the group, and crippled man on his cusps were closing the rank, as if guarding the priest in case, if he would suddenly change his mind and attempt to escape!

The wild bushes formed a gazebo-like area with a small table and two simple garden benches. Vera picked from the ground some used paper cups, washed them under garden watering hose and proudly placed them on the table. The cripple had already opened the vodka bottle, and Vera poured equal amount of transparent liquid in cups. She said, “Na zdorovye!” – “For your health,” or “Bottoms up!” and swallowed her portion of vodka without hesitation, as a person used to down a gulp of strong alcohol without the snack. The other followed the suite.

Nobody could produce a single word. There was silence. Crippled looked aside. Vera poured the second help of transparent liquid into cups. And they downed it again wordlessly. Father Mikhail looked at the crippled with vexation. The latter looked again aside but did not leave the scenery.  No one had a word to say. Vera poured the third cup of vodka into cups.

Father Mikhail get it down, put cup back on the garden table, an old one, washed by so many rains for so long years that it has swelled, crumbled, and had decorative green moss spots here and there.

“Forgive me!” pressed Father Mikhail through his frozen lips.

The crippled threw up his huge brown eyes, suddenly burning, with a glow of unearthly light of forgiveness, and then he lowered them again, looking aside.

Father Mikhail asked suddenly, “Zhivesh to kak?” – “How are you doing?”

Vera smiled.

“I am fine. You saw, I am now a somebody, I raise money for reconstruction monastery church. I help Vanya, you see, he gets more money than I do, but he cannot get anything from store being legless. So, I take care of him. Now I have someone to exchange a word, to talk. He never rebuked me, did not shame me, he’s a good man. And you came along. I am now OK!  You will be OK as well.”