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.”