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.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Meditation on Gogol in Afterlife

Gogol portrait

Nikolai Gogol (1809-1852). Quotes

“I am who I am and that’s who I am.”

“The longer and more carefully we look at a funny story, the sadder it becomes.”

“We have the marvelous gift of making everything insignificant.”

“There are occasions when a woman, no matter how weak and impotent in character she may be in comparison with a man, will yet suddenly become not only harder than any man, but even harder than anything and everything in the world.”

“…nothing could be more pleasant than to live in solitude, enjoy the spectacle of nature, and occasionally read some book…”

“They don’t listen to me, they don’t hear me, they don’t see me.”

“Countless as the sands of the sea are human passions.”

“But wise is the man who disdains no character, but with searching glance explores him to the root and cause of all.”

Good Reads Collection of quotes from The Dead Souls, The Mad Man’s Diary and Gogol’s Short Stories.

The Author’s Note. During Gogol’s life, his works were translated in Czechoslovakian, German, Polish, French, Sweden, Serbian and English languages. During the following 160 years, this list has expanded including Italian, Japanese, Chinese, Greece, Finnish, Norway, Persian, and Arabic languages. The formerly named countries have presented new versions of translations of Gogol’s works. Marc Chagall created 96 etchings to illustrate “The Les Âmes mortes (Dead Souls), the French publication, 1948. A copy of this edition is kept by MoMA, New York — collection.

Meditation on Gogol’s Spirit Heart

My meditation is in full swing. In the purple light of the “Third Eye” area, I see a black marble slab, a stand for a sculpture trending in the 60’s. It depicting a hand with long thin fingers typical of a man born under the auspices of the constellation of Pisces. This was how the otherworldly forces showed the Writer’s afterlife. His name is Nikolai Gogol, he is a Russian Ukrainian-born writer who reached immortality by the deceptive simplicity of his stories and merciless laugh at the cost of his characters and their miserable spiritual aspirations, as if dictated by the Russian national soul always chastising itself for indulging the weaknesses of its favorite creatures. Or maybe I was given a hint that Gogol’s unforgettable characters were written more by the master’s mind, his pitiless eye than the voice of his heart? His Akaki Akakievich the shy, quiet clerk from “The Overcoat,” a complete nobody, the hand-copier of documents in an important office in the icy capital of Imperial Russia, Saint Petersburg. This smallish minion put pennies aside during a decade or longer dreaming about a warm overcoat. Finally, he showed off his overcoat at work, and lost it the same day being robbed on a cold and dark and windy street returning home from a theater. He attended the theatre out of fear to vex with declining bosses invitation, as the custom was to keep the boss company during +his theatrical outings.
Or Gogol’s immortal character – Chichikov from “The Dead Souls”, who visited provincial landlords and buying cheaply their dead serfs. The transfer of these names onto his list of serfs would build the impression in Saint Petersburg of being a rich landlord. It would imply automatically the ownership of big land and grant unlimited loans that would make our swindler rich! Of course, this plan of Chichikov would never materialize… By the way, during 2016 presidential election, one party accused the other one of adding to their voters’ lists the names of the dead voters, I forgot which party was the perpetrator, and which one was the whistler-blower.

Chichikov

From Alami collection of illusratins to “Dead Souls”. “The Dead Souls’ hero Chichikov 

The meditation continues. The weak light of candles breaks barely through heavy darkness of the evening sermon in an empty astral church, the orthodox choir’s sweet chants are softening the feel of gloom, but the Tsarist Gate** covered by Byzantine classic, strict and so minimalist icons of saints in richly gilded frames, probably to empress the poor, was tightly closed emanating waves of unease and secrecy.

My concentration was dissipating. I started my prayer beckoning the golden light to see the upper chakras… What I was hoping to see in the world beyond where past, present and future merge into something that we would never understand completely, and be always left with more questions than venturing out into meditation? Was I thinking clearly when was asking for a look at Gogol’s chakras who was already in spirit! Nevertheless, the golden ray seemed to oblige, as it gave me picture of a non-existing chakra. Was Almighty golden light improvising, or it had reproduced these chakras from Writer’s past on earth? Whatever it was, in my third eye, there were picture of Gogol’s chakras. The golden ray encounters a thin, impenetrable shell around the “spiritual heart” of the spirit. Can it be that instead of a picture of the real heart, I saw the picture of Gogol’s spiritual heart?  Does it exist? Either the access to Gogol’s problems was denied to me, or I was getting off the right track made available to me by my guides? I decide to follow the direction where ever it would lead me.

Unexpectedly, I find myself at the throat chakra, or rather, at the slice of this chakra – given as a picture of a cream fancy collar on portraits of Hispanic or Venetian grandees. Out of the neckline of the luxurious garments, a fine corrugated collar was falling onto their shoulders. But, alas, the edges of this magnificent “collar” were burnt and looked like the net of thin channels, clogged and burned. The channels became blocked to the energy coming from outer space.

Writer’s biographers testify that at the end of his short earthly path the Writer complained that what was coming through was not exactly what he was looking for, in other words he was speaking about the writer’s block. … I remember reading about the famous writer’s crisis in my youth, I perceived these complaints as coquetry of a genius. The harsh era of the proletarian dictatorship with its postulates of Marxism clouded not only my perception. Even at school, children were taught that “Dead Souls” are “social criticism of the landlord class”. Then, on the eve of Gorbachev’s Perestroika, more advanced readers appeared, as a gift from behind the cordon, a collection of lectures on Gogol read by Nabokov in America that did not exist for us. The author of “Lolita” and “The Gift” claimed quite different. In other words, Nabokov reevaluated the Gogol’s aesthetics, and as a result, the splendid writer became again fashionable and re-readable by that part of the Russian advanced literature loving public which dictated hard (way harder than in America) what to read and what to ignore.

And it happened exactly when the Soviet government, to the astonishment of the whole world collapsed overnight. Not a single tear was shed over that collapse, and the red “knizhechki” – covers of membership in the CPSU, were amicably returned to the party committees throughout the country. Today, the faithful descendants of the cowardly and thievish heroes of The Dead Souls had forgotten their unanimous zeal of renouncing Communism. While continuing to plunder the country, they accuse Gorbachev of betrayal, and are pining for Stalin’s strong hand. Well, we truly are the family of Bobchinskys and Dobchenskys, Chichikovs and Hlestakovs, the Gogol’s heroes.

But I who meditate have been distracted, let continue! …The mystical scissors in my astral hand were gently cutting the charred edge of the “collar”. Now I see the net of thin channels running from throat chakra, the “control panel” of communication, down to the heart chakra with the tender Vedic name Anahata. Here I see a withered hand and an elongated jar with dried jam on the bottom. The hand barely enters it the sleeve touching the inside wall of the can. Thin fingers, twisted with rheumatism, long lost their former flexibility and dexterity, try to extract from the dry brownish jam something like fly or spider. Probably, once this preserve was fresh and attractive, and exuded the smell of forest berries … I ask for more light, and I see that it was not a spider but Egyptian Scarab that I found in the astral vision of Gogol’s heart chakra.

I break out of mediation and jump to my computer, the source of our superficial knowledge about everything. The Internet explains: “Scarab is a symbol of the Egyptian god Keper, the deity of the Sun, who rolls the Sun’s globe across the sky. It was a symbol of rebirth. On some mummies heart were put ‘heart scarabs’ as a sign of rebirth. ”

Alternative names of this insect god are Khepera, Khepra, Khepri, Khopri, Kheprer, or Chepera. The Scarab was the most potent symbol of the ancient Egypt, primarily symbolizing the sun, resurrection, transformation and protection. It was also the symbol of immortality and rebirth. And scarab amulets and talismans, carved from valuable stones, were buried with mummies. www.landofpyramids.org/khepri.htm.

skarab 1

I return to meditation. In that jar, fingers release the scarab, and the black beetle smoothly sinks back to the bottom of the jar, which – at least for me – personifies the Gogol’s mummy. Once, the spirit of Marlene Dietrich, while I was working on the manuscript of “Prisoners of Fame,” talked about her conviction that Gogol’s souls and hers originate from the same batch of aliens who were sent to help earthlings in their development. She personally did not meet Gogol, as they lived in different centuries, different countries, served different cultures. Nevertheless, Marlene Dietrich’s surprising claim regarding resemblance of their faces is obvious. Where they both coming from the same stock of aliens? Yuktesvar said, “Hard to confirm, easy to deny, but I would not, because in spirit world everything is possible!”

similarity of two faces
Marlene believes that Gogol and she stem from one bunch of aliens sent to advance earth development

Maybe eons ago, an earthling or alien who loved the soul that evolved into Gogol, put on “heart” of his mummy, maybe at the last minute of the burial ceremony, a scarab to guard the deceased in the land of the dead! Who was that someone whom Gogol’s soul hold so dear that he still had not found his soulmate? Why I did let the scarab to sink back to the bottom of the jar? Maybe I was supposed to do the opposite, threw the scarab into the cosmic dump of useless memories and rid Gogol of this annoying reminder of someone who once stole his soul? But was it my duty to judge? In short, the scarab returned to the mummy to guard it from earthly accidental attachments.

I listen to the silence. It looks like Gogol’s angels have not much to say…  However, I was spoken to anyway! My spirit helpers encouraged me to continue. They invited me to help to ease Gogol’s “walking cloud” from some heaviness caused by the negative images that were “archived” in his spiritual heart.  There were pyramids, desert, hot sand and guilt observing slaves who were doomed to work under the scorching sun.

For a medium turned into an untrained healer this was not an easy job. For the starters, I had to get rid from the feeling of exorbitant gravity that aroese automatically only thinking about the pyramids!  How to let go such images? I was advised in my mind to transfer the images of “real pyramids” into two-dimensional pictures — sketched, or painted, or photographed pyramids on any kind of paper, whatever – newspaper, photopaper, electronic screen image, illustrative images in books or magazines — whatever comes first into your mind. Then play with the pyramid, throw it in the air, turn the other side, make it bigger, smaller, color it into different colors… Finally , then set an imaginary bonfire into your room, and threw your imaginary pictures with pyramids into fire, and burn it to ashes, then put out the flames of your bonfire. It is important, because your mental images will attract a lot of similar images from the universe. When they accumulate enough, they will find a way to materialize.

The spontaneous cleansing continued until I saw the clean blue water, from which rises … an emerald green gentle hue, a very light and pure steam of cardiac energy. Was the Gogol’s spirit heart purified? Who was the healing angel who did the job using me for establishing contact with earth energies?

Now I found myself in the same empty church. The long evening sermon was still in progress. I saw a young handsome deacon. Maybe once, a forbidden gay love blossomed under the roof of this church, or it was shown to me for no reason at all. The Russian Orthodox Church choir’s singing was sweeter than ever.

The Tsar’s Gates to the altar started to open. But in place of the altar, there was a mountain of sarcophagi … in some of them there were mummies, or rather, what was left of them after eons of undisturbed rest? I was looking for more scarabs, but was not able to detect them.  Do I need them to connect past and present times as  a symbol of eternal renewal of life through the power of motherhood?

pyramid 2

The Internet article http://www.landofpyramids.org/khepri.htm explain:

“The life of the scarab beetle revolved around the dung balls that were eaten by the beetles, they laid their eggs in the dung balls, and fed their young on the content. The dung ball of the scarab. When the eggs hatched, the scarab beetle would appear from nowhere to be a symbol of spontaneous creation, resurrection, and transformation.”

The image of motherhood, mother, too close to be compared with anything, and completely incomprehensible to understand, is too often inspiring fear, guilt and sometimes pure madness! Here it is, this thin and impenetrable veil around the heart, the veil of fear of the incomprehensibility of earthly motherhood. There is a desire to be accepted by the simple earthly life, and clear understanding that it is impossible without the plunge into the vulgarity of existence what leads to the eternal question “to be or not to be?” Or it would be safer to escape back to the astral life, as soon as possible. Or this problem can be resolved by developing aversion toward a woman, or women who once offered him eternal love demanding confirmations in form of forced vows and promises. Can these vows be broken, or can this way bought freedom be marred by guilt and faintheartedness forever?

How to accept being a reject for all these governors’ spouses, their daughters* wearing so provincial pink bows all over their dresses and coiffures? How to tolerate being a refuse in the eyes of all these invincible whores and prostitutes, whose spirit cannot be broken, as they do not have one, or it seems so! Is the suffering for broken vows to carry flames of the eternal love through eons justified? Maybe Scarab has been mistaken, and motherhood does not stand for spirituality at all, as it stands literally for making new bodies for renewal life? So they say! I think that new bodies are too often made for suffering called evolvement! I hope to be wrong!

Probably, only the idea of immaculate conception can solve this riddle … And was it our church that has established this image? Or it stemmed from the deep – from the prehistoric mythology – where the forever immaculate goddesses give birth to the heroes from ears, nostrils, moths, armpits… until the great image of Mother Mary’s immaculate conception, her spotless sinless life was born and glorified by the church, literature, music and paintings that confirmed repeatedly Mother Mary immaculate and incomprehensible, and holy conception of The Savior of humanity Jesus Christ. Because otherwise neither we nor the gods will evolve or rise, if holiness of birth would be not confirmed against all odds… Do not start me listing these odds that try to overrule this most universal principle of holiness of life. You knew them by heart, wars, revolutions, poverty, partners are not equal socially (Theodore Dreiser’s “An American Tragedy”), too young for birthing, sinful conception, if mother was not married (Goethe’s Faust, Shakespearian bustards’ characters). The image of the Holy Virgin seems to address all of them defending life itself… maybe doing our part in this defense line starts with a simple thing – acceptance mother who gave us life!

Virgin Mary Russian icon

Raise not to demand anything from your mother, but do not lift her image above the height established by the holy image of Mother Mary.

Recognize the effort to create a new body – put it above yourself, Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Saint John and the other Gospel writers. Let her remain blameless, whatever she was, beautiful or ugly, thin or plump, rich or poor, clean or a filthy woman, smart or stupid, educated or uneducated, refined or a rude, called a whore, or exalted as a goddess. The time comes when you will let her go! She gave body to you, and now is your turn to give her freedom back. Acknowledge that charging her with this and that you are clinging to her, expecting to take care of you forever! Do not blame her, do not judge her, the only thing you have to do, is letting her go free! If you do so, you may discover that stopping judgment made you free as well! You are freer than ever! Your heart will open to the boundless love, universal love that suffices all, and to which no living soul is deprived… Let go of the mother’s hand, do not cling to it, when you shout to her, leave me in peace … And she will smile at you, and disappear, simply slip out from her secret life where you have no place and never will, because her life, her destiny is not yours … She gave your body, now honor her freedom. And you will get rid of terrible loneliness, from a painful condition to be misunderstood. Life will shine to you with all its wonderful and terrible colors – your life! And you will find in it the Creator, the one to whom you owe your existence!

While cleaning the sarcophagi from the church, someone accidentally pushed the jar, it fell and crashed, and the scarab disappeared.

The darkness begins to dissipate. I see Gogol in a white nightgown, with a rope around his neck being unhappy with himself, his life, his unfulfilled obligations. I’m calling the most strange and terrible of all his creatures, Viy, and I order him to remove this rope from Gogol’s neck. But this is not Viy who appears.

Jesus Christ appears in that church. He embraces Gogol. The light of Jesus Christ the Savior removes the dust of terrible sarcophagi from Gogol, the pain of the burial of dead and alive slaves, the otherworldly beautiful mother’s authority over him, his strange love for the ugly images from which the heroes of his “Dead Souls” are woven, the impossibility to open his spiritual heart to unconditional love to embrace the world as it is given to him, as it unfolds his destiny.

Christ touches his heart: the protective shell around Gogol’s spiritual heart breaks and the light pours out of his heart. Jesus takes him to Christianity as a brother, as a son, as a grandson, as a human being, as a child of Almighty God.

My chakras close themselves. The church rests in quietude. The words dry out. The quiet, peaceful light streams through the church cupola down on us washing away fear and restlessness.

For a medium turned into an untrained healer this was not an easy job. For the starters, I had to get rid from the feeling of exorbitant gravity that aroese automatically only thinking about the pyramids!  How to let go such images? I was advised in my mind to transfer the images of “real pyramids” into two-dimensional pictures — sketched, or painted, or photographed pyramids on any kind of paper, whatever – newspaper, photopaper, electronic screen image, illustrative images in books or magazines — whatever comes first into your mind. Then play with the pyramid, throw it in the air, turn the other side, make it bigger, smaller, color it into different colors… Finally , then set an imaginary bonfire into your room, and threw your imaginary pictures with pyramids into fire, and burn it to ashes, then put out the flames of your bonfire. It is important, because your mental images will attract a lot of similar images from the universe. When they accumulate enough, they will find a way to materialize.

The spontaneous cleansing continued until I saw the clean blue water, from which rises … an emerald green gentle hue, a very light and pure steam of cardiac energy. Was the Gogol’s spirit heart purified? Who was the healing angel who did the job using me for establishing contact with earth energies?

Now I found myself in the same empty church. The long evening sermon was still in progress. I saw a young handsome deacon. Maybe once, a forbidden gay love blossomed under the roof of this church, or it was shown to me for no reason at all. The Russian Orthodox Church choir’s singing was sweeter than ever.

The Golden Gates to the altar started to open. But in place of the altar, there was a mountain of sarcophagi … in some of them there were mummies, or rather, what was left of them after eons of undisturbed rest? I was looking for more scarabs, but was not able to detect them.  Do I need them to connect past and present times as  a symbol of eternal renewal of life through the power of motherhood?

The Internet article http://www.landofpyramids.org/khepri.htm explain:

“The life of the scarab beetle revolved around the dung balls that were eaten by the beetles, they laid their eggs in the dung balls, and fed their young on the content. The dung ball of the scarab. When the eggs hatched, the scarab beetle would appear from nowhere to be a symbol of spontaneous creation, resurrection, and transformation.”

The image of motherhood, mother, too close to be compared with anything, and completely incomprehensible to understand, is too often inspiring fear, guilt and sometimes pure madness! Here it is, this thin and impenetrable veil around the heart, the veil of fear of the incomprehensibility of earthly motherhood. There is a desire to be accepted by the simple earthly life, and clear understanding that it is impossible without the plunge into the vulgarity of existence what leads to the eternal question “to be or not to be?” Or it would be safer to escape back to the astral life, as soon as possible. Or this problem can be resolved by developing aversion toward a woman, or women who once offered him eternal love demanding confirmations in form of forced vows and promises. Can these vows be broken, or can this way bought freedom be marred by guilt and faintheartedness forever?

How to accept being a reject for all these governors’ spouses, their daughters* wearing so provincial pink bows all over their dresses and coiffures? How to tolerate being a refuse in the eyes of all these invincible whores and prostitutes, whose spirit cannot be broken, as they do not have one, or it seems so! Is the suffering for broken vows to carry flames of the eternal love through eons justified? Maybe Scarab has been mistaken, and motherhood does not stand for spirituality at all, as it stands literally for making new bodies for renewal life? So they say! I think that new bodies are too often made for suffering called evolvement! I hope to be wrong!

Probably, only the idea of immaculate conception can solve this riddle … And was it our church that has established this image? Or it stemmed from the deep – from the prehistoric mythology – where the forever immaculate goddesses give birth to the heroes from ears, nostrils, moths, armpits… until the great image of Mother Mary’s immaculate conception, her spotless sinless life was born and glorified by the church, literature, music and paintings that confirmed repeatedly Mother Mary immaculate and incomprehensible, and holy conception of The Savior of humanity Jesus Christ. Because otherwise neither we nor the gods will evolve or rise, if holiness of birth would be not confirmed against all odds… Do not start me listing these odds that try to overrule this most universal principle of holiness of life. You knew them by heart, wars, revolutions, poverty, partners are not equal socially (Theodore Dreiser’s “An American Tragedy”), too young for birthing, sinful conception, if mother was not married (Goethe’s Faust, Shakespearian bustards’ characters). The image of the Holy Virgin seems to address all of them defending life itself… maybe doing our part in this defense line starts with a simple thing – acceptance mother who gave us life!

Raise not to demand anything from your mother, but do not lift her image above the height established by the holy image of Mother Mary.

Recognize the effort to create a new body – put it above yourself, Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Saint John and the other Gospel writers. Let her remain blameless, whatever she was, beautiful or ugly, thin or plump, rich or poor, clean or a filthy woman, smart or stupid, educated or uneducated, refined or a rude, called a whore, or exalted as a goddess. The time comes when you will let her go! She gave body to you, and now is your turn to give her freedom back. Acknowledge that charging her with this and that you are clinging to her, expecting to take care of you forever! Do not blame her, do not judge her, the only thing you have to do, is letting her go free! If you do so, you may discover that stopping judgment made you free as well! You are freer than ever! Your heart will open to the boundless love, universal love that suffices all, and to which no living soul is deprived… Let go of the mother’s hand, do not cling to it, when you shout to her, leave me in peace … And she will smile at you, and disappear, simply slip out from her secret life where you have no place and never will, because her life, her destiny is not yours … She gave your body, now honor her freedom. And you will get rid of terrible loneliness, from a painful condition to be misunderstood. Life will shine to you with all its wonderful and terrible colors – your life! And you will find in it the Creator, the one to whom you owe your existence!

While cleaning the sarcophagi from the church, someone accidentally pushed the jar, it fell and crashed, and the scarab disappeared.

The darkness begins to dissipate. I see Gogol in a white nightgown, with a rope around his neck being unhappy with himself, his life, his unfulfilled obligations. I’m calling the most strange and terrible of all his creatures, Viy, and I order him to remove this rope from Gogol’s neck. But this is not Viy who appears.

Andrei Rublev's SAVIOR

Jesus Christ appears in that church. He embraces Gogol. The light of Jesus Christ the Savior removes the dust of terrible sarcophagi from Gogol, the pain of the burial of dead and alive slaves, the otherworldly beautiful mother’s authority over him, his strange love for the ugly images from which the heroes of his “Dead Souls” are woven, the impossibility to open his spiritual heart to unconditional love to embrace the world as it is given to him, as it unfolds his destiny.

Christ touches his heart: the protective shell around Gogol’s spiritual heart breaks and the light pours out of his heart. Jesus takes him to Christianity as a brother, as a son, as a grandson, as a human being, as a child of Almighty God.

My chakras close themselves. The church rests in quietude. The words dry out. The quiet, peaceful light streams through the church cupola down on us washing away fear and restlessness.

 

 

Meditation in Memory of Grandmother Luba

  1. Restructuring

We were having some tea and talking. I asked Lena, our talented beauty with innate clairvoyance to find the soul of my deceased grandmother Lubov Petrovna, nee Myasoedova.

Lena fell silent, I gave her a photo of my grandmother. She dropped it on the floor, as if it had burned her fingers. Lena screamed and grabbed her head running to the corner of the room. She pressed herself against the wall and squatted down. Continuing holding her head, as if protecting herself from the blows she shouted: “She beats me! Something is hanging on her! I cannot deal with this.” What she was talking about? I stood my ground defending the reputation of my grandmother. I told Lena that my granny read Thomas Mann in German and Zola in French, wars and communists robbed her shamelessly, all was stolen from her but her rheumatism, her near-blindedness and pain in knees. Therefore, there was nothing that could hang on her. Rather something would hang on people who sent her sons to war, drove her out of her house, plundered family dinner sets and crystals, smashed her library, used the pages from the “Encyclopedic Dictionary of Brockhaus and Efron” to wipe their dirty asses, broke the piano, and dragged everything — up to her black velvet bag with family jewelry.

Lena was silent, as it was too obvious that I knew nothing about life deeper secrets and man’s invisible ties to subtle worlds… Soon, we forgot this episode, and surrendered to the female preferential occupation — gossip and exchanging opinions about things that we knew not too much about. Despite the inherent gift of clairvoyance, Lena was a cheerful person, talented, with a lively sense of humor, and we had something to talk about.

Year 2017, 30 years have passed, since Lena and I had that memorable tea party at my flat. I live in Los Angeles and I have passed the age threshold marked by the number 80, and now it was my turn to treat rheumatism, pain in the knees, and other age-related ailments. I practiced meditation and our Lord took note of it by opening some of my finer energy channels, and I started to hear the dead people talking and sometimes observe the visitations from the astral worlds, especially the visitations of animals in spirit. Lately, a beautiful wolf marched proudly across my room and out of my 3rd floor window without breaking the glass. And sometimes we have visitations from a little white dog, a twin of one in flesh that belongs to a sweet Korean lady who lives a floor below me. Sometimes, while my cat in flesh is getting her food from a plate, I see another one, a cat in spirit trying to get its share from the same plate! The day came when, making my special preparations, I dared to meditate in memory of my grandmother Luba.

GrandmaLyuba

Lubov Petrovna Myasoedova

Appealing to the guardians for a fire-ring protection and narrowing the goal of this meditation – because only they know what is most worthwhile to concentrate upon in given circumstances. Spontaneously, an early childhood vision of my grandmother comes to mind. I was about three years old in someone’s arms, probably it’s were my father’s arms, and my mother was next to him in her new flowery dress. Easter. Returning home from the church, the grown-ups broke loose. Grandmother brought out two large chocolate eggs, one in shiny red, the other in a golden wrapper, and apparently testing me for the innate taste, she asked me to choose one … I remember my very small hands that were desperately trying to reach… a bright red egg. The granny said that the golden egg was more elegant one, and she would like me to have the golden one. But l started to cry bitterly still demanding that red one!  … My grandmother frowned, my mother looked at her pleadingly with a strange guilty smile on her face. Without adding a word, my grandmother escaped to her room.

The meditation needs a new start. I concentrate on my nostrils and breathe boringly and evenly. It is still dark behind my closed eyes. Finally, as if from a milky fog before the sunrise, some outlines begin to emerge … “The third eye” reveals the picture of the field, dotted with skulls. There were more skulls than on Vereshchagin’s painting “The Apotheosis of War.”

apofeoz-verechagin+ (2)

Lena’s moaning: “Something heavy was hanging on her conscience…” — was flashing by.

Suddenly, the meditation takes me to a mystical place. I see a flat horizontal field with shiny gates in its depth, and a separately existing vertical field with a black marble box, or case, or a chest for storing something of value. The shape of this marble mantle reminds the heart on Valentine’s cards. This weighty thing was symbolizing granny’s spiritual heart, and it was literally hanging in the air just in from of me, a couple of inches above my computer.

On my left hand appeared the imaginary ring that was passing curses, the ominous ring  given by Ivan the Terrible to my ancestor, oprichnik Masoedov.  (More about this ring can be found in the blog – “Repent, repent, repent!”)  Soon, that golden sapphire ring started emanate curse waves of souls of wounded warriors who were left behind to die in terrible pain… These curses showed me the size of granny’s guilt that her immortal soul had collected during eons of incarnations as a warlord, maybe since times when  Sumerian poets birthed poems about their king-priest Gilgamesh. If difficult thought forms were not released, according to the great cosmic Law of Attraction, they would add  to the burden of guilt attracting similar energy wave from universe. In granny’s soul, this type of guilt ridden thought forms worked like the magnet.  And in this meditation we attempt to free my granny’s soul from this “magnet” as much as we can.  I

I continue meditating. I do not act alone. Someone is organizing souls into “Indian files” hat move toward Golden Gates. They look like faithful in Russian churches approaching the golden orthodox cross, everyone kissing its cold surface to confirm his devotion to their faith and their church.

And finally, I noticed angels and priests working on the field. Some kept order in this pool of moving souls, the other were consoling those who were so weak that could not reach without help their goal to be saved by LIGHT! I realized what size of weight was removed from my grandmother Luba’s conscience.

imagesblack heart

I was instructed to work with her spiritual heart, the image of which was in front of me. My business was to focus light on this image making the “marble” mantel around granny’s tortured heart to melt and disappear.

Someone was sent to help me as well. Before I knew it, someone took over the driver’s seat, the rhythm of the actions changed from normal human to inhuman speed. Was it shape shifting, or something else? I became a man, a shaman, some other creature. I was no longer sure who was calling light to melt the marble mantel in question? I threw my hands in the high and I was shouting, “Light, light, light!” Finally, I had a chance to look at my hands, but they were not mine! They were a men’s naked hands with strong swollen biceps, multiple bracelets, tattooed. I realized that these hands belong to strange half-naked man with light brownish skin … with light bandana to control his dark hair on his head, with dark eyes, and with a distinctive small hump on his nose.  In order to give idea what I saw, I downloaded this picture from the Internet collection of images of ancient Egypt’s humans.  Here we see two almost naked figures, and one fully dressed female. The naked figures looked very smililar to the one who worked with me. And he was also accompanied with a flock of his helpers.

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Maybe it would be more accurate to say that I’m not the only one who called LIGHT, we were a powerful team – a strange helper out of ancient Egypt with his beautiful friends and I — we all called LIGHT to heal my grandmother. I was in the state of ecstasy. I was crying and I did not remember myself, I did not know where I was, out of body, or still in this room and how did we get so much golden LIGHT that it filled the room! Time to time, I repeated asking out loud for the fire ring protection and blessings from Jesus, the Savior, and Virgin Mary, the Immaculate Mother of God. I asked help from Mary Magdalene, because I felt her presence. My assistant and I, or rather I as his assistant, were working together. He took me – of course not me, but part of my consciousness, what we are in the state of OBE, for an unusual ride across the time and space!

The intensity of this spiritual flight was indescribable in words, because of its unusual speed. The layers of history and cultures, Egyptian kingdoms and dynasties, the campaigns of the Romans, then the Crusaders, then the Persians changed rapidly. We visited terrible sites of ruins produced by wars and insurrections. Without any warning or explanation, the vision jumped to the wars of the Aztecs and Incas on the American continent. But suddenly our flight stopped at a fence decorated with severed heads with removed scalps. Apparently, even my guide did not expect this … In a nonverbal manner, he whom name I never learned, gave me the following sentence: “You grandmother’s soul had it’s fill here. When her soul was done with this Camacho camp, and upon its arrival to afterlife, sha sought buptizing into Christian faith, and asked to consider the cycle of warior incarnations to be completed.  This wish was granted, and she was rushed into the next cycle of reincarnations as a woman who would experience the pain of loosing her childrens too soon.”

I think that 30 years ago Lena, when I asked her to “find my grandmother in the next world,” hit the same fence adored by heads with removed scalps. Probably she tuned into unbearable pain which was hovering above that terrible hedge, and as a modern world being she simply was not able to digest the horror of this experience.

When our journey through time and space ended, the black marble mantel around granny’s heart started showing signs of softening. Like melting wax is rolling down along the lit candle’s stem, so did melting “marble”! Probably, it was never a real marble at the first place despite looking like one! The lower edge of the heart started to show some shy pastel colors as if signaling the progress in our attempt to free the heart from now unnecessary protection.  The heart was recovering with gentle glow of infantile pink. I was astounded that in the soul of this stern and sober, always reserved woman, was hidden so much tender childishness. And I recalled how one day in my early childhood she entered into an argument with me, the three years old, which paint is better, red or gold! She was annoyed  teaching me,  the first-grader,  the mathematics, but she was sincerely happy when I read Pushkin’s “Ruslan and Lyudmila” in one gulp at age 11, which the usual adults would never take as a sign of their child’s educational advancement.

… But, finally, the emerald glow began to break out of the released heart. I was told that there were changes in grandmother appearance, she was rejuvenating rapidly. Grandfather Grigory came up to me and said only a few words: “You gave me back my wife, thank you!”

And then, unexpectedly and sharply, I was told to close my chakras and lie down to rest. Before leaving, I created an imaginary burning field furnace near my computer, took off an imaginary sapphire ring from my finger, and threw it into the furnace flame. When the flame went out, a completely purified ring shining in the ashes. I left it there, and went to rest, falling asleep at once. When in 5 hours I woke up, there were no traces from the furnace or that dangerous ring! I hope it was picked up by a soul that could handle it and it would not bring him any harm!

……………… ..

A few days later, a spirit, a mutual friend, brought me a message from Luba. My grandmother asked me to arrange a date with my mother Tamara, because it’s time to put up and reconcile.  I immediately remembered the matter that called once the pain to them both.  In the late thirties, when my mother became pregnant the second time, my grandmother decided that her son was not involved and my mother had a love interest on aside, in Tartu, or Dorpat, the Estonian university town what she frequented to  visit.   As a matter of fact, she visited Tartu to see her demanding and moody family. I think, they pressured my mother to make granny Luba to accept them and share her space in Paide with them. My grandmother, having her reasons, refused to do so categorically. However, the shadow of suspicions can be a poisonous thing. Granny ignored the presence of my brother and never let him into her heart!  Mother’s and granny’s relationship was ruined.  To top it all, granny put her doubts in writing  and sent the bitter letter to my mother officially over the mail. I was not aware of this literary work  until mother showed it to me shortly before her death.  Stupid me tore it apart, because as an esotericist, I was already aware of sad consequences from carrying this kind of letter near one’s heart. My mother was angry with me as well. My mom helped her husband’s mother in all thinkable ways, and believed that she did not deserve such a derogatory accusation. And she carried this resentment through her long life on earth until her death – 2 weeks before the 99th anniversary.

However, in the afterlife they met face to face again, and I was reported that they both cried recalling old times and reconciled. The desire of our haughty granny to see my mother and reconcile, can only be attributed to the work that the angels did on her during my meditation dedicated to my memory about her.

…………………………… ..

It turned out that Paramahansa Yogananda participated in work on grandmother’s problems. Later, when I was writing the report of this event, Yogananda pointed to one powerful confirmation of facts that were revealed during this meditation.  We had this confirmation literally under our noses, but we managed not to see or recognize it! Yogananda continued: “And the name of this confirmation is Yuri, or Yurik, the son of Lubov Petrovna, and his fate!”

This time it was me who clutched my head, but not because of pain, but with amazement that I was so blind!

Paramahansa Yogananda continued: “Once upon the time, Luba pitied a wounded warrior by leaving him behind to die on the battlefield. Centuries later she gave him a new body, but was notable to protect him from his fate.

I have written several times about the terrible fate of Yurik , but I have to recall it briefly here what happened to him in the time of the Leningrad Blockade. A small group of wounded soldiers were forgotten in a non-heated building that had suffered from bombing. This happened in the fierce winter of 1942. The dying soldiers were left without any help until the frost freed them taking them to another world.

In other words, Yurik attracted and embodied the content of his mother’s unreleased and most negative thought forms – guilt over left behind wounded worriers on the battlefields.

Paramahansa Yogananda concluded, “This was a peace promoting meditation. You were brought into this work not only, because you are a medium capable to talk to involved spirits, but because your strong imagination is capable “translate” the negative vibrations into certain images that guiding angels can eradicate successfully.  This cleansing of negativity will  save many lives in coming wars.”

 

EarthPeace