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      Adam and Eve : apocryphal account of the Fall : modern exegesis

A book excerpt from the Iconoclast Press online library.

                                                                  

                Life in the city was beginning to feel nothing like Life at all. As such, back at my own primordial, fenceless hide-away on the hill, one night, on one of my solo ventures, so to speak, I had another of my most profound experiences, which would corroborate my subtle sense that something was wholly amiss with life as I knew it; a feeling which had been smouldering within me, and the flame of which would suddenly be blown into an all consuming inferno of undelight.

               

The horrible episode of which I speak came about the evening after a day in which I had stumbled upon the Apocryphal account of what had happened to Adam and Eve after their exile; what happened to creation after the creator was forgotten. I say this with absolute, undogmatic, unorthodox candour; I say that this one book is perhaps the most important, and heart-wrenching books so thoughtlessly- or perhaps strategically- excluded from the Old Testament by its ancient, God-fearing editors. This short work is the unexpurgated exposition of the horrors and troubles which transpired in the hearts, minds, and lives, of our- symbolic or real, as you will- historic ancestors.

                I sat there reading it in the library, astounded, aghast, empathetic, disturbed, and distraught, for there it all was, finally, in unabashed black and white, an almost exact description of what I had known and felt all along and which the world of the lie had chosen to effectively deny and bury; there it was- the great division, the exile from unity, the confusion, the agony, the contrition, petition, and ...the irreversible sentence. Out went the Old Adam and Eve, out from the fabulous union and love of the Godhead, out into the guile and distortion of manifestation, into the struggle and loss, and, most disastrously- the separation. There it was, what I had known and felt but could not relate to anyone who did not feel it as well- which was nobody around me- and that is: a separation had occurred which was calamitous to our spirits, and which we now longed to correct, somewhere deep inside, and though the despair had, over the centuries, been pragmatically repressed, each of us darkly remembered that intimacy and warm union with each other and the heavens which we had enjoyed once, and we remembered also the sentence and the separation which would bring about a life of toil, loneliness, and death.

I knew that somewhere long ago that horrible chasm had indeed occurred- a division of what was not intended to be divided. To remember the Fall is to remember when we could fly. To taste freedom just makes unfreedom that much more punishing. Life is an odd requiem for anyone who has the remembrance of heaven, however subtle or obscure. Why we lose ourselves at every moment to the lie, and do not flow in laughing rhythm to the eternal tune cascading through all of life and all of time is not a mystery to me anymore. I have seen clearly what the brotherhood of men have wasted in their useless, spiritless, and abject pursuits. I have seen how ninety-nine percent of life is but a tragic interruption from the moments of ecstasy and freedom which are our birthrights, our privilege, our true life.

                And the sentence was irreversible, the covenant could not be broken, not yet anyways- not until God took on the same bitter medicine which had been handed out and finally descended back into the separation which each one of us endured; not until the God within each one of us descended out of the garden and into the mire, so as to return that part of ourselves we had so long ago abandoned back to the peace of the One. But perhaps I am looking ahead too far.

                Oh, there will be many who read what I say and see it as nothing but pure bombast, poppycock, and fairy-tale. That is no concern of mine. Until an individual comes to see, feel, and know the separation of the Self, for themselves, that person will continue to live life and assume that misery and loneliness are a necessary quality of the show. The problem for me was that somewhere, barely below the surface, I remembered what it was like ...before the Fall. And that is what had made life unbearable. That is why I had cared for nothing but to wake and live through the day, to love the sun, the moon, the birds, and the trees. And that was hardly enough and far too much.

I was wild and I was listening. Listening to the song of the wildness running free and through me. I was hearing the old music that no longer flowed with the discordant ways we were dancing together. I was trying to dance to the old tune of the new heart, the heart buried and bound by the mind for so long that to finally unleash it was to explode in euphoria and anguish; it was to stand in the morgue of life, and swirl and be taken by a fiddler no one else could hear.

 

                And so back up I went to my little hermitage on the hill that night after reading that account of the exile, and I sat up on a clear bluff overlooking the Georgia Strait, and I indulged in the body and the blood, so to speak, and then waited for the serum to soak in and the ethereal transmission to begin.

                Perhaps an hour later I was on my knees, bawling like I had never bawled before, weeping Adam’s weep, and crying Eve’s tears, because I was living what they had lived, and I knew it now, without a shadow of a doubt. And I looked back from my dominus flevit[i] at Gomorrah and could see the electric lights shining shamefully in the distance, and all I could sense was the misery, separation, pavement, deceit, noise, pollution, confusion, and loneliness, and I howled with agony and wept on and on and saw no hope, no possibility for mankind, only the endless pain, conflict, and damning oblivion which would never allow an end or healing to it all.

                It is as if I had tapped into God’s own repressed anguish. And when that happens it takes you under, it takes you way down, and wrecks you on the bottom. And even if you can rise up from that, and make it back to the surface, a little piece of you will be left in the depths of agony with the others.

                What a night of grief indeed. The grief of the entire world, built upon eons of isolation and sorrow, a grief that oozed out and consumed everything, and would not abate because we were together once, and now we were in fragments and the fragments were against each other and how on earth to make it through.

                How on earth, indeed. For little did I know that the Earth was part of the answer. Little did I expect that at the height of my hopelessness I would be drawn to lift my head, and look across the bluff upon which I was writhing, and to see a giant, bowled, moss covered boulder with a splendid old pine behind it, gnarled and weathered, and bent cascading down over the rock. And with absolute certainty I knew at that moment that the earth was hearing my woe, and beckoning me, and offering to hold me. I knew at that moment that the Earth was the Mother, that She was everywhere, and right now She was in that tree and boulder, and She sought to hold me. And I stood up, walked over, climbed up, and laid down in the hollow, under the tree, in Her arms, and as I lay recovering and dozing off I felt a warm, loving, living form all around me, coddling me and caressing me, and the agony disappeared, and an inexplicable comfort came over me, and I fell asleep in Her arms, and slept the night through like a babe, and when I awoke I knew that I loved Her.

                Soon after that reunion, on another night, in a dream I would be climbing around what appeared to be a soft mound of earth, but when I climbed on top of it I realized it was a huge breast, and a feeling of great peace and comfort came over me, and then in love and adoration I exuberantly exclaimed- “Mother!”, at which point I began to awake, and in the groggy haze between the unconscious and conscious I could feel the subterranean, all encompassing heartbeat of the world Mother, in which all of our lives are loved and pulsing.



[i]               The hill upon which Christ wept for Jerusalem.

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(excerpted from In and Of: memoirs of a mystic journey, by Jack Haas)

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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