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      God: Prayer and forgiveness:

surfing the spirit on the North Shore of Oahu, Hawaii

A book excerpt from the Iconoclast Press online library.

             

I believe now that Christ called the Father down to earth, in his prayer- “Thy Kingdom Come…” - not as an affront to the Mother, but because Christ was already with the Mother, and therefore had no need to ask of Her in the Lord’s Prayer, but only of He who was still and ever needed if the cosmic chaos was to be righted.

I believe this now, only after years of following the guidance of the Father, and dwelling upon the heart of the Mother. And nowhere have I dwelt upon Her with such intimacy, as I have in Hawaii, for it is there that She is alive, and conscious, and growing.

If Santorini is a remnant of Atlantis, then Hawaii is a remnant of its counterpart, Lemuria.

Upon landing in Oahu, on my first visit to Hawaii, I headed instantly north, out of Honolulu’s fervor and moan, towards the famed North Shore, home to the world’s most consistent and breathtaking surfing waves, including the ever impressive Bonsai pipeline. But I was not going there to surf- not in the ocean anyway. I was gliding instead on the sublime wave which the spirit sets behind one, so as to coax a person towards the distant shore.

            

On the commuter bus headed north I had poured over a map of the island and selected a Hawaiian holy site as the most proper locale in which to find a secret hideaway where I could camp unfettered upon the earth while trying to find some peace in the ethereal tumble. However, after disembarking from the bus at my chosen spot, I wandered about for an hour or so until I was fidgety and sensed that it was not the place for me to stop after all. So I hopped onto another bus and headed west along the north shore, until, just before entering the quaint little town of Haliewa, I noticed a large wooded area leading out to a beach, and decided that this was going to be the place for me to take refuge. I disembarked once again, and made my way towards the sea. En route I stopped to urinate at a public restroom, and there met a long-haired, middle-aged fellow who was punch drunk and alone, and was quick to offer me a can of beer- which, naturally, I accepted- and then another, and another, then a toot on a reefer, and so on, until we were great comrades by the evening, and I was half-baked, and so I thought it best to find a place to lie down and dream off the buzz, at which point I gathered up my goods and thanked my new found buddy for his generosity and company, to which he unexpectedly recounted: “Don’t thank me, thank Jesus.”

                Yes indeed, the wave of spirit had carried me across the dark sea of grosser possibilities and placed me on the implausible shore of a brother’s soul.

                After that first evening, I ended up spending a great part of the next week with Geoff, a dope-smoking, probationary, neurotic, beer-swilling, HIV positive, holy man. A holy man, I say, because he was neither respectable, nor did he have respect for others. He was a fool, a castaway, an ignoble scavenger who did not give a damn, and so he had transcended the oppressive bonds of respectability and sanity, and had become a fool in other people’s eyes, a nobody in his own, and a fit vessel for the living, mad spirit in God’s.

                Not that he spouted any monumental, cosmic truths or had any great union with the absolute or anything, yet Geoff knew who he was, why his life had taken the turns it had, what the payment for his errors was, and how he was going to live, and laugh, and endure the sentence placed upon the remainder of his days. And that was- he was going to live life to its fullest each day, and not let up until he was harkened home.

                I had met him very soon after the turn of the millennium, on my return from New Zealand, at a time when the whole world was standing a bit on edge, expecting that maybe we’d all be called at the same time. Perhaps this was part of the reason Geoff seemed at such peace within himself, because he believed that no one on earth lived without a sentence placed upon them which carried a finality as definite as his own.

               

Upon discussing the aforementioned millennial shift with Geoff, I remarked that it had not yielded the expected apocalypse, and then I made some flippant, rhetorical query as to why nothing had occurred, since everyone thought something would occur. In response to my statement Geoff, with an all-accepting countenance and tone, turned to me and stated matter-of-factly: “Because no one shall know the hour or the day of its coming”, which is a trite, biblical misquote perhaps, but, after all, Geoff had been living ten years or more with his own, inner apocalypse, and he was certainly more of an expert on the matter of endings than most of the new age doomsayers who had been spouting calendar dates and predilections over the last few years, none of which came to pass, because no one shall know the hour or the day.

                In Geoff’s company I became quickly assimilated into a loosely-knit pack of homeless drunks, drifters, vagabonds, big-bearded pariahs, and pseudo-mystics, all of whom exist in substantial numbers throughout the Hawaiian islands, including Oahu’s north shore, where these fringe types appear not unlike odd thistle bushes in a sea of roses, as they are mixed incongruously into the cornucopia of the bright and beautiful, fit and firm young men and women who have made this chunk of paradise their home. In fact, I have never been to another place on earth in which so many firm and fit, bikini clad vixens, and hard-bodied, rock-jawed studs abounded. It is no wonder that the television series Baywatch- known so well for its skimpily clad Aphrodites and Adonises- was filmed in the area.

                Unfortunately for me I was neither interested in surfing waves, nor chasing dames at the time, as I was still strung painfully between two nooses, one leading to the spirit above, and one leading to the body- specifically my soror’s- below. She and I were apart at this time as well, and I was stuck on Oahu, running amongst a pack of mongrels and misfits, and she was on Kauai, riding out her own tsunamis.

                And so I did what I had always done every time I was alone, confused, impoverished, and free- I drank beer, smoked dope, surrendered, prayed, howled in bliss and agony, went mad with torment and ecstasy, slept upon the Mother Earth, beneath the Father Sky, met each morning balanced somewhere between torpor and awe, and left each day in search of the dream.

                There is nothing left to do when nothing is left. You have to go on, without knowing why, or how, or where to. You have to find the force within yourself. You have to harvest the fruit that has grown within, thresh the chaff from the germ, and sew what seed remains into the pit of your guts, and hope that the next bloom comes bountiful, and soon. You have to plant that winter wheat in the darkest of your days, for if not, when the sun finally comes, you’ll have no flour into which can be placed the leaven.

                You have to find the fire inside, especially during the arctic night. And I hit that arctic night hard and brutally one miserable balmy evening on the north shore of Oahu, after knocking back a bellyful of beer and a couple of joints with one of the reprobates, until I passed out on the beach and awoke in the middle of the night to find my fanny pack, passport and wallet, gone. One of my brothers had gone sour, and my own inebriation had given him the open door to sin.

                I was demoralized, because, with the loss of all the aforementioned paraphernalia, the last chance I had of meeting up with my soror on Kauai had now been snatched away from me, and all I could envision up ahead were endless days of panhandling, aluminum can collecting, paperwork filing, and the agony of loneliness, pennilessness, and loss. It was a cold and desperate feeling, to be without everything, especially love, identity, and money.

                That was when I sewed the seed in winter.

                It is said that the seven main islands in the Hawaiian archipelago represent the seven main chakras of the body, and, depending on which island you are living on, or visiting, that particular chakra undergoes stimulation and awakening. Whether this is true or not I am not certain, and yet, having had the kundalini awakening on the Big Island, as described earlier, where the root chakra is the one being stimulated- which is the location where, it is said, the spinal serpent sleeps- I can at least say that this might be true. All is reflected through all.

                Anyway, I was on Oahu, the throat chakra, the will, which is where the ability to express your desires into the manifest lies. Except the exact opposite to my desires had just happened, and I had no idea how I was going to right it.

                The Judas who had taken my goods was camped well into the bush somewhere, so deep that he had bragged a few days earlier that no one had found him in the year or so that he had been there. And I knew that if I did not catch him with my identification and wallet on him, these would be scattered into the woods, never to be found, and no proof of his theft would be possible. I had to act, immediately. But how? It was pitch black out, I was in an unsober haze, had neither flashlight, nor idea where he was, and no thoughts on how to proceed.

                And so I did what I have done many times, under similar circumstances of duress- I prayed.

                As astounded as I am by the power of prayer, I am perhaps yet more astounded by how thoroughly disregarded this timeless method of communication is by the greater portion of humanity. Though I suppose the lack of interest in prayer comes down to a simple fact, which is this: prayers are always answered, but they are rarely answered in the way the petitioner desires. And by that I mean that what we ask for might not be what is best for us, and what is best for us might be far harder, or more sublime, than we are willing to accommodate. And a prayer we issue might bring assistance, but that assistance might have to come in the form of pain. And who on earth would pray for that kind of assistance? Who indeed?

                Anyway, I prayed. I prayed for guidance, for assistance, for understanding, and for help. And in that receptive state which I entered into I began to commune with God, or my higher self, if you will, in such a way that I understood that this theft had happened because I had allowed myself to fall back into unhealthy debauchery to the point that only a small tragedy could turn me in the other direction. I then promised God that I would give up all the pollutants if He would assist me to regain my passport, wallet, and what little cash I still had.

                Then, in that receptive state, I began to understand how, if I were to find the renegade in the forest, I was not to accuse him right off, for if he had dispensed with my goods he could easily deny it and nothing could be done. No, I was to say nothing, but let the vacuum of my silence draw out his confession, as silence often does, in front of which guilt stands very little chance of remaining hidden.

                I was also subtly informed that I must not, in the end, have any anger towards the thief, but only forgiveness and love, because these are the only means with which to heal those so wounded that they lovelessly cause such grief to others.

                After this communion, although I still felt uncertain about ever finding the delinquent’s hiding spot within the thick acreage of bush, I suddenly felt a surge of determination, and of confidence, most likely sent down to me from on high, and I felt all of the sudden that I was no longer a victim of fate, but was instead a master of my own destiny, and I got up from the ground, and, just as dawn was slightly breaking, headed into the thicket.

                I must have been guided, for there is no other way to explain what happened, because after walking for only a few minutes through the thick bush, and then standing absolutely still, I noticed a dim movement a ways off, which I expected must be my traitor. And so I walked slowly into the direction in which I had seen the movement, and as I got closer I could see a makeshift tent, which I soon quietly entered, to the thief’s dismay, and then sat down slowly, and looked him gently in the eyes …without a word.

                We must have sat there for only half a minute or so when he reached to his side and disclosed my fanny pack, and then began a pathetic diatribe on how he had walked off with it unintentionally, because he had once owned a pack very similar. An absolute lie, but one which I did not accuse him of, nor of the theft, because I had been given too many lessons on clean living, prayer, silence, forgiveness, will, and love that night, and was so thankful to my heavenly guide that I could not have admonished this fellow even had I wanted to. And furthermore, I was really no better, as a few days later I broke my vow to the Father, and began consuming the substances I had promised never to partake of again. An action, which, I hope, has met with as much forgiveness as I had been directed to give another. For it is crimes like his and mine which are the outcome not of mortal sin, but of living rootlessly, of balancing along the unforgiving ridge between freedom and loneliness, a place where I found myself running when I no longer needed to run, suffering when I no longer needed to suffer, worrying when I no longer needed to worry, grasping when I should not have held on, judging when I should only have loved, and all the while struggling to end the war within me between the opposed combatants of the eternal instant of faith or of fear, and trying my best, while balancing between them, to teeter to the side of God.

Canadian customers: amazon.ca/Root    

UK and EU customers: amazon.co.uk/Roots

ebook

 

(excerpted from Roots and Wings: adventures of a spirit on earth, by Jack Haas)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Books by Jack Haas. Autobiography, Memoir, Spirituality, Mysticism, Comparative Religion, Poetry, Art, Photography.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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