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Spiritual openness, wilderness cleansing, the Tao of life, and highly sensitive people

excerpted from IN AND OF: memoirs of a mystic journey, by Jack Haas



            On that specific trip out to Flores it was on day four, alone and walking up and down the desolate, wind-swept beach, in which the bubble finally burst for me. And by that I mean that the haze of society, the clutter of spirits, consciousnesses, and souls mixed within me, and the discord of all my own worldly thinking and ways had at last vanished, and all that remained inside ...was me. I became again a clean and polished vessel staring out from nothing at the deep blue, unvexing sea. I was as if virginal again, and inside of me were my real eyes which had for so long been closed or not allowed yet to see.

                I am describing this now, though it wasn’t until many years later that I would fully understand why the urge and directive came to me regularly to leave the cosmopolitan refuse heap, to go and be alone for a while in the wilds, and to let the cosmic bowel movement happen through me.

After the cleansing, when finally I was empty of the chaos and confusion I had been carrying, and could again sense my own spirit within, then I could finally feel the self behind my eyes, could rejoin the subtler rhythm, and somewhere in the hidden vestiges of my soul I could remember what it was like when we were a living part of the earth, and of God- the days of yore when life had been beautiful and without separation nor struggle.

                These trips of purgation would take anywhere from one day to one month, but no matter how long they took, at what expense, under what effort and duress, no matter how cold, alone, or confused I became, and no matter what I missed while I was away, they were always worth it in the end, and were the only thing which sustained me during those years in which I lived in the chaos of the city. For, after one of these trips, I would head back to Gomorrah, refreshed, renewed, re-inspired, and ready for another assault from the invasive mob.

Upon returning I always had great plans for a world which had no desire for such plans. I felt great understandings for a world which would only forcefully defend its lies. I felt great peace to bring to a world wrecked upon the reef of distraction. Like Lazarus arisen from his own ashes, I came back again and again, hollow and calm, and charged by the source I had re-found within. I had stepped back only so as to surge forward. I had gone under in order to soar. I had lost in order to gain, and had gone away, only so as to return.

                Often the Tao of life became obvious to me just at the threshold, at the membrane between the two worlds, just as I was leaving the bush and heading back to town; I could see then, as I crossed over from one reality to the other, how easy it was to flow in harmony with the spirit in all things, if all thought was allowed to dwindle softly into oblivion, and the heart regained its song. How I planned at the end of each trip to return to the world and not be drawn back into the disturbance. How I planned to maintain a profound equilibrium in the ether, and live as if in the dance of the spirit itself, never moving but to the grace of life, never wanting but for the beauty of life, never indulging but for the love of life. Ah, but then the world has its own plans, its own noise, and its own wayward course, and the spirit is at best a silent visitor, wafting around the impervious obstructions rather than hopelessly trying to tear them down.

                It is both bitter and beautiful for me now to recount such things, for as I do I wonder and worry about those who are to come after me- those of a similar temperament- what will they do, and where will they go, when all the forests have been rendered to ash, and the seas lie barren, and the land is foul with the garbage of moribund societies? Where will those like myself go to find respite, to hide and breathe, and live, and learn, and be saved as I was saved?

                I have no answer, but I suppose that doesn’t matter, because I never had an answer for myself. I only went where I had to go in order to survive. And I survived.


excerpted from:

author Jack Haas, west coast British Columbia wilderness, ocean forest island



IN AND OF: memoirs of a mystic journey

by Jack Haas



















Mystical books, visionary art, and fine art photography by Jack Haas




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