Volcanoes: a spiritual experience at the Mt. Kilauea lava flow,

Volcanoes National Park, Big Island, Hawaii

A book excerpt from the Iconoclast Press online library.

                          

                Within a period of a year and a half I had danced with the making and lived in the made, and had spent extended periods of time in two of the places where Lemuria is suspected to have existed- New Zealand and Hawaii-, and in two of the places where Atlantis is speculated to have been- Santorini and Iceland.

                I expect there was something in my nature, or something to do with my part in the greater show, which required me to mix energies in such polarized areas. Perhaps, because I sought wholeness within, I had to find wholeness without, and therefore I became as if a service vehicle, commandeered by my Godself, and driven unrelentingly to wherever supplies could be found to complete the cosmic stew.

               

Throughout those journeys, and the learnings which accompanied them, it slowly became apparent to me that to join the Mother and Father through ourselves is to allow Him into Her, which is to bring heaven down to earth. For when we invite the Father- Thy Kingdom come… - down to earth, through the lonely Christ within us, we become the conduit through which the Pater penetrates the Mater, and thus we reunite the cosmic parents, and, receiving both, become as One.

                And though I lay no claim to anything other than my absolute ignorance in all things- for I am learning every day, failing every day, and being forgiven every day- marrying the Great Father and Great Mother within me would come, if ever it did, on my first visit to the sight of manifest creation itself- which is to say, at the pulsating, seminal, amniotic lava flow of Mt. Kilauea, Big Island, Hawaii.

                I was taken out to the flow by two very large, very unique, and very gay men who I had been hanging out with for a number of weeks by then.

                One of them claimed to have re-incarnated on earth so as to endure the trials required in order to receive his next promotion in the cosmic hierarchy- archangel status. This fellow was an eclectically brilliant sort, who at one time had entered into a sublime career for the spirit, in which he was requested to undertake a number of earth-energy related activities, including flying all over the United States one autumn to specific high energy areas, and, standing at the intersection of clogged Ley lines- the Earth’s invisible energy meridians- he would empty himself completely and become a conduit for the energy required to repair the flow between them. He was an immensely entertaining, knowledgeable, generous and yet untrustworthy bloke: entertaining because he was full of ancient lore, mythical anecdotes, and new age theories, and was ever spouting these forth in effusive, theatrical joy, eloquently proffering all the fringe ideas which populate the esoteric world; knowledgeable because he seemed to know not only a little bit about everything, but a lot about most things, and therefore could draw laterally upon a multifarious contingent of oblique paradigms, and occasionally bring forth a juxtaposition which greatly impressed me; generous because he had fed and housed me for over a month when my poverty had become extreme, and had given me a haven when I needed it most; untrustworthy because he was forever seeking something behind his words, forever poisoned with the remaining fragments of his false ego, which made a mess of his genius, and forever utilizing his spiritual powers in hidden and devious ways, and therefore was a hypocrite who said one thing but meant something else, which is the last thing an archangel should be, since the first piece of knowledge such a being ought to arrive upon this earth with is the absolute realization that everything is clear in the sight of heaven. Everything. And therefore all thoughts contrary to speech are exposed to the hosts above. And the angels on high laugh with scorn and no pity when words come out of us which do not match with what is in our minds.

                No matter. I saw his bad side and appreciated his good, and was better off in the end for his company.

                The other fellow with us contended to have been, among other things, a Hawaiian holy man- a Kahuna- in one of his last lives. He had a great many spiritual talents, or so he said, including being able to diagnose a person’s faulty ‘trimeridian’, which, according to him, was some such invisible organ in the subtle body responsible for, among other things, keeping a person’s body temperature homeostatic. He also claimed to be somewhat of a psychic, crystal worker, massage therapist, and spiritual guide. He was a good lad, whom I enjoyed spending time with, though I paid little attention to his blithering, until one time when we were on the west side of the Big Island, and he was trying to convince me that I should be baptized in the ocean waters of a Hawaiian holy site which we were visiting. I told him that it was unnecessary, because I had already been baptized, to which he put up an argument, and was seemingly trying to guilt me out of myself, and so I turned viciously upon him and related, in not so soft terms, how he had no clue about what he was saying, because the baptism which Christ brings is a bludgeoning, and that he ought to stop prattling on with that pathetic chortle about how pretty everything became once you had been dipped in the sauce, because it wasn’t the case at all, for when the Man comes after you, He comes so as to destroy you, and it is not an enjoyable event, and if you think it is then you merely betray your own ignorance. I gave it to him, and good.

                Anyway, I still enjoyed his company as well, and had some truly remarkable times with both of them, even if they were simply megalomaniacs with outlandish and grandiose visions of their all too humble predicament of being human.

               

And so the three of us headed out late one afternoon, towards the lava flow, arriving from the little-touristed east approach, where we pounded a four-wheel-drive vehicle over the remains of roads devastated by Pele’s last assault on mankind’s feeble constructions- the Kalapana flow of ’91- then onto an area of rough lava tracks made of softball sized chunks of the old Lady. Finally we had to park the vehicle and begin on foot, scrambling towards the shimmering wasteland where the living river of molten rock might be found.

                We were out there about an hour and yet had found nothing except an endless field of dried lava. The sun was getting low in the sky, and it seemed our sojourn would come up impotent. And by that I mean that my initiation would not come to fruition, for, as one of my incarnate guides had stated- this was ‘my trip’, meaning it was my dance with the Mother, my chance to make connection, or not.

                As the three of us stood there, deep into the heart of the solidified lava field, watching the sky darken, I was beginning to feel the sense of a failed project, of ships passing in the night, so to speak. And so I sat down, closed my eyes, and tried to make a connection with Her.

                Well, it wasn’t long before I realized that I wasn’t going to make the connection, because I wasn’t hearing or feeling anything within, and I could not pretend something was there when it wasn’t. I was about to give up, call off the exercise, and begin the long march back, like one of Napoleon’s officers stumbling haplessly across Siberia after the loss. But then a thought suddenly came to me- or was given to me- which was that the Mother needed me to participate, that I was necessary, and that my will was a part of our connection. And so I entered into stillness and humbly asked Her, if She was willing, to please create a flow about one-hundred yards out ahead of us. And that was that, and I got up and stated to one of my otherworldly chums that if the flow were to happen, it might be out ahead of us about one-hundred yards or so. Admittedly, I was full of uncertainty still. But at that very moment a light sprinkle of rain began to fall, and a brilliant rainbow appeared in the sky just behind us- the Father’s covenant with me- and I let out a cheer I don’t know why other than I knew then that I had been heard. And damn if you wouldn’t believe it, but by the time we had walked approximately a hundred yards or so out in the direction towards which I had made my request, a small flow had begun bubbling up through the cracks of older lava, and widening out, oozing like dark, viscous lymph from the nipple of a prone woman. She had heard me, and had answered. And the Father, the Mother, and I were one.

                Into that river of glowing liquid rock I spontaneously threw, as an offering, the straw hat I had been wearing for the last month, as I had nothing else materially to give than that hat, and nothing else immaterially to give than my identity- which the hat represented- and though I have said that Pele mostly desires cigarettes and gin as gifts, I gave all that I had to give, and, either way, when such a convergence happens, and you are a living part of a world so confounding, indisputable, and intimate, one which has run you through the mill for so long that the only thing you have left to offer is your individual identity, well- you do it, because you realize that there is no such thing as separation anyway, and therefore you only give away the illusion of your difference from the rest of life, of the universe, and of God, because the Son comes from the Mother and Father, and because you are unequivocally in and of the all, for which you are now a part that is not apart, and so cannot but scream out a glory and hallelujah by throwing yourself into the tumble and so giving back all you have been given.

                The macrocosmic marriage takes place when the sacred androgyne, the Christ, is pulled between the Father and Mother- belonging to both- to such a degree that the individual dissolves as the bridge between them, and the cosmic unity is won. Is One.

                When finally we are embraced by both the earth and the sky, at the very same time, we become the living interface, the writhing membrane where the eternal orgy between the opposed but not separate forces of the Mother and Father- the yin and the yang- intermingle, and the Great Parents make love, and we are their orgasm creating the world.

               

                Heading back home later that evening, one of my cosmic mentors voiced a claim, stating to me: “Now things will go easier for you”, which they didn’t. For, despite the magical union that night, little did he know that life is rarely easy, and that most successes usually lead to harder trials. But this is the type of understanding that unrealistic and overly optimistic new age types can’t bear to accept, because it deflates their helium balloons and brings them back into the muck, the matter, the prima materia.

Canadian customers: amazon.ca/Root    

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

ebook

                The Big Island is a vortex for such metaphysical types, be they delusioned seekers, or true visionaries. To be sure, that living chunk of rock in the middle of the Pacific, the Big Island of Hawaii, is a vessel whose gravity attracts and contains the most astounding variety of mavericks I have ever come to know. It is a microcosmic milieu of soothsayers, energy workers, medicine men and women, healers, dreamers, charlatans, quacks, queers, warlocks, and witches. It is a community of ganja smokers, ayahuasca journeyers, peyote imbibers, and mushroom takers. It is a land of Buddhist monasteries, Hindu ashrams, new age retreats, Mother Mary worshippers, Sufi mystics, and every occult genre under the sun.

                The spirit runs so thick there at times that you can almost throw yourself effortlessly into its current, lose all plan and idea, and let the cosmic stream flow you out of your old pattern, whisk you hither, thither, and yon, and then set you down suddenly in another place, now more perfect for your part in the play that is your awakening to the dream of the whole.

 

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

 

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Books by Jack Haas,

the first author in history to release three five-star books in a single year.

His books include: Autobiography, Memoir, Spirituality, Mysticism, Comparative Religion, Poetry, Art, Photography.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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