A Story in 3 Parts
My good friend, one of my oldest, told me the week following that
dream that there was a man who would be channeling St. Germaine and
that she was hosting a private circle of people in her home to come and
experience him. The gathering was taking place on a Wednesday
evening, in the middle of the school week.
It’s something that I’d normally love to do, but would not likely go out
of my way to set up a babysitter on a school night.
Yet, when she invited me, I knew we would be going. For some reason, I
just knew M and I would be there. I didn’t even tell M. I just set up a
babysitter and told M I was taking him out and what we were doing
would be a surprise. It all fell into place with hardly an effort. The sitter
was available. The kids were fine.
I took M for a hot tub first.
My friend lived in a beautifully restored, old Victorian house in the
center of Northampton.
We arrived as the guests were already seated, in circular fashion and
Ashamarae, the man channeling St. Germaine was seated, too. I couldn’t
see him from where we’d entered and were standing, but I could hear
him holding court as himself, engaged in introductory conversation.
We silently made our way to the group, just a few feet from the entrance,
and someone asked us if we wanted a couple of chairs, which would
have placed us on the outside of the circle. I knew I needed to sit on the
floor, and others doing so were seated at the front.
I said, “No thank you”, and that I’d prefer to be on the floor. M
followed.
People graciously turned around to greet us, and opened a portion of
floor space for the two of us to sit. We quietly stepped through the aisle,
toward where they motioned us. My eyes rested downward, carefully
stepping through where people were on the floor, and to make myself
invisible, as things had already started.
It felt good to sit and the woman seated to my right, touched my knee
and greeted me with a reassuring smile. It felt good to be in the company
of these people.
I grounded into where I was by continuing to keep my gaze down and
breathing into being and appreciation. I was still unaware what
Ashamare looked like, because I’d kept my visual attentive to his
audience.
After moments, the sound of Ashamarae’s soulful voice lead us to an
understanding of who he was and how he got there. My eyes still
focused downward, half closed, and his voice began to fill me.
As the full feeling grew, I slowly raised my sight to see the form of the
one who was speaking.
At that moment, what manifested revealed something Narnia-like. The
stuff of tales.
I took in the astonishing realization of Ashamarae’s face and lingered
there.
How could this be?
Tears welled up in my eyes. My heart savored what felt like a sudden
unleashing of broad, world views.
Had science yet given us the dream-theory? Was there anyone in the
world who could meet me in that vortex where dream and waking
worlds occurred, simultaneously, in concert?
M felt and knew something was happening.
Everything there was greater than the somethings they were poised to
be. I was lucidly aware of the people, the furniture, plants, paintings all;
colors, lights, breath. Even the heat from all the bodies. Hardwood
floors, impeccably polished and clean marble tabletops in black, grey
and white swirls; bust sculpture; lush house plants, tall and vibrant, and
impeccably positioned. Every line in the interior, clean and tasteful.
Every object, a touchstone for ghosts.
It was as if everything had arrived and assembled for this miraculous
moment. And of course, infinite intelligence swirling about the ether
was seeing everywhere, at once; sanctioning my reckoning of all this.
After some minutes, I exhaled into this vortex of evidence.
I reached for succulent branches, ethereally suspended in my
imagination, drawn from the tree of life, descending from the Bardo.
Each limb plump with sap of source energy, and each sinewy member,
confirming and otherworldly.
The sky of all potentiality, opened wide to me, rainbows of infinite
celebration and I whispered to M,
“There is the face of my father.
My father in the dream. That is his face.
Exactly.”
I turned again to see Ashamarae. He began the course of calling in St.
Germaine, allowing St. Germaine to use his body. It all continued to
grow in more exalted evidence of wonder.
I wasn’t just sitting on the floor in a circle. I was seated, directly across
from St. Germaine, as I had been seated across from my father in my
dream. And between St. Germaine and I, on the floor lay a beautiful,
Armenian rug in a long rectangular shape. Each thread a fragment of
reverie woven from some ancient dream in the world.
The long, rectangular runner stretching from me to St. Germaine, was
the magic carpet ride that set the stage for the supper in my dream, the
long dining table, in its exact shape and positioning.
In the dream, my dream siblings were seated all around the long edges
of the table and here in St. Germaine’s counsel, these guests were all
seated around the long edges of the red, brown, black and blue
Armenian runner.
Tears streamed down my face. Soundlessly.
I continued breathing into the dream unfurling.
After St. Germaine spoke for close to an hour, he invited questions.
More than questions, I had a desire to live the dream again, and to its
elated conclusion. I sat speechless.
Even so, I wanted to know how I could contain, hold onto, preserve
forever this wondrous.
All was quiet in me, save these stirrings. I listened to comments from
the guests, my dream siblings.
St. Germaine’s responses were eloquent; brimming with insight and
compassion.
After more moments, I raised my hand. Signaling my readiness. It was
my turn.
Finally, I felt called to speak.
St. Germaine nodded in my direction and looked deeply into my eyes.
His watch held me.
He smiled.
I inhaled the oxygen of my soul, and with mystic timbre and steady
rhythm declared, “I had a dream of you this last
week.”
St. Germaine gazed into my whole face, assembling an artful stare of
absolute recognition. He called upon the silence to muster the sacred in
the more silence that already was so intoned.
I could’ve lingered, just there, for eternity.
He spoke, with an expression of all worlds, all time, all relevance.
Delivering a gift of the purest regard,
St. Germaine declared, “It was not a dream.”
The quiet teemed with multiplicity of dimensions and simplicity of
understandings that traversed the entire Bardo; the contemplative
universe.
His response melted insight to liquid love.
More evidence of wonder, as my dream arrived, seeded, sprouted, grew
up green and emerald on earth.
He asked if there was anything I wanted to share about the dream.
As more tears overcame words, I shook my head.
He allowed a dream moment, for the essential fluidity of recognition to
glaze over all our insights.
Then, St. Germaine gestured to M and said that he had incarnated to be
at the right hand of the divine feminine. He said that M had dedicated
loyalty and service to the divine mother in a cave thousands of years
prior and that he carried that imprint upon his soul.
M took my hand. We sat amidst the phenomenon of all St. Germaine
offered and all that we in our collective assemblage offered. My back
was still experiencing the tangible vortex, and something in the front of
me was at peace in the affirming occurrence.
Ninety, or so, minutes and St. Germaine twirled out of the body of our
new friend, Ashamarae, and we all knew one another in a fuller sense of
shared awe.
I was complete, and yet, subtle anticipation. Evidence of the phenomena
soared through the reverberation of us all, of what had already taken
place.
Ashamarae seemed to, at once, shake off the spirit and drink it in. He
lifted a tall, crystal glass of water to his lips.
We all sat in quiet.
Ashamarae rose from his red, velvet chair and gracefully walked to the
altar, collected in honor of St.Germaine. One portrait of the Saint sat
upon the shrine, a painted likeness of him with those deep blue,
fathomless eyes.
The portrait was vivid and alive.
The words inscribed beneath St. Germaine’s image,
“The Eyes of the Heart”.
Ashamarae lifted the portrait off the altar, and in the witness of all my
dream siblings gathered, came to me and said,
“St. Germaine told me he wants you to have this.”
The current of the air,
licked my cheeks.
My dream father.
My father of everywhere,
and the very embrace that filled me to significance:
That quest,
that particular quest was before me.
Again.
I was in a dream.
And it was real.
My spine;
the magnitude there.
Drop the anchor.
Remain.
Eternal quiet.
I changed.
In a measure of everlasting.
“You have always been my favorite.
You have always been my favorite.
You have always been my favorite”...
It didn’t matter what love I had sought, and affection of father.
What mattered was I had arrived in fulfillment of it.
Of a love,
occupying
the never-ending of my soul.
I rose to meet the offering.
Ashamarae and I both standing upon the magic carpet woven of dreams.
That portrait of St. Germaine,
with his eyes of the heart,
was handed to me.
And, in that holiest of tender,
My dream came true.
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