Messages

If you think of anxiety as a feeling, then meditation can help you access that feeling and let go of it. This release of emotion is unpleasant, because you are exposed to the full blast of it instead of blocking it off by distracting yourself as you might do at present. The Greeks called this a catharsis, a traumatic - but curative - release of repressed emotional trauma.

I have been getting these vibrations on and off for a few years now, sometimes as I wake up from a dream/meditation session (I meditate lying down and often can't tell if I have slept or not), occasionally in a vivid dream. Like KinLong I find them scary but realise that they are the gateway to the other side. Any advice for (finally it's about time sort of thing...) crossing over?

ant

I always thought of the heart chakra as the seat of love; if your chakra is properly active you sould be radiating love to all beings (not in a soppy way but a genuine feeling of love). i understood this to be the gateway to the higher faculties opening up fully of their own accord, although you can obviously go around the system if you try hard enough.

re the little blue man i wonder if this is the secret that swami muktananda mentions in his book 'play of conscoiousness'

ant

hi pod3,

what is this chakra behind the heart chakra that you mention? i've not heard about this before.

ant

i found a technique which involves identifying thoughts as they come into your mind. the act of identification ('hey, there's a thought about what i need to but in the supermarket') separates you from the thought itself and you no longer strengthen it by thinking it. it took me a little while to catch the trick of it, as you have to watch your mind from the inside, but after i got the hang of it it became quite easy to 'bust' thoughts as they entered my mind. i did this constantly for a couple of years and pretty suddenly my mind just went (and has stayed) completely silent. it was a very strange experience at the time and took me several months to get used to it, after having a very noisy mind beforehand.

ant

my feeling is that don juan and the other shamans were real and that Castaneda did have an apprenticeship with them; however, he personally did not break through to become a proper shaman himself. he is therefore able to write about what happened to him in a somewhat disjointed way, but cannot deliver the goods in a personal sense. I once had a psychic tune into castaneda; all his chakras were blocked and he had not opened up.

ant

i'm pretty happy that the assemblage point isn't the heart chakra but something else; i do wonder tho if it runs right through the astral body and is therefore accessible at the front and at the back.

ant

very interesting. as i understand it what stops kundalini from rising is negative repressed emotions - shame, guilt, inadequacy, anger, etc. in normal life you are just not aware of this stuff even if it affects your mood and attitude. drugs put you in touch with you astral body and all this stuff emerges directly - pretty traumatic. but if you surrender completely to the experience - and don't lose yourself and become psychotic - then you could clear it. Stanislav Grof used to do lsd psychotherapy using lsd to help people overcome their barriers and release emotions.

ant

hi Lockianhound. I know Castaneda puts it behind you, and i didn't question him about the difference - he was just too reliable to ask about things like that, and it worked. He meant quite specifically the assemblage point and nothing 'generic', although he quoted a black tribal tradition as his source (he's from south africa).

to get the image centre in proper context you have to go back to the Greeks. the soul, or astral body, divides up into three parts; the vegetal soul (basic body structure and function), the irrational soul (emotions) and the rational soul (mind) the rational soul focuses down onto the brain and again divides into three zones (roughly). the front is the image centre, the middle the thinking mind, and the back is memory. this model of mind was standard western thought until the modern age when everything was collapsed down onto the physical brain.  the image centre is capable of seeing anywhere and everywhere, and all those who start to see images in deep relaxation are accessing this centre. the self (the real you) sits in the thinking mind, which is why silencing the mind is an important gateway to more interesting stuff. if you can detatch yourself from the thinking mind you experience a sense of no-thought, or no-thingness, i.e. Buddhist enlightenment. 'Normally' the centre is not clear, but if you 'imagine' your front door, then the place in your mind where you are imagining it is your image centre. when you get better at it, then you can start to manipulate things via the centre - this is one way the chinese chi gong doctors work.

b.w.

ant

Some years ago my (psychic) acpuncturist told me that my assemblage point was blocked. He suggested i look at the guy from whale medical but he seemed too reductionist for me. I started playing around with the area - which was, not like castaneda, in front of my chest but quite distinct from the heart chakra, using my inner vision. Inner vision doesn't oftne work for me at the moment but this time it did. What i 'saw' was some kind of narrow tube that appeared very rubbery. i began to play with this image, trying to heal it with white light, but with little result until i eventually ripped the whole rubber thing off. This worked dramatically, and i found myself with a beautiful clean tube madde of pure light that had been hidden underneath. What made me feel that this was a bit more than imagination was that as i ripped off the rubber tube the world that was outside of me flashed on and off several times - something i was neither thinking about nor expecting. when i next saw the guy he took one look at me and said 'oh, i see you've been assembled'.

ant

imho there is no such illness as schizophrenia. there are plenty of very sick people, but 'schizophrenia' is nothing more than a pigeonhole label attached to them; psychiatry really has absolutely no understanding of what is going on, and shamanic type approaches are far more useful in understanding what is actually wrong.

ant

Hi there Atalanta. entirely agree with you. In terms of personal experience i had a lot of healing, including around 27 attached entities that i was fortunate to have the help of a VERY psychic acupuncturist with, lots of acupuncture, and over the past few years continuous work with my chakras. I have had several lucid dreams, including one in particular that was absolutely as real as waking reality. i have not managed a waking oobe yet, though i got to the edge of it with the rope method several years ago. So i know a little about the non-physical. My research showed me clearly how science is dedicate to preserving the secular face of contemporary society; its purpose is to explain things in terms that do not include any non-physical causes, and the system operates to belittle alternative explanations in a way that transcends the individual scientists ego.

Kuhn's original insight was that we can never fully understand reality - it's just too big; so all enquiry acts on a cut down form. However, my understanding is that there are two levels of knowing. the rational  , scientific , aristotelian intellectual enquiry kind, which science uses exclusively. the second is the mystical/shamanic 'knowing' (gnosis in greek). hre is an example that i picked up on my trawls; long but well worth it:

Original Wisdom

Robert Wolff

ISBN 0-89281-866-2

p153 onwards.

The morning was especially beautiful, I thought, crisp with a chill
in the air. It felt good being out in the jungle again and I was
looking forward to the walk.
I made a firm resolve not to have any expectations. Whatever happened
would happen. I wanted to have all the wonder a child has at the
beginning of the day. We walked. I was thirsty and very tired - I was
sadly out of shape after a month of inactivity. In the early
afternoon, the hottest part of the day, when it might be cool in the
shade but very humid - we came to a big clump of bamboo about twenty
feet ahead. Bamboo tends to bunch together, forming an impenetrable
barrier.
Ahmeed stopped, listened, turned to me (I was walking behind him),
and motioned: Be silent.
I opened my mouth to ask a question, but he gestured quite firmly,
motioning with his hand: No talking, stay still, quiet.
We stood frozen for what seemed a long minute when from the right a
large light-coloured snake came from under some bushes, slowly crossed
in front of us, and passed out of sight into the trees on our left.
...

I asked him, "Did you know that snake was coming?"
"Yes" was all he would say.
I tried to phrase the question differently: Had he heard it, seen it?
No, but he knew.
We walked on, my thoughts falling over each other. I returned to the
evening when he had introduced us to the Lord of the Great Ocean. That
had been a similar mystery. He had seen the ocean - and only the
surface of the ocean at that. He had probably not even put his feet in
the water, but he had known many things about the ocean that he could
not possibly have known.
"When we were in Port Dixon, did you walk into the ocean?" I asked.
No, he confessed, he did not get his feet wet.
"Is the ocean rainwater?" I questioned him, thinking I would trap him.
"Salty," he said.
"But how did you know?" I burst out.
He smiled his childlike smile.

...

The next day, after walking an hour, I realized that I was thinking so
much that I did not pay attention to where we were, to what was going
on in the environment. I was trying to figure things out in my head,
making lists, weighing probabilities as if Ahmeed's talents were a
problem in statistics. I decided instead to really open my ears, my
eyes, my nose, my skin to whatever I could pick up in the jungle
around us.

I stopped abruptly.
The jungle was suddenly dense with sounds, smells, little puffs of
air here and there. I became aware of things I had largely ignored
before. It was as if all this time I had been walking with dirty
eyeglasses - and then someone washed them for me; or as if I were
watching a blurry home movie - and then someone turned the focusing
knob. But it was more than that - much more. I could smell things I
had no name for. I heard little sounds that could be anything at all.
I saw a leaf shivering. I saw a line of insects crawling up a tree.
Ahmeed noticed that I had been walking slower and slower, while
paying intense attention to the world around me. He too stood still.
"Sit?" he asked.
"Well, no . . . not really . . . perhaps . . . I don't know," I
stammered.
"Drink?" he asked.
Afterward I realized that he had spoked very softly, so as not to
intrude on what was going on inside me, and he had used simple, single
words: Sit? Drink? Yes, I was very thirsty. I looked at him, thinking
he would find a water vine. He was the person who knew the jungle,
after all. He looked back at me with a perfectly blank expression. He
was not helping. He was not talking.

Suddenly, a new thought burst in on me: maybe I could sense water. In
my mind I made a sort of list: seeing water, hearing water, smelling
water. I might smell water, or even hear it if it was dripping on a
leaf perhaps. I looked around.
"Do not talk," Ahmeed said - I knew he meant "Do not think." "Water
inside heart," he said next, with a gesture of his hand on his heart.
I knew he meant I should sense inside - not with my mind, but from the
inside.
It is sad to have to use so many words to say something simple.
As soon as I stopped thinking, planning, deciding, analyzing - using
my mind, in short - I felt as if I was pushed in a certain direction.
I walked a few steps and immediately saw a big leaf with perhaps half
a cup of water in it.

I must have stood there for a full minute, in awe. Not in awe of
anything in particular, simply in awe.
When I leaned over to drink from the leaf, I saw water with feathery
ripples, I saw a few mosquito larvae wriggling on the surface, I saw
the veins of the leaf through the water, some bubbles, a little piece
of dirt. Reaching out, I put a finger in the water, then saw that one
of the wriggling mosquito larvae had been trapped in a tiny bubble on
my finger. How beautiful, how perfect. I did not put the finger with
the water droplet in my mouth, but looked back at the leaf.
My perception opened further. I no longer saw water - what I felt
with my whole being was a leaf-with-water-in-it, attached to a plant
that grew in soil surounded by uncounted other plants, all part of the
same blanket of living things covering the soil, which was also part
of a larger living skin around the earth. And nothing was separate;
all was one, the same thing:
water-leaf-plant-trees-soil-animals-earth- air-sunlight and little
wisps of wind. The all-ness was everywhere and I was part of it.
I cannot explain what went on inside me, but I knew that I had
learned something unbelievably wonderful. I felt more alive than I had
ever felt before.
All of me was filled with being.

What this other sense is, I do not know. For me it is very real. I
think of it as a sense of knowing. It probably is a quality we all
have to a greater or lesser degree. For me it works when I can get out
of my mind, when I can experience without having to understand, or
name, or position, or judge, or categorize.
It is a quality that has to be used or it fades away; just as one has
to exercise muscles, so too knowing must be exercised.
I am saying this after the fact, trying to describe something that
does not fit into our Western concepts, and therefore there are no
words. At the time I did not think anything. I was learning how to put
my mind aside and use some other sense to know.
Standing over a leaf with a little water in it, somewhere in the
jungles of Malaysia, I did not think in words. I did not think. I
bathed in that overwhelming sense of oneness. I felt as if a light was
lit deep inside me. I knew I was radiating something - love, perhaps -
for this incredible world, this rich, varied, and totally
interconnected world of creation that, at the same time, gave love to
me. And with the love, I also felt a very deep sense of belonging.

After a while, I slowly woke up. I came to, so to speak, and was in my
body again. I looked around. Ahmeed was not where I thought he was. In
fact, he was not anywhere in sight. He must have walked on, I thought.
And as soon as I thought, I panicked. I realized that I was alone,
that Ahmeed had left me in a strange place. I had no idea where I was,
or how to get back to Three or to find Ahmeed. My first reaction was
to shout, to yell, to call him. But the sense of being part of this
wonderful whole was so strong that I could not raise my voice. I
opened my mouth and tried to make a sound, but no sound would pass my
throat. I could not possibly disturb this oneness by yelling, by
feeling panicked. I could not be afraid - after all, I was part of
this all-ness.

My life changed in that moment.

And then I knew I need not shout for help, I need not run after
Ahmeed. I knew with great certainty that all I had to do was put my
mind aside and know where he was. Almost immediately I knew: He was
not too far away. I had an impression of him walking leisurely in that
direction. He sauntered as if he were deep in thought, or perhaps he
was thinking of me. In my mindless state of being I sent him a
voiceless hello, and it was easy to imagine recieving his slight smile
that barely stretched the corners of his mouth.
Part of me wanted to join Ahmeed, go back to Three to eat and drink.
But another part wanted to stay here and know this new world more
intimately. I stayed.
I was certain I would find my way back to Ahmeed and the village
later, when it grew dark perhaps.

...

I had frequent flashes of what I then called oneness, that magical
sense of being one with literally everything in creation. Each time I
had the oneness experience, it became more natural, more a part of me
- not something that I knew, but something I am.

Today I no longer wonder at the things I say when I let my inner
knowing speak. My mouth may surprise me, but, when, after I say the
words, their meaning penetrates my consciousness, my consciousness
admits that my mouth spoke truth.
The knowing I learned is not the same as consciousness. It is far
deeper. I have found that sometimes I know something that I cannot
possibly know, much as Ahmeed knew about the ocean. That kind of
knowing does not fit into the Western view of what is real. Scientists
need to measure, dissect, analyze, and prove harmless before they can
accept that a plant has valuable properties, for instance - and, of
course, the properties of the plant have to fit into current theories
of Western medicine.
Anthropologists and other scientists have occasionally, and wth great
reluctance, studied herbs that people in out-of-the-way places have
used for millennia, forgetting that a healing system is just that: A
system. Pharmaceuticals cannot be considered separate from the healing
system in which they were developed.
Western scientists seem surprised when they find that some herbs and
potions work. The next step then is always an elaborate, high-tech
chemical analysis of the herb to identify the active principle. The
active principle is then recreated from chemicals so that it can be
commercially produced without the many "impurities" of the original
plant material (although now nobody will ever know whether perhaps one
or more of those impurities plays an important part in the
effectiveness of the natural herb).
...

The explanation Western scientists give for how people all over the
world discovered the healing qualities of plants without the benefit
of our sophisticated science is always the same: trial and error - as
if primitive people tried this tree bark, or that leaf, and perhaps
experimented with cooking it, eating it raw, shredding it, baking it
until, in the end, they kept what worked.
In reality, the preparation of many native foods and medicines is
often so complicated, requiring so many steps, that it is hard to
imagine how people would use trial and error to learn what is good and
safe to eat, or which herbs prepared which ways prove to be medicinal.
How would people discover through trial and error that curare, a
quick and deadly poison that can be applied to blow darts or arrows,
must be prepared by collecting the sap of the plant and cooking it
down to a thick paste, being careful, the whole time, not to touch it
with their hands?
...

All through history there have been people who knew with an inner knowing.
Once, while walking up the steep and very narrow trail that goes into
Hanakapi'ai Valley on the island of Kaua'i, I had an almost disabling
sinus headache. Each step pounded in my head. As I trudged up the
steep trail, I looked up and saw a plant I did not know, maybe twenty
feet above me on the side of the cliff. As I looked at the plant, I
knew what it would feel like (hairy, but not stinging), what it would
smell like (aromatic), and I knew that if I could get even one leaf of
that plant, crush it, and put it in my nose, it would clear my
sinuses. A friend reached up with a long stick and managed to break
off a leaf of the plant. It felt as I knew it would, and it smelled as
I knew it would. I put it in my nose. It cleared my sinuses, as I knew
it would.
The plant, I later learned, is a wild species of oregano. Hawaiians
know it for its medicinal properties.

Another time, in the mountains of Luzon in the Phillipines, walking
from one Igorod village to the next with two Igorod guides, I slipped
perhaps thirty feet down a very steep slope of scree and badly scraped
the insides of both hands. I knew that I had better not get an
infection on the inside of my hands: We were at least two days from
civilization. I looked for water, but the landscape was dry and sere
and there was no water near us. I saw a plant that grew all around,
and again I knew what the leaf of that plant would feel like (hard,
harsh, prickly), what it would taste like if I chewed it (bitter). The
knowing came in a set. I also knew what to do with these leaves: I had
to chew them to make a poultice that would clean out the dirt from the
many scrapes on my hands and perhaps even disinfect the wounds.

Hi there Atalanta, I also went to university - in fact I'm a full time medical doctor. And i didn't develp my cynicism until personal experience led me to see through the medical system, and a huge amount of personal research (over 400 books) helped me to see that cynicism of science was quite justified, and the tricks that i mentioned are indeed used often. i'm not paranoid about it, i just realise that science as a discipline has its blind spots and its ways around them.

b.w.

ant

But that is how scientists always work - a mixture of reinterpretation and ridicule. Why should you expect anything different. Of course this is a basic part of a society that is inherently anti-spiritual. Don Juan said that when the indians were conquered by the Spaniards the best of them were able to hide in a place that the Spanish didn't believe in - it was the perfect escape. She won't bother you when you ap!

What's the problem? She believes in science and reinterprets the world in accordance with this belief system. For this sort of forum what she writes is a joke, but that doesn't affect her

where did the thought come from?

My father died about 8 monts ago; about six months before that I had a very clear dream where he came to me and said 'I won't be seeing you for a while'. I haven't had a dream of him since he died.

'subconsious mind' is an expression created by psychotherapists; any non-physical structure seems to have been disallowed. When you do allow this it becomes obvious (well to me at least..) that the subconscioius mind is the astral body. of course it now makes sense why it should be infinite - as a spirit, you connect up to the whole.

Here's a beautiful piece from Robert Wolff's 'original wisdom', as he is initiated by the local malaysian shaman:

Original Wisdom

Robert Wolff

ISBN 0-89281-866-2

p153 onwards.

The morning was especially beautiful, I thought, crisp with a chill
in the air. It felt good being out in the jungle again and I was
looking forward to the walk.
I made a firm resolve not to have any expectations. Whatever happened
would happen. I wanted to have all the wonder a child has at the
beginning of the day. We walked. I was thirsty and very tired - I was
sadly out of shape after a month of inactivity. In the early
afternoon, the hottest part of the day, when it might be cool in the
shade but very humid - we came to a big clump of bamboo about twenty
feet ahead. Bamboo tends to bunch together, forming an impenetrable
barrier.
Ahmeed stopped, listened, turned to me (I was walking behind him),
and motioned: Be silent.
I opened my mouth to ask a question, but he gestured quite firmly,
motioning with his hand: No talking, stay still, quiet.
We stood frozen for what seemed a long minute when from the right a
large light-coloured snake came from under some bushes, slowly crossed
in front of us, and passed out of sight into the trees on our left.
...

I asked him, "Did you know that snake was coming?"
"Yes" was all he would say.
I tried to phrase the question differently: Had he heard it, seen it?
No, but he knew.
We walked on, my thoughts falling over each other. I returned to the
evening when he had introduced us to the Lord of the Great Ocean. That
had been a similar mystery. He had seen the ocean - and only the
surface of the ocean at that. He had probably not even put his feet in
the water, but he had known many things about the ocean that he could
not possibly have known.
"When we were in Port Dixon, did you walk into the ocean?" I asked.
No, he confessed, he did not get his feet wet.
"Is the ocean rainwater?" I questioned him, thinking I would trap him.
"Salty," he said.
"But how did you know?" I burst out.
He smiled his childlike smile.

...

The next day, after walking an hour, I realized that I was thinking so
much that I did not pay attention to where we were, to what was going
on in the environment. I was trying to figure things out in my head,
making lists, weighing probabilities as if Ahmeed's talents were a
problem in statistics. I decided instead to really open my ears, my
eyes, my nose, my skin to whatever I could pick up in the jungle
around us.

I stopped abruptly.
The jungle was suddenly dense with sounds, smells, little puffs of
air here and there. I became aware of things I had largely ignored
before. It was as if all this time I had been walking with dirty
eyeglasses - and then someone washed them for me; or as if I were
watching a blurry home movie - and then someone turned the focusing
knob. But it was more than that - much more. I could smell things I
had no name for. I heard little sounds that could be anything at all.
I saw a leaf shivering. I saw a line of insects crawling up a tree.
Ahmeed noticed that I had been walking slower and slower, while
paying intense attention to the world around me. He too stood still.
"Sit?" he asked.
"Well, no . . . not really . . . perhaps . . . I don't know," I
stammered.
"Drink?" he asked.
Afterward I realized that he had spoked very softly, so as not to
intrude on what was going on inside me, and he had used simple, single
words: Sit? Drink? Yes, I was very thirsty. I looked at him, thinking
he would find a water vine. He was the person who knew the jungle,
after all. He looked back at me with a perfectly blank expression. He
was not helping. He was not talking.

Suddenly, a new thought burst in on me: maybe I could sense water. In
my mind I made a sort of list: seeing water, hearing water, smelling
water. I might smell water, or even hear it if it was dripping on a
leaf perhaps. I looked around.
"Do not talk," Ahmeed said - I knew he meant "Do not think." "Water
inside heart," he said next, with a gesture of his hand on his heart.
I knew he meant I should sense inside - not with my mind, but from the
inside.
It is sad to have to use so many words to say something simple.
As soon as I stopped thinking, planning, deciding, analyzing - using
my mind, in short - I felt as if I was pushed in a certain direction.
I walked a few steps and immediately saw a big leaf with perhaps half
a cup of water in it.

I must have stood there for a full minute, in awe. Not in awe of
anything in particular, simply in awe.
When I leaned over to drink from the leaf, I saw water with feathery
ripples, I saw a few mosquito larvae wriggling on the surface, I saw
the veins of the leaf through the water, some bubbles, a little piece
of dirt. Reaching out, I put a finger in the water, then saw that one
of the wriggling mosquito larvae had been trapped in a tiny bubble on
my finger. How beautiful, how perfect. I did not put the finger with
the water droplet in my mouth, but looked back at the leaf.
My perception opened further. I no longer saw water - what I felt
with my whole being was a leaf-with-water-in-it, attached to a plant
that grew in soil surounded by uncounted other plants, all part of the
same blanket of living things covering the soil, which was also part
of a larger living skin around the earth. And nothing was separate;
all was one, the same thing:
water-leaf-plant-trees-soil-animals-earth- air-sunlight and little
wisps of wind. The all-ness was everywhere and I was part of it.
I cannot explain what went on inside me, but I knew that I had
learned something unbelievably wonderful. I felt more alive than I had
ever felt before.
All of me was filled with being.

What this other sense is, I do not know. For me it is very real. I
think of it as a sense of knowing. It probably is a quality we all
have to a greater or lesser degree. For me it works when I can get out
of my mind, when I can experience without having to understand, or
name, or position, or judge, or categorize.
It is a quality that has to be used or it fades away; just as one has
to exercise muscles, so too knowing must be exercised.
I am saying this after the fact, trying to describe something that
does not fit into our Western concepts, and therefore there are no
words. At the time I did not think anything. I was learning how to put
my mind aside and use some other sense to know.
Standing over a leaf with a little water in it, somewhere in the
jungles of Malaysia, I did not think in words. I did not think. I
bathed in that overwhelming sense of oneness. I felt as if a light was
lit deep inside me. I knew I was radiating something - love, perhaps -
for this incredible world, this rich, varied, and totally
interconnected world of creation that, at the same time, gave love to
me. And with the love, I also felt a very deep sense of belonging.

After a while, I slowly woke up. I came to, so to speak, and was in my
body again. I looked around. Ahmeed was not where I thought he was. In
fact, he was not anywhere in sight. He must have walked on, I thought.
And as soon as I thought, I panicked. I realized that I was alone,
that Ahmeed had left me in a strange place. I had no idea where I was,
or how to get back to Three or to find Ahmeed. My first reaction was
to shout, to yell, to call him. But the sense of being part of this
wonderful whole was so strong that I could not raise my voice. I
opened my mouth and tried to make a sound, but no sound would pass my
throat. I could not possibly disturb this oneness by yelling, by
feeling panicked. I could not be afraid - after all, I was part of
this all-ness.

My life changed in that moment.

And then I knew I need not shout for help, I need not run after
Ahmeed. I knew with great certainty that all I had to do was put my
mind aside and know where he was. Almost immediately I knew: He was
not too far away. I had an impression of him walking leisurely in that
direction. He sauntered as if he were deep in thought, or perhaps he
was thinking of me. In my mindless state of being I sent him a
voiceless hello, and it was easy to imagine recieving his slight smile
that barely stretched the corners of his mouth.
Part of me wanted to join Ahmeed, go back to Three to eat and drink.
But another part wanted to stay here and know this new world more
intimately. I stayed.
I was certain I would find my way back to Ahmeed and the village
later, when it grew dark perhaps.

...

I had frequent flashes of what I then called oneness, that magical
sense of being one with literally everything in creation. Each time I
had the oneness experience, it became more natural, more a part of me
- not something that I knew, but something I am.

Today I no longer wonder at the things I say when I let my inner
knowing speak. My mouth may surprise me, but, when, after I say the
words, their meaning penetrates my consciousness, my consciousness
admits that my mouth spoke truth.
The knowing I learned is not the same as consciousness. It is far
deeper. I have found that sometimes I know something that I cannot
possibly know, much as Ahmeed knew about the ocean. That kind of
knowing does not fit into the Western view of what is real. Scientists
need to measure, dissect, analyze, and prove harmless before they can
accept that a plant has valuable properties, for instance - and, of
course, the properties of the plant have to fit into current theories
of Western medicine.
Anthropologists and other scientists have occasionally, and wth great
reluctance, studied herbs that people in out-of-the-way places have
used for millennia, forgetting that a healing system is just that: A
system. Pharmaceuticals cannot be considered separate from the healing
system in which they were developed.
Western scientists seem surprised when they find that some herbs and
potions work. The next step then is always an elaborate, high-tech
chemical analysis of the herb to identify the active principle. The
active principle is then recreated from chemicals so that it can be
commercially produced without the many "impurities" of the original
plant material (although now nobody will ever know whether perhaps one
or more of those impurities plays an important part in the
effectiveness of the natural herb).
...

The explanation Western scientists give for how people all over the
world discovered the healing qualities of plants without the benefit
of our sophisticated science is always the same: trial and error - as
if primitive people tried this tree bark, or that leaf, and perhaps
experimented with cooking it, eating it raw, shredding it, baking it
until, in the end, they kept what worked.
In reality, the preparation of many native foods and medicines is
often so complicated, requiring so many steps, that it is hard to
imagine how people would use trial and error to learn what is good and
safe to eat, or which herbs prepared which ways prove to be medicinal.
How would people discover through trial and error that curare, a
quick and deadly poison that can be applied to blow darts or arrows,
must be prepared by collecting the sap of the plant and cooking it
down to a thick paste, being careful, the whole time, not to touch it
with their hands?
...

All through history there have been people who knew with an inner knowing.
Once, while walking up the steep and very narrow trail that goes into
Hanakapi'ai Valley on the island of Kaua'i, I had an almost disabling
sinus headache. Each step pounded in my head. As I trudged up the
steep trail, I looked up and saw a plant I did not know, maybe twenty
feet above me on the side of the cliff. As I looked at the plant, I
knew what it would feel like (hairy, but not stinging), what it would
smell like (aromatic), and I knew that if I could get even one leaf of
that plant, crush it, and put it in my nose, it would clear my
sinuses. A friend reached up with a long stick and managed to break
off a leaf of the plant. It felt as I knew it would, and it smelled as
I knew it would. I put it in my nose. It cleared my sinuses, as I knew
it would.
The plant, I later learned, is a wild species of oregano. Hawaiians
know it for its medicinal properties.

Another time, in the mountains of Luzon in the Phillipines, walking
from one Igorod village to the next with two Igorod guides, I slipped
perhaps thirty feet down a very steep slope of scree and badly scraped
the insides of both hands. I knew that I had better not get an
infection on the inside of my hands: We were at least two days from
civilization. I looked for water, but the landscape was dry and sere
and there was no water near us. I saw a plant that grew all around,
and again I knew what the leaf of that plant would feel like (hard,
harsh, prickly), what it would taste like if I chewed it (bitter). The
knowing came in a set. I also knew what to do with these leaves: I had
to chew them to make a poultice that would clean out the dirt from the
many scrapes on my hands and perhaps even disinfect the wounds.

why did you break up if you are that close? (it's ok you don't have to answer)

i imagine you still have astral cords connecting your chakras. they would manifest more easily in your dreams.

Hi there, looking at this and your other posts you seem to be in a rush to open your upper chakras. It is not surprising that you get somatic symptoms from this. The chakras close down with repressed emotional material clogging up the system, and as you clear this stuff they open up naturally without any special effort. If you do try to open them directly, then you may well succeed but you will be limited by your own negativity and the experience may not be pleasant.

Personally I wouldn't worry too much about a brain tumour; you would likely have physical symptoms like loss of use of limbs, or loss of sight, if you had this. I heard recently of a medical study of 1,000 people with headaches who had CT scans to exclude brain tumours. Only one person had a tumour, and this was known beforehand anyway.

have fun,

ant