It seems like every day brings some sort of spiritual revelation. Whenever I sit down to write an entry, I have to remember where I was the last time I wrote, and try to play catch-up. Usually, there’s too much to cram into an entry, so I try to capture what feels like the most significant thing.
Today is Easter Sunday. The last two days have been gloriously sunny, and spent mostly by a campfire on a remote beach where the stones are like round, rainbow-coloured jewels. Campfires are like church to me.
Last night, while showering all the dirt, dust and campfire smoke off of my skin, I said a prayer: “Please help me to be a good teacher.” George immediately pops in and says, “Come to my pavilion in meditation tonight.”
George’s teaching pavilion is the first place he showed me when we first started talking to him. It’s where he started to give Sweetie & I music lessons. It’s like a gold gazebo, open to and overlooking a beautiful garden, full of pillows and flowing curtains and anything you need to be comfortable or to learn.
Where I’ve seen John and Kurt as friends, companions on a long spiritual journey that I’m beginning to understand has taken place over thousands of years, George immediately struck me as a teacher, and our relationship has always reflected that dynamic. More formal, deeply respectful, and every word uttered is meaningful. Everything George has said or done around me has been a lesson.
George has successfully supported me in cleansing my TV addiction. I haven’t watched a show or movie or video of any kind for over a week. I don’t even miss it. I tell you folks, that’s a miracle to me.
What’s replaced TV in my life is meditation. It’s where I go to learn, to progress, to talk with my spirit friends and teachers. I often know vaguely what is planned for that night, and I always wake up the next day feeling changed. Every night I die, every dawn I’m born again.
So I settle down on my bed with my little candle, legs folded, posture facilitating the flow of energy (and thus telepathic communication.) George comes in and says, “I’m going to show you teaching.”
Then he brings down this crown from the sky. It’s golden, glowing, has a weight to it. He places it on my head and says, “This is the crown of teaching.”
I don’t understand. I ask him to tell me more. George shows me Jesus, with his crown of thorns. I’d recently had a lesson from a turkey (who is a sacred animal of teaching and sacrifice – Mother Theresa, Buddha and many great yogis had Turkey Medicine) and so I had personal sacrifice on the brain. The crown of thorns alarmed me, and I asked if the crown of teaching was about self-sacrifice?
“It’s about humility. As a teacher you set yourself aside, and you give the student what s/he needs. It’s precisely like medium work, at which you are already excelling. Why do you think I am such a good teacher? Did you think I *knew* all of these answers to the questions you ask, or that I had planned on what lesson to teach next? No, the teaching flows through me from Heaven. Just like Jesus. Just like you.”
Oh. I get it now.
And suddenly, teaching is no longer a scary prospect. I also understood immediately what my healing work has lacked – I’d put a lid on my own capabilities by mistakenly believing that *I* had something to do with the healing I was doing. No, healing is channeled. When healing is channeled, there are no limits to the miracles which can be performed.
This makes sense with my curriculum too – in the weeks leading up to my first class, I sat down only once and wrote, almost stream of consciousness, my first lesson. If my brain wandered off task, I’d read Linda’s book Intuition Magic: 25 years Later – and then the lesson would begin to flow again. I wrote it all out weeks ago and haven’t looked at it since. I’ve been directed not to attempt to plan more than the next class at a time, that there will be adequate time to plan the lesson before the next class each week.
I’m working at the hospital today, and writing this entry on my breaks. We don’t have internet at home anymore, for a while, so these breaks from work are the only time I have to blog. It seems to be enough, anyway.
On my way to work in the car this morning, I was listening to Nirvana’s albums and I hear, “Hey, turn that off. We’re trying to talk to you.” So I set aside my ipod and open my psychic ears. Kurt says, “You have a visitor!”
And there’s Jesus sitting in the passenger seat of the car.
“Oh, hey Jesus! Happy re-birthday!” He cracks a huge, toothy grin. I thought, Wow, Jesus has great teeth!
My life is so weird.
Jesus is wearing typical hippie gear, loose, torn jeans, beat-up sandals (he has his feet up on the dash) shoulder-length loose hair, full but trimmed beard. If he were to manifest himself in this garb in my town and walk around the grocery store, no one would give him a second look – hippies are just that common out here.
We talked some more about teaching. I understood more about the “sacrifice” of teaching. It’s not really a sacrifice as we define it in modern terms. It means to allow the people to experience what they need, to set aside your own wants and desires for their experience and allow them to learn the lessons they set up for themselves, not judging their choices, but accepting them with all the love in your heart, channeled through heaven.
Sacrifice is not painful in this way. It’s a deep sense of peace.
This is why I’m not to plan more than one lesson at a time – because the next lesson will be determined by the needs of the students, and what they take from the first day.
Jesus turns his gaze to the rising sun behind us, and then the shifting cloud cover before us. “I always liked this place,” he sighs. That statement makes me wonder if he actually has come to town for a bit of vacation. It’s a fun thought, anyway. I agree with him, it’s beautiful here.
“Well, you’re welcome to hang out with me as long as you want,” I chirped, and suddenly felt foolish. Surely Jesus has better things to do.
“Oh, I can take a few minutes,” he assures me. He reminds me how he can be in an unlimited number of places.
This is a lesson that John taught Sweetie & I for Christmas. He demonstrated to us the flexible nature of time, which is how he is able to get his songs to play on the radio for comedic timing (he goes back and influences / suggests the playlist retroactively). Kurt has learned how to do this too. In this way, John has also learned how to be in more than one place simultaneously – John talks to a LOT of people, and he can’t be hampered by linear time to get his job done. I seem to understand that John cannot be in an unlimited number of places though – he has boundaries, or perhaps he set boundaries for himself. But Jesus, well, he is without limits as far as I understand.
So there I sat driving my 30-year old, rusted, Toyota tercel with Jesus sitting beside me, his feet on the dash, watching the landscape slide along for several minutes, enjoying the serene beauty of nature. My mind was quite clear and still.
“Well, I’d better go. Busy day,” he says with a smile. Without thinking, my intuitive brain kicked in first: “See you, brother,” I said. “See you, sister,” he replied. And was gone.
Then my rational brain kicked in. Sister? What?
I don’t know what to make of that yet.