Beyond Angeles

For the second time, I found myself in a large “room”— for lack of a better word. I was underground, but could not see the walls anywhere— the open space around me went on in all directions. Off to one side, there was a person (a woman) sitting in a chair. I hadn’t seen her the other day (the first time I was here), but there was no mistaking her presence: nor who she was.

I had never met Mother Earth before.

Let me explain how I got there.

While Janet (my wife) spent more time at the hospital than I did, I spent more time driving.

It was during several of the one-and-a-half hour trips to (or from) the hospital that I met Mother Earth.

While many believe that what we see with our eyes is all there is, this is actually unrealistic.

We know from science that different animals see different spectrums. And that human beings can only see a small section of the entire light spectrum.

Isn’t it vain to assume that what we see with our eyes is all there is?

The truth is, there is a lot more “out there”—and even “in here (inside ourselves),” than you’ve ever dreamed.

For example, we see a plant, we think it is stem, roots, leaves and nothing more. But it is.

The impulses that characterize that plant, or any other thing, go to make up a personality. These “beings,” (called “devas” in Sanskrit) surround us in the natural world.

Every tree, river, stream, mountain contain these devas.

So does the entire planet.

And every other planet.

And the galaxy.

And so on.

* * *

Certain songs have an energizing, re-vitalizing effect on me.

Sometimes very powerfully.

Once, driving home from the hospital, while listening to a cassette, that “power” innocently crept up on me. It was during James Eli’s “Circle ‘Round the Sun,” from his first album.

The song gently builds, adding “oomph” (for lack of a better word) as it builds. And as it grew in majesty, it grew in me. I found myself caught up in it, feeling more fullness and energy with each new measure.

Suddenly, so much energy filled me, I seemed to take off. I found myself flying, soaring through the sky. There are no clouds, only a clear sky: the sun above, the earth below.

And light all around me.

When the song ended, I put on another tape.

This time it was Kenny Loggins’ “Keep the Fire.” Playing the title cut increased the energy, and I continued soaring.

Somehow, I’m still driving the car: it’s kind of like when you’re hurrying: you focus on doing what you need to, and don’t much notice what’s going on around you.

Like that, I “noticed” the soaring, but not so much the driving.

I don’t know why, but emotions started building up inside me. The next song I play is “This Is It,” from the other side. (It’s about his father, someone told me, and whether for that (or something else), I started crying.)

The song is about making a choice, and I always thought it was making the choice to live or to go on. I think about my father (who has emphysema) and my son (in the hospital with cancer), and while I’m driving, tears are streaming down my face.

Even so, I’m still soaring, and everywhere around me there is light, so bright it passes right through me. Energy is everywhere: from the music (which keeps me soaring) and from the light.

There is so much energy and vitality in the light, it starts charging me—like putting power into a battery. The energy builds and builds, and suddenly, there is so much in me, I start glowing myself. It seems as if light is pouring out of me.

Somewhere, the music ends, and another song starts.

All the while I am flying.

Around this time, it occurs to me that soaring and flying might not be good for me. Amy (you’ll meet her later) told me I have a hard time relating to the planet. She means it’s very hard for me to be “present” with what’s going on while it’s going on.

This “soaring” is a perfect example: I’m up in the air, while I’m supposed to be focusing on driving.

So I figure I better land, and since Amy said Mother Earth appreciates the energy, decide to pour all this energy and light into the earth.

Swooping down, I land in a clearing, bend low, and start directing the light and energy into the earth.

It keeps coming and coming, pouring out of me— I felt like a conduit: sun, through me, into the earth.

Somehow, during all this, I am driving, and I’ve put on another tape, also “soaring” music. (I had the thought I should make a tape of these songs and call it “Music to Fly By.”)

Energy is pouring from me down into the planet—light and power and life, and the planet, responding, opens up beneath me, a large crevice in the earth, wide enough for me to drop through.

So I do.

Inside, I found myself in a dark passage (a room?), but I can’t tell how large/small it is: distance can’t be measured without a reference point, and there was nothing there but me. So I thought.

Still pouring out energy and light, now not only down, but everywhere—I am in the earth, and anywhere the energy goes, it goes into the earth.

(There is a small opening above me: the crevice above me has closed considerably (or I am farther down than I thought)—only a thin, crooked crack of sunlight can be seen above.

And the music is playing, charging and re-charging me with energy from who knows where.

I was really having a good time.

My dancing is not great (or even good—I usually don’t ever dance), but between the light energy and the music, I start dancing great Michael Jackson-type moves.

There I am, in the Earth, swirling and dancing, pouring out light (did I mention the light was golden?).

There’s more that happens then, but I won’t go into it.

The next day, on my way back to the hospital, it happens again.

Only this time, there is company. (Different music, too: mostly Kenny Loggins’ Leap of Faith.).

The “soaring” happens, “dropping into the Earth” happens.

And my dancing happens, too.

But it turns out, someone was there, watching.

During one twirl, I became aware of a throne, off to my right. Steps led up to it, just a few, to a small platform (dais?). On the platform was a tall, straight-backed chair, square posts and a red flannel-looking back. Beneath the seat, four legs curl down to the platform, each one long “S” familiar to fancy furniture.

Still dancing, swirling, and twirling, I became aware that a woman was sitting on the chair. Right away, I noticed She was not just a woman, but something royal and grand, and Wonderful.

Somehow, I knew She was Mother Earth.

I don’t know how I knew, I just did —I see beings like that occasionally. It’s not a seeing with the eyes, it’s more a seeing inside my head. Sorry, I can’t explain it better than that.

She was surrounded by others, I think, but I couldn’t see them, It seemed like She was talking to them, sometimes leaning to the right side, or turning her head left, as if she was talking.

I couldn’t hear anything, but I could feel them there.

Meanwhile, the music is still playing, I’m still dancing (having a great time), and, for some reason, She is enjoying my being there.

Usually, dancing so anyone can see me makes me stop. I get very self-conscious. I think I look like a spastic stork, if you can imagine. But this time, I just kept dancing. It must have been the Michael Jackson moves.

So, instead of being shy, I am quite comfortable—so comfortable, that I climb the stairs and ask her if She wants to dance.

She does, and we do.

Dancing with Mother. I swirl and twirl, and spin, and She laughs often at my antics. I am smiling all the time. Everywhere there is bliss and light and music, and great delight in her company.

I do not know how long we dance, but it is great fun, and She is obviously delighted.

At some point, I am again dancing alone, and She is (again) on Her throne. She is still taking delight in me, still (occasionally) conversing with those beside her.

She knows of my desire to be “present”—I have just thought of it (or perhaps She knew of it before). She has someone give me a beaker filled with a golden liquid, which I know is to help ground me, make me “present”.

Do I drink it? Unsure, I pour it over myself.

Immediately, Mother throws her head back and laughs.

“You’re supposed to drink it,” she says, laughing.

Sheepishly, I mumble something like, “well, I didn’t know,” but She just lovingly laughs more at my fumblings.

“Never mind,” She tells me, “They’ll be more later.”

Meanwhile, the dancing and the joy and the bliss, and the golden Light, continue.

Sometime later, She gives me another beaker, and this time I do drink it.

And sometime after that, I am back in my car. The music has ended, as has the journey: I arrive at the hospital.

But for the rest of that day, and for three days after, whenever I do my golden light exercise to keep me “present”, I cannot find the planet beneath me: it is only Light, bright and golden, a wave on the ocean of infinity.

© David Adelson. All rights reserved.