Day #16 Following the Instructions on Manifesting Your Soul Mate

While I guzzled a few gallons of water to flush the barium out of my system, I spent yet another Valentine’s Day reading the encouraging comment after the last SSD entry from a fellow perpetually klutzy reader from New York City (yay! New York City!! I’m officially homesick!) who, like me, manages to trip over pencils. He or she recommended burning the scraps of negative thoughts about love in a big metal mixing bowl, which I do happen to have. I first needed to do a few loads of dishes to clear out the kitchen sink area, lest the anticipated towering inferno get out of hand. Not to mention that I first needed to scribble my negative thoughts about love onto little scraps of paper.

Meanwhile, I decided to start re-reading The Divine Matrix (Gregg Braden), and then The Gnostic Gospels (Elaine Pagels), primarily because both of them had broached the subject of the “Mind of the Universe”, but from different angles. Kathryn Alice approaches it from a specific, “Put your call for a soul mate into the Universal Web and you will generate one.” Braden and Pagels approached it from a broader and more historical perspective, which I found more useful.

Something Kathryn Alice had never taken into account: for some people, the very act of focused meditation is a near impossibility. For me, it’s something like a mental block. As soon as I so much as hear the word “meditation”, I start yawning uncontrollably. I remember trying to utter the chants “ohm” and “namo guan shi yin pusa” a few times, and couldn’t even get those out without yawning hopelessly. I can see that I need to address this yawning issue before almost anything else. In fact, I started yawning by merely typing the word, “meditation”!

It is this Divine Matrix that I personally think of when I hear the word “creationism”, and is the primary reason why I don’t have a problem with it. If Americans would include the teachings of the Gnostic gospels, of Sufism, Mahayana Buddhism, Hinduism, Native American creation stories, the Rig Veda, Max Planck, quantum physics (to name only a few) in a “creationism” curricula, I could live with it. But most Americans are so narrow-minded their idea of “creationism” is exclusively the judeo-christian Genesis myth and nothing else, so these same people would start screaming “heresy!” and jump up and down squealing like oinkers at anything beyond their own limited viewpoint, which is a pity, because if they weren’t so limited, their kids might actually learn something worthwhile.

But in the past year I couldn’t help but notice the vast chasm between what I was hoping for, and what was actually happening in my life. In other words, I had been hoping (and was still hoping) for something positive and good, and what I was drowning in was a vat of perpetual and seriously bad luck, spectacularly unpleasant injuries and illnesses, and one disaster after another. Family members and friends who were close to me knew exactly what I meant when I would talk about “being cursed” – they were all at the point where they tended to agree with me, and gave me good luck charms as gifts. They also knew where the bad luck had originated.

Long before the bus accident, I’d been the victim of an evil, mentally unstable con-artist thief and her two well-trained con-artist daughters, a chronic liar and (believe it or not) an employee of the Bank of New York, who had stolen my identity and my credit cards, put loans fraudulently in my name, had driven my credit into the toilet and was now trying unsuccessfully to steal all my possessions and the only home I’d ever owned in my own home state (New York), while leaving me in exile in Massachusetts. That disaster was now in the hands of expensive lawyers and I hadn’t paid much attention to the case for a while. But she seemed to be the origin of the “curse” which seemed to be following me around.

On the other hand, I found the “think positive” crowd to be seriously annoying, as though I were somehow subconsciously to blame both for both the Bank of New York con artist thief and for the jeep driver who, racing to a funeral, decided to broadside a bus – thus setting a year of pain and suffering into motion. How had I caused all of that to happen?

Truth be told, I wasn’t all that impressed with Gregg Braden, author of the first book, mainly because (I know, I know, everyone says this, but in my case, I’m not kidding), I had pretty much experienced the same epiphanies he had (i.e., connecting quantum physics experiments in my lifetime I had read about with the “you create your own reality” beliefs that dated back to our pre-human pond scum days); and just hadn’t written a book about it; I also hadn’t invented a probably fake native American “shaman” to verify it, the way he had.

The only Native American “shaman” I knew was a Lenape/Delaware out of New Jersey named Mike who took a shine to me and offered to take me up to a secluded cave in the Catskills where he promised to initiate me into some top secret Native American rituals. Right.

“Yeah?” I had responded to the offer, “I have an even better idea. Why don’t you go on up to the cave and wait there for me? I’ll be up shortly.”

People have this desperate need to believe that everyone who has some Native American blood in them are automatically spiritually adept, and even superior … sorry, I know better – and actually, so do they. Don’t get me wrong: I still love Mike to this day, but know that he’d be the first to scam a paleface if he thought he could get away with it – and if he’s reading this, trust me, he’s nodding enthusiastically and grinning from ear to ear. Let’s face it, most of us whites are such dolts, we’re easy to buffalo, so to speak.

However, the advantage to the book was that Braden had referenced scientific tests in his end notes that you could look up on your own without trusting someone else to hand feed it to you, i.e., the Quantum Teleportation experiments of 1993 and 1997, and experiments conducted at the University of Geneva that proved. “Once something is joined, it was always connected, whether it remains physically linked or not.” The implications this has for the “stardust” people (which is to say, us) in the aftermath of the original Big Bang is pretty startling. You could also read all of the other silly scientists who argue vehemently against everything that doesn’t fit into their world-view, whether they have proof of what they’re arguing for/against or not. Braden even referenced Elaine Pagels on her “Mind of the Universe” which came out of the Gnostic “Great Announcement” – and hoping that some of those “Great Announcement” fragments had found their way into the Gnostic Bible, I ordered one.

Then I sat and watched – with no small amount of disgust and distaste – a few minutes of the Grammy’s before admitting that, once again, the American music establishment was still operating without anything resembling musical taste. Skanky, shrill bimbo pop and rap still dominated the red carpet; I had yet to see anyone who was actually talented. Mostly I just watched a parade of indistinguishable whores all looking and sounding alike, before I gave up, vascillated between “Pirates of the Caribbean” and Peter Facinelli’s Hallmark movie and listened to Helen Forrest sing, “That Soldier of Mine”, I have no idea why. Well, except for the fact that Helen Forrest was actually musically talented and listenable; things like Rihanna, on the other hand, seemed only capable of wriggling down the red carpet in something that looked like cellophane – Landon Donovan may have tweeted loudly about her “booty”, but she was actually nauseating to look at, and I had to change the channel.

And now - off to set fire to tiny pieces of paper in a metallic mixing bowl.

Originally published:  Feb. 15th, 2011 at 10:42 AM