Chapter 3/Amnesia Factor
Up in the office, I completed a report and automatically turned to sign up for my next assignment. Pen in hand, I suddenly remembered my hospital appointment. "Say AI, I won't be in, Monday. Taking some sick leave for minor surgery. Call you when I get released. It won't take long, a few days or so," Al replied, "No sweat. I'll cover you."
Greeting Betsy out in the chill darkness of the parking lot, I climbed in and warmed up her engine. Listening to the subtle changes in idle speed as the Weber carburetors warmed, I began to think about the upcoming surgery. "Sure will be nice to get rid of the aches and pains," I thought. "Wish I could think of some way to imagine the pain away. . ."
Once again we deftly slid into the night traffic, heading homeward. As one part of my mind drove a safe distance behind the traffic, another pondered the problem of how to utilize imagination to overcome pain. What I needed was some form of control, some type of mental control. Rather than a fixed image, I instinctively searched fur a dynamic or moving image, something I had learned to control. Remembering my fiying, I recalled the sound of the engines when the throttles were pulled back. If pain control could be represented by tbose throttles, perhaps I could diminish real pain by using my imagination to pull them back to idle.
My plans had been carefully laid for admittance to the hospital Monday afternoon. Telling no one, preferring not to trouhle my fumily, I had reserved a private room without television, so as to read and work on my pain experiment in privacy. Then I pushed all such thoughts 'over the dam' and worked up my notes for Monday (July 17, 1971), an early morning session with Lenora.
Arriving promptly at nine, I noticed the medical emblem on the sedan parked in Lenora's driveway. My heart skipped a beat as I wondered if anything had happened to Lenora. "God," I silently prayed, "Don't let this priceless opportunity slip from our grasp now! We've waited so long." Just as I reached the porch area, the front door opened and an armful of tape recording equipment followed by a smiling gentleman exited. I smiled in return, realizing (with relief) that the doctor had been visiting Lenora for the same reason that I was! Lenora's eyes were sparkling a big friendly welcome in the doorway as I gallantly handed her the bouquet of huge pink carnations.
When she returned to the living room with the floral arrange- rdavis 00:15, 6 December 2009 (UTC) ~ ment;wegotrightdowntobusiness,~lTeada prepared thesis which had been designed to elicit answers. It attempted to portray man as a "robot"-a1beit constructed by an intelligence transcendent to man's-a man-robot which would provide growth-data for 'higher research.' My question was, "What is the fate of the man-robot when the research is completed?" (The answer seemed quite serious.)
You are placing robots here without the soul-image that is necessary for them to have, to experience the beauty of that creation which has come forth from them. They must have a "soul" before they become a living being or other than of a lower plane • . . even the animals have a soul.
You have given a beautiful simile to things that would seem to reflect a life around you. However, you are well aware that man is not a robot, and though he is made in some likenesses toward the image of his Father-Creator, he is also a separate individual distinct and apart from that particular being. Know also that even as a metal robot could not begin to evolve and think . .. that this is a God given "gift" or something which comes from an outside source-such as from Father to son, as God to soul or being-this is an essential part of man upon the earth.
Know that man can become a co-creator with his FatherGod, that he can also reach out to other areas of space and yet be a functional human being. Know that even as he grows and expands in his conscious awareness of those gifts that have already been given him, he must continue to become one with the "All" and see all sides to each particular issue that comes up.
I had no idea what the "All" was. Hoping to receive the answer to man's eternal question, I asked, "What am I?" (Very slowly came this answer.)
You are a part . . of the soul . . that was a part . . of the Creator. You are not • • Total Creator . • but you are an essence . . or droplet . . of that which IS. You are given .. certain rays, or abilities. . to work with. . . certain added gifts and functions . .. and yet these are not a part of your total being . . but they enhance its growth. They are then removed from you . . and you work with other areas. These are not subtracted from . .. but the middle part is removed.
I still wasn't satisfied. I could not fathom the phrase, "An essence or droplet of that which IS." What I really wanted to know was whether or not the self-identity of a mortal person could be recovered intact after the death of the physical body. I rephrased the question: "Is that which is recoverable after the death of the physical body, in any other state, in any other dimension, would it be recognizable by me as me!?"
Yes. It has a sense of your feeling, of your worth of your abilities. It is more than just memory, but also emotion. . . _ (there was a pause).
This is the process of growth that has come with you through the many, many aeons. Know that you have a Spark of the Divine that is there. This is with you, whether you recognize it or not. This is not the information that is implanted within you. This is something that you need to seek out, to develop, to realize it is there, before it is yours to use.
I suddenly caught the clue, asking, "Is this Divine Spark the same thing as described in Eastern literature as the 'monad: or is it perhaps what is called the Divine Thought Adjuster?"
The Divine Thought Adjuster.
Lenora listened intently as I explained the connection. This God-Spark had been described as a living Spark of the Absolute. The ancient Eastern teachings symbolized God Absolute as the Sacred Flame, from which springs countless Divine Sparks of the Same Absolute Energy. It is said that no purer energy exists in all Creation. This Divine Spark has been described as totally impersonal, yet Its yearning love for Its mortal child seems beyond the comprehension of even higher beings. From the Greek Agape it is learned that this is a Divine Love that can wait through the long aeons of time, silently awaiting the moment when Its child turns within and discovers Its loving presence. Agape, translated literally, describes a love so pure that, "It forever expects nothing, yet eternally hopes for everything." The Bible describes It as " ... that true Light that lights every man that COmes into the world." The Bhagavad Gita portrays It as ". . . smaller than the smallest and greater than the greatest," which hints at Its transcendance of the relative time-space dimensions. The Absolute is primal Source, thus Its parent status has caused It to be called the "Father," "Father Spark," or "Father Spirit."
I asked, "Where is this Divine Spark to be found?" Three inches behind your eyes . •. in the center of your mind.
Our feelings were indescribable. In the silence, I thought numbly, "Good Lord .... No wonder we've misunderstood. All this time He was hidden in the very last place anyone might have thought to look." Aloud, I asked the question, "In addition to this God-Spark, does everyone also have 'guides?"
Certainly.
Lenora was then asked to name the guides of each member of the Broome family. Richard Broome, a remarkably talented artist, is a personal friend of mine who developed an unusual technique with invisible paints. Under a 'black-light,' his paintings of aircraft and space scenes magically transform into 'night scenes' of unique realism. I had collaborated with Rick on a "far out" painting which would be unveiled to my family at Christmas. It was during my visit with them that r d mentioned Lenora and the guides. Rick and Billie, his wife, had become highly intrigued and desired to learn more. I had recommended an excellent book by Jane Roberts, The Seth Material, for current information; The Urantia Book (no known author) for background and historical details; and Kingdom of the Shining Ones for portraits of guides.
At the mention of "names," Lenora looked wary again, much like a spooked and hesitant deer. I coaxed her to try, hoping to help her eliminate the hang-up. Finally she wrinkled her pert nose and settled down to try:
"Well ... Richard's is Rollo, spelled R-o-I-o-w, and ... . Bethanie. . . I almost get Beth Anne, but it's Bethanie."
"Marsha's is Robert ... and Michael ... and there's a third ... well, it's a very common name ... Mary ... "
I was silent, but puzzled over the apparent "slip." Lenora had called Billie, "Marsha." It was six months later when, in a conversation with Rick's mother, I learned that Lenora had been precisely correct! Her nickname was "Billie," but her given name was "Marsha".
I asked if their impish little daughter, Lisa, might have any guides. Lenora closed her eyes briefly to search. "Belinda and Johnny. . . Belinda and Johnny??? . . But they feel like children! ... Not at all 'high' or adult! They seem playful !" she exclaimed with delight. I was quite surprised. We guessed that little children all over the world very likely had little playmatecompanions. Wondering, I then asked, "How do Belinda and Johnny relate to Lisa? Suppose she were to fall while playing in the park and hurt her knee ... How would they react to this?
They would race off and attempt to attract attention to Lisa, someone who might come to her assistance.
I then asked Lenora (while the iron was hot) if she might get the names of my son's guides. She seemed to be reaching more easily now, and soon said, "This feels female ... J-o-l-e-n-e ... Jolene ... Margaret ... and Steven. I get two females and a male." I thanked her for the information, then decided to interject some humor into our session. Searching through an old encyclopedia of historical names, I'd stumbled across 'Zuriel.' I asked if Zuriel might still be around, still serving in the same specialized category. Lenora replied that they were giving her a "yes," but, "This one feels 'above' Herod and Harold .... Why are you laughing like that?"
I was convulsed and finally got out, "And I know why! Probably just waiting to go to work on the likes of me! Can you guess what that one's specialty is? The encyclopedia stated: 'Zuriel, who holds the cure for stupidity in mankind,' and I couldn't resist asking."
Lenora chuckled, and, as if to prove the point of stupidity in man, the next answer made no immediate sense to either of us. Having worked with high-fidelity music systems for decades, and having a working knowledge of radios and electronics, I knew that transmitters and receivers function more effiCiently when "grounded." Likening man's mind to an ultrahigh-frequency transceiver, and recalling that one's nervous system extends down to one's toes, I innocently asked the following question:
"Would standing in water improve man's telepathic abilities?" Lenora's expression reflected amusement as the droll answer came back:
No. . . but sitting in the bathtub might help.
The pretty brunette head with its winged white cap was intently reading a chart on the desk. She made several entries. softly snapped it shut, then returned it to the me cabinet. She glanced at me as I patiently waited beside the counter. "Yes?" she asked, and I gave her my name. She led me down the hallway to the last room on the right and, entering, pulled back the drapes to flood the room with golden sunlight. I noted with satisfaction the sweeping view of parks and green hills beyond the expanse of windows. This side of the hospital faced east.
When the nurse departed, I unpacked my suitcase. Donning slippers and bathrobe, I wandered along the halls, chatted with several patients, then returned to my room. After experimenting with the buttons that controlled the bed adjustment, I curled up and read for several hours. A nurse popped in, apologized for not serving dinner, and briskly filled my water jug. When I growled about not getting fed, she maternally reminded me that I was due in surgery first thing in the morning. Rather magnanimously, I was allowed to drink all the water I wished. Smiling, I returned to my reading.
I was studying a brilliant and high perspective of all the world's best philosophies. A review of history clearly outlined man's long climb from the depths of superstitious fears, through evolving systems of belief that changed with the dawn of each new civilization, each new change a chance to lead humanity toward higher understanding. With the emergence of a true science, and the breakaway from the grip of dominating religions, new potentials for growth arose. I could see that the three giants would eventually merge, forming a more complete "lens" through which to find truth.
"Science, philosophy, and religion," I reflected; "Three different views of the same fundamental Reality. Science probes into Its creative expressions, using limited tools to explore fragments of Its objective manifestations. Philosophy uses the tool of limited mind to try to intellectually probe the meanings, purposes, and values of Its infinite, eternal Mind. Religion attempts to understand It with yet another tool, the heart. And the paradox lies in the futility of trying to describe one's subjective, inner experiences," Just then a young, rather shy little night-nurse entered and asked if I needed a sleeping pill. I declined, saying that I usually read late and slept like a log. And surprisingly, I did.
Somewhat dazed, I awakened in a strange room. One of the nurses crossed the room towards my position, asking, "Awake? . . . How do you feel?" "Fine," I assured her. "What's your name?" she asked. "It's on my wrist-tag," I reminded her. "No, you tell me," she insisted, so I rather formally recited my name, address, and phone number, then asked the nurse for her's. She chuckled, "You're wide awake, alright." She swung my gurney around, out through the swinging doors into an elevator, and eventually into my room. When I was finally tucked in, I closed my eyes and sighed. Already the ache had intensified, swelling to occasional sharp bursts of needlelike stabbings. I put my imagination to work and visualized my cockpit as viVidly as possible. Reaching out with both a mental and physical hand, I slowly pulled back on the imaginary "throttles." No change at all! Grumbling, I tried it again, concentrating all my imaginative powers on the task. Again and again those "throttles" were slowly pulled back and each time I imagined I heard the sound of the engines dying down. No change. I stopped and took a break.
Why would Harold and Herod have stated that pain could be subjugated by the mind's imagination ifit were not true? Then a new thought struck; maybe it was simply my small amount of 'mind power' that caused the lack of control. Maybe I didn't have what it takesl
This thought aroused a sort of grim determination and, clenching my teeth, I firmly pulled back on the "throttles" once again, Still no change. Now I began to get angry! There could be no reason for such an inept performance. My imagination was as good as anyone else's! I grumbled, "Follow those damn throttlesl" and grimly tried it again, and again, and again.
A strange thing happened. I began to notice that although the pain was still there, it now felt "remote." This was all I needed to spur me on. Once again I pulled back on those "throttles," and the pain receded grudgingly. As I refined the technique, I discovered that the clearer I could "see" the cockpit image and the clearer I could "hear" the engines dying down, the sooner the pain subsided. Elated, I practiced every twenty minutes until lunch arrived, then ravenously ate everything put in front of me. Throughout parts of the afternoon, I continued practicing the method and soon achieved a controlling dominance over the postoperative pain.
That evening, some friends dropped in to visit, finding me in a cheerful mood. They were still visiting when the doctor arrived. He recommended that, ifl felt up to it, a healing sitz bath might be in order.
Later, I felt strong enough to follow a nurse down the hall to a closetlike room containing the tiniest bathtub r d ever seen! The nurse checked the water temperature and explained how one backed into a sitting position in the tub. When she departed, I did just that.
Sighing deeply, I leaned back and lit a cigarette, reHecting upon yesterday's session with Lenora. What had they stated? . . . "Know that there is a Spark of the Divine with you, whether you are aware of it or not." I smiled to myself. So the secret hiding place of my own personal Father-God was fioally discovered!. . . Right smack in the last place I would have ever suspected, in the very center of my mind! Subtle! I began to wonder how I might contact this marvelous, creative Source; how I might communicate with Him. Quiet and meditation were obvious prerequisites.
My thoughts wandered along, recalling the names of the gUides for the Broome family. I must write them a letter soon. My heart warmed when I remembered "Belinda and Johnny," the little playmates of Lisa ... Wouldn't Rick and Billie Hip over this information? And 'Zuriel.' How the races of man could benefit from that one's speciality!
Then the next thought really jolted me! I almost dropped my cigarette. The true sigoificance of that final cryptic statement now dawned on me ... Somehow, Herod and Harold had foreseen my future! The words echoed again in my mind: "Sitting in the bathtub might help." I started to chuckle, then exploded with a roar of laughter that brought a nurse on the run. Wiping the tears out of my eyes, I barely managed to assure her that it was simply a little joke, nothing to get alarmed about. When she left, I wondered what the doctor would find written on my chart tomorrow.
