POMEGRANATE SEEDS 3: 21st December winter Solstice

Newsbrief:

Greetings to my readers! As the winter progresses I wish you all well. To those who live in Central and South America, enjoy the sun and the scent of the flowers, still very sharp to my senses in spite of the frost here.

Since number two of the series, I have received the unique gift and blessing of the Inca people, the Munay-Ki, offered here in London by the Shaman teacher, David Hill, who is of the Four Winds group. It is hard to explain what happens when the gift is transferred. For me, and I am sure it is different for each participant, it was as if I had been presented with a delicate suit of armour, not to keep me closed off from the world and all it portends, but rather, to act as an indicator of where and when to go when action is needed. It brings you much closer to the earth and to its vibrations. Above all, it enhances the ability to see.

From my web section, Khazar Lodestar, you will know that I have a particular interest in the Crystal Skulls. I have now made contact with several "skullbearers", as I have decided to name them. Next year, my activities in this area will increase. The gathering of the Skulls is vital to the future.

I am opening an E - Mail section to answer your queries.

SPOT - ON - MAIL:

1) An E-Mail from Toma in Mexico asking from where I get my ideas for the stories I use to illustrate the teachings I select.

Thanks Toma! Apart from an occasional reportage on a specific event, such as Bosnia, which I may feel succingtly illustrates the point, I made a decision at the outset of this project. Don Juan continually speaks of the Tonal and the Nagual, the interplay between them, and the vital necessity of supporting the Tonal because it is the place where we operate. I search for quotes accredited directly to Don Juan in the text. I use these as meditative exercises and search for ways in which they are related to experiences, both my own and that of others. I then establish a question which I see as the key to understanding the text. The most important element then takes place. I make a shamanic journey and ask for an idea central to the subject in hand from which to create a story applicable to, and illustrating the teaching. As Don Juan says, (Tales of Power), it is the Nagual that is the creative power, not the Tonal. The shamanic journey is a journey to Power.

The combined skills of Tracking (formerly stalking) and Dreaming are essential tools in the search for knowledge. If you wish to pursue this approach further, I recommend you to read a book by a former apprentice of Don Juan: Tracking Freedom, by Ken Eagle Feather (Hampton Roads, 1998, isbn.1-57174-093-7)

2) An E-Mail from Joan in California asking what is the significance of the Pomegranate Tree and why I had chosen it for the design of my web site.

Thanks Joan! My first, and distant reason was that the pomegranate tree is a native of Central Asia, and the fruit of this tree is a marvel in the evolutionary process. This exotic fruit was exported and traded along the great trade routes of the oriental world into the roman empire via the kingdom of Khazaria and across the river Itil (the Volga of today). The orchards of Khazaria were famed almost as much as their horse breeding. The seeds of this fruit for me are symbolic of my ancestors, their story, the break-up of the kingdom, the scattering of the khazars both to the east and to the west, and their part in the losses of the Holocaust. It is also symbolic of the need for a regathering and a healing of the powers that were lost when Bulan made his decision. The story I offer with reference to Clarity may help you see deeper into this.

3) An E-mail from Theo in Bavaria: who asks what will be my shamanic song for Winter Solstice 21st December?

Thanks Theo! You set my mind working. Please see the result an the end of this web page. It's good to have a bit of fun even at ones own expense.

TOPIC: The Four Last Ememies

Part One
Teachings of Don Juan :

"A man of knowledge is one who has followed truthfully the hardships of learning- a man who has, without rushing or without faltering, gone as far as he can in unveiling the secrets of power and knowledge......! He must challenge and defeat his four natural enemies......

"Anyone can try to become a man of knowledge, very few men actually succeed.....the enemies a man encounters on the path of learning to become a man of knowledge are truly formidable; most men succumb to them.

"Learning is never what one expects. Every step of learning is a new task and the fear the man is experiencing begins to mount mercilessly, unyieldingly. His purpose becomes a battlefield. And thus he has tumbles upon the first of his natural enemies: Fear! a terrible enemy - treacherous and difficult to overcome. It remains concealed at every turn of the way, prowling, waiting. And if the man, terrified in its presence, runs away, his enemy will have put an end to his quest.

He must not run away. He must be fully afraid and yet he must not stop. That is the rule! ( Continues in Q.2, 3 and 4)

MEDITATION:

During my work as a freelance journalist and writer I travelled extensively in the eastern bloc countries, the USSR and Central Asia, both before and after 1989. To follow events in these areas as they unfolded was a learning curve, both in the tonal and in the world of the nagual. Both spheres required strategy, caution, perception, awareness, focus and discipline. To track the world of everyday life and meet its challenges, not least the challenge simply to stay alive, demanded a full-time capacity to be in the here and now.

Earlier life experiences had provided a corner stone from which to draw strength. As I met survivors from the horrific events taking place in a supposidly civilised world, the question which remained uppermost in my mind was whether, in the aftermath of cruelty, slaughter, torture, rape and starvation, the victims could later regain any modicom of normality, any semblance of human feelings, any hope in the face of despair. The overriding perception was of fear, a fear so intense that it gave the body a distinct oder, of which even humans, as predators, became aware.

There are many degrees to fear, from the simple challenges in daily life to fear of death itself. In between these two are gradations of fear so intense as to be mind blowing and soul destroying. War is a situation in which the most vulnerable often suffer the worst oucomes. The attempt to escape is often to jump from the frying pan into the fire. We met the children in the ancient orchard, the only thing left standing in the demolished village. The bodies of their parents and neighbours were already fertilising the earth which fed the trees on the fruit of which they were surviving.

Q1: When death destroys the family hearth, can the scattered seeds, shrivelled by fear, bear fruit and continue the quest for knowledge?

UNDER THE APPLES THAT HANG ON THE BOUGH.
(report from Bosnia)

It was 1994 and I was covering the war in Bosnia as a freelance.

Up in the hills above Sarajevo I was crashing my way through thick undergrowth coming in to an open area I found myself in unexpected company. An American journalist with her two-man crew, and an Australian journalist with his crew, a man and a young woman.

"Hello there!" I greeted them.

"Crikey! A bloody pommie!" said the Aussie.

I grinned. "Not in a million years!"

It was evening. We teamed up and searched for somewhere to spend the night. The two crews had got separated from their interpreter guides by the pounding mortars and snipers firing at anything that moved.
We finally found an almost ruined cottage with three walls and half a roof, standing in a clearing and surrounded by orchards.

We decided to spend the night and got ourselves organised with a small fire and emergency rations. Gunfire pounded long into the night but we eventually got some sleep. With two on watch for three hours each. I took my turn with Alan, the Aussie journalist. He took the front door, and I squatted down on what remained of the back door. The yard was clear but the backdrop of the orchard made it difficult to spot anything that might be on the move.

After an hour or so, I thought I spotted some shadows flitting away to the left oof the cottage. There was a sharp crack. Silence. I whistled softly, Alan knelt beside me.

"What’s up?"

"I think I saw shadows over to the left."

He waited a few minutes. Nothing.

He returned to his position.

A short while later, more shadows. Cracking sounds.

I whistled. He came over.

"Now what?"

We waited. Nothing.

‘You’re imagining things. Stay focussed and calm!"

He stood up and turned to leave.

A loud crack from the orchard. Shadows. He saw them and squatted down.
"Wake the others and bring torches!" he whispered.

We all gathered around the door hanging on its hinges. We all saw the shadows moving and heard the cracks.
We walked out in to the opening and turned on the torches simultaneously. A loud gasp greeted us. There, standing in the blazing light of the torches, like terrified rabbits, a group of children, three little girls and two boys.
"Kids!" gasped Anita, the American journalist.

We all stared. Then I dropped to the ground. I took some chocolate from my pocket and offered it to them and finally, one of the boys approached, grabbed a bar and backed away. They shared the bar meticulously.

After some minutes they all came forward for more. Within minutes we were all holding children, and laughing. They told us their story. In the orchard lay the bodies of parents and relation, killed by Serbian soldiers. The children were Muslim. They had survived in the orchard where their parents had hidden them, surviving on the fruits of the trees, their only source of food. They were ragged, filthy and emaciated.

The following morning we managed to find our way back to my companions’ guide interpreters. The children came with us. We handed them over to local authorities and aid workers.

Before we posted, the children told us that, in spite of the extremes of fear and deprivation they had suffered, they had all agreed that when, in the future they became independent, they would care for, and replant the orchards that had sustained them during their time of terror.

Somehow, they managed to achieve a vision for the future which carried them beyond the fear of those terrifying days of the war in Bosnia. I felt truly humbled by their courage and determination,

WITHOUT FEAR

I want to go where eagles fly,
To where they soar and cry, thwarting the current’s casts
Above in sky and wind and upward blasts,
Tasting the clean air,
Hazarding the upward lifts and rush of air,
Tossing wind-coursed wings, the glistening talons,
Their piercing calls shredding the clouds
And challenging the reluctant sun to brightening glare.

Part Two

INTRODUCTION:
.......Once a man has vanquished fear, he is free from it for the rest of his life, because, instead of fear, he has aquired clarity - a clarity of mind which erases fear. By then a man knows his desires, he knows how to satisfy those desires. He can anticipate the new steps of learning, and a sharp clarity surrounds everything. The man feels that nothing is concealed. And thus he encounters his seconed enemy: clarity! That clarity of mind, which is so hard to obtain, dispels fear, but also blinds.

"It forces a man never to doubt himself. It gives him the assurance he can do anything he pleases, for he sees clearly into everything. And he is courageous because he is clear. But all that is a mistake, it is like something incomplete. If the man yields to this make- believe power, he has sucumbed to his seconed enemy and will fumble with learning. He will rush when he should be patient, or he will be patient when he should rush. And he will fumble with learning until he winds up incapable of learning anything more.

"He must do what he did with fear; he must defy his clarity and use it only to see, and wait patiently and measure carefully before taking new steps; he must think, above all, that his clarity is almost a mistake. And a moment will come when he understands that his clarity was only a point before his eyes. And thus he will have overcome his seconed enemy, and will arrive at a position where nothing can harm him any more. This will not be a mistake. It will not only be a point before his eyes. It will be true power." (cont. Q.3 & 4)Q2

MEDITATION:

We had escorted the children of Bosnia back to their own people and the care if the local aid representitives. Each of us made our way back to past lives. For many months I was haunted by the experience of Bosnia. The taste of ashes pervaded everything I touched, the food I ate, the pages of books I read. The clothes I wore reeked of smoke. The cries of children mingled with the tears in the orchard. The fruit on the market stalls, the cries of the merchants, the crowds of shoppers with their laughter, all became haunted by the cacophony of war. My perception of life had shifted dramatically. It was almost impossible to sustain equilibrium. The flow of life was no longer meaningful, and a vast depletion of energy left me exhausted. I thought I could understand what was happening. I reasoned that the shock of the experience in the war zone was passing through my system and that, eventually, there would be light at the end of the tunnel. Then I would be able to make decisions, have a clearer vision as to the future.

I recalled the dream, shared with the children, and the magnificent sight of the apple trees in full bloom. I held on to their dream of a future, the creation of a new start in life. Young though they were, having suffered the extremes of fear, loss, and deprivation, they had found the will, and the means, to survive in the orchard, surrounded by their dead loved ones. They had spoken, in childish terms, of 'mother apple tree'. They would care for her as she had cared for them. In spite of the devastation around them, they had become empowered, and that empowerment had given them a clarity of vision for a new future, a determination to survive. Together, and taking care of each other, they would reconstitute the orchard that had given them the gift of life. That moment of perception planted a seed, a memory, in my heart.

Q2: On the journey to power, is clarity the birth of perception?

THE BAG OF POMEGRANATE SEEDS

The old man sat on a fallen log, shudders convulsing his shoulders, his head buried in his hands, weeping as if his heart would break. Spasmodic gunfire reverberated through the valleys below. Plumes of smoke rose in the air, fires raged, columns of people surged out from the razed villages, scrambling to climb up into the foothills, away from the fighting ravaging the border lands between Armenia and Azerbaidjan. It was 1989, and conflict had erupted between the two countries, each claiming the region of Nagorno - Karabakh.

His home had been destroyed by fire. His old wife had lain on the coarse earthen floor of the cow shed where she had been doing the morning milking. The two cows, their most precious possession, lay dead beside her. He had fled to the orchard when the soldiers had arrived, their rifles at the ready. He had not believed that the men would harm either his wife or himself, old, poor and defenceless as they were, with nothing that could be of interest or value to them. But they had charged into the small compound firing shots, yelling threats, searching the hut that was their home. A cow's bellowing drew their attention to the shed. They rushed in. A round of shots, a scream, the piteous moaning of a wounded animal, and silence.

He had waited in the orchard, hiding behind the barrels ready for the harvesting of the orchard. After gorging themselves on whatever food they found in the hut, the men set fire to eveything in the yard and then threw handgrenades into the orchard. Whooping and laughing they charged away down the hill slope, firing their guns.
The orchard blazed for hours. He could do nothing and nothing was left. He did not stop. He knew the neighbours or the authorities would bury his wife. The fire would burn itself out. The pomegranate orchard would smoke for days, their main source of income destroyed. He went to the well to fill a water bottle. Bending down, he removed a stone from the base of the well head and withdrew a a small cotten bag which he tucked into his belt. Picking up a pitchfork, he left the ruined small - holding and climbed up the mountain behind the yard, where he sat weeping, taking a final look at the valleys which had been his family home for generations.

He took out the cotton bag, untied it and emptied its contents into his hands. The pomegranate seeds, lovingly cared for and preserved from the oldest and best trees in the orchard, shone in the strong sunlight. His copious tears washed them; the soil on his hands caressed them. Gently he kissed them and returned them to the bag, tying the tape securely and returning it to his belt. He knew he would never again tend trees in his own orchard. Centuries before, his khazar ancestors had been gardeners to the great shaman - kings, khans of Khazaria, tending the endless rows of trees in the pomegranate orchards for whose fruits they were justly famous east and west of the great river Itil.

He and his wife had not been blessed with children. She now dead, the homestead destroyed, he decided to make for Tbilisi, the capital of Georgia, where people of khazar descent still lived. Perhaps he would find work as a gardener in one of the many parks. If not, he would up into the mountains and join the the shephards with their huge flocks which grazed the high valleys until the winter snows drove them down to the shelter of the lower hills. Many of the shepherds were of khazar descent, the so-called mountain jews, who lived a seperate life, isolated from the orthodox georgians.

I met him in Tbllisi one early morning in the crowded market place. I was browsing through piled-up books on a creaky stall, looking for anything that could add to my growing knowledge of the khazar people. Just a few minutes before, I had spoken with a mountain Jew, down for the sheep sales, who, noticing my interest as I plied the stall keeper with questions, drew my attention to several books describing khazar life on the river, and a particular khazar house, huge and battlemented, called in russian 'Volkovskoye', or the Place of the Wolves.

An old man stood by my side, nodding in agreement. " Yes, that was Volkovskoye, as they later called it".
I looked at him with interest. He was old, yes, and very tired, but the brightness of his eyes spoke of a strength and vibrancy which belied his looks. On impulse I asked if he would join me for coffee. He smiled and nodded, the movement carrying a kind of elegance that spoke of better times.

For the next four days we drank much coffee and talked unendingly about Khazaria of which he seemed to have an astonishingly extensive knowledge. As he spoke, he seemed to gather energy about him,quietly but very firmly. He seemed to grow younger and stronger. In a few brief words he described what happened in the valleys of Nagorno - Karabakh and I wrote my expected report based on his first-hand knowledge of events in the form of an interview. Then we continued to talk about the khazar people and their unique position on the river Itil. (He adamantly refused to refer to it as the Volga. I agreed.)

Finally, he asked why I was so interested in the subject and I explained that I had been tracking my family history, which had led me to the khazars. On the fourth morning, our last meeting, he asked: "Are you of the jewish faith?" I replied that, in fact, I had spent ten years in jewish studies, regularly attended synagogue and had many jewish friends. "But you have not entered the faith?", he asked. I shook my head. Looking me straight in the eyes, he asked: "What are you searching for?" I hesitated. He took my hand and asked me again: "What are you searching for?"
I smiled. "I guess I'm looking for an ancient knowledge of something I know is there but of which, at this moment, I have no concept. It's just a feeling, but it is very powerful, almost like a calling, like something that needs to be remembered."

He smiled broadly. "You are carrying a seed, a very ancient seed, that is seeking to come back to life. Keep searching; be strong in your conviction that the knowledge is there. My time is now very short. No! do not protest! It is so and we were destined to meet before that day".

He drew a small cotton bag from his belt, opened it, and tipped the contents on the table. He told me the story of the khazar pomegranate orchards and how, eventually,they had been deserted as Khazaria had disintegrated. He told me of his family, who tended the orchards and how, when they were forced to leave, they had carried bags of seeds with them in order to create more orchards wherever they were scattered. Suddenly, I realised that his orchards, recently destroyed, was the fruit of all those centuries of knowlledge and care. I wept, and my tears washed the seeds on the table.

He smiled, gathered them up, returning them to the cotten bag wth gentle care. Then, he took my hands in his and, placing the bag in mine, he said: "My time is ended. Take these pomegranate seeds and, in memory of our people, the khazars, your family and mine, find a way to re-energise the spirit of the khazars. Find a way to plant them in new orchards and share their fruits with all our relations and the Cosmos".

He stood up and, placing his hand on my back, gave me a friendly pat and walked quickly away, disappearing into the dancing beams of the sunlight which flooded the square.

It was only many years later, when I was already on the Toltec path, that I realised I had met him in the seconed attention. Clarity came, and his energy remains with me to this day, as I write these words and share with you this event, this moment of perception.

Part Three
INTRODUCTION:

"Power is the strongest of all enemies. And naturally, the easiest thing to do is to give in; after all, the man is truly invincible. He commands, he begins by taking calculated risks, and ends in making rules, because he is the master.

"A man at this stage hardly notices his third enemy closing in on him. And suddeenly, without knowing, he will certainly have lost the battle. His enemy will have turned him into a cruel and capricious man...........
"A man who is defeated by power dies without really knowing how to handle it. Power is only a burden on his fate. Such a man has no command over himself, and cannot tell when, or how, to use his power.

[To defeat his third enemy] "he has to defy it deliberately. He has to come to realize the power he has seemingly conquered is in reality never his..................If he can see that clarity and power, without his control over himself, are worse than mistakes, he will reach a point where everything is held in check. He will know then when and how to use his power. And thus he will have defeated his third enemy.

"The man will be, by then, at the end of his journey of learning, and almost without warning, he will come upon the last of his enemies, old age!"

Q3: How are power and authority differentiated?

MEDITATION:

In shamanic terms, power is a cosmic gift which, when once given, cannot be taken away, unless there is deliberate and calculated abuse.

Authority is power assumed, or taken, a secular position which can be removed by secular means, often by violence.

Power as a spiritual gift may be given to one who is a warrior of the Spirit, who, through discipline and having banished fear, sets out on a journey with focused intent and constant learning. He may arrive at a point of clarity which seems to provide answers to all questions raised by life' s struggles. Therein lies a danger. It is tempting to assume that the answers are there, the decisions easy to make, the questions asked by others answered with ease. Their ready acceptance is a sop to the feeling of authority. Authority breeds pride, and pride breeds illusion, the illusion breeds self -importance. Authority is often imposed on others by those who, not having courage to act for themselves, demand that their expectations be fulfilled. By the same token, when those chosen do not produce the goods, authority can be removed.

The difference between the two can be a very fine line indeed. The sceptre carried by a king or reigning queen is a symbol of their authority to rule by right of inheritance. The sceptre is passed on at death to an heir, or, as in many historical events, taken away by rival claiments or by secular forces.

The specific staff of a person of knowledge, a shaman in traditional society, can never be 'taken away', except by Spirit, when the powers given that person are abused, neglected, or otherwise rejected by the bearer. The loss of shamanic powers, whilst fully the responsibility of the original recipient, can be borne by that person's descendants over many generations. It may be that an opportunity might be given for some future generation to redeem that loss and for those powers to be healed and the balance restored. The shaman's staff is not a symbol of authority, but of power given in trust by the Cosmos.

The writing here presented is an excerpt from my book, A Dream Shrouded in Wind. A shamanic initiation is a time of power which must be sustained by a warrior's way of discipline, focus and intent. [ See Foundation for details}. It is not something which can be taken for granted and must be treated with reverence, respect and dedication.

When fear is dispatched, clarity given, the way is open to see power for what it truly is, a gift from the Cosmos to be used only for the highest good. For that, a person of knowledge, with all the attributes of a seasoned, disciplined and focused warrior, is essential. Such a journey can take a lifetime, even into old age, the final enemy.

AND CAME THE TIGER
A shaman’s initiation to power.

I was sitting in my 4th floor studio window watching the trees bend in the strong breeze sweeping over the green sward. Leaves danced in glittering waves, laughing, whispering to the impatient playfulness of the stalking wordless whipping of an unseen, unknowable visitor.

Lost in gazing, a shadow slipped across my left eye’s corner. A low gurgle bought my awareness back from wind watching to shadow perception. In the four corners of the large room a shape moved. I caught the whip of a tendril
up-turned like a rattler’s tail. The shape rounded about, dark stripes on a soft background. The tail wrapped itself about the form, still. Another gurgle, almost a chuckle. I focussed on the form. Large yellow gold lights, like eyes, gazed as intently at me as I at them. A point of light, a blink, a puff and blow - and then the tiger lay, full length, on the carpet, huge head on paws, black striped and orange pelt – a full grown Siberian tiger.

The visitor had come from the other dimensions to announce that a task lay before me, one directly connected is a link with my ancestors of which I was as yet unaware. We were soon sitting together on the floor in the centre of the room. I had my arm around his great neck. His head, heavy as a mountain boulder, lay in my lap. We spoke of centuries before, when my ancestors, the Khazurs, had ruled vast territories on the edge of Central Asia, and where European culture and Islam had experienced its first early contacts on the backs of the River Ital. The Khazurs controlled all traffic crossing from Central Asia, making its way to Constantinople, Greece and Central Europe. At that time, C680 – 1070 the advance of early Islam into Europe was held back by the Khazurs. By the same token, the Slavic tribes had time to amalgamate into a cohesive power which, with the conversion to orthodoxy meant that Russia, when it finally became a unified nation became orthodox Christian, and not an Islamic state.

My visitor in early August was to be my guide and teacher in these early days of my transformation. I had always lived very close to the animal world. A disability had kept me in isolation from people, even from my family. Music, books and animals were my constant companions, my hold on life. Somehow the arrival of my Siberian friend was neither astonishing nor frightening. It seemed to be a part of the order of things as I understood them. The only real difference was that he was huge – and so loving.

For some weeks he came almost every day. But at night – we journeyed. I could completely forget my physical problems. His energy and strength took me every where. We flew, we walked, we swam, we prowled the forests, climbed mountains, fished the rivers, visited the stars, played in the Cosmos. I was completely free, unburdened, loved and protected, unconditionally.

Then came the time of transformation. On this night we did not travel. We sat and gazed in to each other’s eye. The time of preparation and intent was now. It would be long and arduous. I leaned forward and scratched his left ear. He reared up and in a matter of minutes his task began and was ended. I was stripped down to the bones of all flesh. The bones were dragged apart, cleaned by that great rasping tongue, gathered together in a heap, spread out by the great paws, and realigned in their proper order, encased in new skin.

Unable to recall the passing of time, I lay in a heavy, dazed state, paralysed by change. I do remember a very old being sitting on the floor by my side who could have been a man or woman. Long white hair, toothless gums, high strong cheek-bones, and eyes of blue-ice fire. On my other side sat a great wolf. His beautiful head and pricked ears were surrounded by thick-layered ruffs of silver fur. Perhaps three or four days passed before I recovered and got back on my feet.

I needed to find someone to help me sort all this out. Rummaging through mail that had piled high in the hallway, I found a magasine I had never seen before, and in it the Sacred Trust, based in Bath, and an advertisement for upcoming events. Toltec teachers were coming over to give workshops in Devon. Who or what were Toltecs? Several photographs. This one. This is the one I have to find. I looked for 7th September.

The old being returned – and so did the wolf, who lay full length at my side on the bed, his head on my stomach, gazing at me with golden eyes. I waited. The eagle came quickly, his talons in my breasts and carried away under endless skies to endless grasslands, a yurt, two old men, two old women. The eagle opened the breast-bone took out my heart, opened his breast and replaced my heart with his. The women sewed up the bleeding wound. The old man brought a brought a branding iron and sealed the wound. Pain carried me away.

When I recovered consciousness, I found myself lying on my bed. The wolf was beside me, watching. On a low table, a plate of fruit, a jug of water and an eagle’s feather. The newness was shocking. I felt near death yet at the same time, alive as never before. I lay for perhaps three days. My wolf companion never left my side. Several times I attempted to sit up. I managed to eat fruit and drink some water. In between, I slept the most profound sleep. The old being came and went, the eagle on his wrist, talons buried in a thick leather gauntlet, his fierce head lowered, his beak open, emitting a gentle calling whistle. I was not afraid, simply exhausted. What now?

When, finally I managed to get up from the bed and prepare a light meal, I checked the mail. I had a booking for the Toltec’s workshop in early September, which gave me five days to get back on my feet. And the news headlines bought the news that Diana was dead. London was seething with anger, lost in shock. Balmoral was silent, Buckingham Palace was silent. Flowers by the millions piled high in Kensington Palace Garden. There was a weeping and a gnashing of teeth from which they have not recovered.

The second mail bought the news that I had been successful with my submission for a PhD. All this news sent me back to my bed, and I slept for 18 hours, my wolf friend always, I assume, beside me. When I awoke, I had no idea what day it was. The radio was still talking of the death in Paris. The funeral was set for Saturday the sixth. I travelled to Devon on Friday the 5th, leaving an angry city without regret.

I remember very little of the journey except the train winding around the coast line of Devon towards Plymouth. Arriving at the mansion late morning, I sat in the beautiful gardens for an hour and then went to bed for the afternoon with a feeling of peace and quiet.

That same evening I met the tall Toltec, and a new life started. I settled in to the bean-bag on the workshop floor with a great, slowly exhaled sigh. I felt somehow safe. I had arrived somewhere without knowing or recognising what that somewhere was. It was as though I had arrived at an horizon where sight, however briefly, was limitless. I sensed balance, power, energy, and would soon discover the ruthlessness which took years to appreciate for what it was – Toltec intent. The workshop lasted four days, after which I returned to London.

The workshop had brought me a gift of knowledge that something new was out there to be discovered, that, of itself, was as old as the mountains, as limitless as the sky, as deep as the seas, as vast as the steppes. What remained in me of my nomadic ancestors was stirred to its depths. And vaguely, in the back of my mind, was the growing suspicion that all that had happened before the workshop was somehow connected. The word synchronicity was soon to have a meaning which was, finally, to link threads that could be traced back almost 2000 years.

Part Four
INTRODUCTION:

"This enemy is the cruellist of all, the one he won't be able to defeat completely, but only fight away".

"This is the time when a man has no more fears, no more impatient clarity of mind, a time when all his power is in check, but also the time when he has an unyielding desire to rest. If he gives in totally to his desire to lie down and forget, if he soothes himself in tiredness, he will have lost his last round, and his enemy will cut him down into a feeble old creature. His desire to retreat will overrule all his clarity, his power, and his knowledge".

"But if a man sloughs off his tiredness, and lives his fate through, he can then be called a man of knowledge, if only for a brief moment when he succeeds in fighting off his last invincible enemy. That moment of clarity, power, and knowledge is enough".

The Teachings of Don Juan, ( pp.82 - 87 )
Penguin-Arkana, 1990
Carlos Castaneda

MEDITATION:

With the arrival of old age, a person of knowledge meets the final enemy, the inevitable victor in the game of life - but not necessarily the final victor in terms of the Cosmos.

It is a universal shamanic belief that all life is one; we are all related. What binds and holds us together is the energies that flow from, around, and through the Cosmos. Don Juan constantly speaks of energy, of which we are all part and parcel, even though we may be unaware of the fact. Life is energy, and when, in its bodily form, life reaches the end stage, it dies. But the energies that bind us to the wholeness of the Cosmos do not, and cannot, die. Energy, by its nature, flows on, refocuses, evolves. It cannot disintegrate, evaporate or cease to be. At its source is constant transformation and renewel. Such may be the power of focused energy that, long after the mere passing of the body, its transformation may continue to manifest.

Old age is not a time to stop working. On the contrary, it is a time to press forward on the journey, to surge onward, using all the skills learned and earned on the way to reach your goal.

It is difficult to cling to intent when the ageing body moans and groans, longing for rest, simply to take it easy. Remind yourself that, when it does finally expire, the body will not even need 'to take it easy'. It will simply become one with Mother Earth. What matters is that energy will survive, go on, return to the Cosmos. If the energy has been fed by the power of intent, then it will evolve into something vital, a new force carried by the intent of which it was born, formed and disciplined.

Because a warrior grows old is not a reason to abandon intent. The constant remembrance of death should be the incentive to look beyond the boundaries of this world which has been imprinted on us from early childhood as our only reality. Like the trees in autumnal gold, go out in a blaze of defiant glory.

The journey is all you have; it is the ultimate act of controlled folly. Don't waste your energy on maudlin regrets, which is self - importance in a subtle disguise. Since all our instincts tell us that 'there is life beyond the grave', why not take up the challenge and go for it? Prepare to stop the world, find the crack and step through, intent blazing and live to fight another day.

Q4: Where exactly does "old age" begin? When do you feel old? Does energy die with old age? How do you recognise energy when inbuilt prejudices tell you it cannot really be there?

THE CHESS PLAYER

A tall, very elderly lady from another era swept into the room and seated herself purposefully into the deep leather-bound armchair. For a few moments she cast her glance around the other occupants. Sharp intelligent eyes, extraordinarily bright and girl-like, shone over a gold-rimmed pince-nez. The chignon of silver-grey hair topped unruly curls tumbling over the high forehead, caressing the delicate ears. The long slender neck was ensconced in a tantalising flurry of lace and whirls. The thin lips, slightly pursed, hid a mischievous smile with the barest shadow of contempt in the down-turned corners. Finely chiselled cheek bones and an aquilline nose spoke of breeding.
When she had had her fill of the scene around her, she turned with a negligent gesture, fluffed up the cushions with long, beautifully manicured hands and lapsed into dreams before the crackling fire.

She was later joined by a companion and I was surprised to see a chess board brought and placed between them. The game commenced and, from the first move, one sensed a change in the atmosphere. This was serious business. Both were excellent players. Both played with a feline finesse. I sensed that the elder lady, padding her way carefully, as though walking on hot coals, would patiently bide her time, like an experienced diplomat awaiting the right moment. The long hands resting quietly in her lap or on the thickly-upholstered arms, she gazed at the board, waiting to pounce. When the move was completed she would sit back on the cushions with a deep, satisfied smile and cast a challenging look at her apponent.

Quietly the room began to fill up with guests coming from their dinner, some carrying a glass of wine. Some stayed for a considerable time until the desire to smoke overcame the curiosity of some of the gentlemen and they withdrew for some minutes. The game progressed with no hint of fatigue on the part of either elderly lady. I noticed some whispering going hither and thither amongst the gentlemen. It took me some minutes to realise that bets were being laid, some with a smile, others with a shrug of the shoulders. Late in the evening, together with some other ladies, I had to acknowledge defeat and retire for the night. As we were about to quit the room a ripple of excitement passed through the spectators and, looking around, I saw my lady sit back with a smile on her lips, the long fingers tapping expectantly on the arm rest, poised. The next move was check-mate.

The following morning at breakfast I saw her again, sitting down to coffee and brioches. She was dressed smartly in traveling tweeds,sensible shoes, and a snappy hat perched on the back of her head. The ruffle of lace was replaced by a camel hair scarf wound high under her chin. Quickly disposing of the breakfast, she rose to leave. Turning at the exit, she swept the room over the gold-rimmed pince-nez with a critical air, examining every detail. She caught my curious look, hesitated, and threw me a glorious smile, graciously inclining her head in the tiniest nod. In a moment she was gone, but the beaming smile hung on the air, like morning sunlight on the lake. She was very old and very aware. That air of awareness gave her an aura of mystery, a powerful life force, almost an act of defiance.

I learned later that she was the proprieter of the hotel, Countess Anna von Ried, a former companion to the Empress Zita of Austro - Hungary and a regular chess opponent to the Emperor. Rumour had it that she often defeated him, though she never confirmed or denied the truth of it.

SHAMAN'S SONG TO THE SOLSTICE [2007]

Hey ho! the bicycle flows,
Push and blow and away we go!
Up or down, old feet off the ground
Life is a dream as the wheels turn round.
The wind blows cool, up, over and around.
Age has a crown though pain bears a frown
But the wheels spin round, old feet off the ground.
The shell is my drum as I spin round and round
The earth is my bond, the cosmos my song.
Hey ho! away we go,
The sun sinks low and the way is slow,
Age catches up and bones don't grow,
But life goes on and the dream is strong
As the sun returns on the wings of my song.

The Winter Solstice is here and I wish my readers every blessing, healing and joy as Father Sun begins the journey back across the heavens. Five years and counting to December 2012. May you find peace, courage, joy and a growing awareness on your life's journey.

Wishing you every blessing, joy and light
Emeliye Ulubayan Eaglewoman

Next Update: Feb 21st '08, Apr 21st '08, & June 21st (Summer Solstice)

email: lodestar13@khazarsgathering2012.com