Era tan solo un destello de luz estelar, la más frágil criatura en existencia.

Bueno, llamarla criatura quizá sea tomarse una latitud irresponsable con el lenguaje. No tenía ni siquiera un cuerpo, no pertenecía a especie o género alguno. Por eso es difícil llamarla criatura. Lo que pasa es que también resulta difícil pretender que no era un ser vivo. Aquí es donde la lengua española nos falla. Es un ente, claro está, pues podríamos decir que estaba dotada de conciencia. Pero bueno, tampoco podemos pretender que esta conclusión resuelve la cuestión, puesto que decir que este destello de luz está dotado de conciencia es como pretender que su simplicidad se ve complicada al añadir cualidades externas. Más bien, tendríamos que tener una palabra en nuestro idioma que a la vez nos dijera que al mismo tiempo ella era luz, destello de luz, consciente, durmiente, sin órganos sensoriales, completa, simple, frágil, e indestructible.

Retomemos el asunto paso a paso. Era tan solo un destello de luz estelar. Estaba consciente, sí, pero no tenía órganos de la percepción. No tenía ojos para ver. No poseía oídos que detectaran sonido, ni un sistema nervioso con que sentir. De echo, no poseía un cerebro con el cual pudiese formar pensamientos ni memorias. Quizás podamos decir que tenía una conciencia dormida, como un estado de auto-reflejo profundo––un dormir sin sueños, sin memorias, sin eventos.

Era a la vez frágil e indestructible. Era tan frágil como un instante. Existía porque viajaba de un momento al otro, sin defensas ni estructuras. Viajaba en el espacio oscuro. Viajaba desde el principio de los tiempos, deslizándose por el vacío infinito. Era invisible porque nadie nunca la había visto. ¿Qué es la luz cuando no es vista? ¿Es acaso oscuridad? Quizás. ¿O será más bien posibilidad y espera? ¿Será un grano de la nada en espera del momento en que dejando de ser se vuelva una visión de su origen?

Vino de una estrella. Y por ser luz de estrella tiene en sí la esencia estelar. Si alguien la ve, verá la estrella.

En el momento en que sea vista, dejará de viajar invisible y se convertirá en estrella en la mente del vidente que la reciba. Se convertirá en poema, compañera del canto de grillos y el palpitar del corazón de amantes. Se convertirá en el conocimiento de sabios astrónomos y profundidades filosóficas.

Tal es su fragilidad que dejará de ser destello de luz en el momento que alguien se vuelva consciente de ella. Y tan indestructible es, que después de eternidades en el infinito, se volverá estrella en el momento de su muerte. Es destello de luz estelar, semilla poética, y esencia de la noche.

O quizás no sea percibida por ser humano alguno. Puede ser que venga a reposar en la hoja del árbol de acacia, y así de luz se vuelva oxígeno. Puede ser que como oxigeno sea partícula vital de innumerables seres, que se convierta en molécula de agua y aire. Que viva en el fulgor del fuego, y en aroma del perfume; que viaje en aliento del cantor; que alimente los cuentos de una soñadora.

Era tan solo destello de luz estelar, la más frágil criatura en existencia, eterna y perenne. Se volvió parte de todas las cosas. Se convirtió en todos los seres. Formó parte de todas las mentes y percibió todas las cosas. Pasó a ser aire y luz, agua y fuego. Se cubrió de todos los cuerpos y presenció todos los pesares––y las alegrías también.

Y así vino esta estrella, proyectándose como luz oculta, a ser parte de todos los seres, partícipe de todos los actos, presente en todos los recuerdos. Dejó su viaje por el infinito para vivir en todas las cosas, hasta que un día se encontró en cuerpo humano––frágil como la vida y eterno como el arte––y por tan solo un momento dejó de ser invisible cuando alguien la vio en su esencia natural de destello estelar, y componiendo el idioma la nombró con su nombre verdadero y oculto, con su nombre de destello de luz estelar. Al escuchar el sonido de su nombre verdadero, el destello se convirtió en momento fugaz, materia prima de la consciencia, y la amiga oculta de todas las cosas.

[Kaira es una escritora española de mucho talento. El libro en la foto es uno de sus libros para niños. Está historia es dedicada a ella]


Triad Experiment #2

The second time E.J. Gold’s Triad was used was when I put together a small party to rescue a friend and relative who had been tortured and killed in Central America, and had subsequently been stuck in a bad place in the underworld.

My brother and I scried his location and situation. He had been killed by a gang in El Salvador, and buried alive next to a river by the border with Honduras. My brother and I put together a band of warriors and set up a rescue.

We gathered our tools and entered the bardos, headed to the underworld and travelled down to the place where he was. As we got closer, the atmosphere was of course getting heavier and heavier, and replete with the ambushes and pitfalls typical of the hell dimension.

At the right moment, I used the Triad to open a portal to the higher dimensions, and once rescued, our cousin could safely pass through with us, facilitating a quick exit and restoring his voyager’s memory. There was a sublime pause as he stopped to thank us and his gratitude touched everyone’s hearts.

Mission fulfilled. Liberation was attained by a tortured soul. The gate was closed and the Triad put away.

Triad Experiment #1

I received this Triad from my good friend E.J. Gold in 2015. When he told me he was sending it he said simply: “You’re a shaman. You’ll know what to do with it.”

I opened the package with great delight; E.J. never ceases to amaze me with the useful technologies he tirelessly provides. This time, I was not to be disappointed. Far from it. As soon as I opened it I could tell I was holding a sacred artifact. I saw in the center of the triangle a shimmering membrane, and with just the focus of attention effortlessly available to me in my Santo Sanctorum, my temple, I immediately noticed a strong and vibrant circle––or rather, a sphere––all around me protecting and sealing the temple along the lines of the edge of the protective circle I had earlier established. I noted this effect, and safely put the Triad away inside my altar for later experimentation.

Within a week, I proceeded to the first experiment. With two friends, I used the Triad as a focus amplifier to open a portal. Any reader with good knowledge of practical magick can deduce the function of a triangle. A portal immediately opened up behind us, and while my two capable assistants guarded the circle, I went through the portal and found myself traveling to different parts of the past of this incarnation.

I’ve been here before. This is the retorno, the ability to go back and forth in time at any point in time during the life of the body, to relieve and examine any moment of the life time. The portal gave me immediate access and propelled me to the different points I wished to visit. It boosted the effect, making it immediate, fast as the speed of intent, and quite tangible. I relieved key points of my life.

I went through my lifetime about six times all together, at times changing a few things but mostly coming back to this time line where I am doing this work. I ended up not so much changing anything, but polishing some rough edges of my experience and planting a few habits early one, a couple of shocks so I could remember at other key times.

Eventually, after many years of exploration and work on the life stream, I came back to my assistants and closed the gate. We went outside to assess the effects of the voyage, notated the results and again put the Triad away.

This was the first experiment. Tomorrow, I will share with you the second experiment.

These Teachings Are Not for the Personality

These teachings are not concerned with the development of your personality. They are not designed to make you more popular or likable. They are not designed to make you richer, to give you better relations.

They are not designed to boost your self esteem, to give you a better memory, to be calmer, happier, or more successful. They are designed to benefit the essence so that the essence can be transformed into a soul. It will be transformed into a soul the way a worm goes into a chrysalis and is transformed into a butterfly.

Most people do not concern themselves with growing a soul because every institution has told them that they already got one. Therefore, they do not make any efforts to grow one. Once they do, they nourish the seed dormant in every body, the seed that descended as pure awareness from the vastness of sentience of the dreamer of the universe.

These teachings, then, are not for the personality. They are meant to show the essence how to allow the personality to break apart, decompose, and absorb it as the seed absorbs the fruit that holds it.


Read more in chapter 4 of The Teachings of a Toltec Survivor.

Or listen to the chapter here: Toltec Survivor Podcast: The Personality and the Essence of Sheep

In Samsara Caught

I become entangled in the dramas of my dream. I worry that I don’t know what is going on. I worry that I’m wasting my time. I worry that perhaps I have not accomplished enough. I worry that I will be alone. That I will not be what I should be. I worry about what they would think of me. The more I worry what they think of me the more I forget the solitude of the empty space.

I play this game so well that I forget for a moment that I truly believe for a moment that I am here sitting, surrounded by an ocean of minds, of people moving–each one in their own way; that they look at me and that it matters; that whatever happens to me is somehow important. I worry that I might not know what’s going on. And what then? What will then happen to me? Me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me.

Each enunciation of me, of “I am,” becomes like a pebble, a rock, a concentration of tiny impressions that I put in my pocket, filling myself with the weight of time. Self importance. Solid, I become––hard shelled, immovable will––until everything is so heavy, so hard, that I no longer see beyond myself; that I no longer move outside this box. No longer these hands touch anything but themselves. No longer my heart feels. No longer my ears hear other than the crazy tumultuous thoughts, unconnected impressions that flow. No longer can I touch anything outside other than the mere sensations generated by a physical network of nervous systems sending impressions of light––chemical reactions flowing inside, an entire lifetime, an ocean of illusory time moving within this empty shell, heavy with false concerns.

The stage feels more solid. A spark flows from somewhere, somehow. It comes as a delicate smell. It pulls a tiny part of my attention. A very small light that I can’t quite see vanishes the moment I fix my eyes on her, leaving behind only the most subtle trail of mystery as a tiny moment of life outside the mesh of self concern. It comes and goes. Comes and goes, like the tides of an ocean.

When it’s gone, it seems like just the faint trails of a forgotten dream, something not real enough, not truly tangible, just a hint of a something indescribable. And when it’s here it has such an undeniable presence that for a brief moment seems able to dissolve all my suffering, all my concern.

It’s just at that moment when I’m about to surrender to the joy that seems to come from that gentle touch, just at that  moment, I fear that if I give in to that voice I might lose all the weight I’ve accumulated throughout my organic existence. I hold on to my suffering, for the fear of dissolution into the kiss of that beloved star. It comes and goes in an odd rhythm with odd sounds.

From Where I Pretend this Game

I let myself sink.

As I sink into the cold embrace of sand and earth, I feel I’m being pulled by the call of the stars above. I move up and down, in and out, both at the same time. I panic for a moment. I grab on to the earth, trying to hold on––no longer to a vestige of humanity, of memory, of purpose. I just try to hang on to any remnant of sensation–even if just of my fingers trying to crack.

Even what used to be strength of hands have become simple waves of electrical pathways, electrical storm all around; the pathway of lightning strike flowing through an empty body, no longer resisting sound or light; a pure vessel no longer existing, no longer present.

I pretend now for the sake of argument that I remember being some thing, some one, perhaps. I pretend for the sake of the game that I sit on a chair, that a body contains me, that the ocean before me does not inundate the space a mind used to occupy.

I pretend for the sake of the semblance of sanity that it is my voice that I hear, that the ocean I observe is an ocean like any other, that one day I will no longer fight the eternal presence of the naked reality.

I pretend that I forgot the empty space without. I pretend that I move in a world round, made of mud and fire; that I walk upon its surface in a body created from the ocean’s salty waters that contains life, movement, purpose.

I pretend that I have a life. I immerse myself no longer in the memory of the beloved but in the dreaming, in the flow of illusions. I realize that I do not need to lose myself in a completely created constructed reality. It is perhaps enough to grab a tiny piece of a memory… a sound… a word; maybe her eyes; maybe a fight; maybe the pretension that I cared about what was happening to me at some point or another in a lifetime that no longer concerns me, or you, or anyone else.

I pretend that I’ve forgotten, that I care about what happens to this illusion of self and memory.

I pretend that I become fascinated with the shiny lights below, reflecting those other stars lost in the immensity of darkness. I look at the grains of sand. I make them important. I turn them into light, into fire, into sensation. The sensation gives way to a form of hand, of arm, of movement, of once space following the other.

Logic, flowing. Language, forming. Yes, no. Dark, light. Good, bad. Male, female. Up and down. Nice and pain. I make it into a game, pretending that the shadows do follow the movement of the body.

A Familiar Space

I sit suspended in an infinite ocean of light and emptiness. From this island of ephemeral beingness is that I see the source of a sound, a small stirring of something, movement and rhythm, repetition. The singing of crickets. A high pitched vibration––not yet knowing if it’s called light or sound.

It starts maybe just as a hint of something, a barely perceptible smell coming from somewhere that I simply call the familiar space.

I sit in this silence in the midst of a lifetime, knowing in part that there is another space. When I sit in intense presence, in the midst of death, I hear movements. Some coming from me. I hear movements coming from outside, from above, from below. Movements which my mind tries to categorize as familiar entities. But somehow I know that something moves outside in strange ways; presences, nameless in eternity. Stirrings of will. Subtle flickers of sound and light.

I know  I am supposed to be something, but the thing that puts together the world does not seem to be fully functioning at this moment. I see my hands. I call them my hands, yet they move on their own accord even if there is no I that moves. I see hints of legs. I hear a voice I call my voice, yet it flows from a space I cannot touch. I move my arm and I do not know how I move my arm. Out of convention I say “I move my arm,” but what produces the movement of shadows and sound? What brings the vibration, the echo of silence that surrounds this body? What brings and moves the cold within––the shadow of death?

If I close my eyes, I sense parts of my body. More accurately, I sense sensations. Around the heart, below, above, I sense a field of presence all around. If I open my eyes, I seem to feel a space before movement, yet  the space I sense is very limited; much more limited than I thought.

I push my hands against this membrane. I push the membrane and I feel you closer. Yet the idea that the world is one is only a projection of my mind. The idea that my body is one is only a projection of my mind. All I can be conscious of is the flickers of sensation––impulses of light and sound that come and move within.

The Light of far away Stars…

In the presence of this ocean, the inside and the outside have lost their boundary.

I see myself through ancient eyes: an immensity of sound and movement behind me. I see the odd alien old man sitting alone. His face, unmovable. His eyes, dead, reflecting the distant light of far away stars.

I move my hand towards the waters of the ocean, and for a moment I seem to almost touch the starry sky. The cold of the ocean of emptiness comes closer to my hand. I become afraid to go too far into the immense silence, afraid of being dissolved and devoured by the nothingness.

I withdraw, trying to remember who I used to be, where I used to go, the path I used to walk; trying to remember the name I used to have–the family, the friends, the name. The doing. The being. The day to day. The step by step I used to take. The orderly something that heeds this horribly beautiful ocean of blue. 

There is an Ocean…

There is an ocean I see with eyes of ancient memories, an ocean of a deep blue. The depth of the ocean feels exactly like the depth of my soul. The sound of the ocean comes hesitant at first, as if wanting to become present, real.

The gentle reverberations in the surface of the ocean are seen with the eyes and felt with the skin. It moves in soft rhythmic jumps. I sit at its shore feeling sand and pebbles under my feet, and every minuscule portion of sand appears to be complete unto itself; as if every particle of sand creates a unique sensation that travels through my body; as if I could get lost in every single sensation, and all of them are felt at once.

There is an ocean of deep blue. Its depth can be touched by the proximity of my hands. The closer I move my hands to my sightless eyes, the deeper I touch the profound stillness of this ocean. I sit as if waiting, but I don’t know what I wait for. I sit at the shores of this ocean. I hear the crashing of the waves, and each reverberation of the waves sounds as if it is my voice talking and moving and reverberating through the skin of my back.

I sit. For a moment, I do not know if I see the dark waters at the edge of time and creation or if, perhaps, I simply stand at the face of the abyss at the end of a life that I can no longer remember as being mine.

For a brief moment, the terrible thought begins to form that perhaps I do not know where I sit; that there is no ocean blue, no peaceful movement of waves; that perhaps all that is happening is the projection of my illusion of safety onto the immense, incomprehensible chaos––a non-existing nightmare that moves and reverberates, a darkness darker than black, a void, an emptiness that moves, an immensity such that the more I stare at it the more it looks towards me.

That look comes at me as a stream of sound, of words being thought by something flowing through me. I no longer know if these thoughts, these words, are flowing out of me or into me.

I Almost Remembered

I almost grasped one memory. I almost saw her tiny hand. It almost pulled me back to a place of belonging.

The closer the memory comes the farther away I seem to move. I try to relax. I lay down on my back. I open my eyes and I see the starry sky, beautiful in its immensity.

I look at the stars and the full moon pulling me; and the pulling of the full moon is gentle, and it pushes me at the same time. It grabs me with her arms of feminine beauty. It embraces me. It lifts me––or something that resembles that sensation of being me.

I look at this ocean of dark above with the tiny stars rippling like crests of waves in an impossibly big, impossibly old ocean of dark blue. The more I lay down the more I forget why I laid down in the first place. Why am I here? What is it that I’m trying to remember?

I do not know.