Friday, May 8, 2015



                 As I've explained in articles many times, I am not a religious person. However I am a practicing mystic, and as I grew up
almost a solitary person beside the sea,
in my early years I was in touch with Spirit
on the north coast of Jamaica, before I reached the age of articulation.
                Running along the coral to the sound of ocean waves, I was a very lucky man, because my earliest vision was that of
the pristine, pervading all aspects of
my life.
                I imagine, for many people,
childhood was that way. This is why
we long for the radiant days
of our youth.

                I was in Toronto one time,
at a band rehearsal and picnic. The
band members, most of us ate the sacred
mushroom. It's possible I ate more than
everybody else, so I found myself lying
on the hardwood floor in the dark
interior of the house.
                In a moment of deep meditation
and prayer, I asked God, "What am I?"
A loud voice that shook the foundations of the house answered. The voice of the Lord

               Now that's not exactly a compliment,
and you can be sure I'd never say any such thing, even if I was suffering a psychotic break
and I was talking to myself.
               The thundering words had undeniable
truth, and I have not be able to doubt these words to this day.

                The reason I mention this occurrence
is that in later days, when I was living in the hut at the top of the cliff, words passed through me, words spoken from on high. And
these words never would have appeared on
the page of my notebook, had I not been an
empty vessel, a flute played by
the voice of the wind.

               I do not claim ownership of the following words. In fact, I have hesitated
to publish this thundering rebuke
at all.
               Through cowardice, I have
refused to popularize these words.
But out of the great sea of words in my notebooks, and manuscripts, the pages of
this passage keep appearing again and

again in different rooms.

               I was writing the following words
on a small round table with a round steel base.

The base of the table was on a flat rock of ancient granite.
              There were people within thirty feet of me, sitting in the woods, watching a fire.
                Apparently as I wrote these words
the table started to hum. It made a strong
vibrating sound all the time I wrote
down the following words. I was not conscious

of any sound, for the words kept pouring through me. I could look around at the dramatic view of lakes and islands
way below me, my hand kept moving and
the table was humming with intensity
on its base as if a voice of thunder was
passing through the table from on high
and into the rock below.
               I wrote the words verbatim, as the voice passed through me.
                No changes have been made
to this passage whatsoever. This passage was written on the cliff top thirty years ago.


                 "The gold herein is not the
gold of men, the fool's gold, which men
crave in a frenzy and which turns a
nation to a nation of hoarders. No,
the gold herein is the philosopher's
gold, that which transmutes baser
matters. And it is this gold,
the Law of the Father, which should be
kept guarded and locked in the heart
of our Nation. All else is
transient dross.
        Rather seek the Pearl which endures
the rotting of mortal flesh. For this Pearl
is the eye of hope that shines in the Mind
of the Father. In the time of morning,
we shall see with the eyes of spring this
Pearl with this Mind.

         It is through the Realization of this Mind
that the Anointed One is coming.

        The Eye with which we see God,
       Is the Eye with which we are seen.
       As we know, so are we known.
       As we forgive, so are we forgiven.
       As we have given gifts,
       So there is much that we are given.
       And as we grow to love,
       O how are we loved and forgiven
       Even before we have knelt to pray...

 (lines not included - see red spiral


        Espouse ideas of brilliant vogue
and flashy chicanery, but your
cleverness will have no answers
for this test, as your mettle is weighed.
Think what you wish: in the
wilderness of opinion there is no rest:
a sword of Judgment passes through
the world all the same. And it casts
the dead branches, who presumed
to be the vine in its entirety.
        Christ is the vine who has
set fire to the world, to burn off
the dead weight and barren chaff,
set fire to error in the Midst.
         Those who said,
"By the strength of my hand have
I done it, and by my wisdom."
What will you do in the day of

                       (C)1984-2015 by W.G. Milne