Quest Magazine

I Am Resurrected

By Dorothy Bell

Originally printed in the Fall 2009 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Bell, Dorothy. "I Am Resurrected." Quest  97. 4 (Fall 2009): 132-136.

    Theosophical Society - Dorothy Bell completed degrees in arts and education at the University of Melbourne and at the University of New England in Australia, and first visited America in 1990 as a Fulbright Scholar. Since joining the Theosophical Society in 1999, she has lectured at TS conferences in the United States, New Zealand, India, and Australia. She is also a Reiki master.  The phone rang. It was Anna, and after the preliminaries, she focused on the purpose of the call.

      "I saw Charles yesterday and he was asking after you. He's been back in the hospital now for quite a while, and he said he would really like a Reiki treatment."

      "Yeah, sure. My car is out of action, but I could take a train into the city and public transport to the medical center. Would some time early next week suit?"

      Anna said she would find out the most appropriate time and let me know.

      I had first met Charles a year or so earlier, at a retreat center where I undertook some volunteer work giving Reiki treatments to HIV-AIDS sufferers. He was well into his sixties, perhaps older, and had been with the virus for many years.

      Charles had made a lasting impression on me when I gave him his first treatment. He walked quickly into the Reiki room and began to remove his garments, saying as he did so, "I hope you don't mind my taking off my gear, but I like to be uncluttered when I go into total relaxation!"

      I was flabbergasted.

      "Sure," I said, with much bravado, as more layers were peeled and folded neatly on the chair. "Whatever makes you feel comfortable. You know, you don't really need to take anything off for these treatments—just shoes and tight belts, watches. . . . And I do place a sheet or light blanket over you," I said lamely, but relaxed as he jumped up on the massage table, pulled up the sheet, still wearing his jocks.

      On another occasion, I remembered that during my session with him I had closed my eyes and just allowed the energy to flow, and in this meditative state I had seen a group of philosophers or sages, learned men—by their attire perhaps from Renaissance times—drawing close to him and around him. I had felt strongly that he was a member of their group and that they were giving him a lot of support. Not knowing a thing about his religious beliefs or whether he had any interest in philosophy or even if he had ever read a book, I nevertheless spoke to him about what I had seen. He was delighted.

      "I love reading about the higher things, the great ideas of man—yes, I can relate to what you are saying, I am most comfortable and feel at home when I read. Interesting."

      "Well, Charles, my feeling is that in another life you were part of this group and now they have made themselves known to you from the inner realms. They are here for the tough times. Just think of them as like-minded friends and talk with them when you feel most alone. They want you to know that."

      Charles had looked at me intently–probably checking me out—but then he said cheerfully, "Yes, it feels right. I am grateful, and it opens up a new avenue, doesn't it?"

      "It sure does," I agreed, wondering if he meant the reality of the afterlife or contact with other realms of existence in this lifetime.
     
 And now, many moons later, it seemed that the virus was really making its presence felt, and long stays in the AIDS ward had become a necessity. As if AIDS wasn't enough, Anna had also mentioned that he had been diagnosed with cancer!

      Charles wasn't in his room when I arrived at the center; he was having a CAT scan. I was nonplussed—as if there was any need for more diagnostic procedures! "What could they find out that would be of any benefit to Charles? Why don't they leave him in peace?" Anger flashed through me.

      Eventually he returned, gray and gaunt. I was shocked. His physical form had deteriorated so much, but his mind was still strong. He was a little flustered because he had kept me waiting.

      "Sorry, Dorothy, I just need to rinse out my shirt. They were a little untidy with the needle and there's blood all over the sleeve." And he proceeded to find a bucket for his personal laundry.

      As we chatted on, I couldn't help noticing the paradox—his mental strength and clarity contrasted to the poorly disguised frailty of his wasted frame.

      Completing his washing, he tidied his other clothes and climbed into bed. As he settled onto his side—it being too painful to lie on his back—I stepped forward.

      As I looked down at his face, my attention was drawn to the delicacy of the skin over his temple. It was almost transparent, and with so little flesh on the face that the outline of the skull was painfully obvious.

      "I'm glad you came," he said, closing his eyes in the expectation that the session would be relaxing.

      "I'm glad to see you—very glad. I'll start now."

      After five minutes, I asked, "Are you comfortable?"

      No answer. He was in a very deep sleep.

      Usually I slipped into a deep meditative state myself as the energy channeled through me. In this state it was not uncommon to receive messages from guides or teachers in the form of symbols or by telepathic thought. I always asked if there was something I could pass on.

      Today was different. I felt the peace of the energy and relaxed into it. Unexpectedly a picture formed in the inner reality.

      It was Charles. He was immaculately groomed and dressed in a safari suit—light brown, not the popular cream color. He stood alone, straight and strong, almost at attention, with his arms at his side, at the edge of a platform, like that of a railway station. Beside him was a dark brown, medium-sized leather suitcase. There was no one else around. He looked younger and stronger, well tanned, and every hair on his head was perfectly in place. Above all he appeared purposeful.

      Then I understood. He was going on a journey—the journey of a lifetime, so to speak. Perhaps his inner Self, Higher Self, or spirit—whatever you might call it—was showing me that he was ready to leave the body. He seemed to be looking straight at me. Suddenly he said, "What happens now? Tell me what to do."

      I was taken aback by his directness. Usually when I answered inner calls to help souls in difficulty post mortem, I had to try to get their attention, make some kind of connection, and then try to communicate by thought, usually offering a version of the whole scenario of life and death that they might relate to. I thought for a while.

      "You are obviously ready for your journey home . . ." I started off slowly, still sorting out my thoughts. "Well, Charles, as far as I know, the journey is to go home to the light—literally—and if you turn your head to the left you will see the radiance in the distance." At the mention of "going to the light" I had actually noticed the appearance of a radiant light, so I felt it appropriate to think Charles was also familiar with it.

      "When you are ready, just walk towards it. At any time if you start to feel isolated or doubtful, just ask for guidance. There are many waiting eagerly for you to cross over."

      "Right!" he said, matter-of-factly.

      My attention was drawn to the suitcase.

      "Do you need to take that baggage?" I asked him. It suddenly occurred to me that the suitcase was an essential part of our meeting: I was meant to discuss the concept of "soul baggage" with him.

      Charles looked down at the suitcase as if noticing it for the first time.

      "What do you mean?" he asked.

      "Well, I think it represents stuff from this life that you are taking with you—issues like indebtedness and unfinished business. You know—loose ends. You have the opportunity now, before you go on your journey, to deal with any mental and emotional unfinished business. It makes sense to travel light! Otherwise the unfinished business—the grievances, anger, guilt, shame that you might still carry deep within you—will have to be worked through in another life. It has to do with clearing your account, your karmic account, as much as you can," I replied, watching him closely to see whether or not I'd lost him on this one.

      "What do I do?" he asked with an enthusiasm that suggested that he accepted what I was saying and knew there was work to be done.

      "It's simple, really. It's all about forgiveness. Think about your life and remember the hurt, sorrow, and pain, the anger, resentment, shame and guilt, self-rejection—all those things you took on in childhood and right through to later years. Forgiveness is the key to freedom. I think it would be well to forgive those who, by their words, actions or omissions, caused you pain and sorrow. Release them from this connection with you, and in doing so you release any negative energy from your own soul. You unlock the energy and your own vibration is changed, making you lighter. Think about the insights about life and the lessons you have learned from those experiences, thank them and wish them well on their journey. They are all fellow travelers . . . on the same journey."

      I paused, watching for a reaction, but Charles retained the attentive attitude he had adopted from the outset. I continued, "You also need to ask for forgiveness for having hurt or caused sorrow to others. It's always a two-way thing, and you need to forgive yourself for having done what you did and then for having carried it with you for so many years."

      After reflecting for a time, Charles asked earnestly, "I get the idea, but how do you actually do it?"

      "Remember the people, the events, the issues, the judgment, the hurt. Visualize them; link in with them; your sincerity will make it possible to do this. Go to your heart and speak from the heart and say something like, 'You have been part of my journey this lifetime, and we had issues and caused each other much pain. I forgive you and release you with unconditional love and thank you for the learning, and I wish you well on your journey.' Can you forgive them all and wish them unconditional love? How do you feel about that?"
    
  "What if I can't remember them all?" Charles was certainly task-oriented.
   
   "Just say something that you really feel, like 'I ask for forgiveness for all the pain and sorrow I have caused.'  Charles, this is not just an intellectual exercise but a very deep and honest confrontation with yourself—baring all. You may find it that it is too difficult to really forgive someone—even yourself—and that you still carry the hurt, judgment, resentment, or a grievance of some kind. Well, that just goes into your suitcase as soul baggage. The issue is not really resolved, and the connection is not really severed. From what I understand, it will be worked through in another lifetime, in a different body and perhaps in a different type of relationship."

      Charles had become quite pensive, and I felt my presence was no longer needed.

      Afraid that I had overburdened him, I said, "Take your time. It's your choice what you do, and I have given you my version of how it works. Just do what feels right. Maybe think of it as balancing the ledger or clearing the slate before you return home."

      I decided to withdraw. Sensing this, he looked at me. As our eyes met, we connected at a much deeper level. I felt his gratitude and tears came to my eyes.

      Softly I said, "And I wish you well on your journey . . . your journey home. It has been an honor to be of service, and I have learned much."

      A slight nod of his head completed our meeting.

      I withdrew.

      I looked down at Charles—or rather at the body in which he resided. It lay in a fetal position in the fresh white linen of the hospital bed. The ashen face, bony frame, and sunken flesh confirmed the impending demise of his mortal form.
   
    I sought to reassure myself. "But the spirit is single-minded and strong. And he is so keen to get it right before he leaves his body."
    
  Impulsively I placed the end of my thumb on the middle of his forehead. It seemed right somehow, as if I had done it before. Again, I wished him well and asked for guidance for him on his journey.
    
  About a week later, Charles "died." Anna rang with the news.
     
 I felt relieved and strangely happy. After the phone call I sat quietly, absorbing the moment, but my heart was singing. And then I understood why I was feeling so elated: there was Charles—in my face, so to speak—head and shoulders superimposed over the physical surroundings, between me and the computer, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. He was so pleased with himself, and his energy filled the room. I closed my eyes to improve my seeing of him.
   
   "I made it!" he said triumphantly. "I reached my destination and did what I had to do. Tell them that—if they ask. I am so pleased that I made it. I am not alone. There are many here I have known. I can rest at last. I need a good rest—it is such a relief that the struggle is over. I will move on when I am ready, but I am so happy here. Tell them not to fear. Tell them I am resurrected."
    
  "Well done! And congratulations!" I responded with enthusiasm.
     
 For quite a time, without communicating, we basked in the triumph of spirit. He looked younger, strong, and happy, and he had reached his destination—wherever that was. And what more could I want for him?
    
  Jubilantly I went out into the garden, grabbing the fork to tackle the weeds in a garden bed. We were both still bubbling. I laughed aloud with happiness at his victory—and immediately drew the attention of the neighbors' dog.
     
 Although Charles's presence eventually receded, I continued to reflect on his visitation and the words he had used: "I am resurrected."
    
  Out of nowhere, memory of a long-gone but vivid meditation that I had titled "Death Is Dying" flashed through my mind. I saw again the image of the Grim Reaper that had been used in an AIDS advertising campaign in the late '80s.
     
 The setting was a dim and foggy graveyard and the hooded and long-robed Reaper was slowly walking towards me, scythe in his right hand, and something—a sack—in his left. He stopped and began to withdraw the articles from the sack, placing them on the ground. They were bones, so white in the darkness. Methodically he began to place them in perfect symmetry to form a skeleton. Then I realized that he was laying to rest the skeleton of "death," with arm bones crossed on the chest, just like in a funeral parlor. The rhythmic thoughts of "Death is dying, death is dying," resounded through my mind until the scene slowly dissolved into the darkness.
  
    "Yes," I said quietly to the earth beneath my feet, "my old belief about death as the end is not only dying—it's dead. Death is dead: it is an illusion. We are not our bodies: we are greater. Thank you, Charles." 

      Postscript, 2009

      When I joined the Theosophical Society in the late 1990s, teachings of the Ancient Wisdom gave me the opportunity to understand a far greater story of humanity and to see a far more cohesive and comprehensive picture than that which had guided my work with Charles and others previously. The teachings provided answers to questions that had arisen out of these close encounters relating to post mortem states of existence—things I had experienced at funerals and afterward; at scenes of past or recent disasters; at sacred sites; even in meditation and healing sessions. These usually involved entities who were in some need of assistance to move on beyond the earth-bound atmosphere.

      While each experience offered a unique perspective on the workings of inner life and reality, it also raised more questions in my search for truth about our real identity and the purpose of life on earth—and life after life on our planet. But the scenario that the Ancient Wisdom proposes—of the evolutionary journey of each pilgrim soul, the reincarnating individuality, and the personalities it generates lifetime after lifetime, like pearls on a thread, in order to experience and learn and become who we truly are—has provided me with a frame of reference for working with people like Charles "when the spirit moves me." 

     

Dorothy Bell completed degrees in arts and education at the University of Melbourne and at the University of New England in Australia, and first visited America in 1990 as a Fulbright Scholar. Since joining the Theosophical Society in 1999, she has lectured at TS conferences in the United States, New Zealand, India, and Australia. She is also a Reiki master.

Fly a Kite

By Betty Bland

Originally printed in the Fall 2009 issue of Quest magazine.
Citation: Bland, Betty. "Fly a Kite." Quest 97. 4 (Fall 2009): 126.

Theosophical Society - Betty Bland joined the Theosophical Society on April 30, 1970. She helped to establish the Mt. Gilead, North Carolina Study Center. Mrs. Bland served as President of the Theosophical Society of America from 2002 to 2011. One thousand kites in the air at the same time! This was the goal of the Wheaton Sesquicentennial Commission when they put out an all-call for kite flyers from the area to gather in one of the local parks last spring. They were hoping to set a world's record for the most kites flying at once. The winds didn't cooperate, but it was a festive gathering drawing kiters of all sorts together for the grand attempt. Although the count was a mere 800, the event created a myriad of shapes and colors dotting the skies.

Besides the lack of cooperation from the winds (and we live near Chicago, which is known as the Windy City), one reason the event didn't meet its goal may be that our general culture isn't very savvy about kiting. We can find some kites in the stores, but rarely do we see many in the air. This is probably because there is a real art to kite flying, and what may seem like a simple hobby in fact requires a certain level of skill.

Think about all the parts of a simple kite that have to be in balance. First is the framework, which has to be tough, light, balanced, and flexible. It has to be carefully designed, since it is the structure on which all else hangs. Then the wind-resistant covering that holds it all together adds lift, design, and color. Yet even with these details carefully crafted, the kite cannot get off the ground if it does not have a tail to keep it in balance.

These elements of a kite can be likened to the spiritual life. The structure or framework is composed of the familiar Theosophical triad of study, meditation, and service. These are the supporting spines of our practice, without which any effort will fall flat. The study of the Ageless Wisdom, against which we can measure our experience of nature within and without, provides the strength of understanding that can carry us through the winds of fortune.

The more we know about the universe and its laws, the more we begin to see the necessity of an altruistic spirit. A greater understanding of our own nature creates in us an absolute realization of our unity with all. Without this generous and open-hearted attitude, our spiritual kite will not be structurally sound and will finally collapse under the weight of its own self-preoccupation.

Yet study and service alone lack cohesiveness. They require the strong binder of meditation, which holds these elements together in a meaningful way so that they are firmly anchored in our consciousness. Meditation creates the still insight through which our own individuality can unfold its beautiful design. We are like snowflakes: no two are exactly alike. Meditation reaches deeply within to tune into that interior essence so that each one of us is able to express his or her own distinctive character.

With these foundations well in place, we are on our way, but without the covering to provide the lift, we are still earthbound. That covering can be compared to the essential element of inspiration. Study, meditation, and service can be quite consistent, but until the element of inspiration is introduced, our practice can fall flat. This is a part of the beauty and art of building our soul's kite. The sources of inspiration are myriad and unpredictable. For some, it may be Taizechanting or singing the Indian devotional songs known as bhajans; for some it may be the veneration of Jesus, Buddha, Allah, saints from the past, or present-day teachers; for others it may be ringing bells, lighting candles, or praying in a chapel. The colorful practices of the traditions we hold dear call to the depths of our being, resonating with the intrinsic patterns of our individual natures and drawing us toward the heights. These multifaceted practices, which bring inspiration through beauty and devotion when observed in full consciousness and joined within the framework of study, meditation, and service, create an inner structure that will be sensitive to every breath of wind from universal spirit.

The caution to be sounded here is that we all have to realize that the shape and color of our kites are not the only kinds there are or should be.  Besides making this a very boring and regimented world, this would essentially tie our kites down to self-centeredness, pride, and exclusivity. These will never fly!

Finally, the remaining element required for an effective kite is a proper tail to provide balance and steady orientation as the winds blow to and fro. I think we can say that the element that provides this balance is the attempt to live by high ethical standards each and every moment of our daily lives. This consistent development of character steadies our efforts and generates the necessary stability.

All of this we do in preparation, but we never know when the wind will catch us and lift us to the heights. We have to be diligent, trust the wisdom of those who have experience in the flight of spirit, and remain willing to keep trying and learning. If our practice and inspiration are soundly based and our daily lives reflect all that we know, we will be holding our souls aloft in readiness. We will be prepared to catch the smallest breeze.

If we are prepared and ready, the spirit will move us and lift us into the heavens. And if we Theosophists as a group can work together sharing knowledge and helping one another, then we can have an assortment of many-colored kites of consciousness held in readiness so that we can have many more than a thousand spirits joined in heart and breath, dotting the cosmos and shielding humanity.

Build your spiritual kite carefully day by day and hold it ever at ready so that in the twinkling of the universal eye, we will unite as a band of worldwide servers. The many shapes, designs, and colors of our beings united in spirit will offer far more than a spectacle of color or shapes filling the sky: we can be the critical mass to improve, beautify, and, yes, even transform our world.

The Magi's Root

 

By Mitch Horowitz

Theosophical Society - Mitch Horowitz is the editor-in-chief of Tarcher/Penguin and the author of Occult America: The Secret History of How Mysticism Shaped Our Nation; from which this article is excerpted. He and his wife are raising two boys in New York City.  Copyright © 2009 by Mitch Horowitz. Published by the arrangement with Bantam, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.Frederick Douglass had no use for fantasies or folklore. Born a slave, he was separated as a young child from his mother—a woman who walked miles from another plantation for the rare occasion of rocking him to sleep or giving him a handmade ginger cake. He grew to be a self-educated teenager determined not to play the role of whipped dog to a cruel overseer. But in January 1834, on the eve of his sixteenth birthday, Douglass found himself delivered into the hands of the worst of them, a Mr. Covey—known as “the breaker of Negroes.”

A few years earlier, Douglass had been a domestic servant in Baltimore. There the burdens of slavery—the hunger, the beatings, the daily humiliations—were at least tempered by the surface civilities of city life. Indeed, his Baltimore mistress had taught him to read, until the lessons were stopped by his master. “If you teach that nigger how to read,” the man told his wife, “there would be no keeping him.” But Douglass discovered ways to keep educating himself through whatever books or newspaper scraps could be found. Soon, however, the Baltimore family rearranged its household, and Douglass was abruptly returned to plantation life. His new master in St. Michaels, Maryland, was suspicious: Could a young man who had tasted city living still work the fields? To be brutally certain, at the start of 1834 he “loaned out” Douglass for a year to Edward Covey—a petty, cruel farmer who used every opportunity to beat his new charge on trumped-up offenses. The beatings became so severe that, by August, Douglass sneaked back to his old St. Michaels master to beg for protection. His plea was rejected—and the youth, still bruised and caked with blood, was turned back to Covey’s farm. Once there, he hid all day and into the night in the woods outside Covey’s fields, not knowing what to do.

The days that followed, however, turned out differently than anyone could have imagined. To the shock of Covey, Douglass did return to the farm—and when beatings came, the youth stood up and fought back. For two hours one morning the men struggled, and Covey could not get the better of him. Embarrassed by his inability to control a teenager who finally said enough, the slave master was forced to back down. For Douglass, it was a moment of inner revolution from which he would never retreat: His act of self-defense had freed him in mind and spirit, leaving him to wait for the opportunity when he would finally be free in body as well. It is one of the most remarkable emancipation narratives in American history.

Yet tucked within the folds of Douglass’s inner revolution there lies another, lesser-known drama. It arises from deep within African–American occult tradition—and it is an episode that Douglass would revise and downplay between the time when his earliest memoirs appeared in 1845 and when he published a more widely read account a decade later. It is a window on magic and slave life. And, to find it, we must return to the darkened woods outside Covey’s farm.

As Douglass hid in the woods on Saturday night, he was discovered by another man in bondage, Sandy Jenkins—someone Doug lass described in his memoirs as “an old adviser.” Sandy, he wrote in 1855, “was not only a religious man, but he professed to believe in a system for which I have no name. He was a genuine African, and had inherited some of the so-called magical powers, said to be possessed by African and eastern nations.”

Sandy Jenkins was a root worker. He practiced an African–American system of magic and folklore that drew deeply upon western and central African religious tradition, Native American herb medicine, and sources as diverse as Jewish Kabbalah and European folklore. It was called hoodoo. White observers would often mistake it for the Afro–Caribbean religion properly called Vodou in Haiti and Voodoo in the American South, particularly in Louisiana, the home to Voodoo’s nineteenth-century high priestess Marie Laveau. Reporters and anthropologists would routinely conflate Voodoo and hoodoo—but the two were very different.

The religion of Voodoo grew from the traditions of the Fon and Yoruba peoples who occupied the West African coastal states. These were the men and women of the “middle passage” who were hurled into slavery throughout America and the Caribbean. In the Fon language, the term vodu meant “deity” or “spirit.” The Fon-Yoruba practices also morphed in the religion of Santería, an Afro–Caribbean (and, today, increasingly American) faith that often associates ancient African gods with Catholic saints. In Santería, for example, the great spirit Babaluaiye, guardian of health and sickness, is frequently associated with Saint Lazarus, a patron to the ill. This is the same “Babalu” that Cuban bandleader Desi Arnaz serenaded to the unknowing ears of I Love Lucy audiences.

Hoodoo was not a bastardized Voodoo or Santería; it was something with roots all its own. “The way we tell it,” wrote novelist and folklorist Zora Neale Hurston in her 1935 Mules and Men, “hoodoo started way back there before everything. . . . Nobody can say where it begins or ends.”

In practice, hoodoo draws heavily upon botanical and household items—plants, soaps, minerals, animal parts, perfumes—objects that a displaced people adapted to find their way back to the old rituals and spirits. Sandy Jenkins and other root workers were so named for their virtuosity with herbs and roots, objects believed to hold hidden powers that could be tapped for protection, healing, love, money, and other practical needs. And here we return to the first narrative of Frederick Douglass. He receives advice—and something more—from Sandy in the woods:

He told me, with great solemnity, I must go back to Covey; but that before I went, I must go with him into another part of the woods, where there was a certain root, which, if I would take some of it with me, carrying it always on my right side, would render it impossible for Mr. Covey, or any other white man, to whip me. He said he had carried it for years; and since he had done so, he had never received a blow, and never expected to while he carried it. I at first rejected the idea, that the simple carrying of a root in my pocket would have any such effect as he had said, and was not disposed to take it; but Sandy impressed the necessity with much earnestness, telling me it could do no harm, if it did no good. To please him, I at length took the root, and, according to his direction, carried it upon my right side.

There is no record to bear the matter out, but the object Sandy pressed upon Douglass was very likely a rock-hard, bulbous root known within hoodoo as John the Conqueror, or sometimes High John. John de conker is the pronunciation found in oral records and song. It is the ultimate protective object, used for everything from personal safety to virility, traditionally carried by a man rather than a woman. In the magical tradition of “like bestows like,” the dried root is shaped like a testicle. There is historical conflict over the species of the root: Botanical drawings differ among the catalogs of old hoodoo supply houses. But the most careful observers and practitioners of hoodoo today agree that the likeliest source is the jalap root, which dries into a rough spherical nub.

Armed with what he warily called “the magic root,” Douglass set off for Covey’s farm. Expecting God-only-knew-what fate, he received a strange surprise. It was now Sunday, and Covey—ever the upright Christian—was downright polite. “Now,” wrote Douglass in his first memoir, “this singular conduct of Mr. Covey really made me begin to think that there was something in the root which Sandy had given me.” But on Monday morning, things darkened. Mr. Covey, it seemed, was a Sunday Christian. Once the Lord’s day of rest ended, the devil in him returned. “On this morning,” Douglass continued, “the virtue of the root was fully tested.” Covey grabbed Douglass in the barn, tied his legs with a rope, and prepared to beat him. “Mr. Covey seemed now to think he had me, and could do what he pleased; but at this moment—from whence came the spirit I don’t know—I resolved to fight.” Here began the historic turnaround in Douglass’s life: “I now resolved that, however long I might remain a slave in form, the day had passed forever when I could be a slave in fact.”

Ten years later, in 1855, Douglass—now a free man and internationally known as the voice of abolitionism—published his revised and expanded memoir, one that sold an extraordinary 15,000 copies in two months and helped galvanize antislavery feelings. Douglass’s second memoir repeats, yet subtly alters, the episode involving Sandy, Covey, and the root. When grabbed by Covey, Douglass writes, with emphasis in the original: “I now forgot my roots, and remembered my pledge to stand up in my own defense.” In a detail absent from his first memoir, Douglass notes that on the previous day he had made a personal vow to “protect myself to the best of my ability.” Gone now was the observation, “from whence came the spirit I don’t know.” Was Douglass some kind of a half believer in hoodoo, intent on covering his tracks? Not exactly. The greater likelihood is that the same man who served as the moral anchor of the abolitionist movement wanted no one to misunderstand the true nature of his life story: His was an inner triumph, a realization of personhood against inconceivable odds, a transcendence in thought that permitted him to see himself as a man of agency and as an actor possessed of rights under God. Indeed, Douglass—a proponent of education and self-improvement in the deepest senses—would almost certainly have considered hoodoo and folk magic as distractions at best and at worst as chains of delusion. In an 1845 footnote that he also repeated ten years later, Douglass distanced himself from the question of hoodoo and magic: “This superstition”—root work—“is very common among the more ignorant slaves. A slave seldom dies, but that his death is attributed to trickery.”

But in both his earlier and later memoirs, Douglass proved resolute in his unwillingness to slam shut the door on the matter or to qualify the veneration he felt for Sandy. “I saw in Sandy,” Douglass wrote in 1855, “too deep an insight into human nature, with all his superstition, not to have some respect for his advice; and perhaps, too, a slight gleam or shadow of his superstition had fallen upon me.” Sandy, the “clever soul,” the “old adviser,” and the “genuine African,” provided a rare measure of wise counsel in a chaotic and brutal world. His authority was grounded in an occult tradition that no slaveholder could enter. In this way, above all others, was Sandy a man of magic—a medicine man in the most profound sense.

Mitch Horowitz is the editor-in-chief of Tarcher/Penguin and the author of Occult America: The Secret History of How Mysticism Shaped Our Nation; from which this article is excerpted. He and his wife are raising two boys in New York City.  Copyright © 2009 by Mitch Horowitz. Published by the arrangement with Bantam, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.

 

Devic Consciousness

By Dora Kunz

Originally printed in the Fall 2009 issue of Quest magazine. 
Citation: Kunz, Dora. "Devic Consciousness." Quest  97. 4 (Fall 2009): 152-153.

Theosophical Society - Dora Kunz née Theodora Sophia van Gelder was a Dutch-American writer, psychic, alternative healer, occultist and leader in the Theosophical Society in America.When teaching meditation, I always suggest that we should try to listen to the sounds of the brook, birdsong, or the wind in the trees, for by so doing we open ourselves to the inner harmony of nature. It is the realization of this harmony that brings us in touch with the consciousness of the devas.

Devas should not be thought of merely as spirits which animate nature. They are much more than that, for their consciousness reaches to the heights of buddhi, or direct insight into the archetypal ideas upon which the patterning of physical forms is based. They have a unitary concept of vital energies. Nature spirits, on the other hand, work directly with growing plants, interacting with these and with each other through the devic consciousness.

At Pumpkin Hollow, for instance, working in the garden sensitizes us to the different rhythms of the growing plants, and thereby we gain a sense of relationship not only with the devic consciousness which presides over the land, but also with the archetypal pattern they embody. If you are in harmony with that pattern it permeates you right to your fingertips, and then you can do with your hands what is right and good for the plants. When they are sick or ailing you get a sense of imbalance in their vital energies, and then you instinctively know what to do to correct it.

If you want to become sensitive to plants or trees you have to lose your sense of separateness. Setting aside your ego, you become aware of the vital energies you share with the rest of nature, and feel their rhythm. For example, when listening to the brook you must really listen, without letting ideas or mental images interfere and occupy your mind. It is through the rhythm of pure sound—which is eternal—that you can be genuinely influenced. This is the reason why Buddhists chant the mantra Aum. Through listening, we feel ourselves part of the eternal rhythm, one with the flow of the river. It is like being washed clean of our distractions.

The ways we look at life give us what is called "eye knowledge," seeing things out there, separate from ourselves. This leads us to make judgments based on our reaction to the external aspects of things. We see nothing but the form, which at once either attracts or repels us. Devas, in contrast, perceive life in terms of energies; to them the harmonics and rhythms of nature are most important.

In my own work, I have learned to think of life in the same way, because I perceive disease not as a malfunction of a particular organ, such as the liver, but rather as a loss of synchronicity in the body's vital rhythms.

The development of sensitivity, whereby you can begin to feel at one with the devic consciousness, can start with a personal experiment. Pick out a tree, and acquire a personal relationship with it: go out to the tree and have a really friendly feeling towards it. Learning to be still is a key element in this practice, for without stillness within one cannot listen. Therefore, sit quietly and look around you at the grass, the trees, the bushes. Be still, let go, and feel this sense of harmony.

The experiment will not work unless you can experience the harmony for yourself. Therefore, choose a part of nature that appeals to you, whether it be wind or water, rocks or trees. But it is important that you really listen to the stream—well enough so that you can remember the sound when you are away from it. This focused listening can produce changes in your consciousness.

Such attunement to the rhythms of life is important if you would draw closer to devic consciousness. As we travel about, we see that every landscape has different trees, a different shape, a different rhythm. Try to become sensitive to these, to attune yourself to the rhythm of the consciousness of that particular place. You will find this very interesting, because there is an infinite variety of vital energies at play in nature. They are never static, and they give each place its special character.

The earth is full of vitality, and therefore it is very healing to be in contact with it through one's hands and feet. Long ago in Australia, C. W. Leadbeater used to insist that we children go barefooted. His theory was that there is an exchange of the Earth's magnetism with the chakras, or energy centers, in the feet. At Pumpkin Hollow you can test this for yourself, engaging in a healing exchange with these abundant energies.

Since we do have these centers in the hands, as well as in the feet, we can also be energized by touching a tree, which has a large amount of energy and its own stable pattern. If you are practicing healing, it is a good thing to recommend to patients. Sickness always results in a lack of energy; therefore have the patient touch or lean against a tree. By doing so he will be renewed in energy and calmed by the tree's stabilizing rhythm.

The most basic characteristic in nature is relatedness. Communication between one individual and another takes place wordlessly, through experience. Such practice is a useful training in sensitivity which, rightly used, can be energizing and extremely helpful in many ways.

Letting go of our preconceptions and learning to be still and listen can make a link with the devic consciousness. Because of the nature of that consciousness, this link is at the archetypal level, at the level of unitary concepts. But meditating in a place like Pumpkin Hollow also puts us into contact with the earth and its magnetism on the lowest physical level. Thus there is an energy exchange on several levels at once, and this can create remarkable changes in our own rhythms.

Some of those who come to Pumpkin Hollow are in the midst of emotional conflicts or preoccupied by personal problems, and because they do not let these go, they sometimes are not open to all the benefits Pumpkin Hollow has to offer. But if we can put such things aside for the moment, we will find that there is an enduring state of consciousness beyond any human conflict, and that this permeates the very atmosphere of the place. Pumpkin Hollow offers us an opportunity to contact the wider consciousness in nature, by letting go.

Pain and anger and anxiety are transitory, whereas within the cycling energies in nature there is a pattern of order that is eternal. Therefore, if we can recognize that in spite of our failures we always have access to the order and harmony which lies within, we gain certainty that there is something, some power, which lets us feel whole again.

Frailty and failure are part of the human pattern, but that is the challenge of life. Participation in the experiment in consciousness which I have described lets us experience the inner order within nature and within ourselves. This experience is both healing and holistic, for it puts us in touch with the background of our lives which is beyond frailty and failure—the reality which is eternal.

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