Last week I had decided to include an excerpt from my new book which is finally coming out in print. I had no idea that between now and then there would be such a terrible loss of some of our children to violence. Ironically, the piece I wanted to share from Albert’s Manuscript has to do with caring for the children of this new world, the little ones that First Woman calls, “the weavers.”
A little background on this book. Years ago I was working on an novel with metaphysical (magical) things happening in it and much of the action led up to the discovery of a manuscript that belonged to one of the character’s grandfather. The manuscript contained notes of his experience as a young man. He had lost his father to violence and had become an angry, drunk young man. One day he rides off determined to bring his father back from the spirit world and he falls off his horse and is knocked unconscious. While he is unconscious he is taken to another realm where he meets First Man and First Woman and they tell him the story of The Wind of a Thousand Years. They speak to him about the larger unfolding of the world and its many spirals and that during this spiral a mighty wind had blown all the people of earth around until they no longer know who they are or where they belong. It is an ugly, painful time filled with wars over territory and race and identity. Those of you who know my work will recognize this story in the smaller version that travels with The Bead People Peace Project.
Anyway, after working on this novel for a long time, I finally began to wonder what was actually in Albert’s Manuscript. It is never revealed within the novel, so I picked up a cheap notebook and began scribbling. As I was writing, I felt like the story was being told to me, not that I was writing it. It was a very powerful experience–as if the information was coming from one of the other realms. When I was done six days later, the story was as it is now. I tried to mess with it and edit and just couldn’t seem to change anything. I think there is a strong message in there for us to pay attention to. And it feels like now is the time for me to bring it into being, so the book is on its way into publication. It is a little book with a big message. Below is one conversation that Albert has with First Woman as she tells him about how we are to care for the children that are now coming into the world as the Wind of a Thousand years reaches its end. Initially I spoke as if the wind had already ended, but as we know, it is still blowing with full force across this world. For the next full year I am going to offer this book for sale at just over my cost–you can purchase a copy for $5. I hope you will read it and share your thoughts and ideas with me. Our young man’s name is Albert.
The Wind of a Thousand Years
Albert’s Manuscript, an excerpt
“I am to instruct you about the Weavers, the children who are arriving. Many are already here, actually,” First woman said.
I had nearly forgotten the words First Man had said, so filled with my father was I still. “Yes, First Man told me.”
The bright look on her face faded as though a cloud had passed overhead. I glanced upward but the sky was a sheet of blue.
“You must listen carefully, Albert. Much depends upon these children finding their place in this time. For a thousand years the wind has tumbled the people of earth into one another until they no longer remember where they belong, who they are, or what they have come to do. The longing, the seeking, the deep sense of aloneness and isolation will, for a time yet, cloud all connection with the higher realms, even with the earthly realm. It is a blindness of the soul—you know of what I speak.”
“Yes, I think I do.” I thought again of blind Albert, unconscious beneath a grove of cottonwoods.
“It comes rapidly now, this time of change. Soon you must go back, but my instructions are very specific and won’t take long, so I want to tell you one small story from my own storyline.” First Woman smiled and the shadow lifted. Her smile warmed me to the core of my being. I really was in love. She could have talked for one hundred years and I would not have wiggled, so enamored of her was I.
“Before the Wind began, actually it was already blowing, we just didn’t know it, but all the people had a deep belonging with the natural world. We spoke the language and heard the language of earth, stone, animals, dreams, and the soft whispers from the spirit realm. We spoke the language and we listened. It was a natural, graceful way of being. In truth, we couldn’t have survived this cycle without the help of the plants and animals. When the Wind began, it stirred the natural rhythms and disturbed them. It brought with it the beginning energy of separating and, with that, an awareness of what is mine—and what is yours.” First Woman stopped and gazed into my face. “Do you understand?”
I wasn’t sure.
“The deep harmonies were disturbed, Albert. Now, instead of living in belonging with all things, we drifted from true belonging into ownership. This belongs to me. That belongs to you. That doesn’t belong. You see—the energy of belonging shifted.”
I nodded, now understanding her meaning.
“It is impossible to describe how this shift interrupted the natural rhythms, but you can see the result in your world. Now, the people of earth fight to have—and not to be. From this place I am now, this high vista, I see the many cycles which form the spiral First Man spoke to you of, the energies of gathering, belonging, separating, and aloneness. Now a new twist of the spiral opens. It will carry humankind into the next and even deeper communication between the realms. But it has been very painful, this ending of one cycle and the opening of the new.”
As First Woman spoke, I felt the pain of which she spoke like a knife-point at my throat. I said nothing, just nodded again like a puppet.
“When I was a young girl I, like you, was taken to the other realm, this realm, and made a Watcher. It is difficult to be a Watcher, Albert. You live in one world while simultaneously seeing another. It is confusing, and sometimes very painful. Always you ask why others cannot see what you see. You feel very alone. You see—but are seldom seen by others. Being instructed, as you have been during your time here, helped me but I still had to live in a world that was rapidly changing.”
First Woman took my hand in hers and continued. “In my village, a neighbor to the village First Man came from, I was a maiden of the Sun. I took the Sun as my master. Another man, a priest in my village, fell into the Wind and took darkness into his soul. I tell you this not as an indulgence but to let you know that in that time, the seed of this time was also planted. I fled my village with another Watcher from the south. I had twin babies in my womb. The evil priest believed himself to be the father of those babes, a boy and a girl, but in truth, they were special children formed from the mating of the Sun and the Moon.”
First Woman gave another tinkling laugh. “Never mind about the logistics of that mating—it simply was. There were others born to the Watchers at that same time around the world. It is these special children who have seeded the human race with what is needed as the new spiral begins. The descendants of all of those children are like a silver net holding the potential for this new time, when the Wind is ending. I’ll try to explain in more modern terms. The energy of sun and moon combined in these children created a new chamber in the brain.” First Woman tapped her forehead between her brows. “Here. This chamber is not unlike its predecessor, it is the place of connection, of gathering, but in these descendants of sun and moon, it carries an even greater potential, a preparation for the new spiral of gathering and belonging. A wider reach, so to speak.”
First Woman was excited about this mysterious chamber of which she spoke. Her eyes were wide and shining. I could not take the time to think through all she said because I simply needed to record her words in my mind so I wouldn’t forget.
“Oh, Albert. The potential is so great, so far reaching and full of promise, and yet so fragile at the same time. It is container only. It is like having a miraculous machine but it must first be turned on. It if is properly filled or turned on the human race will flourish once again and surpass its former state of being. The sense of belonging will reach far, far beyond the skin of a single person. Do you understand?”
“I think so.” In truth, I didn’t understand yet, but her excitement was so contagious that I was caught it its glow.
“The Wind of a Thousand Years will not have been in vain for it will herald in such a time of peace, of connection, of light. I want that for the next generation and all the generations to follow.”
Her eyes misted over and pale particles of light and energy rose up from her shining hair again and formed a halo around her head. Such a vision she held for our poor beleaguered race, this human race, and with her help, I saw the promise of it too. Her vision of humanity bloomed in my own mind although it was not the world I currently knew.
She watched my face, her gaze tender and sweet. “You see it?”
“Good. Then my story has carried what it needed to carry to you.” She leaned over and kissed my brow in the same place she had tapped her own brow. “Now sink it, Albert. Sink that vision into your spirit.”
She sounded like my father and I laughed. With that most tender of kisses, First Woman became all business again. She ran quickly through my instructions on what she called ‘Care of the container for Weavers.’ She began by reminding me that we cannot know which children are descendants of the sun and moon energies and so therefore, the instructions apply to all children. As it should be, she said. She did say that we will in some ways be able to recognize the Weavers because they will enter the world greedy, restless for knowledge, impatient to learn, and intolerant when that learning is denied or constrained.
First Woman then spent a long time talking to me about how in this new time we must be mindful of the larger container of earth. That the Weavers must have pure water, pure air, the food supply restored and cared for, that the ability of these children to weave will depend upon their own brain’s ability to weave its fine connections. “Caring for the weaving child requires a larger spiral of care,” she said, “That includes care of the mother, care for the family, and care of the earth.”
Remember that the man receiving these rapid instructions was a crazy, twenty-year-old youth who had not even considered fatherhood as an option yet. I think that First Woman must have poured the information like liquid into my own container. I took it in whole, in one long, thirsty drink and have never forgotten the simple instructions she gave. Placing these instructions into the world that unfolded as I grew and aged was another matter entirely. From what I could see, in the final decades of apathy and despair, our institutions and culture did exactly the opposite of what she instructed. It was remarkable.
But I also saw that these children with the golden chambers, the special containers, would not be denied the learning or the care required.
After First Woman told me a small part of her story, she became very no-nonsense and marched through the instructions efficiently. She went back into the gray walled structure and came back holding a nested set of metal bowls. They were of a deep, bronze color with thin rims of colored enamel, four bowls in all.
“Pretty, aren’t they?” She picked each one up and set them side by side on the slab of cottonwood. With a tiny cloth-ended mallet, she tapped each one and a beautiful sound rang out. “I am using these to illustrate this lesson for you. I told you earlier that this chamber of open potential in the brains of The Weavers was fragile, a container only that must be filled. Actually, the inner chamber of the brain depends upon this nest of containers. This first, the smallest, is the mother and her womb. This next size is father and family. The third is the community, meaning everything from a neighborhood to the larger human community. The fourth bowl is the natural world and its many attending realms and worlds.” As she spoke of each bowl, she tapped its edge and when all four bowls were singing together, that single fine sound seemed to contain all the music and stories of all the people perfectly harmonized into one sound. “Do you hear it?”
I was transfixed by that rare sound and could only nod.
First Woman touched a fingertip on each bowl to still the sound. She laughed. “That sound will put you into meditation and prayer. In fact, that sound is mediation and prayer.”
She rapped each edge again with the mallet and let the sound sing out across the turquoise pool. I listened, feeling strangely moved and emotional. I never wanted it to stop ringing. This time she let the sound die out naturally, but even after the ringing had stopped, I could still hear it in my ears.
“They are nested, Albert. This is so important to remember. Each container holds the next container.” She reached a hand toward the ground and a pretty silver pitcher was in her hand. First Woman nested the bowls together again and poured the water into the center bowl. When it was filled it poured out into the next bowl, and when that was filled, it poured out into the next, and so on until the water flowed back out onto the earth itself. “Do you see, Albert? Life, or more precisely spirit, is such an overflowing thing that if we just let it flow naturally it will fill every container. It flows from one container to the next, from one generation to the next and on and on. It is unending, this flow. But the nest of bowls must be in order. Do you see?”
“Yes, I see.”
“Good. Then you see there is an order here that must be followed.”
“Good.” She pointed to the pitcher of water and put it in my hands. “This is the energy of life itself vibrating. It is creative; it fills and empties and contains us all. I have it in this pitcher but, in truth, it cannot be contained by anything and yet is contained by everything. Do you understand?”
I did understand, and nodded, feeling like a schoolboy sitting beside my pretty teacher with the pretty bowls. Later, this lesson would prove to be both the simplest lesson—and the most difficult. The energy that is life, mysterious, felt and yet not felt, seen and yet not seen. It is immeasurable.
“Albert, when you understand this natural order of things, it becomes easier to be a Watcher, easier to see when a person or an institution has gone out of order. And a child in order will become a Weaver who is capable of using this special chamber in the brain in very different ways—but only with proper care and training. My instruction for training the young Weavers is quite simple really. The key is to understand that the Weavers weave; one idea into another, one thought into another, one bit of information with another, one person to another, one country to another. They are pattern makers. They do not learn by absorbing information like wads of cotton absorbing liquid but by weaving, integrating one thing with another. Our job, then, is to feed finer and finer threads and more colors onto their loom so that they can weave the vision. We could call them spider children but Weaver sounds better, don’t you think? Do you understand? We do not learn—we weave.”
First Woman stopped talking and gave me time to do my own weaving. I’m not sure what I had expected. I waited for more information and there was no more. She had finished the lesson with four bowls and the instruction to allow the Weavers to weave. I couldn’t resist asking. “That’s it? That is all we need in order to enter the new time of gathering?”
First Woman shook her head. “Oh, Albert, you have no idea how difficult this simple lesson will be—for them to weave a new fabric out of the old? The challenges will be great as the Wind of a Thousand Years dies out. Earth will look like the aftermath of a great storm. The people will cling to their old identities like life rafts. They will form false camps of belonging, fearful of separating or standing alone. They will reject the Weavers in a hundred different ways, calling them names, challenging their ideas, excluding them.
Only those firmly planted in their families, whose center bowl can overflow into the other bowls, will be able to proceed. Old institutions of health and education and economy will collapse, and we must pay careful attention to the families and the food supply. The only grace is that it is the right time, and more and more will weave their connections between this earthly realm and the other realms. Help will come from other places. But the challenge will be great. Come, walk to the waterfall with me, and then you must go.”
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