It's All In the Playing (27 page)

When the disciples hear that, they fall on their faces, frightened. Jesus touches them, tells them to rise and not be afraid. When they lift their faces, Moses and Elias are gone.

Jesus charges them to tell no one what they have seen until he has risen again from the dead.

The disciples then ask why the scribes had said that Elias must come first and restore all things.

Jesus answers, “But Elias has come already and they did not know him, but have done unto him whatsoever they listed. Likewise shall I suffer.”

The disciples understand that he is speaking of John the Baptist.

*   *   *

As I read these verses in Matthew, it was clear to me that Jesus and his disciples were talking about reincarnation. They were saying that John the Baptist had lived in a previous incarnation as Elias. And that Jesus would suffer a fate similar to that of both.

I spent most of the weekend rereading parts of the Bible, once again reminded of what a metaphysical document it really is, each teaching referring to the Kingdom of Heaven existing within each one of us, and a New Age of recognition coming that would attest to that.

   I presented the Bible material I had found to John Heard and in fact worked it into one of his scenes. As a serious, but confused, Catholic, he studied it. There were moments when he seemed to put together what he was required to say as an actor with his own religious beliefs. The teachings were not that far apart, except that the Church insisted on his believing in evil and Hell. Metaphysics taught that we create our own Hell inside of us, depending upon our perceptions of reality. John saw that, but was not quite ready to take complete responsibility for his life. In fact he gave himself a prominent artistic fever blister on his chin which couldn’t be covered with makeup.

“That’ll serve ABC right,” he said.

During his close-ups I had to chase his chin with the shadow of my hat so the three-dimensional temperamental chin volcano wouldn’t be seen by the audience.

In between shots I could see John grappling with the issues we were addressing in the show. A really fine actor has to find a way to integrate foreign points of view into his belief system or it will look false on the screen. He was so good with the material that I finally told him that he really understood it whether he realized it or not. In fact, I said, it was material we all
know
is true. We just decide how much skepticism we will enact as we play our roles in life.

Because he was acting out his life, he understood what I said.

Chapter 17

   I
, in the meantime, was having my own problems with metaphysical truth. And it had to do with being a woman.

I had always been comfortable with my masculine energy, being the kind of woman who essentially knew what I wanted and how to go about achieving it. But now I had come to the point in my life where the feminine half of me needed as much attention and expression.

I didn’t trust my soft, nurturing, surrendering side enough. I felt I had to make things happen actively and aggressively. The hidden inevitabilities were not going to manifest, in my masculine view, unless
I
saw to it that they did.

Perhaps that was the reason I was again having trouble sleeping. One needs to trust the night energy in order to sleep well. The night energy is feminine energy. It is the energy of relinquishing control, the energy of trusting and believing. And I was having trouble doing that.

As usual in my life, when I’m in trouble something
always happens synchronistically to help me out of it. This time it came in the form of a Russian icon.

I have always been aware of my attachment to things Russian—stemming, I believe, from several personally important Russian incarnations. Even today when I hear Russian music, or see the Russian language or hear it spoken, I am moved with some deep stirring. It happens every time. And it has been with me since I was a child.

Some time before I felt the unease with my yin energy I had encountered a young woman, a designer from San Francisco. I had met her through Natalia Makarova, the Russian ballerina who defected, and the young lady had designed a dress for me. Since that time she had called periodically to tell me how she was doing. Now she called me again, with interesting news.

“Shirley,” she said, “I have something I must tell you about. I don’t know why I feel it but I know it’s important for you.”

I listened as she explained the following:

She had been extremely depressed, physically ill and desperate. In the hospital the doctors had not held out much hope of curing her bleeding uterus. But a friend of hers had brought her a photograph of one of the oldest Russian icons in the world. It was a picture of Mary holding the baby Jesus. The icon itself was called Iverskaya and had been found in an old Turkish monastery on the mountain Alfone. She had placed the photograph of the icon on her abdomen and overnight the bleeding stopped. The doctors couldn’t understand it, but sent her home.

The original icon had quite a history. It was said that a Turkish soldier, in an antireligious rage, had attempted to slash the icon with his sword. He stopped immediately because drops of blood oozed from the painting. Legend has it that the soldier was so ashamed he became a monk and lived in the monastery with the icon for the rest of his life.

Iverskaya was now in the possession of a monk
named José, who lived in Canada. Apparently, when José visited Mount Alfone the monks in the monastery recognized him as the rightful guardian of Iverskaya and put him in charge of her. José now travels with her to people who need healing. My friend had only a photograph of the icon, but even that, she said, was effective in healing.

“I just feel so compelled to tell you about it, Shirley,” she said to me. “May I bring it over? I think you should see it.”

I invited her over. Why I would be interested in an icon of Mary holding Jesus, I didn’t know. But some small voice within me told me it related to the unfolding of my feminine energy.

The young lady arrived with the photograph of the icon an hour later. She extracted it from a brocade case and I looked at it. It was five inches square.

Mary was the predominant figure, dressed in a maroon and white robe. She held the baby Jesus in her arms. Jesus held a scroll in his left hand which contained his future teachings. There were Russian symbols above the halos of Jesus and Mary.

As I looked at the photograph I had the strangest feeling, as though I knew this icon. Then I looked more closely. Drops of oil were oozing from the photograph onto the frame that enclosed it! And there was a tuft of cotton under the frame at the bottom to catch the oil.

“For heaven’s sake, what is this?” I asked.

“Oh,” my friend answered, “it’s been giving holy oil ever since I got this photograph.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she went on, “whenever I am in need of help or healing I ask Mary for help and she gives holy oil.”

She stopped and looked at it for a moment. Then she sighed.

“I used to take the photograph out of the frame, but
it’s been stuck for four months or so. I’ve tried everything. It’s as though she wants to stay in there.”

Casually and gently I turned the frame on its back. It was a simple slip-out frame. For some reason I thought I might as well attempt to extract the photograph. Very gently I pushed the cardboard frame on the back. It came loose easily. I pushed until the photograph came out of the frame all the way.

“I can’t believe this,” she said. “I have
tried.
My friends have tried. We thought it was stuck by some strange power, because it wouldn’t come loose.”

I just held the photograph. It actually tingled in my hand. Then tiny drops of oil began to ooze from the photograph. I touched them. They slid under my finger. My hand holding the photograph was warm with a burning glow. My friend stared at me.

“You are supposed to have this,” she said finally. “She is meant to be with you now.”

I could feel that she was right.

“But this is yours,” I said. “And I don’t even know why I should have her.”

“Because,” she said, “you need her. You’re supposed to, that’s all.” She left quietly and quickly, leaving the Iverskaya photograph with me.

And I did know why I should have her.

I took her into my bedroom and lay down with the icon on my chest. Instantly I felt a warm tingling glow through my heart.

Then I realized what I was supposed to learn from her. It was almost as though she were talking to me. I needed to open up my heart center. I needed to feel more compassion for myself and others. If I was going to progress with my spiritual growth, I was going to need to stop all the worrying and perfectionistic concern and just allow myself and others
to be.

The world was so difficult to live in. There was so much harsh and volatile interaction occurring everywhere,
as though millions of people, including myself, had decided to clear up their karmic debris before the New Age arrived. Or maybe the cleaning up was what would actually herald the New Age.

It was one thing to be metaphysically sophisticated; to know all the techniques and rhetoric and meditational processes. But quite another to relate to the world with simple love in your heart. That, ultimately, was the state of being that metaphysics and spiritual knowledge helped you attain. Love was the goal. Love was the process.

Study and intellectual spiritual pursuit were not where the wisdom of love resided.

Lazaris and Ambres and John and McPherson were right. I needed to own my inner love wisdom if I was to finish what I came in to do in this lifetime. When I touched that, I would be able to sleep. I wouldn’t be angered and I would understand that everything I drew to me in my life was simply to learn the multiple manifestations of love that blossomed from learning to love one’s self.

   So I kept the Mary icon with me. She slept on my bedside table at night and watched over me. I didn’t talk to her out loud, as my friend said she did, but I did have a silent inner dialogue about the nature of being a woman.

Then I remembered that I had visited a spiritual medium who contacted disembodied spiritual guides through a table that tipped and leaned and moved. The medium’s name is Adele Tinning. She lives in San Diego, is about seventy-nine years old, is as kindly as anyone I’ve ever known, and quite simply has incredible mediumistic talent.

“It is God’s talent,” she will tell you, “not my talent. And maybe that’s true of everyone’s talent.”

Anyway, Adele works with a table which is, combined with her energy, imbued somehow with the ability to spell out messages. One tip is
no.
Three tips,
yes. A
gentle rock of two is
maybe.
To spell out words it tips quickly in rhythm, stopping at the required letter in the alphabet countdown. The table hovers in the air and actually leans up on one leg. I and others have tried physically to bring the table back to the ground, but when the entity controlling it wants it in the air, it stays there.

When one gets past the physical phenomenon of the table, the implications are enormous. It tips out the spelling of messages coming from guides who need to use the table as a medium of communication.

At one of these “table-tipping” sessions Colin and I had asked who our primary spiritual guides were. The table had spelled out my guide as M-A-R-Y but I had never paid much attention to that until now. Could it be that Mary had worked her way into guiding me via a Russian icon? As far as my life was concerned, stranger things had happened.

I found myself reading all the metaphysical material on Mary that I could find. How she had chosen and been chosen to be the mother of Jesus, and the training she had gone through even prior to incarnating. And all the while I found myself learning more and more about women: what our roles really are, what monumental contributions we have been prevented from making, and how, if the world is to survive, the equality of women and of feminine leadership with men is essential. The nurturing, the resilient strength, the sensitive pragmatism, the intuitive knowledge, the respect for allowing the surrender to the God energy, the balancing of love and will, and the love for all life were all feminine traits that were in dire need of manifestation.

All of us in feminine bodies this time around were charged with living up to the choice we had made. The age of feminine energy was upon us. It was not strident or aggressive or violent or angry. It was comfortable, nurturing, balanced, and knowledgeable. It was the
Goddess-energy, the energy from which all is born. It was the energy of dominion, not domination. It was the energy of transmutation. It was the energy of service, and it stretched into uncharted territories. We would have to make our own map and lay claim to its unlimited boundaries. It would be necessary to drop away much of the past: the weary attachment to possessions, to security, to subservience. Women had been preparing for their full role for centuries, and we could now see our female identity serving that preparation. We were ready to dream and finally to live the dream. We had at last given ourselves permission to live our lives fully.

The domination of masculine energy represented the Old Age, the old way of operating. We had seen that male domination and female submission as a way of life had brought us to the brink of ruin. The dominion of yin energy was built on loving, nurturing—the New Age energy with roots deep in the very ancient worship of the mother-image, the Goddess aspect of the God-force.

Traditionally, the dialectic of divinity began with the Mother-Goddess; that being which created and gave birth. With all life there was first the attachment to mother. Then the rebellion against mother. After that came the attachment to and rebellion against father. But the initial force was feminine. Spirituality opened the feminine energy latent in all of us, male as well as female. And women were the trailblazers who would lay down a foundation for spiritual inspiration.

Slowly, as I integrated the spiritual meaning of my own feminine energy, I began to feel better.