Chapter Nine. Papers.

That night, I dreamed about finding Keya. In my dream, I found my way back to that vision of the picnic and the people. Oh what fun! The children all had headbands made of miniature lily-of-the-valley blooms, daffodils, even tiny roses and irises! I actually bent over and studied them. Exquisite!



My dream was like a course in observation. Everything was more alive to me than they seem when I'm awake. Plants vibrated. Bunnies nibbled on grass within feet of us and in a silent discussion, I heard the cottontail say, "The grass is excellent here." And my smile back was taken as a sacred expression. I think she was a yearling female. I couldn't tell you how I knew that. She was pregnant. She told me.



The trees seemed to be engulfed in their own aura which was pulsating! I would describe the experience as magical, except that would exempt my connection to it. I wasn't inside it and it wasn't inside me. It was as if we weren't there at all. It was before time, before words, before creation. Words don't work. And it felt like home!



The people. They were so familiar! Is it possible that any person could be more familiar than family? Is it possible that you could find a stranger who you know better than the person you've become? They felt connected to my soul! I loved them all, each one. And something that struck me that I'll never forget. I saw them as SPIRIT...as if they were shimmering. We had a glowing cord connecting us, so thin it seemed more fragile than a spider web and it glowed like the filament of a light bulb. And this tiny glowing filament was unlike blood in a vein, but that is the closest description I can think of. Each detail of every connection was revealed to me. There was another observation which gives me chills now as I remember it.



In this soup of exultation I seemed to have a conversation, within myself. It must have been with Zol, but it was different than before. And if it was Zol (Was it Zol?), he said, "So...are any questions unanswered?" Such a different thing for Zol to ask!



I laugh now because it seems so silly to have been able to answer back so quickly and without any doubt. But I knew it was correct. Instantly. What I said came with laughter because it was so amazing. "No. Nothing else." It was as if my physical needs of air, water, food and sleep had been removed. I had a body but it didn't require any care. Did I have a body? You know... I can't be sure!



So for that flash of an instant, the great mystery was revealed. Right then Keya walked out of a light from the end of the grove. Her silouette approached and there was something about her form that was unmistakeable. Even though it was ust a black shadow emerging from a bright light, there was no question it was her. Her features became clear as she got closer and she wore the head band of miniature lilies, roses and irises. Like those the children wore.



"Come on," she said as she took my hand. I was awestruck because she seemed so casual. I wanted to burst out in amazement, "What is this place? A minute ago I knew EVERYTHING!"


But I was speechless. I tried to object. But my words were stuck. I pushed my tongue to force something out. Nothing. I guess it was my frustration that woke me and I laid there for half an hour, beaming.



As I got dressed to meet Hasan and Ryan, my thoughts turned to Thanksgiving season last year. Keya and I walked to the farmers market. Everywhere was the sale of "guaranteed" Polish papers. Birth certificates, land leases, declarations of citizenship.

"Illegal paper everywhere," Keya said.

"Yeah, amazing isn't it?" My reply was based on the fact that the illegal documents were actually printed on paper. But she was referring to something I hadn't given much thought to...

"What is it about Polish papers that could possibly keep you safe?!" she offered. "I mean, it is all speculation. How many times have you witnessed someone unpacking the illegal documents as the Gestapo is taking them away, without so much as a pause by the Polish police to examine them?"

"You're right," I readily submitted, and then in the excitement of the suggestion, I continued,"the paper itself is the only thing of value, though illegal. But to pay these prices? I mean look at the lines. People are desperate and holding on to any fantasy to stay safe!"

Keya strayed from the conversation and was handling some organic fruit at a nearby vendor's booth when we heard the ruckus. An older woman was being questioned. Who appeared to be a grandson was interfering and raising his voice. His shouting escalated until everyone in the market was watching.

"Leave her alone. She's a Polish citizen," he was screaming. She has papers to prove it!"

The brutes weren't phased in the least by the young man's desperation. The old woman was distraught and wimpering something about her documents and her allegiance to Poland. As they tucked her in the van, the boy was frantic. He was pleading with all of us in the crowd to help. Naturally we all kept our place. Far too many of us have witnessed the repurcussions of trying to help.

That's when Keya and I decided to get in line. She bought a birth certificate and I bought a land lease. We hoped that if it ever came to it, our counterfit documents would allow us to stay free.

For now, it was time to meet Ryan and Hasan.

Chapter Ten. Presto.

On the flight to Pokhara, from Jomosom, I asked Hasan why he didn't just "teleport us" or use some other magical juju to get us to Srinagar.

"What makes you think you're qualified to fly first class?" His smile radiated. I was keenly aware of his genuine affection for me.

"Well, I mean, if you're this multidimensional being from another realm, why do we have to go through the rigors of using trains, planes and automobiles?"

Ryan was reading a magazine in his seat across from us. He seemed to be interested in the forthcoming answer, even though his gaze stayed fixed to the magazine.

Deliberately careful with his words, Hasan proceeded slowly, "Derby. As I place my finger on this spot...," and he marked an imaginary point in the air in front of him. "How much space does that point occupy?"

"You mean the area in front of you?," I asked him, slightly perplexed by the question.

"That exact point," he explained.

"Well, if it is a point, it takes up no space, if I remember my geometry," I submitted.

"Correct," he motioned as he made a line in the air. "Now this line. How much space does it take?"

"Again, as a series of points, it occupies no space," was my answer.

"Now Derby," he seemed to search for the right expression, "how much space does time take?"

"Time? Space? How much space does time take?...," a combination of perplexity and confusion caused me to twitch uncomfortably in my seat. "I don't think time takes up any space. But physics is not my thing."

"OK then. How about a thought. How much space does a thought fill? Or a feeling, say sadness...what kind of space is required to accomodate sadness?"

"Mr. DuBois. While this line of questioning is intriguing, would you mind just telling me what you're trying to say," I offered in frustration.

"You suggested that I am multidimensional from another realm," Hasan seemed elated at my confusion. Then he continued, "I'm just pointing out that everything is composed of many dimensions and that all of us deal in what appears to be real time, in what appears to be real elements, concerning objects and ideas from other realms."

"And your point is....," I hinted.

"My point is that, yes, I'm multidimensional. Yes, from your point of view, I'm from another realm. But these are just relative perspectives. You see, nothing means much except in comparison to something else," he said, as if it would make perfect sense to me.

"I'm sorry sir," I countered. "But I'm still confused. Are you suggesting that angels and spirits and things that go BOO in the night only appear to be from another world, when really they're part of the same world as we're in?"

"Precisely!," he exclaimed, quite excited. He dove in further when he said, "It is all a point of reference. Take the acute sense of smell of a dog or the impressive eye sight of hawks and eagles. They only seem outstanding to beings whose sense of smell and sight aren't as developed. And yet we don't assume that Cocker Spaniels and Red Tailed hawks are of the "spirit world!" Now do we?"

"Well there is a difference, " I countered. "I can see pets and wild animals."

"Ahhhh!," he said, as if he was a lawyer in court or a scientist arguing a theorem. "Can you see a mouse in a field from a mile away? No, of course not. But does that mean the mouse is in another dimension? As a matter a fact, the mouse dwells in many other dimensions. And so do you! Did you know that you and the mouse are connected by a glowing thread, which you can't see? And that the thread occupies no space, but is in another dimension?"

I remembered my dream from the night before, of the people and the picnic and the glowing thread that connected everything. As he finished that question, he turned toward me and waved his right hand in front of me.

In the flash of what seemed to be a fraction of a second, Ryan and I were in the Himalayas, equipped with backpacks and canteens, decked out with goggles and hiking boots and parkas. Overhead we heard the loud shriek of the Ceylon Hawk Cuckoo. We stood next to each other, looking around in disbelief. The chill of the mountain air reminded me I was glad to be bundled up. Ryan spoke first.

"What the....Where is DuBois? Do you remember how we got here?"

(Watch a video of the known universe, starting at the spot where Ryan and Derby found themselves. Amazing!)

I assured him that we seemed to have been transported by some kind of magic and that the last thing I remembered was on the plane next to Hasan. Then we heard the confident voice we recognized, coming up the path behind us. It was DuBois, in the same gear. He had a proud look of achievement. He reached our position and snapped his fingers. We were back on the plane, as if we had never left.

My look of amazement and raised eyebrows were enough of a question for DuBois. He offered this explanation, "We never left. You just saw a memory."

Ryan had dropped his magazine and leaned across the aisle to ask, "A memory? We've never been to Chinindia. How could it be a memory?"

"All information of all time, past and future exists as consciousness. This consciousness is unborn and undying. It is not to be compared to anything, so it exists without dimension. Your Zol exists in consciousness. Our thoughts and feelings reside in consciousness. All pairs of opposites have arisen from consciousness." As Hasan spoke, Ryan and I exchanged glances more than once. He motioned for me to ask the next question.

"But the temperature was low. I distinctly recall the frost in the air. There is no question. It was real. We were there."

"Real and unreal are also pairs of opposite. Both need a point of perspective. As you now remember being in that pass above Ghorepani, the experience is related to your amazement about arriving in a non-conventional manner. Is that memory less real than this conversation? What if I told you that going or coming, there is really no beginning and end to our life. So if you viewed your memory as a movie running backward, you would first have been hiking above Nepal then later on a plane going backwards to the USASSR."

"That is a freaky thought," I replied. Ryan took it up where I left off.

"How did you do it? How did you show us a memory from the future?"

As Hasan DuBois answered that question, I had no further doubt about his credentials. He said, "I didn't do it Ryan. And nothing happened except you both changed your perspective. I simply dusted off a blockage which serves an important purpose for you both. Just as information seems to be passing through space in to your PIS, so too does consciousness permeate everything, except at a much more profound level. The thing is, a mystery keeps everyone and everything from seeing the total picture. What we know for sure is that we all are on a journey and that there are gifts along the way."

Chapter Eleven. Musme Ahreesan!

Alfred Warbling was an unimposing man. I don't think I've ever met anyone who made a less memorable first impression in my life. He was rather small framed, mostly bald and he reminded you of someone who you wish you could remember but couldn't. He spoke in a slow deliberate manner with a nondescript accent, from somewhere, perhaps in a small town, in some region of the ancient USA, which you'd never been in, but think you'd like to visit.



"Musme ahreesan," he greeted me as he shook my hand. I looked first to Ryan, to see if he understood. Then my eyes met Hasan's for clues on this language. Was it a customary greeting for Srinigar? I thought these were American monks, in a secret monastery. "Why do they use another language?," I wondered.



"I'm sorry," I replied. "Is that a sacred expression for Chits?"



Hasan had already explained that Chits was an outsiders name for the secret order who practiced Chi Kung, Hindu and Taoist esoteric philosophy and exercises (CHT's).



"It is our standard greeting. Must be a reason," he returned. This time he clearly enunciated each word and sylable. Then he continued. "We've often reflected and sometimes with a fair share of laughter about the origin of the expression and our unique way of pronouncing it."



This time as he spoke, there was a type of shine in his eyes. All at once he seemed as if he could be an old friend and was someone to trust.



"Ahh," I said happily. "Musme ahreesan. Musme ahreesan. Yes, there must be," and we all had a good laugh.



Srinigar is situated in Kashmir Valley and lies on the banks of the Jhelum River, a tributary of the Indus. It is also a very beautiful setting. When I finally let myself relax at the monastery, the peacefulness seemed too good to be true.



We accompanied Alfred to the main building in the monastery, which was very old. The original architecture retained an exotic flavor which served as a foundation to the additions which were modern, though very simple.



"Everything in the compound," Alfred explained as we were taking the tour, "has been totally rebuilt by the Sangha BD. We've done every bit of work ourselves and none of us are carpenters or builders of any kind. We're monks, after all, not trained craftsmen."



"Excuse me," Ryan asked. "You said built by the Sangha BD. What is that."



"Oh," Alfred laughed in reply. "Naturally you wouldn't know our little inside joke. You know there are thirteen of us, right? And our Sangha is our small congregation. So we think of ourselves as a baker's dozen. Plus part of our routine involves making bread!" As he laughed and guided us further in the corridors, the smell of fresh baked loaves added to the deliciousness of the experience.



Alfred motioned for us to be quiet by touching his raised finger to his lips, as we walked past the monks who were doing their mesmerizing exercise routine. A hybrid Tai Chi-Yoga form they called Dance of the Twelve Emperors. As it happened, there were twelve monks in the group, and I wondered if the practice could have fewer or more, but didn't have a chance to ask the question.



After we were well past the monks, as if he had read my mind, Alfred commented, "The name of the form has nothing to do with how many of us do the routine. The history relates to twelve emperors, going back to a dynasty in China. We cultivate the spirits of ancient warriors and store the energy in our lower dan tien."



After he finished explaining, without the slightest interuption in our march down the hallway, he gracefully swept his hand out in front of him and then in figure eights. Then after he appeared to scoop something from his abdomen, he sprinkled this imaginary substance in the air in front of us. For a moment I thought I saw butterflies flittering, but there was nothing there except a remarkable fragrance of Hyacinth!



Both Ryan and I looked around to see if we could locate the source of the smell, but I noticed Hasan walked calmly ahead, though bearing a delighted expression of contentment.



Soon we came to two large doors with huge steel rings fastened as openers. As Alfred lead us through the entrance to this chamber, a chill of cooler air greeted us. I shivered and was about to use my hands with crossed arms to increase the circulation from my shoulders to my elbows to warm myself when Alfred made another gesture with his mysterious powers, only this time he seemed to fling air from his fingers directly to Ryan and I. When he did this, it was as if we were wrapped in the warmth of a nearby fire.

"What is that smell," I asked with a squint. "Is that ink?"



For indeed there was a strong ink smell. We're not accustomed to the smell of ink as printing was no longer practiced. Printing presses existed only in museums and even personal printers for computers had been outlawed years before. Again, with these thoughts, Alfred seemed ready to give reply to my internal questions.



"You have your tantra texting and we have our newspapers!"



When he said this Ryan and I looked at each other with amazement. "For whatever reason in the world would you want to read a printed newspaper?," was my automatic question I thought to myself, without physically asking him.



"Musme ahreesan," Alfred laughed.



"Musme ahreesan indeed," Hasan replied happily.