When I wake up, even without knowing the schedule, I can feel it’s going to be a sharing day with the Traveler at our homey, simple-but-elegant Basque farmhouse-chalet-style retreat. The sharing days share a similar set of sensations. I wake up into a dream instead of from a dream. There’s a floaty, otherworldly feeling where time and space seem to be flattened into two dimensions, and I’m hovering somewhere above them. There’s no need to do anything, and even if there were I wouldn’t be able to do it because the body is a distant part of that two-dimensional world, and I’d have to use a kind of remote control to operate it. And why would you want to mess with that irrelevant piece of machinery called a body anyway? As I squint into the brightness of the spreading light inside, and it starts to override objects and details, there’s nothing to do but SE’s for the morning, and luckily the session doesn’t start until 2:00 pm.

The sharing is a Q&A with John Morton that consists of the usual dumb questions and patient “answers,” although those answers are more like a series of soft, non-inflictive, non-belligerent assaults on each person’s ego-castle. “Can we enter here?” “No.” “How about here?” “No.” “OK we’ll try over here.” “OK.” We ask about what we already know, the answers are obvious, but they all deal with each person’s totally idiosyncratic and completely nonsensical areas of refusal to receive everything they’ve always wanted. It’s an Alice in Wonderland exchange that somehow works because it accepts the ridiculousness of the situation, enjoys it instead of fighting it, and in the process of acceptance it slows to a stillness, and then fades into another reality, just like you’d expect from a character in Alice in Wonderland.

Often, people go to sleep, or out of the body, in these sessions. Since they can’t move the problem they’ll move themselves, and let the problem be stationary while they drift into that other dimension. The device that would try to preserve some reason or sanity in all this, our ego/personality, is held in a kind of limbo so this combination of surgery and comedy routine can take place. And throughout there is a very warm and intense energy called love, which is the only thing that has any consistency or direction in the process, so we cling to it tightly as all the other realities fade in and out.

The guy at the front of the room is divine and yet ordinary. Don’t try to figure that one out or you’ll go completely mad. The rest of the people are ordinary yet divine. Sometimes the character called J-R appears, usually in a burst of sparkling lightness of heart that goes through John and through the room. We’re all being overshadowed by the same thing.  The warmth of the light of love heats up the room and melts everything into a fluid medium for this joining of souls. You just close your eyes and ride it.