Is it possible that there’s a psych ward in heaven? Given human nature I think it’s quite likely. A few years ago we visited the alpine region of Italy and Switzerland on a trip called “Heaven on Earth”. This time we’re in Jerusalem, heaven’s insane asylum. But this is where the world’s top psychologist came to work, probably attracted by the challenge, so as students of the psyche or soul, and followers of the logos or word, here we are.
I experience an intense kind of inner propulsion here that can be used either for travel of the inner realms, or to go to places in consciousness that no sane human would want to experience. Our first stop is that bastion of bedlam that people visit to bash their heads against boulders—the western or “wailing” wall. It’s protected by people with machine guns so that people won’t steal the boulders or hurt other people in order to gain sole access to them.
You have to push through crowds of people, some of them dressed in black overcoats in 90 degree heat, others rocking and muttering to themselves, to get to the boulders. The people here must be engaged in something of inner value though, because they make great photos—rapt, intense, focused on the inner and the permanent instead of impermanent shiny objects (at least the boulders are so unappealing that there’s no opportunity for temptation or distraction). As J-R has often said, if you’re going to do something, do it at 100%. I get so lost in taking photos that I almost lose our group and have to run to catch up with them as they’re leaving.
As Voltaire said, “everyone prefers the smell of their own dung,” and I can’t say that the enjoyment that I get out of the impersonal observer viewpoint that’s required to take the photos is a bubble of madness any less deranged than the bubbles that these people are in—although the fact that my clothes suit the climate must count for something. In fact, given my Jewish heritage, I think it’s exactly the same kind of enraptured detachment, just applied a bit more gently and stylishly.
The rest of the morning is devoted to more exploration of the rock pile—walls, stones and ruins. Why am I doing this—and doing it for free, except for room and board and a coach ticket, a form of torture analogous to what was inflicted on the martyrs of Jesus’ time, or what these people inflict on themselves? There’s a good reason—because the Traveler bubble, magnified by the bubble of what has taken place here, is the sweetest, most painless, blissful and karma-free bubble I’ve encountered; and because of the opportunity to have every step of my process and my creativity guided by masters of Light instead of my own bumbling; and because serving at the limit of my abilities and beyond gives me glimpses of the Light that transcends my limitations; and because I get to experience relief from my own madness. All of that is a deal that I can’t pass up.
(I did upgrade to business class at my own expense though, as I think that the bridging of Light and Darkness that took place in this part of the world has enabled a rare level choice—of abundance, of joy instead of retribution, of freedom to choose pleasure over pain, and, most important, a chance to make spiritual gains. Another offer I can’t refuse.)
We visit a lot of supposedly’s—Jesus was supposedly tortured here in dungeons under Caiaphas’ house, Jesus supposedly did the Upper Room and/or Last Supper thing here, King David was supposedly buried here. I can’t tell whether it’s the Jesus’ presence, or the presence of mystical travelers from other times, or the devotion of centuries of tourists, or the Light columns planted by our previous trips, or John Morton’s impromptu seminars, or the Light focus of our group in the present moment, or my own inner attunement—but there is a lot of beautiful energy that comes in. And why do I care what its origin is? After all, they’re all the same thing.
If only I could stop taking photos and just enjoy the energy for a while. Maybe the masters’ work isn’t done, or my own work isn’t done, or maybe I refuse to let go of my own rock pile…and maybe they’re all the same thing.
