Pathways

I find myself reading three books in particular at the moment. They are sitting tigether in a celtic knot, weaving through each other.... Supernatural by Graham Hancock, Dancing the Dream by Jamie Sams and Art is a Spiritual Path by Pat B Allen.

Strange how things like this happen.

Sometimes I have to ask myself, just how honest do I wish to be. How many of those bones am I prepared to show here. The lines of my old live(s). They diverge from the life I lead now, a million miles, somehow I jumped tracks and got here instead and I like it better.

I am not sure if it is shame exactly. Maybe it is the law abiding part of me, not wishing to get into trouble, not wishing to admit the things I did.

So I am reading Supernatural and so far, he is talking about the shamans use of drugs to enter other realities. Some of this speaks to me. Once upon a time I used to step up to that door. I used to enjoy it. Of all the dabbling I did, all those years ago, I enjoyed the same sorts of the things shaman use most of all.

I loved the ever moving patterns. I loved the playing with my head. I loved the colours. The simplest thing became beautiful and could attract hours of attention. Things lived and were alive and moving, even as they stayed still.

For all my dabbling though, that is as far as I remember it going. I never stepped through the gate to other worlds.

I was pretty disturbed at the time though. It was shortly before my breakdown really. It was avoidance. trying to retreat elsewhere to avoid the way my world was crumbling. Dodging the bullet.

This is a path I shall not walk again, in all likelihood (never say never because then things tend to happen) but I do wonder, sitting here reading this book. but there are other paths that lead to similar places. trancework. Not sure those worlds are for me though. Not sure.

I am taking web strings from shamanism. Still trying to decide how many exactly. We shall just have to see what sticks