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Moments of meeting

Precious

Fleeting

Shooting stars weaving

Traceless

Faceless

Eternal bliss

You

And

I

Neither names

Nor mortal forms

Blue, gold, pink

Whirling rays

Weavers of time

Noble ones

To you

Invisible threads




This field is for you, the weavers.

There are people in our life that are so preciously understated. Some of them are our loved ones. Others are strangers.

Our lives would never be the same after passing by the shooting stars that awaken our hearts.

As an ambitious young dancer, I could not recognize the noble ones in the streets of New York. They were the shape-shifters, excellent in disguise. Some of them looked like homeless - dirty and smelly… Others are pretty ordinary, like the faceless passengers on the subway. Something in common was the penetration of their glance. That could make you very uncomfortable if you were a piece of the self-important broken thread… Your personas could be shattered by one of their simple glances. I was such a piece of thread in some of the confused times.

From a piece of thread to the tapestry to the weaver, I see …

We have bought into the programs of certain values and certain conditions as the measure of success. Success has nothing to do with being important. Success has everything to do with being aware... How do we identify ourselves?

--A piece of thread that is more colorful than the other pieces of thread?

That is an “ old fashioned “ measure of success.

Why do we want to be a piece of thread when we are the tapestry? Furthermore, when we realize that we are actually the weavers who can weave all kinds of tapestries from a piece of simple thread - brilliant or dull, broken or whole - we then are in a different dimensional awareness. We are free.

I did not know that I would be a weaver someday. If I were not aware of the weaver in me, I could to be aware of the weaver in others. All I could perceive in my young mind was the color of the threads, and I had to be the finest of all.

Followed the subway map directly to the Lincoln Center Plaza, where the most famous performers made their legends, I had to be one of the greatest ones. That was the first day when I arrived in New York City. I was shy, but confident. Perhaps I was too confident to learn the games of the world. 

There were artists selling crafts across the street. I thought my arts should be adored in the theater, not on the street.

Well! My feet did not think the same. There I was, standing right in front of a table piled up with beads, handmade crafts and crystals. It looked like a pirate’s open treasure chest. The man behind the table looked like a pirate too. 

Wild hair, wild eyes, wild clothing, everything about him was wild.

--- Black coral! --- 

Those dictionary eyes beamed blue rays at the pendent on my neck. This was my first day in New York. I was not comfortable talking to a stranger wild like him. Pondered about my feet have their own intelligence… I shifted my weight just a little.

--- A dancer, hum? Wish to perform in the Lincoln Center someday???--- Now, the pirate turned into a tribal looking chief, with sunshine dancing on his carved, wrinkled face.

Was he a fortune-teller?

Did his eyes just change from blue to brown?

Did I like him?

Or did I feel uncomfortable?

What did he do besides selling crafts on the streets?

Answering his question with the silent smile, I had more questions about this stranger standing by my side. It felt like standing next to a pine tree—thick bark, broad branches covered with resin and moss. A sense of coming home made me aware of some other levels of communication -- as if his eyes were saying to me:

“Remember--You shall remember. You are one of us, what is your measure of the success for artists?

Fame?“

This time he looked like an old priest from the Atlantis?

Don’t ask me how I knew what an Atlantis priest looked like. I know things from my soul, not from TV.

--Atlantis—

I remember Atlantis … 

I have always been there beyond space/time ...

There are times I am not really a human from earth.

We are extremely intelligent.

We are beautiful.

We are the travelers in time and space.

Some of us come to this beautiful planet to do research.

We do not call it earth; we have a special sound for it, like

Al---ha—ro-la---

It sounds like the code of -- Ah-lo-ha---

Do you realize that I am using the present tense? We don’t live in linear time.

After developing the civilization there, we look more and more like the earth human.

The arts, healing, science are one thing in our realm.

Not as separated as in today’s civilization on earth.

There are times I am a male scientist… Toward the later period of time, I have many lifetimes as the priestess in the healing temple.

Even in my third dimensional incarnation, I could travel effortlessly to my beautiful Atlantis homeland, dancing in the huge temple that has the pillars made of the crystal selenite… I do not travel to the “past” but am one with that point of consciousness in no-time

There “were” great sorrows in the ending period of the Atlantis on 3rd earth. My sister A-le-lu-sha , the high priestess of the Healing Temple, ascended in that time. I did not, because I still held onto the ideas of perfection. Those were not the whole tapestry, but some brilliant colored threads.

My sister A-le-Lu-sha has always been one of the greatest inspirations that I have ever experienced in the Book of my Soul.

We both had the bloodline from the Lemurian civilization. In the early time, the Atlantis respected their senior civilization - Lemuria. The priesthood of the Atlantis would send their youth to learn from Lemuria. In the later period when the density of this earth began to increase, these two races became increasingly unfriendly… The rest of the story was about the destruction. My sister A-le-lu-sha had integrated the finest intelligence and wisdom from these two races. Seeing the unseen, unconditional, loving and free, she ascended to another frequency.

A mother, a teacher, and a friend she was to me. A lost child I was in my perpetual searching… seeing the conflicts, and often wanting to “right” the “wrong” …

We are still communing in the inner plane to this day. Many times we dance as one, especially when performing my dance-theater works. Years later, according to earth time, when the New York Times gave me an excellent review of

“Daughters and Sons from Atlantis,” there was a line about my work being ”imaginative.“

Imaginative?

Since English was not my first language, I had to check the dictionary to understand more.

The truth was that A-le-lu-sha was dancing through me …

I was not my body.

I was the dream of Atlantis.

The audience and us were in the grids of the Atlantean consciousness.

People in New York and people in Atlantis shared visions in their souls.

I did not imagine it.

I was it.

Truth is simple.

When we are not simple enough, we do not know how to speak the simple truth.

It takes me a long time to be simple enough to state what it is.

I love Atlantis. There is no death. We are all here! The streets around me turn into the streets of Atlantis. I see people from Atlantis walking around in different bodies, different names, different clothing…

Yet -- the same pride, the same soul cry …







-- Oh, that is a belt. I carved it myself—

His voice brought me back to the streets of New York. I did not realize that my hands were moving like a child picking shells from the sand.

Shells must remember Atlantis. Do they?

-- Total magic! I would like to make things as magical as what I saw on this table.

Had I just time traveled?





There were tourists taking pictures around us. Curious and hungry, I remembered that I was also a tourist on my first day in the streets of New York- in this lifetime. Where was I? From the pirate, to the Indian, to Atlantis, then to the memories of the shells… The air in the sunlight held the records of Atlantis. Triggered by his blue glances, I found myself in many places with the same pair of eyes.

What is my measure of the success of artists?

Fame?

Why does a traveler want fame from the lands she passes through?

---So you remember Atlantis!

A whale-looking mouth breathing holographic records, he shifted again.

You see! There is really no secret in the universe.

We are open books.

We are speaking each other’s mind

Simple

As the bubbles



--No, not about fame… It has to be something else.

--What else?

--I shall find out.

--Someone like him is something else…

I did not remember what I bought from that pirate’s table. I could only see those blue glances from a pirate to a chief to the priest from another time. Again, I saw the chief dancing next to the bonfire, his daughter dressed in blue feathers, gently invoking the spirits of the land… I saw the deer running in groups, drinking clear water from the sea green… I saw an old writer pulled away by the soldiers of Rome, after singing his “dangerous” poems in the marketplace… I saw the eagle rising, soaring, spiraling in circles, turning into a tiny dot and gone…

He was not there the second day when I visited again.

The third day –no,

The next week –no,

The next month –no,

Never did I see him again in my 18 years journey in the city of New York.


… In different towns, different times, I see him in my own crafts and my own tables on the streets. I see him in the glances from strangers, and I see the young me in those who visited my table. I see him in my mind when I get my hands dirty and tough, making things magical for my pirate’s table… I am grateful for everything life has brought me. This is the greatest success—to me.


I am comfortable with the threads, broken or whole. I know that I have never been alone. For we all weave our destinies together like shooting stars. Sometimes traceless and faceless, other times blazing bright… Noble ones are often unseen, like the threads… invisible, whirling rays… They do not belong to the time. They are weavers of time …



 

  

Links

http://paranormal.miningco.com/msub23.htm 

http://www.iwwg.com 

http://www.wilsonsalmanac.com





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 More Weavers of Time 

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Music credit: Golden Leaves by Michael Hoppe' from the CD Poet, Romance for Cello