An artistic monk
or, the lost figures of history
Last Substack I talked about the characters I meet when journeying into the Akashic field. The characters that stay with me for days as I wonder more about them, wishing I could ask so many more questions. But the Akashic field isn’t a place for demands or my egoistic desires, it’s a place where only humility and light will get you through the door into truth. Less noble intentions will send you sideways into the astral realms where mischief makers reside. Time is also of the essence, and when working with clients, once a scene has played out and given me what I need, I am moved onto the next one, just like a film.
All that said, I can intentionally revisit a person or place and spend more time there, and willingly do so as the Akashic Guardians petition me more and more to preserve what I see in writing.
[(From the previous post) In the Akash, I travel with my clairvoyant senses into a quantum field where past, present, and future are non-existent. Where everything just 'is’ in that eternal present moment spoken of by mystics. It is a place where I journey to meet previous incarnations: mine or those belonging to others. (Previous only in linear time, ever present in quantum time.)
It’s what real time travel is.
When I travel into the Akashic field I don’t see labels, times, names. I see a person’s life like a movie playing in my mind. It is me that then has to deduce the time, the place, or the activity I’m watching through the knowledge stored in my own database.
The Akashic realm is a meeting place where I can enter worlds and times I recognise alongside those I don’t. It is a gathering place with people history has forgotten and there are two figures that stand out from recent Akashic readings because I recognised something in them both: a knowing of realms beyond matter. Both men were Italian, one from the 1500s, one from a time further back that I couldn’t quite grasp. Though such a different existence to mine: a different age, gender, birthplace, I saw a snippet of myself in each. One I can describe as a clairvoyant scientist, you can read about him here, one as an artistic monk.]
An artistic monk
I have never known the level of peace I experienced as I entered a cloistered monastery high up in the mountains of Italy to sit with a monk in contemplation. I found myself in the very epicentre of what peace is, and it filled my mind and body with pure stillness. (Oh to capture it and bottle it! I would distribute it freely to the world in return for its consumption and a promise of freedom from war.)
I knew it was Italy and I knew it was in the mountains, because the air was so thin, so very fresh, and so very uncluttered by the presence of humans. As I sat with this monk I realised he didn’t speak, hadn’t spoken for years. I was in some kind of cloister, a small, silent retreat; perhaps a hermitage of some kind, or maybe his silence was his own choice. I couldn’t fathom the age other than it felt like time before time. I could see no markers of time, not even rudimentary ones, at least not on this visit. Our monk reminded me of St Benedict, so perhaps it was around 500 CE?
What struck me most was his mind. The stillness that resided there, the absolute point of presence that he inhabited. Something most modern Western minds yearn for. Of course, a life of monk-like simplicity is an easier path to this silence. Mortgages and families not so much. Sitting with him I realised how little my day to day life offers this respite. How much noise there is. Though I do carve out pockets of silence my meditation time occupies a seat next to plenty of busyness.
In silence and contemplation he connected to the Light of Existence. The everything and the nothing, the Emptiness Buddhists speak of, the place with no time or expectation. He didn’t marvel at this Light or acknowledge it as anything separate from himself. For him, it was as normal as existence itself.
But what really took me by surprise was his artistry.
Our monk was an artist most can only dream of being. An artist worthy of Michelangelo and Leonardo combined, surpassing them even, yet his creations never met canvas nor marble.
They remained in his mind.
I saw vast creations during his contemplations, mostly capturing the light of nature that surrounded him: swirling light and geometric spheres, exquisite colour and fine detail. The creativity that flowed through him was expressed through a connection with nature, his tending of the gardens and the flowers that surrounded his enclave. Flora arranged in artistic reverence of its beauty. Occasionally, a twig or piece of bark in his hands would be transformed into a beautiful carving with only sharp stones as the tool.
But I just knew that had he lived in a different time, with access to a palette of oil paints, we would all know his name.
I saw that the Light he experienced within him and his creativity were one and the same. That all Creative Flow is an expression of the Divine and it is through this pure connection that masterpieces are made. On the flip side, when creation is borne through the emotional pain body, destruction and chaos is the end result.
Even in such a brief encounter I know him deeply. My soul remembers the echo of his soul song. It could be that he is a past me and I haven’t made the realisation yet, or maybe he is someone I love deeply in this life. I aim to find out.
Already I can hear the call to return to his side and understand him better, to know his world and bring through his Mastery into the realm I occupy. We all hold the same Light of Mastery within us, so to find a path for its fullest expression would be a gift I would be more than willing to receive.
Watch this space.