Thread: Suicide and what happens NEXT (!!!).

In a cage a green and yellow parrot, beady-eyed, looked down with some curiosity. Then there was a raucous squawk, 'Polly want out, Polly want out !'

Miss Mathilda Hockersnickler jumped to her feet with a start, 'Oh, good gracious me,' she exclaimed, 'I am so sorry my poor little darling, I quite forgot to transfer you to your perch.'

Carefully she opened the door of the gilt wire cage and, putting a hand inside, she lifted the somewhat tattered old parrot and gently drew him through the open cage. 'Polly want out, Polly want out !' squawked the parrot again.

'Oh, you stupid bird', replied Miss Mathilda. 'You ARE out, I am going to put you on your perch'. So saying, she put the parrot on the crossbar of a five foot pole which at it's distal end resulted in a tray or catch pan. Carefully she put a little chain around the parrots left leg, and then made sure that the water bowl and seed bowl at one end of the support were full.

The parrot ruffled its feathers and put its head beneath one wing, making cooing chirping noises as it did so. 'Ah Polly', said Miss Matilda, 'you should come and read this book with me. It's all about the things we are when we are not here. I wish I knew what the author really believed,' she said as she sat down again and very carefully and modestly arranged her skirts so that not even her knees were showing.

She picked up the book again and then hesitated halfway between lap and reading position, hesitated and put the book down while she reached for a long knitting needle. And then with a vigour suprising in such an elderly lady-she gave a wholly delightful scratch all along her spine between the shoulder blades.

'Ah!' she exclaimed, 'what a wonderful relief that is. I am sure there is something wrong with my liberty bodice. I think I must have got a rough hair there, or something, let me scratch again, it's such a relief'. With that she agitated the knitting needle vigorously, her face beaming woth pleasure as she did so.

With that item behind her, and her itch settled for the moment, she replaced the knitting needle and picked up the book. 'Death', she said to herself, or possibly to the unheeding parrot, 'if I only knew what author REALLY believed about after death.'

She stopped for a moment and reached to the other side of the aspidistra bowl so that she could pick up some soft candies she had put there. Then with a sigh she got to her feet again and passed one to the parrot which was eyeing her fiercly. The bird took it with a snap and held it in its beak.

Miss Mathilda, with the knitting needle now in one hand again, and candy in her mouth, and the book in her left hand, settled herself again and continued her reading.

A few lines on she she stopped again. 'Why is it that Father always says that if one is not a good Catholic - a good Church-attending Catholic - one is not able to attain to the Kingdom of Heaven? I wonder if the Father is wrong, and if people of other religions go to heaven as well.' She lapsed into silence again except for the faint mumbling that she made as she tried to visualise some of the more unfamiliar words. Akashic Records, astral travel, Heavenly Fields.

The sun moved across the top of the house and Miss Mathilda sat and read. The parrot, with head beneath a wing, slept on. Only an infrequent twitch betrayed any sign of life.

Then a Church clock chimed away in the distance and Miss Mathilda came to life with a jerk. 'Oh my goodness me!' she exclaimed, 'I've forgotten all about tea and I have to go to Church Womens Meeting'.

She jumped rapidly to her feet, and very carefully put an embroidered bookmark into the paperback book which she then hid beneath a sewing table.

She moved away to prepare her belated tea, and as she did so, only the parrot heard her murmur, 'Oh, I wish I knew what this author really believed - I do wish I could have a talk with him. It would be such a comfort!'

On a far off sunny island which shall be nameless, although, indeed it could be named for this is true, a Gentleman of Colour stretched languorously beneath the ample shade of an age-old tree. Lazily he put down the book which he was reading and reached up for a luscious fruit which was dangling enticingly nearby. With an idle movement he plucked the fruit, inspected it to see that it was free of insects, and then popped it in his capacious mouth.

'Gee', he mumbled over the obstruction of the fruit. 'Gee, I sure do an know what this cat is getting at. I sure do wish I knew what he really believed'.

He stretched again and eased his back into a more comfortable position against the bole of the tree. Idly he swatted at a passing fly, missing he let his hand continue the motion and it idly picked up his book again.

'Life after death, astral travel, the Akashic Record'. The Gentleman of Colour rifled through some pages. He wanted to get to the end of the stuff without the necessity of all the work involved in reading it word by word.

He read a paragraph here, a sentence there, and then idly turned to another page.

'Gee', he repeated.

'I wish I knew what he believed'.

But the sun was hot. The hum of the insects soporific. Gradually the Gentleman of Colour's head sank upon his chest. Slowly his dark fingers relaxed and the paperback book slithered from his nerveless hands and slide down to the gentle sand. The Gentle man of Colour snored and snored, and was oblivious to all that went on about him in the mundane sphere of activity.

A passing youth glanced at the sleeping Negro and looked down at the book. Glancing again at the sleeper the youth edged forward and with prehensile toes reached and picked up the book which with bent leg he quickly transfered to his hand. Holding the book on the side away from the sleeper he moved away looking too innocent to be true.

Away he went into the little copse of trees. Passing through he came again into the sunlight and to a stretch dazzling white sand.

The boom of the breakers sounded in his ears but went unnoticed because this was his life, the sound of waves on the rocks around the lagoon was an everyday sound to him.

The hum of the insects and the chittering of the cicadas were his life, and, as such unnoticed.

On he went, scuffing the fine sand with his toes for there was a hope that some treasure or some coin would be unearthed for hadn't a friend of his once picked up a golden Piece of Eight while doing this?

There was a narrow strip of water dividing him from a spit of land containing three solitary trees. Wading he soon traversed the interuption and made his way to the space between the three trees. Carefully he lay down and slowly excavated a little pit to hold his hip bone. Then he rested his head comfortably against the tree root and looked at the book which he had filched from the sleeper.

Carefully he looked around to make sure that he was not observed, to make sure that no one was chasing him. Satisfied that all was safe, he settled back again and rubbed one hand through his woolly hair while with the other he idly turned over the book, first to the back where he read what the publisher had to say, and then he flipped the book over and studied the picture through half-closed slitted eyes and with furrowed brows and puckered lips as he muttered things incomprehensible to himself.

He scratched his crotch and pulled his pants to a more comfortable position. Then, resting on his left elbow, he flipped over the pages and started to read.

'Thought forms, mantras, man-o-man, ain't that shoresumpin! So maybe I could make a thought form and then Abigail would have to do whatever I wanted her to do. Gee man, yeh, I shore go for that'.

He rolled back and picked at his nose a bit, then he said, 'Wonder if I can believe all this.'

The shadowed recesses of the room exuded an atmosphere of sanctity. All was quiet except that in the deep stone fireplace logs burned and spluttered. Every so often a jet of steam would shoot out and hiss angrily at the flames, steam generated by moisture trapped within imperfectly dried logs.

Every so often the wood would erupt in a little explosion sending a shower of sparks upwards. The flickering light added a strange feeling to the room, a feeling of mystery.


At one side of the fireplace a deep, deep armchair stood with its back facing the door. An old fashioned stand lamp made of brass rods stood beside the chair, and soft light was imitted from the medium powered electric light bulb concealed within the recesses of a green shade. The light went down, and then disappeared from sight because of the obstruction of the back of the chair.

(page 5/84 of pdf)


There came a dry cough and the rustling of turning pages. Again there was silence except for the spluttering of a fire and for the regular fingering of paper as read pages were turned to reveal new material.


From the far distance the tolling of a bell, a tolling of slow tempo, and then soon there followed the shuffling of sandal-shod feet and the very soft murmuring of voices. There was a clang of an opening door, and a minute later a hollow thud as the door was shut.

Soon there came sounds of an organ and male voices raised in song. The song went on for some time amd then there was a rustling followed by silence, and the silence was destroyed by mumbling voices murmuring something incomprehensible but very well rehearsed.


In the room there was a starling slap as a book as a book fell to the floor. Then a dark figure jumped up. 'Oh my goodness me, I must have fallen asleep. What a perfectly astonishing thing to do!'

The dark robed figure bent to pick up the book and carefully opened it to the appropriate page. Meticulously he inserted a bookmark and quite respectfully placed the book on the table beside him.

For some moments he sat there with hands clasped and flurried brow, lifted from the chair and dropped to his knees facing a crucifix on the wall. Kneeling, hand clasped, head bowed, he muttered a prayer of supplication for guidance.

That completed he rose to his feet and went to the fireplace and placed another log on the brightly glowing embers. For some time he sat crouched at the side of the stone fireplace with head cupped between his hands.


On sudden impulse he slapped his thigh and jumped to his feet.

Rapidly he crossed he dark room and moved to a desk concealed in the shadows. A quick movement, a pull of a cord, and that corner of the room was flooded with warm light. The figure drew back a chair and opened the lid of a desk, and sat down.

For a moment he sat gazing blankly at the sheet of paper he had just put before him. Absently he put out his right hand to feel for the book that wasn't there, and with a muttered exclamation of annoyance he rose to his feet and went to the chair to pick up the book deposited on the chair side table.


Back at the desk he sat and rifled through the pages until he found that which he sought-an address.

Quickly he addressed an envelope and then sat and pondered, sorting out his thoughts, wondering what to do, wondering how to phrase the words he wanted to use.


Soon he put nib to paper and all was quiet except for the scratching of a nib and the ticking of a distant clock.

'Dear Dr. Ramper,' the letter commenced,

'I am a Jesuit priest. I am a lecturer in the Humanities at our College, and I have read your books with more than the normal interest'.

'I believe that only those who follow our own form of religion are able to obtain Salvation through the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ.

I believe that when I am teaching my students. I believe that when I am within the Church itself.

But when I am alone in the dark hours of the night, when there is none to watch my reactions or analyse my thoughts then I wonder. Am I right in my Belief? Is there no one but a Catholic who may be saved?

What of other religions, are they all false, are they all the work of the devil? Or have I and others of my Belief been misled? Your books have shed much light and enabled me greatly to resolve the doubts of the spirit in which I am involved, and I would ask you, Sir, will you answer me some questions so that you may either shed some new light or strengthen that in which I believe',


Carefully he appended his name. Carefully he folded and was inserting it in the envelope when a thought occured to him. Quickly, almost guiltily, he snatched out the letter, unfolded it, and indicated a postscript:

'I ask you of your honour as one devoted to your own Belief not to mention my name nor that I have written to you as it is contrary to the rules of my Order.'

He initialled it, dried the ink, and then quickly inserted the folded letter in the envelope and sealed it. He fumbled among his papers until he found a book, and in that he made a note of the postage to Canada. Searching in draws and pigeonholes eventually produced the appropriate stamps which were affixed to the envelope.

The priest then carefully tucked the letter in the inner recesses of his gown. Rising to his feet he extinguished the light and left the room.


'Ah Father', said a voice out in the corridor, 'are going into town or can I do anything for you there? I have to go on an errand and I should be happy to be of service to you'.

'No thank you, Brother,' replied the senior professor to his subordinate, 'I have a mind to take a turn in the town and get some much needed exercise, so I think I will just stroll down to the main street',

Gravely they took a half bow to each other, and each went his own way. The senior professor went out of the age-old building of grey stone stained with age and half covered with climbing ivy. Slowely he walked along the main drive, hands clasped about his crucifix, mumbling to himself as was the want of those of his Orders.

(Page 6/87 of the pdf)

In the main street just beyond the gate people bowed respectfully at his appearance, and many crossed themselves. Slowly the elderly professor walked down the street to the letterbox outside the post office. Guiltily, surreptitiously he looked about him to see if any of his Order were nearby. Satisfied that all was secure he removed the letter from his robes and flicked it into the letterbox. Then with a heart felt sigh of relief he turned and traced his steps.


Back in his private study, again by the sparkling fire and with a well shaded light casting illumination on his book, he read and read deep into the hours of the night. At last he closed the book, locked it away, and went off to his cell murmuring to himself, 'What should I believe, what should I believe'?

The lowering sky gazed dourly upon night time London.

The teeming rain swept down upon the shivering street scurrying passers-by with grimly held umbrellas braced against the wind. London, the lights of London, and people hurrying home from work. Buses roared by, great giant red buses scattering water all over the sidewalks, and shivering groups of people trying to avoid the dirty spray.

In shopfronts people huddled in groups waiting for their own buses to come along, dashing out eagerly as a bus came along and then slinking back despondently as the indicators showed the wrong numbers.

London, with half the city going home and another half coming on duty.

In Harley Street, the heart of London's medical world, a grey haired man paced restlessly on a bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire.

Back and forth he strode, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed upon his chest. Then on impulse he flung himself into a well-padded leather armchair and pulled a book out of his pocket.

Quickly he flipped the pages until he found the passage he needed, a passage about the human aura. He read it again, and having read it turned back and read it once more.

For a time he sat gazing into the fire, then he nodded in resolution and jumped to his feet. Quickly he left the room and went into another. Carefully he locked the door behind him and went to his desk. Pushing aside a lot of medical reports and certificates yet to be signed, he sat down and took some private note paper from a draw.

'Dear Dr. Rampa', he wrote in an almost indecipherable handwriting,

'I have read your book with absolute facination, a facination heightened very greatly by my own belief - by my own knowledge - that what is true.'

He sat back and carefully read what he had just written, and to be quite sure he read it once again before resuming,

'I have a son, a bright young fellow, who recently had an operation to his brain. Now, since that operation, he tells us that he is able to see strange colour around human bodies, he is able to see lights around the human head, but not only the human head, not only the human body - animals as well. For some time we have thought deeply on this matter, wondering what it was that we did wrong in the operation, thinking perhaps we had disorganised his optic nerve, but after reading your book we know better; my son can see the human aura, therefore I know that you write the truth'.

'I should very much like to meet you if you are in London because I think you may be able to be of enormous assistance to my son. Yours very sincerely'.

He reread what he had written, and then, like the priest before him, was about to fold the letter and insert it in an envelope, but his eyes fell upon the bust of a medical pioneer. The specialist started as if he had been stung by a bee and quickly grabbed his pen again and added a postscript to his letter.

'I trust that you will not reveal my name or the contents of this letter to anyone because it would injure my status in the eyes of my colleagues'.

Carefully he initialled it, folded it and put it in its envelope.

Carefully he extinguished the lights and left the room. Outside his very expensive car was waiting. The chauffeur jumped to attention as the specialist said, 'To the post office in Leicester Square'. The car drove off and soon the letter was dropped into the letterbox and eventually reached its destination.

And so the letters came in,

letters from Here, letters from There, letters from Everywhere, from the North to the South, and from the East to the West - letters, letters, letters, an unending shaol of letters all demanding an answer, all asserting that their own problems were unique and no one ever before had such problems.

Letters of condemnation, letters of praise, letters of suplication.

From Trinidad came a letter written on the cheapest form of school exercise paper in an illiterate handwriting;

'I am a Holy Missionary, I am working for the good of God. Give me ten thousand dollars and a new station wagon. Oh yes, and while you are about it send me a free set of your books and then I shall believe what you write.

(Page 7/87 of pdf)

From Singapore came a letter from two young Chinese men 'We want to become doctors. We have no money. We want you to pay our first class air fair from Singapore to your home, and then we will talk to you and tell you how you can give us the money so that we may be trained as doctors and do good for mankind. And you might send us extra money so we can see a friend of ours in New York America. Do this for us and you will be doing good for people, and then we will believe'.

The letters came in, in their hundreds, in their thousands, all demanding an answer.

Few, a pitiful few, ever thought of the expense of writing, of stationary, of postage.

They wrote

'Tell us more about what happens after death. Tell us more what IS death. We don't understand about dying, you don't tell us enough, you don't make it clear. Tell us everything',

Other's wrote

'Tell us about religions, tell us if we have a hope after this life when we are not Catholics'.

Yet other's wrote

'Give me a mantra so that I can win the Irish Sweepstake, and if I win the first prize of a million in the Irish Sweepstake I'll give you ten per cent.

And yet others wrote

'I live in New Mexico, there is a lost mine here. Tell me where is the lost mine - you can go into the astral and find it - and if you tell me where it is and I find it and make it mine I will give you a present of some money for your services.

People wrote that I should tell them more, tell them all, tell them more than all so that they would know what to believe.

Mrs Sheelagh Rouse

sat grimly at her desk, her gold rimmed glasses were perched precariously on the bridge of her nose and every so often she would put a finger up and push them back into place.

She looked at the wheelchair passing her door and said, somewhat fiercely,

'You've only written sixteen books, why not write another, the seventeenth, telling people what they CAN believe?

Look at all the letters you've had asking for another book, asking you to tell them what they can believe. - I'll type it for you!' she concluded brightly.

(...)

The next couple of paragraphs are the wheelchair-bound Dr. Lobsang Rampa conversing telepathically with his three pet Siamese cats

(...)

Just then the phone rang

Just then the telephone rang

and it was John Henderson, away in the wilds of the U.S.A. at the confluence of many waters.

He said,

'Hi Boss, I've been reading some very good articles in praise of you. There's a good one in the magazine I've sent on to you.'

'Well, John', I replied, 'I couldn't care two hoots, or even one hoot what magazines or newspapers write about me. I do not read them whether they are good or bad articles.

But,

what what do YOU think of another book, a seventeenth?'

'Gee Boss', said John H., 'that's what I've been waiting to hear! It's time you wrote another book, everyone is anxious, and I understand the booksellers are getting many inquiries.'

Well, that was quite a blow; everyone seemed to be ganging up, everyone seemed to want another book.

But what can a poor fellow do when he is approaching the end of his life and he has a ferocious tax demamd from a wholly unsympathetic country - and something has to be done to keep the home fires burning, or keep income tax jackals from the front door.

{Lobsang wrote that in 1976. He died five years later 25-Jan-1981}

(Page 8/87 of pdf)

One of the things I feel bitter about - the income tax. I am very disabled and most of the time is spent in bed. I am not a charge on the country but I pay a most vicious tax without any allowances because I am an author working at home.

And yet some of the oil companies here do not pay any tax at all because some of them are engaged upon entirely mythical 'research' and, as such are tax exempt.

And then I think of some of these crackpot cultists who set up as non-profit organisations paying themselves, their relatives and friends high salaries, but they pay no tax because they are registered as non-profit organisation.

So

it came about that unwillingly it was necessary for me to write a seventeenth book, and so the consensus of opinion was, after perusal of letter after letter after letter, that the title should be 'I believe'.

The book will tell of life before birth, life on Earth, and the passing from Earth and return to Life Beyond.

I have the title of 'I believe', it is wholly incorrect;

it is not a question of belief, it is KNOWLEDGE.

I can do everything I write about. I can go into the astral as easily as another person can go into another room - well, that's what I cannot do, go into another room without fiddling about on crutches, wheelchairs or drugs. So what I write about in this book is the truth. I am not expressing an opinion, but just telling things as they REALLY are.

Now is the time to get down to it.

So - on to Chapter Two

(Page 10/87 of pdf)

Dear Reader

PDF for book 'I Believe' by Lobsang Rampa is top of this Google list, here:

i believe lobsang rampa - Google Search

The entity who had been Sir Algernon was looking down in facination at all this.

He felt very strange about it, for a moment he could not understand what had happened, but some force kept him pinned to the ceiling upside down, the living Algernon gazed down into the dead, glazed, bloody eyes of the dead Algernon.

He rested upside down against the ceiling in rapt attention, spellbound at the strange experience. His attention was rivited at the words of Mr Harris.

'Yes, poor Sir Algernon was a subaltern in the Boer War. He fourght very nobly against the Boers and he was badly wounded.

Unfortunately he was wounded in a most delicate place which I cannot describe more adequately in front of the ladies present, and increasingly of late his inability to - perform has led to bouts of depression, and on numerous occasions we and others have heard him threaten that life without his necessities was not worth living, and he threatened to end it all.'

Umm.

You could have just posted the link to the source.

T. Lobsang Rampa, ''I Believe'' - 1977

Copyright looks to be on a non-commercial, attribution license, so you may have dodged that bullet.
Then again, DV is now the owner of all the posts you've just made, and it could be argued that they're being used for commercial purposes, which would make DV liable for any lawsuits that might pop up.

DV wouldn't even be able to argue Fair Use, due to the nature of these posts...

Originally Posted by Mzzkc

Umm.

You could have just posted the link to the source.

T. Lobsang Rampa, ''I Believe'' - 1977

Copyright looks to be on a non-commercial, attribution license, so you may have dodged that bullet.
Then again, DV is now the owner of all the posts you've just made, and it could be argued that they're being used for commercial purposes, which would make DV liable for any lawsuits that might pop up.

DV wouldn't even be able to argue Fair Use, due to the nature of these posts...

Rampa's life was cursed by ill health. He suffered from coronary thrombosis, diabetes, arthritis and paraplegia.

He was almost totally deaf and became proficient in lip reading.

Althouhh he came across as grumpy in his later years, he never lost his wicked sense of humour and keen wit.

Ramper was a generouse man who had little interest in in material possessions. Over the years he gave a colour television away to a stranger, a wheelchair to an injured policeman and a house full of furniture to newlyweds.

Friends and acquaintances often recieved expensive gifts which they were unable to return without insulting him. During his lifetime he personally answered many thousands of letters from his admirers, usually bearing the cost of postage himself. He had a sincere desire to help people.

ON THE OTHER HAND

Rampa had a quick temper and often showed impatience towards selfish and shallow people. He was not one to suffer fools gladly.

Over the years he managed to criticise feminists, teenagers, Catholics, western doctors, communists and the Tibetan government in exile. However, his greatest venom was reserved for journalists and literary critics whome he despised.

From here:

Lobsang Rampa - New Age Trailblazer - 1

Ok Mzzkc

No contest. I'll start transcribing something else that helped me heeps when I was locked into grief and rage at being banned off iasd. I will start putting it in my other thread but it may take a while. Here is that thread:

http://www.dreamviews.com/f19/dream-...mpoche-135369/

Crashyy

I am sticking it here for me and you. It may help when you feel suicidal.


YouTube - Broadcast Yourself.
(8:52) 46,405 views

To me "Aaaaaa" is a scream. To me this Tibetan meditation starts out as a frustrated scream then slowly becomes what this monk makes it sound like in this Youtube.

Part transcript:

Anger

This session we will be speaking about the "AAAAAA"

(0:55)

So once you connect to your ANGER once you realise the anger, the agitation. The suppressed anger or the active anger in your life, particularly towards your loved ones, this is the anger we are going to work with.

So what to do? How do you work with it?

First, try to sit comfortably.

Then

Connect with that ANGER.

That means feeel it

in your body
in your breath
in your mind.

But

without judging
without analysing
without elaborating

Just completely feel it, right now, in this moment.

And gradually draw you attention to your third eye while you are feeling and being aware of this restless ANGER.

And from this deep place,
sing the sacred sound,
the warrior sound.

"Aaaa"

The monk demonstrates.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Sing continuously for next 5 or 10 minutes.

While you sing imagine the structure of the ANGER being released into space. Internally feeling clearer, clearer, clearer. Like you're discovering a clear sky.

You're seeing this deep clear sky in a desert. You're breathing this deep clear sky. You're being this deep clear sky.

Feeling totally open. Rest in that openness without any elaboration.

This is like encountering the divine within.

This is seeing the nakedness of oneself.

This is connecting with the source of every knowledge within oneself. Just feel the rest and peace. Allow it to becom more familiar.

The more familiar it becomes the more healing takes place.

Connect with the anger internally. The anger you experience, that anger. your anger.

(...)

I think the reason I don't share dream is because there is a lot of grief and rage just beneath the surface of me.

In 2008 I did my first share dream attempt on saltcube with an avid lucid dreamer. In the morning I posted "are you thinking of me G. Did you dream about me G." he replied "I was attact by a group of dream characters and I used a (?) to kill them, maybe you were among them."

Well, from that day to this I wondered if what I look like to another dreamer might frighten them. After watching Tibetan Sound Healing I wonder if what the one I'm trying to share dream with sees is my "emotional body" of "grief and rage".

My grief and rage is due to the pain I have seen and known but it may now be the thing that causes dreamers to attack or run from me when I try to share dream.

In a share dream situation they might only see my grief and rage. I might look like a grief striken monster. I might look like a raging dog. The one I am trying to mutual dream with may only see my terrible pain, grief and rage.

They may not see past that to "me" because ... ?¿?

(6:36)

Connect with the anger internally. The anger that you experience, that anger, You’re anger. And draw your attention to the third eye to sing the sound “Aaaa” and clear, it clear it, clear it, until you find that space. Once you find that space you rest in that space like for 5 minute and repeat that a few times a day.

For that is the foundational medicine. It is almost like a prescription. For if you don’t take that medicine you’re not going to, it’s not going to help you to heal, It’s not going to help you to feel love. It’s not going to help you to connect to somebody with full love.

So the only way to feel spontaneous love in speech, in action, in one’s life will be to have a ripened love. And the only way to feel the ripened love is to feel that love in your heart. The only way to feel that love in your heart will be feeling a sense of completeness in your being.

The only way to feel the completeness in your being would be when there is no obscuration’s such as, like an ANGER.

Anger is not obscuring your being so therefor you are connected to yourself. Therefor you are feeling complete. If you are feeling complete you are feeling qualities of love present in your life.

If you are feeling that frequently, it is going to ripen.

If it ripens it’s going to spontaneously manifest in speech or action.

So, this is the homework. The first homework is with “Aaaaa”. So until the next session keep working with “Aaaa” and feel the ANGER has cleared more in your life.

Thank you

Tibetan Sound Healing - Part 2: A - YouTube
(8:52) 46:415 views

Ok i don't know what happened but after laying down to sleep last night great energy happened. I will let you know if it turns out i am just sick or something. The imagination became supercharged. While it happened I was wishing I was Writer or specail effects computer programmer and could replicate this for others to understand and enjoy.

I realise that my grief is rage. Now I stand and walk and remember my grief. I let my grief become rage. Tears whell and stream down. I try to sing "aaa" but choke. After the rag,e at loss, (grief) calms a little I try an "aaa" again. I manage 3 "aaa's". Now I do this note and post.