Ringgold, Georgia Tornado April 27, 2011

Dear Friends - (that's me 40 years ago)

This morning was a perfect spring day in Ringgold, Georgia. Not a cloud in the sky. 75 degrees. Today was the day of the royal wedding - the cusp of Beltane when the Divine King and Divine Queen wed. A day filled with many important symbols of change. It is a 19 day - the number of the star which illuminates our intelligence, and invigorates our innocence and the purity of our hearts. Today, right now, the ancient and modern are meeting in ways we never imagined. The beloved mother-in-law Diana, the spirited Princess of Wales, blesses her children, the kind Duke who will be the King of the common people and the beautiful Duchess who will be Queen, who will serve the world in her footsteps. This historical enactment is steeped in Druid and Pagan roots; a rich homage to all that is good, pure and holy. Gaia Mother smiles.

At the very same moment, modern technology is clashing with Mother Nature, with all that is natural, pure and in balanced harmony. Love and marriage is juxtaposed with death and destruction. And the big question - the one that is foremost in my mind: Is the death and destruction we are currently experiencing natural (acts of God)? In other words, are all these hurricanes, earthquakes and tornados the movements of nature or the contrivances of man? As long as scientists and governments remain arrogant to the spiritual wisdom and intelligence of Gaia Mother Earth, refuse to honestly reveal what they are doing, refuse to honor and protect her, which indeed they seem to be the case, then we the people will experience the results of what could be madness.

I live in Ringgold, Georgia. The power went out Wednesday night around 8:30 p.m. I lit a candle and went on with my business - glad to have my iPad. Thunder roared and lightning pierced the nearly moonless sky, but that didn’t bother me - such weather seems to be normal in the south. I felt perfectly safe and secure in my upstairs bedroom, and had no thoughts of danger. Unlike in Kauai, I heard not sirens, and had absolutely no idea the sky was in turmoil less than a mile away - and the upstairs bedroom was the worst place for me to be.

The god of Wind

At the very same time I was lighting my candle and feeling so safe and secure, all hell was breaking loose 4000 feet away. Right down the hill from where I’m now living a tornado ripped through the town - killing seven. It went on for miles and destroyed everything in its path, three football fields wide. This beautiful morning I drove by broken trees, demolished homes, sheet metal wrapped around telephone poles - all outside of the heart of the Ringgold city disaster. A three story Super 8 hotel and Ruby Tuesdays were gone. Nobody was ordering a big Mac or a burrito from Taco Bell. All-America was bombed.

It is no secret that scientists are manipulating the weather. HAARP in Alaska has the technical ability to, and routinely does, pour focused measured amounts of intense energy into the earth’s ionosphere. (Goggle it) The result of this interference is beginning to produce startling results. The scientists who manipulate the weather through the HAARP technology are (either resultantly, accidentally, or intentionally) creating all kinds of storms - like hurricanes, thunderstorms, floods, tornadoes, and drought. Earthquakes? Unfortunately for the 300 southern state Americans who died on April 27th, 2011 (and the 10,000+ who died in Japan) this is not a good thing. Scientists in Alaska are blasting the ionosphere with high levels of energy and 200 tornados occur on one day in the south. Is there a connection? Hmmm. Do these deadly earthquakes and storms have anything to do with the government sponsored HAARP and Chemtrail experiments? I’m trying my best not to say “duhh.”

I always want to give credit to the inherent goodness of humans - you know - people with hearts and souls. Sons and daughters go to college, get good paying jobs, have families and so on. But ask any good soldier - people will do the strangest things for job security. Maybe these scientists have been convinced they are doing something good with their “modern science,” and/or maybe they consider their great paychecks and job security more important than anything, and don’t think about connecting the dots.

I’m not alone in noticing how obvious the dots are beginning to appear. I wonder why more people don’t pose the question: “What’s going on with the weather?” “Two hundred tornados in a day??” “Is that natural?” or “Is it wise to trust those who experiment with our weather and water?” I think these are questions worth asking, and ones to ask before your home turns to rubble, or you find out what fluoride is really doing to your health. And those white lines in the sky? Is that healthy? Has science truly gone mad? I think its important that modern technology embrace Ancient wisdoms and spiritual truths, or we will most likely continue to see the results of these mad experiments.

As always my heart goes out to those who die unexpectedly in natural disasters. God bless them in their transition.

The contrast always interest me. It’s two days later. There is still no electricity. I’m looking out over the balcony into the forest below. It is so quiet and peaceful here. Sun rays warm me. The tall trees are all in full spring green. The wind has stilled. Birds are chirping and critters are chattering, as always. One mile away the town of Ringgold is shut down. Schools are closed and police are everywhere. The freeway, which was stalled and bumper to bumper yesterday is finally flowing again. I hear sirens in the distance. An army of workers are still down there, trying to establish order in the chaos.

I sit here in peace. Yesterday I could have walked to town and volunteered. I didn’t - since I am satisfied with the conclusion - it is not my job. Some people volunteer directly, others give indirectly with money or donations, and, unfortunately, most ignore it all until it’s in their face. My giving is a different form of indirect. I give with my prayers, though holding the strong vibration of peace, and by sending love out to all those in need. I believe that all the “OMG seven people died” energy needs to be balanced with thanks for the seventy thousand who survived. I pray for the well-being of the departed’s family members. I pray that all the chaos turns into a higher level of love; that the living find balance again. I pray that those who have lost someone who was dear and precious will gain a greater appreciation for life, and find a more proactive appreciation and love for members of their family who have survived and are safe. I pray for everyone’s well-being in the face of tragedy and great loss. And I hope we all begin asking simple questions. Where did all these tornados come from? Are they really acts of God? Are these storms natural or man made? Why not demand our leaders who invest billions of our dollars in this risky scientific technology, to answers this: “Prove to us that there is no connection between HAARP and these disasters?”

I am grateful and happy to be living with June and Scott. I really do like Chattanooga. It’s a very beautiful city. I’m blessed to have a yard to landscape (I did the rock wash on the left) - in a lush setting surrounded by trees and wild critters. I’m still dedicated to restoring my good health - I don’t believe we’re ever too old to become young again. It’s been six weeks since I stopped eating all wheat products, all dairy products, all sugars, coffee and alcohol. I supplement my whole food diet with the very best probiotics and immune system builders. I drink lots of pure alkaline water and exercise every day. I keep getting stronger. My rotator cuff injury has all but disappeared and my over-all well-being has improved substantially. I’m still working hard with editing my adventure love story Shambala. It’s a fabulous story (if I don’t say so myself) and I hope every one of you takes the time to read it. I imagine it will be available in one form or another sometime this summer.

And, as always, I send you my love and blessings,

David Dakan Allison

New Year Blessings 2011

Happy New Year dear friends,

I sat in a dark room, with a single candle flame, the minutes up to and at midnight New Years 2011. I prayed for you and me, and everyone and everything in this glorious world.

My oldest best friend invited me - being with ones you love is also important - and I chose to be alone . . . with candle light and sage . . . to bless the past, and welcome in a blank canvas of infinite possibilities . . . to pray in the New Year.

Another year and I'm still alive! My heart bursts in gratitude with the simple I AM knowing. I am here! Almost sixty-four years old, alive and healthy, living during this incredible time of transformation on this amazing planet earth . . . what a blessing! All of us who have incarnated at the change in ages - now having entered into the electric Aquarian Age - with the bonus end of the Mayan calendar (actually December 21, 2010) have won the greatest birth lottery of all time. Not only have I won the greatest prize of all - I Am the prize! And so are you.

Upon rising New Years Day I honestly felt I was beginning life all over again.

I watched the Pasadena Rose Parade. I couldn’t stop crying. I got lost in the millions of multi-colored flowers . . . this gift of Gaia, our Mother Earth . . . the splendor of vibrant life on display, my gratitude for the farmers who planted, protected, then harvested this perfection. I marveled at the art of each and every float - how designers and artists and helpers took those flowers, and spent hours and days crafting beauty on top of the beauty, all given to a short morning drive for our viewing pleasure. I cried more watching the marching bands - high school kids who spent countless hours learning their instrument and music and steps - just to entertain us, each one a necessary component of a whole moving orchestra.

Pasadena Rose Parade 2011

Then I switched channels and watched the countdown to the 100 all-time greatest musical artists, ending with our true musical saints - # 1- The Beatles and Michael Jackson. My heart was touched with such incredible talent and music. Beginning in the 1950‘s with Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley, the early 1960‘s with Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, Bob Dylan and the Beatles . . . and then all the incredible singers and bands of the late 60’s who totally rocked my world. As I watched The Who, Chuck Berry, Led Zepplin, Neil Young and John Lennon . . . Madonna and even Kurt Cobain caused the tears to flow. Each contributed to the rich tapestry of life that we are so blessed to be part of.

Change is slow and subtle. One day maybe even you will wake up a senior citizen sobbing over flower floats and marching bands . . . and like me wondering what you can give back that would bring another to joyful tears.

In my understanding, the Aquarian Age offers a change in focus. Instead of being obsessed with what is wrong, bad and ugly - the opportunity is to focus is on what is right, good and beautiful. To discover our personal Divinity and do what makes us happy. The question I ask myself is: Am I loving myself as I contribute to and support all that is right, good and beautiful? Am I doing what makes me and others happy?

In 2011 it will continue to be my intention to do what I love - and to share my art and writing and love with others . . . this is why I write these blogs and send them to you. Keats said that all we need is truth and beauty, (I add a big dose of love) Live in truth - appreciate and add to the beauty, and life for us will continue to bloom like a spring flower. We will then each be that flowery float cruising down the avenue - with Marvin Gaye in the background singing "ain't nothing like the real thing, baby."

My heart invites you to dance with me in the field of flowers in 2011. It really is time for me - for all of us to proclaim: I Am Love - and mean it, and be it and see it in everyone . . . you are - Love.

I wish you all JOY this coming year.

David Dakan Allison

Suzie and Jim's house in Manzanita, Oregon - where I'm staying in January

The December Oregon Coast

Dear Friends -

It’s been a month since I last wrote, and I’ve had a few inquiries as to where I am, and yes, that's me on the right, standing on a much different beach. I spent November in Seattle with my sons, enjoying them, waiting for my art to arrive from Kauai, and in search of the right vehicle in order to continue my travels. Oh, I also grew a beard for the first time in around thirty years.

Finding the “right vehicle” was an interesting exercise. I traveled the US last summer in my son Alan’s stallion Toyota 4Runner. I could and did sleep in my traveling home; a choice other than someone’s couch. While in Seattle I looked at conversion vans and flirted with station wagons and pick-ups with canopies - only vehicles I could sleep in, if necessary. My car budget was $5000. When I sat in and drove the car I ended up buying, it “spoke to me.” It told me that I didn’t want to be a 64 year-old homeless man living in his car. The voice was very profound - it said I deserved to drive the country in a luxury sedan, even though I normally couldn’t afford one. And this car was a gift. I was surprised at how it was almost perfect, like new, inside and out. An independent mechanic verified this to be true. A $45,000 Volvo when new, with a current bluebook value of $7300, for $4500? I almost couldn’t not buy it. Here’s my new car.

So, once I had my car, I accepted the invitation of my dear friend Suzie, and her husband Jim, to stay at their second home, a block from the Oregon coast beach, in Manzanita, northwest Oregon. I’m blessed to be cozy out of the rain in this wonderful house. Here I continue writing my novel Shambala. It’s beautiful here in a wind swept rugged Oregon coast winter weather way. And it’s true . . . I do have fits of loneliness, wanting to share this all with a special women . . . cozy by the fire . . . snuggle in bed at night, falling asleep to the pitter patter of rain on the tin roof in the arms of the one I love.

I often wonder why there are people like me who feel so much love, and have so much to give to another, a lover, and no matter what . . . they end up alone. I don’t wish to be an old bachelor, but it seems as though the universe wishes that for me, though I never have, and probably never will, resigned myself to that conclusion.

Yesterday I corresponded with a friend who also feels this aloneness. Later I realized that our lives are always a reflection of how we “respond” to the situation we’re in. I sat down and made a list of ten responses that I make to my life situation that aren’t true, or are at least self-pity exaggerations. The number one non-sensical response, for instance, was victimizing my aloneness, when in fact I chose to be alone so I could write my novel, when in fact I have many invitations to stay with friends and family.

Last night I had a dream. (I fell asleep reading Sherlock Holmes) I was a detective and had a woman detective partner. The woman had a junior partner. She needed to go somewhere and asked me to watch this man and not let him leave. But the man did leave. He went down to the subway. In a subway car he pulled out his machine gun and opened fire on line of seated German-American men, killing the first ten. So . . . analyzing dreams - we are ALL the characters. I am both the man and woman detective. (self- inquiring) The female (me) was controlling a male part of me - keeping it from getting out of control, and now was willing to surrender him to me, the male (me). The usually in-control junior me goes into the underground, (my personal unexposed subconscious) My mother was originally German-American. So what (I am) “killing” are subconscious root beliefs that most likely come from my mother, and her heritage. I was killing (transforming) the ten lies that I listed earlier that day.

Talking about being alone . . . (I am writing this from a Starbucks in Tillamook, and wish I had a picture of my mother, who was quite beautiful back then - so I sillily substitute cheese)

In 1937, (ten years before my birth) my mother Clara left the blip-in-the-road town of Colyer, Kansas (so small it won't come up on Google), took a bus across the United States, and ended up right here in Tillamook, Oregon. She arrived with no money, no job, no home, no family or friends. 1937! She was 16 years old! Alone in the world. Makes me ashamed that I dare whimper about being alone (and love my dear departed mother all the more.)

Now that I'm back on the road (so to speak) I hope to write more often. As always - I would love to hear from you . . . read to your stories, as you read to mine.

With love and season's blessings,

David Dakan Allison

Honoring the Change in Seasons

Returning on the ferry to Seattle

Dear Friends,

Some of you wanted to know where I am, and another called to say I was becoming boring because I’m not anywhere - at least not somewhere new and interesting. That not being somewhere and interesting is because I am resting (nesting?) in Seattle.

Someone once told me that everything that comes after “because” is a lie.

(that someone I could almost guarantee is my infinitely wise and dear sister - please check her out www.lindamasterson.com. And if you or your brother or sister or friend want a horoscope done or any sort of life coaching or wisdom from the wise woman - there you go. No "because" about it.)

OK. I haven’t been resting - not like last week in that cute yellow house on Hood Canal. The picture below was to the right of the deck. Ahh, fond memories . . .

What a wonderful place that was, being right on the water with nothing else for me to do than keep the pellet stove going, watch the ducks and crane living their lives on the canal, and cook tasty meals. Ahhh is right. And of course I spent many hours writing. Almost 140 book pages of my new novel Shambala, which flowed from my imagination. I was creating people, places and events that became, are still becoming, alive, real and oddly familiar. It’s like reading a great book, which I need to write, before I can find out what happens next. It calls to me like a soul wanting birth.

Anyway, after not seeing another human in eight days, and thinking I could easily hang there for weeks, the Bank came in and changed the locks. What the heck? It was there and now - to my friend Scott’s, and my, disappointment - this great getaway is gone. Because . . . the bank needed a house on the canal? Because the bank need the money? Because it was the wisest and most win/win thing to do?

Only love is real. And everything is a gift. (I keep reminding myself)

It’s easy to get lost - on an island, or on a road trip, in a cute little house on a canal. But as important as all that, or actually more important, is family. Did the bank forced me out of that house, or was my selfish isolation trumped by the Universe, reminding me of family? I arrived back just in time to celebrate my sons’ stepfather Ron’s birthday, and then (the days of not resting) working with Alan to prepare the house and yard for his brother’s, my son Aaron’s 30th birthday party on Saturday. See what I would have missed far away on my island, driving down the highway, or hidden away in the cave?

Aaron on his 30th My sons' house in Ballard, Seattle

Sitting here as I am, looking out the window upon the rain, the green to yellow to red maple leaves clinging to, falling from the front yard trees, I can’t help but think of seasons, my various aches and pains, the sort of rheumatism of change in the weather, the metaphor of seasons, the bundling up to take a walk that’s now an effort. Noticing how I retreated to my room after the introductions, having no interest or desire to party through the night with the thirty year-olds, I wondered. Am I that old? The answer to that question brought the truth.

I am in the winter of my life, and not the summer. I’m no longer interested in pretending.

So I contemplate, (questionably forced in from the cold November rain), the seasons of life.

Spring - 1 - 20 years old. Summer - 20 - 40 years old. Fall - 40 - 60 years old. Winter - 60 - 80 years old. And Spring again - 80 - 100.

I condensed that into a sentence, when it is worthy of a book. In my reality, the summer party was happening all over the house on Saturday, while winter hibernation was also happening, alone in my room. And that is what I want to honor, am honoring, with my writing. I have watched with interest, engaged appropriately, as the spring, summer and fall of my life have naturally flowed one into the other. I have earned the right, feel entitled to be, and good about, sitting by the fire or looking out to the wind and the rain and the falling leaves, with a very simple, kind and sweet desire to do nothing other that see it, be in it, with it, and write about it. To simply love it all.

Andy Irons

I wish to share my sadness with the passing of a great son of Kauai, of the ocean and the world. Andy Irons left us so early in the summer of his life (32), and without knowing him I too feel as though one of my son's had died. The circle of 1000 surfers in Hanalei Bay, the 10,000 on the shore, the flower tribute from the sky, shows the impact one good person, with no more than a surfboard and the gift to use it, can have on so many. I can only hope that his passing is a wake-up call to a much greater world-wide campaign for early detection of, and protection from death due to dengue fever, malaria and hepatitis C. My heart goes out to Andy Irons, his wife and unborn child, his family and friends, but also to the millions of people around the world who silently pass from these diseases, which I pray the World Health Organizations, and other such humanitarian groups, will (must) one day protect us all from.

With love and blessings,

David Dakan Allison

Transitioning into Fall

The houses next door on Hood Canal - I love my Canon

Dear Friends,

Some of you asked me, wondering where I am. In the last eight days I had flown across an ocean, road up into the Santa Cruz hills in a VW camper van with my brother Jerry, took a train through California, Oregon and Washington, and a ferry across Puget Sound. I spent last night in that little yellow house on the Hood Canal. Plane, car, train, boat - in four states, in eight days. Somehow I didn’t find the time to write a blog. But now I do . . .

My friend Scott has a little old house on the Hood Canal and has invited me make it my home for the next two week. I had no idea where Hood Canal was up until yesterday. On a map it is west of Seattle, between Seattle and the Olympic National Forest. A little over two hours away from my base camp - my sons’ home just north of downtown Seattle in Ballard.

I felt right at home as soon as I walked in the door. Scott asked me not to do anything - just to be there. Eat, sleep, look at the water and the seal swimming around, and the ducks and crane - an eagle or two. Keep the fire going. kayak around or not. Write novels, read novels - take naps. Whatever. There are only two rules at Scotts cabin. Rule #1: If it’s yellow let it mellow, if it’s brown flush it down. and Rule #2: Relax. I don't think I'll have any problem relaxing. This is really a cozy place. A pellet stove keeps it nice and toasty. Clean, well-stocked kitchen in a living/dining room - two bedrooms upstairs with electric blankets. I forgot all about electric blankets.

Looking down Hood Canal from my new porch

Across the Canal in the early morning

When I left Kauai in June I set out to find some secluded places like this to hide out and write my novels. That's not what happened. I ended up driving around the country staying with different friends, more now than before, I really love. It truly felt like a whole bunch of home comings. I look forward to returning to each place, to each friend, to each new home spread all over this beautiful country. I also wrote 40 blogs during my four month trip - which I now mark as ending when I returned by train to Seattle last week. Almost everyone of those forty blogs was written during a break in driving. I'd stop for a couple hours at a Starbucks or Borders and compose a story, choose some picture and push send. For me it was a great experiment in speed writing, and right now I am seeing the positive effects of those blogs as I move into the sixth chapter of my new novel "Shambala." So far each chapter is like a story blog - and as I finally find places like Scott's to settle and write for the winter, I plan on finishing forty or more chapters of this novel in the next four month. I'm anxious to see what happens - especially since right now I have no idea what I'm going to write about in chapter seven. I never knew if I would write another blog either, but they just kept coming. This is going to be fun!

A crane out on a canal dock - taken from my porch

Looking right from off the porch

While I'm at showing off my pictures, here are a few nature shots. The one on the left is of a eucalyptus trees I took while on a walk in Aptos, California, just south of Santa Cruz. On the right is a little caption of the Hood Canal yard I'm staying at. The bottom picture is in the mountains above Santa Cruz, looking toward the Monterrey Peninsula.

In ending this blog I encourage everyone to check out this video:

http://www.newrealitytransmission.com/

It's a lovely, well presented reminder of where we are right now in the transformation of consciousness, at this challenging opportune time in history. I share this with my love and blessings for the very best outcome of whatever form of self-realization you choose.

In love as always,

David Dakan Allison

ps. my new email address is: daviddakanallison@gmail.com

The Death Whisperer

Dear Friends,

I’ve been busy visiting and traveling - and have much to write about, and pictures of places I’ve been to share. But today I wish to write a very special story, the introduction to a much longer, quite involved detective/high adventure/inspiring love story, my newest novel. Beginning the night before last, I took the 24 hour Amtrak from San Jose to Seattle, and for breakfast the first morning I sat across from a lovely couple. He was 78, full of quips, and she . . . well she just held this space of interest and compassion . . . looked young for her age, though I didn’t ask, fifty years of marriage suggested somewhere over seventy. She still works as a hospice nurse, and has blessed the souls of the now departed during many, many passings. She told me that she was known as the Death Whisperer. She knew, could feel and sense when it was time to go. Later we sat in the coach lounge and I shared with her the introduction to my novel Shambala. She was nearly moved to tears, said this is really how it is. I felt as though I was gifted with the blessings of the Death Whisperer.

Shambala

Introduction

I suppose, not wanting to confuse, I should start at the end, which is really the beginning, which is the story of the hour of my passing.

I was old. Eighty years old. After twenty-nine thousand moons I welcomed death, even though I entertained no good reason besides old age to suggest it. Still, it pulled me to itself . . . until finally . . . a stroke took me by surprise. In physical weakness, with mental and spiritual resignation, I was ready, stood most willingly at the tunnel entrance, waiting for the passage light, when, for reasons I didn’t then understand, that door closed; the passing was postponed. My entire being was suddenly shrouded in stillness. Starting in Capricorn - the days to Cancer were lost in coma, in the almost certain dark curtain of death.

They said it would all end that still dark day in July; the monitors said so, the doctors knew.

A single candle flickered. Bodies huddled. Hushed. It was one a.m. the morning of my anticipated death. The silence sounded like the voice of the white light speaking, reminding me of how vulnerable I was, how ready I was, lying there open - to the consummation to my eminent passing - to the ultimate answer to the question of when I would die.

Buddha sat serene, surrounded by lilies, white carnations and appropriate passing flowers, silently watching me, patiently waiting. He knew what they didn’t. He answered the koan of the sound of one hand clapping.

That sound . . . the sound of their tears . . . woke me. I listened. Surprised I could. I listened to the tears, which turned to whispers, the short dialogue of the deaf, the muted hushes of dying crying; the surrendering to death, my death. They mumbled their prayers. Prayers for what? Prayers for maybe a few more days, hours, moments? Yes, moments. For one more opportunity to say what I maybe hadn’t heard, words they knew, thought, I couldn’t hear.

I gathered the whispers: “wake up. don’t go. Please don’t go.” Followed by my inner voice; my still small unspoken whisper saying: You can get up. You do have more life to live. You can go home.

Home? What home? I thought death was my only way home.

Dried tears stained the floor. A forever moment. The room dissolved to silence.

Golden flame, white candle light glow - they watched my shadow flicker on the wailing wall, anticipated the ghostly gray reaping, floating spirit, gone; my slip from the dark coma, through the tunnel and beyond. What they didn’t, couldn’t see, was me that night, returning, black to gray to white, to life once more.

I wasn’t ready to speak. I couldn’t make myself, or at least wouldn’t, animate. I stared an uncomfortable goodnight. The hushed huddle moved closer. Kisses on my forehead, hands on my heart. Goodnight, they said. Maybe . . . forever . . . goodbye. Yes, they thought, forever goodbye.

They left me then, there, unconscious, not yet dead, still in coma, they thought. Yet I was . . . conscious, and quite alive. Lying there, I stole a peek around. Alone, I stretched like a great cat, purring quietly for only me to hear, my sound once more. Listening, asking for permission - from who? from myself? - permission - is it right for me? - to enter back into life. The stretch proved, a deep inhale proved, I could choose that, it was alright to choose to return. And yet, I was still so very tired, and wasn’t sure at that moment what I really wanted.

Turning my head, I stared at the candle light. The golden flame. My eyes suddenly reached into it; merged with it. They, my eyes, caught on fire, blazing out of control. Two flames shot out of the sockets; burning, boring holes through the darkness of death, giving me a new vision, allowing me to see, yes, I saw, remembered, accepted what I had forever been denying. It was then I knew what I wanted. More than death, I wished to return to Shambala.

Present day:

Pulled from death’s door, reincarnated into life again at eighty, my denial, yes my fears and excuses, however cleaver they were, are now gone. I have remembered how to breathe. It is time to embrace life, to return to and celebrate the gift which was ceremoniously given to me so many, many years ago; a gift which I never really did or could or will forget. Today, right now, I will begin . . . my journey home.

Shambala - Copyright 2010 David Dakan Allison All Rights Reserved