Most humans living in the fallen estate suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. THE Great Trauma which brought this about devolved from consciousness dissociating from its Edenic Real estate’s Beauty to focus upon the fallen estate’s limited, hence contorted, figments. Fallen humanity’s PTSD presents as consciousness engaging the sense of separation in lieu of Living its alchemically victorious, immanent union.
Your awareness of this disorder becomes more or less obvious, depending upon how alchemically you take the checkout counter person’s entreaty for you to have a nice day. In his novel Dead Sleep, Greg Iles’ character Nam-vet John describes his—and all of humanity’s—PTSD persistence:
“You know why I don’t have post-traumatic stress disorder? Because there’s nothing post about it. It’s just something I live with. Sometimes nearer, sometimes farther away.”
You and I are just like John. Our PTSD seems to fade into the woodwork because our first fall out of Eden’s bowers has never disappeared. At least not utterly. Sure, sensing the separating deep dive into the fallen estate sometimes abates into the forgettery. Yet, like statuesque memorials, its millennially reinforced reverbs continue to impugn us. They find us wanting. They find us wishing and hoping for their good riddance. Like Orphan Annie, we yearn for release from hard knock life. Yet, our PTSD is most often self-reinforcing. Separative consciousness sets our gadabout stage with scenery that lends credence to dukkha’s pain and suffering in lieu of its Real foundation’s momentary bliss.
That ever-echoing sense of separation is stressful because it subjects consciousness to constant pulls this way and that. I suppose that by pouring on enough sugar, you might resemble Turkish Taffy. Better to find copacetic sealing in Real sweetie pie Selfhood. Your standard equipment mastery already knows your notes by heart. Your inner guru teaches you how to let THAT BE nonstop. You need but center in the Great Unknowing, where everyday blooming heartily displaces the roustabout rumblings of your PTSD.
In the fallen estate, practice makes perfect. In the Real Estate, better than perfect, practicing the Presence de-stresses awareness from PTSD distress. Then, like the Big Lebowski Dude, who simply abides, you can nonchalantly face life’s imposing angst. You can rise and fall with the deep blue sea’s hubbly bubbly tides using consciousness as a hookah to extract blissful essence from your inherence. Infinitely mysterious depths are available to your oceanic passage right here midst the mud.
NOW, even now, the One’s immediacy prevails upon your perceptive patina like a raven knocking upon your chamber door, declaring, “PTSD, nevermore!” Dissolving self in THAT blinds deranged and ranging sensibility in poignantly whited purity. THAT alchemy translates your everyday walkabout into a resplendent, budding Tree hosting tender innocence learning to fly from wise eagles who have already mastered helpful updrafts.
Aloft, sealed in light unquenchable, the fallen estate’s PTSD is powerless to disturb the satisfied One abiding in pleasantry, ensconcing mystery’s fiery, urgent need. Yes, yes, yes! I LIVE; even as surrounding death masques impel and beseech with their flagrant impersonating matter swirling my surround. Attempting to substitute their preeminence at Life’s ball, they find me a mighty flustering dance partner. For, my costumery weaves me as Ma’s awakened consciousness, which tricks the tricksters, treating them to perplexity. As a Lonely One, with an infinitely echoing hi-ho upon my caracoling ride, I spur them to inquire, as they choke on my generative Silver dust, “Who was that masked man?”
In PTSD’s derangement, the goblins never cease to dangle their sufferance, hopeful for my vote. I abhor to admit how often I forget my Reality, and acquiesce to their supplications. Soon, though, I notice that I am hosting a PTSD attack, and easily throw it off. So, back and forth I go, often repudiating the spiritual Path’s “never a backward step” edict.
Giving Reality A Christed Environment
Yes, ignoring omnipresent grace, I often espy myself in a perp walk, condemned upon my self-justifying courthouse steps, self-victimized and lost in an open-and-shut case. Perhaps, my greatest comfort, then, derives from Elohim Arcturus’ disclosure re all True Being: “And in the awful majesty of his glory, the hearts of the Elohim throb with pulsations of divine love. We are sustained by his incomparable grace.”
Since needing grace is unalterably correlative to Individualized Being, I guess that utter dependence upon grace makes us all regular old, conventionally infinite blokes, just like all the authors of worlds without end. Maybe needing a little or lotsa help from THE Friend goes a peculiar, personalized extra mile to dispel our ever so intimate phantoms, our meshuggineh, two-faced otherness. Always remember: omnipresent grace awards its prized magic carpet ride as a matter of course to all who muster the gumption to enter Life’s raffle.
Yes…indeed! Life’s raffle! THAT’s the Great Unknowing. Ya pay yur shekel and ya take yur ticket, and ya jus’ nevah know what’s ta becum ‘a ya.
Your Victorious, Surrendered Moments
Honor the Fallen Hero of Your
It’s always your choice. Heart’s willing pays the price that magnetizes grace to fly in formation with you like the Blue Angels fighter-jet air team. Grace, infinitely coalescing You, enables your surrender. Without grace, you could never get your infinite on. With grace, your Blue-Angel formations always honor THAT as your Shiva Love. Like the Blue Angels “missing man” formation, you honor yourSelf as a fallen hero. THAT surrender engenders honor. THAT surrender portrays your missing man. THAT gaps the abyss to render your pointillistic Beauty THE plenum. THAT in your face smiles as God’s own face-to-face death, defying death’s effulgent mystery: life evolving Life. Your missing-man jet spewing out of Beauty’s formations zings abundant Life’s cash register cha-ching!s as your momentary THAT. Your conscious, out-of-this-world mode in league with grace brings joy’s fizz to Life’s waters.
Such comfort devolves upon the entire spiritual Hierarchy. THAT Living Being re-cognizes the Loving One’s merciful Presence NOW. Yet, THAT victory doesn’t make “you” some kind of great performer. Indeed, in the final Truth, grace’s infinite mystery dispels even the highest levels of Cosmic BEING’s mastery. Infinitely speaking, even the most masterful multiverse Being is a masked figment suckling grace of the divine Mother’s paps. EVERY instance of the One is truly capable ONLY of purporting Holy Ghostliness.
Grace’s biggest miracle may well be how it renders PTSD-burdened humans capable of joining in with the One’s seraphim in their holy-holy-holy choiring duty—right in the face of fallen-estate woes. Ascending daily, fully completing even the most miniscule cycling, you celebrate the One’s ultimate victory. Verily! Victory is a conscious mode; not an event.
Yes, you will eventually deprive yourself of the opportunity to offend the PTSD venders here on Earth because masters, fully imbued with infinite power, are not allowed to return here. Stepping upon the Ascension Temple’s dais, fully asserts your Self-realized immortality. The Whoosh! of THAT ascension flame permanently inures you to the PTSD taunting, though it will assail you right up to time’s last moment.
As the Messenger Elizabeth Clare Prophet used to say, the fallen ones will be shoving all your supposed faults into your face even as you make your ascension. So, why wait? Right NOW, pay that dirty laundry no mind. Let the whoosh! of each moment’s ascension flame impel your run of the mill ecstasy. PTSD? Pish tosh!
Even though there may be nothing “post” about your PTSD, each selflessly gracious moment can be a deter-agent washing you squeaky clean of it. Your sparkling Presence can carbonate even the Black Lagoon, forcing its creatures to shimmy off a bit of their muck, simply because its newfound glow so offends them. When you ascend, momentarily, ALL ascends with you.
Yep. Your PTSD’s but a flimsy, slimy film you can flip off, even as your Central Sun flips it the bird you ride, aloft and aloof. Don’t even bother flirting with the great-escape myth. Bottomless, the whole shebang’s the lovin’ and the longin’ and the glittery sequins and the press of leafy goodness of the One confessing that sadness is to BE without you.
 Greg Iles, Dead Sleep (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 2001), p. 290.
 Pearls of Wisdom, Vol. 50, No. 13, p. 92. July 1, 2007. Dictation given Wednesday, July 4, 1962.
 Yiddish, for a crazy fool.