We have moved back from the vesica, against the vertical wall. There is a circular bench here. I, for one, need to sit down. The end of this discourse is approaching, I know, and I’m a little saddened. I turn to V and touch her hand tenderly, saying, “I’m finally understanding what this book is about.”

“Tell me,” she inquires.

“This is an invitation into presence. I see that knowing the Life of Source means developing an intimate, first-hand relationship with the entity that embodies the Now.”

“You are absolutely correct,” answers Omis. “We have brought you into this space that you may resonate with the way we live, the way Life lives us. It is an unceasing joy to participate with Source in this manner—to realize the true nature of who we are. I know that V is feeling the reverence and sincerity of our mission.”

V nods and speaks softly. “Omis, the way you arrived with us was perfect to illustrate the Life of Source. You have emerged directly out living presence, out of the space itself. If I may be poetical, it accentuates the promise of joy held in the wings of stillness.”

I smile. “V, you are a poet!”

She smiles back and continues, “Omis, we are truly blessed to have you appear again and to bring with you the vigor of creation.”

“Well said,” he continues. “Now, let me tell you about Life from the perspective of an angelan. Moreover, it will indicate how humans can begin to live more freely within themselves. What you are calling presence, I know as Life. I know it as the breath and vibration of light and flesh and texture. I know it as quality and beauty and freshness, ever renewing, always enduring. As I say these words, I know thoroughly that Life is the forming agent, the invigorating principle within them.

“When I gaze upon V’s beauty and receive her appreciation, I know that this, too, is Life at work and at play. It dances through us all, in each expression and experience of the universes, moment within moment, for eternity. In my knowing, I realize Life is present; ‘knowing’ is also Life. Consciousness is Life. Just as there is nothing that does not come from Source, there is nothing that is not Life. My being is Life. All of yours, too, is this. We are blessed, by way of a million dimensions, in each gesture and instant of this creative facility.”

Silence takes over strongly before he speaks again. “Tell me now, my human friend, what have you just written? I know you are wanting to tell us about it; and I sense that its energy wants to unfold.” (more…)

Instead of the crystal-domed Grand Palais, there is a luminous, etheric mountain behind Omis. It climbs vertically hundreds of meters. Its façade is carved with countless openings and large, high windows. Immediately in front of us is the gaping arched entrance we’ve visited before. I see into the interior where exquisite marble floors stretch inward. Along their way, the spacious halls branch off into many, smaller passages and caverns. The transparency of the walls adds to our vision of the depths and complexities of this massif. I look back to Omis.

The angelan continues staring at me. “Let me explain that our recent diversion into the process of creation was necessary. This was to alert you to your role here. It is the same role for anyone participating in our visit or reading the document you are producing. If you are seeing, hearing or listening to these proceedings, you—as authentic Source—are creating them. It then becomes your responsibility and opportunity to unfold their meaning and value—by virtue of your identity with Source!”

Omis motions us into the Akasha now. We seem to glide, more than walk, into the sacred space. As with the other visits I’ve made, I see everything is made of golden light—the floors, the pillars and walls, the vines and trees that cling to the escarpments. I recall that each centimeter of the substance around us is composed of memories from lifetimes lived by countless trillions of incarnate creatures from all over the Cosmos.

Each lifetime is held in a pristine sphere of vital remembrance. If it is embedded in the floor or wall, it somehow generates the flatness required to represent the marble form. As we walk, our feet are treading on these lives. It’s rather like walking over graves in a cemetery. It does no disrespect, however. We are not actually touching anything as we move; hence, the sensation of gliding. We float a millimeter above. (more…)