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Through the Portal: so this is 2013!

“Birth of the Solar System” Pat Rawlings / NASA Source: Wikimedia Commons

The end of the Mayan Calendar found me on Gabriola Island, at a community event standing before a huge metal hoop strung with a rope border—a Dream Catcher with a big hole in it.

“Welcome to the New Time,” said a woman dressed in white feathers. “Step through the Portal! Step through!”

“Why should I? What’s in it for me?” I said. “I’m not stepping though another blasted portal without some kind of assurance.” 

“One moment,” she said as she twirled around once to her left, leaned close to my face and pointed to what was inside. “Just look around!”

Middle-aged people, some with painted faces and wearing costumes, greeted one another. Kids chased each other around a dance floor. Musicians set up on a stage.

“What’s more,” said the feathered lady, “you can step back outside for food and ginger tea.” 

“OK,” I said, “I’ll give it a try.”

So I stepped through the portal into the future and found a back row seat just in case the performers decided to pull people up on stage to humiliate them.

All in good fun, of course.

The evening was full of skits, invocations, songs, intervals of dancing, and breaks for conversation and ginger tea. It was a fine time, with hokey New Age stuff, reverent prayer, cornball humour, and an abundance of good will. 

The ginger tea wasn’t bad either.

When I returned to Vancouver after Christmas, my friend Philip said, “I guess we raised our vibration enough not to get ourselves burned to a crisp. I mean here we are!”

He said if he had ignored this event, the end of the Mayan Calendar, he would have somehow negated all the healing work he had done since the Harmonic Convergence.

I’d forgotten all about the Harmonic Convergence and that it had anything to do with the Mayan Calendar, but I was very much caught up in it 25 years ago. I remember thinking it significant that a friend’s mother died on that very day. I had been to an astrologer. I was in group therapy. I had recently begun to see a chiropractor, having grown up with the idea that chiropractors were quacks.

I had in fact embarked on a “journey,” as we like to say, that was to include a most extraordinary array of healing modalities and spiritual practices—from good old talking therapy to massage, acupuncture, polarity, Rolfing, Reiki, and rebirthing. There was one woman I went to who extracted Medieval weaponry from underneath my shoulder blades and neck—unbelievably painful. There was inner child work, grief work, movement, and ecstatic dance.  Not to mention seminars and satsangs given by every imaginable kind of spiritual teacher: swamis who’d been silent in caves for 40 years and who suddenly had quite a lot to say, Sufis, avatars, healers, numerologists, and channelers of Pleiadean entities. 

How could I forget high colonics?

The point was to release emotional blocks in the body and sludge in the chakras—anything that was hindering our evolution. 

As ridiculous as all of that sounds—and some of it was—I agree with Philip. For many of us, this work was a matter of urgency. For some, a matter of life and death.

I don’t want to dismiss the last 25 years of personal work because without the willingness to engage in persistent self-examination and rigorous change, I might not have lived to tell the tale. 

And like my friend Philip, I’m curious to see what’s next.





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