A beginning is a placeholder for what might arise. They may become something longer. They sit here and wait on the muse. They might not ever go further than what is here.
The appearance of Us
In which we discover who we are for all eternity.
I suppose it could be contentious to introduce my father right in the beginning of this account, as a man who is no longer pretending to be alive. But that is undeniably how I see it. Call it contentious or even preposterous, my view on this is resolute. He was here, now he is not, and yet, nothing really has changed. He is simply away. Or not even that, he is indeed still here, we just do not see him, that is all; he is simply playing a different game.
We each forget the subterfuge we enter into, in being born as a body and brain in this world. My father though gradually became aware of the convolutions mind performs to hide the pretence required to remain encased in such limited being. And he learned the alchemical art of smoothing out those convolutions until a channel to the Great Beyond opens up forever. He passed on that knowledge to me. For which I am incredibly grateful.
Before he stopped pretending - to be bodily alive - he guided me to discover the nature of my real being. Through that knowledge arises a calm in the deepest part of me. That deep calm was not disturbed at all when the nursing home called me to announce his passing away. My surface mind however, was stunned, even though his passing was not unexpected, and for quite a time I was silent, morose even, and the mourning ate into my heart and soul.
But he had taught me well. Even as I agonised over his death I could at will bring into the light of my own consciousness the absolute perfection of all that comes and goes.
And, I could feel his essence with me, no different than before.
Differing layers of experience, the agony and the calm, overlapping each other; each layer accessible to consciousness simply by choosing consciousness to be there.
My father had been recognised as a Master in that choosing.
At the funeral we indeed did witness his body lying inert in a velvety long box. The funeral director advised us not to take photos from the foot of the coffin as this would show his nostrils. We laughed softly and thanked him for conveying his experience in these matters. At that the director sidled away discretely and left my wife, Tania, and I, Daryl, to say our goodbyes.
We stroked his hair and murmured, “Travel well, dear papa, we will miss you while you are gone”.
Later that day, over raspberry jam and cream on scones, Aunt Gloria said to me, quietly, as if to let me in on a family secret I had long been protected from, “Daryl, your father was exposed to mercury vapour when he was but a boy. An ancient thermometer cracked open right in his mouth, in a hospital where he was having some of his child teeth pulled. After that he was always a little difficult. The doctors just ooh poohed it away telling us he would be fine in a week or two and to give him 3 aspirins a day. But no. He was in and out of looney clinics for years until he met your mother. She seemed to have tamed his demons, and I don’t even want to imagine how.”
Aunt Gloria laughed, in that cackling way that had always scared me. I thought, there is more than one suspect mind in the family. But this was new to me about my father. I never knew he had suffered mental issues as a young man. And the mercury. Isn’t it a brain toxin? Could that also explain the visions of other worlds he recounted to me in his final years? And his freely flowing tears when he would see me in pain?
I must have looked too pensive for suddenly my aunty reached out her hand and gently touched my upper arm. “Don’t worry boy, he is at peace now.”
I smiled and nodded my head as if to agree. If there is one thing I have learned in life it is how to protect my introspections. I used to open them up to others, and discovered the hard way….
But no, I suddenly recollected, the exposure to mercury could not explain it all. The visitors were absolutely real. He introduced them to me and now he is gone. Just as they told us would be.
I feel I need to back up a bit and explain a few things so that this account will fall into place. The visitors….
No, even further back. What my father told me about the House of Forgiveness.
The House of Forgiveness
In the dunes outside DelfSarn there is a house overlooking the North Sea. You reach that house by taking a train from Amsterdam central rail, and then changing to a bus or a taxi at Arhnoon. A journey of perhaps an hour and a half. Probably you read the European edition of the Standard Times while you travel. As an expatriate living in Holland this past year, you had tried, you had really tried to learn enough dutch to read the DagBlag but … it escapes you. You settle back into the language you learned at your mother’s knee. English does you fine in this land where almost everyone speaks it if they choose.
Vincent, my father, loved the land of tulips and windmills and tall kind people. He lived there for seven years. Perhaps he visited the famous coffee shops. On his return to Australia I asked him, “Pa, did you smoke some?” He just smiled and said, “I forget son, I forget.” I left it at that.
But he showed no reluctance to tell me the story of the House of Forgiveness.
I document it here. I have tried to make it as cogent as possible, but he told it to me in dribs and drabs over what must have been a couple of years. I made some rough notes at times, and once or twice recorded his speaking, but most of it I recall as best I can.
It is hard to know where to begin the account. I suppose I could start at the beginning. Or the end. But something tells me it is best for this particular communication to start in the middle. Which would be, the day he was invited to join the staff.
It seems at the House Of Forgiveness you enter as a student, progress to become a graduate, and then - should you show signs of fully living in the atonement, And be able to etherically massage the minds of others towards the Silent Portal, And, also, in all that, Be Interesting - like a Rapper - then, by psychically conveyed invitation from the incumbent masters - perhaps, perhaps, you find yourself on the Forgivement Staff.
The account now, as I recall it. My father’s name be blessed.
Rachel beamed. “Excellent”, she nodded, vigorously, “Welcome to our midst!"
Vincent returned a wry smile. “Your invitation gave me only one other option to acceptance. And I cannot imagine anyone choosing that."
“Quite so,” Rachel replied. “Nobody ever has said no.” She paused, and looked out the staff lounge window. “The 30 second tour of the lower realm we embed in the mind of the invitees assures us all that the understanding is clear. The other choice is no choice at all."