Visiting Ancient Light Tribes During Shamanic Journeys

Between the Worlds

M. E. Gill

Parasystole Journey

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Parasystole dreamFour nights after my first son’s birth, I had two lucid dreams or journeys. The first was about a glorious life filled with love, honor, compassion and cooperation. The second was about massive, violent death. These journeys brought a new perspective. They brought me to an understanding of the nature of existence, which, I knew then, must be guarded and shared carefully.

Prominent in these dreams was a beautiful petite woman with dark skin, strong in stature, and wise for her years. She was a Seer for seven tribes. I had subsequent dreams about her tribe and the six other tribes. At times I viewed her in the dreams as apart from me, but for brief moments I was able to sense her emotions and physical sensations as though they were my own. Her name was Rhombi.

When I sought understanding of these journeys/ dreams late in the following year, 1989, I went to a spiritual woman, Diane, whose reputation was stellar for her vision accuracy of current life issues that were steeped in past relationship residues. I had no idea whether Diane could help me find out who this dreamt woman represented, whether she existed at all, even though I fully believed she did, and where her planet orbited. I had thought for quite a few months, while in England, that Rhombi’s world existed in another dimension only.

Diane surprised me by first saying that I was this woman... that I had a multi-colored aura, having a peacock feather patina... and that these journeys were to a time and place long forgotten. I am certain Rhombi is somebody else.

Most importantly though was this message to me from Rhombi:

This is not a gift to you... you have earned it.

I will go ahead and tell you of the first two jour-neys, followed by the art that came after them. Then I will fill in the details scantily of each tribe as I and my soul family are allowed. This way all

NOTE: This document is the original contact with the Ancient Light Tribe in April of 1988. It is excerpted from Paintings of the Rhombi Chronicles: a Series of Lucid Dreams and Journeys. Please see this Slideshare document, Draft 4, for a full explanation of the paintings mentioned in this heading.

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VISIT I: Rhombi

Rhombi was living on a remote island that felt similar to eastern Africa, but the land was not in Africa. This land was far distant from earth. A protective energy shield seemed to radiate around all the people of our peaceful tribe. We tended a strange and beautiful creature, like a Llama with horns, but charged with the mystical spirit of a unicorn.

These beasts were valued by our tribe for their fur, for the milk they gave and for their horns which shed yearly. Horns were used for making tools, musical instruments and pipes for herbal smoke. “Caught” horns were used for shamanic journeying and other rituals. A few elder women used horn splinters to make small needles, used in healings.

The most peculiar product of this beast was its tears. Once harvested, the tears were used as medicine for many ailments. Tears were combined with herbs and plant juices as an elixir for youth and strength. When combined with plant oils and a milky sap from dense forest trees, the tears quickened healing of skin in a lotion mixture for these small, brown, beautiful people.

It was early morning on the island. It appeared that all the tribal men and women were bustling about, carrying out their shared tasks intently. One man, very close to me, mentioned that he would take Masa, one of the lead beasts — and his favor-ite — and was ready to begin the journey. Another young man, either Rhombi’s or my brother or son, sat nearby engaging a small group of children in putting the final touches on a musical instrument carved from bone. A woman and her girl-child rolled up woven reed cloths with special food for the occasion. Everything being done today was for an annual journey.

As we began herding the docile beasts carefully up the mountain I noticed an overwhelming sense of joy exuding from all, human and animal alike. Two days later, after reaching the plateau, the ceremonies began. At midnight, by the light of the

are represented in the readers’ minds as they gaze into these paintings. I did not use my drumming tape for these journeys, although I did hear a drumming/ pulsing sound.

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The Light

moon on the eleventh day, the tear harvest commenced. The beasts’ tears were collected into small flasks by women and their students, then gathered by others. Many nights later the ceremony would be given to express gratitude to the beasts for this harvest.

The people were patient in fulfilling their duties, always mindful of the beasts’ well-being. The horns would soon fall, but their mystical properties dissipated at the touch of hand prior to their shedding. This was known by every member of our tribe through stories of “catchings”. If an attentive or intuitive member caught a shed horn prior to its fall to the earth, much laughter and glee emitted from others working nearby, for the harvesting of these “caught” horns was considered a sign of very good will from the feminine and masculine powers of the Creators.

Awkward leaping methods employed by the catchers sent other tribe members into a frenzy of anecdotes, animation and gut-splitting laughter. Witnessing these sporadic, festive “catchings” across the entire plateau was music to my soul.

While some people gathered and sorted the horns, others combed the beasts, gathering the tawny fur speckled with gold and silver strands into their wraps. The beasts were delighted by this ritual, lighter for the giving and afterwards jumped playfully about.

During thanks-giving at moon’s end, the catchers were honored in a parade through the tribe, so the children could touch them, while the singers, pipe players and drummers played the heart rhythm of the tribe. Through the fingertips, it was believed, the God’s and Goddess’ great energy that was bestowed upon the catchers could be shared and, thus, multiplied through the tribe. Most importantly, since the elderly had also climbed up the mountain yet another year, they considered themselves worthy and honored to be called children, still. In this manner, the result was that EVERY finger of EVERY person on the plateau touched the catchers. The intense energy multiplied to rise at the outer rim of the crowds around the catchers, enticing spirits of the dead to join in these festivities. Animals and birds came in closer to see the catchers and to enjoy, take part, and witness the sharing.

Music from the lips of our singers and fingers of our drummers married in the autumn air above and around us all, swirling the tribe’s heart-pulse in spirals that reached the proper stars. This music was sung through the body — not from it. It came up through our feet, through every layer of our bodies and every level of existence and traveled into the galaxy, touching the hopes and hearts of all that could hear and feel it. We were all thoroughly, intensely, ever grateful to be alive, just then.

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Stillness of the SeerAcrylic on Board

13-1/2” x 10”2004

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The Dark

VISIT II: Parasystole

I traveled deeper into the memories of this tribe, while hearing a pulsing beat in my ears that welled up from all around me, traveling through my body. When I began to see this land, this planet, this home to Rhombi’s people again, the colors around this planet were subdued in brilliance compared to the first journey. Gradually I started seeing the difference in the angles of the geometric forms swirling in the outer reaches of the planet’s atmosphere and orbital space. These were angled sharp-er and swifter in movement, undulating as forms transitioned through the series of platonic solids interspersed with other serpentine forms. These were interrupted by a third type of wave made heavy by the dragging interstices, like sludge ether or dark matter from unfinished thoughts. Pulses of chaos.

Everything had changed. The tribe was gone.

The island itself had been assaulted. It seemed that all growth was bent, broken or stifled for a time. The beasts had been shaved. Their horns were cropped to within half an inch of their heads. They had been beaten and stampeded to force them onto the ships. Many had fallen and were being butchered on the spot.

The fury within me welled to unfathomable proportions at my inability to stop this slaughter. I was not in human form during this part of the journeying. I was much larger than the beasts and hovering as near to the planet’s surface as possible, yet aware of perceptions from a multitude of perspectives upon every scene.

An army of men in drab clothing zealously herded the remaining beasts onto waiting cargo ships along the coast. The beasts were nothing but shells, for with their tears drained their souls.

The vitality of the beasts’ tears diminished until they became as poison — staining the skin black below their eyes. As they wept, they made no sound of their own. Their mourning and desperation was instead manifested in all other life forms that witnessed their imminent transport.

A barely perceptible stir rippled across all life forms as the ghostly ships left the island. Though intending the beasts for trade, some of these strange men grew faint at heart in fulfilling the beasts’ fated doom. The imminent slaughter was spoken through the vigorous swimming of the fish alongside the ships, in the undulating blackness of birds hovering above, and in the distance, thick weeping of the primates. In the ships’ wakes, and spreading outward to surround this armada of death

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ships, thousands of dolphins were screaming of the horror.

“Was the sea more fierce today?” the men wondered.

When the ships reached the harbor of the mainland, the hum of horror crept slowly under the traders’ skin, festering there by stares from the inland people, from the gathering blackness in the clouds above and the incessant whistling of the wind.

With a tsunami’s force, word was carried to the fenced stock. Beasts of burden, sheep and goats burst through the barriers, trampling and scattering wares in every direction — an explosion of chaos as the energy spread. That energy vibrated through the tiniest of insects, birds, animals, trees, rocks and the inland people in a shockwave that was visible as it struck each particle of life. It oozed from every cell. Like drops of lava it burned into the traders’ conscience.

I became aware that this energy was countered by a palpable, deeply vibrating, humming tone entering my spine at the base. As I watched the chaos on the mainland, I was aware that the people of Rhombi’s tribe had faced their deaths bravely. Some in this tribe whom I had known had chosen to hold their lover’s hand as they leapt off the mountain cliffs to escape, with a promise to find each other in the next life if they died. Others had attempted to flee the invaders, yet others were fighting bravely to preserve the lives of children they had hidden.

The low vibration became a deep chant, coming up through Rhombi’s planet, traveling to earth to my sleeping body and entering into my feet. It traveled through my 3D body, becoming a roaring in my ears. As though in doubt, I denied its meaning. In utter confusion of its source, yet aware of recognizing it, I noticed that the energy of the chant within the journey meant more than my current understanding of dreams, and, determined, I began to search for the vortex.

Back into the dream. Back to the planet via the sensation of a severe compression of bodies... until I could become like a wisp of smoke. Back to the time of the waiting cargo ships in the harbor.A sea eagle heard my query and called out to me. From the cargo ship, I entered into flight after him, toward the island home from which the ships had traveled. Onshore, in the sky, the branches swaying directed me onward, left, right, right, left, left. Then a bird, barely visible in the foliage of the canopy above, flying quickly through forest, led me through tunnels and dark-ness with mist sliced by my racing bodies, intermittently a single, solid form, and a series of flowing prismatic undulations of color and clouds swirling forward.

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I entered a foliated passage through brush and fog. Suddenly, I was in the form of my solid body, standing in a clearing of soft, lush, green grass, swayed by soft breezes, and dappled by occasional beams of sunlight through the forest trees.

Out of nowhere a door appeared. My body was in the form of my current incarnation. But there was something different about the life in this clearing. I felt as though the grass, trees and soil were of the same life as my body and I sensed the feel-ing of the sunlight on my leaves... my blades of grass surrounding me and the door. The door itself was alive, and of the same vibrations of energy as the air I breathed in, my lungs panting from the exertion of this flight from the harbor. My breath eased gradually to match the energy all around me. The vibrations stopped. The door opened.

Down a long dimly lit corridor I walked hesitantly until at the threshold of an awesome columnar room. In the center, suspended from beyond the clouds and shining deep into the earth, were thousands of gold, silver and leather strands. Loops of carved wood hung from some of these, and all swayed gently around a huge beam of yellow-white light.

I puzzled over the familiarity of the humming sounds which emanated from the light. It resonated through the fibers as the volume increased. With piqued curiosity I walked slowly around this temple of light numerous times, listening for meaning in the chant. Each time around, it became louder, and clearer. Louder and louder it rang in my body, while the gentle swaying of the strands inside the temple of light gradually became thrashing, much like trees’ limbs in a violent storm as you watch from below.

All at once, instantly, I found myself in the center of light. The chant was deafening. The temple had become a tower of whirling fury until...I began to feel the meaning, I began to remember. My bodies were calmed. I began to shrink as time passed while focusing on the meaning of the chants. I became a tiny resonating fiber in one of the strands. The chant became my own breath which welled up from the core of my being and struck the tine of memory from 28 centuries before this massacre...and I knew them again. These beings were the descendants of Rhombi’s original tribe, invaded by a foreign species.

This chant was the collective spirits of the missing tribe. They had been massacred for their piety, for their belief that there was no separation between themselves and God/ Goddess/ Creators; that they were co-creators and that everything — plant,

“We must begin to understand the universal language” — Rhombi

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animal, rock, planets, stars, universes, and every being within them, and the very air they breathed was this same energy source speaking to all that is.

Rhombi’s tribe’s spirits moved and learned through use of these bodies, migrating to a distant land. Some of these were re-born again as similar beings to the massacred tribe, many centuries later. Some of these migrated a great distance. Some of these found caverns beneath the surface of our planet and lived there in a separate world. But all remembered their history.

I also began to examine the deeds of this foreign species, and the issues over which they organized their existence. Deep at the core was darkness... there was only a tiny glowing ember of the promise of life... but there were no threads of light con-necting their hearts. Gradually I saw that in their angry, guileful faces over-hardened by use there existed fissure cracks that were letting very faint red-orange light emanate through.

The skin was thinning between these two worlds.

The chant became a trickle of light that crept through obstructions in my body, through an eternity of apathy and ambiva-lence, until it lodged in my throat. My consciousness, a tangled, gnarled mass of barbed wire straining against the force of history, would not allow this energy to move. I began to resonate violently in the gold, silver, leather and wood as it swirled furiously, faster and faster, louder and louder until the parasystolic map carved its way through my body, mind and soul, through the history of all that ever was, yet stopping at my throat instantly with my fear of letting go the old paradigm. Like a single blood cell blocking the passage of life through the constricted vein, my consciousness locked down. Is this what fear does? Nothing moved. Nothing breathed.Then, one liquid tone... at the eye of my throat, oscillated through a cell wall and broke into the cell, instantly crystallizing it with a pure azure blue light. It continued and another followed behind it, one by one, dismantling these old paradigm walls that separated physical cells in my throat from the energy of spiritual communication — and crystallizing each cell of my body forever, the colors changing according to its use in communicating body wisdom. And as the growing throng of voices rose up through my body and sang through my throat, the dissected parts of my consciousness fell away to reveal the expo-nentially expanding awareness of it ALL — All darkness and fury, pain and hatred; all love and beauty, innocence and light; ALL language of tongue and without chanted its memory through me.

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The chant became my own words, spoken through the union of wisdom with my soul and my body. At first just a whisper, “my house” and again, recognition, “is your house”...of spinning in the vibration and light as I struggled for a separate self. I thought of finding a way to stop this process and climb out of this thing... this gigantic column of light... I fran-tically thought perhaps I could just run down the corridor and find my way back through the forest to my bed where I was sleeping... go back to my small life and forget about this.

But the whispers became strong voices, repeating “my house” in EVERY language, “is your house” speaking through me…and my ego realized that this energy is mine, it is my spirit, my essence, not just the tribe I knew, or the beasts, just like the dolphins were screaming for them, or other lives I’ve lived...they are coming through from all points of earth and beyond... from all points of my existence with Rhombi’s tribe and planet...and from all that EVER was...and though we are individuals with unique histories — manifestations of our own choices,we have never made a choice that did NOT affect every other BEING in existence...we are all connected, and share as one “MY HOUSE”…and this is my home planet, and my earth “IS YOUR HOUSE” screaming through meMY HOUSE IS YOUR HOUSE... MY HOUSE IS YOUR HOUSE...MY HOUSE IS YOUR HOUSE!!! End Of Journeys —

If one who lives here cannot or will not see that what we do to others we do to self, that what we do to one, we do to ALL, then they haven’t yet awoken. The act of doing cannot ever be erased. Even the contemplation of an act has spread its energy to all that is. Making the choice to do it returns this energy to its maker. This is the Breath of Life.

Knowing this is at the very base of an emotionless mind — the first lesson of our survival.How it is used by most determines nothing for eternity.How many have been affected determines everything, positive and negative.How we measure what has been determined affects policies,unless we wisely use all of our knowledge — body mind and soul.

Journeysend

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Transformation was inspired by the tribal dream, Visit II, in which the vibrational frequency resonating through my body informed me of transformations that must be made within for humankind to survive this ascension alive. It began the dissection of all that I knew, filling me with information from billions of voices in all languages, distilling to the idea that we are — body, mind and soul — as ONE.

Transformation (Diptych) Conte Crayon and Charcoal on Paper 72” x 70.5” 1988

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Appendix

Parasystole/ par’a sis’ taly:1. beside, at, near, alongside systole2. beyond systoleMeaning number 2 is used in this book.

Systole: The moment during the heartbeat at which the ventricles contract, creating the maximum pressure on the blood vessels.

Systolic: During blood pressure tests, this is the type of measure at the moment at which the heartbeat is first heard after the guage is released, al-lowing the first blood cells to begin moving through the constricted vessel while other blood cells bang against the walls of the vessel at the moment of each ventricular contraction.

Parasystole can have several meanings. In this case it is defined upon meaning number 2.It is a metaphor for the answer to “Life Out of Balance”, a Hopi phrase used to visually describe modern American society, in a film called, Koyaan-isqatsi: Life Out of Balance, from 1982. Its root ‘systole’ is the collective result of our society’s linear direction and its inertia, based on subsequent steps made during intense pressure and societal anguish. At these times the steps of ‘advancement and progress’ are made according to a mono-di-mensional logic following the same order and fitting within the same structure which produced, for the few, greater power and control, steeped in verisimilitude and still grossly out of balance.

However, at times these steps are made according to the unstructured, multi-dimensional thoughts of people in a rebellious act. The action bursts through the veils of compliance, and questions the dominant order of society, thereby instigating necessary change._________________________________________________________

Shamanism (SHAH-men or SHAY-men) is a practice that involves a practitioner reaching altered states of consciousness in order to encounter and in-teract with the spirit world and channel these transcendental energies into this world.[2] A shaman is a person regarded as having access to, and influ-ence in, the world of benevolent and malevolent spirits, who typically enters into a trance state during a ritual, and practices divination and healing.[3]Initiation and learning—Shamans are normally “called” by dreams or signs which require lengthy training. However, shamanic powers may be “inherited”.Turner and colleagues[16] mention a phenomenon called shamanistic initiatory crisis, a rite of passage for shamans-to-be, commonly involving physical illness and/or psychological crisis. The significant role of initiatory illnesses in the calling of a shaman can be found in the detailed case history of Chuonnasuan, the last master shaman among the Tungus peoples in Northeast China.[17]

The wounded healer is an archetype for a shamanic trail and journey. This process is important to the young shaman. S/he undergoes a type of sick-ness that pushes her or him to the brink of death. This happens for two reasons:1]The shaman crosses over to the underworld. This happens so the shaman can venture to its depths to bring back vital information for the sick, and the tribe.2] The shaman must become sick to understand sickness. When the shaman overcomes her or his own sickness s/he will hold the cure to heal all that suffer. This is the uncanny mark of the wounded healer.[18]• Wikipedia

Shamanism circa 30,000 B.C. and Sirius [alien] Contact [possibly mind manipulation techniques from Sirius B aliens] circa 4000 B.C.These dates are from the “Illuminati Chart showing how the “conspiracy” developed over the centuries” —• Wilson, Robert Anton: Cosmic Trigger: Final Secret of the Illuminati (Paperback) John Thompson (Illustrator), Page 188: New Falcon Publications, 1977.

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Artist’s statement

Inspired by journeys or lucid dreams of a culture long ago, or perhaps existing on another plane, through which symbolism and rituals spoke of their relevance in antiquity, I began to recognize my personal struggle with contemporary culture — the feeling “out-of-sync” with this society’s symbolism and rituals. This experience was not unlike a dissection of all that I had done, or be-come, in the context of this society. This turning inward held also the quality of its polar opposite: bursting outward — a parasystolic1 experience of being at a point of questioning the validity of my ego intentions vs. the raw energy flowing through me, informing me.

It is the point at which both consciousness and soul knowledge must join with the language and story of the body, which reads this energy. I do not think it matters whether we are astrally trav-eling or walking down a street in our solid body, it is reading energetic information that the soul and the ego miss. Therefore, I have written of these experiences in a similar state — that of emo-tional intelligence, which may require of the reader a suspension of a belief there is a quotable group of words here that can capture all that is shown here.

My art is the expression through cognizant allowance of soul-knowledge, body knowledge and a higher conscious awareness to include information from All-That-Is, to flow through me onto canvas, paper, film or other materials. It is also the intent and work of my soul, soul family and potentially other souls, having knowledge of this group of extraterrestrial tribes. Finally, it is the resistance to editing of the parts of this work that my ego does not understand. I have accepted that these works are also for others — speaking to their own level of being — and I cannot possibly know what these art works mean for them.

I am often enlightened by this. The very act of drawing and painting, and listening to others as they experience these works, is the allowance of this flow of information simultaneously outward and inward. The fact that I learn so much more after a painting is finished, and then, oftentimes years later, being shown by another an image representing that knowledge within these brush strokes is testament to this process.

1 See Appendix for definition of Parasystole

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