The beginning of a story that began in another time: Part VI
In a story that began in our May issue, I started out by going into a past life experience that took place over 700 years ago. This month’s installment features the players from the previous incarnation, and the vicissitudes of fate and Karma that have placed all of them in their respective roles, this time around. (If you have not read the first three installments, click here for PT: 1 , click here for PT: 2 , click here for PT: 3 , click here for PT: 4 and click here for PT: 5
Slim’s workshop wasn’t the only thing going on that summer. I was scheduled to teach a Flower of Life Workshop right after he left. Within a day or two of that I was supposed to fly out to Anasazi Land for a ten-day pilgrimage that was meant to heal the rift between the white man and the red man. You’d think that would be enough, but as soon as the Anasazi trip ended, me and my friend Nicole would be driving down to Mexico to do an advanced course with a group of 50 or 60 people who were teaching the Flower of Life material back in those days.
The ceremony on the bridge got interrupted because, with all of this stuff coming to a head, I had one day to drive over to Manchester to get a passport photo taken – and this was it. I told Slim I had a bunch of errands to do; would he like to come along? By this time he was so mesmerized by the beauty of the Vermont landscape, I could have taken him anywhere. Totally up for a drive and for killing a few birds with one stone, he asked me if we could stop for a coffee and would I mind taking him to a drugstore: he needed a carton of ‘Lucky’s’ and couple of tubes of Poligrip.
It wasn’t until he mentioned the Poligrip that I noticed his false teeth. Slim’s dentures were an interesting little feature in his life. Only once in seven years did I catch a glimpse of him without his teeth. He left them in at night. On his way into a restaurant he’d step off to one side and take a few minutes to pull a tube of Poligrip out of his pocket and perform a little ritual with his teeth – but he was always Mr. Cool about it. No one, except maybe his wives and the people who monitored his life support systems while he was in a coma, ever saw Slim without his teeth.
The drive between Middletown Springs and Manchester winds through Southern Vermont’s farm country. Otherwise known as, “The Banana Belt”, this part of the state is the last word in pastoral beauty. In the forty minutes that it took to get from A to B, Slim gave me a tutorial on the essentials of naturally occurring geopathic stress and how easy it is to spot.
The landscape was filled with more than one example of energetic interference: like the swath of scorched earth running through Lincoln Waite’s pasture and its connection to the newly introduced power lines that ran east to west, directly above it. Further down the road we stopped next to the remains of a house that had been washed away in the spring floods. Getting out of the car to inspect the situation, Slim put out a theory that the property had been flooded out for much the same reason that Vortigern’s castle crumbled; the original foundation had been built over a point where a gas line bisected the crosshairs of two underground streams.
Taking a detour over the switch road we drove past the slate quarries. I wanted Slim to tell me whatever he could about the emanations coming out of the slate, and I wanted to give him an opportunity to check out some hard-core, back-woods, Vermont poverty. Staring out the window at mountains of metamorphic rock and the shacks of the toothless, feral-looking people whose ancestors had once made a living in this place, Slim went off on a discourse about the connection between geopathic stress and poverty. He boiled it down to like attracting like, and went on to say:
“We are drawn to that which is in resonance with whatever our vibration happens to be. Whenever you’re in any location where life is on a downswing there will always be high levels of geopathic and electromagnetic stress”.
On that first day, it blew me away to be hearing things that would ring true over and over again. A few years later, at a workshop that we did in California, Slim asked me to escort the entire group down to one of the local parks and get everyone set to go so that we could spend the rest of the afternoon showing them how to dowse.
The minute we entered the park I noticed a drunk sleeping it off on one of the benches that lined the perimeter of what was a long stretch of uninterrupted grass. I set the group up with their rods, made a short speech on ‘getting out of the way’, after which I sent them toddling off down the length of the park with instructions to get a sense of how it works when they ask the rods to fulfill the following request:
“Show me the lines of geopathic stress that are entering this location from the West”
Dowsing is like falling off a log once you get the hang of it, but it isn’t that easy to learn; people inevitably get blocked by thoughts that tell them they aren’t spiritually qualified, or special enough to be blessed with the ability to do it. If the hands-on part of Slim’s workshops was where his students finally got to see what he was talking about, the San Rafael group was halfway down the field, trying to figure things out on their own by the time he caught up with them. Ambling off to help everyone get comfortable with the concept that they too could be good at this, he lit up a smoke, looked at me and said ; “Thank God for the bum down in the corner over there. They’ll get this a lot quicker with him around”.
What happened next was hard to miss. From where I was standing y 23 sets of dowsing rods could be seen to open, clear and wide, the minute the line of students came within range of the homeless guy. The lesson was clear. All of them could feel it. Anyone could see it. A wave of geopathic stress, flowing in from the West cut right through the stretch of park where the man went to lay his body down and pass out.
While Slim was explaining all of this, and discussing the Law of Resonance with the group, the one who had made it so much easier for everyone to get the picture woke up in the middle of something that he was still too drunk to comprehend. Taking a few minutes to collect himself, self- consciously rearranging his shirt and wetting his whistle with whatever was left in the jug, the bum did his best to look like an average human being as he slowly tuned in to the fact that Slim was about to wander over and slip him ten bucks to thank him for being such an important part of the lesson.
If geopathic stress runs rampant in locations where poverty and destitution are the norm, on the day that Slim and I took the ride over to Manchester, I was still too new at all of this to ask him if the opposite might be true: would affluence abound in areas where it is absent? If that’s how it works, Manchester, Vermont is a vortex of geopathic ‘relaxation’, because it is totally perfect, totally picturesque, and could be considered one of the wealthiest towns in the state.
As soon as we got there we went looking for coffee and wound up in one of those places whose clientele included ‘Birkenstock Hobbits’, book store academics, the local lunch crowd, unemployed trust-fund babies, outlet shopaholics, along with hormonal women and cerebral types who wind up going out for coffee because they’re going bat shit in the house. As you may or may not be aware, New England is a far cry from the Old West. When Slim and I walked into that place, the hum of the universe went silent for a good 40 seconds. It took about that long for us to wind our way to the counter and for the ones who couldn’t believe their eyes to get used to seeing a real, live cowboy in their midst. I think it was a 6-year-old boy who broke the silence when he dropped out of his chair and, before his Mother could stop him, ran over to Slim and asked him if he was the Lone Ranger – Slim answered him by saying “No Sonny; my name is Slim”; at which point, he reached down to shake the boys hand and said; “I am the Lord of the Rings”.
To be continued
Cal Garrison
Is a practicing astrologer with 40 years of experience. An author of five books to her credit, Cal is well known for her affiliation with the late Slim Spurling. A single mother with three grown daughters, Cal lives happily in the red rocks of Sedona, Arizona. She can be reached at cal.garrison@gmail.com