Mother Earth rührt sich und spuckt Lava auf Big Island, die größte Insel von Hawaii. Es ist heiß, rot, schön und bedrohlich zugleich. In den letzten 25 Jahren habe ich immer, egal wo auf der Welt hören sagen:
She was standing before me, a crone with leathery skin and a crepey neck, yet eyes that sparkled with vibrancy and youth that pierced my soul with a knowingness of ageless wisdom. So deeply did her eyes penetrate me, with such discomfort, that I glanced away.
She pointed her crooked, ancient finger back over her shoulder to hot red fields of molten lava that was pouring forth as a rich cake batter might spill in folds upon itself as it emptied from a baker’s mixing bowl.
Through intense heated air, I could see massive pools of percolating magma fed by liquefied rock cascading down a mountain. From the lava pools, four bubbling, red-hot rivers curved downstream away into a distant, smoke-hazed horizon. In a silence where all is understood, the wisdom woman brought forth from her cloak an ordinary shovel and held it out to me.
With her other hand, she pointed upward to the distant falling streams of molten lava. I accepted the shovel and set off in the direction she indicated. With an intuition of knowing the destination and then floating into it with a kind of spiritual thrust, I looked behind me to see if the crone was following, but she had faded into darkness and invisibility with only the sound of her laughter lingering in the aura of fire.
As I started my ascent up the mountain, headed toward the rim of the summit, I could see a fountainhead of the thick folding, churning streams of molten rock. Tightly holding the shovel as my walking stick, I seemed to use a type of dream-will to pole vault and weightlessly propel myself over the streams and pools of liquid fire. Yet, in little time, the intense heat had melted the blade, leaving me only the handle.
But this was of no concern to me as I vision-willed myself to the top of the summit with no constraints of ordinary physics.
In a dimension of experience that was not framed in time and space, I perceived the source of the four rivers of molten rock – a huge black cube, suspended a few feet off the liquid fire ground. Gushing streams of molten magma flowed out of four sides of the black cube to the rim of the summit and cascaded down the mountainside.
What was this mysterious dark cube? How could I reach it?
Feeling the presence of someone other than myself on the precipice of the fiery threshold, I turned my head and there was the wisdom woman standing in her knowingness with a warm and loving smile.
“How could you be here?” I questioned her without words. “Without a walking stick?”
“How can I get to the black cube?”
Her silent language told me to turn to the cube and hold out the remaining shovel stick that I still grasped. Following her inner directive, I turned back to the cube, held out the shovel stick, which seemed to have become an enchanted wand, and struck the cube’s ebony side in an attempt to analyze the strange formation. Instantaneously in a whirl of mystical displacement, I found myself inside the cube, immersed in an enormous volcanic fountainhead.
And there she was. Standing motionless in the middle of the fiery fountain of magma. The wisdom woman.
Her timeworn image had been transformed into a youthful, shimmering beauty, holding an infant in her arms.
Her heavy pleated cloak that had hidden all of her features except her face and hands had become a gossamer gown of sky blue chiffon that barely made modest her naked figure underneath. Her hair fell below her shoulders like opulent strands of silky ribbons in a multitude of hues and tones. Her skin was luscious luminescence. Her face was perfect symmetry. Her eyes sparkled with vibrancy and youth.
She approached me and with a mother’s tender love placed the baby in my arms.
Holding the infant and gazing into its face, rushing imaginations flooded through me. The infant became a mirror of recognition.
“This child is me,” my soul reflected.
I saw my life stream forward in time as the four rivers of magma gushed from the cube.
I was the child growing into what I had become, quite unconscious of the guiding forces of the wisdom woman who stood before me as mother, maiden, crone, hidden Goddess.
Once hesitant to look into the eyes of the crone, I now hungered to look into her wisdom gaze to give me knowledge of myself. Our eyes met and her wordless language began to pour into my heart and soul.
“You have traveled this path of fire and heat, given only a simple shovel,” she thought into me. “By trusting forces beyond your physical experience, you willed yourself over fiery obstacles and up to the volcano summit.”
“Then, trusting your intuition in a place where no logic seemed operative,” she continued, “you awakened your consciousness to a time and space defying the act of holding yourself as a babe.’
Her parting thoughts to me resounded as I began to wake from my dream.
“It is time,” she said.
“Time for what?” I asked.
She smiled knowingly. “It is time to birth your higher self.”