You explain to me the samurai technique to get rid of negative energy. Seriously, you show me the gestures: your hands are dusting your arms in a precise order. I’m laughing. I saw this thirty years ago in a Kurosawa movie. A 16th-century Japanese ritual that was picked up by Kenyoku Reiki. That’s enough. Forget it. Five centuries have passed on a distant rite. I have better training to give you.
Listen to your body, it knows. Don’t look for a ritual to copy or a master to obey. From the moment you feel what is happening in you, you will no longer need a master. It is your body that will be your master. Without taking the slightest risk, you can obey him in every way. He will not ask you to register with his fan club. You won’t have to pay it a monthly fee. You don’t have to buy a photo to adore between two teapot candles. Your body is yours, it does not bragging. It is no guru.
Take advantage of its knowledge that sleeps in a closet. You locked it there one day as it embarrassed you. Time has passed. Your body is forgotten. Do you want to wake it? Sorry. Now its line is busy. This faithful servant no longer holds the line. Hampered too long, it’s heavy and squeaky like a rusty robot.
As long as you listen to your body, as long as you let it act without constraint, with respect for others and for your way, the one with heart, what can happen to you? Respect the justice, the equity, the laws of your country or go to live alone on a desert island — if there is any left. But first, listen to your body.
Yes, who are you, you who read this page randomly from the web? A warrior of light? I am speaking to them. Someone who worked on himself with patience and perseverance, who toiled against all odds, who has tamed his passions, changed his faults, eradicated his sharp wounds — someone good. A straight woman, a loving man. Following the law of love is the condition for understanding my writings. Those who walk towards horror by cultivating hatred have nothing to do here. I am not writing for them. That they find elsewhere their vile pasture, that they make hard life, I don’t care.
I write for the righteous. For people of faith who have gone beyond. Religious spirits who have passed the stage of submission and are seeking the way. Those who feel ready to cut their heads, to climb without failing the high mountain inside themselves, those who love and sow.
There is the consumer. Greedy, wishy-washy and never satisfied. If the menu requires no effort, it still requires it. Gaping, placid and muzzle, I walk my grumpy groin on ads and promos. Where can I find the courage I lack for free? What internship is given? What distraction will make me believe that I have progressed?
The steep path that leads to yourself is exhausting. But you get rewards at every step. Let’s say every ten steps. Let’s make a hundred. Finally from time to time. One day will come the moment to breathe. You wait for it. After the effort, comfort. But without a real effort, insistent, permanent, comfort is illusory and wearies you as much.
There is the glutton who is his cousin. He also consumes with greed. He doesn’t care about quality. Is this training for me? What does it matter to me? It is there. I take it, I eat it and I look elsewhere. Devour other lures, other wells of wisdom where I cannot drink. Other inaccessible peaks that will make me believe. But grow? Never. Grow? If I like it. What do you expect from life? What gratuitous pleasures? Are you there as a onlooker? As a goujat? As a bastard? Have you nothing in your arms, have you nothing in your heart?
This road, as you can imagine, goes down to the shallows. No matter what the cost, you have to choose the way that goes up. Away from the wall of shame. The path to yourself is hard. Sure. If you choose life, you will be your only guide and you will surpass yourself. Beyond yourself, you will find peace. The silence and joy of the summits. To find oneself in the land of the gods compensates for the absence of stupid distractions.
They all are. On this path, you doubt. You often want to change the road. Your ideal costs you and others don’t care. If you listen to them, you won’t care either. You can walk down the path of worry without saying hello or thank you. For you, everything is over. Wait for who. Wait for another life. That’s gone.
When you incarnated, you carried the wisdom and the memory of the other world. The day you were born, you were still sailing on the ethereal azure. What happened to you? What bitter pit did you fall into? You can get up. For so long, nothing is ever finished.
That’s your goal. Conquest. Take the fortress where the dragon sleeps on your gold. Get yourself together again. You can. You want it. Take your bag, put it on your shoulder and go. The effort will carry you. Tomorrow you will laugh. What is obtained without effort is no comfort. He who believes himself strong must test himself first. He still fights with himself. Jihad, the authentic, is that fight against himself. To chase away that which obstructs, that which weighs down, that which sinks. It is a question of climbing, rising towards the azure, of heading towards the tops.
You must conquer yourself. Defeat with willpower. Calm down when you lean, grasp when you flinch. The avalanche flow is white and revenge too. But the victory is golden. You climb, climb this path from the strongest. Steep, difficult, exhausting home that will become yours. You won’t change it for anything else. Hear the good apostles and their deceitful discourses. It is the chorus of fear. Your victory is ahead, higher, further, they know it. They have nothing. They see you rise, you make them endeavor, they would want you exhausted. The day is not up that shook you badly.
You have reached the top that braved you. You have nothing to prove, you almost died so hard. The folds, the habits and your incompleteness almost got you, but you didn’t. From bailiwick to coppice, your courage has conquered the slopes. One by one, your faults repent. With great strides, you survey your high residence. See in the immense sky an eagle soaring. He has your resilience. Your strength. Your constancy and perseverance. The air he drinks is for you. He won’t kill you. His wings open their arms.
In your lungs, receive the aether of the conquerors. What is more valiant than a knight of heaven? Using the rainbow to smell the essence, you think you’re the eagle. It’s tempting. The path has climbed for so long, you think you are cleansed. Pride is still there that makes you stumble. The throne and the pyre all of a sudden close together, you understand without flinching that it is not yet harnessed, this hard-boiled burden, this well hidden ego that returns to catch you.
Everything that has really helped you has been taught by your body. He is your only guide. It contains in its chains of secret DNA and extremely ancient know-how. Past lives, inner lives and outer lives have enriched this DNA in unimaginable proportions. Our body is a terra incognita for current science, which insists on observing everything through the little end of the telescope. It clings to details that it magnifies, ruining the overall vision. Tomorrow it will deny this mistake in the name of another blunder even worse yet.
The whole vision is given by the body. The eyes reduce. The five senses reduce and harm us. We need more, which we have, but we don’t know. Listen to your body, it knows. What does it know? Everything you don’t know. All that science denies. Ten thousand more objects! Without counting patience.
Your body is a standard meter. It serves as a reference and comparison to all that is seen, felt, lived and perceived by the vast world and its suburbs. Your body is the original armor with which you can face the infinite mazes of the multiverse. Absolute GPS, it guides you and enlightens you. He is your vehicle, your shelter, your cloak of flesh that pulsates and touches. Without place you would be nothing but stone and plant. Through him the flesh assumes your bones, your stone teeth and your plant hair. Everything is concentrated in him. And as long as you live in it, your body is your referee. Your heart is its desk, it teaches you to love. Your head is its pot, it secretly concocts lost recipes, hacked by your rigged brain.
You must descend into yourself to ascend to your top. Join the irresistible power of the belly, unknown, forgotten secret. We’ve become body-less techno-robots. Put your heart to port and your liver to starboard. Join the body pilgrims, walking by common accord the steep paths where still shines an old song that sings on three chords how important the body is to whoever seeks the port.
Your body is connected. Question it. You’ll be answered in the eternal support of the language of the dead, ie living golden language. Birds language.
–Wait before acting. The green light comes from the body. Give it time to be on time. It waits for you if you hear the moment. Not from time to time, hear it all the time.
–Act before reflecting. Don’t let your brain draw its programs. Your brain has no soul. But your soul has your body that she uses first if she has your permission.
–Reflect only the light. In this case the brain gives only its gold. Through the eyes its light comes out. It floods your heart and mind with the infinite grace of your body. Your whole person is blessed.
You will have no excuse. You will have only your body. You will have only the wind to defeat you or lose it. You will no longer have time. You will no longer have a cat waiting for you. You will only have a moment. When will you be happy? I tell and you hear me. So long you wait. His disturbing silence that doesn’t care about time. He’s here for a long time. But you still hang around like a silver dragon who knows that every moment will be paid in cash. What insulting pride!
Awaken and watch also, sweeping away the worries, the that, the this, your famous shortcuts. When you lambines so, the passers-by raise their eyebrows. If they can drive. If they’re still alive. If their body is no hive. If your friend isn’t rusty. If the crumb becomes crusty. If the road learns the rout. If it costs you to doubt, add a dildo of luck, add a drop to your cup so that the eye listens to what your ear sees. In the future, the same is your past that scratches and disengages in the middle of the climb. Cheer your dead fear and boast the coast.
Here comes death that does not kill the body. Death that revives. The water of life that intoxicates and sanctifies your body. Without regret or remorse come to welcome your death. You will live better by flying in the heavens. The pride chariot advances by squeaking axles. Your body has been berned under the stern. It must be rated and calibrated.
Before the stallion could rate and calibrate, it has to be calibrated. The nice task falls to the newly awakened. To regain yourself, you must acquire the keys that will open the treasure chests. The hundred keys of your body. First you’ll feel it pricking here and there, with long chills you don’t know, spurts, stings, ants in the fingers and tingling in the extremities. Ask yourself each time: what does this sign say? What does it warn me of? What future does it predict?
For too long lost on the uncharted island, you have ignored the signs of your body. It will whisper to your third ear the secrets hidden in your hands, in your arms, your legs and your feet. I cannot tell you. My codes are personal, each of us have his own. To loosen your ties better, you must find yours.
I know the method and I pass on the code. You have to ask me. If I accept your visit, I receive you here in the paradise of Erquy. Write. I read all the e-mails. I sort them out. Go ahead. Ask. Wait. I will answer as soon as I have the agreement of the above. It is the body over your body. It sees you better than you do. It is your king. You knew it. My lord and my right, you yell in the fight. Disappointed heart. You’re falling apart. I will speak for you until you be new.
The reiki I teach you
Is not from Kalamazoo.
My true reiki
Comes from Erquy.
They wanted to change the world, but the world doesn’t want to change. It’s an…
We are dealing with two Christianisms in Britain, the British and the Celts.
This large carved stone poses a host of questions to which I will try to…
"Pharaonic Egypt is an African civilization, developed in Africa by Africans":
You know the seven chakras on the body of energy. What about the others?