When those memories reach me, those ardent effluvia from April and dawn, indeed, when feeling those refreshing drops of dew falling from heaven, I truly suffer for all of the millions of human beings who dream and weep.
My consciousness awakened, I attained illumination. Where was I going, asleep along the rude cliff, rent in twain? I attentively beheld the firmament; it was very high, its tremendous summit with its vertigo enraptured me. Then, I turned my face away from the deep, soaring height. Thus, I saw the Earth, and it was very low.
The Phoenix Bird, when passing by in swift flight, touched me with its wings of immaculate whiteness. Then, filled with fervour, I prayed, knowing that the perfume of prayer always arrives to God.
My prayer was for the sake of the sleepy ones, for those sincere, mistaken ones who dream that they are awakened, for those failed ones who assume they are doing very well.
The sage dreams of the splendid rose of the magical meadow, that when blooming unfolds its delectable petals to the vespertine star of love.
The long-haired bard dreams of the timid, singing rivulet, which when sliding down across the mountain, seems to melt into silver, transfiguring everything into a filigree that runs and passes.
The unfortunate mother dreams of the son whom she lost in the war. She cannot conceive of a harder fate beyond. Thus, she weeps of her broken joy at the foot of his portrait, while the lightning plays with her torture and even lights an iris in every tear.
Faust dreams of his Marguerite with a peaceful, whitened countenance, covered by the exquisite canopy of her golden hair, a cascade of gold that falls over her alabaster shoulders. What a profound abyss within her pupil: perfidious and bluish as a wave!
When in the frightful claws of pain, the wretched intellectual animal dreams of being Brutus, turning asunder the heart of Caesar; or the dreaded Spartacus, devastating the campaign; or Ulysses in his palace at Ithaca, furiously killing the suitors of his wife; or Tell rejecting with his foot the skiff; or Cleopatra seducing Mark Antony; or Cromwell before the supplication of a Monarch; or Mirabeau in the Tabor of nations; or Bolivar with five liberated countries; or Napoleon on the fields of battle.
The one in love dreams of the star rising resplendently in the east, of that long-awaited rendezvous, of the book that she holds in her hands, and of her romantic window.
The offended husband dreams of an obscure dispute and rebellious quarrel; he suffers the unspeakable and even dies in his nightmare.
The lustful one dreams of the lecherous nakedness of the devilish one, who wallows as a pig within the mud of filthiness.
The drunkard dreams of being a wealthy, young, and brave gentleman of great renown, who is valiant in the battle.
Dreaming was Amado Nervo in his Immovable Beloved and Victor Hugo in Les Miserables. Thus, this lunar type of life is nothing but a web of dreams.
Therefore, those wise elders from the sacred land of the Vedas were not mistaken when they asseverated that this world is Maya (illusion).
Ah… if those wretched people would stop dreaming…! Then, how different life would be…!
The Four Gospels insist on the necessity of awakening the consciousness; however, since these are written in code, no one understands them.
Ineffable remembrances reach my memory in these moments. On a given autumn night, I was amiably conversing with an Adept within the superior worlds.
To converse with a Major Brother in the parallel universes of the Superior Dimensions is indeed something impossible for the sleepy ones, for those wretched people who dream. Fortunately, I am awakened…
Varied was the theme of our conversation. The dialogue was developed in synthesis. Litelantes, while listening, was silent… It is obvious that she is also awakened and enjoys accompanying me… She is my priestess-spouse.
Thus, our conversation delectably flowed as a river of gold which slowly flows through the thick jungle under the sun.
The venerable one wanted to set a meeting with me, here, down in this physical world, in this three-dimensional region. To define factors of time and place was necessary. Litelantes complained, “Twelve midnight, and so far from our home, right there in the center of the city of Mexico…”
Useless were her complaints… He and I set that meeting and uttered our pledged word.
The months of autumn passed away… I was awaiting with very much attention for the longed for new year of 1968.
However, everything passes… I did not have to wait for great lengths, as the longed for night soon arrived.
I left my home early, this is how it had to be, since this is the night of too many visits. Thus, I left with anticipation.
A taxi drove me along the road of Tlalpan towards the Zocalo. I had to get off on the 20 de Noviembre street exactly in one of the corners of Plaza de la Constitucion.
I had to pay for the ride… “How much do I owe you?”
“Two pesos, sir…”
“Here it is, take it.” The driver received the money without even remotely suspecting anything about the motive of my trip. What can a dreaming one know? Could the poor driver know about my studies? What could I expect from him? He was just another dreaming one driving a taxi. That is all.
Thus, I walked in the very center of El Zocalo. I stopped in front of a great post of steel: this was the mast of our national flag. This was the exact place for our meeting. I had to first recognize the place, which I did. However, it was not even ten o’clock yet on that night.
I walked, along the Cinco de Mayo street, very slowly… very slowly. Hence, I arrived at El Parque de la Alameda.
The ice from winter that breathes on the hills, where neither hues or aromas are swaying, was descending in refreshing silvery currents covering the withered prairies.
I sat down on a bench in the park. The cold of that winter night was certainly tremendous. Here, there, and everywhere were children, very well covered with winter clothing, happily playing. Austerely, the elders were conversing about things - maybe very serious and grave, or perhaps not so important. The people in love, with luciferian looks of fire, were smiling. Lights of diverse colors were shining, and among those variegated and painteresque human ensembles of the New Year, costumes were not missing. There were jubilant people enjoying themselves when taking a photograph beside the Three Wise Men.
Smoke bursting forth out of the mountain, obscure nostalgia, strange passions, insatiable thirst, immortal tedium, tender and subconscious longing, undefined and infinite yearnings for the impossible is what humanity experiences in those moments.
Many times, walking close to the crystalline fountains, next to the pines, I contemplated beautiful things, globes of various colors, symbolic representations of the old and new year, chariots pulled by the goats of Capricorn, etc, etc, etc.
Time and time again I slowly walked along the Cinco de Mayo avenue. I approached, on many occasions, the mast of our national flag in the bustling center of Plaza de la Constitucion.
I looked with anxiety around the glorious place. I was relatively alone, and the breaking point for me was that the colorful national pavilion of our country (Mexico), namely, the eagle of the spirit, the sacred serpent, and the nopal (cactus) of willpower, was not illuminated.
Obscure Alexanders and Spartacuses! How far you are from comprehending the whole of this, since, in the bloody labors of war, scattered with laurels and disgrace, you were only idols of clay who fell on the ground and were turned into bits and pieces.
Thus, while in sublime absorption, I delved within my own mind, meditating on the mystery of life and death.
Only half of an hour was lacking to reach the time for the mysterious meeting in question. Many times I silently walked over there, between the Zocalo and La Alameda. Suddenly, looking at the clock, I profoundly sighed while saying with a voice that overwhelmed my own self, “Finally, the hour is near.”
It was necessary to speed my footsteps a little in order to return once again to the place of the longed for meeting.
The bells of the old metropolitan cathedral resounded at fifteen minutes to twelve midnight, when I anxiously stopped in front of the national flag’s mast. Then, I looked around me, inquiring, searching for any sign that could show me the presence of the Master.
Innumerable questions were invading me. Was this Guru incapable of accomplishing our meeting? Maybe this adept did not bring the memory of that commitment to his physical brain?
Finally, oh God of mine! Twelve strokes of the bell announced the New Year, and resounded on the towers of the temple. I then started to feel disappointed, when something unusual happened: I saw three people in front of me. They were a foreign family, maybe North American or British? I did not know.
The gentleman advanced alone towards me. I attentively observed him. Yes, I know those features, that majestic countenance: he is the Master. He congratulated me, hugged me, and wished for me a complete success for the year 1968. Suddenly, he withdrew.
Nonetheless, I noticed in him something strange: he came to me as a somnambulist, unconscious, as if he was impelled by a force superior to him. This overwhelmed me and made me a little sad.
Could it be that the consciousness of that Master is awakened within the superior worlds, yet asleep in the physical world? Indeed, this is something strange, enigmatic, and profound.
After the encounter with the Master, I did not feel disappointed anymore. I felt joy within my heart.
Happily, I advanced towards the atrium of that old cathedral. Yes, I waited, but soon my son Osiris came for me. He came driving his little fire-colored car. He stopped for a while in order to take me and drive me back home.
“Did the Master accomplish the meeting with you?” This was my son’s first question, and since my answer was in the affirmative he clearly was very joyful. Thus, he kept silent.
It is useful to remark that after that event, I had a new interview with the Master within the superior worlds. I thanked him for accomplishing that meeting and I congratulated him. Very happy, that Guru felt satisfied for having had conducted his human personality to the place previously planned.
It is obvious that the Master in himself is what the Hindus name Atman, the Divine Spirit, who is in fusion with his Spiritual Soul (Buddhi).
The Human Soul (Superior Manas), clothed with his terrestrial personality, is what in the mysterious east is wisely denominated “Bodhisattva.”
It is easy to comprehend that the man who came to me was the Bodhisattva of the Master.
However, he (the Bodhisattva) came to me asleep… What pain! He was a fallen Bodhisattva… Nonetheless, the Master was able to control him and conduct him as an automaton, as a marionette, to the place of the meeting.
It is not in any way strange that after having fallen, a Bodhisattva (Human Soul of a Master) becomes lamentably submerged within the dream of the unconsciousness.
In ancient times, in those times in which the rivers of the pure water of life were pouring milk and honey, many Masters lived across the face of the earth.
However, with the advent of the age of Kali Yuga, this Black Age in which we disgracefully live, innumerable Bodhisattvas fell. Thus, the lyre of Orpheus fell upon the floor of the temple and broke into pieces.
The great ancient Divinity has fallen and collapsed. It reposes over one side, its face against the ground. Nevertheless, the heavenly hierarchies are lifting it.