Anyway, we did not take the offer of taking the bikes to the site and we started, valiantly, on foot. After the all you can eat breakfast and checking the 24 hours coffee statement (at 6 am, descending to get a cup for my dream companion, the reception clerk, barely awake, told me that it was too early for 24 hours). The lack was, anyway, compensated by the generous offer – a bottle of cold water for each of us – to accompany us on the way to the Site.
Delphi, off season, is delicious. Fit for a honeymoon, with sleepy stores, containing all sorts of stuff for tourists, that final apathy, melancholic restaurants enjoying every client.
We pass a lot of oleanders in bloom, on the impeccably done road (I have just realized it’s been 15 years since I last came here, and a lot changed) and a fig tree about to yield its ripe fruit. A., of course, is picking whatever she can reach among the darg green leaves, oozing the end of summer feel.
The entrance and the museum are handbook perfect, superb. We get tickets for the site and museum, and enter that Disneyland trip that takes you into the dark, soft night of Pythia’s Earth, then to the Sun of Apollo and to our date with the Gods, in the upper stadium.
There are some groups, but not very many, and that gives us time to dangle our feet by the rock of the priestesses that once foretold the future, meditate by the altar of Apollo’s temple, watch the numerous “banks”, well, well, are we having some treasuries here or what…. But, mostly, smell the nectar that flows from the top. To my disappointment, the stadium is now separated with a thick rope, one cannot sit in the middle anymore, as I did last time, in the middle of the pouring streams of Light. They have banned the acces, and that comes with another set of stupid museum rules, such as ” no taking photos of people with statues”. I don’t get it.
So we cross over the rope line, take a few steps to see the nearby caves. I. is going on his own quest while we open the mini altar to meditate. There is a sense of silent power to this place. When the family gets reunited, going back on the tourist path, I do my usual thing> looking around, I stumble and my left knee takes a good hit. Ripped white pants, blood flowing. The connection opens immediately. Previous such accidents: going up to Ephesus, in the middle of Champs Elyees and near a 14th century Saxon church, in the heart of Romania. Hmmmm.
Yes, it is a special place indeed. Limestone, stromatolites, phosphates, and for the icing, a fault. I leave the conclusions to the experts. Geologists are talking about cryptocrystalline poles. For the untrained ones, there is a great synonym to all this: MAGIC. Strange things happen in Delphi. We are being followed by extremely friendly cats… Of course, all attracted by I.’s “magnet”. What happens next is always the same scenario. Purring and carressing and claws digging into the fine weaving of the handmade shirt bought in Bran, that traveled to Bucharest, Vancouver, the Amazon and here, before it will return to its source.
Another weird thing is the sudden meeting, in the middle of the amphitheater, with a friend that took part in our in Bucharest. An extremely improbable connection: he is on his way back home, we are in the middle of our explorer’s trip. Time for some bear hugs and a lot of wonder around this meeting here.
Stopping for the well chilled rooms of the museum, we enjoy with the winged Sphinx and old, old portraits of the first inhabitants of these miraculous lands. Old symbols are to be found all around us and it seems like those ancient stones, excavated at the beginning of the previous century after relocating the entire community that lived there, are distinctly singing. There is a deep, persistent, harmonious buzz and it is definitely not any kind of high blood pressure sound.
DupSfter all that energy and culture, we deserve a frozen lemonade on the terrace. Poor sick thin cats beg for a bit of food. A little one is barely walking, exhausted and hungry. It will be a miracle if he makes it. The mother is so thin that the spine is visible and she is waiting for a morsel from tourists to convert it into the so needed milk. I do not know why, but the animals’ suffering torments me so much more than the human ones. Because humans can ask for help and they can receive it. Anymals only know how to give you that heart tearing look.
Sensations fade as we take the road back to the hotel, with a compulsory stop in one of the few open restaurants. Greek food, delicious lemonade and desert on the house… what else can you ask for?
Well, you can. Because the show is part of the price you pay here, we enjoy the scene made by a Greek woman, a bit over ripe, guiding three Americans. Her hormones are jumping all around, it is visible from the distance. But the plan is overturned by A., who does what she usually does: her swinging steps, her stunning look and the black abyss that opens under her long lashes makes the Americans twist their necks and follow her. “Dad” enters the protection mode, and the invisible cloak , well armored, surrounds us and gives the Greek cougar the second chance for a crazy foursome afternoon.
Less crazy, we fall in bed for an hour of recoup, but after that the rummaging fever la fethat makes us want to see, feel, absorb more, takes us on a spectacular curvy road, down, to the sea. The Gulf of Corinth is almost isolated from the sea, and the lack of currents is visible. The sea is pale and dirty, our swim suits prove to be useless, and the only thing we can do is to take a walk in the open air market of the village on the shore, resulting in some slippers and Turkish delight, before returning to the base camp for a dinner with a view, stories around a bottle of wine. The sea, seens from miles away, beyond the olive tree orchards at the foothills of Parnassus,looks like a magic promise.
Wearing our swim suits, we effectively float down to the neat breakfast, prepared by the Greek guy that works all day. Giving in to the local yogurt, creamy like no other, and THOSE olives…. Yes. Olives, yogurt and oil, nothing else needed.
Heading to the beach on the well groomed boardwalk belonging to the tiny clean and neat hotel, we manage to avoid drowning into the fine sand before reaching the lounge chairs offered for free and another. So nice we do not have to breathe anyone’s cigarette smoke, not to mention that almost no one smokes here. Most of the guests are French and German . Everything is sparkling clean, the small pool is impeccable, the Greek sweeps, scrubs, sets everything in order after finishing the breakfast buffet preparations.
The Aegean Sea is blue and clear, smooth and salty, warm, in spite of the early hours. So we float and swim for a long time, with our eyes on the Olympus, visible for the first time in weeks, as our colleague tells us, chatting with the newly revitalized neigbor. The Germans and Dutch must have landed in Thessaloniki, for this little airport is full of charter flights during the summer. Typically quiet families, with or without children, and if there are children one cannot notice the typical yelling, screaming and repremending the families perform at our seaside. We enjoy that Time-NoTime for another dive, sleepy and slow, into the majestic energy of this place that brings you back into Harmony, dominated by the great mountain and soothed by the sea. And this continues until the first nasty jellyfish shows up. I suddenly understand the meaning of the hundreds of colored nets, magnified versions of the aquarium nets, one can see in every tiny beachware kiosk. There must be some serious fishing here :). So we grab our stuff, nicely pay the same Greek who takes care of the reception desk, as well, stay a bit longer to enjoy the terrace wi-fi, solve the work stuff and after that it is time to get back in our car, lady-like. The license plate, Romanian, translates as DREAM. And we head straight into the hottest day of the month in Athens. 39 Celsius, almost september….
The Opel 4 x 4, bearing proudly the nickname of The Little One, shows obvious signs of no air conditioning. What a coincidence. Last evening it was working perfectly, so losing freon is the first hypothesis we exclude. That is unless the Aegean SEa sharks come to the shore after midnight to bite cooling agent tanks. We hae to live with the idea we will drive having the windows down… should be nice on the highway… music would be redundant…. and hair blown by the wind, like fairies.
The road to Athens, almost entirely highway, is incredible. We wind through spectacular mountains, admire the Greeks, working like ants to finish a missing segment of the highway… and pay a ton of road taxes. Summing up to more than 30 euro. Passing by huge rocks in delicate balance, old forts, no time to stop, the heart races saying quicker, quicker, and by fields impregnated with a slightly suspect smell… is it organic agriculture??
The bright pink lipstick and Cleopatra eyes of the driver produce the first victim. A gentleman driving a nice silver Audi is passing us, then slowing, getting behind us, and when we stop at a gas station for refueling, he pulls over next to us to report. the rack in the back of the car, the shirts are nicely ironed. He is obviously on a business trip. But tomorrow evening he is free, and A. gets a phone number and a really polite invite. Should she call, he would be really happy. Two sodas came as a polite offering, as well, and we can but thank him and proceed. Another stop, in the heat of the day, in one of those beautiful, air-conditioned expensive places on the side of the higway, supplies a little bit of breathing and a Cafe Frappe like no other. Greeks know their business.
Our GPS with a male voice, freshly baptized on the road to Thessaloniki with the glorious name of Gitsa drives us into Athens with only one failure – the maps are not updated and we get into a wrong way. Here we are, into the heart of the city, next to Monastiraki (Thanks, Free Spirit Travel, for inspiration and reservation) and park on the free spot that seems to have been waiting for us, to check in quickly and touch again the old stones of Plaka, the charming old neighborhood of Athens.
Waiting for a friend that I seem to meet only during trips, in the country and outside, we get back into the heat, from the chill of the air-conditioned rooms. The schorching afternoon of the end of August lets us drift, with water bottles in our hands through the labyrinth of medieval tiny streets. Athens is heartbreaking after the crisis. The number of deserted stores is overwhelming. My previous memory of the area hits a dismaying present time, but MOnastriraki is as alive as it always was. With singers, acrobats, jugglers and lights, African drums…
Stopping at a Henna tattoo maker, we teach him the first Angelic symbols of his life and he correctly paints them, then A. falls in love with an intricate opal elbow braceet and the matching necklace, made of twisted silver wire. I used to be magnetically attracted to such things and now I am totally detached. The stores ooze the same melange of scents, sounds and colors, nicely sparkling. Stopping for a real Greek salad – I do not know how or why, but the real Greek salad is to be found only where Greeks make it – we enjoy the Feta cheese… the strong taste olive oil… the organo and the crunchy vegetables. There is this je ene sais quois that is matched only by Ouzo, and here we are, jumping into a metro that takes much longer than we were originally thinking, and we get to meet I., who lands, coming from the other side of the Earth.
The metro is packed with old people, giving us odd looks and making us use the ouzo encouragement for showing these guys a lipstick lesson. The chairs next to us suddenly empty 🙂 and we land, about 10 mins late, in the airport, to collect a worried I. who had no roaming service on his Romanian phone. Things float back into normal, like nothing happened and the summer months were just a pause between an outbreath and an inbreath. A short, insignificant pause.
And the story goes on. Wonders are just starting. On the hotel terrace, in the velvet August night, eyes on the Acropolis – the Higher City – love and joy are flowing. We are back on track.
When spending enough time in your inner space, the perceptions amplify and you can enter into some kind of a resonance with whatever surrounds you. The roads you take become inner explorations, offering information, the pause moments allow you to digest whatever you received, and the nights turn into fantastic adventures revealing the unknown.
Shamans all over the world speak about Signs and their importance: they say sometimes one can see minute but important things, showing up in the corner of one’s eye, or at the edge of consciousness, like spontaneous knowing states. d
A few steps away from the bed and breakfast there is an ancient carved rock complex called Aluniş. In the first day, we wanted to come here, on top of the caves of monks and the stone carved church, on the ancient ceremonial platform, broken by the slow movement of tectonic plates and the eathquakes that also shattered the Agatons. Now this platform is tilted. The place, called God’s Throne, or Zalmoxis ‘ Throne, is like a small stone seat located in teh middle of what once was a great horizontal slate. Diana says there were sacrifices, we can feel offerings, milk and honey pouring on the old warm stone, not blood. Ceremonies were held here since the beginning of time. Access is dificult, either you try to climb the rocks on the side with the cells, or the steep slope in the forest that follows the line of the former monumental steps that now lie buried under meters of dirt, only the top stones of the separation walls barely visible today.
We climb, dressed in white, with all needed supplies in our backpacks, for the final contact with the translucent surreality of these lands laden with knowledge like a transparent glass hard disk that one must first find to be able to then read it. Two dogs from the bed and breakfast are accompanying us like silent watchers sent by Mother Earth, and we are surrounded by huge ants: the sign of self sacrifice for the collective benefit, giving up the ego and effort that does not expect any reward.
Among serene trees grown on what used to be a grand ceremony platform, we are welcomed by a thunder out of the blue sky. The Voice of the Old Ones is already familiar: we heard it at the Carpathian Sphynx, in the Valley of Cozana, yesterday, at the Agatons. Since hearing the name of Agaton given to the two monumental constructions, former pillars of the Golden Fortress, today monk cells visited and enlightened by the lightworker monks around, I had the feeling that this is not just a name, it should have a meaning, because Greek was the cult language for centuries and this would have been the only way to carry further the hidden meaning.
And here we are: Agathon, To (Greek) means overall good, as a principle, highest good, in the moral sense, summum bonum; Platon uses this name for an aspect of Divine also called the unmanifest, or the Original Word (Logos). The best Sanskrit equivalent is Paramatman. The Pole of Goodness, expressed in a binary formula – the male and the female principle. God’s Finger on the heart of the believers out here. How much sense this makes.
So that we hail the Great White Light from the Throne of God, and then thanks the Four Directions for four days of wonders, before descending with great effort and sacrifice (one unstable rock slipped downhill and hit one of us – there was blood and bruising and ice packing and antiinflamatory ointment). The general sensation we have is one of being afloat, and all human aspects seem so small and insignificant when compared to the overwhelming wisdom of these super-human places, that a part of us wishes we stayed here forever. I understand the aspiration of the soul that accompanied us along these days. We nicknamed him Frodo, because that man, dressed in turquoise, and walking barefoot, remininded us of the hobbits walking in the Lord of the Rings. Frodo got from us food, love, understanding and as much guidance as we could offer, and Father Isidor enveloped him in the warmth of his advice about seeking a Master if he wants to try being a hermit as a personal perfection way, explaining that this path might be dangerous if not properly guided by someone who knows the mysteries and traps of solitude.
It seems, too, that these lands sanctioned any unauthorized attempt or intrusion that lacked the proper knowledge. There are stories about locals disappearing from next to the Drilled Stone, with their ox-driven cart, reappearing without the animals and the vehicle next to Targoviste, a few hundred miles away, and having to beg for money to return home. They had come to these mountains looking for treasures…
A treasure is buried deep, close to the cross we saw yesterday. The hiding place had a sort of air pipe that locals had known for a long time. This place punished the one who tried to go down this air passage to steal the gold of the high officer: it has been said that once lowered into the pit, hanging by the dog’s chain (it seems they had to drag their dog by the chain, the animal did not want to come to that place), the man started screaming in terror: The Dragon! The Dragon!. Once pulled up to the surface, his face pale with fear, he could not speak a word more, and two days later he perished mysteriously. So the locals decided to leave Nature to its course, and the trees and bushes covered the secret passage forever.
Offering to the paths of Knowledge your effort, may it be a bit of time or some sweat to pass, physically, the mountain ridge, climbing to one rock to the next one to get to the Valley of Wonders, you receive signs.
The days we spent in the heart of Buzău Mountains came with such signs, and the ones I received were
The Stag Beetle: this weird insect’s message comes from the Egyptian tradition, where it represented God Kephra, the MidNight. It is the one carrying the Sun between its horns passing it through the winter, and the meanings are connected on one hand to death and rebirth and on the other hand to transcended Love.
The GrassHopper: trust in the Greater Plan, encouraging you to take the leap of faith, knowing you would be supported, to continue your way, because a new stage in your life is beginning. The grasshopper never leaps back, but always forward.
There is a lot to meditate on what stones, animale, plants and insects told us. One thing is clear: in order to hear their message, you have to be here, now, searching and touching everything, feeling, invisibly, the signs and signals coming in such places of power. This takes you out of the bad habit of dwelling in thoughts about past and fear for future. This only is enough of a reason to try the difficult and treacherous path to the mysteries safekept by generations of high priests, hermits, monks and lightworkers that kept the message alive, until the day humankind could get out of its decay to re-learn and re-acquire the ways of perfection and beauty.
The third day in the Land of Luana might be called super-human, in all aspects. Tracks, people, places and events – all in a puzzling mix of coincidences and experiences that surpass by far the laws of statistics.
The sunrise comes after an almost sleepless night, in which each episode of sleep is interrupted by waves of energy waking me up in a cycle of 30 minutes. I do not know if I slept one hour in total. The first solid impression of todaya, a vision, shows me a grand stone ring, a passage like a deformed Stargate, it is gold with a pink aura and I get the information that this is the pass to the Golden Fortress – the place where we should stop to get the Gifts. I also get someting about a certain Filimon, and decide to ask the more knowledgeable ones about this. Who is this mysterious guardian of the Golden Fortress.
Diana arrives around 10.00, exasperated that the second group she was supposed to bring today was late, and, on top of that, one of its members is in no hurry and stopped for a coffee in our bed and breakfast restaurant… Eventually, we all gather and start again on the way through the hayfields, only this time, instead of turning right, as we did yesterday, we are following the deep imprints of the tractor tyres, shaped in the clay that gets soft each time the storm brings heavy rain. Up, up, higher, in a terrible, exhausting climb, with no horizontal sections, until we reach the ridge. I do not know which was more difficult: the sprint on the steep edge of the giant bucket, yesterday, or today’s climbing marathon..
The first stop is what is called the Drilled Stone. Drilled, because it is not just a natural hole, but one created bz the intention, hand and skill of the humans.there is a cell carved in the massive rock of the precipitous mountain wall, with an altar that points to the North (!) and full, in addition to the signatures of all fools that reach even this distant spot, of Malta crosses, angelic signs and all kinds of writing, one older than the other. The place looks quite normal, but most of the photos reveal an unseen green aura, a light that oozes out of the carved stone walls. A few yards higher, a triangular corridor seems to lead to the Core of the Earth. Whitish milky shapes populate the rigorous space, descending to unknown interior realms. Some steps away, the bed and breakfast dog who accompanied us is pointing to a cross, marked with a solar symbol and another pair of symbols to ts right and left. The place is full of triangles, visible either with the physical eye or the inner one, and signs of Union of Polarities.
Fifty yards lower, a saving well refills our water bottles with clear though weird smelling cold water. Swallowing a sweet biscuit to re-energize, we start again towards the Agatons. On the steep, rocky track, full of dead slippery leaves, we meet yet another guardian of this place – a weird rock bearing the foot tracks of animals, men and non humans (the foot track of a four-toed sole is quite visible), like they were imprinted when the rock was soft like a paste, and then hardened by some kind of a miracle.
The inner voice whispers “Storing Disk” and I touch with my hand this grand memory marked by paws, hands and feet, claws and toes, so that in the next second my hearing gets invaded by thousands of whispers, transforming into a solid buzz, like the one of the high power lines, and the awareness of a large quantity of information hidden in this strange external memory hard disk.
We walk a bit more and stop to rest in a meadow, chanting the Guru Mantra – the invocation of Supreme Teacher, not knowing what hidden lines this incantation is igniting through the transparent air of the June noon.
The track climbs again, over slopes full of painfully cut trees, to the top: the path rides this beautiful ridge, up and down, we are sinking in a green sea of smooth, wavy tall grass, blown by the specific ridge winbd. The Mountains of Buzău are not tall.. but they are not a child’s game, either. Once on the top, clouds begin to gather, thunders start and Diana is herding us, pushing to get to the forest until the rain starts, but we stubbornly ask, in Love, the couds to part and spare the cold shower. Miracle: after only a few random drops, the clouds part ont eh two sides of the ridge. We were about to find, some six hours later, that it rained only on the middle of the slopes, and the storm went around the ridge without touching it .
A gruesome, very steep descent without support points and on that slippery, leaf-covered soil, brings us, in about half an hour of torment to a place that makes me yell: this is the one, this is the place! It is the stone ring, a little more gray than the one in the vision, a little more irregular, but as soon as we pass through it we find the Space. Out of the huge megalithic stone, a little church and some cells were carved, many centuries ago., I find a kind of a shelf carved in the stone wall, marked with a pyramid ending into a cube and continued with another upside down pyramid on top of it. The place draws me like a secret connection, and Diana tells me laughing: you are sitting in the reserved place of the grand priests.
Two monkss show up like they materialized from the ground. One of them is dressed in black, he reprimands us and disciplines the group. The other is dressed in… blue, an unusual color for an Orthodox Christian monk, wears grandpa glasses and a Christ smile. He accompanies us further, because Diana asks me to see “the other place” as well before deciding to sit and meditate. So we proceed, together with Father Isisdore, to the Old Agaton.
She was right. Because these two Agatons are the pillars of a gigantinc gate once opening to grant access to the Golden Fortress. Three quarters buried today, but one can still see the megalithiv walls and constructions. So we sit down, getting ready to receive th Gifts we came for, on such a long and unforgiving track. nu îl văd “şi pe celălalt”.
We sit down, gasping for air, feet feeling heavy like boulders. Lining up in a circle, on the rocky plateau beneath the old walls, we are a bit shy and do not want to offend the monk’s belief by chanting foreign mantras or decreeing, and I spend a minute thinking about what to do. The monk-priest’s soul reacts and he asks me what I was thinking of. I automatically reply: “Christ Consciousness”, and he explains that meditation should be supported not by long prayers, but by very short ones… meaning, in our language, mantras. He offers one that sounds like this:
Things are becoming more and more interesting, the Brother is studying the Tibetan bells and incense sticks, plays with them and asks where they come from. He gets as a gift what is left from the Green Tara box of incense, then watches us from a distance while we meditate and comes back when we finish, to tell us he liked it a lot. I present a little offering on behalf of the group and he receives it, modestly saying he is not yet ready to become a teacher. He looks deep into my soul with his clear blue eyes: “There are no coincidences. I was supposed to come here yesterday, not today”. So I got to understand that he felt us and was curious to see and evaluate (the first thing he did in the original meeting place was to slowly scan each of us). I tell him I know he saw us and he replies: ” I am a blind man walking the Path…” but I still know he heard us .
He was supposed to descend to the cell of Dionisie the Spinner to spend the night. He slept there last night as well. This blue monk , strange and profound, carries with him a minuscule backpack, a foam thin mattress and a sleeping bag. He tells us how he was visited by a bat the previous night. His body smells clean and the words keep none of the compicated, cryptic and archaic language of the typical orthodox priests.
He speaks about being clean channels to receive the Holy Ghost and I am astonished at the similarity of these words with the messages I teach in the Reiki classes. It is like he is hearing and connecting to my thoughts.
The dense, golden energy of this place makes us dizzy, and so does the set of gifts received in meditation, the aparition of this teacher sent by the mantra chants in the meadow, and I look at the AGatons, huge gates of a place once inhabited by high Light Servers only, from times before time until today, when these humble Orthodox monks attend them to keep the spirit alive. The mind’s eye sees, on the left and right sides of the enormous entry gates, two golden tall silhouettes, made of rays, resembling to the ones in the Lord of the Rings, Watchers of the frontier between realms.
Under the grand gate, as the Keeper tells us, there is a huge sculpture of head of a tarabostes (a high rank Dacian). I know it is the face of the Great Blue Light Steward, guarding from timelesness the magical domain of the fortress where many have spent futile months looking for gold.
On the slope of the mountain we start a treacherous track, because the path has been softened by rain and each step is a potential slide into the gap. After passing this final barrier, we run into another obstacle: a long portion barred by cut pines, huge trees brought down while still green, like someone wanted to replicate the spiky fence protecting the Sleeping Beauty. Passing tree by tree, scratched, bruised and determined, we get to the top called Ţurţudui. The highest peak, speaking about direct contact with God. Diana has yet another story about a platform where space and time melted, people and animals vanishing from that area, to be found hundreds of miles away.
In the eighties, the Communists ordered the destruction of this place…. and the top was blown up with dynamit. Then the grand pines were cut to make almost impossible any ascent to this Romanian Athos, where a vertical column of light is beaming and where space and time buzz and tremble like they are about to lose their structure. The top of the mountain is like a huge communication antenna, made of light, powered by unknown technology, hidden under the layer of white stones and dead pine trees. And we sit in this light column, looking outside or inside. Father Isidore and Diana confirm our feeling of light and the realisation of the incredible magic of the place, telling us here anyone is closer to God, and I can feel the wide band connection with the One That Is, that illusive and distant goal of hundreds of generations, at the other end of the column of light.
The road goes on the side of the mountain to the Cross of the Spatharios (find out more about this category of imperial bodyguards at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spatharios). Another place imbibed with old energies and ancient symbols, from Vedic to angelic ones. Hungry mosquitos devour us while we listen to other stories about treasures, told by Diana, before we start to descedn quickly back to the valley, since it is late and we must reach home before the nightfall.
On our way, another stop for another ancient stone carved complex, but the legs are tired and do not want another steep descent, they only want to step on the mild path, avoiding the ups and downs, until the ridge track is over and we can plunge down back into the world.
Large heavy golden crowns seem to sit on the tops of our heads, and the body is one second here, another second there, as the feet automatically process the way down. We float in a dreamlike state, in a trance, back, lower and lower. The new software is working in the body, reprogramming us. Human respurses would be insufficient for the 18 km of mountain tracks made by untrained people in 11 hours of trekking.
In the Upper World, the laws are different, the sky is weird, the stones radiate and whisper, the mountains have a large bandwidth connection with God, and spiritual teachers materialize out of thin air when sought for. It has been a super-human day, from all points of view. Living between the 3D and the superior reality, we get ready for the supermoon night, that will pass us into the Sacred Trinity day of the Orthodox Solstice celebrations. The soft, mellow magic of the Sanziene, which translate as Sacred Goddesses, female Masters of Midsummer, brings joy, love and fertility and it is to be celebrated with a grand fire, and a wheel of song, accompanied by the invocation for increasing and growing everything that is good in our lives, as we bring to the Romanian lands the ancestors’ songs from North American prairies and the sound of the shamanic instruments from the sister continent in the South. The bed and breakfast owner is watching us, carefully, from a distance, drawn into the same magic.
This magic place is situated in Romania, at the turn of the Carpathian Mountains. After passing the city of Buzău one enters places where hills grow tall and the road goes up and down, winding and twisting in sharp curves, on steep slopes. Entering the Myth. Overcoming the broken asphalt and the country roads, the daring ones can reach a realm that is isolated from the rest of the world by a giant invisible curtain. Beyond this lies hidden like a treasure held by our Planet’s hands: a seed of Light.
In the village of Aluniş, a building that resembles rather a mountain chalet than a museum hosts large amber pieces in all colors. The huge storage of honey-like drops crystallized through 60 million years, a story sleeps in each translucent gold, green, red or black drop. Large pieces radiate like silent lighthouses. Smaller ones seem ready to wrap around a woman’s hand or hang near a child’s heart. The place vibrates with an energy that wipes like a sponge any trace of hunger or fatigue. The lady attending the collections is looking at us, with her clear, child-like blue eyes, and tells us the stories, connecting the dots, about how Jason’s Argonauts searched for the golden wool. This is actually the lamb’s fur, lit by the golden shine of the amber stones. The place is called Colţi (fangs) due to the weird shapes of the rocks aligned on the tops of mountains like old dinosaur scales. The ridges look like fortresses and hide long forgotten secrets. The name Colţi itself, transliterated into Greek, becomes Colchi, and from here to Colchida and the legend of the quest for the mystical treasure there is only one more step. The custodian tells us to look for Diana, the Guide for these places, who can show us what needs to be seen.
Diana was not there when we reached the museum, but by the time we finished wandering among the crystallized pieces of energy living in the large, transparent amber pieces, she showed up, called by the same unseen voice that beckoned us imperatively to get here.
Small and slender like a high scool girl, with smiling eyes and pigtails, the Keeper of this place looks at us with a sense of recollection and, although she had a group scheduled for the day trip, she accespts to lead us to the Power Places. She tells us the legend: it is said that, long ago, Luana, a non-earthling, broke the ban on coming to Earth – a cursed planet – and came here to teach the inhabitants how to bring back the Light and cure themselves and the lands that needed so much to get out of the sticky darkness of the Lower Realm. Coming here, she selected a place and built a citadel surrounded by guarding huge blades of rock, in the spot she selected for power and defence, and started to share knowledge with the locals. The carved stones one can see everywhere bear witness, through the unknown paleoglyphs in an unknown alphabet, of the messages about the times before the Third Sun.
About Luana’s citadel, it has been said that it had its own Sun… and the light frequency signatures become visible for anyone who comes here with an open heart and a quiet mind. Huge sacred geometry shapes vibrate in the air, the silver-blue light flows everywhere, and in the evening the forest is swarming with all kinds of beings: Keepers, the Old Ones, the Grand Luminous Ones, and small sparklies of all sort, angels and leprechauns. Blessings flow to all the newcomers asking in humbleness for permission and teaching.
The words change in our thoughts and our speech, and the normal language is replaced by old words, archaic terms that we thought we had forgotten. It is like other voices speak through us. Across from the unfit huge, modern building compared to the ancient, spell-like wave of the place there is a first radiation spot: a small church carved in the mountain rock and surrounded by similarly caved cells. Inside, the Music of the Spheres is audible. For the quiet listener, it starts like a heavy fundamental hurl out of which finer, luminous vibration start to emerge: bell sounds, flute tones, and harp vibrations, like thin light fingers are running across the energy cords of the Earth.
Everywhere, from the signs carved on the rock walls to the images in the inner eye, the Maltese Cross shows up like a guardian of the lamp shelves, the icon stands, blessing the food baking stoves and the serene ceilings, softly curved, reminding us of the white dwelling places in the Cyclades. You can feel the steps and the touch of hundreds of hands of hermits and priests who attended this Garden of Life for as long as it needed that, until the earthlings will have risen to the point of desiring its fruit.
Skies are different here: they catch fire, and the places are guarded by sentries taking the shape of animals. Sounds change like they are amplified and taken over by a huge synthesizer, that changes their properties and attune them so that they can resonate with the Greater Music of this bridge between the Inner Earth and the Above REalm.
We are getting ready to pass through the Gates, and the night seems like a prolonged training session, leaving no signs of fatigue though, so that we may be shown whatever each one of us can see and we may be gifted with whatever each of us can receive. We are getting ready with our own light and the pink-rose light, so we can bring from the other side everything we can bring and, expecting nothing, we sit down on the logs next to the place we wpent the night, to look down on the road, for the arrival of the Guide.
From the Land of Luana, Bleassings to all.