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.