We forget, sometimes, that our planet came first, that we were the late addition; that energy impulses come through our very feet and we interpret them with our actions; but I never forget, nor fail to notice the energy of “place” and how we interact with this.
A hypothesis never spoke more resonantly to me than that proposed by Dr Carl Johan Calleman; being that the planet has been subjected, for the last few thousand years, to a downloaded blueprint of a sphere divided into eight partitions. Thus, the planet itself is hemispherical, even to the point of being made of quite different core structures (half crystalline, half molten) in its two primary compartments or halves, in the same way that we have more and less structured left and right “sides” to our brains; indeed, this seeming coincidence is because there is resonance between human and planetary mind. As a series of energy waves have “come in” to this global mind from a cosmic “tree of life” (each of these waves oscillating between alternate “on” or “off” periods), these have become available to human beings, whose minds then have the option of developing resonance with this new planetary influence. Since this compartmentalisation process began, this has played out as the stuff of a separation era that has been as challenging as its been productive over the last few thousand years; shifting people into new places and dynamics all across the globe.
If so, he proposes that the 12th degree longitude east is the “location” of the planetary hemispherical division, supplying plenty of historical evidence for his hypothesis (there is now, also, some compelling scientific evidence in suport of his theory, regarding the varying core substance of the planet, divided at the 12th degree as he first speculated: see his book “The Global Mind and the Rise of Civilization”). All of this suggests that, out of this rub-point, we have ejected ourselves like the very human fountain of (often conflicting) ideas and, thus, spread ourselves (and these ideas) all over the globe. “Logically the effect of the shifts between different fields of the global mind would then be most evident close to the midline separating the Western and Eastern hemispheres, since it is there that the primary yin-yang polarity is created”, Calleman explains. In other words, places along the 12th degree may show up the various rubbing points of each wave era somewhat more distinctly, during their phase of influence, than in other places…and, perhaps, those of us who are sensitive and tuned into a particular wave get to feel this even more so, as its happening, especially during times of profound shift, as we are currently in.
This 12th degree longitude location as his best suggestion for such a “divide” sent tingles down my spine when I first read about it as I had long been fascinated by how, of all the places I could pick for my annual holidays and other ramblings, I had always tended to weave my journeys up and down some sort of north south line, on that very longitude, like a meandering snake wrapped around a long staff. Perhaps this first occurred to me when I put together one of those TripAdvisor maps of all the places I had ever travelled. From Italy to Scandinavia, it had exerted some sort of magnet pull to my experiences; many of them as cathartic as they had proved interesting or challenging over the thirty years of my adulthood. Some places, in particular, had drawn me more than anywhere else, perhaps with no obvious rhyme or reason, like I had no sway over the human plot-line that would have me go there, over and over again, even when I tried to exert other choices that would seem more rational. We each have our places; I seem to “work with” the very borderlands of yin and yang, both inside and out.
I won’t go on to list all of these experiences; there are way too many, though more than enough to catch my interest. However, one of the most potent places, perhaps the most in terms of visit-frequency, is Venice, which I first went to as a back-packer in my very early twenties. In that story alone, I see the evidence of this illogical magnet-pull effect since, though my first experience there was as darkly “interesting” as it was rich and unforgettable, I rewrote the whole schedule of a month’s worth of travel, for my friend and I, in order to return there on the way back from Istanbul; a change in our plans that led to some friction that went on to cause the dissolution of that friendship. Yet I would have it no other way; quite compelled, I just knew I had to return for more. It continued like that for the next 25 years, with a re-trip (at least) every 5 years, including a darkly fascinating honeymoon to my first marriage, where (already) we spent nearly all of our time apart…and me to be found, happily, exploring all those Venetian backwaters all alone, on some sort of winding wandering path to try and refind some part of myself. It was about then that I started reading books, absolutely any fiction, I could find about the place. It was only much later that I started to wonder if I had had previous lifetime experience of Venice…On every visit, I “had” to visit the Mondo Novo (“new world”) mask shop and bring one back; no other mask shop came close to this exquisite workshop, the rest were just tourist traps by comparison and my house still displays this bizarre collection of acquisitions.
Again, many years later, in 2007 (the oh-so-potent fifth day of the eighth wave according to Calleman…just when you would expect the right/east hemisphere to “rise” according to his predictions), I happened to return for my second honeymoon; different, vastly improved, husband. This trip was done with a typical lack of convention for this stage of my personal growth (corresponding as it did with the year I spent unpicking all the buckles and ties of my previous life) since we went there a week or so before our wedding and took along our blended family of two kids. That time (which was the very last time I visited Venice, until now) was the most intriguing in that, although I still loved it with an irrational amount of fervour, those previously detected shadows to be found in many of its corners now became a sort of dark underbelly that was beginning to show itself through my actual physical body, so that I felt sickly, feverish, swollen and came home with so many insect bites, to which I had such a horribly exaggerated reaction, that I looked like I had some sort of tropical illness and had to be put on antibiotics to clear it up. It was as though, at the very point my consciousness was starting to crack open, this potent place dared me to do it, threw down the gauntlet and tried to put me back inside my box of fears, though it didn’t work (the experiences of the following year blew me wide open).
This latest visit, a couple of weeks ago, was just a day-trip squeezed in between Verona and the mountains and yet I knew I had to go there; experienced the same irrational fervour of excitement at the very idea we could squeeze it into our itinerary, though it had been the longest break-away from the place (12 years) since my last visit.
At the surface of things, and judging by the mountain of photos I took (Venice being infinitely photogenic) I wasn’t disappointed…and yet. Something had shifted, in me, since those earlier times; as though I was no longer subject to the same degree of beguilement as before…the spell had been broken and I had become the independent observer of the place, perhaps for the first time. It was then that I realised how important the benchmark of this revisit was, compared to all those other visits to a place that always evokes such a distinct reaction in me; a reaction that is never just vanilla-bland but which is powerfully contrasty and distinct, made up equally of both black and white.
This time, it was as though I could see all that black-and-white-ness all too starkly and yet, mostly, I was able to distance myself from it; to observe, to play witness. Walking its familiarly labyrinthine streets, which I felt compelled to do in a most particular order, I got the sense of an energy that feels like snakes coiled around a pivot-point; a sort of basket with its centre in San Marco. Both of us, being the no-longer dialled-down or apologetic sensitives that we now are following a decade’s worth of personal growth, felt the energy become distinctly more frenzied, less comfortable, the closer we got to that centre point and yet…as its streets are designed to “do”, there is virtually no avoiding that central magnet point of San Marco, forced as you are to head to the Rialto Bridge in order to cross over to the other side of the Grand Canal (oh what a clever design). My least favourite place in the whole of the city, Rialto is undoubtably a microcosm of the world at large, its in-your-face commercialism and brashness an affront to the senses of any who dare to abstain from its allure (though we walked up the outside steps to completely avoid the shops). On the other side, all paths seem to tug us to San Marco but, from past experience, I knew different and took us off to a sort of refuge to the side in the hope of some sustenance before we continued. There seemed no mistake in the way that two places that felt far-more attuned to our frequency “happened” to appear soon after that, before we reached San Marco, like a rescue party to our flagging resolve, situated on the very shoulder of the head of this monster-energy. The first was an unexpected juice bar and then we found the tiny plant-based restaurant that I had ear-marked (unheard of in Venice a decade ago…rare even now) where we spent some peaceful time, sat in a small courtyard, before bracing ourselves to “go in” to the mouth of the monster.
San Marco is, of course, a must-see of the whole place and yet, more than ever (it had happened to me before) its energy was disturbing to me…to both of us…in fact, my husband (who was less familiar with it than I) most of all. The push and shove of frenzied tourists, of Oriental photo-taking groups pulling well-rehearsed photo faces, of just as bizarre couture shops proposing androgynous-looking outfits that were almost sinister in the audacity of both their camply space-age style and of their price tag (effeminate silken suits bedecked by zebras…etc), all the typical tourist-targeted trash asserted in oddly repetitious window displays and yet the crowds only clamouring for more, no one seeming to mind or to question… Oh and there were flashes of such beauty, and of heart-rendingly adacious genius (right), too; all in the mix. It all felt oddly dystopian, if with a splash or two of vividly unexpected colour; as though this was the place where all the paint pots were stored before the H-bomb went off…
By the time we got through this portion of the city, and having found our way back to the other side via a bridge that has (I realised) always felt like my saviour back to the relative sanity of Academia, we were almost panting with the exertion of “getting out” and were grateful for a sudden, refreshing, shower of rain. Leaning against a wall, for breath and to enjoy the odd juxtaposition of a nun clicking away on her mobile phone, I had to smile as I looked up to see such synchronistic symbols embellishing the wall of a house; a tree of life, a cornucopia (“my” special symbol; a reminder of the veritible funnel of sheer abundance that the gift of awareness is…) and a pair of serpent-like entwined birds. Yes, this place is made up of tightly packed serpent energies, the same masculine and feminine dragon lines that I have worked with so many times in the landscape before. Only, here, they are forced to live shoulder to shoulder, to oscillate oh-so rapidly between one and the other that it is like a high voltage electricity socket…put your fingers in and you will know about it. Alternatively, live there and you will be taken through the motions of a high-frequency experience of what both light and dark look like, feel like, in ever-present intensity; one always peering over the shoulder of the other in seeming contradiction and yet…when they happen to spark…pure magic can ignite.
These places, as I started out saying in this post, assert their energy and then humans came along and interpreted them through their actions, expressing them as what looks like human life, human decisions, human preoccupations, human mastery. What made people settle in this swampy, mosquito-ridden place; what made them just so determined to be here that they exercised all their powers of ingenuity to build where there was almost nothing to build on, to keep innovating, starting over from scratch when the waters reclaimed all their efforts, learning from their mistakes in order to build a city that became an empire and a spiritual, cultural, commercial tour de force of the separation era? Yes, I’m sure there are historians and other academics that could explain a set of circumstances that made that all as it was but none of their logical theories, really, holds water the way Venice really does…as a city built on water, of the water, so much so its inhabitants (or, at least, its gondoliers) are said to have webbed feet. Now, that same breed mostly glide unseeing, unfeeling tourists around the flowing backwaters as part of some sort of unrelenting machine of tourist schedules that sets off these multi-cultural day-trippers like clockwork toys, dashing from pillar to post “doing” the Venice of their guide “apps”. I felt so glad I had spent so many lonely trips walking these same routes at quieter times, to my own rhythms, with nought but the sound of cooing pigeons, sounding bells and the lap of water against brick…feeling into “place” without a guidebook to tell me otherwise.
No different, really, to any of those other places that I have detected a power-node made up of masculine and feminine leylines meeting, only here they are space-compromised housemates and so their world has eliminated almost all but what was made of brick or water, getting straight to the point…like a citadel to the yin and yang forces at the very meeting point of the global consciousness that lies at the 12th degree. You could expect such a place to have had an interesting past; and so it has.
And yet now, somehow (or was it just me, having seen what I needed to see and thus no longer so compelled by the magic of the now-internalised and claimed feeling of my own hemispherical power-house), Venice felt like being on board a dying star. Its influence has waned in tandem with the dying pull of the separation era (yes, really, that is happening all around is, hard though it is to see at ground level…) and so what used to be a radiant beacon of light seemed to be going through all the sparks and spluttering of a winding-down Catherine wheel; its hoard of treasures reduced to an over-abundance of worthless trinkets and its east-meets-west political influence drizzled down to a rather comedic pastiche of its former self, as some sort of tourist stop-off for the endless click and grab cruises pouring in.
Yet, hard though it is to explain, I still loved it with such a fervour; a real heart-pang…perhaps it was nostalgia or because I saw all its flaws, knew what it had acheived, held both in balance and accepted them just like I would accept both the human and divine expressions of my own innate qualities. As I sat there drinking tea in a Japanese tea room off the main “drag”, I realised I saw it exactly as it was, warts and all, and loved it all the same. We can ask no more of ourselves when we regard our own humanity and that of every one all around us; all being made up of this same stuff. For those two hours that we sat slowly sipping tea in a place with a rare garden through the adjacent windows, as the rain continued to turn all the foliage back into some sort of wildly dripping secret garden in the miniature, as though alchemised by the relief-tears of Nature’s joyful weep, I allowed this new feeling of uncondionality to wash over me and was so glad I had come.
Yet so disenchantedly pragmatic were we, by then, with the grand passion-driven schedule we had previously devised (grand passions, after all, have the tendency to burn themselves out…), we cut our original plans to stay into the evening, cancelling our table at the one vegan restaurant in town, in order to head back to Verona in the ever heavier rain of the greying day. Though we wandered slowly back to our start-point through what is my favourite, being quietest, part of the city, my business here felt “done”. All the colour seemed to have washed out of the place now, in this seldom-seen weather system of what has been a bizarre month of climatic surprises. The Mondo Novo shop, when we got there, had long-ago closed down, its once enchanted windows newspapered over and left looking quite ghostly and desolate. The feeling of being on the verge of a new era, of not being there yet but stuck waiting in the wastelands, was ever-present as we got back to our car, not really knowing when or even if we would be back.
Out of interest for those who work with this understanding, the ninth wave (as per Calleman’s books; see my other posts on this topic) was deep into its night phase when we visited Venice, thus its influence was removed from the equation, being decompartmentalized at the time (we rely on contrast so that we can see and understand our world). So, perhaps, this is, first of all, why I was compelled so strongly to go there and tugged, almost against my desire, towards its very centre like a whirlpool (“when [the global mind] is decompartmentalised…the midline boundary collapses, resulting in a movement towards the centre abolishing the previous polarity” Calleman explains). Perhaps, also, it is why I was left looking at what seemed like a somewhat tired and irrelevant throw-back to an earlier era (“wave”) full of its old preoccupations and polarities which don’t interest me any more; thus I may have experienced it quite differently a few days later during a ninth wave “day” phase (though I suspect I experienced it exactly as I needed to experience it for my own evolution).
It was then as we decided to leave prematurely that, yes still charged-up on the undeniably bizarre “dynamo” energy of this still turning merry-go-round of an energy node, and in our sheer tiredness from a day of endless walking, my husband failed to enter the right line at the motorway toll booth or me, being “off with the fairies”, to notice until he announced he didn’t have a ticket to pay at the other end. As we were forced to resolve this almost painfully complex issue at the end of the road, there being initially no one to help us get through the barrier and work out how to pay the inevitable fine the next day, I still had to laugh at what this really felt like. Venice had had to have the last laugh; especially upon those who dared to see through its seduction. In having seen it exactly as it was, as though caught in its underwear, we had been thrown like a wild ball from a roulette wheel and had landed in “the wrong” lane to get home again. By the next morning, I found it funny, even if my husband didn’t. It was almost as though were were briefly held prisoner at that toll station, trapped in a labyrinthine dead end for our lapse in joining in with the beguilement party…and yet, in asserting our right to travel away from Venice’s pull freely and in our own merry way (as in, unticketed…albeit by “accident”), it was as though we had made a break for freedom from all such energy nodes; claiming back the individual right to be the hemispherical choice of ourselves. Bizarre as it sounds, it felt distinctly like we had passed some sort of gateway test, graduating to becoming the autonomous consciousness (at the auto station…) that enlightenment is all about; no longer swept along with all the many impulses that come up from beneath the feet but choosing what feels most heart-resonant, using innate knowing as our guide…
It had been a powerful day; one that continued to play out its repercussions for the next few days (observed with interest) and it all reminded me to be respectful of these meeting places between light and dark, masculine and feminine, wherever they occur. Necessary as they are, being the very pivot-point of our human creation, they are not to be taken lightly; we need to know what we are getting into, to be prepared to take the rough with the smooth, to allow both impulses to occur together and even mingle (for the purest alchemy), however much we may feel as though we “prefer” one over the other, for they cannot be separated…anywhere in creation. Its when we try to do that very thing (separation) that we go so badly wrong and yet its where we use these forces hand in hand that they manifest a formidable energy; formerly, the creator of empires and, going forwards (in the right hands) a whole new world…we can hope. We all need these skills; we can’t afford to leave them to those who would sell our world for an easy profit. No longer tied to the 12th degree, those who have learned this stuff, who have experienced it viscerally, have now spread out to new places; ones where they no longer need to enact the impulse of a particular place, having internalised what they know in such a way that they can recreate the same yin-yang balance in any place of their choice, using their heart-consciousness (since the heart is the very cauldron where these two supposedly opposite forces mingle). Yet we can still be thankful, as indeed I am, for those places such as Venice, Rome, Berlin, Copenhagen… (the list goes on) that have trained and widely distributed some of the greatest energy masters, greatest influencers (“good” and “bad”…they are all just shifting energies) of our world, having learned how through the very soles of their feet!
The Global Mind and the Rise of Civilisation: The Quantum Evolution of Consciousness
The Nine Waves of Creation: Quantum Physics, Holographic Evolution and the Destiny of Humanity