Cosmic fire: A guide to the masters' meditation - Softcover

Ralph-b-white

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0932298923 ISBN 13: 9780932298928

Verlag: White Light Publishers, 1600

Inhaltsangabe

An angelic guide appears to a young boy, touches his forehead, fills him with unconditional love and promises to be with him when needed. The gentle guidance that followed led him from a simple rural beginning through a World War, then through a long period of worldwide travel filled with unusual and often supernatural experiences. This book vividly describes the thrilling incidents that led him to master of an ocean liner, master of a powerful meditation and finally mastery of himself-through the Masters' (or Angels} Meditation.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Dr. White is a retired captain of an ocean liner. During that time of service, for over 32 years he studied an exclusive meditation from a Far Eastern source but having no connection with their general method. This proves that the special method he mastered enhances one's performance in all fields of endeavor. His profession while studying this method indicates years of study in in various maritime acadamies including Annapolis.

Since retirement he has become a teacher of this meditation in both the United States and Europe, and by correspondence in other parts of the world.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

From Chapter 1.

Just before my fourth birthday, a search began that would continue for the better part of a lifetime. An incident took place that was of such importance to my life, it could never be forgotten and remained permanently embedded in my memory. With it came moments of heartache when no one would listen, and the joy and experience of the beginning events that ultimately led me to a special form of meditation.

In one terrifying instant, my eyes perceived the enchanting radiance of another dimension-a dimension in time and space running concurrent to that of our own. It came to me in an unguarded moment during a search for something else-a specter, an apparition, more commonly called a ghost.

It began on a cold, November evening. A chilling wind brushed newly fallen snow from the window-pane, revealing the small family huddled cozily together around a wood-burning stove inside. Sounds of children laughing arose from time to time above the roar of the north wind. In obvious delight, they were enjoying a bedtime story told by their father.

He was telling another ghost story as only he could. My two older brothers and I sat around him, enthralled by each spellbinding detail. We always begged him to tell us a story of some intriguing adventure. In those days that was our only form of entertainment.

A chill still creeps up and down my back when I remember the final words of the story, "...and that old ghost stalks these parts when the full moon is shining bright like it is tonight."

Suddenly alert, he leaped to his feet. His voice rising as he pointed to an outside window and said, "Hey, he's here now. Look out that window, you can see him!"

My two older brothers and I raced for the window where we crowded each other to see the entity brought back to life by Father's story. I had to stand on my toes, my nose barely reaching the window ledge. A gnawing feeling inside began to ease when a coating of frost on the window-pane blocked our vision.

My two older brothers began an argument that ended with the older challenging the next in line. He said, "You go out and see, I dare you." The younger protested, "No," he said. "You go first."

"Aw, you're just chicken."

The younger brother stood his ground. "No, I'm not. I'll go if you go first."

"All right, I always have to prove who's the bravest. I'll go."

The older hesitated only a moment, then straightening his shoulders he ventured out, pausing to see if we were watching. We shivered from the icy wind that whisked past a crack in the open door. Apparently satisfied, he plodded carefully through the snow, looking occasionally over his left shoulder to make sure we were still watching. When he reached the wooden gate, he drew up his chin and nonchalantly gazed in all directions, then made an about face, clicked his heels and marched defiantly back to the door.

"Aw, there's nothing out there," he said, directing his remarks to his next younger brother. The challenge continued, "Go see for yourself."

As a six year-old he was twice my age. Even at my young age I knew that he went with a lot less enthusiasm. When he finally reached the gate, he glanced quickly around, then turned and ran hurriedly back to the safety of the house. Out of breath, he shouted to me, "Hey, Ralph, it's your turn now."

I had not been part of the argument, but no one took a three year-old seriously. His challenge came as a surprise; I hadn't agreed to go.

They joined forces and shoved me through the open door. A blast of frosty air whipped through my thin clothing, a chilling reminder to run fast and quickly get back into the house. Reluctantly, I headed in the direction of the front gate.

One foot followed another as my small footsteps fitted into the larger ones made by my brothers. My courage mounted as I neared the gate. No movement other than my own, disturbed the surroundings. The snow-covered landscape glistened icily in the moonlight. The numbing cold penetrated deeper; only the wailing wind disturbed the stillness of the night.

A short distance from the gate my feet suddenly refused to function. A chilling fear clutched me in its icy grip. From nowhere, a white clad figure materialized in the path ahead, a few feet away. Outlined clearly, it stood tall and straight under the branches of a holly tree. A scream of terror struggled to burst forth; my voice box refused to cooperate. Barely able to stand, unable to move, I stood helplessly before him waiting for the final blow. I knew the end had come.

My sympathies were always with the helpless mouse who fell prey to the piercing teeth of our family cat. Somehow I could even feel the agony that mercilessly extinguished that tiny spark of life. My tears had brought only ridicule from my brothers.

Immobilized with fright, I knew again the mouse's terror as I watched the being slowly reach out his left hand. My fear reached the state of panic. I stood helpless, unable to move a muscle or make a sound; my eyes closed tightly in resignation. Then a soft hand lightly touched my forehead.

Much to my surprise, a tingling feeling of gentle love flowed warmly through my bewildered body. An eminence of white and golden light radiated from the being's body. Clearly visible against the background of the moonlight, it blinded me for a moment. Slowly the outline of the entire figure came clearly into focus and I beheld completely, for the first time, the ghost who somehow could not be the ghost of the stories my father often told.

I saw the form of a man, gray hair touching his shoulders, with a kind but weathered face. I wasn't aware of the significance of the white robe he wore and I was too young to know that guardian angels wore white robes.

Not a word was spoken yet from within came a knowing not to be afraid. The light still hovered around me filling me with a sense of peace and love. With it came a feeling of security I never knew existed. I knew I would see him again.

I wondered if this could be the Jesus that my parents told me about and yet I knew somehow that this being, so kind and gentle, was not He. It would be many years before I understood what happened that night or the ultimate significance of this meeting.

Awareness of the bitter cold returned to remind me that I needed heavier clothes. The spiritual warmth of the surrounding white and golden light and the nearness of this gentle being did not stop the probing cold from freezing me to the bone. Yet I wanted to stay, to feel his love and hear his voice. The sensation of his nearness intensified. It had a special meaning as if for me alone. A single thought flowed from his mind to mine. "I must return. You will remember the feeling of my presence." The impression faded; I opened my eyes for one last look. He was no longer there. I could walk again.

I slowly walked to the gate, vainly searching to see him again. No vestige of his presence remained. I had to go back, my body cried for relief from the piercing cold. I returned to the house, quietly closed the door behind me and went to my seat.

The warm glow of the fire reminded me that the biting cold had penetrated to the bone. My knees shook badly; I could not bring them under control. I found some comfort in remembering the healing love flowing from the hands of that gentle being. Instinctively came the wisdom that I should say nothing to my brothers although memories of this night and the special being from another world, perhaps, swirled vividly in my mind.

The others looked quizzically in my direction, waiting an explanation. My older brother was the first to speak. He said. "Well, I don't suppose you saw anything either?"

My voice quivered almost incoherently but I managed to stammer, "Oh, yeah, I saw the ghost all right. He was white and tall and . . .."

"Aw, come on, you don't have to lie about it?" He shouted. His exclamation drowned out my weak reply, his voice surprisingly callous.

Father corrected him quickly. I said nothing, happy to see the matter end. I wanted to sit quietly and feel the lingering sensation of his presence, to feel the peace and love he gave me, and to experience again the touch of the warm hand of that gentle being who had come to me out of the cold.

There would be no sleep for me that night. With the kerosene lamp turned low, the dying embers of the wood stove lost their glow. I gazed long and hard from my bedroom window, hoping that somehow my new-found friend would reappear. All was clear; the wind had lost some of its force. The white palings of the front gate rattled with its passing and the moonlight fell gently upon the drifting snow. I silently stared at the location of that first meeting, too young at that time to realize this was the beginning of a search that would last a lifetime.

This was my first metaphysical experience, one that could easily have been another ghost story had I been able to follow my first inclination-that is, run back to the safety of the house at top speed. A force beyond my understanding kept me immobile until that gentle hand touched my forehead and left a silent message of eternal love.

I learned an important lesson when on the following day I told my mother. Ghosts, she could easily accept; an entity bringing with it fear, mischief and the threat of personal harm was tolerable. She could not understand the opposite, an entity bringing with it a sense of peace and love. She and Daddy sternly warned me never to mention the subject again.

We lived in a rural area and what they did reflected their belief and understanding of the time. As a young child lacking knowledge and experience, convention forced me to follow their teachings.

It's easy to say that one contact changed my life for it did in several ways. I wanted to see him again, to sense the joy of his presence, to feel his touch. Then pictures started to appear in my mind, even with my eyes closed people, places and things, some of them familiar, some completely unknown. Beyond my control they came at odd times, when least expected.

When I told mother, she cried. A friendly ghost was fine; there was no admonition against him in her scriptures. In her mind, my newfound friend was at best a warlock. Witches she could not abide. At the age of three you don't argue successfully with your mother. She threatened to use the whip. Her cure was to beat that influence out of me.

Guilt is a powerful tool. My mother and father unknowingly lived under its influence and devoutly practiced what their elders taught them to believe. They kept me under a continual barrage of preachments until I found myself morassed in a mire of sin and guilt. They forced me to promise never to do it again.

After that, my "friend" allowed the visionary pictures to come less frequently. They did not cease but those that did come were more important. For example, three months later signs of an early spring filled the air. My brothers left early for school. Mother busied herself in the kitchen; I sat on a couch in the next room, looking at pictures in a magazine. As my eyes drifted lazily from page to page, one of the illustrations faded, replaced by the vision of my aunt sitting on the floor in her bedroom with both hands on her right ankle, frantically calling my mother's name.

"Emily," she cried desperately, "won't you please come and help me! Emily, I'm hurt, please come! Can anybody hear me? I need help!"

The vision of my aunt's plight and hearing her desperate cries for help impressed on me the urgency to tell my mother.

I ran into the kitchen shouting to Mother, "Aunt Maggie needs your help right now!"

She said, "I'm going over there in a little while anyway," but she continued to knead a mound of soft dough on the table.

"She's hurt and wants you right now," I pleaded.

Mother finally looked at me with a penetrating stare. Her stern look came as a reminder; I had forgotten my promise. Thoughts of the penalty made me shudder. I said no more and returned fearfully to the couch.

The vision of Aunt Maggie's predicament remained. Tears of frustration streamed down my face as an inner voice cried silently over and over, "She's hurt, Mother! She's calling your name. She wants you right now!" Mother lifted her head and looked at me through the kitchen door-for a moment I thought she had heard and understood.

"All right," she said, her voice surprisingly stern. "I'll go now. You behave yourself `til I get back."

Through a window, I watched her walk the short distance across a field to the nearby house. She entered, as usual, and I felt relieved that she went to help, although the look she had given me left an uneasy feeling.

Moments later, she ran quickly back out of the door, screaming loudly, "Laurie, come quickly! Maggie's been hurt!"

I saw the door to our neighbor's house fly open and watched Laurie race across the yard to Aunt Maggie's. When the door closed behind her everything became calm. Later, I found out Laurie had gone for the doctor while Mother remained with Aunt Maggie who really did need help. Her ankle was badly sprained. It was mid-afternoon before Mother returned home.

The least I expected was a compliment for my help but hope changed to dismay when she came in with a long switch in her hand. She whipped me severely and kept saying over and over: "Don't you ever do it again! That's the work of the devil."

I loved my mother and didn't understand why she punished me for having an ability over which I had little control. Then I remembered the look of sudden awareness on her face at the moment she departed for Aunt Maggie's. Thinking back on her strict upbringing by a rigid father gave me a possible answer. She must have had similar experiences. I wanted to ask her but decided it was better not to. A soreness where I sat down sounded a note of caution.

The pain healed slowly but the memory remained. I vowed never to share another experience of this nature with anyone. I could not stop the pictures from appearing and my search to understand their meaning would never cease. The visions remained my own personal secret.

The visionary pictures continued throughout childhood, always just when I needed them the most: a reminder that I should be careful, an admonition not to talk so much, a timely nudge in another direction, a bad feeling when I shouldn't do something and a good one when I should. When I followed the vision of my inner guide, it always worked in my best interest.

When I became older, I read everything I could find on the subjects of parapsychology and metaphysics. In my dealings with the adult world of skepticism, doubts would occasionally arise, only to vanish again in the face of another vision.

There were times I could feel my guide's presence and knew that he was with me, leading me along the path to some ultimate reality. It wasn't easy in those days, since I had to keep my own counsel and confide in no one. I studied everything I could find relating to this phenomena. It became an obsession, occupying most of my spare time. Along with conducting the affairs of everyday living, the search to be with him would continue until I could see him again and communicate with him as clearly as I had on that cold, winter night so long ago.

Many times my feet were safely guided along unfamiliar pathways when safety signals on all sides screamed caution. At least three times in my life, I was spared an untimely death through intervention of a being of light I call a guide or a teacher. A sense of peace would pervade with each encounter of this Divine intervention and the correct path clearly shown. From deep within would come a pictorial outline of each step to take and with it the feeling that my guide was with me, and nothing could go wrong. My objective mind would later scream in rebellion, but it was too late to alter the course of action that I had already taken.

The path my guide suggested always proved to be the best. That infrequently traveled road and a unique series of guided experiences led me into contact with other guides of the same high level. Step by step, they prepared me to teach the Masters' Meditation.

I look back upon the dual nature of my life as natural and sense that many others have had similar experiences. The incidents are similar in that they are metaphysical, the events are all quite different.

There are many benefits that flow freely as gifts from the guides and masters to those who study this meditation. A few of those benefits will be explained in the next chapter, along with some incidents in my life leading from this point to my discovery of the Masters' Meditation.

Under the guidance of these guides and masters, the story of the many barriers that stood between me and final attainment of the principles of this meditation is presented to the reader. As you relive the difficulties I had to overcome and relate them to similar obstacles in everyone's daily life, it should make you more appreciative of the value of the finished product, the Masters' Meditation. You will find it has been thoroughly tested, neatly packaged and presented to you, ready to take you to the highest achievable level of Creation.

All you need to do is relax, listen to the soothing voice of the speaker, and enjoy. At this point, the many benefits will begin to flow into your life.

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: White Light Publishers
• Erscheinungsdatum: 1600
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0932298923
• ISBN 13: 9780932298928
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar