"For anyone familiar with the
books of Carlos Castaneda (The Teachings of Don Juan), Don
Miguel Ruiz (The Four Agreements) or other authors in the
Toltec tradition, Quantum Shaman continues the
journey and expands the path to explore aspects which have only been
touched on in other texts, bringing a quantum understanding to what has
traditionally been believed to be a mystical path alone. This book
stands on its own, picking up
where Castaneda left off to take us on a roller coaster ride of our
own forgotten power..."
- Michael Grove, Independent
Online Reviews
Quantum Shaman is the
compelling story of one woman’s journey on the path with heart. A
personal and chilling confrontation with the very nature of life and
death, which brings the reader face to face with the shaman’s double:
the immortal & mysterious Other who takes on a life of his own, &
manifests the key to unlocking our own evolution of consciousness.
The double is the higher self, the energy body, the dreaming body, but
contrary to what we have been led to believe, the higher self is not
necessarily confined to energy alone, as Della discovered on an
otherwise insignificant morning in the spring of 1988.
In this book, you will meet Orlando at the same
time the author first encounters him - and it is a meeting that is both
humorous and life-altering, for it brings what is traditionally
considered impossible into the realm of possibility, and launches both
author and reader into a journey that has no beginning and no end - and
is as personal to every seeker as his or her own fingerprints.
Trade
Paperback ~ 6 x 9"
312 pages
Perfect bound
Nonfiction - ISBN #978-0989693844
Cover Price: $16.95 US
Now, for the first time, Della shares her personal
story, and makes it clear that all of us have within ourselves the ability to touch the
eternal, to shed the old programs which may be stopping us from
achieving our whole potential, and to embrace the greatest personal
power & love we will ever know - our own eternal double, the higher self
who is our finest
teacher, our best friend, our most difficult critic and - if we learn to
listen - the gateway to our own evolution of consciousness. The
power is within each and every one of us, and through Diary of a
Nagual Woman, we learn how to access that connection to the
infinite.
EXCERPT #1:
1997 – Ten years after it all began
It was a hot summer evening in the
early part of August when
I drove to a look-out point high in the mountains of Joshua Tree National Park.
The road was long, dark, and fraught with shadows, and I couldn’t help drawing
the analogy between that road and the spiritual path I had been forging for
nearly a decade. Disturbed over financial uncertainty, problems with a new
business, and essentially wrapped up in the machinations of the consensual
reality, I was finally driven to seek some sort of solace alone in the night,
and Keys View was as close to a personal retreat as any place on Earth I had
ever known, the kind of place the old sorcerers would have called a power spot.
I climbed to the high
point where a lone bench looks out over the Salton Sea – an irregular blotch of
blacker black against the southeastern horizon – and before I knew it I was
involved in a deep conversation with Orlando. When I asked how he had known I
would come to this remote location, and how he himself had gotten there – since
there were no other cars in the tiny parking lot – he only smiled a little,
stretched out his long legs, and slouched down on that cold metal bench to stare
up at the stars.
“You’re predictable,”
he said as if I should have already known. “I’m here because this is where you
always come when you’re mad at the world.”
I attempted to engage
him in a conversation of just exactly how he knew I was mad at the world, since
I’d had no direct contact with him in quite some time, nothing to give him any
hint of what was going on in my everyday life. But even as I began spelling all
of that out to him, he brushed my words aside with an easy gesture.
“Do you want to talk
or do you want to waste time looking for logical explanations for every magical
thing that ever happens?” he asked. “That’s what’s wrong with the world, you
know. Instead of embracing the mysteries and trying to determine how they might
open a crack in an otherwise humdrum, pre-programmed existence, people waste
their entire lives explaining it all away, attaching labels to it, filing and
categorizing it until it loses any meaning.”
He had a point. And
I’d already been inundated with enough mysteries in my time to know that some
things simply had no explanation humans could understand. ‘Magic is only
science not yet understood’. Words Orlando had written more than a year
before rattled through my mind up there in the middle of the night, in the
middle of nowhere, looking down on a distant world that seemed far more unreal
to me at that moment than the world he had been trying to teach me to see.
He was there –
whether physically or in some spirit-form manifestation is ultimately of no
importance, for in the sorcerer’s world there is no difference
between body and spirit, and in any world, perception is reality.
Not a cricket, not an
owl disturbed the stillness. The lights of Palm Springs were only far-away
glitterings, the line of traffic crawling along Interstate-10 nothing more than
an illumined ant trail, so distant the movement of the cars could not even be
perceived – just a streak of brilliant incandescence in the middle of the
desert, a phantasm, a chimera, a miasma of lost souls rushing headlong through
the night, yet seeming to stand still. A fitting paradox...
EXCERPT #2:
DOUBLE VISION
October 12, 2004
It was a weekend of sensory overload,
a noisy generator on one side, and the clatter and clamor of drums and belly
dancers on the other, offset by a crowd of 100,000 Renaissance patrons and
participants, all of whom seemed to be in a tremendous hurry to be somewhere
other than where they were, even though they had paid a fair amount of money to
be precisely where they were. My cold had turned to the flu. The
assemblage point shifts in delirium. A din of heat. An ice-cream flavored swirl
of screams and shouts. Maybe I had a fever. A genital pox on any moron who sells
a child a toy flute.
On the long
drive home, I was finally alone for the first time in over 5 days. Being a
loner, I do not care much for human contact. Minds press too close. Probes
attempt to penetrate. I turn to smoke.
The rental
car glides easily through the desert, with Leonard Cohen's gruff voice on the CD
player and massive thunderheads gathering in the west. The Nevada/California
desert weaves an alien landscape. Joshua trees walk the ley lines. Jagged
mountains poke bony fingers skyward. Skid marks zip the road tight to a parched
earth.
Words are
only fodder for semantics, tools of misunderstanding. No way to tell the
tale but to trace along the edges, maybe to reveal what lies beneath. Such is
the contour of the nagual, with the delicate flesh of a lover and contrastingly
dangerous fangs.
Somewhere in
the middle of the desert, in the middle of a long and winding road, I awakened
inside Orlando - my double, higher self, evolved spirit. It really was
that simple. Opened my eyes, looked around, had a laugh or two at the human
condition, a bigger laugh at my mortal self going through the machinations of
Life, and began to cross-ponder from what can only be called a dual point of
view (Orlando and Della) this bizarre thing called Time.
Time is a
mortal construct. We make it up to use as a yardstick, a reference point against
the backdrop of eternity. But it isn't real in the sense we might think.
Impossible to describe how it felt to be outside of time altogether. Orlando
often talks about Time, but after this experience, I now realize he talks to us
in much the same way an adult would talk to a 5-year old about the birds and the
bees. He uses language we can understand, but the actuality of it all tends to
lose a lot in the translation. Birds and bees have very little to do with human
reproduction, and time has very little to do with life and death. It's just an
egg in which we gestate while waiting to hatch. While. Waiting. Our language
itself creates Time, referencing it in countless subtle ways.
So there we
were. Mortal self and eternal double driving down a winding road in the
geographical center of infinity. Perhaps chance chose the space-time. Who's to
say? Life seemed strange, at odds with itself in so many ways.
"You are the
final fragment of yourself," Orlando whispered, so close to my ear I could feel
the heat of him, even though logic and reason said it was only the sun pouring
through the window. "Touch me with your naked hand, touch me with your
glove," Leonard Cohen murmurs in a black silk velvet voice that sends
shivers down my spine, a voice that invokes the midnight even in mid-afternoon.
I felt Orlando's touch. As if in a vision more visceral than stone, the
thunderheads in the west trembled. A lover's caress. Lightning snaked parallel
to the ground. A golden butterfly struck the windshield and entered eternity. An
eagle soared over the desert, hunting. Two fine fat black ravens strolled along
the side of the road, oblivious to the slipstream thrown off by a careening
18-wheeler.
"There is
a crack. There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in."
Cohen again. Wickedly perceptive old man.
I laughed,
hearing it echo from here to there and back again, from the dark into the light,
manifesting particle-wave duality riding itself back into the blackness, serpent
eating its own tail only to turn wrongside out into some other perception of an
ever-evolving reality. "You are the final fragment of yourself."
And then I
was mySelf again, just a mortal crone propelling herself down the road at
dangerous speeds, cycling endlessly between one moment and the next, between
here and now, drifting between the harsh terrain of Time and the snowscape of
timeless infinity.
"When the
final fragment is integrated, Time itself will end."
"I see," said
the blind woman.
Now I
See.
See for yourself.
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