The Dreaming Circus by Jim Morris

Author:Jim Morris
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Spirituality/Self-Help/Memoir
Publisher: Inner Traditions/Bear & Company
Published: 2022-04-14T00:00:00+00:00

Journey to Teotihuacán

In Teotihuacán I set out to write an objective account of how a miracle worker works, and one happened to me.

The first morning the hundred and fifty or so of us were split into groups of seven or eight. My group included me, Rosalie Garcia, a San Diego corporate exec, and a couple from Diddillibah, Australia, Brian and June Foy, maybe late fifties to early sixties. Brian’s a stringbean, and June was sweet and warm. Also in our group was James Golden, an American SNAG (sensitive New Age guy), and his wife, Leslie Gilbertie, from Northern California, and Carol Brooks, a young Australian woman living and working in London. Carol was in her early thirties, I thought. Turned out she was in her late forties, tall and easygoing, her dark pageboy haircut capped by a black Clint Eastwood hat with a silver and turquoise band.

When we walked to Teo from the hotel, a Club Med, Carol strode along, in her jeans and black boots, talking to our group leaders.

Our guides were Nancy Coleman, from Los Angeles, a mom in her thirties, and Rebecca Haywood, San Diego, probably in her late twenties. They were stunningly beautiful women. Rebecca did most of the talking; she had the same gift as don Miguel. In a low, soft, crooning voice, she led us from our hells of self-centeredness and piglet greed into an altered state of consciousness. We were psyched by Rebecca’s pitch, and the great metaphor of Teotihuacán. It was a metaphor, but it wasn’t a simile. It was a whole city, built millennia ago by artists who had thought about it for a long time, to create this experience.

Teotihuacán translates to the “Place Where Man Becomes God.”

It’s hard to grasp the enormity of Teotihuacán. Twenty-five hundred years ago it was a city of a quarter million people, possibly the largest city on Earth at that time. But the consciousness that built it was more different from ours than ours is from that of the Martians of old-time space-opera science fiction. It was a society in which science, religion, and art were not separate. The engineering has mystical significance. The stone facades are heavy, ominous, and weird. This city of huge pyramids and giant plazas was conceived by a spiritual, poetic sensibility to induce an altered state of consciousness. It towers and sprawls and envelops. It overwhelms.

The Sea of Hell was a huge stone quadrangle, with a grass floor and a stone platform or island in the center. We were given twenty minutes to wander in the sun-drenched plaza, to drop our emotional baggage and meet again at the island.

Rosalie returned crying. Rebecca held her from behind and pounded her back in a ritual way that I recognized from the Castaneda books. The couples were crying too. We all talked about our experiences. Talking seemed to make them more real. By the time we left, the two couples were arm in arm, like teenagers in love. Only Carol and I seemed unmoved.

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