Getting Past the Life Death Cycle

Module Art painting symbolizing life and death in positive terms.

On morphine, lying in a hospital bed, outfitted with tubes and electronic-sensor hook-ups on my chest like a pet octopus, I conversed with a host of beings who were giving me my spiritual name. My partner of five years stood by.  I was filled with a desire to tell her everything I had learned on this morphine, an hour after having had a massive heart attack. Primarily, I had learned that the absence of fear is ecstasy!  My spiritual name, I was shown, was a beautiful energy symbol in pale orange and pale pink.  The surrounding light was yellow-white, and I later tried to paint its brilliance.

Suddenly, five people, doctors and nurses ran into the room, pushed my partner into the corner and began working furiously for another five minutes. As suddenly as they came in, when done, they all left.

It was not until many years had passed that, in conversation, I learned that it was not the morphine that was giving me these incredible experiences and understandings, but the fact that when my partner looked at the monitor screen, she saw that I was dead. READ MORE


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Individual Painting Instructions at Energy Art Studio

Painting is a way to bring us back to deep inner peace.  Ross Drago now offers

individual painting instruction at the Energy Art Studio, Emeryville, CA. Find your own

way of painting and make the art work that you alone can make.

$20./hr includes all materials.

Call 510 420  1713


Affordable painting studio spaces are also available.


Call Ross Drago.  Energy Art Studio in Emeryville, CA.



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Circle of Stone and Fragments by Ross Drago

Equilibrian -02To me, there is no surface more satisfying than painting in oils on stone. The two images I have included in this article are called Fragments from Equilibrium. They feature portraits of “Equilibrians”, those who live in a State of Equilibrium, neither desirous nor fearful, but present. It is a culture of my own creation that symbolizes  living consciously and in harmony with the universe we are in and of.

As a small move in that direction and as a member of a housing co-op, I offered to create and donate a circle of painted stones that surround the backyard table where we have our monthly co-op meetings. These stones are shown in this article and may be seen by clicking the link at the bottom of this introduction to the full article.

Each stone is positioned significantly in relation to north and south, and represents specific energies, such as nourishing seeds with rain, seeds spouting from the ground to symbolize growth and breakthroughs, etc.

Sitting at the table for our meetings now has a feeling of being surrounded with some sort of universal awareness of these gatherings. It is subtle, but that possibility now exists whereas without being in a circle of symbolic stones it was just one more co-op meeting.

I used flagstones for this circle, and half of them are painted, while every other stone is scratched into with energy symbols in the manner of ancient petroglyphs. My attempt with the painted stones was to find that border between being a recognizable object and being pure energy wave forms, a place that has always fascinated me.

To me, this is the balance point that allows us to manifest what we need to stay alive, as that border allows for “physical” reality, an energy phenomenon, to be influenced by our hearts. READ AND VIEW MORE

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A Step Below What We Call Real

The Ascension of Saint Susan

The wave of awareness is swelling.  One day perhaps we will climb aboard and surf it to a new  level of human consciousness.  But just below that place of being right here, Present, Now, in the kitchen, in the car, in the garden, and not lost in the maze of our convoluted thoughts, there is a second level of illusion that is very easy to fall prey to. As we attempt to move from mind into presence, and stand right there in the room we are in, we may easily miss the trickster.


The level I am referring to is that kitchen, living room, car, garden, are all mental constructs.  Not only are these constructs conceptual, but powerful because they are collective consciousness constructs. Indeed, this collective reality is the one we go to when we seek the truth of our being.  We say, I am going to be here and now, no matter how boring doing these dishes can be.  But in doing so, we miss the deeper truth that doing the dishes is a collective concept only, along with dishes and the kitchen sink. READ MORE



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We’re Not the Only Earthquake Country


The last big earthquake I was in made the screeching sounds of  nails that held the house together being pulled out all at once by a thousand crow bars. I couldn’t stand up to run away. The ceiling was rocking back and forth about a foot from side to side as the building turned to rubber. That was a 7 point quake.
The people of Nepal just had a 7.9 earthquake, exponentially greater than the one I was in. The City of Nepal is being served as best as people can be under these circumstances. The outskirts, however, have no food, no homes, and it is the rainy season, with no help reaching them.
My friends who run the copy shop called SUKAM Copy and Print, on University Avenue below San Pablo Avenue, in Berkeley, know people in one of the rural villages. In that village is a Lions Club outpost. Kumar and Kiran, the copy shop owners, know the man who is in charge of the Lions Club. Their daughter wanted to start a collection of funds to send directly to these people. Kumar will match the funds that they collect. All money is guaranteed to reach these people directly.
I don’t have much money. Seriously. But I gave six dollars. Kumar told me that every dollar received is equal to one hundred dollars there. My little donation was equal to six hundred dollars worth of help. I asked him for $500. change and for a moment we laughed. But it was all no joke, and I could see that he held back his emotions of grief. I like this guy. He is sincere and they have a real cause. If you thought that there were no more heartfelt human beings behind store counters, go to Cafe Leila for lunch and go to Sukam for copies.
His copy shop is at 905 University Avenue, Berkeley, 94701
You can make a donation check out to Sukam Copy, and at the bottom of the check print DONATION TO JASHMINFOUNDATION.COM .This is the website they are setting up, since they learned that starting a non-profit organization takes a long time. Don’t worry. The money will get to the people directly with nothing withdrawn on the way.
I hope this reaches you at a time when you can help. $1.00 here = $100. there, and Kumar will match it.
Ross Drago
Paint Rag Magazine.

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Humanity’s Wrong Turn

Untitled-1 copy
There are no truths that are harder to believe than those that we have been blind to for all of our lives. In the same manner, those truths that an entire world has, for the greater part, not been able to see are nearly impossible to bring into visibility. So it is with the recognition that we have made a mistake so grave that we have paid more dearly than we can even imagine. This mistake is simple, but difficult to believe that it is true. Nearly all of our grief has come from separating ourselves – electrically, physically – from the planet we stand upon. It is comparable in magnitude to the equally grave mistake of having separated ourselves from being what we perceive around us, a matter I will leave to awakened masters to point out.

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Cat Call – A true short story by Ross G. Drago

Cat Call Image
Cat Call

Back in Buffalo for a brief visit, having lived in Berkeley for more than a decade, I visited with my sister. I had started reading a book on speaking to animals using mental images. My sister had a young cat. It had continents of calico in seas of white, with black eye liner that mimicked Egyptian eyes. It also seemed trapped in the house. On a few occasions I suggested that she let the cat out into the large, fenced-in back yard. She explained that it was Lisa’s cat, her daughter, and that she was only cat-sitting it for a few weeks while they worked on their new home in Buffalo.
The next morning, when the cat was more anxious about being inside than the day before, I encouraged her to let the cat out and assured her than the yard was well fenced in and that I would be out there with it. Finally, my sister agreed and the young cat and I went out into the back yard.

As soon as we reached the grass lawn of the back yard, the animal ran across the yard to the only place in the fencing that had a space under it, and he was gone. The hole led to the other side of the block and into the neighbor’s back yard. I hurried after it but by the time I reached the fence he was no longer visible to me. I walked as quickly as I could around the vast suburban block, trying to see which house was the match for my sister’s back yard. The block was large and made it difficult to spot which was the yard that the kitten had fled to. I called out his name and gave the trill sound that people make when their cat is lost.

It was my fault that this had happened. Some drive inside me that insisted that all things be set free, no matter how stupid an idea it was, had prompted me to liberate this cat. The cat had no idea of the dangers and I had no idea that he would find some way to locate that danger as soon as his legs would take him there. I spent half an hour calling up and down the block and going into people’s back yards, careful to call for the kitten loudly so as not to get shot. Every house on the block – large, expensive – flew an American flag; I was not in Berkeley anymore. Here, it was not thinkable that America could do any wrong.

Defeated, I went back to my sister’s house. Having been raised in a brew of guilt soup, as an Italian-American Catholic boy, I just felt like myself again, and I swore in a tone that no neighbors could hear. I had had a reprieve from guilt for some time in California, but it didn’t take too long, being backed home, to have it all pour back into my stomach. I had lost my niece’s cat, and my sister would feel the guilt of having agreed to let the kitten out.

Unwilling to face my sister, I went straight around the house and into the back yard. A small concrete patio was large enough for four outdoor chairs and a frosty glass table. I looked out over the flat grass and focused on the great willow tree in my sister’s yard. I remembered the book that I was reading. It explained with great confidence that all one needed to do in order to communicate with animals was send mental pictures of what you wanted to say to the animal. Animals understood mental images, the author insisted. Desperate, I closed my eyes and formulated mental images of the other side of the fence and the pathway that the kitten would take to find her way back through the fence and home again.

I spent the next half-hour envisioning the cat’s return to the yard. Periodically I would open my eyes to see if she had received the message and returned to the yard. Each time I looked, there was no cat. When I became too depressed to continue sending out my mental recall, I stood from the chair and went back into the house.

My sister looked at me, and I shook my head once. “The cat went through the fence. She’s gone,” I confessed. There was nothing more to say. Spoken words would have sounded the way we both felt, no matter what they pretended to be saying.

My sister tried to smooth it over, out of compassion for me. But there was no erasing the feeling of being a fool for having to tell my niece that her cat was gone. I sat down in the living room and pretended to watch TV, some program where overly excited people won amounts of money by spinning a wheel. My mind couldn’t understand what the people were doing. I was watching myself watching TV.

I watched for half an hour. The news came on. I watched the Buffalo news. I watched until, from the yard, I heard a terrible uproar. It sounded like a thousand cars screeching out doughnuts on the street, a term for driving in a tight circle around and around, burning rubber into smoke as some form of vehicular exhibitionism. I stood and went to the back door, opened it and went out into the yard to see what this astounding noise was. In the back neighbor’s yard, it seemed one hundred black crows were madly crying, screeching, swearing in their raucous way, insanely flying from tree to tree, bush to bush, coming closer and closer to the backyard fence. Through the fence a terrified kitten tore its way through the space under the fence that it had left through. The cat ran in terror across the yard.

The battalion of black birds then, laughing like drunken Russian revolutionaries, all flew away, having gotten my message, and rallied to the game.

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