Humanity’s Wrong Turn

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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

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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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Preparing for Our Next Life – by Ross G. Drago

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Many centuries ago, human beings did not see the connection between having sex and having babies. Eventually, people learned to have sex with whomever they wished to have a baby, and society began to form itself into a structure.

As we mature we often develop habits. These habits are repetitive patterns which we may not wish to perpetuate. What if there is a connection between those habits and the circumstances and conditions we are in when we die, and the circumstances and conditions we are in when we are re-born? This may be as shocking an idea to many today as it was to everyone centuries ago to discover that making love with someone resulted in that woman having your child, or that sleeping with a man meant that he fathered the baby that you gave birth to some nine months later.

When we reach our seventies, we could attempt to prepare ourselves for how we would like to be born in our next life. If, for example, we like to drink at night, the chances are fairly high that when we do pass on, we will be either a little drunk or a little hung over. It is said by many awakened masters that we come back in to a body in the same way that we went out. That is to say, if we die an alcoholic, the chances are good that we will be born to a woman who drinks during pregnancy and puts alcohol into our blood stream as an infant. This gives us a life that continues the struggle with addiction to alcohol. If we are addicted to drugs, we may be born the daughter or son of someone who, for whatever reason, medically or by substance abuse, is addicted to certain drugs during pregnancy. This drug addiction, in this case, is passed on to us from birth or by conditioning in a drug abusive situation.

This also could apply to emotional addictions, such as willfulness, rage, sexual addiction, food addiction and any of the other addictive behaviors human beings have. It is for this reason that I would like to introduce the idea that when people mature, or when they reach their seventies, begin a self imposed stepping down from their addictions so that when they are born in their next life they will not be alcoholics, drug addicts, or addicted to emotions, habits or beliefs that are destructive again.

My primary addiction in this life has been anger. In my last life, I died an angry man. I was born to a woman who had much anger. This anger was injected into me. My new body was not born angry, but enraged at birth by the use of forceps. Furthermore, I was made to be angry by the circumstances I was born into because of my own previous anger addiction.

While no one likes to hear that they should curb their habits, especially as we reach an age of seventy and beyond, we are being as short sighted as those ancient beings who did not associate sex with procreation. As human beings, we may start to develop into consciousness by understanding that the addictive behaviors we die with, are the same addictive behaviors that we pick up all over again when we are reborn. I understand that the ultimate goal spiritually is to no longer be born into the life-death cycle. But there is a more recent understanding of spirituality that teaches us that we can bring awakened consciousness into the human embodiment. I am still too full of fear and desire to say good by to taking a human form. I’m not ready for some higher frequency state of being that we might call the angelic realm, but I am interested in how to bring a higher frequency of perception into human form.

How to do this? My suggestion is this: After seventy years of age, we begin to design our next lifetime without the things that we do not wish to relive. If it is anger that was the great teacher and burden of this lifetime, why perpetuate it endlessly? Work on letting anger go so that our next life is free of chronic rage. Begin acting and behaving in these last years as you would like to become as a young, strong, beautiful new human being. Do not say” I’ve been this way all of my life and I’ll probably die this way. Life is almost over, so why change now?” There is great reason to change during our older years! Together, with this simple practice we can start to steer the ship of human society, by not perpetuating our willful addictions, but by consciously making ourselves by our own hand.

I have included in this article a photograph of a sculpture made by my father, late artist Ross J. Drago. It is a block of plaster, like a pedestal for a work of art. The upper part of this pedestal is a life size statue of a man, my dad, from the waist up with a hammer in one hand and a chisel in the other. The chisel is poised at his waist… He is carving his own body out of the block of stone. It is entitled, “Self Made Man”. We too can begin to see the relationship between how we die and how we are reborn. We may begin to consciously create ourselves rather than blindly and unconsciously going from addicted lifetime to addicted lifetime calling it all a mystery that we have no control over. Sex makes babies. The habits of this lifetime make the habits of the next. We do have the power to take hold of the reins of what makes each generation of humanity the way that it is. We may each become as we wish this human experience could be. We may all become self made men and women, by coming into the truth of our real being and releasing compulsive habits from the past. Only then can we be reborn consciously.

Ross G. Drago,
Paint Rag Magazine
September 14, 2014

 

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Uninvited Guests

Guilt and Shame Together

 

Shame overstays,
at the wrong address.
It’s ugly sister,
guilt, shamefully
drops by,
unexpected,
for quick
pithy visits,
often when
you’re entertaining
invited guests.
Just know,
our families
have never
gotten along.
Guilt and Shame
both have
the audacity
to address us
as “You” and as “I”!
I say to them,
“Where were you
before I chose to do
what you would
never have done?
In  Schenectady?”

Ross G. Drago

 

 

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We Are Here

Fisherman

We Are Here

We are here,
in part,
to fail.
Who has not loved
the wrong person,
said yes instead of no,
done nothing
in the face of action,
kept a closed heart
to someone else’s tears,
turned and walked
away from someone pleading?
Love is too strong,
lonliness too empty,
desire too absolute,
anger too engulfing,
the mind, far too smart
for courage,
fear, too claw-fisted
and sharp-toothed
to embrace.
We are here,
at times,
to fail.
How else can a
human being
ever learn
to forgive?

 

Ross G. Drago
Paint Rag Magazine

 

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Joss Jaffe’s CD

CoverListening to this music takes about three seconds to know you’re moving in the right direction.

The cover is a link to listen.

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