now,” I said. I spoke impulsively but, having done so, realized that I had spoken the truth.
Albert sounded concerned as he asked, “I haven’t made you feel that way, have I?”
“Not at all. I just—” I shrugged. “Well, how do I change?”
“The way you changed locations.”
“With imagination; mind?”
He nodded. “Always with mind, Chris. That can’t be emphasized enough.”
“Right.” I closed my eyes and visualized myself wearing a robe like Albert’s. Instantly, I felt that “altering” sensation again, this time something like a thousand butterflies fluttering around me for an instant. The description is inexact but I can do no better.
“Is it done?” I asked.
“Look,” he told me.
I opened my eyes and looked down.
I had to laugh. I’d often worn a long, velour caftan around the house but it had been nothing like what I wore at that moment. I felt somewhat guilty to be so amused but couldn’t help myself.
“It’s all right,” Albert told me, smiling. “A lot of people laugh the first time they see their robes.”
“It’s not like yours,” I said. Mine was white, without a sash.
“It will alter in time as you do,” he told me.
“How is it made?”
“By the imposition of mental imagery on the ideoplastic medium of your aura.”
“Come again?”
He chuckled. “Let’s just say that, while on earth, clothes may make the man, here the process is definitely reversed. The atmosphere around us is malleable. It, literally, reproduces the image of any sustained thought. It’s like a mold waiting for imprints. Except for our bodies, no form is stable unless concentrated thought makes it so.”
I could only shake my head again. “Incredible.”
“Not really, Chris,” he said. “Extremely credible, in fact. On earth, before anything is created materially, it has to be created mentally, doesn’t it? When matter is put aside, all creation becomes exclusively mental, that’s all. You’ll come, in time, to adopt the power of mind.”
Memory still haunts
As WE CONTINUED on, Katie walking by my side, I began to realize that Albert’s robe and sash connoted some advanced condition on his part, mine my “beginner’s” status.
He knew my thoughts again. “It all depends on what you make of yourself,” he said. “What work you do.”
“Work?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Surprised?”
I had no answer. “I guess I never thought about it.”
“Most people haven’t,” he said. “Or, if they have, they’ve visualized the hereafter as some sort of eternal Sunday. Nothing could be further from the truth. There’s more work here than on earth. However—” He held up a finger as I started to speak. “—work that’s undertaken freely, for the joy of doing it.”
“What kind of work should I do?” I asked.
“That’s up to you,” he said. “Since there’s no need to earn a living, it can be what pleases you most.”
“Well, I’ve always wanted to write something more useful than scripts,” I told him.
“Do it then.”
“I doubt if I’ll be able to concentrate until I know that Ann is all right.”
“You’ve got to leave that be, Chris,” he said. “It’s beyond your reach. Plan on writing.”
“What would be the point of it?” I asked. “For instance, if a scientist, here, wrote a book on some revolutionary discovery, what good would it do? No one would need it here.”
“They would on earth,” he said.
I didn’t understand that until he explained that no one on earth develops anything revolutionary alone; all vital knowledge emanates from Summerland—transmitted in such a way that more than one person can receive it.
When I asked him what he meant by “transmitted” he said mental transmission—although scientists here are constantly attempting to devise a system whereby the earth level may be contacted directly.
“You mean like radio?” I asked.
“Something like that.”
The concept was so incredible to me that I had
Albert sounded concerned as he asked, “I haven’t made you feel that way, have I?”
“Not at all. I just—” I shrugged. “Well, how do I change?”
“The way you changed locations.”
“With imagination; mind?”
He nodded. “Always with mind, Chris. That can’t be emphasized enough.”
“Right.” I closed my eyes and visualized myself wearing a robe like Albert’s. Instantly, I felt that “altering” sensation again, this time something like a thousand butterflies fluttering around me for an instant. The description is inexact but I can do no better.
“Is it done?” I asked.
“Look,” he told me.
I opened my eyes and looked down.
I had to laugh. I’d often worn a long, velour caftan around the house but it had been nothing like what I wore at that moment. I felt somewhat guilty to be so amused but couldn’t help myself.
“It’s all right,” Albert told me, smiling. “A lot of people laugh the first time they see their robes.”
“It’s not like yours,” I said. Mine was white, without a sash.
“It will alter in time as you do,” he told me.
“How is it made?”
“By the imposition of mental imagery on the ideoplastic medium of your aura.”
“Come again?”
He chuckled. “Let’s just say that, while on earth, clothes may make the man, here the process is definitely reversed. The atmosphere around us is malleable. It, literally, reproduces the image of any sustained thought. It’s like a mold waiting for imprints. Except for our bodies, no form is stable unless concentrated thought makes it so.”
I could only shake my head again. “Incredible.”
“Not really, Chris,” he said. “Extremely credible, in fact. On earth, before anything is created materially, it has to be created mentally, doesn’t it? When matter is put aside, all creation becomes exclusively mental, that’s all. You’ll come, in time, to adopt the power of mind.”
Memory still haunts
As WE CONTINUED on, Katie walking by my side, I began to realize that Albert’s robe and sash connoted some advanced condition on his part, mine my “beginner’s” status.
He knew my thoughts again. “It all depends on what you make of yourself,” he said. “What work you do.”
“Work?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Surprised?”
I had no answer. “I guess I never thought about it.”
“Most people haven’t,” he said. “Or, if they have, they’ve visualized the hereafter as some sort of eternal Sunday. Nothing could be further from the truth. There’s more work here than on earth. However—” He held up a finger as I started to speak. “—work that’s undertaken freely, for the joy of doing it.”
“What kind of work should I do?” I asked.
“That’s up to you,” he said. “Since there’s no need to earn a living, it can be what pleases you most.”
“Well, I’ve always wanted to write something more useful than scripts,” I told him.
“Do it then.”
“I doubt if I’ll be able to concentrate until I know that Ann is all right.”
“You’ve got to leave that be, Chris,” he said. “It’s beyond your reach. Plan on writing.”
“What would be the point of it?” I asked. “For instance, if a scientist, here, wrote a book on some revolutionary discovery, what good would it do? No one would need it here.”
“They would on earth,” he said.
I didn’t understand that until he explained that no one on earth develops anything revolutionary alone; all vital knowledge emanates from Summerland—transmitted in such a way that more than one person can receive it.
When I asked him what he meant by “transmitted” he said mental transmission—although scientists here are constantly attempting to devise a system whereby the earth level may be contacted directly.
“You mean like radio?” I asked.
“Something like that.”
The concept was so incredible to me that I had
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