As we open up to our “gifts of the spirit”, our seemingly unlimited potentials, there are episodes of intense excitement, stages where astonishment is almost the familiar state of being, where we seem to be transcending ourselves every other day. We feel boosted into an orbit previously unimagined years before when we pottered about with psychic abilities first encountered in books and courses. We glide into unfamiliar territory, charmed with our new flexibility and ease of access. Growth seems unchecked, the border guards retired for the night.
We dream of the dead in ways that appear undeniable, we interact with guides who give advice freely, we seem able to persuade ghosts to do our bidding, even as we wonder where the quiet confidence to do so came from, we give sage advice to friends and sometimes strangers who seem grateful for the kind intrusion, we heal headaches and heartaches with a slight shift of focus, we seem to always be in “the zone”.
And then there are the “dry spells”, where little, if anything, seems operational, where sluggishness and insecurity put a basket on our light, rendering it a burden rather than a gift. Dreams lose lucidity, insight degrades into self-squabbling, OBEs disappear into the dark tunnel of drugged sleep, and even healing oneself of any little ailment seems quite out of the question. We withdraw into the cocoon of self-pity, putting up those “misery loves company” banners around the place.
The lesson here is, not surprisingly, patience. Progress and lack of progress are two sides of the same coin, to spend as we wish in the marketplace of options. As the ego dissolves its treasured isolation in the warm ocean of spiritual unfoldment, it moves through phases of fear, where growth feels threatening to its pride and it recoils in contempt, as in: “I need only be me, making my way in the world, as the chaos of conflicting beliefs and deceptions exhausts me and deprives me of anything like innovative action. I shall eat when I’m hungry and sleep when I’m tired.”
Of course, these dire straits of the ego are no more than rest periods, where the lessons of growth are shaped into archives, to be readied and polished for further use. Dry spells need not be dreaded, despite the parched feel of the throat. They are an invitation to rest and revive. The field lies fallow until the next planting and harvest. To everything there is a season.