The White Heart: A Process of Creative Incubation

THE WHITE HEART

A PROCESS OF CREATIVE INCUBATION

SHIRLEY LYONS

Order this book online at www.trafford.com

or email [email protected]

Most Trafford titles are also available at major online book retailers.

© Copyright 2011 Shirley Lyons.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Acknowledgements:

Sri Aurobindo Ashram Trust, Pondicherry, for permission to use quotes of the

Mother and photos of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo.

Photo of Matrimandir: S. Rajan.

Photopgraph of Author F. Zubicary Bask Country

Book Cover: Shirley Lyons & Tixon Mohan

ISBN: 978-1-4269-4039-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4269-4040-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4269-7721-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010911498

Trafford rev. 05/17/2012

  www.trafford.com

North America & international

toll-free: 1 888 232 4444 (USA & Canada)

phone: 250 383 6864 11602.png fax: 812 355 4082

To: The Mother

And to

My Children - who stood firm

throughout the process-

Acknowledgements:

Sri Aurobindo Ashram Trust, Pondicherry,

for permission to use quotations of the Mother and photographs

of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo

Photograph of Matrimandir: S. Rajan, Auroville

Photograph of Author: F. Zubicaray, Bask Country

Book Cover design: Shirley Lyons & Tixon Mohan, Auroville

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

PREFACE

THE MOTHER

INTRODUCTION

PART ONE – MY STORY

Lesson One – An Apparition

Lesson Two – Death Is Energy

Lesson Three – A Cornered Mind

Lesson Four – Initiation

Lesson Five – Meeting The Mother

Lesson Six – =1

Lesson Seven – The Packet

Lesson Eight – Seven Screams

Lesson Nine – The Third Eye

Lesson Ten – The Beast

Lesson Eleven – Love is the Answer

Lesson Twelve – I Woke Up!

Lesson Thirteen – Shock!

Lesson Fourteen – Chance Meeting

Lesson Fifteen – An Aurovillian

Lesson Sixteen – The Color Red

Lesson Seventeen – Antahkarana

Lesson Eighteen – Bring me the Book!

Lesson Nineteen – The Cleansing

Lesson Twenty – The Rainbow Bridge

Lesson Twenty one – Her Light

PART TWO - REFLECTIONS AND INSIGHTS

Intermission

Creative Incubation

Fragmented color

The Lesson

Synchronism

New Age Sex

Stairway to Paradise

Golden Jubilee

The Awakening

SUMMARY

SUGGESTED READING

Preface

This book is not about the lives of Sri Aurobindo and the Mother. It is merely an introduction to who They are and how They changed my life. Sri Aurobindo came to me in the form of an apparition and I spent four years trying to find out who He was. I met the Mother and at the same time found Him. Through the process of finding Them, I found myself. My story is about the process (lessons), which took forty years of constant vigilant trials and errors in observing who I am.

I want to thank profoundly all of my friends and acquaintances who helped me during the seven years of developing this manuscript. Without each of them I would have been lost in a maze of uncertain words. They read, corrected, and encouraged me to complete this work. Their kindness and patience will forever be a part of my life.

The Mother

If one sincerely wants to help others and the world, the best thing one can do is to be oneself what one wants others to be, not only by example, but because one becomes a center of radiating power which, by the very fact that it exists, compels the rest of the world to transform itself.

The Mother: Questions and Answers 1957-58, pp. 416-17

If you go deep enough where all outer things are as silent as can be you will find within that flame of which I often speak, and in that flame you will seek your destiny.

The Mother: Questions and Answers 1954, pp. 271-72

"The effort which you will be able to make individually, instead of being only an individual progress, will spread; it will have very important collective results.

The Mother: Questions and Answers 1957-58, pp.172-73

Introduction

The purpose of this book is to give birth to an awareness of the potential available for each human being to advance beyond the controlling power of the physical, emotional, and mental minds. This transformation is a slow, creative journey which can be greatly accelerated when one understands the need to develop into a higher consciousness. Personal experience has led me to believe transformation is a necessary process we must undergo to become even greater beings than ever we believed possible. I was a plain Jane from the Midwest of the USA. I have changed enormously since then. If this happened to me, it can happen to anyone who dares to step out of their human binding.

It has been suggested to me that many of the experiences that I relate are holy and should not be told because they are secret and will lose their power in the telling. My response is this: the time has come when universal human potential needs to be more fully understood, because what is possible for one person is possible for all.

What is obvious, at least I hope it is obvious, is the fact that modern society is going through a tremendous change. In the West especially, we are struggling with an ever increasing pace of life. At the same time, other parts of the world are still on hold.

Life for them hasn’t changed at all. Starvation and war are a constant threat. I have lived in seven countries on four continents, and in too many places evidence of man’s inhumanity to man was devastating.

In 1967 I was forced to wake up. I was shaken and taken into a new reality. This book is my story, a crack in my cosmic egg. It has taken more than thirty years of an ongoing process, a creative incubation, to peel off the layers of mud and darkness. But somehow, somewhere there was always a spark of light to illuminate the way. My wish is that this book will be of a quality that adequately expresses my sincere gratitude, humility, and acknowledgement of the inspiring work of Sri Aurobindo and the Mother. I graciously thank Them, and others, like Jim Goure, and Alex for the sparks that ignited my soul.

PART ONE – My Story

(A true story. Some names and places have been changed.)

Lesson One – An Apparition

I was born in Holland, Michigan, seventy-nine years ago in 1930, into a Dutch Christian Reformed family. From the ages of eight through eleven, my brother and I would spend every weekend at the home of my very religious grandparents. On Sundays our weekly routine began by my grandfather driving us to a large, red brick, church at nine o’clock in the morning. We entered and filed down the aisle to the third row from the front. We spent two hours sitting on a hard church pew, chewing two peppermints (half-way into the sermon) and listening to an overactive preacher deliver the hell, fire and damnation sermon. At eleven o’clock my brother and I would race each other down the steps to the basement for another hour of Sunday school. Later, at home, when the noon meal was finished and we were still seated at the table, my grandfather would continue his zealous religious training. He read a chapter from the Bible and before we were excused, we had to answer questions about what he had read. If we (and that included my grandmother), responded inaccurately, he would re-read the chapter and re-ask the questions. Needless to say, we three became good listeners.

The next regular Sunday event was to dry the dishes after lunch, which my grandmother had washed, and to then get ready to walk or ride the ten, long, city blocks back to church. We attended an hour of CE (a children’s Christian Endeavor Program). My grandfather drove us to CE both during the cold winter months and whenever I had to carry my heavy saxophone to play a song in church. My brother kept telling me to volunteer to play my sax so that we would get a ride. At seven thirty on Sunday evenings, we were very happy to go to bed early, rather than attend yet another later church service.

During those formative years, I would frequently complain to my mother about how long and boring the preacher’s sermons were. Her response was always the same. You are very lucky. When I was a child, those two hours were in Dutch!

My early religious experience continually reminded me that I, a mere child, was a sinner. That statement perplexed and angered me. I kept asking myself what sin I had committed. Could it be the cookies I would sometimes sneak from the cookie jar? Was it that each time I had to walk to Christian Endeavor I would stop at the gas station and spend half of my collection money on a candy bar? None of it made much sense to me, so I wasn’t a strong believer in a God who appeared not to like me.

One bright Sunday morning, from out of nowhere, this tedious ritual was interrupted by something extremely exciting. I was seated between my grandparents in the pew. The preacher was fully launched into his usual sermon. Suddenly, to my utter amazement, I heard a very clear and precise spoken voice that came from inside or above the right side of my head speak to me. That voice said Everyone is going to become A Jesus. Not Jesus, but A Jesus! I shuddered with inner shock and alerted fear. Had my grandmother, whose ear was inches from mine, heard what I had just heard? If so, I was in real trouble. How dare I believe that we can be compared to Jesus! I glanced at my grandfather. His eyes were not staring back into my eyes. I was safe. I could keep my secret.

It was over twenty-five years later in 1967, on the seventh day of the seventh month, when I had just turned thirty-seven years old, that a voice came to me again. My husband was away on a business trip, and I was in a new apartment in Barcelona, Spain, with my daughter and son. I had also had another daughter, my first child who had died in her sleep. This death weight heavily on me even years later. What happened next had a direct bearing on that regrettable day. I was sleeping in a bedroom that had double doors. They opened onto the living room, through which I could see the double glass doors which opened from the living room onto the terrace. I could not see what was happening in the next room. I was awakened at dawn on that peaceful morning by what sounded like the flapping of wings. Listening more intently, it sounded as if something was flying around and around near the ceiling in the living room. Looking at the terrace doors and wondering if a bird was in the house because someone had mistakenly left the doors open the night before, it was a complete surprise to find them still closed. From my bed, elbow bent with my head raised on my hand, so I could tip my right ear to hear more clearly, the flapping sounds became more and more rapid. Soon there was the sound of what I can only describe as a whirlwind of twirling energy. It sounded as if a hurricane was coming. I thought, It’s a Hurricane! Out on the terrace not one plant leaf moved. Suddenly I blurted: Oh no, it’s a flying saucer! The force of a whizzing disk with a swooshing sound was lowering itself down on the tipped right side of my head and face. I grabbed my right ear. It burned with a tremendous heat. As this was occurring, a clear voice said, Don’t be afraid. The agony of your life is over. Nothing is going to happen to these children.

THE MYSTERY MAN

I looked up and there in the corner of the room blinking off and on for some time as if it were on a large, poster size, black and white television screen, was an image of a man that looked like a portrait. He had very intense, dark eyes, long dark hair and, what seemed strange for a man so young, a very wire-like white beard. Sitting up in bed, slightly slapping my face to make sure I was wide awake, the words "What is going on? Who is this man? came into my head.

Answering myself, sprang the words, I don’t know who this foreigner was, but I think He was a philosopher who lived in the eighteen hundreds. He looked Italian.

While watching in wonderment, I experienced three human sensations: intense heat, hearing a voice, and seeing a face. I knew it was real, that I hadn’t conjured it up, it all happened so suddenly. What did it mean? I wasn’t crazy, just dumbfounded. This was an apparition! Are they really real? Who would believe me? And what, if anything, did it mean?

This experience didn’t feel religious because, if so, why didn’t Jesus come to me? Christianity was the only religion I knew. Since we were in Spain, I wondered if maybe some Spanish ghost was flying around in the neighborhood. My biggest unanswered question was, Why me? I wasn’t afraid, just curious. How could I possibly describe or convey the state of bewilderment I found myself in that evening? Now the house was quiet and there was time to think. Is seeing a ghost a believable reality? Who was this mysterious man? Was His voice the same voice that had come to me years ago while sitting in church as an eleven year old child? I was consumed with the strangeness of the whole affair.

Still, strange occurrences of this kind were not new to me. Throughout my life I had often heard my family discuss weird, unusual happenings, and an experience like hearing a voice might be just another one of those crazy incidents. That evening, I sat in a lounge chair on a dimly-lit terrace, recollecting two major, not so common events.

Many years before, my mother told me about her youngest brother, Dennis. Her parents and her seven sisters and brothers moved from Kalamazoo, Michigan, to another Dutch town, Holland, Michigan. After settling in a new house, Dennis told my grandmother he would never go to school in this new town. My grandmother replied, Don’t be that way, of course you will go to school here. Don’t worry, you will meet new friends at your new school and you will be happy here. He was nine years old.

Dennis died of pneumonia before school started in the fall. While he was in the hospital and near death, he said to those around his bedside, Don’t cry, there are angels lined up to take me. Can’t you see them? Can’t you hear their beautiful music? Please don’t cry.

How did Dennis know it was his time to die? Because he did know!

I had been told that story, but was a witness to the latter part of the next one. The nightmarish saga had started when my mother made an unfortunate, and unguarded remark, a remark which would trouble her for the next twenty years of her life. At that time I was twenty-four months old and very ill because of an ulcer in my left eye. I couldn’t hold food in my stomach and, because of the Depression, was without proper nourishment. She kept me alive on rice water. She held me when she did the dishes, even