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OM, BABY! a pilgrimage to the eternal self

by Jack Haas 


opening chapters








chapter one


            There is no man or woman who walks upon this crazy earth who is not a privileged pilgrim on a fantastic journey to the temple of their own immortal soul. There is no life cast upon the wild shores of this mysterious world which does not belong intimately to the fabric and fantasy sewn inexorably into the all. There is no separate individual who is not therefore part and parcel with the whole. For the all is without division, without futility, and within us all. We are the all that is the all. There is nothing but the everything that we are. For we are one. Amen.

Our journey takes us from our personal myth and mystery, on to the Great Myth and Great Mystery. Our path leads from our separate body to the One Great Body.

It is a hallowed and never ending journey to this oneness that ends as it began- in confusion; a confusion which is both the substratum of life and the very goal of life which has no end. For a goal which can be completed is of little value to the eternal Self.

            In this way existence is quite like a fractal; the more we go into it, the more it expands, the more patterns emerge from within other patterns, universes emerge from the smallest iota, solving one problem often creates many others, coming to one realization uncovers multiple enigmas, attaining one peak reveals a higher mountain range behind it, and the threads of the overself paradoxically cover and yet also reveal the limitlessness of the magnificent cosmic carpet running out ineffably before us.

Nothing ever finishes. Impermanence is everlasting. Through the temporal we find the eternal, and through the eternal we find the now.

The journey never ends, it merely changes direction. Eternity spills into us from without, and pours out of us from within, and we are the open, ephemeral gate through which the divided waters of heaven and earth mix into the roaring confluence of immortal streams. And yet we are the calm depths beneath the crashing surf as well. We are the stillness behind the fabulous change.

Life is thus an ongoing banquet of possibilities, implausibilities, challenges, miracles, boredom, distress, lunacy, euphoria, awe, and affirmations. And the show will go on and on and on, and until an individual realizes this predicament of eternity, he or she will continue to pursue a goal whose reward is only another challenge, which is why it is important to love your soul, because nothing suffers more from a lie than the soul. And the immortal soul, trapped within the ephemeral show, will suffer from the lie of time worst of all.

            I should know, for I have drunk the blood of woundedness and loss, and I have raged against the folly of our incorrigible predicament. And I have gnashed and wailed before the portal of infinity. But I have done this because of growing pains I did not know were there, for I had covered them over with the illusion of tomorrow; I had entertained the idea that there was a splendid reward waiting somewhere in the future. But then I realized that there was no such thing as a future except within the lie of time; outside of time there is only eternity, which is what we call now. And so now it is my time to shout the roar of immortal glory, instead of wailing the tears of time. It is now my non-time to rip the world open with a mind that cannot understand what comes through it to rip the world open. This is the mystery of now. This is my inspiration.

It is my inspiration because I have dwelled within the paradigm of time and of our erroneous separation for a lengthy duration, but while drowning in the depths of such an ensconcing sea I unexpectedly found that I had learned to breathe under water. Which is to say, I had discovered inspiration.

I know now that all of my compulsions have been the outcome of my primary addiction- the need for inspiration. Inspiration is my drug. Such things as spirituality, booze, travel, psychedelics, contemplation, music, dance, laughter, wilderness, and ribaldry- these have simply been the different forms of the drug of inspiration for which I have had great need in this confounding life. I could not live without being inspired, be it from beauty, wonder, intoxication, love, God, adventure, merriment, or profundity. And that means I have been an addict to perhaps the most relentless addiction of them all, because any moment I was not soaking in the thick tremor of inspiration was but an agony waiting to be relieved. And relieve it I did.

Oh, did I relieve it. I went mad with anguish and euphoria. I tramped and wandered and roamed this magnificent earth. I drank and smoked and ingested the bounty of the earth's intoxicants. I studied and scoured and devoured this inexorable mystery into which I was born. I laughed and wept and played and roared at the glory and gore of this whole mad show. I walked away and came back again. I ran away and returned. I shouted with rage and bellowed with praise. I fought with fists and made love with wild abandon. I sought inspiration in the guts, the heart, the spirit, and in the bowels of our cosmic corpulescence. And whether it was right or wrong no longer matters, for I could have done no other. I could not live without inspiration. I knew this, and I resigned. Inspiration would be my oxygen.

            And yet all the jangle and boom which resounded from my feverish endeavors were themselves but aspects of only one half of my true nature. The other half was stillness. Absolute stillness. And it was not until that stillness devoid of opposites arose within me did I truly realize my inexorable addiction. It was not until I blew apart in a subtle super-nova caused by the coalescence of all I had endured, that I then merged into the all from which I had been sucking inspiration.

            It was from this apocalyptic transformation that I became still. But even as the peace and equanimity of the limitless void dissolved and became me, and I became that oxygen I once so feverishly inhaled, still did I look out from the eternal harbor of the eternal self. And with a subtle grin of excitement I learned to settle comfortably back into the flesh, knowing that no word describes this inspired life of action and peace better than Hallelujah!

            Passion and dispassion now merge within me as if I am at rest amidst an apocalypse. I am at the still point, and I am in the maelstrom. I am calm, and I am exploding. I am full of faith, and I am wild with mania. I am love, and I am rage.

            I am a rock rising inviolably out of the sea, and I am the roaring waves trying to break it.

            I am the horror and the caress, the thrashing and the quiescence, the pandemonium and the peace.

            I am the link between the one and the many, the perfection and the dross, the glory and the gore, the victory and the loss.

I am an invisible bridge between invisible worlds, a tightrope uniting spirit and flesh, heaven and earth, ennui and ecstasy, becoming and eternity. There is no end. And I am no longer afraid.

I am no longer afraid because I know now that fear is the wall which divides the ecstatic-All into agonizing parts. To take down the wall is to become the All. To become the All is to be torn into pieces like Osiris, only to then be re-membered into the eternal, divisionless realm of Love.

I am no longer afraid. And it is for this inextinguishable reason that like a madman with an unquenchable song in his tremulous heart do I now sing without shame for the glory. Om, baby!








Though words such as these are mere blind tremblings shouted into the distance as an admittance of impossible clarity, I nevertheless seek in my own imperfect way to share my journey without intending to create a map for others to follow. For there is no map, there is only a journey, a terrible and brilliant sojourn through the inexplicable flesh.

It is a journey fraught with confusion and fusion, an unavoidable undertaking beyond all comprehension and coherence.

It is a journey without certainty or plan. And yet the soul somehow knows its own way, if only one learns to trust and follow. To follow the soul is to realize that there is naught but a single question which looms at all crossroads, and that is- "Which way leads towards my greater perfection?" There is no choice nor deliberation in the dark and confusing path of life, there is merely an ultimatum. For when the soul which knows the way lays down the gauntlet and points towards the dark abyss towards which we must wander, the only decision which remains is whether we begin our inner voyage now or later, for inevitably it is thither we must go.

            We must go, so that we may then return.


            And so, like the pendulous cosmogenesis of a lesser Brahma- who, it is said, exhales the universe for thousands of years, and then inhales it again until it dissolves back into Himself where it enters into the primal, unqualified state thousands of years later- did I inhale and absorb the world for the first thirty-seven years of my life. But then a reversal occurred, and I turned about and changed direction. In that dramatic shift I became no longer a microcosmic speck of the universe plodding the occidental highway, instead I had become a macrocosmic vehicle, helping to carry the universe along on its neverending course.

            I had turned about, my journey had shifted from west to east, from coagulation to expansion, and only then did I realize that to cease walking in a singular direction, is to become all directions.

            This metamorphosis began during the night of my thirty-seventh birthday. That night I dreamt a dream in which a man was being strung upon a cross and crucified, but just before he was about to die, the nails which had been driven through his wrists into the cross suddenly gave way and he came plummeting back down to earth. At this point in the dream an intense bright light took over, and a woman's voice spoke, saying "Now we are going to study the inner light, the om". And I awoke.

            The message of the dream was clear to me instantly: I had completed my journey along the path of the western way, and now my soul had turned about and was heading eastward.

Without a doubt this was a harbinger of all that was to follow over the next couple of years, for in a single moment I had somehow spun metaphysically about, and was now headed the other way. Like a ship which sails out into the uncharted sea for a great duration, but then in an instant turns about and points towards its home port, I was no different than I had been the evening before. Only now I was headed home.

            I was now charting a course away from the perils of multiplicity and the mundane, and was bound for the great void of the eternal self wherein lies that peace which can come only after a long, challenging journey comes to completion beneath a beneficent constellation. And from there the soul charts a different course, into different waters, out of the raging northern seas, and into the placid waters of the One. This is when the wayfarer, lost for so many years in the foreign realms of being, returns again to the beginningless home, to that great cosmic peace which is the omega from which, and towards which, all similar spirits have roamed.

            I had been tangled in the occidental drama for many years preceding this shift, and had gone as far as I could go within that limited theater. And so I had to transform, as we all must transform, since change is the nature of the manifest, and therefore to not transform in this life is to have to leave this life and once again take on the perils of re-entry into another life through another womb, so as to become another form which can then try again to transform. What we call death is simply an inability to transform. What we call life is transformation.

In fact soon after my shift eastward began I had another dream in which I was told that the ego kills a person if it thinks he or she cannot, or will not, evolve further in this life. The ego in this case is not our identity, but rather our daemon, which is the invisible force within us which compels us towards our highest destiny. The daemon is necessary and ruthless, often requiring from us an ongoing inner metamorphosis. For if a snake cannot or will not shed its skin it must die from the claustrophobic strangulation which comes from its own inability to transform.

In this case our worst enemy is our own self, and the only way to defeat the inner enemy is to keep growing, keep changing, keep expanding and shifting into the next stage.

            It is impossible to get away from such a mandate, because you are the mandate. There is no chance of escape from the law of transformation. Change or leave, that is the law. And so you have to keep dying and being born again in life, if you want to avoid being murdered by your own inner God.

            As I said, I had gone as far as I could go along the occidental highway. I came to the end of the road and a great chasm opened up before me. As I stood there, teetering on the precipice, not knowing how to go onward, the ego- my inner daemon- began nudging me from behind, and I was left with only two options- to fall into the space and be killed, or to die into and become the space.

            I was pushed but I did not fall. Though neither did I fly. I dissolved. And in that dissolution I expanded beyond the chasm laid out before me.

            Until such an inner expansion as this occurs, an individual is confined within the worldly paradigm of existence. There is no way out, and there is not supposed to be a way out. Life in this world is an alchemical vessel- an enclosed laboratory wherein newly created entities can be tried and tested- and it is only by confining the individual's drama within a limited paradigm that the greater forces can choreograph the necessary situations and events which manifest transformations within the soul. It is for this reason that life in the world feels often so wretchedly painful and claustrophobic- because it is. Without such limitation the soul would not evolve into the perfection of which it is capable; just as a fruit tree must be pruned so as to bear the most fruit possible, so too the individual must be spiritually ‘cultivated' by the cosmic gardener, so as to bring to earth the greatest bounty possible. However, after having arrived at one's furthest paradigmatic actuality, the soul can no longer find room to grow within the worldly paradigm. That is when the inner dissolution, expansion, and liberation occur. That is when the walls of this realm which had in the past been confining the individual, now become diaphanous and permeable membranes through which the soul can depart and return, at will. The expanded soul can now deliver its new macrocosmic existence into the field of the microcosm. In the words of the Buddhists, the soul has gone from being a Hinayana, a lesser vehicle, to a Mahayana, a greater vehicle. The cosmos has accomplished its intent. The imprisoned soul has been liberated. And through this individual expansion the entire interconnected universe has grown.








            The subtle chapters of this expansive transformation which I underwent were displayed outwardly through the drama of my worldly existence; I was guided to move through my inner change by being guided to move through the outer world as a mirror to my subtle metamorphosis. That is, I was guided to go on an overseas ‘trip', which is a word used aptly both for the call of our inner life, and for our outer journeys in the world, for they are both ‘trips'. Thus the drama of the individual is lived through as if in a dream, where the theater of life on earth is the forum in which the microcosmic self grows to its conscious, macrocosmic stature, and awakens beyond the confines of this paradigm. That is when one is liberated, so to speak.

            My trip from the microcosm to the macrocosm, from the occident to the orient, began in the occidental land of my ancestors, in the place from which the heart of my western bloodline had originated- Europe.

            On this trip I was accompanied, as per usual, by my soror[1]. We began our journey on the westernmost outpost of the ancient western world, arriving on the Dingle Peninsula, west coast Ireland, on a drizzly, cool October afternoon. We had gone there because we had been guided to do so. That is all we knew. And so we came as pilgrims who are called to a remote destination for unknown reasons must always come- we came to stay indefinitely. Which is to say, we came to stay until it was time for us to leave. When that was to be we had no idea.

            This type of open-ended attitude is a singular rule of thumb for following the call of the spirit; to follow such a call requires the surrender of all expectations and desires until the unknown mission is completed.

            In the past I had gone to many places for reasons which were unknown to me until I arrived there. I often made these journeys because I felt intuitively called, or I had a powerful dream suggesting that I undertake the expedition. However, never before had I been called to such a beautiful, comforting, and pleasant place as Dingle Town.

            Having been directed to venture to such a place, I cannot help but solemnly envision the Jesuits and missionaries of old, who were sent or called out to dark, foreboding, insect-infested, primordial places on earth such as the Congo Basin, the Upper Amazon, Vanuatu, the Pribilof Islands, northern Canada, or any similar places where the cost of following one's spiritual vocation was never less than loneliness, discomfort, and endless struggle, and often times the price was a great deal more. I think of those stoic emissaries, boiled alive or beheaded for their vocation, and I thank the God within me who, knowing my fragile and stubborn disposition, had the wisdom, compassion, and foresight to send me off to Dingle.

            And what a place Dingle is. A town thick with beautifully painted ancient buildings, surrounded by rolling green hills on one side, and the great expanse of the Atlantic on the other. To walk around this quaint town and its neolithic vicinity, with the scent of peat fires flooding through the air, is to be transported back into a time when the whole of one's world was no greater than as far as the eye could see. However, having said this, as far as the eye can see, in Dingle, is farther than the eye can see from many other places on the globe.

Upon taking a brief, one hour hike up one of the bald hills behind the town, and attaining a bit of altitude, a massive panorama opens up, as the northern portion of the peninsula- the Dingle Diamond, as it is referred to in esoteric yarn- displays its bucolic majesty, ancient beehive huts, and gentle country lanes, while the southern view takes in the fantastic breadth of the ring of Kerry, which runs rollicking out to sea and there guides one's sight to the distant, otherworldly Skelig Rocks, the most impressive sight of yearning imaginable for anyone containing even a fragment of a hermit within them.

            I have a strong hermit within me, one which has had its fair share of my life so far, but I also have an unbridled reveler. Therefore Dingle Town and its environs was a perfect arena for the operation of both of these inner aspects of myself, as the entire peninsula was historically a center for meditative monks, but is now, paradoxically, a center of raucous ribaldry. Ebb and flow. Yin and yang.

            It was into this contemporary social milieu- and not the archaic act of omphaloskesis- which my soror and I found ourselves joyfully immersed during our stay on that wonderful peninsula. After all, only a fool would sit alone in a cold, stone room, so as to face the inner demons which had been unwittingly brought to life through the very act of denying oneself some healthy companionship, Guinness, and song, amongst his brethren. And, having been one such repressed, self-mortifier in the past, I say now, better indeed it is to be a sinner than a fool.

            With that bit of puerile wisdom supporting our propensities, my soror and I launched ourselves into the town every evening, making our way into one or another of the ancient pubs which dot the illustrious area, so as to imbibe a bit of the dark nectar, and be charmed by a fiddle or two.

            It could be argued that pub life in Ireland is life as it is meant to be. All other outward actions and events are but interludes or preliminary measures which must unfortunately be undertaken so as to sustain a life which then has the privilege to enter the pub and be fulfilled. For it is here, in the Irish pub, that the spirit and soul, the heart and the mind, the guts and the gonads, the viscera and the vulvas, are all welcome and exercised. It is here that merriment is exalted as the divine characteristic which it truly is. It is here that camaraderie and community, as well as introspection and isolation are noncontradictory events in the holistic panorama of humanity. It is here, on the westernmost outpost of the occidental drama, that humanity has finally arrived at the zenith of its groaning, microcosmic loneliness, and then turned that loneliness into brotherhood and song.

In the past I had revived my spirit many times in Irish pubs, and had been regularly uplifted and transported into ecstasy and enchantment by the goings on therein. However, before spending my voice on overzealous paeans, I regretfully exclaim that, as one who is incorrigibly dissatisfied with the imperfections of humanity's efforts, I have found there to be a large thorn growing chronically out of the Celtic rose that is Irish pub life; it is a thorn which has poked and prodded me and let my psychic blood out onto the stone floor of not a few said establishments; it is a thorn which invites disquiet into the seemingly harmonious goings-on within the fervor of the pub, for in the midst of such music and merry-making …there is no dancing. That is the thorn. For where there is no dancing, there is no heart. And where there is no heart there is only mind. And where there is only mind the cold grimace of stasis and objectivity spill out through the wailing fissures of death and cremate the soul.

Anyone who has sat in on traditional Irish music sessions might encounter the same pain of being elevated ecstatically by such uplifting, soul-grabbing music, amidst a throng of others who are feeling the same inspiring pulse, and yet not a single person is dancing. There is no dancing in Irish pubs. It is unbelievable. A cultural catastrophe. How an entire country, so blessed with the gift and heart for music, can separate their bodies from the exalted rhythm, is beyond me. It is infuriating. To listen to inspired music is one thing, but to dance to it is another enterprise altogether. Listening is of the spirit, but dancing is of the soul. To listen to music is to become elevated by the music, but to dance to music is to become the music.

            No matter. There are those of us who, having been lifted into the empyrean vibration of the Celtic riff, eventually cannot, or will not, remain still.

            I had sat through countless, indescribably penetrating music sessions in the past, and I had convivially repressed the thump and shimmer I felt in my legs and feet, so as to prevent them from taking off with my body and plunging me forth into an unproprietous pagan dance. However, there came a time when I found myself powerless to withhold the rushing force of glory from overtaking me.

            It came on a night perhaps two weeks after my soror and I had arrived on the Dingle. As per usual, in the evening we had made our way into one of the town's establishments, had put back a few pints of the dark and delicious tincture, and then had eased comfortably into the ensuing auditory rapture, as a music session began.

            But this night was not like other nights. This was a night when the stultifying chains which the entire Irish culture had bound itself within, and by which I had allowed myself to be held as well, suddenly lost all power of constriction and ability to contain, and I found myself lost to the freedom of the soul that knows no law nor reason nor propriety which might prevent that soul from its truest and most desperate expression.

Bullocks to the letter that killeth. I say: when in Rome forget the Romans and do as thou pleaseth.

            What happened on that particular night is that the session started like any other session- the music began, people took thoughtful note of it, and the joy of the Celtic muse flooded joyfully, though without visceral effect, through the atmosphere of the pub. But then the truth revealed itself in a startling display. And that truth came in the form of a woman fiddler who did not play the notes in a solely traditional manner, like a verbatim parrot repeating the same old tune over and over again. No, she played music the only way true music can be played. Which is to say, she played from her heart. And my God what a heart she played upon. Let me tell you, the fiddle transformed from the manifest realm of wood and metal, and softened into the ethereal realm where it became the living voice of her resounding inner ventricles, as she soared her way beyond the mainstream, beyond the usual, beyond the practicable, and took that instrument of heaven into the very reaches of her soul and made it sing with a voice that could shatter the moon.

And man was she quick. She was lightning and flesh fused together in an escalating invocation to the grandeur of our divine heritage. She was the spirit of song cascading in a downpour of dexterous mania. She was the held energy of the cosmos suddenly released in a whirling torrent upon the unexpecting pilgrims of the keep. And I… I was done for.

I like to believe that I can dance as fast or faster than any fiddler can play. And I state this delusion not so much out of braggary, but as a challenge; for I will gladly and with great privilege be defeated on the mortal battlefield of the song, if ever I come upon a fiddler who can beat me. And to be sure, at that moment I will be one man who has found victory and defeat in the very same event.

But what happened that night was not a contest, not about speed anyway. If it was, then it was a contest between that heartful woman's violin, and my own equanimity. And yet it was not a contest, it was a massacre. I was destroyed. I was obliterated. There was no battle, no war, no surrender. I lost, instantly. And what I lost was… myself.

As I said, this particular session began like any other session, but it was only too soon apparent- to myself if no one else- that this was no ordinary session. This was revelation. This was the end of what had been and the birth of a wholly new way of being. This was the unchecked, unmitigated, unrehearsed inflammation of the tendons and the heart.

After a few brief moments of trying to hold my own- of trying to sit still and quell the tumult rising within me, and thus affecting a common, controlled enjoyment of the pleasantries of pub life- I came undone. I left my seat, rushed through the throng of idlers, and landed a few feet in front of her majesty. And I danced. My God did I dance. Amongst a crowd who almost instantly became a thundering mob of appreciative spectators, and who instantly accepted my barbarism, and then lifted me further with their hoots, and claps, and screams, and howls, and my fiddler running me up relentlessly into the unleashed reaches, further and further, faster and faster, with no brakes nor bars to hold me, only a flaming fury of unleashed exaltation ensconcing me, as her spirit and song washed into and through me and the notes rising unrelenting, climbing higher and higher and driving me inexorably into an apocalyptic insanity of bliss and insobriety that was born to smash the world in two.

            Dancing with abandon, dancing the last dance, the dance that would end in a new beginning, I lost myself into the music until I became a living, manifest expression of the music.

            Entering the ecstasy and passion, and breaking through the hold of personhood, I became Nataraja, the Lord of the Dance, an incarnation of Shiva, the destroyer, and I was gripped and wild in the accumulation of all past energies leading to this one emancipative, apocalyptic moment, when the entire history of my lineage and peoples would converge upon the microscopic moment of cosmic transformation where I would rapturously dance out the old rhythm, and rapturously welcome the new.

           Dancing Shiva's tandava, his dance of destruction, I was destroying myself in an act of agony and celebration. And yet I was creating out of that very destruction. I was dying and being reborn in the same now-moment where Genesis and the Apocalypse meet as one carnal supernova eradicating all that was and creating all that has yet to be.

I danced like a man who had never before danced nor had known of dancing. Or perhaps I danced like a man who had always been dancing all his life, and had never done anything but dance, and yet this was the first time he had become the Lord of the Dance, and so became the dance itself.

I danced the dance my people had been trying to dance for millennia. A dance of agony and ecstasy, a dance of abandon and release. And I danced it.

Without knowing it I danced the dance which destroyed the past so as to reclaim the eternal beginning of now, so as to be that which has not yet been, so as to release my ancestors and become myself, so as to let go of all history, all thought, all memory, all ties, all links, all familiarity and foundation, and to rise out of the tired old design like a novel pattern obliterating the sky.

I danced without fear, without knowing, without anything that had ever existed in me prior to that dance; no longer the me who was there before the dance that destroyed me, I became something that never had been. I broke through, and became new.

            I was dancing the karmic dance of newness, stomping and flailing and swinging about wildly in a triumphant expression of an existence which knows nothing of itself but that it is a glory to be alive. A great glory.

            When the tune finally ended I was almost dead. Fortunately I had been resurrected, and so I had just enough life left in me to turn spontaneously towards her majesty on the fiddle, and, bowing with hands together in the traditional namaste, I gave due honor to the one who had resurrected me from the grave.

            Stumbling back to my seat like Lazarus after the resurrection, I sat through the rest of the session in a convalescent stupor of merriment and exhaustion, and sucked back a few more pints of the holy analgesic.

            When the music was finally over and the crowd headed out of the establishment, I went up to the one who had danced me out of myself so as to thank her and give due homage. After our cordial salutations, she introduced herself as Efa, making comment that her name was the Gaelic version of Eve. Of course. I should have known. I had been lifted off the ground by the Mother herself. I had entered into Her rhythm, and had been quickened by the Goddess incarnate. No one else on earth could have done that to me but the Goddess Herself, living through the radiance and roar of one of Her own inspired emanations.

I had danced the dance of my spirit on earth, and I had done so to the vibration and rhythm of the earth Herself.

After years of wandering and wondering why it was that I had come to this maddening world, and what it was that I was supposed to do, I had finally landed in the lap of the living Mother, and had been elevated out of an old story and into the revelation of a new song.

Perhaps this world and life would never reveal the true nature of my existence. Perhaps I would continue to be plagued by uncertainties, discontentment, and disquiet. Perhaps I had come to this confounding earth for many reasons which would remain beyond my knowing. But at least I now knew one of them. I had come to dance. Om, baby!



[1] Soror is short for soror mystica (mystical sister), the female half of the alchemical partnership within which both she and her frater (brother) seek individual wholeness, working in mystical cooperation towards that end.



travel India book

OM, BABY! a pilgrimage to the eternal self


by Jack Haas, ISBN 0973467711

$16.00 paperback, $6.00 ebook


This is both a remarkable journey through sacred India, and a pilgrimage to the immortal self. After a transformative journey to the lands of his ancestors- Ireland, and Holland- the author embarks on what would become a life-altering visit to the spiritual centers of Hinduism, Sikhism, and Buddhism. With his ever inexorable determination to pursue his highest path, Jack Haas visits many holy areas within the subcontinent of India, and communes with numerous masters who have passed from this plane, but who remain in the subtle realm to assist mankind in its growth to freedom and eternity. These include Krishna, Guru Nanak, Ramana Maharishi, Christ, and Shiva himself. Within the pages of this book Haas describes his own evolution towards an expanded, unlimited consciousness as well as his unique relationships with many aspects of the divine feminine, including Mother Mary, Sophia, Parvati, Gauri, Kali, Saraswati, Durga, and Gaia. Haas' path eventually leads him to the absolute union of spirit and flesh, and to the inextinguishable Tao running through all of life.


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"The union of spirit and flesh creates a subtle new harmony.

Two unique worlds come together, and through our hearts unite into one.

For it is only in the voice of the flesh, that the song of the spirit is finally sung."

Jack Haas