The Celestine Prophecy

by James Redfield

She leaned toward me. “Have you ever had a hunch or intuition concerning something you wanted to do? Some course you wanted to take in your life? And wondered how it might happen? And then, after you had half forgotten about it and focused on other things, you suddenly met someone or read something or went somewhere that led to the very opportunity you envisioned?

  “Well,” she continued, “according to the priest, these coincidences are happening more and more frequently and that, when they do, they strike us as beyond what would be expected by pure chance. They feel destined, as though our lives had been guided by some unexplained force. The experience induces a feeling of mystery and excitement and, as a result, we feel more alive.

  “The priest told me that this is the experience that we’ve glimpsed and that we’re now trying to manifest all the time. More people every day are convinced that this mysterious movement is real and that it means something, that something else is going on beneath everyday life. This awareness is the First Insight.

  She looked at me expectantly, but I said nothing.

  “Don’t you see?” she asked. “The First Insight is a reconsideration of the inherent mystery that surrounds our individual lives on this planet. We are experiencing these mysterious coincidences, and even though we don’t understand them yet, we know they are real. We are sensing again, as in childhood, that there is another side of life that we have yet to discover, some other process operating behind the scenes.”

  Charlene was leaning further toward me, gesturing with her hands as she spoke.

  “You’re really into this, aren’t you?” I asked.

  “I can remember a time,” she said, sternly, “when you talked about these kinds of experiences.”

  Her comment jolted me. She was right. There had been a period in my life when I had indeed experienced such coincidences and had even tried to understand them psychologically. Somewhere along the way, my view had changed. I had begun to regard such perceptions as immature and unrealistic for some reason, and I had stopped even noticing.

  I looked directly at Charlene, then said defensively, “I was probably reading Eastern Philosophy or Christian Mysticism at that time. That’s what you remember. Anyway, what you’re calling the First Insight has been written about many times, Charlene. What’s different now? How is a perception of mysterious occurrences going to lead to a cultural transformation?”

  Charlene looked down at the table for an instant and then back at me. “Don’t misunderstand,” she said. “Certainly this consciousness has been experienced and described before. In fact, the priest made a point to say that the first insight wasn’t new. He said individuals have been aware of these unexplained coincidences throughout history, that this has been the perception behind many great attempts at philosophy and religion. But the difference now lies in the numbers. According to the priest, the transformation is occurring now because of the number of individuals having this awareness all at the same time.”

  “What did he mean, exactly?” I asked.

  “He told me the Manuscript says the number of people who are conscious of such coincidences would begin to grow dramatically in the sixth decade of the twentieth century. He said that this growth would continue until sometime near the beginning of the following century, when we would reach a specific level of such individuals—a level I think of as a critical mass.

  “The Manuscript predicts,” she went on, “that once we reach this critical mass, the entire culture will begin to take these coincidental experiences seriously. We will wonder, in mass, what mysterious process underlies human life on this planet. And it will be this question, asked at the same time by enough people, that will allow the other insights to also come into consciousness—because according to the Manuscript, when a sufficient number of individuals seriously question what’s going on in life, we will begin to find out. The other insights will be revealed … one after the other.”

  She paused to take a bite of food.

  “And when we grasp the other insights,” I asked, “then the culture will shift?”

  “That’s what the priest told me,” she said.

  I looked at her for a moment, contemplating the idea of a critical mass, then said, “You know, all this sounds awfully sophisticated for a Manuscript written in 600 B.C.”

  “I know,” she replied. “I raised the question myself. But the priest assured me that the scholars who first translated the Manuscript were absolutely convinced of its authenticity. Mainly because it was written in Aramaic, the same language in which much of the Old Testament was written.”

  “Aramaic in South America? How did it get there in 600 B.C?”

  “The priest didn’t know.”

  “Does his church support the Manuscript?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “He told me that most of the clergy were bitterly trying to suppress the Manuscript. That’s why he couldn’t tell me his name. Apparently talking about it at all was very dangerous for him.”

  “Did he say why most church officials were fighting against it?”

  “Yes, because it challenges the completeness of their religion.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know exactly. He didn’t discuss it much, but apparently the other insights extend some of the church’s traditional ideas in a way that alarms the church elders, who think things are fine the way they are.”

  “I see.”

  “The priest did say,” Charlene went on, “that he doesn’t think the Manuscript undermines any of the church’s principles. If anything, it clarifies exactly what is meant by these spiritual truths. He felt strongly that the church leaders would see this fact if they would try to see life as a mystery again and then proceed through the other insights.”

  “Did he tell you how many insights there were?”

  “No, but he did mention the Second Insight. He told me it is a more correct interpretation of recent history, one that further clarifies the transformation.”

  “Did he elaborate on that?”

  “No, he didn’t have time. He said he had to leave to take care of some business. We agreed to meet back at his house that afternoon, but when I arrived he wasn’t there. I waited three hours and he still didn’t show up. Finally, I had to leave to catch my flight home.”

  “You mean you weren’t able to talk with him any more?”

  “That’s right. I never saw him again.”

  “And you never received any confirmation about the Manuscript from the government?”

  “None.”

  “And how long ago did this take place?”

  “About a month and a half.”

  For several minutes we ate in silence. Finally Charlene looked up and asked, “So what do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. Part of me remained skeptical of the idea that human beings could really change. But another part of me was amazed to think that a Manuscript which spoke in these terms might actually exist.

  “Did he show you a copy or anything?” I asked.

  “No. All I have are my notes.”

  Again we were silent.

  “You know,” she said, “I had thought you would be really excited by these ideas.”

  I looked at her. “I guess I need some proof that what this Manuscript says is true.”

  She smiled broadly again.

  “What?” I asked.

  “That’s exactly what I said, too.”

  “To whom, the priest?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said that experience is the evidence.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “He meant that our experience validates what the Manuscript says. When we truly reflect on how we feel inside, on how our lives are proceeding at this point in history, we can see that the ideas in the Manuscript make sense, that they ring true.” She hesitated. “Does it make sense to you?”

  I thought for a moment. Does it make sense? Is everyone as restless as me, and if so, does
our restlessness result from the simple insight—the simple awareness built up for thirty years—that there is really more to life than we know, more that we can experience?

  “I’m not sure,” I finally said, “I guess I need some time to think about it.”

  I walked out to the garden beside the restaurant and stood behind a cedar bench facing the fountain. To my right I could see the pulsating lights at the airport and hear the roaring engines of a jet ready for take off.

  “What beautiful flowers,” Charlene said from behind me. I turned to see her walking toward me along the walkway, admiring the rows of petunias and begonias which bordered the sitting area. She stood beside me and I put my arm around her. Memories flooded my mind. Years ago, when we had both lived in Charlottesville, Virginia, we had spent regular evenings together, talking. Most of our discussions were about academic theories and psychological growth. We had both been fascinated by the conversations and by each other. Yet it struck me how platonic our relationship had always been.

  “I can’t tell you,” she said, “how nice it is to see you again.”

  “I know,” I replied. “Seeing you brings back a lot of memories.”

  “I wonder why we didn’t stay in touch?” She asked.

  Her question took me back again. I recalled the last time I had seen Charlene. She was telling me good-bye at my car. At the time I felt full of new ideas and was departing for my home town to work with severely abused children. I thought I knew how such children could transcend the intense reactions, the obsessive acting out, that kept them from going on with their lives. But as time had progressed, my approach had failed. I had to admit my ignorance. How humans might liberate themselves from their pasts was still an enigma to me.

  Looking back over the previous six years I now felt sure the experience had been worthwhile. Yet I also felt the urge to move on. But to where? To do what? I had thought of Charlene only a few times since she had helped me crystallize my ideas about childhood trauma, and now here she was again, back in my life—and our conversation felt just as exciting as before.

  “I guess I got totally absorbed in my work,” I said.

  “So did I,” she replied. “At the paper it was one story after another. I didn’t have time to look up. I forgot about everything else.”

  I squeezed her shoulder. “You know, Charlene, I had forgotten how well we talk together; our conversation seems so easy and spontaneous.”

  Her eyes and smile confirmed my perception. “I know,” she said, “conversations with you give me so much energy.”

  I was about to make another comment when Charlene stared past me toward the entrance to the restaurant. Her face grew anxious and pale.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, turning to look in that direction. Several people were walking toward the parking lot, talking casually, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I turned to face Charlene again. She still appeared alarmed and confused.

  “What was it?” I repeated.

  “Over by the first row of cars—did you see that man in the gray shirt?”

  I looked toward the parking lot again. Another group was exiting through the door. “What man?”

  “I guess he’s not there now,” she said, straining to see.

  She looked directly into my eyes. “When the people at the other tables described the man who stole my briefcase, they said he had thinning hair and a beard, and wore a gray shirt. I think I just saw him over there by the cars … watching us.”

  A knot of anxiety formed in my stomach. I told Charlene I would be right back and walked to the parking lot to look around, careful not to get too far away. I saw no one who fit the description.

  When I returned to the bench, Charlene took a step closer to me and said softly, “Do you suppose this person thinks I have a copy of the manuscript? And that’s why he took my briefcase? He’s trying to get it back?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But we’re going to call the police again and tell them what you saw. I think they also ought to check out the passengers on your flight.”

  We walked inside and called the police, and when they arrived we informed them of what had occurred. They spent twenty minutes checking each car, then explained that they could invest no more time. They did agree to check all the passengers boarding the plane Charlene would be on.

  After the police had left, Charlene and I found ourselves standing alone again by the fountain.

  “What were we talking about, anyway?” she asked. “Before I saw that man?”

  “We were talking about us,” I replied. “Charlene, why did you think to contact me about all this?”

  She gave me a perplexed look. “When I was in Peru and the priest was telling me about the Manuscript, you kept popping into my mind.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I didn’t think too much about it then,” she continued, “but later, after I returned to Virginia, every time I would think of the Manuscript, I would think of you. I started to call several times but I always got distracted. Then, I received this assignment in Miami that I’m headed to now and discovered, after I had boarded the plane, that I had a layover here. When I landed I looked up your number. Your answering machine said to contact you at the lake only in an emergency, but I decided it would be okay to call.”

  I looked at her for a moment, unsure of what to think. “Of course,” I finally replied. “I’m glad you did.”

  Charlene glanced at her watch. “It’s getting late. I’d better get back to the airport.”

  “I’ll drive you,” I said.

  We drove to the main terminal and walked toward the embarkation area. I watched carefully for anything unusual. When we arrived, the plane was already boarding and one of the policemen we had met was observing each passenger. When we approached him, he told us that he had observed everyone scheduled to board and no one fit the description of the thief.

  We thanked him and after he had left, Charlene turned and smiled at me. “I guess I’d better go,” she said, reaching out to hug my neck. “Here are my numbers. Let’s keep in touch this time.”

  “Listen,” I said. “I want you to be careful. If you see anything strange, call the police!”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she replied. “I’ll be fine.”

  For an instant we looked deeply into each other’s eyes.

  “What are you going to do about this Manuscript?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Listen for news reports about it, I guess.”

  “What if it’s suppressed?”

  She gave me another of her full smiles. “I knew it,” she said. “You’re hooked. I told you you’d love it. What are you going to do?”

  I shrugged. “See if I can find out more about it, probably.”

  “Good. If you do, let me know.”

  We said good-bye again and she walked away. I watched as she turned once and waved, then disappeared down the boarding corridor. I walked to my truck and drove back to the lake, stopping only for gas.

  When I arrived, I walked out to the screened porch and sat in one of the rockers. The evening was loud with crickets and tree frogs and in the distance I could hear a whippoorwill. Across the lake, the moon had sunk lower in the west and sent a rippled line of reflection toward me on the water’s surface.

  The evening had been interesting, but I was still skeptical about the whole idea of a cultural transformation. Like many people, I had been caught up in the social idealism of the Sixties and Seventies, and even in the spiritual interests of the Eighties. But it was hard to judge what was really happening. What kind of new information could possibly alter the entire human world? It all sounded too idealistic and far-fetched. After all, humans had been alive on this planet for a long time. Why would we suddenly gain insight into existence now, at this late date? I gazed out at the water for a few more minutes, then turned off the lights and went into the bedroom to read.

  The next morning I awoke suddenly with a dream still fresh in my mind. For a minute o
r two I stared at the bedroom ceiling, remembering it fully. I had been making my way through a forest searching for something. The forest was large and exceptionally beautiful.

  In my quest I found myself in a number of situations in which I felt totally lost and bewildered, unable to decide how to proceed. Incredibly, at each of these moments, a person would appear out of nowhere as though by design to clarify where I needed to go next. I never became aware of the object of my search but the dream had left me feeling incredibly upbeat and confident.

  I sat up and noticed a beam of sunlight coming through the window across the room. It sparkled with suspended dust particles. I walked over and pulled back the curtains. The day was radiant: blue sky, bright sunshine. A stiff breeze gently rocked the trees. The lake would be rippled and glistening this time of day, and the wind chilly against a swimmer’s wet skin.

  I walked outside and dove in. I surfaced and swam out to the middle of the lake, turning on my back to look at the familiar mountains. The lake rested in a deep valley where three mountain ridges converged, a perfect lake site discovered by my grandfather in his youth.

  It had now been a hundred years since he had first walked these ridges, a child explorer, a prodigy growing up in a world that was still wild with cougar and boar and Creek Indians that lived in primitive cabins up the north ridge. He had sworn at the time that one day he would live in this perfect valley with its massive old trees and seven springs, and finally he had—later to build a lake and a cabin and to take countless walks with a young grandson. I never quite understood my grandfather’s fascination with this valley, but I had always tried to preserve the land, even when civilization encroached, then surrounded.

  From the middle of the lake, I could see a particular rock outcropping near the crest of the north ridge. The day before, in the tradition of my grandfather, I had climbed to that overhang, trying to find some peace in the view and in the smells and in the way the wind whirled in the tree tops. And as I had sat up there, surveying the lake and the dense foliage in the valley below, I had slowly felt better, as if the energy and the perspective were dissolving some block in my mind. A few hours later I had been talking with Charlene and hearing about the Manuscript.