by Annie Kagan
I was an incurable drug addict who wasn't even capable of making a living. Who would have thought that I would be ready for becoming the Universe? Well, that just shows that you can never judge anyone's life, yours included.
Sometimes in hardship you're forced to stand alone, and standing alone prepares you for becoming the Universe. I'm certainly not suggesting anyone take my path. Definitely not. But I am recommending that you see through your own eyes, not through the lens of others. Make your life as interesting as you can. Take chances. Go after your dreams.
Maybe these pages will give you a sneak preview into the many worlds and endless possibilities that lie before you. Maybe you will begin to play with the idea that you are eternal, that you will go on. You may not go on in the way you imagine, but it just may be greater and more magnificent than you could ever conceive.
After the morning's dictation, I drove to the ocean. What a beautiful mid-summer morning it was—a clear blue sky, just a few puffy clouds. As I walked along the water, a gentle breeze swirled over me and I challenged Billy for the first time.
“Give me some kind of sign, right now.”
At that precise moment, Mitzi, my dog from childhood, my favorite gift from my father, came running down the beach toward me, excitedly wagging her tail like an old friend. Okay, it wasn't actually Mitzi, just her exact double; same size, same honey blonde mix of fox terrier and beagle, same soulful eyes with thick white eyelashes. As I bent down to pet her, she licked my face. If her owner hadn't shown up, I would have taken her home with me.
I had my sign.
When I got home, I called the Mercedes dealer for the fourth time. He swore he'd send the things from Billy's smashed-up car right away. I wasn't holding my breath.
NINETEEN
Saga of the Pearl and the Oyster
A summer thunderstorm woke me in the middle of the night. The wind battered through the trees, the way it had for days after my brother died. Unable to fall back asleep, I was reflecting on how much I'd changed since then. Now that I believed that other dimensions existed, I'd never be able to think of life or death, myself, the cosmos, or just about anything else the way I used to.
Soon, Billy's voice came through the wind.
Hello, and I love you.
The world is your oyster
The world is your oyster
And in the oyster shell you will find
Many pearls
Pearls of wisdom you will cast before all creatures
I will place in front of your chariot
Seventeen horses of white
Beautiful horses
With golden raiment
When I first said, “the world is your oyster,” it sounded pretty good, right? Like all these gorgeous pearls would just be coming your way and you'd be living on so-called easy street. But the saga of the oyster and the pearl is more complicated than it first appears. The pearl only happens when sand gets inside an oyster and irritates it.
The world is my oyster? Full of irritation? What kind of blessing is that?
It's not my fault, Princess. I know. You'd like to just la-di-da through life, easy does it, instead of being stuck with a sandy oyster [laughs]. If I give you Billy's prescription for making pearls, would you like that?
Yes, I know, the irritation doesn't feel good, but without it there would be no pearl. Don't focus too much on the irritation. Try to relax about the sand. If you deal with the sand creatively, you'll have a gorgeous treasure.
To be a pearl maker, your oyster needs a good strong shell to protect you from a hundred million irritants in your environment. Your shell helps you tell one grain of sand from the other. You know which one can become a pearl and which one isn't worth the irritation.
If you become a really smart oyster, with a good shell, you can live life with more abandon because you don't have to worry so much about the sand.
“Oh, there's that sand again. This always happens when I take a big bite out of the ocean. I'll spit most of it out and won't be too concerned about the rest.”
And why don't you have to be too concerned? Have you looked inside an oyster lately? It's soft, fertile, and unformed. The inside of your oyster is your creative spark, your pearl-making laboratory. Smart people work in laboratories, right? Well, since you are the Universe, your laboratory is run by none other than the Universal Intelligence.
The same Intelligence that grows trees from seeds, that lets birds fly, that waves the ocean and gives birth to new stars—that same Intelligence also breathes your breath, beats your heart, and heals your wounds.
How can I say that you are the Universe? Because I have become as small as the smallest quantum particle, and as big as the multitude of galaxies that exist in space. I was always like that, really. I just didn't know it. And so is everyone else.
Look at pictures of the Universe. Then close your eyes and imagine those stars, clouds, comets, and galaxies inside and all around you.
When you turn your attention to the limitless, the irritation seems small compared to the sun and moon and stars. When you imagine the infinite, you're touched by your infinite self.
When I opened my e-mail that morning, I had a message from Guru Guy with a link to photos from the Hubble telescope. There was the breathtaking Universe right on my screen; cat's eye nebulas, light ring galaxies, stars being born. The link showed up at just the right moment with no effort on my part.
Early the next morning I made the three-hour drive to my mother's apartment in Brooklyn, a trip I'd taken every week since my brother's death. On the way, Billy told me something good would happen. I was glad to hear that because it was heartbreaking to see my takecharge, eighty-year-old mother hanging on by a thread.
The first month after Billy died my mother cried almost every second of every day. Then the doctors started shoving all kinds of antidepressants down her throat until she was practically catatonic. She sulked around her apartment in a robe, and stopped having her hair styled, putting on makeup, or getting her nails done. She acted like an old lady, which she had never done before.
Soon, my mother was reading countless books about death. The one she was absorbed in when I arrived that day talked about people losing their souls as a punishment for being “bad.”
“Where is he?” she cried in my arms. “Where's my baby boy? Has he lost his soul?”
“No, Mom, Billy's soul is fine. I wish I could find a way to help you believe that.”
“I never realized how much I loved him,” she said. “I always thought I loved you more, but it isn't true. I loved him just as much. Now he'll never know.”
“Don't worry. You'll be seeing him soon enough. Then you can tell him whatever you want.”
That made her smile.
I brushed her white hair, put cream and lipstick on her face, and helped her get dressed. “It's a lovely summer day,” I said. “Let's go walk by the river.” The sun was shining, bouncing off the Hudson, as we strolled arm in arm down the promenade.
“I need some wisdom, Mom. My life's still a mystery to me. You've lived a long time and learned a lot. What wise thing can you tell me?” Asking her for advice was my way of helping her remember how smart she was.
“It's funny, I knew you were going to ask me that question and I knew how I would answer. I just read a book about a Chinese mother and daughter. I think it's called Scattered Pearls. As the daughter was about to leave for America, the mother told her that whatever troubles life brought her she should think of them as sand in an oyster and make them into beautiful pearls. And that's what I want for you, my darling girl. Take the hard things and make them into pearls.”
I laughed and said, “You won't believe this. I left something back at your apartment to show you.”
Many times I'd told my mother about Billy's visits, but she didn't want to read anything he said. I'm sure she thought I was living in some kind of Billy fantasyland that made the cold hard truth of his death even more painful. I understood, but now I sen
sed she'd be receptive.
When we got back to the apartment, I read her Billy's notes about the pearl and the oyster. My mother scrunched up her forehead and was quiet for a minute. Then she burst out laughing.
“All this time I was just humoring you when I said I believed Billy talks to you. But now, oh my God, I have to believe it!”
My mother opened her turquoise jewel box and handed me a string of pink baby pearls. “Why wait until I'm not around anymore. Then I'll never see you wear them.”
After our visit, my mother's melancholy began to lift. She confided that sometimes when she woke up she thought she felt Billy's spirit around, healing her and helping her get well.
“Even though the pain of losing Bill was like no other I felt in my life,” my mother said, “God meant for me to know him and love him, I am sure of that.”
TWENTY
Book of Life
On a dreamy mid-August morning, before dawn . . .
It's a beautiful day. Why not bring the red notebook and join me at the beach?
When I got there, the sky's pink and orange streaks gave way to Billy's ethereal white-robed glory.
It's a good day where you are, my sister. Every day's a good day here, although there really aren't days and nights. But I don't miss them. I don't miss a thing.
One of the things I certainly don't miss is being concerned about the way I look. Here, I just look like myself and that's great. There are no pretensions or efforts to appear any which way. I just radiate, which is effortless. Since I'm made of light, I don't have organs or blood or anything like that. No knee problems, no liver problems, no drug problems, no weight problems. I don't have a home either, except my light body.
Sometimes I leave my light body and go back to becoming the Universe; I let go and do some more blending into the cosmic energy field. I guess you could say it's a bit like human sleeping because they're both about letting go. But really there's no comparison, because becoming the Universe is sheer ecstasy and sleeping is hit or miss.
On earth, you need day and night, sleeping and waking, birth and death. You need to know that today may have been difficult, but tomorrow could be better. You may have messed the day up, or the day may have messed you up, but you can go to sleep and wake up, and maybe feel like you have a fresh start.
Death gives you a fresh start just like sleep does. We don't usually think of death as a start, but that's what it is. Whatever so-called mistakes you've made, it doesn't matter now, because there's always another chance, another lifetime even, to try something different. And don't worry. So-called mistakes are okay. They're just part of the deal.
After you're dead, everything is actually more alive. Take, for instance, my Book of Life, given to me by Joseph, that dazzling silver-haired man I met under the blue-white sphere. Although I'm calling it a book, it doesn't have pages and words. It's more like an oscillating rainbow. I'm calling it a book because that implies a gathering together of information. Also, Book of Life has a nice ring to it.
Before each soul comes to earth, its own personal edition of the Book of Life is written. Life on your planet is about dramas that change you. Isn't it funny that most people are scared of change, when changing is the double fudge frosting on top of the cake of life?
And although much of your life is planned out, there's a lot of freedom inside that plan. The circumstances are like lines in a kid's coloring book, but instead of ink the lines are penciled in; they're erasable. As you color in the spaces, you influence the lines.
Reading my Book of Life is different from watching my hologram. There was no analyzing going on then. Now, Joseph and I are looking at how the particular colors I chose shaped my life.
Joseph looks like a human being but he's made of light, like me. I don't think he's an embodiment of one of the Higher Beings I spoke about before. My sense is he's working under the umbrella of their benevolence. Joseph's better looking than the best-looking actor you've ever seen. His face has experience and goodness etched right into it. His attitude about everything is not at all serious; it's lighthearted and wise. I don't know if everyone here sees things the way Joseph does because I haven't come across any other locals so far. But I can tell you that Joseph's perspective is perfect for me.
Even though Joseph knows so much more than I do, he doesn't impose rules or give me opinions unless I ask. He doesn't dominate me in any way, and that's a beautiful thing. There's so much influence from others when you're on earth that in a way you don't get to live your own life. You get to live your own life after you're dead.
What exactly does Joseph do? The best thing he does is love me unconditionally. On earth people talk about unconditional love, but until you've actually been loved that way it's impossible to understand the power of it. It goes way beyond acceptance because acceptance implies that you like some parts of me and not others but you accept it all. To Joseph, everything about me is extraordinary. What an experience!
I really didn't do a bad job on earth with the circumstances I chose. They weren't easy circumstances. A lot of my life was preparing me for my new job—writing this book with you. It's hard to help others if you don't understand their frustrations, their disappointments, their fears, their desires, and their greatness. You can't really put yourself in someone else's shoes unless you've stood where they're standing.
I stood in a multitude of places, played a lot of different roles in my time: the addict, the philosopher, the healer, the scoundrel, the do-gooder, the do-bad-er, and my personal favorite, the bad-boy-saint. I don't mean to imply in any way that I was a saint, just that although I did my share of unconventional things, things that were against the law even, my heart and soul were always reaching for something wonderful.
Helping others was always my favorite thing. Although I never finished high school, I was always a good talker and I was always sincere. I used those gifts in my finest hours. Remember when I ran a drug center for young teenagers? I loved those kids and they knew it.
After that, I got to live out my lawyerly ambitions in my favorite job of all time, working as a liaison in the New York City courts helping people who got arrested for drug crimes. I pleaded their cases and tried to persuade the judges to sentence them to drug centers instead of prison. Of course, that was before I went to jail myself [laughs].
I am honored that my edition of the Book of Life contains these writings I am placing in your charge. As you may have figured out, I've become sort of a helping soul again. I hope through these pages people will realize they are not alone. I hope they will feel their immortality, even for only a fraction of a second, so they can lose some of their fear of dying. Then, not only will they have a more terrific death, they will also have a better life.
And, did I mention that within these pages there's light?
Oh, and I'm sending you a star today.
Billy's radiance made me feel so peaceful I lingered on the beach without a care in my head, gazing upwards, looking for the star Billy promised. The sea, the sand, and the gulls sparkled with the subtle light of the Divine.
That afternoon, as I drove into New York City to get my hair colored, I was thinking that of all my brother's roles, Billy Fingers was my least favorite. I hated that name. It scared me. It hinted at deals gone bad, jail, guns, and turning up dead in an alley.
“What are you, Bill?” I'd ask. “A gangster? A pickpocket? A bookie?”
Many times I'd wished my brother was something else—a professor, an author, a businessman—rather than someone whose greatest pleasure was getting high on drugs. Sometimes I was even ashamed of him. Like in high school when the brother of my best friend didn't want her to be friends with the sister of the town drug addict. Never mind that I was an honor student helping her realize how brilliant she was.
As I parked my car, I was thinking that although my brother's life was different than the one I would have wished for him, I never wanted a different brother, one who wasn't Billy. I was also thinking that maybe I'
d have my hair made sunnier for the sunny days of summer—put in some highlights.
That's when Billy's voice came through my windshield.
Why don't you make your hair the color of Lena Olin's, the actress?
I laughed as I walked to the salon. “What do you know about hair color, Billy?”
While I waited in the colorist's chair, a woman sat down next to me. I felt a strange, magnetic pull in her direction, so I turned my head to look. There sat the beautiful Lena Olin.
Billy had literally sent me a star.
TWENTY-ONE
Soul Tribes
Billy's talk about his many roles made me wonder about mine. Was I a cosmic detective exploring the ultimate mystery—what happens after you die? Billy wasn't just giving me information, he was giving me proof. And the plot had been set up perfectly. I'd left my life in New York City in search of a new one at a house by the bay. Without knowing it, I had set the stage for Billy's entrance. This wasn't just Billy's Book of Life, it was mine, too.
As the steamy days of August were coming to an end, Billy gave me some more secrets.
Although all beings come from the same Source, within each individual blossom, within our differences, lies the pleasure of creation. In its multitudinous glorious playfulness, the Infinite creates diversity, so there are many soul tribes. Each tribe has its special explorations to undertake on earth.
Your soul tribe isn't about country or race, religion, or family. When you meet someone from your tribe, you feel you somehow already know that person. Other tribes are unfamiliar, but they bring gifts of new knowledge and wisdom. The different tribes provide all the characters needed for the great cosmic drama.
Many elaborate symbols appear throughout my Book of Life. They are written in a language I have never learned, but seem to know intimately. My beloved Joseph and I are from the tribe Lohana, and these symbols are our tribe's wisdom formulas.