October 28, 2020

Love the Teaching, Not the Teacher.

He didn’t have all the answers, yet I let him rule me.

He told me I was far too broken to heal on my own, and he was the only one who could help me. So I spent thousands of dollars on planes, hotels, classes, and energy sessions. 

His teachings would show me how I could change. I needed help. I believed him, so I followed him.

I was standing next to my rental car after 14 days and two countries of classes. I was elated and felt solid in my body—it really was my home. I felt a shift in my consciousness and turned my head. My teacher walked out of the hotel entrance toward me with a big smile and two coffee cups.

“You still like lattes?” he asked in a squeaky voice. “They goofed up my order and I got a free one.”

“I tend to like anything that’s caffeinated,” I said and smiled.

My body felt comfortable with him today. It was rare and welcomed. I was nervous, but thrilled, to be getting my teacher’s attention. The energy between us felt light and seemed to sparkle.

Today, he was a safe person—and I was grateful. Our energy oscillated a lot depending on the class, going from extreme discomfort to complete avoidance. This last class, we’d shared a closeness as we held space for all the other students.

I felt seen and accomplished with his help. I mattered.

He congratulated me on my progress; I really seemed to be holding my own. My body swelled as I uncrossed my arms and felt exhilaration on being recognized. I noticed his hair was sticking out like an indoor plant with spikes and sharp edges. I always knew how a class was going by the way his hair looked. He was like an agitated father when he taught: pacing, ranting, joking as he threw his hair to emphasize the importance of no longer being ruled by ancestral energy. After a particularly robust class, his hair usually resembled a tropical plant more so than human hair.

“I’m going to go for a walk,” he said, gesturing to the grounds around the hotel. I felt a heaviness in my chest, an uncertainty. I never wanted to take up too much of his time or go somewhere I was unwanted. He started down the path and I watched him—unmoving, the sense of unease rising. My body was at war with itself.

He turned and looked at me, “Well, are you coming?”

It was my own programming—you aren’t good enougha preprogrammed script passed down generation upon generation. Despite all the classes, there were still times I forgot my thoughts, emotions, and actions were sometimes not my own. Reality isn’t always what it seems.

It was gorgeous in the city. There was still so much green, though leaves covered the ground in the yellow, orange, and red paint of autumn. The hotel grounds were well-tended, with the grass closely cropped. Every flower bed was mulched with wilted flowers. The clover around us was still wet with dew. The world was awake and slowly moving on with the morning.

My mind wandered. I was one of his senior students, one of the most constant. My life revolved around his teachings and our group, yet I didn’t feel like I belonged. My fear kept me at arm’s length from everyone.

“You know, Krista,” he said, as he raked his fingertips through his hair. It tasseled and curled in spiny whiffs. “You are one of my best students. You are very energetically talented.”

I looked at him, said nothing, and pushed the words away with an electrified awareness. No! I’m not good enough. There was that script again.

Watching my thoughts and feelings in this manner was a core aspect of my training with him. It felt like a sounding booth to notice that next to him. My head lowered; hands dug into my pockets and clenched into fists. I didn’t believe him. That state of awareness wrapped heavily around me. The lightness we’d shared in classes during the last 14 days dimmed.

We walked toward a tunnel under a little overpass. He commented on how he heard growling and was on guard. He’d recently been exploring realms of consciousness that had demons and was positive it was the key to deep healing. My body felt nothing. No danger. No tensing. No sharp intakes of breath. I assumed its responses were broken. After all, everything he said was absolute truth to me.

Years later, after I learned to truly trust my body’s responses, I still see no demons. No dark forces.

I suspect his demonic spiritual warfare was an aggressive battle within himself, and his intense attempts to save others was a way to combat that internal darkness. Demons were a filter he used from his religious upbringing, which I believe influenced him deeper than he ever cared to admit. When you don’t feel or recognize something within yourself, it spills out in all directions, like a hurricane and just as destructive. I learned there was an easier way to bring peace to areas of torment, and instead bond to that intensity by moving into a deep rest. It opens possibilities.

Teachings don’t begin or end with a teacher. They evolve according to the lens through which one views the world. Teachers are stepping stones by which one can filter truth and lies.

He taught a lot of things. The hundreds of hours of classes have leeched deeply into my subconscious. He had a deep influence on my being, yet I will rarely say his name or give him public acknowledgment. We parted suddenly after he allegedly broke a basic rule of his own teaching and became involved with a student and lied about it—a decision which ended two families.

The pristine pedestal I’d placed him upon crumpled to an abyss, yet his teachings and words framed and created a foundation from which I still navigate my reality. I will always hold gratitude and acknowledgment for this, even though I’ve removed his name from the record. He was not his teachings. The teachings were their own entity.


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