Meditations: Jesus Looks Like M. Night Shyamalan?

Copyrighted by Lorna Tedder. Originally published in Third Degree and Rising.

I’ve been trying to connect with the child who’s following me but haven’t been very successful. So far, he’s appeared on the edge of my Meditative Forest, a little wary of the man who seems to have taken up residence in this private place in my Dreaming. The man and I often lie on our backs in the lush, green grass and talk, but the child—while completely trusting this man—keeps his distance. It has something to do with this man fearing the child, more so than the child fearing the man. So I don’t force the issue. I don’t send the man away and I don’t force him to interact with the child who also wants to be near me. For now, I let things be.


So the meditations come in fits and spurts this week, sometimes going almost nowhere at all. Other times, they are so fast and complex and jarring that I don’t remember the bulk of them when I open my eyes. That’s true in particular of one that blended elements of my old and new spiritualities, in a vision that Christians would consider heretical.

I remember only the last moments of the meditation. The first part was quite long and I was fiercely strategizing and directing actions to protect someone. I can’t remember who now. Male, yes. But I can’t remember if it was a man or boy or what he needed to be protected from, only that matters had become rather dire.

In my meditations, I often am in “structures” I call “metaphysical houses.” They are representative structures of the internal workings of particular people or groups. I’ve walked through the metaphysical houses of my ex, of The Treat, of old friends and enemies, and even my own—which usually tends to encompass a vast portion of my old family farm and woods as well as the house. (see today’s other post for more on this area)

In this particular vision, the structure is one I’ve never seen in the waking world. It reminds me in some ways of the six-story “high rise” where I work, but it’s also an ancient stone temple, with a mix of archaic and mystical, torches, and high-tech ops. This isn’t my metaphysical house so much as it seems to belong to a community of people, as if it’s something we have all created by coming together.

Throughout this meditative vision, I am struggling to keep someone safe…and I am failing. I have known where all the ancient keys are to save this person but I need assistance from something Higher. Something must come about in the next few days or weeks or this person/treasure will be lost. And for whatever reason, I have been charged with protecting, with saving, this person. I am viewed as powerful and I am coordinating a huge effort, but I am not powerful enough without help and I’m growing weary even though I loathe such an admission. Matters are critical. The person I am protecting—although I cannot remember afterward who this person is!—is crucial to the success of this community’s work.

My guides tell me that help will come. That I will receive help from someone Higher. When this happens, it will be a relief. I won’t have to shoulder this burden alone. I won’t be relieved of my duties but I will be relieved of the burden. But he will not come forward until it is almost too late. My strength is necessary until then because I am the one who rarely gives up and that is the kind of protector that is needed for this mission.

Many people are around me in this place. I don’t know most of them, yet we are all working for a common purpose. Most are dressed in flowing garments. I note that some are children; others are in their teens. I know by the feel of my skirts on my legs that I’m a woman but I do not see myself in this vision except through my own eyes. For a long while, I see a boy in the periphery of my vision though he never interacts with me.

A boy in this temple. About 12 years old. Big dark eyes. Black, silky, curly hair at his shoulders. And a fantastic smile. He just seems to light up everything around when he smiles.

He’s quiet. He doesn’t interfere. He simply watches from the sidelines in his flowing tunic and pants and sashes. When I first see his dark eyes, I think of M. Night Shyamalan. Then I think he looks like a young version of “Mohinder Suresh” on TV’s “Heroes.” When I see this child, there is definitely a connection to India, a place I’ve always had an inexplicable fascination with.

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I don’t recall the specifics of my actions up until this point, only that the strategizing and the efforts to keep my charge safe have been fierce and I am refusing to give up. And yet, I’m informed by a bare-legged girl in a tunic that the critical moment is approaching. I won’t let him be lost, whoever this charge of mine is, and there are opposing forces so close to winning.

And then I am stalking down the temple corridor, much in the way I used to walk through the halls of the AMRAAM building at a 3.5 mph clip in my red power-suit and matching pumps, except this time I am in flowing robes and very much the High Priestess of this place. A High Priestess on the verge of tears, on the verge of losing my charge, on the verge of failing in my mission.

“Someone Higher is coming to aid you,” my guides tell me, but I don’t see anyone new coming to this place. I’m looking for someone forceful and mighty, athletically strong enough to take my sword and wield it with the same will that I would. But there are no warriors coming to my door. “Someone is coming,” my guides insist, “and he’ll join your fight.”

I push forward down the corridor, thinking all the time of how I might re-organize to accomplish what I must in spite of the looming threats. The dark-eyed boy steps in front of me, stopping me. He stands with hands on his slim hips, legs apart, smiling at me.

“I am HIM!,” he announces.

Suddenly I realize that he is the “Someone Higher” who has come to take control of the situation at the last minute and keep our precious treasure from being lost to other forces. I just stare at him.

“You’re the one who was to come relieve me?”

“I am him!” He smiles broadly at me, as if he’s showing me a secret I hadn’t guessed.

I understand what he is telling me. He is the one who will take my efforts and push them through to success. I must be standing with my mouth open. All I can do is murmur a giddy question as recognition pours through me.


He grins and nods. “I am him!” 

“Sananda” is his Ascended Master name. Most people call him Jesus.


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