Editor's Note: Soon after publishing the first edition of this remarkable book the author, Annalee Skarin, according to Affidavits in our files, underwent a physical change known as "translation," such as did Enoch of Biblical days. (See pages 183 and 192.)*
Annalee Skarin invites the reader to meet something. That something is inside of himself. But first, she states that in order to do this it will be necessary to compare man's realities with the things he considers unreal.
That is where the exquisite unfolding of mystery begins. Annalee has a very peculiar way of tiptoeing into the reader's mind's eye to expose what most find indistinguishable. She sees what we take for granted as breathtaking. And you will also as you discover your attention drifting into the four winds and the raging deep before you realize that she has lifted the veil of dull thinking from your mind. She reminds the reader of the erosion and dilapidation of what we consider most vital to our survival on this earth. By the end of this chapter you will understand how real much of the invisible world is, and how the material world fades like a shadow.
As chapter one winds down to its conclusion, she zeros in on the point that there must be a designer, or builder of our universe. If you've ever doubted that there is a God, a Creator of all things, then study this chapter over and over. You will find it hard to believe that you ever had such uncertainties.
Do you have unanswered longings deep within your soul struggling for release, and does your heart sometimes speak louder than your mind? If you desire, if you yearn, if you hope, if you think and feel and aspire, then there is something dwelling within your little clay house that you must meet.
This day I would like to knock at the door of your earthly tabernacle, the body you have built, and reaching in, invite you to come and get acquainted with yourself -- that you might know yourself, and that from now on, henceforth and forever, you might be free.
In order to do this it will first be necessary to compare man's realities with the things he considers unreal.
Can one suffer more from a broken leg or a broken heart? A broken heart leaves scars that never heal. The suffering can be so intense that many have died from it. Yet one cannot see a broken heart, touch it, or even describe it. But is the broken leg more real because it is more tangible than the broken heart? Not to those who have suffered from heartbreak, though eyes have never gazed upon a quivering broken-heart, nor hands ever touched one.
These tangible things that man has doted on, and lived by, let us examine them. The most real things in our lives are food, clothing, transportation and shelter. Let us take them one by one and give to each the test of durability.
What did you have for dinner two weeks ago this evening? That meal was such an important thing, yet you probably can not remember a single thing you ate, no matter how hard you try, that is, not unless it was a special occasion, you had guests, it was a holiday, or for some reason you had a poor, make-shift meal. The most important substance of life, that for which we labor incessantly, is the most quickly forgotten. The thousands of meals consumed by each individual are the most unimportant things in our memories after we have eaten and digested them, unless we are very hungry or gluttons. Of course we still look forward to more meals; but they, too, will join with those of the forgotten past -- realities that have become only vague dreams of intangible memories.
Clothing lasts longer than food; it is as vital. We enjoy dressing beautifully quite as much as we enjoy eating. We go to endless expense and effort to clothe our bodies becomingly. But what has become of all the suits of apparel we have worn in the past? A husband will struggle and scheme to buy his wife the gorgeous gown on which she has set her heart -- and later pins her pride. She is so happy over it she hopes the house will not burn down and destroy it if she leaves home without wearing it. It is the most important thing in her existence, that is, for awhile. Her fingers caress its loveliness in happy enjoyment; yet a year or so later she looks at the dilapidated "rag", declaring in disgust that she would not be seen in "that old thing" for all the world. She would rather stay home forever than appear before her friends in it -- and the glamorous gown has become a repulsive thing, hated and despised. Its glory has vanished. It ends up at last in the incinerator, or for cleaning rags, taking its place among the dead, forgotten elements of the things that have been.
Shall we take a car next? Surely it is practical. It is one of the most substantial things one could possibly think of in this day of practicability. Even its paint is of hardened, baked enamel. Its softest substances are steel-reinforced cushions and hard rubber tires. It is so real it is the very life and joy of the whole family, from father down to baby Danny. It is the most worth-while thing in their lives. And while the family ride on the seats, their heads soar along in the clouds. Yet within a year or so this beautiful, practical thing of iron and steel begins to show signs of wear. Within ten years it has become such a "rattle-trap", the family, in shame, refuse to ride in it. So dad still drives it to work, nursing it, caring for it like a tender parent, though nothing will save it forever, for eventually it is dragged to the graveyard of cars, and there are none to mourn its passing. It has perished, this practical thing of earthly elements refined to their highest, most durable point of excellence.
The next most vital thing in man's life is his shelter. He may labor and save all his days to buy the home that will satisfy the desires of his heart. Yet no matter how, or where he builds, within a few years it will be in the slum district -- his dream becomes outmoded, out of style, dilapidated. The most gorgeous homes of the past are the slums of the present.
The once beautiful palace of the Mexican Governor, Pico, still stands on North Main Street in Los Angeles. If one has imagination he can still see the glory that once resided there, and feel the pride that built this monument of stone to stand through generations, glorifying beauty and magnificence. But its splendor has passed away and perished. Its former grandeur stands leering down in mockery at the frail things men's hands have made. It is like a once beautiful woman, slouching along with hose lagging over unlaced shoes, hair unkempt, clothing soiled and dirty, face unwashed and hands begrimed with filth. The palace of past glory now houses the cast-off remnants of men's rags in a second-hand clothing store.
So these practical things man clings to in his substantial way through life are fleeting, transitory things. And if one thinks deeply, the question comes, how real are our realities?
Where is the child you used to be? That little child that was you? It did exist, but where is it now? It has gone, and will never live again -- and the "YOU" that exists today will soon pass on, and there will be an older person walking in your shoes, bearing your name.
All the tangible things of earth are best described by the old colored gentlemen who quoted his favorite passage of scripture, "And it came to pass." The war, the famine, the tempest came -- to pass -- and life went on again.
Are all things then passing and transitory? Are all these substantial, practical things we deal in and depend on only dreams of a night vision? Is there nothing vital or lasting in life?
Can one suffer more from a broken heart or a broken leg? One is physical, the other mental. Is it possible that the things we cannot see or touch are more powerful and lasting than these tangible things our eyes behold?
One cannot see electricity. Neither can one touch it, nor hold it in his hands. Electricity is a form of energy, yet who can describe it? Who can fathom it? What is the source of its eternal supply of vital, throbbing power? Where is its abiding place? Who constructed its habitation? How was it created? And why? No man would be foolish enough to deny its existence because he has not beheld it with his physical eyes, for he has only to see it in action to know that it does exist. By its strength our houses are lighted, cleaned and heated. In a thousand ways its mighty power is brought to serve us and do our bidding. It is a greater servant, more dependable, more obedient than the genie of Aladdin's lamp. Yet our eyes have never beheld it. Even the lightning in the heavens is only electricity in action -- its forces at play -- but no man can gather it in his hands and say, "I have it! Behold, it is mine!"
Neither can wind be seen, nor held in the hands of man, yet even small children know that the wind is a reality. No one knows where it was born or where it dies. Eyes have not seen its resting place. No one can hold it in his bosom, nor store it for use. The fluttering leaves tell of its presence, the trees bend and sigh with its melody; and there are times when it seems to lift the very earth in its strong arms, bearing tons upon tons of dirt aloft into the sky. The thousands upon thousands of tons of soil that are hurled aloft in every wind storm of the "dust bowl" would stagger the imagination of man if it could be computed. Whence came this limitless source of energy? Check your electric bill when running continuously an electric fan that stirs the slightest breeze in your room -- measure the energy used in creating the slightest draft in kilowatts. Even the mighty deep, wrestling with the wind, is lashed into a raging fury of madness in order to hold its own. Then measure, if you can, the trade winds of a world and the eternal energy behind them. Oh, yes, wind is a definite reality though physical eyes have never beheld it. It was so real to the ancients that in the days of the great historian, Herodotus, it was believed that the wind blew the sun back and forth across the equator to cause the seasons.
Let your mind encompass the majesty of a storm, the power of the clouds. One thunder cloud drifting in floating splendor above the earth can release 300,000 tons of water in a few moments of deluge. Whence came the energy to lift these tons of moisture? Who has ever beheld the source of this unspeakable energy, or measured it?
And now, I would ask, what is thought? Has anyone ever beheld the thoughts of man, those illusive, intangible, transitory, invisible nothings? No. One cannot behold the thoughts of man any more than he can grasp the sunlight in his hand, but he can view thoughts in action. Every bridge, every car, every building has been constructed by the thoughts of man.
Hate, unseen, indescribable, destructive hate is a reality, a power, a force that can destroy individuals and nations. It can destroy worlds, yet hate itself is invisible. It is a subtle, intangible influence whose very breath brings wars, destructions, death. Have you ever had someone standing before you, hating you with an intense anger that sent vibrations against you that were so strong and overwhelming they almost unbalanced you, upsetting you, upsetting your whole nervous system and in turn you wanted to "haul-off" and strike back with all the strength and energy you possessed? Perhaps you did strike back by fist or word -- perhaps you controlled the attack -- no matter, you know of what I speak.
Love, on the other hand, brings life and glory and health and happiness. It is the most powerful force in existence. It is the binding and welding substance of souls, a cement stronger than any mortar manufactured by the ingenuity of man. It is eternal, for death cannot destroy it. Long after death has claimed a loved one and his body has rotted in the grave, love lives on, undimmed. It binds families together, churches, communities, states or nations. Without it there is no unity or strength. Yet this powerful force of love has never been looked upon by man, or held in his mortal hands. To deny love because it is not visible to physical eyes would be as wise as trying to deny one's own existence. One sees it in action when beholding the great drudgery and hardships a man will endure to provide for his wife and children. One sees it in action when witnessing that glorious thing of motherhood, that soul-searing sacrifice of birth -- followed by its years of devoted service. One views it in courtship. One beholds it at death. But love itself, that glorious, ethereal substance that is impossible to describe or measure, is veiled from man's grubby eyes.
As love is an element of the soul, so, too, is music. Yet who can deny music? Where does it come from, and where does it go as it dies away? What became of those heavenly tones that held one so enthralled, causing the very universe to stand quivering in shivers of ecstasy? Could one ever deny music after feeling it vibrating through his soul? Yet can he take it in his hands? Can his mortal eyes gaze upon it? No one has ever seen the notes of melody ringing through the air, yet to deny them would be foolishness indeed, especially when we can gather them up with a tiny instrument from the four quarters of the earth in a few seconds of time. Even a deaf person can enjoy the strains of heavenly music, though his ears are sealed. Through the sensitive touch of his fingers, in every cell of his body it can vibrate. Helen Keller shuddered at the tones of "jazz" but enjoyed the masters' offerings with the keenest delight.
Could it be possible that this physical world of ours is the unreal? A thing that is a reality today, tomorrow has passed away. Is it possible that there is a spiritual existence within us that is the eternal part of man, more real than this body that changes so many times between birth and death? Could it be that this world of our mortal concept is the realm of "outer darkness" and that all mankind is dwelling in it? Could our conscious, mortal minds, ruled by our five muddled senses, have deceived us? Have we condemned ourselves to "outer darkness" by our physical concepts and hypnotized way of thought? Are we inhabiting a world of shadowy dreams, fleet and passing, seemingly very real, but impermanent and transitory? Are we ourselves only the phantoms of our own true greatness, the shadowy images of our divine reality that has been imprisoned within our mortal selves?
Is it wise to deny the spirit because we cannot see it? Could it be that the soul is represented in every act and in every thought? That great chemist that resides within each man, which has the power to take the conglomeration of food he eats, and create blood, bones, muscles, marrow, vision, hair, fingernails, and even keep life going could be the soul in action, could it not? Could the power to keep one's temperature at ninety-eight degrees in the freezing cold of Alaska, or the burning heat of the Sahara be the power of one's soul in action?
Could it be possible that thoughts are the conversation of souls?
Are these foolish questions? One cannot behold the spirit of man, but should it be denied because it cannot be seen? If one is going to deny the things his eyes cannot behold, he will have to deny the wind, electricity, hate, love and melody. He will have to deny joy, happiness and anguish. He will have to deny thought, ideals, hopes and aspirations. In truth, if he denies these things, then he will have to deny his own existence.
Does it prove that God does not exist because you have not seen Him? Is it possible that we have seen Him in action? Does He ride upon the storm? Is it possible that "The heavens do declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth His handiwork?" Every blade of grass, every flower, every leaf, every song coming from the throat of a bird, every ray of sunlight, every cloud and breeze could be manifesting the power and intelligence of God. Is not the very existence of man a demonstration of God in action? Could it be that the billions of living, active atoms that compose all matter, are receiving their co-operative intelligence and energy from God? Isn't energy itself the very proof of a governing intelligence and power so superior to mortals that it is incomprehensible to us unless we seek in deep humility to understand. Only by opening our small finite minds wide to the power of the infinite can we hope to comprehend any of the least of nature's wonders surrounding us. Let alone those unspeakable mysteries of eternal energy and light, birth and death, life and eternity, power and glory.
What man traveling over the deserts or through the mountains, or over the forgotten highways or byways of life, on seeing a dwelling would not realize that at some time man had been there? Would not the building itself shout the fact with such power of undeniable evidence a fool would understand? Surely then, if some crumbling structure signified that man had been that way, and had lingered to build from the materials of the earth, surely the sun, the moon, the stars, the worlds, the grass, the seasons, the very clouds and rain must testify to the existence of a builder or a designer. No house ever put itself together. No world just happened. The very eternal circulatory system of the earth's blood-stream, the throbbing pulse of the world's arteries, its life-giving streams of everlasting supply coursing in their destined veins testify to creative intelligence in action. The very energy that pumps the earth's supply of living springs of water that turn into rushing streams, flowing rivers, ocean currents is a breathtaking mystery to the man who has learned to think.
Have we clung so desperately to our practical, substantial surroundings that we have failed to see the value of the unseen? Have we taken everything so much for granted that we have become spiritually blind and have eyes that see not, and ears that hear not -- yes, and minds that think not? Perhaps, after all, our realities are the things that are unreal, who knows? Is there more power in a grain of sand, or a drop of water released to the invisible or atomic power than in the tangible particle? Could it be possible that spiritual energy released within one could remove mountains, raise the dead, heal the sick? If the spiritual power in a grain of sand is so potent, perhaps the spiritual energy contained within the breast of man, if released would be just as great in comparison.
"Though man a thinking being is defined,
Few use the great prerogative of mind.
How few think justly of the thinking few!
How many never think, who think they do."
--Jane Taylor
*Pages 183 and 192 in the Hard Copy are in Chapter XVII "THERE SHALL BE NO MORE DEATH" which explains "translatation". Chapter XVII includes pages 181-197