city.
Apparently Italian, only, was spoken in the New York home and when I was in my teens (in this life) I started evening classes in Italian. I did not know why but just felt I needed to speak the language!
The lessons I learned in that brief life have held me in good stead many times when I could foresee unwanted consequences down the track. I would intuitively know to change direction. I have avoided assiduously, violent movies involving similar scenarios.
taught myself to read when I was four by looking at the printed words in a book as my sisters read to me. By five I was able to read anything I wished. So opened another door to that glorious inner world of imagination. No wonder the Nazis burned books. They hated free thinkers.
CHAPTER TWO
It has been said, “what comes out of our mouths defines us much more than what goes in.” There is no doubt in my mind “we are what we think”. An incident which took place when I was five years old altered so much in my life from then on.
My mother was pregnant with my brother — it was 1948. I had never seen my father drunk or abusive up to that time but one evening he came home from work and was very violent towards my mother to the point of striking her, causing her to fall on the kitchen floor. I turned to him and said, “if you ever hit my mother again I will kill you.”
From that time forward we never saw eye to eye on any subject whatsoever. I still craved for a father’s love but it never came.
About thirty-five years later I had a dream. I was in a room totally lined with pine boards; even the ceiling. There were windows very high up which opened out from the top. Internally there were wooden shutters on each frame. It was like a medium sized hall. Beside me was a figure in a greyish type of robe. Someone I seemed to know. I said, “there is a ghost trying to get into the room. We must shut the windows as ghosts cannot pass through glass.” We both climbed up, closed all the windows securely and then the shutters which were also bolted.
For a moment all was still. Then one could see all the screws which were holding the hinges in place start to unwind simultaneously. The shutters fell to the floor and every window flew open. The ghost came in and said in a loud voice: “there is a camera hidden under that floor board. The film is still in it from 1948. On it is an image of the man who killed me and I want his forgiveness!” I turned to my mentor and said, “why would the victim of a murder want forgiveness from the murderer?” My mentor knelt down slid the board back and there was the camera. He took it into another room to develop and print the film. When he returned the images were of myself first and the murder victim — my father! I said to my mentor, “I was five years old in 1948 and secondly — my father is still alive, so I did not kill him!”
Then I awoke.
Pondering the dream, I realised my thoughts behind the words I had uttered all those years ago had indeed killed some part of my father — and even though he was still alive and we were by then OK in each other’s company, I realised part of him wanted closure so he could heal and move on with his life.
So many of us are scarred by our upbringing and instead of letting it go we harbour thoughts and feelings of resentment for the rest of our lives. Hopefully all I experienced in those twenty-one years living with my family are now laid to rest for good.
In those early teen years I was fascinated by stories of ghosts, UFO’s and all sorts of occult phenomena. I had read books by George Adamski and boldly took it upon myself to write to him about my inner experiences and his philosophical approach to life. He wrote back and I received several marvellous letters over the next few years. When I was about sixteen, I was able to meet him during his Sydney lecture tour.
I was always drawing diagrams of solar systems etc and one day at high school a friend grabbed one of them and said, “‘Spooks’ would like this.” I said, “Who is ‘Spooks’?” He replied “Mr Roberts the science teacher”. I did not know him as there were several science teachers at the school. With me in hot pursuit he raced to his class room where the teacher was alone, reading and eating his lunch. He dropped the map in front of him and said, “Look what Richard has drawn.” He said, “Oh that is fine. Everything is as it should be. Wait—what is this little disk-shaped object and the dotted orbit you have circled?” I said “Oh George Adamski told me such and such.” He replied, “You know George Adamski”? (His books were best sellers in the 1950’s). I said. “Yes, he writes to me every so often from California.” Mr Roberts said, “I have a small study group and we discuss subjects like this. Could I borrow the letters to show them?” I replied, “Yes, as long as they are returned.” Which they were and so began a life altering, lifelong friendship. His influence in my life is still with me today.
For the next three years at high school I spent every lunch hour with him discussing the philosophies of some of the world’s great thinkers. The work of Max Heindel was the first adept who entered my life. His writings were like manna from heaven for my soul. They clarified so much that I had ‘known’ but had been unable to articulate in my mind. The book was about eight hundred pages long but I read it several times. This led to Rudolf Steiner, Helena Blavatsky, Emanuel Swedenborg, Gurdjieff, The Gnostic Gospels and many others who had trode their own road. Joan Grant’s novels were devoured as were many, many more who were writing about their life experiences at that time.
I started going to the lectures at Adyar Hall in Bligh Street Sydney, owned by the Theosophical Society. I was twelve at the time and one member said to me “where’s your mother little boy?” I explained I was on my own which no doubt was a surprise for her. As I write we are still friends to this day. Even though she is in her ninetieth year she is still very sharp and conversant with modern technology.
These synchronistic meetings do indeed shape and guide one’s life in all its twists and turns. I feel all these ‘friends’ do not happen by chance and we have connections going back many lifetimes. We almost seem to be able to pick up from where we left off—all those centuries ago. Eric Robert’s friendship continued after I left school at fifteen (we corresponded for several years).
Despite protests (the headmaster had wanted me to graduate etc) I was told by my parents, no, that I had to get out and earn a living which I did, as an apprentice carpenter for a few months until the bank manager offered me a job which I accepted. I met a mutual friend of Eric Roberts in the bank at Manly. He and I became constant friends and one day as I was eating my lunch I said, “you’re a friend of Eric Roberts!” He said, “how did you know that?” I replied, “I just knew!” So opened another door. There was a tiny church in Chatswood called Liberal Catholic Church of Saint Frances. For many years I used to walk my cocker-spaniel dog ‘Susie’ by there and wonder what happened inside.
With no self-esteem — all destroyed by my father’s constant brutality — I was never game enough to front up myself. My banker friend (Crosbie Wilson) told me Eric Roberts and his wife Pat used to go there (as he did) each Sunday. So again something I was interested in pursuing was granted.
From early 1960 and for the next ten years I was very much involved with the church. It resonated with so much within me (even being asked to give sermons, etc). As I was so shy it took a lot to get me behind the lectern. Re-reading these talks today I am surprised what I seemed to ‘know’!! Again I think I was overshadowed by a guiding force. I met some wonderful people who became lifelong friends. They were days of much enthusiasm indeed.
I had taught myself basic yoga in my early teens and was privileged to be taught later on by Michael Volin and Nancy Phelan—two of the founders of Yoga in Australia.
But
