Mystic Witness: Healing Ourselves and the Earth through Active Mysticism

Notes

Introduction

Mystic Witness is a journey into the miraculous world of don Pablo, a unique spiritual mentor who embodies active mysticism to help heal the Earth and its inhabitants from traumas such as wars and natural disasters. Historically protected by secrecy, this wisdom is now revealed in a universal manner, free of ethnic, cultural, and religious tethers. Through deep listening, active mysticism directly engages the Sacred via interactions with the subtle energies of the natural and spiritual worlds. This practice extends beyond personal development and the worthy goals of social and environmental activism; it leads to a life of mystical service.  

Don Pablo is a pseudonym used to protect the privacy of my teacher. He currently teaches individuals and small groups by invitation only, in personal venues throughout the world.

Active mysticism may challenge some of the reader’s beliefs because it is esoteric, hidden from ordinary awareness by its very nature. Esoteric wisdom is subtle awareness, not mental cognition, and is impossible to grasp from a purely rational point of view. This does not make it irrational or invalid, but simply experiential and poetic. Modern reductionist reasoning may discredit this type of direct knowing as fantasy or superstition. Esoteric teachings are oral, energetically transmitted and experienced, primarily in silence, so they must be assimilated by witnessing and mimicking in the same manner that young children learn. With humankind’s increasing reliance on empirical cognition and the subsequent underdevelopment of the subtle senses, few are willing to learn in this manner. Such knowledge cannot be communicated through writing or speaking alone. Learning the esoteric as a set of ideas or principles is like trying to learn to ride a bicycle or drive a car by just reading instructions. Until one actually experiences the physical sensations of these actions, they will not be able to master these skills. We have to learn them with our entire being through repetitive practice. Once we know them with our body, they are always accessible. Therefore, this book is not intended to be a teaching instrument or a how to book; it is, instead, a narrative of an interactive relationship with the Sacred, which is becoming increasingly rare on the planet.  

In addition to that which remains hidden and elusive, the word esoteric also describes the inner exploration of consciousness through direct experience, in contrast to the exoteric or more outward forms of religious and spiritual practice. Esoteric practice is very fluid and encourages one to explore the various levels of being within oneself while in search of expanded awareness; it is not necessarily dependent on outward sources or authorities, such as churches, priesthood, or scriptures.

The term shamanic has been used to describe the mystical context that don Pablo lives and teaches. According to a conventional definition, shamans are intermediaries between the human and spirit worlds. However, because shamanism does not have a clear cultural definition in the West, don Pablo prefers the label of active, or activist, mysticism. In this book, I use the terms shamanic and active mysticism to represent an interactive participation in the subtle Sacred Realms. Active mysticism is entirely experiential and is neither a philosophy nor a religious belief system. It does not involve the use of mind-altering substances or magic rituals accompanied by rattling and drumming, which we seem to conjure up in most contemporary visions of shamanism. 

I use the terms Sacred, Divine, Mystery, Unspeakable, or God interchangeably, as don Pablo does, to represent the Supreme Being or Supreme Consciousness that manifests as, and contains, all.  

Mystic Witness narrates extraordinary events and healings that I have witnessed and experienced as don Pablo’s student, combined with my current understanding of them. These teachings exist in sacred space, outside of linear clock time, and are always accessible; so their meanings continue to unfold as my development catches up to them. Therefore, my descriptions come through the filter of my unfolding understanding and are expressed from my intuition and heart. The events described are not presented in strictly chronological sequence, but in a dreamlike and inspirational manner to emulate the way they were experienced. This invites the reader into an intuitive and nonlinear experience. 

Other students may have slightly different experiences and understandings. This is to be expected when we each have varying capacities and talents, and the primary goal of esoteric spiritual teaching is to bring students into their own personal relationship with the Sacred and to move them into alignment with their life’s purpose; not to an externally imposed belief system. For this reason, I refrain from presenting a neatly bound academic system to categorize these teachings; I narrate them predominantly through stories, allowing the reader some freedom to derive his own meaning from what is presented.  

Mystic Witness illustrates forgotten possibilities of living everyday life in an interactive relationship with the Sacred and in harmony with the forces of the natural world. Active mystical presence integrates the cognitive mind with our instinctual body wisdom, and creates a state of embodied sacred awareness.   

In my personal spiritual quest, I have met many teachers and several masters, and none have been more skilled in such diverse and unusual capacities as don Pablo. Don Pablo’s teachings and healings blend sacred knowledge from a vanished mystical lineage, once deeply-rooted in Central Europe, with shamanic traditions found in the Peruvian Andes and Southern Mexico. This knowledge has been systematically suppressed or destroyed by Western civilization over several centuries and may be in danger of extinction.

Don Pablo models what he teaches with humility and integrity, which is rare today, especially in the West. The fact that he is a highly educated American makes him particularly well-suited to teach Westerners. He refuses to be put on a pedestal, and is very accessible and human. Don Pablo facilitates profound spiritual growth by empowering his students and encouraging them to live a life of service. 

In these challenging times, our Earth is ailing from neglect and abuse, and global ecological disaster remains imminent. Humanity is suffering from social trauma, environmental toxicity, chronic spiritual malaise, and alienation from the natural world. Are these dire conditions of the Earth and humankind related? Mystic Witness strips away the shroud of mystery to reveal an ancient and profound relationship with nature and spirit that demonstrates how humankind may begin to reverse our serious mistreatment of the planet. 

With the global spread of industrialization, mass consumption, and materialism, Westernized civilizations, in particular, need to relearn the ability to maintain a reciprocal connection with the natural and spiritual worlds. We need to carry out our responsibilities of sacred guardianship of the planet, the same ones that were once prominent in ancient cultures. I believe this is a primary spiritual purpose of human existence, and may be imperative for us to survive our self-destructive tendencies. Don Pablo has dedicated his entire life to this purpose, and is teaching others to do the same. The urgency of our predicament calls for this wisdom to be taught and practiced with all the heartfelt humility and dedication that it implies. Those who hold an embodied connection with the Earth truly experience her as Mother, the embodiment of the Sacred. 

Dr. Larry Alboher

Mill Valley, California

Chapter 1

Initiation

The teaching is the awareness and the awareness is the teaching.

Don Pablo

By eleven, the day was already beginning to swelter on a brilliant Monday morning as eight of us gathered in front of an old adobe casa. Don Pablo, a mysterious teacher of the mystical arts, had requested we accompany him on a walk to the local church. He had personally invited seven of us to travel with him to Northern Mexico for training, with little disclosure of specifics. A visit to the church seemed like a simple enough request, but this walk would turn out to be anything but ordinary. The chapel was visible about one-quarter mile away, so I assumed it would be a short outing and didn’t bother to bring water or wear a hat. As we strolled in silence up the dusty lane toward the local chapel in the center of this quaint rural village, the inviting smell of masa harina from fresh-cooked tortillas wafted on a gentle breeze. An electric air of anticipation was palpable within our group.   

We approached the small stucco church that was built over a century ago. Painted off-white with a terra cotta-trimmed roof, it was weathered with splashes of rust and gray and multiple cracks in its rough textured surface. Inside a short steeple hung an antique brass bell. The frayed hemp rope dangling from its top indicated this bell was still rung by human hands, not by the electronic chime now found in many modern churches. We ambled inside its dimly lit musty interior and, after the few seconds it took to adjust to the darkness, my vision returned to reveal don Pablo kneeling and making the sign of the cross. He stood up and slowly strolled along the left aisle of the chapel, and then crossed over to the center, approaching the worn stone altar. He again knelt and made the sign of the cross. I was surprised to see him crossing himself because don Pablo was Jewish, and I didn’t think he was religious in any traditional sense, especially not Christian. All I knew was he was trained as what one might call an esoteric, or a shaman, and my understanding of what that meant wasn’t very clear. He continued methodically down the right aisle and back up the center aisle, again to the altar, closely inspecting three religious icons along the walls. Finally, don Pablo sat down in one of the pews near the rear of the chapel. He motioned for the rest of us to do the same.

The antique wooden pews exuded the smell of rancid furniture oil, which melded with the scents of mold, burnt incense, and candle wax that permeated the interior of the chapel. These austere benches had no cushions and were quite uncomfortable. Part of penance, I guess. They creaked and groaned in mild protest when we sat. As I surveyed the chapel’s interior, I spotted rectangular rays of glistening gold and silver dust particles dancing in the sunlight that filtered through the church’s aging opaque windows.  I watched don Pablo closely. Being a complete novice, I had no idea what to expect or exactly what was being offered. He closed his eyes and appeared to meditate, so I did the same—a spiritual practice that was familiar to me. Silence soon engulfed the church. As I drifted deeper, it felt like the chapel atmosphere began to subtly change, but I had no clear sense of how or why. A profound stillness began to permeate my being. Suddenly, a creaking pew violated the tranquility of the sanctuary. I opened my eyes to see don Pablo getting up. What? No more than ten minutes had passed. I was just getting focused, and now we had to go?

Don Pablo walked over to one of the icons, a Madonna, and focused on it intently.  He addressed the Madonna in an unusual posture: his abdomen and chest were protruding slightly forward, and his arms were extending out from his sides a little, palms up.  He took in an exaggerated breath accompanied by a soft sucking sound, and I thought I could sense energy emanating out from his body toward the icon. A short time later, don Pablo let out a strong exhalation and said he was done. 

Before we departed, he asked if we could feel the difference in the chapel and the icon, which he said he had just cleared of negative energy and had gifted with sacred energy. Though his statement seemed somewhat audacious, there actually was a big improvement in the ambiance of the church. It had a clean, crisp, and more energized feeling. The Madonna felt animated and almost divine. What had he done?  I had experienced the exalted energy of temples, shrines, and religious icons in India, but I was not fully aware of how they managed to stay that way other than, perhaps, from the devotion of the people who visited them. I had also witnessed Hindu Brahmin priests chanting ancient Sanskrit rituals with offerings of burning ghee—clarified butter—to consecrate new statues of Hindu gods or saints, but nothing like that had happened here.

Don Pablo pointed out that maintaining a sacred atmosphere inside the church was the duty of its priests, who could perform certain rituals and burn incense for this purpose. But like so many modern religious ceremonies, this was not being done effectively, so all the distresses of the churchgoers had accumulated inside, contaminating the ambiance. The toxic energy of the chapel contributed to people’s distress rather than to console and uplift them. I realized this important ritual was missing or ineffective in most modern religious institutions. For some reason, this provoked anger and grief, like something precious had been stolen or lost—a sacred covenant violated.

As we left the church, don Pablo led us farther up the road away from the casa. I became concerned because, by then, the sun was blazing and I wasn’t prepared for a long walk without water or a hat. The distressed looks of two other students said they shared my concern. I was becoming light-headed and dizzy. I once suffered heatstroke as a young boy, and it made me more susceptible to having it again. Thinking about this caused additional anxiety that added to the discomfort I was already feeling from the challenging journey to get here and lack of sleep the night before. I mentioned my distress to Jim who had been don Pablo’s student for some time. The other concerned students thanked me for verbalizing their shared concerns. Jim coached us to bring our energy down into the lower part of our bodies and to ground to the Earth.

How do I do that? I asked.

Use your intention, Jim replied.

I wasn’t clear on how to use intention, so I tried to visualize my energy moving down in my body, but that didn’t change a thing. Then I remembered abdominal breathing from my yoga practice. Focusing my attention on my abdomen, I breathed in deeply. That helped my life force to extend further down into my abdomen and pelvis. With my energy down, my lightheadedness and anxiety diminished, and I was able to continue on, feeling as settled as a floundering sailboat whose centerboard had just been dropped for stability. But whenever I started to think about my discomfort or feel apprehension about the heat, my energy moved upward in my body and the lightheadedness returned. Again, I struggled to bring it down. This was my first experience of the importance of maintaining proper energy balance in my body and a grounded connection to the Earth. It was an important teaching as well as a reminder to not get swept away by my thoughts or emotions.

Don Pablo led us onward up the road, and as the day grew hotter, beads of sweat dripped from my forehead into my eyes. I was extremely tired and thirsty, and struggled with my growing irritability. I asked myself more than once if don Pablo knew what he was doing, as my recurrent distress provoked doubt, and then anger. Was he needlessly endangering us?

Suddenly, as we rounded a bend in the road, I saw several large black vultures circling overhead. B Western movie images were swirling through my head. Some of us looked at each other, probably thinking the same morose thoughts. This scene was actually comical, but none of us were laughing.

After a couple more miles, don Pablo finally acknowledged our distress and said it was time to turn around. We all breathed a collective sigh of relief. But we now faced the long walk back to the casa in what must have been triple-digit heat. Don Pablo instructed us to form a single-file line and follow closely behind him, at about an arm’s length apart. He walked very intently and, as we all tailed behind, it felt like we were being pulled along by a rope that strung us together through our navels. I definitely felt more energized and grounded in this tight-knit formation. My energy was down in my body, and I felt completely supported by the land beneath me, as though my feet were drawn into the Earth by an invisible magnet; this created firm contact with the ground. My mind and emotions were now calm. We moved along very rapidly, almost effortlessly, gliding like a giant centipede. Before I knew it, we were back at the casa. The return trip seemed to take a fraction of the time the outbound one did. Everyone looked surprised and puzzled. Something very unusual had just occurred, but it was hard to put one’s finger on it—something dramatic yet very subtle. Anyway, we were all very grateful to be back inside the cool adobe casa to devour lunch and lemonade.

Rapid-fire questions again began to permeate my mind. Who was this man, and what was I supposed to be learning? Was this really happening, or was my imagination running wild? It felt like a very lucid dream. I was in a state of disarray and confusion.  

This strange journey began on Saturday, when my flight had landed with a hard thud and we rolled to a safe stop at the local airport in Midland, a West Texas oil town. I was never so glad to step off a plane than I was on that flight. The thermal updrafts and strong gusty winds generated by the blistering desert heat buffeted the small plane violently. In one moment, we dropped precipitously, and I thought that was it. The pilot, however, managed to stabilize the plane and land safely despite the last-second crosswinds that tilted the wings over to the right. This was a terrifying and unsettling experience.

Meandering through the airport maze and very relieved to be back on solid ground, I began to regain my composure. Don Pablo was waiting at the baggage carousel with three of his enigmatic students. Three more apprentices, who had been on my flight, completed our group of eight. I knew Dr. T slightly as a chiropractic colleague, but the others I had not yet met.  Don Pablo greeted each of us warmly as introductions were made. Recently, he had been spending much time in the Southwest, and had apparently become infatuated with its people, its beauty, and its energy. Jim, a local Midland resident, was his entree into the local culture. This explained our arrival in this otherwise lackluster Texas town. 

A man in his late fifties, with medium-length, dark brown hair streaked with gray, don Pablo was slightly shorter than my 5’8" torso, and also had a trim athletic build. He was right in tune with the local color, sporting a western hat, cowboy shirt, and boots. The only thing missing was a bolo tie. His welcoming smile faded into his trademark impish grin, which seemed to suggest he knew much more than he was letting on. But his characteristic look did not betray arrogance because, in the ensuing week, I discovered he knew much more—knowledge that was quite extraordinary.

Don Pablo had a universal ethnic look that gave him the unique ability to shape-shift appearances, and like a chameleon, he would seamlessly fit into a variety of different settings. He could easily be taken for Native American, or for his family’s Central European Jewish roots, and he looked right at home here in Texas. He now seemed very different than the counselor I knew in a therapeutic office setting. That man dressed casually in faded jeans or chinos, with a T-shirt or sweater, and had helped me to deal with some challenging emotional issues.

But our relationship had changed; I was now his student. What that status meant wasn’t totally clear, and had I known what was coming, I might have turned and fled. My innocent enthusiasm, however, pushed me onward.

We all collected our luggage and drove off in a huge, brand-new, politically incorrect, 1998 Ford Excursion rental car. We checked into a local motel, and then went out for dinner to the only restaurant in town that was even close to acceptable by our health-conscious, California standards. Nevertheless, it wasn’t close enough for my taste, because there were only two entrées on the menu that weren’t red meat, which I didn’t eat, and that was almost unheard of in these parts. I ordered fresh trout; it wasn’t bad, even though I’m sure it had been frozen.

Early the next morning, after a hearty Texan breakfast, seven of us drove off into the high desert in the gigantic SUV. Jim led the way, driving his own tattered, faded blue, ’85 Cadillac DeVille, which looked like it was nearing the end of a well-lived life. We headed southwest, toward our destination in Mexico, where we would stay the week in a small ranch house rental that would serve as a venue for our immersion into don Pablo’s mystical world. As we drove up a saddle ridge between two valleys, the sky quickly darkened, painted ominously with iridescent blue and black hues, brushed on a swirling gray background, and psychedelically backlit by brilliant flashes of lightning. Strangely haunting faces materialized in the clouds to stare us down, one gradually morphing into another. The outside temperature dropped precipitously as the pungent smell of ozone permeated the air. Strong crosswinds almost blew our tall-profile vehicle off the road on several occasions, as large tumbleweeds sporadically battered the side of the car with muted metallic scrapes. Heavy rain, and then hail, began to pelt us us. It felt like we were driving through a B horror movie. I was grateful that that one of don Pablo’s students, a former professional truck driver, was behind the wheel; I doubt that anyone else would have been capable of navigating these extreme conditions. 

Although I had ingested no substances, I felt a dramatic shift in my awareness, similar to psychedelic experiences I’ve had in the 60s. My senses were extremely keen; my hearing magnified as though someone had suddenly turned up the volume. My vision was almost kaleidoscopic, making the landscape look surreal like a Dali painting. I suspected don Pablo was responsible for this altered state, but I couldn’t understand how. Growing up in the Midwest, I was very accustomed to thunderstorms—I even enjoyed them—but this one was somehow different. There was such an eerie, foreboding feeling in the air that chills ran up and down my spine as the hair on my arms stood on end, and I had to breathe in deeply in order not to slip into outright panic. It felt like we were slipping through some unseen portal, into another mysterious dimension where all the signposts of familiar reality had vanished. I would later discover that such surreal events often occur on teaching journeys with don Pablo, as transiting through some breach in the fabric of space-time, often accompanied by extreme weather events. These became initiatory rites of passage into alternate hidden realities.

The storm passed, the winds began to settle and the sky brightened, now speckled with only a few remaining thunderclouds. The blazing sun resumed its relentless claim on the wet desert sand, which fought valiantly to hold on to its share of moisture before it evaporated. I felt calmer, but soon my eyes began to burn and water so severely that I could barely see anything. This annoying allergic reaction was apparently caused by the pollen given off by a flowering cactus that had opportunistically bloomed with the abundant rainfall. Squirming around in the back seat, I rubbed my eyes and wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into.   

Finally, after several welcomed, uneventful hours of driving through monotonous countryside dotted with oil and gas wells, cactus, and sagebrush, we arrived at the Rio Grande River on the Mexican border. Here, the paved road terminated, and there was no passage for vehicles; there was only a narrow footbridge for pedestrians, which was unguarded in this pre-9/11 era.

Jim parked his old Caddy in a small clearing adjacent to the bridge, grabbed a small duffel from his trunk, tossed it into the back of our car, and climbed into the driver’s seat. Evidently, he was leaving his car there. He steered the big Ford off the pavement onto a small dirt two-track that paralleled the lazily flowing Rio Grande on our left. The track was well worn from frequent use, and the Excursion handled it with ease. We continued on for about a mile when, suddenly, Jim veered sharply to the left and accelerated as he plowed through the running river. The four-wheeled behemoth easily forded the river at that shallow spot, and just like that we were in Mexico. Here, the two-track road continued on its way through the trees, undaunted by national territorial claims. Jim was just as carefree, even though we had just crossed the border illegally. I found out later that this was a familiar route for him and, apparently, for others to cross undetected. As a teenager, Jim had worked in Mexico with his father, and he knew this area well. He even knew the proprietor of the ranch where we would be staying, a short distance across the border, and had brought his car to conduct some business and meet with local friends. This shortcut saved us miles of additional driving required to get to an official border crossing, but I wondered if we could have been arrested.

 We arrived safely at the casa as darkness began to swallow the setting desert sun. Now the land and buildings were radiating back a generous portion of warmth they had absorbed during the blistering day, so there was little relief from the imposing heat. The modest-sized, four-bedroom house’s thick adobe walls insulated it from the intense heat, making it comfortable inside. We unloaded our luggage from the car, which I was now starting to appreciate because it had transported all of us, including baggage, in comfort through extreme weather and across a river. And I realized we probably didn’t consume any more gas than we would have had we driven two smaller rentals. Practicality had trumped political correctness—a theme I would discover in don Pablo’s world. We were served a tasty dinner of home-cooked cheese and chili tamales, rice, and beans prepared by the casa caretaker and cook, Eliseo, in the modestly equipped kitchen. We ate at a large, hand-hewn wooden dining table. After dinner, we each settled into our assigned rooms, except for Jim and I, who were elected by don Pablo to sleep outside on cots because of limited bedroom accommodations. 

At first, I welcomed the opportunity to sleep out under the stars. But at bedtime, it was still quite hot and humid, and there was no hint of wind to cool things down. Add to that, the mosquitoes, which were numerous from the recent rain and very hungry. Following Jim’s lead, I staked out the corner perimeters of my bed with multiple burning sticks of copal incense, which he generously shared with me. Copal is an amber-colored, gummy resin collected from trees in Mesoamerica; it was burnt for ritual offerings by the Inca, the Maya, and other ancient indigenous tribes, and is still used today. Its distinctive smell was reminiscent of the smoke spewed by the model train engines I played with as a child. The sweet, slightly pungent-smelling smoke wafted into small clouds above us, painting an impressionist portrait of the starry sky. 

Will this repel the mosquitoes? I asked, hoping the smoke might deter those pesky, buzzing mini-beasts.

No, I’m creating a sacred, protected space around my bed, he replied.

 I really didn’t understand what he meant, but I let the comment pass, without question, because I was exhausted.

I made up my cot with the bedding provided and lay down to sleep. The casa was situated on a small plateau facing north, overlooking a shallow valley that gently sloped down to the Rio Grande. I remembered sleeping under the stars when I had lived in an ashram in India during the early ‘70s. It was then that I had learned to become more in tune with the cycles of the moon and the rhythms of the natural world.  Watching the starry sky has always held me in timeless fascination. While drifting off into that transitional place between being asleep and awake, I suddenly became aware that Jim was whispering something to me. 

What?

Look, he repeated, pointing to what appeared to be a stealthy object flying very low on the horizon.

What is that? I asked. I could not hear any engine sounds and I thought it might be a UFO.

That’s a stealth helicopter. They’re used by the U.S. government to search for marijuana fields with infrared-sensing equipment, Jim replied. There’s a lot of weed growing around here, so they make regular passes over this area.

They’re using expensive spy technology for pot enforcement; isn’t that overkill? I inquired. 

This trip was becoming stranger by the hour. I wanted to get some sleep but was still over-stimulated by the day’s peculiar events and had difficulty dozing off.  Now my mind was on the run. The talk of marijuana made me realize how altered I already was from the intense energy of this trip. I didn’t need additional help from any plant or chemical substance. Just being in don Pablo’s presence was, somehow, mind-altering. And my days of experimentation with psychotropic substances, such as marijuana, and a few excursions on LSD and psilocybin, were long past. In the early 1970s, I had been fortunate enough to recognize that these substances were portals into uncommon states of awareness, and I made a vow to myself to seek expanded states naturally through spiritual practices. That pledge had guided me to a spiritual master in India and eventually led me to don Pablo—the enigmatic mystic. 

Finally, I began to drift off to sleep, when I was again awakened by Jim. This time he was actually sleeping, but snoring very loudly. He made several sharp, guttural bursts, and