Chapter 21. Step Into the New Century
Our family's entry into the new millennium was not that sad, but not that optimistic either.
The situation with my father's alcoholism hadn't changed much. He continued drinking heavily, and once he even squandered his entire salary, bringing not a single penny home to the family. I don't know what my mother told him about it, but it never happened again. She herself worked from early morning until late at night. When the organisation for which my mother sewed mittens stopped its activity, she found another job: she started sewing large bags like sports bags. The pay was good. She also got a job as a janitor and cleaned the area near the neighbouring shop. Thanks to her efforts, our family was not in need. At least we could buy everything we needed.
Gradually, ties with relatives began to break. The older generation, which had always been the holding force of family unity, was gradually leaving. The parents' generation also kept in touch, but not with such certainty. And it had already lost some of its members. The next generation, mine and my cousins', having families and lives of their own, were immersed in their own affairs, and were not even interested in each other, much less in their older relatives.
It was customary for us to send holiday cards with congratulations. For every important holiday my mother bought, signed and sent dozens of cards to relatives, friends and good acquaintances. We also received them. So it went on from year to year. But then they started to come less and less. Mum sent them out in large quantities and got almost nothing in return. She said, "Why do I bother? Nobody wants it anyway" and she stopped doing it. That's how another connection was severed. When my mum made that decision, I felt like a string had snapped.
I can't say I was that sorry, though. It had been a long time since the family had gathered at our place, and I had weaned of them by then. I had my own interests, too, my own work. My relatives didn't know what I was doing, except for two or three people who knew that I had some sort of teaching, but didn't take it seriously. Well, Victor had invented something for himself so that he wouldn't be bored. So what could be interesting? What could a man, locked up in four walls and absolutely ignorant of life, think up? I, for my part, did not expect interest and understanding from them, so I did not seek contact with them either. And it would have been humiliating to beg for attention.
My mother had three brothers and a sister. The oldest of my uncles, Mikhail, I hardly knew. He almost did not communicated with his relatives, and when he visited us, it was literally for a couple of hours, seemingly during the time of the Teachings. Actually, that's when I met him. In his youth he went to the virgin lands. Then, I think, he lived in Tyumen for several years. Then he went to Ukraine and got together with some woman who already had children. He died under circumstances that are not very clear. When my mother and other relatives came to the funeral, the relatives there did not allow them to be alone with the deceased, as if they were afraid that they would examine the body and see something they should not see.
The middle brother, Eugene, my godfather, I knew well. He was a cheerful, intelligent and active man, though he liked to drink. Among other things, he was associated with a funny story that happened in the 90s. I don't know how true it is, but I'll tell it. At one time he worked on a dredger, cleaning and deepening the Sož riverbed. Suddenly the dredger started throwing out big bones and teeth as big as a human head. Knowledgeable people were called in, and they recognised the remains of a mammoth. However, nobody was in a hurry to take them out. So the dredge workers began to drag away what they could drag away. Four of them struggled to drag a massive bone to the local history museum. The head of the museum was very happy and gave them some vodka. They liked it. The next day they gave another bone to the museum and again received a reward. But when they came for the third time, the manager realised that it would last for a long time, and instead of money he gave them free tickets to the museum. The men were terribly offended, threw the bone, threw the tickets back at him, and never brought anything. My uncle claimed he was one of the four. He promised me a mammoth tooth, but he never brought it. According to him, he was late. The teeth were sold off very quickly, for souvenirs and as craft material. Rumour has it that someone even made piano keys out of them.
Even earlier, in my school days, he once brought us a live wild duck, which he had stunned with an oar while fishing. It lived with us for a few weeks and then was released into the wild.
The last time I saw him, I think, was at my parents' silver wedding. Soon he died of lung cancer. Then Mum's younger brother, Uncle Aleksandr, came from Russia to see him alive. That was the last time I saw my third uncle. I knew him young, before he went to Russia. He was big, boisterous, mischievous, wore a moustache and long hair, and sometimes looked like a hipster. Now I saw something indescribable. A huge, rumbling creature that seemed to fill the whole space, with a sloping, shock-like hair sticking out in all directions and a moustache, which any biker would envy. He stayed for only a few days, but even in that short time, he managed to experience some local 'exotic' misfortunes: when he went to the shop to buy wine, he encountered a chaotic queue of desperate customers pushing and shoving to get inside quickly — and in the crush, he ended up with two broken ribs.
By the way, in those days our neighbourhood was known as the most criminal in the city. Sometimes a corpse with a screwdriver in its chest would be found on the street in the morning. And to top it all off, a night shop opened right next to our house, where you could buy alcohol. Through the window we could hear swearing and drunken yelling that didn't stop until the morning. During the day we saw fights, sometimes with knives and broken bottles. Puddles of blood on the pavement were commonplace, as were police cars arriving on the scene.
One day there was a panicked ringing at our door. Mum opened it. Her sister's husband ran in, looked round with wild eyes and rushed into my parents' room. Followed by shouts of "Where is he?!" several local bums burst in. While they pushed my mother out of the way, he managed to jump out of the balcony — fortunately, it was the ground floor — and run away. It turned out to be a booze fight. Luckily, then they somehow agreed, and everything went without injuries for him.
But let's get back to the subject. Uncle Aleksandr died a few years later, right outside his house. When he was riding his bicycle, he was hit by some young daredevil. The kid turned out to be the son of a big boss. So some serious people came to the Uncle's widow and said: "If you sue, it will be worse for you." They didn't sue, and there was no investigation. A couple of months later that rich kid, who apparently had never learnt anything, drove at full speed into a pole and died, taking his friend with him. Uncle's family rejoiced proclaiming, " God exists!"
When I heard about it, it made me doubly sad. It is hard to see that for some people the proof of God's existence is the death of people, one of whom was not guilty of anything.
Mum had one sister left, Aunt Ekaterina. Her husband, mentioned above, also died: he suffocated during an asthma attack. Some relatives passed away, others became distant. No one came from Karaganda for about fifteen years. My parents called their relatives once a year — international calls were expensive — on New Year's Eve. Everyone cried and told each other how much they missed each other.
The bustle of life in our home came to an end. Only from time to time Aunt Ekaterina or Aunt Svetlana dropped by. My godmother came once a year, on my birthday. That was practically all, with very few exceptions.
A few words about holidays. As a child I loved them very much, but in time they became disgusting to me. My father always got drunk, behaved outrageously, and I couldn't even go to bed, I couldn't rest when I was already sick, because he wasn't able to put me down, and my mother couldn't physically cope alone. Every holiday therefore became a nervousness and a real torment. I looked forward to these days not as pleasure, but as torture. Including my birthday — because it was no easier than any other. It was even harder in a way. At some point, later on, my godmother became the only guest on it, a fact I welcomed.
She always treated me very well, visiting me, bringing me my favourite sweets and books. Helped even in our activities: it was she who made free photocopies of the first texts for us at her workplace, and then made copies of the "Evor". Helped in other things as well, as she could. She hasn't forgotten me to this day, she visits me and helps me.
It's strange that it turned out this way. She knows that I don't consider my baptism as a child to be significant, she knows that I have my own teaching, and she is not a believer herself — but as a godmother she still feels some responsibility and tries to take part in my life as much as she can. I really have a lot to respect her for.
...At that time, our frequent guest from relatives was only my grandmother. Now she didn't live in the Manastyrok. As the years went by, she grew older and complained that it was hard for her to tend the vegetable garden, carry water and coal, heat the stoves, and even just go up and down the high brick steps leading from the yard to the house, from which it was easy to fall, especially in winter. Once, after listening to another such monologue, I advised her to advertise an exchange of a private house for a small flat, or at least to look for an exchange that would suit her. She said, "It's no use. The house is old, the plot is tiny. No one will agree." I said, "Well, you try. If it doesn't work, it won't work. After all, what have you got to lose?" She followed the advice and, to her great surprise, quickly found an option. A young family of three agreed to exchange their small apartment for her house. She moved into a city flat and was very satisfied. Heating is available, water is at hand, the toilet is finally not on the street, digging in the vegetable garden is not necessary, the shop is not far away, and other obvious advantages. The new owner of the house did not repair it, but simply demolished it and rebuilt it. For me, though I had started it all myself, it was another painful loss. Manastyrok was gone from my life, just as the village had once been.
There was only one complicating factor in the case. It turned out that my grandmother could not make the exchange, as she was still formally married and her husband's consent was required. That was such a surprise. She hadn't seen her husband for about fifty years — since she left him. She didn't even know where he was or if he was alive. And now she had to look for him to get permission to exchange. It was necessary to write a request to the relevant authorities. Nobody knew how to do it. In the end, I had to take over the request, which she wrote at my dictation. We managed to find Nikolai's grandfather: we were told that he lived in a village in the Homieĺ region. We had to go to him and make arrangements. Getting ready for the road, my grandmother invited my father with her — she said, let's go and get acquainted with your father. He refused. She went alone. It turned out that the information was outdated and her husband had died three years earlier. She met his unofficial family, got a death certificate, and the exchange took place without further delay.
She had, by the way, already suggested to my father that he try to find his father and get to know him. She said, "I don't want to meet him, but you could." My father said, "I'm not going to see him. I don't need that."
And after those events, I thought — well, a long-lost grandfather could be on the horizon. I wonder what would have come of it?..
A few years later, remembering the writing of that paper, my grandmother came to me with an unexpected request. When she lived in Manastyrok, her son and daughter rarely and reluctantly came to her to help her with anything. My father drank, my aunt was more willing to spend time with friends than with her mother. When she moved into the apartment, they almost stopped visiting her. She visited them herself, but she wanted them to visit her in a caring way. More than once she reproached them, and they only waved it off in response. So, when she was finally angry, she asked me to help her write an open letter to the newspaper. It was to say, "I raised my children, now I'm old, and they've abandoned me and don't want to know me," and so on. In her mind, it was supposed to shame them. I refused to help. Yes, they acted ugly — but do not go to the newspaper... After waiting a few months, she tried again. I again said I wouldn't do it. She complained to Mum that I didn't want to help, and got the same answer: you shouldn't bring family squabbles into the public eye. That's how it ended.
In fact, my grandmother and I had a rather complicated relationship. Since my war of independence, she was constantly tried to teach me and lecture me, and was constantly rebuffed. She was also very greedy, for which she was ridiculed by everyone, often in a very rude way. But it was behind her back. Only I openly reproached her for her greed. She took offence and said, "Everybody respects me, you're the only one who doesn't give a damn." I replied, "Is that what you think? You should know what they say about you behind your back! I'm the only one who speaks straight." She didn't believe me.
But the main bone of contention between us was politics. My grandmother, like many elderly people, was fond of Lukashenko. True, at least she didn't consider him to be Christ — and thank her for that. Nevertheless, we constantly argued about it. She praised him, I scolded him. Since I was deep in the subject, and she only watched TV propaganda, she usually had nothing to refute my arguments, and she would get hot, lose her temper, almost shouting. I was more restrained. However, I experienced it very hard. Sometimes I dream about my grandmother — and every time we fight in my dreams, and I wake up exhausted.
Back then, I had a different way of getting even. My grandmother often stayed overnight. On such evenings we played dominoes together — she, Mum and me. Sometimes, during the game on the go, I would compose and immediately sing obscene ditties about Lukashenko, and sometimes even about her and Lukashenko. Mum, barely restraining laughter, said: "Why so frankly..." Grandma sniffed angrily, muttering: "Go on, go on, mock the old woman!" I realised that I wasn't doing very well, but still I didn't deny myself the pleasure of committing this little creative hooliganism.
Such was the situation in the family. On the one hand, the old problems hadn't gone away, except that money became easier thanks to my mother's efforts. On the other hand, the losses continued, family (in the broad sense of the word) communication decreased, life became calmer, but at the same time more monotonous and boring. Not for me, but nevertheless. On yet another hand, we were all not getting any younger. Not only my health was gradually deteriorating, but also the health of my parents. They were both due to retire in the near future.
And what next? Next — the absence of any prospects in life. A gradual fading away. Two aging people with a disabled son whose condition was deteriorating, no grandchildren, losing relatives, with an increasingly depressing atmosphere at home... And all of this would only continue to worsen. It would only become more painful, darker, and more disheartening. It wasn't that bad yet, but the bleak future was already quite clear. It seems that it was then that everyone began to feel it most clearly. It was in this atmosphere that the new century dawned for us. Not tragic, but a tangible movement downwards, into darkness and emptiness.
...When I say "our family", meaning the three of us, I am at the same time separating myself from my parents. I say "we" — and yet I am with them, but not with them. On my own. In a certain way. The planes of life in which they and I existed were too different. It was like two different worlds. And not "like", but in fact.
That's why facing the future looked different for us. For them it was what I described above. And for me, too, when in my perception I passed into their plane. Indeed, there was only a slow and boring extinction, fading, dying ahead. From my plane, however, I saw something else. A lot of hard but exciting work, and the further you go, the more. Creativity, communication, expansion of contacts, organisational efforts, some kind of social activity. In time, perhaps, moving somewhere abroad. Of course, if the activity develops normally. But one way or another, there is not darkness and emptiness ahead, but a bright world full of life. Not extinction, but development.
My parents and I were heading for different futures. But we shared a mutual grim present. And there was no way to invite them into my world. They just didn't perceive it. My father from time to time threatened to turn me in to the authorities as a dangerous sectarian, and also as an anti-Lukashist, who kept a white-red-white flag as a jewel (the latter was true, I kept the flag). Although my mother did not believe in the seriousness of my work, she treated it calmly and kindly. Maybe it was because she didn't believe it. In any case, we lived in different worlds. Together, but apart. It was not a pleasant feeling. It was frustrating and sad and unsettling.
As for my and Hantur's activities, they were, as I mentioned, on the wane. We had no doubt that this was a temporary phenomenon, and we were looking for some new opportunities. In the meantime, we watched as old contacts gradually faded away.
Although sometimes they still brought something interesting. For example, we heard rumours that in recent years a powerful source of unusual energy had appeared somewhere in Homieĺ, the exact location of which local reiki groups and other skilfuls were trying to find, but could not. It could be the energy of the Teaching. Emere had told me earlier that since the revelation began, our energy has become stronger and more noticeable to those who have the ability to sense such things. The downside is that, among other things, it also acts as a kind of beacon, which can be used to find me, for example, through the world of energy. And since there are a lot of different negative forces, people and not only, for whom the Teaching pose a threat, there can be attempts to harm them in some way, orientated on its energy. Harm not physically, but energetically. And the distance does not play a role here. Such a blow can be made from any corner of the world. That's why we are covered from the world of energy, camouflaged — it's hard to find another word. We've been taking note of that. And suddenly we hear the mentioned news. This is most likely it. The defences are working. No one doubted it, — but it was interesting and pleasant to get confirmation.
A few more words about energy defence. A few years before, we had acquired it, so to speak, in a mobile version. They were five tin medallions. However, "medallions" is strongly said. Just round plaques that we made by pouring molten tin into metal bottle stoppers. Then Emere touched them from the energy world, giving them a powerful, almost impenetrable protective energy. We sewed each one into a small cloth pouch and hung it on a strong string so that it could be worn around the neck. It turned out to be a means of personal protection.
It also turned out that the pandect itself had a strong energy, i.e. a manuscript or a photocopy of the whole book "Evor", or separate texts, or separate pages. And even passages of texts and separate logions (i.e. separate sentences), printed, handwritten or otherwise applied to paper, cloth, wood, metal. Their effect is partly protective, partly healing. I can't say anything more definitive than that, as we didn't use it. We were just aware of it. I can only remember one incident that I can testify to: once, while reading the pandect, my memory improved in one leap — no matter how strange it may sound. I sensed what had happened, was surprised, and started checking on phone numbers that I had always remembered badly. Now they were memorised quite easily. I don't mean to say that reading the pandect is a memory enhancer. It just worked for me like this. Someone will be affected differently. Someone will not be affected at all. You never know.
Once upon a time, in the days after the revelation began, I was interested in energy work, and even experimented with it a bit. Then I put it off indefinitely. And then it wasn't that interesting anymore in the background of everything else. So far I have not returned to experiments. If you go into this field, you have to work hard and seriously, develop techniques, try this or that, then build on the successes. The workload is too heavy. I realise that thanks to the information from the Teaching one can achieve a lot in this field. And all this will come. But I will probably not be engaged in such work anymore. I cannot devote myself to it.
However, certain things emerge in me not through acquired skills but simply as abilities that unfold over time. By that time I had already travelled a long way, I had learnt a lot, I had realised a lot, and great changes had taken place in me. I had become a different, new person.
And suddenly it was discovered that this new person could heal a little. "A little" means sporadically. Something, not always and not for everyone. Some things work, some things don't. I can only guess what it depends on. It is clear to me that if you work on it, you can develop healing abilities more. But I decided not to try to develop them. It's not much anyway. I'm not a healer. My work is to receive revelation and to teach. And own methods of energy healing and own high-class healers in the Teaching will appear in time.
I have also discovered that I can read some information about people, such as their past lives and a few other things. Again, not always and not in everyone. I hadn't developed this ability, like the ability to heal, and I hadn't even thought about it. It was just something that suddenly nudged me: "Hey, you can do this and that!" I tried it — I really can. That's it.
Progress along the spiritual path of the Teaching sometimes bestows various abilities upon those who follow it. Examples can be found in the pandect, there are plenty of them there. When you cognise reality, realise important things, begin to become inwardly one with Nature, its forces awaken in you, and this sometimes results in the unfolding of unexpected abilities and talents. However, revealing them is not the goal of the spiritual path, but, so to speak, a side effect of successful progress. Pleasant and useful bonuses. They may not even be there, which is by no means evidence of unsuccessful advancement. Yes — good, no — and all right.
As for me, I do not consider them as something essential for me. I have the primary and only ability I need, the ability to hear Emere, without which I could not fulfil my destiny. What else do you need?
... So, local contacts were diminishing and coming to an end. Foreign contacts were progressing sluggishly and uncertainly. Correspondence was minimal, communication with publishers rarely lasted longer than a phone call.
One of the last instances of paper correspondence was a second attempt to make contact with the Hermeticists. We read a book on Hermeticism, in which we were pleasantly surprised to find a number of interesting coincidences with the Teaching. We have not seen so many close moments in any modern interpretation of the Hermetic texts. This gave hope if not on full mutual understanding, then at least on more or less constructive dialogue. The author was Western, but among the countries, in which there were branches of his organisation, there was Russia. That is where we wrote to. The letter was brief: we informed that we have interesting information on hermeticism, which we are ready to share. The answer, of course, was not particularly expected. However, it came. A thick letter, at the sight of which we were puzzled: what could be there?.. It was a printout of the rates for lessons. You could take a course in Hermeticism. It consisted of several levels, each of which, in turn, consisted of a certain number of lessons. We were told that we could pay for so many levels or so many distance lessons and how much it would cost.
It went like this. "What communication? What interest in sharing information? You wrote to us — and on the fact of it get a price list. We don't want anything but your money. Buy a little Truth from us. Or a lot — even better." That's how it sounded to us. As in the famous film: "To confess, it is unpleasant to fall from the heights of poetry to the bench of a clerk." The feeling of touching something sticky and bad-smelling remained. The thought of writing there again and explaining that we didn't mean to teach at all didn't even arise.
Soon something happened that not only gave us new opportunities, but changed the situation radically. We got computers and then connected to the Internet. Thus, the Teaching took its first steps into the 21st century with the full armour of modern technology.
For us, this meant breaking free from the stifling isolation of a small space, shackled by oppressive censorship, a breakthrough into the vast world that stretched out before us with its alluring horizons. However, we had to learn how to live and act in it. We tried to learn as soon and as thoroughly as possible: Hantur attended appropriate courses, I read educational literature. The first impressions of what we had learnt were dizzying. It looked as if all avenues were open, and one could make mind-boggling achievements on each of them. Fortunately, I had a healthy scepticism, and I understood that it would not be easy and fast, and many things would not work at all, or simply would not suit us. We need to try something gradually, — to communicate on forums, to master e-mail, to think over the concept of the future website of the Teaching, to study other possibilities.
Of course, the first thing we did was to gather information about Russian publishing houses to which we could apply. Now it was much easier. There was no need to make phone calls. We could send offers by e-mail, and then, if they were interested, we could maintain contact and negotiate in that way.
At the same time, we started digitising the "Evor". It took place in the same way as the rewriting of my manuscript. Mum had learnt to type on the keyboard, and now she was typing at my dictation. The work was slow and took a long time, but in the end we got a digital version of the book. We could now attach excerpts of the book to letters sent to publishers. We printed out the "Evor" on the printer and made some photocopies again. Reading became more comfortable, which is no small thing.
In the process, two new things came to light. Firstly, my speech began to deteriorate, my diction became less clear. In ordinary conversation it was still practically imperceptible; but when dictating texts, when it is necessary to pronounce words clearly, the changes became apparent. The discovery was, to put it bluntly, not one of the inspiring ones.
Secondly, it turned out that electronic media, be it a hard disc, floppy disc or CD, on which the pandect or a part of it is recorded, do not carry its energy, unlike material media. In any case, we have not been able to detect it. We have no explanation for it yet. Here, in general, an interesting direction for future research opens up.
Several years have passed since my last attempt to write a book expounding the Teaching. Of course, we now had the "Evor", but in its first two syntagmas the Teaching were not systematically expounded. In the third syntagma I did so — but very briefly, and only in the very basics. A comprehensive and systematic presentation was essential. So I went back to the plans of writing it, and was ready to start work, when suddenly Emere told me not to start yet. I was very surprised, once again, and obeyed, wondering what it meant.
A little while later, more dictations came.
It was a joyous surprise. I could not have imagined better news. We had thought that all our writing would consist of the "Evor" and my messages. But the pandect was being replenished. Now they were texts dictated only by people — their stories about themselves and their Teachers, about people and events, admonitions, parables. Pictures of the ancient history of the Teaching were revealed to us, its followers came alive before our inner gaze, their deeds were performed, which could serve as an example that would never become obsolete. What can be said: we were just happy. And now it was clear why Emere had slowed me down in my intention to start another book.
I wrote down every day. My hand, which was no longer holding the pen well, was getting very tired. Hantur would come in the evenings and read what I had written down, fresh off the press, so to speak. The work continued for months, and was finished in the autumn of 2002, when I put the last dot in the last text. The new book was called "Doron" — that is, "The Gifts". That is how we perceived it. As gifts to the present followers of the Teaching from the predecessors.
Its appearance, together with our connection to the Internet, seemed to mark the drawing of a line under the first stage of our activity and the beginning of a new stage. It was felt, though rather vaguely. What now? It was difficult to make clear and precise plans. We only knew that we would continue our work and do what we could. And what we could do, we would see as we went along.
This was our step into the new century.
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