“I’ll Take the Bisque…With a Side of Enlightenment, Please”

The clock read 1:30 p.m. on Thursday, July 27th. My purpose for this trip was clear: deliver a presentation on the benefits of tech consolidation to achieve coherence and peak business efficiency. But the Universe had other plans.

The stage was set at a Hilton in Virginia Beach, where I stood before a gathering of Professional Insurance Agents. The familiar pre-speech jitters surfaced, heightened by the anticipation of a two-hour address — compared to the previous year’s one-hour session.

I chose to kick things off with a story of how the pendulums on grandfather clocks synchronize when placed on a shared wall. This example breached the topic of aligning systems, a concept I’ve strived to achieve in my thoughts, words, and actions over the past decade.

As an added layer of illustration, I incorporated an analogy from my father’s 12th-grade science project. The experiment ingeniously transformed Helium into a plasma state—akin to the Sun’s composition. My dad and his physicist father (who may or may not have worked on the. Manhattan Project) daisy-chained scavenged junkyard batteries, amplifying voltage to ionize the Helium gas. The gas then traversed a magnetic field, accelerating to its maximum velocity to manifest as plasma — the fourth state of matter.

While the intricate workings of this experiment escape my comprehension, it works great as a potent metaphor for how collaborative coherence supplies the power required to elevate a business to higher states. The next two hours flew by. It turns out that I’m the speaking equivalent to a coi fish — that grows to the size of its environment.

In an attempt to load my 150lb trunk into the backseat of a mid-sized sedan, I ended up snapping the heavy-duty luggage strap I was using as a handhold. Eventually securing the trunk with a tourniquet of Gorilla tape, I organized a FedEx pickup via the front desk. A coterie of indecisive valets failed to recommend a decent dining spot, prompting me to consult Yelp. Employing filters for “Open” and “Rating,” I stumbled upon a well-reviewed local eatery named Graze.

Following Google Maps’ guidance, I arrived at a stoplight facing a structure reminiscent of an amalgamation between an 80s-era YMCA and a public library. A truck bearing the license plate “777” preceded me. I snapped a picture. For some reason, that number scheme has been showing up a lot lately. With no discernible restaurant in sight, I reached for my phone and began to dial.

A cheerful voice answered and reassured me, “Oh, this happens a lot! We’re both a for-profit and a non-profit, so the city won’t let us put up permanent signage. Head up the hill to the resort and come inside.”

The establishment atop the hill could have easily served as a haunting backdrop in a black-and-white horror film accompanied by crashing thunder and lightning. However, bathed in the summer sun and in close proximity to pristine Virginia beaches, the ambiance exuded Southern charm and hospitality, unburdened by historical baggage.

As my wheels crunched on gravel, I parked my car next to a purple Hyundai Elantra, its personalized license plate declaring: “Be Magic.” My license plate game is on point today.

Graze’s interior boasted two chalkboards: one detailing specials and the other positioned above a register, serving as an ordering guide. I opted for a bottle of kombucha and the soup special — a roasted red pepper and tomato bisque garnished with freshly julienned basil. I retreated to the wrap-around front porch, where the painted hardwood floors harmonized with pale gray tables. Distinctive white bucket seats, reminiscent of a 60s go-go dress pattern, offered seating.

Beyond the windows, a woman paced through a walking labyrinth adjacent to a statue of a leaping dolphin named Shanti — a Sanskrit expression translating to “The Peace which passeth understanding.” Our church growing up held the same idea, but no one thought to simplify it down to one word (a wordy lot, we Evangelicals). Instructions indicated that you enter the labyrinth with a question and exit with an answer.

Graze’s ambiance exuded an otherworldly kindness, even for a seaside resort and spa. I shifted my focus from the bisque to a series of vintage photos adorning the slate-colored shake shingles that clad the resort’s exterior. Among them, an image from the 1930s captured my attention. I stood, striding closer for examination. A sign at the forefront of the house revealed the spa’s identity as the “Association For Research And Enlightenment, Inc. (A.R.E),” founded by America’s most famous psychic, Edgar Cayce. It seemed Graze’s secret recipe for eternal sunshine had been revealed, or at least a piece of it.

The semi-glowing waitress returned, clearing my dish. Expressing gratitude, I inquired, “I’m conducting research on an obscure cult leader with connections to Virginia Beach. Are you acquainted with any local genealogical societies?”

She paused, then shook her head. “No, but John at the A.R.E. desk possesses a wealth of knowledge about local history. You should definitely seek his assistance.”

I gathered my belongings and descended the hill. The woman stationed at the front desk was meticulously rolling minuscule scrolls with multicolored rubber bands.

“Whatcha got there?” I inquired, my curiosity piqued. Her wrists, adorned with a medley of bangles and trinkets, provided a colorful counterpoint to her sleek raven hair.

“These are the readings of Edgar Cayce, founder of the center. Every visitor to the A.R.E. departs with one,” she replied, extending a diminutive scroll toward me. I accepted it with a nod of appreciation.

“I’m looking for John, I’ve been told that he’s the resident historian.” The woman offered a wry smile — not quite as cheerful as the staff at Graze, but she’s also not working for tips.

“John’s on his way, but he’s currently conducting a class titled ‘Mind is the Builder,’ set to begin in half an hour. You could catch him then. In the meantime, the A.R.E. Library on the second floor is home to a staggering 80,000 volumes, spanning metaphysics, parapsychology, comparative religious studies, holistic health, and ancient civilizations. It is the largest collection in the world outside of the Vatican!”

Now, I was genuinely intrigued. My memory rewound to a recent trip to Boston, where I ventured to the Hermitage of the Wizard of the Wissahickon, Johannes Kelpius, a 17th-century Rosicrucian Christian mystic and his order of monks. Curiosity compelled me to explore the meditation cave and grounds, once inhabited by the enigmatic group, as a member of their ranks left to found a church that my ancestor attended.

“What about the meditation center on the third floor? Any exciting happenings there?” I inquired.

“A drum circle, my friend. I’m hosting one this very evening.”

“A drum circle? Is it open to anyone?” I’d missed a drum circle in Austin by a few hours on another insurance trip earlier this year. I’d hoped to get in touch with my inner McConaughey

“Sure, all are welcome.”

“And if you don’t have a drum?” I raised my eyebrows and shrugged my hands a little.

“Just bring yourself.”

“I am the instrument.”

“You are the instrument.” she agreed, smiling.

With my computer bag casually slung over my shoulder, I began my ascent up the central stairs, guided by the allure of the library. As I crested the staircase, a tour guide was in the midst of narrating the history of a fainting couch to a curious elderly woman and her teenage companion. Evidently, this couch had been graced by the presence of the renowned psychic, his impressions diligently transcribed by his secretary, Gladys Davis Turner. Over the course of his lifetime, Cayce had given over 14,000 readings.

Wandering into the stacks, my fingers lightly grazed the ancient manuscripts dating back over a century. I passed by volumes of Emanuel Swedenborg’s “Apocalypse Explained,” perched above the enigmatic “Gospel According to Thomas.” Deeper into the labyrinth, a nondescript tome simply proclaimed: “Kabbalah” and “Scholem.”

My literary explorations navigated through realms of Atlantis, the psychology of Carl Jung, and the wisdom of Hermes Trismegistus, eventually leading me to a dedicated shelf on Rosicrucian cosmo-conceptions. A dedication page held my gaze: “To the Memory of Brother Julius Sachse, F.R.C. Historian, last descendant of the First American Rosicrucian Colony…”

The words fascinated me as I wondered if there was any historical linkage between the original group and their modern counterparts. Some said the society traced its roots to ancient Egypt. I had followed the steps of this small colony across time, from the hermitage in Massachusetts to a New Jersey church and finally to a serene family plot nestled among pine trees in the Finger Lakes region of Western New York.

Turning the page, a grayscale photograph materialized — the sacred meditation cave of Magister Kelpius, the very site where springtime rites and new initiates converged. This was the very cave that had drawn me months earlier to the hills outside Boston.

With the clock ticking down to John’s lecture, I dove into the origins of the Rosicrucian Order, a lineage intertwined with the enigmatic Great White Brotherhood and ancient mystery schools. Aware that time was fleeting, I created some digital breadcrumbs, locating digitized copies of these esoteric texts via the Internet Archive and saving them to my trusty smartphone. Satisfied, I returned the original manuscripts to their resting place on the library stacks, primed for any additional knowledge John’s lecture would unveil.

John sat, legs crossed, perched upon a modest chair beside an unassuming stage, its height a mere few inches. A dance with his PowerPoint ensued, culminating in the unveiling of the title slide: “Mind is the Builder.”

Beside him, a gray-haired truck driver hailing from Fairfield, Iowa, exchanged words with John. I couldn’t help but smile at the serendipity. Before I left, I planned a visit to the town, an obscure community and headquarters of Maharishi International University, for a chance to visit a form of off-grid living at the Farmhouse at Hickory Highlands.

The trucker shared a curious tale, recounting a Reiki session that unveiled vivid memories of a past life as a Confederate soldier. Seizing the proximity of his latest delivery to the Enlightenment center, he embarked on a quest to unearth the history of this purported previous self.

As John began his lecture, he found it necessary to clarify some distinctions among the terms used by Cayce. Throughout Casey’s years of psychic readings, the words ‘mind,’ ‘spirit,’ and ‘soul’ frequently appeared. The way John explained it, our minds are extensions of our spirits, which are bestowed upon us by God for our lifetimes. He illustrated this with the analogy of a car and its driver. Our spirits serve as the drivers of our physical bodies, comparable to the driver of a car. In this analogy, our minds extend from our spirits, much like our arms extend from the driver’s seat of the car. Our souls are intricately linked to our awareness or consciousness and are also connected to the Source (God).

The roots of Casey’s abilities trace back to his childhood as a devout Christian. An enigma from youth, he communicated with departed loved ones, glimpsed future catastrophes, and unveiled maladies and cures for strangers. Fretful over the authenticity (and orthodoxy) of these ethereal voices and visions, Casey found solace in a meeting with renowned evangelist Dwight Moody. Moody, having traversed similar experiences hearing voices, emphasized the importance of discernment between benevolent and malevolent influences — an imperative echoed throughout the scriptures.

The culmination of John’s lecture revealed a surprising facet — Edgar Cayce’s belief in Christian reincarnation. In the initial tapestry of Casey’s philosophy, reincarnation remained absent. While the Bible neither condemned nor embraced the idea, it existed in the realm of silence. Yet, a reading delivered for a Dayton businessman named Arthur Lammers shifted Cayce’s perspective. Lammers, a patron seeking to pull back hidden layers of Christianity, espoused a new idea to Cayce: the secret, metaphysical and esoteric teachings of Jesus had been lost, or purposefully veiled, as the church ascended in power.

Portrayals of Jesus’s teachings over time shifted from emphasizing personal spiritual growth to focusing on Jesus as an ideal figure, making the path to heaven seem unattainable for ordinary individuals. Among these fragments, Lammers spotlighted the fifth chapter of Matthew — a chapter he christened, “the constitution of Christianity.” The Sermon on the Mount, he argued, functioned as the Declaration of Independence for Inner Morality.

Within this construct, Lammers argued that Christ was the Light, illuminating the path to inner morality — an ageless principle known historically to initiates of mystery schools. This inner moral framework was revealed by Christ, whose mission was to make it accessible to all people and to provide an example of how to live in alignment with this inner morality. I reflected back on my recent attempts to achieve coherence between my outer actions and my inner thoughts.

Lammers suggested that Christ’s life serves as a pattern for human fulfillment and that individuals must strive to reach a state of perfection similar to Christ’s in order to enter the Kingdom of Heaven and become one with God (“Be holy, for I am holy.”). A similar message rose in popularity during the 18th C. Methodist Holiness tradition.

For Cayce, the physical body is a manifestation of the soul’s pattern, reflecting the uniqueness of each individual. The level of health and Christlike nature of our mind serves as the builder for aspects of physical reality—hence the Mind is the Builder. The body, a transient capsule; the soul, an eternal essence bridging lifetimes.

This concept of Christian reincarnation (confirmed through Casey’s discoveries during client readings) implies that individuals may experience multiple lives, each contributing to their soul’s evolution, growth, and return to God—like the prodigal son. It also suggests that the concept of a malevolent God doling out eternal suffering for choices of a single lifetime, without remedy, was misguided. There’s always a way home.

After the class, I recalled that the University of Virginia’s Division of Perceptual Studies, only a few hours away, had extensively studied more than 2,500 cases of past lives over a span of over 50 years. What is it about this state and past lives?

Back in college in Kansas, we’d learned that early church fathers, such as Clement of Alexandria, faced criticism and accusations of heresy for their beliefs in reincarnation (also known as the transmigration of the soul). In his “Exhortation to the Heathen,” Clement famously proclaimed, “‘Before the foundation of the world were we, who, because destined to be in Him, pre-existed in the eye of God.” Pre-existing in the ‘eye of God’ evokes quite esoteric imagery but aligns with Cayce’s concept of our connection to the Source.

Exiting through the gift shop, I perused a few Cayce biographies before stumbling upon a copy of ‘The Bible Reveals Reincarnation” by Captain Edward VanHoose. Interestingly, VanHoose had crafted his Master’s thesis on the same subject. In his book, he suggested that reincarnation is akin to the rejected Christian cornerstone that later became the ‘headstone of the corner.’

VanHoose pointed to biblical examples such as Enoch, Melchizedek, and the prophet Elijah. Each achieved a level of perfection sufficient to be taken up to heaven. Elijah’s prophesied return to human form (a literal reincarnation) is documented in the Book of Malachi. VanHoose laid out a compelling case for the fact that early Christians believed in the fulfillment of that prophecy in John the Baptist, known as ‘the voice which cries in the wilderness.’

I reached for a ginger tonic from the reach-in cooler next to the cash register and inquired about a recommended reading from the cashier. She replied, “They are all good, but ‘There is a River’ is probably as good a place to start as any.” She mentioned that they were hosting a psychic who would be conducting a group reading in a few minutes. “You might want to consider checking her out.”

Now, I have a personal rule: if you walk into a restaurant that proudly features a specific food item in its name, you unquestionably order that very dish. In this case, if you fortuitously find yourself in a restaurant that coincidentally happens to be the epicenter of enlightenment associated with America’s most renowned psychic, and they are hosting a psychic reading event that very evening, then it’s a clear sign that you stay for the reading.

An older woman in the row ahead of me and slightly to the right sat cross-legged, sporting a shag haircut and a floral print muumuu. Her screensaver showcased a pair of purple psilocybin mushrooms that flickered on and off from sleep mode whenever she meticulously cleaned lint from between her toes after removing her flip-flops.

Another woman, her blonde hair transitioning to silver gray, approached the psychic and warmly embraced her. The two old friends reminisced about attending spirit circles together before the onset of Covid. The silver-haired woman exclaimed, “I simply adore Nancy! I’ve attended many of these sessions before, featuring some of the biggest names from across the country, but nobody can work a room like Nancy.”

Nancy patiently waited for the room to settle before taking center stage. She began by explaining that her readings boasted an approximately 80% success rate. She outlined the three primary factors that typically influenced her accuracy. First, there was herself as the conduit, then the spirit communicating through her (though she preferred not to refer to them as ghosts), and finally, the receiver in the audience — an individual she couldn’t always identify. I visualized her as a psychic switchboard operator, reminiscent of an old episode of “The Andy Griffith Show,” struggling to plug wires into the right connections.

A concept from Zen Buddhism known as “Beginner’s Mind” crossed my thoughts. It advocated letting go of preconceived notions and attachments while maintaining a sense of openness. As I waited on my first psychic reading, a myriad of thoughts flooded my mind — from Sunday school lessons on Samuel and the Witch of Endor to The Amazing Randi and Penn & Teller’s exposés on cold readings.

In the early stages of the reading, Nancy seemed to be finding her rhythm, hovering around a coin flip’s odds. She faced a particularly challenging encounter with two young professionals who had braved the tunnel traffic from D.C. to make it there on time. She posed several questions to them before pausing, clasping her hands in what resembled a secret handshake, then reversing her hand positions and re-clasping them. “Explain to me the significance of the brotherhood,” she queried. “I’m uncertain whether this pertains to a fraternity, a military connection, or something altogether different.” When the women couldn’t provide a response, Nancy persisted, undeterred. She strode purposefully to the middle of the room and up the center aisle until she stood before me in the back row.

“Does ‘The Brotherhood’ mean something to you?” Nancy inquired.

My thoughts darted back to the library, where I had spent an hour engrossed in books about the Rosicrucians and their ties to the Great White Brotherhood. During that time, the only company had been the librarian and a relaxed surfer guy on a nearby couch, so I couldn’t see how she could have known. I offered a noncommittal half-shrug. Nancy’s earlier references to the military and fraternities had cast a wide net, making her question somewhat elusive. “So, your father was a teacher, correct?”

That was a direct hit. Dad is both a mathematics and physics teacher, as well as a former school administrator. I nodded, confirming her accuracy while also making a mental note of my own body language — arms and legs folded—a defensive posture.

“And you — you also like to teach, although not in the same manner as your father. Am I right?” Once again, I nodded. “There’s a distinct Saint Francis of Assisi essence about you. You guide and mentor others in their professional pursuits, often without seeking much or anything in return.” My nod affirmed her observation. I hadn’t asked for payment for my speech.

“Justice and truth hold great significance for you. In this hand,” she raised her left hand, “I sense the aura of a lawyer, and in this hand, the aura of a preacher. Do these insights resonate with you?”

“Ok, Nancy,” I thought, “You’re heating up.”

“Tell me the significance of the number seven to you?” My mind conjured the image of the photograph I had taken — the 777 license plate on the pickup truck paused at a stoplight.

“It’s just a recurring number in my life,” a partial truth, intentionally keeping the explanation vague. While there was more to the story, I wasn’t inclined to delve into it at that moment. There was a part of me that resisted the urge to reveal too much.

“You have a tremendous ability to manifest things,” Nancy continued. “However, it seems that your heart sustained deep wounds some time ago. You’ve devoted years to healing those fractures, and now, I’m sensing that you’re being guided to release that burden.” I thought back to the straps breaking on my trunk when I tried to lift it without any assistance.

Once again, she struck a chord. The very reason behind my pursuit of Rosicrucian knowledge tied back to events that had inflicted trauma upon me three decades earlier. Yet, in an almost universal sense, the experience of trauma is a shared human journey, so that reading could have applied to anyone.

Nancy’s focus shifted to the man seated next to me, where she rattled off a string of four consecutive accurate insights, raising her batting average to the level she had earlier predicted. Glancing at my watch, I realized that I had less than an hour before a dinner engagement back at the convention.

As I settled into the driver’s seat of my Chrysler 300, my hand found its way to my pocket, retrieving my keys and the small scroll I had received at the reception desk. Its message read: Quit finding faults with others, and others will quit finding faults with you. The words melded a touch of fortune cookie wisdom with the essence of the Sermon on the Mount. It also nailed the crux of an hour-long conversation I’d had with a co-worker before leaving for my trip.

My phone illuminated with a timely reminder. It was time for me to check in for my United Flight back to Des Moines:

Flight 777.