Liefde in de Vijfde Wereld

Liefde, Love, Liebe, Amour, Amor

For English readers: Please be aware that only the first part of this post is in Dutch. You will find the English part under the heading And at last. The rest of this blog is written in English, too.


Een verhaal van thuiskomen, het Hopi Life Plan en Geloof, Hoop en Liefde


Mijn boek Liefde in de Vijfde Wereld is uit. Voor een gratis pdf van het gehele boek klik je op deze link



De zaden zijn in het verleden gezaaid
Waardoor ik nu deze woorden schrijf.
En jij ze leest.
Om karma te verbranden
Of om gehechtheden te bevestigen?
Je mag kiezen. Je bent vrij.

Je bent als een vogel in een kooi waarvan het deurtje openstaat.
Je kunt in blinde paniek in de kooi blijven rondfladderen
Of je kunt de roep van je vrijheid herkennen
En de kooi uit, naar grotere hoogten vliegen.
Je mag kiezen. Je bent vrij.

Waar je ook gaat,
Het Universum geeft je voeten de ruimte.
In de weidse, groene velden
Of tussen het beton en staal van de stad,
Onder een heldere, gouden zon
Of onder de sterrendeken van de nacht,
In de stilte van de eenzaamheid
Of in de kakofonie van het samenleven:
Je mag kiezen. Je bent vrij.


De Levensboom en Liefde
De Levensboom waarnaar je ooit weer terug zult keren…
The Tree of Life to which you will return one bright and sunny day…


Maar als het Universum, de Leegte of God Liefde is, als Hij of Zij onvoorwaardelijk van mij houdt, waarom vraagt de weg terug naar de paradijselijke onschuld dan zo veel vertrouwen, moed en vragen? Waarom staat er ten oosten van Eden een engel met een ‘naar alle kanten wentelend zwaard’?

De diepe waarheid is, dat het niet het Universum, de Leegte of God was Die de engel daar heeft geposteerd, maar ikzelf. Op de dag dat ik besloot het paradijs de rug toe te keren heeft mijn geest, die maar niet kan geloven en altijd vreest en vragen stelt, deze bewaker, mijn superego, gecreëerd.

Op de dag dat ik het vertrouwen, de moed en de antwoorden heb gevonden, dat wil zeggen: als ik mijn geest stil zet en leef in het nu, verandert die engel met het zwaard vanzelf in een jonglerende clown met drie gekleurde balletjes die het gierende jongetje vriendelijk uitnodigt de bioscoop weer in te gaan.


Als je de paperback verkiest boven een pdf, dan is deze verkrijgbaar bij en andere webwinkels voor 23,10 euro. Dat is de prijs van het drukken van dit boek. Of steun je plaatselijke boekhandel en bestel je boek daar!


Tot slot

Let op dat het begin van de blog op pagina 4 onderaan staat. Klik op deze hyperlink om er rechtstreeks naar toe te gaan. Onderaan de blog kun je naar het vervolg, First Flash of Eden, gaan en zo verder.

Maar je kunt er natuurlijk ook zomaar een willekeurige bijdrage uitpikken, bijvoorbeeld

And at last...

Finally, the rest of this blog is in English. Because it is meant for a wider public.

You can download for free the pdf of The Mystery of June 16 by using this link

Likewise The Mystery of June 16 has been published as an epub by Brave New Books for € 5,00. See the advertisement on this page or click here .

So, you will find the start on page 4. Therefore click on this hyperlink to go directly to the first blog.

Or maybe you might just choose a page at random, for instance

Hopi kiva

Empires, falling down like old and weary trees


Empires falling down like old and weary trees

The old wolf feels his strength weakening. His days as leader of the pack are numbered. To hide his weakness he mixes in conflicts that occur lower in the hierarchy of the pack. He takes and changes sides and hopes to forge allegiances that will support him on the day of challenge. Maybe it works for a while, but his days are numbered.


The empires of this world are growing old and weary. Their debts are so huge that they will never be able to pay them back. Their moral standards are corrupt and their only vision for the future is to go on as they have done so far. They interfere in conflicts far away. The empires hope the proxy wars will result in such massive damage that they will become creditors instead of debtors. It may work for a while, but one day their wars will come home.

In this world there are nations that consider themselves as Chosen People. It doesn’t mean that they think they are superior to other peoples nor that they are better-off. As for the latter: on the contrary, chosen people usually live marginal lives throughout most of their history. They belong to the pack of peoples and at the same time they do not belong to it. They observe the other nations warily, always on guard that they may bear the brunt of their frustration if the others might choose to do so.

Divine origin or indispensable instinct?

Whether or not their insight into the psyche of mankind has divine origins (chosen people themselves are convinced it has, scientists think it is an indispensable instinct without which they wouldn’t have survived evolution), a fact is that they have a deep understanding of the mechanics that work within a group of humans.

This knowledge is conveyed to the next generation by oral tradition or holy books. Chosen people believe they have a mission: to preserve the Law as it is given to them by the Supreme Being and warn other nations if they stray too far from this Law and life gets out of balance.


The inscription in the rock in Hopi Nation is drawn in modern times by a person who belonged to the pack and at the same didn’t belong. It is therefore not as much a prophecy as it is a Life Plan. The inscription shows that man has two ways of life to choose from. The first road depicts people with their heads loose from their bodies. They live grand, opulent lives but they have lost their minds and souls. The empires take this road, because it seems inviting and comfortable.

But this way of life ends in a zigzag not unlike that of a seismometer registering a massive, apocalyptic earthquake. The other way of life is symbolized by a corncob. This is the road taken by those who live in harmony with nature and follow the Law of the Big Painter in the Sky. So far, not many walk this road. It never ends and makes a full circle around the stone back to where it once began. It’s up to mankind to choose from either of those ways of living. There is no in between.

The inscription resembles the story about the narrow and broad road in the Bible: “Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it.” It’s also reminiscent of the way Japanese poet Matsu Basho describes annihilating his own self in the Narrow Road to the Deep North.

Breathtaking, Unnameable Presence

Is there not any hope left? Yes, there are new baby shoots that seem to stray away from the eternal struggle for dominance and submission.

And most religious traditions speak of a breathtaking, unnameable presence that, in a critical time, is going to help mankind with its next leap of consciousness.

By whatever name he is called in the various religious traditions, be it Messiah, Maasaw, Mahdi, Maitreya, don’t stop praying: Come, please, come soon.

Jesus or Our love is all of God’s money

Jesus etc.

In reality I didn´t attend to any ceremony. I stayed in Hopi Nation for a week and slept in a church in Kykotsmovi Village. When I was introduced to the chief of Old Oraibi I asked him about an inscription in a rock I had read about. The conversation had been friendly up until that point. But now the chief got very angry and practically chased me out of his house.

“You white men, you poke your nose into everything that is holy to us. And when you’re ready, leave a ruin behind. You go to that other village (he meant Hotevilla). There they will tell you everything you want to know.”

Lost and Found?

In the drizzling October rain of 1985 I walked along road 264 in the direction of Hotevilla. But halfway I turned back. Maybe the chief was right after all. Maybe I just came here to get some short-lived spiritual kick and then leave ruin behind. But a few days later, I felt that I couldn’t have come all the way without actually trying to find out more about the inscription that had fascinated me so much back home. I decided to give it another try and leave it to the whims of chance if I was to be initiated into the secrets of Hopi Prophecy.

The first persons I saw in Hotevilla were two youngsters on a scaffolding busy renovating a house. After I’d greeted them, I heard them sneeringly saying behind my back: “Huh, Bahanna.” Bahanna is the not so flattering name for white people in Hopi language.

The second person I met was an old man who was climbing with a basket full of vegetables from the fields at the foot of the mesa up to the village on top of it. He was panting under his burden. I took on his load. When we’d reached the village, the old man insisted to carry his basket himself. He said Thank You and when I said a few words in English to him, he kept repeating Thank You, Thank You, Thank You.

At last I hitched a ride along road 264, back to Kykotsmovi Village. A Native American drove me to a fast food restaurant at the side of the road. We ate a hamburger and talked about cars and the lack of money. It was very cosy but we didn’t discuss spiritual matters.

Outsider Art

At the end of my stay a Hopi converted to Christianity showed me the rock. He couldn’t tell anything about the inscription that I didn’t already know. Except that the inscription wasn’t of a prehistoric origin, but that it is was made by a modern-time Hopi, who was an outsider in the community. A real voice from the wilderness…

Jesus etc

As we listened to Jesus, etc. we drove down the hill called Sion on the other side. Here are the fields where we had seen the hoopoes a few years ago. Well, frankly my wife is the birdwatcher. I can hardly tell a starling from a blackbird, but even for me the hoopoe was easily recognizable with its almost alien appearance. This time there were no hoopoes, though.

My wife loves to read Marianne Williamson. Sometimes she quotes from her books. I don´t read Ms. Williamson´s books. I don’t read books at all. One of the peculiarities of my obsessive-compulsive disorder was that sometimes I had to read and reread sentences over and over again. Twentyfold, fortyfold, sixtyfold…

When I was a teenager I had to repeat prayers that way, until I felt that they were utterly perfect. Nowadays I hardly pray. As for reading, the remembrance of that experience is so disgraceful, that I avoid reading as much as I can. But I must admit that without my wife’s quotes from Ms. Williamson’s books every now and then I might not have started writing this account.

Jesus etc is written by Jeff Tweedy and Jay Bennett from Wilco. It’s for my wife. This is her: a burning sun.

Jesus: Everyone is a Burning Sun

The Shepherd on the Hill: the Way of Nature and the Way of Grace

“You know,” the shepherd on the hill said while he blew the smoke from his cigarette through his nostrils. It’s been years ago now. I was in some sort of mountainous free state. I left my car in the valley where traffic jam, tax free shops, billboards with shrill colors and the eternal concrete construction sites made my head spin. Taking a narrow path that wound up into the green, green grass of spring mountain I finally reached higher ground. It was quiet here. A bird of prey soared silently around snowcapped peaks. On the top of a hill I saw a flock of sheep and a shepherd. I climbed the steep slope.

The shepherd greeted me in the stubborn way of men who are alone most of the time.

“Are you in for a chat?” I asked casually.

“Yeah, sure,” the shepherd answered surprisingly friendly. “I don’t see too many tourists up here. They stay in the valley. So feel welcome.”

He nodded with his head to sit down in the grass and rolled a cigarette from my tobacco.

The Shepherd and the Way of Nature

“You know,” the shepherd on the hill said, while he blew the smoke of his cigarette through his nostrils. “You know, in a pack of wolves there’s a strictly observed hierarchy. On top of the social structure is the leader.  The place in the pack is determined by dominance and submission. The position in the pack is already being established while the wolves are still pups. It looks like they are just playing, but in reality the strongest, smartest and most ruthless of them emerge to become in time the next leader.

Further down the line there is a fiercely guarded hierarchy. If there is a ranking from first to last one animal, as a matter of course, must be the last. We call it the underdog or outcast. The outcast is easily recognized, for it follows the pack at a little distance. It belongs to the pack and it does not belong to pack. The outcast is warily watching evolvements within the group, always alert in case the other wolves might let off their frustration and wrath at any time on him or her.”


The shepherd was silent and looked into the sky where the bird of prey was making a nose-dive. I knew the shepherd had been talking about me. He had seen me climbing up the slope, gauged me, seen through me. I had never belonged in high-school. You may say it’s merely regular teenage angst. That is absolutely true. But at the same time it was maybe more than just that. I was fatty and thought that was the reason I didn’t belong.

I became obsessed with diets. And again that didn’t suffice.

At night I heard the voices of classmates and teachers, saying: “You should this and you should not do that.” I thought: “If I just literally do as they say, then maybe one day I will belong after all”.

Every night, before falling asleep, I promised myself: “Tomorrow I will start a completely new life. I am going to be perfect from then on.”

The pursuit of perfection turned into an obsessive-compulsive disorder. An unforgiving winged creature guarded the entrance to the Garden of Eden and the child in me. But his fiery, flashing sword didn’t only kill the naturalness and intuition of the child, but was severely condemning others too. I was stuck in a morass of anger.

The kid who was once one with laughter in the cinema, had also dreamed of becoming a missionary. But it wasn’t gonna be that way. Maybe it was never meant to be in this world. I remained an outsider, scrubbing floors in factories.

The Shepherd and the Way of Grace

Meanwhile driving through the next village in Lorraine my wife and I saw a castle. The castle was built as a calendar with 365 windows and 52 fireplaces.

“Look up there,” my wife exclaimed and pointed to one of the chimneys.

A pair of storks had built a nest on top of the chimney. I saw how they were feeding the young storks. The fledglings reached deeply into their parents’ beaks for food, flapping with their wings. I realized that this is part of this world too: all this love and caring and all these creatures parading before my eyes.

The shepherd on the hill blew out the last smoke of his cigarette.

He sighed and whispered: “Dominance and submission, that’s the Way of Nature, son. But that’s not all there is. One fine day of death, grace and glory you will find another Way, the Way of Grace. The Way of Grace will bring you delight and happiness and deep bonds of friendship and brotherhood.”

I was thinking about the shepherd on that hill a long time ago and how he had laid his healing hands upon an age-old wound.

The piece of paper empty before me

As a plain under a blanket of snow

Dreaming, unstirring.

And I, a lonesome traveller,

Stand at the side and hesitate,

Afraid to break the white silence

and leave my trails as ineradicable curses.

Nostradamus or The Great King of Terror

Nostradamus wrote:

The year 1999, in the seventh month

From the sky will come the Great King of Terror.

To bring back to life the great King of the Mongols,

Before and after Mars reign by good luck.

This quatrain is thought to be associated with the total eclipse of August 11, 1999. There has been a lot of fuzz about the seventh month in this quatrain. It has something to do with Nostradamus using the Julian calendar instead of the Gregorian. One wonders why he couldn’t foresee this change of calendar only a few decades after his death?

Nostradamus interpreted

But anyway, the eclipse of 1999 darkened the Utah D-Day beach in Normandy, the First World War frontlines of the Somme, the Chemins des Dames and Verdun, the sites of the concentration camps of Dachau and Mauthausen, Braunau am Inn where Hitler was born, Hungary where an uprising against the communist regime was bloodily suppressed in 1956, Timisoara in Romania where the uprising against the Ceausescu regime was started by a televised speech of a reformed reverend, Halabja in Iraqi Kurdistan where poison gas was used against the inhabitants and then on to Iraq and Iran and the war-torn border between Pakistan and India.

As if the eclipse was to summarize with one final sweep all the atrocities of the 20th century.

And what about the King of the Mongols? I thought of the wars raging in the deserts of the east. The beheadings, the stoning of innocent people and yes, crucifixions, too. The terrified local population – highly unlikely they ever heard of Nostradamus – calls the perpetrators ‘children of the  Mongols’. A far echo from the remembrance of the Djengiz Kahn.

Children of God

But still, they are children of God, too. Not in a literal sense of the word, for God doesn’t have children. But they are the fruit of his Creation and born with a free will:  a benign and a bad wolf inside them. What makes them feed the bad wolf so frantically?

Being aware of our own age of anger, aggression and atrocities, we shouldn’t wonder that they stray that far and pray for them to come home.

I stared ahead at the yellowish, rolling hills of Lorraine and thought of the never ending happening of war evermore and sore famine. I was yearning for the day to be, when God will roll his stone away.

…waiting for the day that God will roll his stone away…

Identity: some incoherent musings on something utterly fluid

Some historians say that there is a striking similarity between today’s wars and rumors of wars and the events that led up to the First World War, a hundred years ago. But does history really repeat itself that way? On the surface history seems an endless cycle of empires that shoot up like tall trees and then are blown over by the storms provoked by their own insatiable greed. So, always the same thing? Or like Schopenhauer said: always the same, but different?

Identity: free-flowing

“I pour a drink, I need one.” Sometimes even the finest of whiskies don’t ease the pain and anger. But doubt is already raised with the first word of that sentence: “I”. Do I really know who that “I” is? Of course, when I talk to my chief-executive or the lady next door, I maintain some consistent convictions and opinions of which you may contend that they belong to a more or less clear cut identity. But when I’m alone, those consistent convictions and opinions sometimes disappear like snow in summer. As soon as another light falls on them they tend to evaporate, change into anything but cohesion. Inside me there’s really nothing that is cohesive or consistent.

If you learn to accept that identity is merely a means to communicate with others rather than an end in itself, you’ll create room to breathe, to be human. Realizing your own condition humaine, you can accept the absence of cohesion and consistency in others more easily. You’ll stop judging and experience oneness and openness in an instant.

Identity: Surrender

So let your identity be free-flowing. Surrender to the Big Painter in the Sky. And let Him, using a palette where the grimmest grey of war and depression are joined by the brightest sunshine colors of your heydays, paint His masterpiece.

…and let the Big Painter paint his Masterpiece…

The lightness and darkness of our valley of weeping and thirst

The Valley

The next morning the cow was still alive, laying on her side. Her four legs were moving simultaneously as if she were on a last stroll through fields of gold. The calf was drinking from her udder, waggling its tail. The sight was unbearable. We decided to leave on a trip to the hill of the glowing finger.

We crossed a river. I craved to hear music andput Steve Forbert’s album Alive On Arrival in the car’s cd player. The album was Steve Forbert’s debut in 1978 and it has been dear to me ever since. Especially ‘It Isn’t Gonna Be That Way’ which had often offered consolation on the countless other occasions when dreams had gone up in smoke.

But now opening track ‘Going Down To Laurel’ didn’t seem to fit the mood nor the landscape. I took Steve’s cd out and played Life Is People by Bill Fay instead. Though I had heard it a couple of times before, the epic sweep of organ and the poignant words about war and destruction of opening track ‘There is a Valley’ took me by surprise.

On becoming laughter itself

The dying cow in the meadow had disturbed my peace of mind and caused the images of war to come back again. When had the bloodshed on our planet begun? Some would agree with Saint Augustine and say it was after the Original Sin in the Garden of Eden. But I had never read the first chapters of the Bible in such a literal way. The ousting from Eden appeared to me a rather archetypical drama of coming of age. In the beginning  a child experiences no separation between itself and the world around. It does not judge, has no sense of good and evil. As you would expect of a true paradise: All is One.

Let me illustrate it by something that took place in my own childhood. I must have been about four or five years old. During a vacation my parents took me to the cinema where they showed movies for children. I’d never been to the cinema before. I sat in the front row and was awed by what I saw on the silver screen. One of the movies was with Laurel and Hardy who were driving in California trying to sell Christmas trees. At one point they start getting into a row with the owner of a house who resorts to destroying their tree. Upon which Laurel and Hardy start ruining the house. It becomes a frenzy of absurd reciprocal revenge. After a while I got up from my chair and stood bent over from laughing in front of the silver screen. The child in me didn’t judge whether revenge was good or evil, didn’t take sides with either one. Nothing stood between me and my laughter. I had become laughter itself.


But alas, it is a feature of our species that sooner or later we are all driven out of paradise. We eat the fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil: we internalize the punishments we receive from grownups and from then on we judge ourselves as well as others. We strive to be like God, pursuing perfection for ourselves and demanding it from others, too. But we are human, imperfect by nature. And a winged angel swaying a flaming, flashing sword guards the way back to the garden of oneness and openness.

Today psychologists call this winged creature the superego. So maybe those who blame the Ancestral Sin for the violent nature of our species may not be that wrong after all. For the fiery, flashing sword doesn’t only kill the child in us, but also points menacingly to ‘them’ outside. We make judgments, divide into categories of good and evil and in the end resort to crucifixion.

Valley of weeping and thirst

Deep under the embers of a smothered heavenly fire, still hides the child in us. We long to revive it. But the road back leads through a valley of weeping and thirst, where life presents itself in ways we definitely wouldn’t have chosen ourselves. But those who walk the valley uprightly, find springs of water along the way and a hilltop at the end where grace and glory reside.

As I was listening to the closing lines of The Valley, I added one more line in my mind:

The suffering of every animal

Is written in His palm as well.