The Traveler: Ancient Memories, Past Lives and Mystical Moments

By Agnes Toews-Andrews

"The Traveler: Ancient Memories, Past Lives and Mystical Moments" is a passport to 13 countries. In Canada to the wilds of BC's UFO Trench, in Ontario to the largest ley line in North America that flows through Prince Edward County; to Egypt's sacred sites with Isis and Horus; to Turkey with goddess Sophia; Israel with Mary Magdalene, Mother Mary and Moses; Babylonia (now Iraq) with goddess Ishtar; Cyprus with goddess Aphrodite. In the Middle East, also to Lebanon, Syria, Egypt, Cyprus, Turkey and Jordan, then to mystical Glastonbury, Avebury, Silbury Hill, England, Scotland's Mithraic Roslyn Chapel, to Peru's gateway to immortality, Aramu Muru near Lake Titicaca, and to many other sacred sites.

The 23 short stories are comprised of candid descriptions of both inner consciousness and outer adventures containing spiritual, emotional and life expanding journeys, many of which are metaphysical--beyond the body.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9780994002600

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© - 2014 Agnes Toews-Andrews

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the permission of the publisher.

Electronic file ISBN: 978-0-9940026-0-0

Paper copy ISBN: 978-0-9686765-9-2

Israel–UNTSO Personnel, Nahariya, Skiing Mt. Herman and Jerusalem

August, 1991. I kissed my house in Trenton, Ontario, Canada, goodbye, leaving behind a ton of memories. Some of which I did not wish to leave behind. I walked to Lake Ontario and gazed at the setting sun. I tried to conquer the fear and trepidation I was feeling as I contemplated moving to Israel.

My husband was by now in the Middle East. A Canadian military officer, fighter pilot and former base commander, he was now working for UNTSO, United Nations Truce Supervisory Organization.

A friend transported me to Pearson Airport in Toronto and all I had to hang on to was a huge smokey quartz crystal. I had recently purchased it. It was believed to help with fear.

I arrived at Ben Gurion airport, Tel Aviv, the next afternoon, trembling in my boots. My husband arrived to fetch me and I was taken in a UN vehicle to Nahariya in northern Israel, a seaside resort-like town. The honeymoon was quickly over as my husband left for South Lebanon the next morning where he was stationed.

As per my request my husband had located an apartment near the beach. It was a large third floor, three bedroom apartment with a huge deck that overlooked the mighty Mediterranean sea. 70s style furniture, colorful art novae curtains and Oriental carpets completed the scene.

The next day I was introduced to the UN crowd in Nahariya at a Hails and Farewells ceremony at our evacuation house. It would be our UN spouses’ congregation place and shelter in case of immediate evacuation from Israel. I would be fine I thought, as I now had 19 nationalities to hang with while my husband, an unarmed military officer was away for weeks on end, driving the rugged roads of South Lebanon observing and writing reports for the UN.

It was 40 degrees Celsius. My body initially ached until my blood thinned, but even then I never cooled off or hardly ever slept the first while. The heat was topped off with a residence in a Jewish neighbourhood where everyone had large guard dogs that barked all night.

Two weeks after I arrived in Israel two UN officers were shot and killed on a stretch of road in Lebanon that we UNMO wives walked to go shopping or meet our husbands for lunch. It was a small village named, Naqoura, three miles from the border. The news was shocking and the reality of living in a volatile country where just about anything could happen and everyone carried guns required sinking in. I locked myself up in my apartment for two days, scared of leaving. My heart raced with terror as I thought about the world I had left behind and the world that was now my home. Ultimately I decided that I could not stay locked up in my apartment. I would have to practise living intuitively!

My husband took me shopping when back in Israel for his two days off. We purchased two Italian made Bianchi bikes, and I was soon riding my bright orange one along the beach road after sundown trying to cool off in the evenings. The beach was deserted, as at sundown a loud bugle like horn sounded across the town reminding folks to stay off the beach. It was deemed dangerous at eventide as we were so close to the border with Lebanon. There could be PLO or Hezbollah infiltrations. Delicious smells of piquant eucalyptus trees and orange groves I passed lingered with me long after I was back in my apartment. A few months after I got my bike it was cut loose from its bike lock, and stolen. I reported it to the local police and was told to wait several weeks, it may show up. Low and behold, to my amazement it did turn up! And not much worse for wear. The kind Israeli policeman I spoke with mentioned it had been found on the beach and more than likely had been cut loose by teenagers, taken for a ride and abandoned. Tough to explain a $1500. U.S. bike to parents I supposed.

I froze in the winter while living on the Mediterranean in Nahariya. The windows in my apartment did not close and there was no central heating or husband to snuggle up to in my large but aged apartment. His observation post was ten kilos north beyond the border of Israel. My apartment though was a stone’s throw away from a Temple to Aphrodite. Although in ruins, the formidable astounding energy was there and I often sat on my seaside deck to watch the waves roll in from the Med and imagined what it was like here in 6000 BCE.

Aphrodite, also known as Astarte and Ishtar was often depicted in sculptures and paintings standing at the feet of a lion. I found it curious that I often became a lioness when I made love with my husband in Nahariya. I would suddenly shift and become a gigantic lioness feeling that feline-power and energy intensely.

My husband, a six foot blond Leo gentleman that I always called Adonis often wore his blue peacekeeper beret tipped to one side because of an accident in his youth. He loved flying, classical music, me and hunting.

When snow arrived in the Golan Heights we decided to head for Mt. Herman. Driving up to ‘the Herman’ as it is affectionately called in Israel is particularly scenic, but frightening. The road bends and twists through Arab villages in occupied Syria, climbing precariously to a height of 1,700 meters. When one arrives at the only ski hill in Israel one begins a two hour ordeal renting gear and purchasing tickets. Mind you if I had spoken more Hebrew and had bigger elbows I could have cut this time frame in half. The slopes were mostly deserted. Thank goodness, because Israelis skied the way they drove! Like maniacs.

Skiing Mt. Herman was rather an ordeal so we only skied for half a day then drove through thick fog that had descended to nearby Kiryat Shimona, near the Lebanese border. The town was deserted, forsaken, not a soul was in sight. We were to discover Kiryat's Israeli citizens were in underground shelters as Katoucha rockets had been fired from Lebanon and falling all night! We managed to find a room in a abandoned hotel and stayed the night and thank goodness remained unscathed by flying Katoucha rockets till we left the next morning.

Towards the end of my first year in Israel my husband came home with the news that he had been asked to stay working for the UN another year, and which posting did I wish? Amman, Jordan, Damascus, Syria or Jerusalem, Israel. I choose Jerusalem as I felt it held the most sacred energy of all the ancient places; also because Israel was purported to be a democratic country where just about everyone could speak English.

We spent a month back in Canada visiting our children in Kelowna and Abbotsford, B.C. and then flew back over the poles once more to our new posting in Jerusalem. A lovely cottage type house became available in Gilo, on Givat Canada, a suburb of Jerusalem and we were soon unpacking our boxes again and getting settled in this most amazing city on a citadel.

August, 1992. I was orientating myself around Jerusalem of fire, UNTSO headquarters, the Old City of Jerusalem, Gilo–my neighbourhood, and my spacious well-appointed cottage, a condominium-type dwelling overlooking a wadi and the Old City of Jerusalem. Jerusalem of fire as my Reiki clients often called it, attracted many moths to its bright flames. Being the wife of a UN military officer, I soon determined that I was here to observe the sights, sounds and smells of the Holy Land, and at the suggestion of my first client in the Old City of Jerusalem, to write a book about my experiences in Israel. I began to keep a detailed journal.

My cat, Pumpkin Peace, was with us. She was a feral, undomesticated cat that I had found beside a garbage bin in Nahariya last year, and had adopted. She often jumped into my lap as I sat at my computer to write my stories.

The constant ‘garbage and flowers’ facets of Palestinians, Israelis, and UN politics constantly surprised, annoyed and angered me. I tried to stay impartial and balanced in a powerful country where upheaval happened every ten minutes on all sides of me and within me.

I loved the Dome of the Rock Mosque, on Mt. Zion in the Old City and went there often, although the Islamists who controlled it were often surly and creepy looking. The Rock was the reason for Jerusalem. Also the site where Abraham was to have sacrificed Isaac. Next to Mecca it was the most revered site in the Middle East by Muslims and the holiest site for Jews. When in the interior of the mosque one day, I climbed the wall surrounding the rock to have a sneak peak. I was quickly removed and scolded by mosque guards but I discovered that the gigantic rock was hugely magnetic and the dome of the mosque was actually gold plated and every so often redone, compliments of Saudi Arabia and other wealthy Arab states. It enhanced and improved the vibration of the site.

Another favourite Jerusalem spot was the Western Wall, also known as the wailing wall, the only remaining part of Solomon’s Temple. My landlady had told me that should I have a prayer request, I was to go there for 40 days to pray and my prayer would be answered. I never had any pressing prayers, things to ask for, but I did often sit and watch orthodox Jews daven there, fervently praying for something.

One day, in a pensive dreamy mood I saw a 50 foot angelic-like being laying over the entire top of the wall watching and listening to human prayers. She had blonde hair that fell in waves about her beautiful face and wore a white gown that was enhanced by gold embellishments. Hmmm, after seeing Her and having heard on the inner that she was the angel Sandalphon, I have had much more faith in prayers. There is someone listening. At least at the Western Wall in Jerusalem!

Fridays at 6:00 a.m. I heard the beginning sounds of the weekend morning rush in Jerusalem. The brilliant kaleidoscope of sunrise dazzled the landscape as I stood on my deck facing east to say morning prayers. Afterward I immersed myself in the sights and sounds of the Holy Land. Goats scampered, donkeys brayed, and dogs barked in the wadi below me. Cars and trucks in the distance were already deafeningly pummeling down the highway to Tel Aviv and clanging sounds came from the Arabic villages nearby. I was ready to face the busiest day of the Jerusalem week for the next day was the Sabbath, Shabbat, when everything stalled till the first three stars came out in the evening.

Friday shopping could be dangerous. People shouted and screamed, motioning with their hands in their cars and on the street. The Supersol, my local supermarket was jammed, a mad house with orthodox, ultra orthodox and secular Jews pushing and shoving. A line up meant nothing there. I wondered if I should become one of them, but reminded myself I was not that kind of person. I kept telling myself; shwei, patience, as I waited in checkout line ups twenty feet long, while the cashiers idly chitchatted with friends for what seemed like an eternity. I always arrived home hot, hungry and unscathed though.

My husband usually arrived home at two-thirty and early on that year would toss his blue beret on the dining table and immediately walk upstairs to lie down on the bed. Too much work at UNTSO headquarters, he said. It was a jumble, an unorganized fiasco, I was told. My husband would be staffing the entire UN posts here in the Middle East; the posts that the Americans wanted to dictate to him. They were overriding his decisions. I often tucked in beside my officer and gentleman, fighter pilot extraordinaire and we settled in for an UNMO nap (United Nations Military Officer) nap as the UN mid-day siesta had become pigeonholed.

When I awoke from one of these naps I headed downstairs and picked up the Jerusalem Post and went to the volunteer column. The Hebrew University Botanical Garden was seeking volunteers. Hmm, I thought that sounded like it could be an adventure and I dialed the number. I heard the ‘click’ that told me there were IDF Intelligence types on my phone line listening in. A very English voice at the other end of the line mentioned she was the botanist at the gardens. She sounded like fun so I arranged to work at the gardens one morning a week.

My husband often suggested dinner downtown on Jaffa Street or at one of those appealing bistros on Ben Yehuda Street. Good idea I thought. Hubby’s answer to his and my quandaries and boredom was usually, let’s go out to dinner. That day I put on something romantic and we were off to Nahalat Shiva, downtown Jerusalem, the name itself blithesome poetry.

Evening manifested and it was quickly dark out, but we found the perfect spot at an outdoor table where I could people watch. Lanterns flickered with eerie orange and yellow glows and the ancient hoary stone walls of the Old City reflected and created spectres. I ordered the farmer’s salad. The salad was to be chock-full of delicious greens topped with fresh cottage cheese. The vegetables in Israel were the sweetest I had ever eaten anywhere in the world and I was not disappointed!

All along the street the cafes were dimly lit that night and a young student violinist playing classical gypsy music strolled through the diners. I took my husband’s hand and squeezed it. What a thrill to be here in this place that was ancient, mystical and magical and I had heard of from time in the cradle. It was when I left the Mennonite Brethren church that the Holy Land did not hold me captive any longer, but now I was here reliving the ancient and childhood memories.

More and more Jerusalemites came forth that eve to dine and I got brave and spoke to the couple at the table beside ours and we received an invitation for coffee. We exchanged telephone numbers and left, our spirits lifted. Things were definitely looking up. At Nahariya, the seaside resort where we lived last year, we only received one invitation to an Israeli home; although I often visited in Arab homes in the neighbouring city of Akko.

The Israeli home we visited was that of my Reiki Master and her five children who had recently moved off a kibbutz. Originally from New York, she was now trying to make ends meet by teaching Reiki and facilitating treatments. It was a tough go and I often took the family out for meals. My dinner plate at a cafe was game for any one of her five children to help themselves from. It surprised me but I always allowed it. Manners I had been told were deliberately not taught on the Kibbutz. The reckoning behind this philosophy was to raise a rough and tumble Israeli.

Shopping in Jerusalem could be stimulating with so many ancient artifacts in this country. One day I found Barrakat, an antique store on King David Street. Perhaps I could find a little antiquity there for my husband. It was nearing Christmas. I met David the Christian Palestinian owner. He was fortyish with a dark scar on his left cheek that jumped out at me, but then I found his eyes. They are soft and sensitive. We clicked and I began enjoying myself. He mentioned that both of his parents had died during the Six Day War with Syria and Egypt and that most of his family members had then fled to Syria. I told him I healed with my hands to which he replied his traditions had always believed this. David told me about his store. He said that here Judaism, Islam and Christianity all came under the same roof. Good, I said, but I don’t believe in religion." He was taken aback but relaxed when I said I believed in God, but forget the dogma.

Subsequently David and I begin talking about all the interesting items for sale in his shop. I said he must have a lot of fun touching, playing and connecting with all these wonderful, unique, and ancient pieces. He said that was nothing. Nothing intrigued him more than what happens at death. No one knows what happens at death because dead people cannot speak, he said. I listened for awhile and then told him, not so. Dead people could communicate. I had been visited by a dead relative and received a message from him. I told him I had learned from my Native American spiritual teachers that we continued to learn our lessons and heal on the other side, just as we would on Earth. Except when we released from the physical body and plane we had an etheric body and were on a nonphysical plane of existence. At that precise moment David needed to attend to a paying customer but invited me back to talk anytime.

UNTSO headquarters was situated on the Mt. of Evil Council, in the old British Government house, deserted in 1948, when the Brits pulled out of Palestine. That was the year I was born. The grounds overlooked the Old City of Jerusalem in an amphitheatre like setting. Beautiful. Pyramidal cypress, gigantic eucalyptus, and spreading magnolia trees surrounded the turn of the century