Throwing Back the Apple

By Revavah Adar

‘Throwing Back the Apple’ tells the story of Marian and her love affair with Yair, an Israeli artist:
“Tell me your story” Yair asked. That's a bit boring I thought to myself—the story of me. But he insisted and...I suppose I could say something quickly—like give a thumb nail sketch. I could start by saying that I'm English, that I was born to a seventeen-year-old unwed mother in mid January during a snowstorm. My first name, Marian, has no particular significance other than my mother liked it. My middle name, Rachel, was given in honor of her favorite teacher who was Jewish. ‘Throwing Back the Apple’ explores, in a very simple down to earth manner, a new horizon for female/male relationship. Revavah doesn’t offer the reader any New-age gimmicks, no special gadgets, one can shop for; just very simple realizations about Yair, herself and human nature. Marian is introduced to the astonishing simplicity of everything, and the ancient Hebrew frequency; that draws its wisdom from Genesis.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781365888243

Book preview

Throwing Back the Apple

Throwing Back the Apple

By: Revavah Adar

© 2017

Edited by: Michele Berner

ISBN #: 978-1-365-88824-3

Preface

I believe I'm writing for two people: myself to try to make sense of my life; and for him... the Hebrew... I think I'm writing for all of us too, for the sake of transparency: for my children—the bewildered audience of a complicated plot where the leading actress, known to them as 'mother', insists on playing other parts, the unseen part of me that's moving the action forward, unfolding its own journey, directing itself through...

It was October 2011 when I experienced him in the flesh, though that wasn't our first ‘meeting’. I believe I encountered him ten years earlier when a simple question posed to the Being—the author of Life—was responded with a Hebrew word which exploded into a vision and shattered my psyche. That event began a process which would ultimately collapse the Christian myth. It wasn't easy; two thousand years of mental conditioning rooted in the misinterpretation of myth about a talking serpent, a disobedient woman and a garden named Eden, fiercely resisted the Gardener, the one sent to unearth it.

The Gardener, if I can call him that, was a shadow—part of me rising up to defend itself, find its voice and re-emerge with the code that would decipher the original story—Genesis. That part of me recognized him immediately that day as we began our walk through the City of David, and I was eager to let him in, while another part, the watchtower, yelled caution! Don't worry, the gardener responded, remember it's just a play, nothing more than that. The watchtower's concern was a valid one. Jerusalem fever is a well-documented psychological condition that affects many who come here. Typically, at the benign end of the spectrum, it's experienced harmlessly as a feeling of spiritual connection, a deep yet quiet emotional stirring of well-being, but at the other end, it manifests as the extreme opposite, as Messianic delusion, the kind that filled the pages of history with unspeakable violence written in blood.

The City of David

We walked past some school children who were touring the ruins and we stopped to listen; it was in Hebrew so he translated: He's telling them about King David and Bathsheba bathing naked on the roof. The attentive children giggled over something the tour guide was saying. It was all in Hebrew. He started smiling.

What is it? What's he saying? I asked, wishing to be let in on his smiling, sensing a tinge of irony.

That's the realism of the Bible. It doesn't follow the Greek plot that starts off with a conflict between a man and a woman, then builds up towards a romantic ending of romantic love culminating in marriage. No. The Bible depicts it as it is. David has other lovers. He is totally human. He dies without building the Temple...and so on. This idea of a man riding on a white horse—a messiah or a romantic lover-soon-to-be husband, is all Greek, and it kills any possibility for real relating.

The teacher's telling them all that? I asked smiling.

Of course not. He's telling them a frozen version of the tradition.

I looked at him: It's like the whole world's sleeping, rather like in that fairy-tale 'Sleeping Beauty'.

That's precisely it. He cried out: We're all living in a fairy-tale romance waiting for someone else to save us. We're expecting some fairy-tale prince or messiah to come riding in on a white horse and only then will we live happily ever after! I threw my head back and laughed at my own silly life—a life almost wasted waiting—waiting for someone to wake me up.

He said: The name Bathsheba in Hebrew means 'daughter of the covenant’, or 'daughter of seven'. David came to this place in the seventh year of his reign and here he meets the daughter of seven.

She could be anyone. I feel like adding: It's not the name of a historical person trapped by the limitations of time. She is simply anyone who wills to initiate the Sabbath, the Seven—to appear on the roof, so to speak, naked and unashamed—waiting for him to notice and invite her in.

He looks at me curiously and continues: The mathematical realism of the Bible shows the tragedy of David and Bathsheba; the 'failure' of the biblical lovers.

I look sadly at my new acquaintance, the knowledgeable scholar, and plainly add:

Don’t forget, the Bible is also realistic about the possibilities of us humans encountering true love.

I was fully aware back then, as we were having this conversation, how peculiar it all seemed. There I was, in the ancient City of David in Jerusalem, walking with a stranger, speaking of the messiah, quantum things, the question of non-relating—LOVE and how we're drawn to one another to get something we feel we're lacking. I stopped to read the plaque of the excavation site—to regain my regular state of mind—what I call 'normal'.

I remember the morning sun was approaching its zenith. I remember the pale golden hue of light reflecting off the ancient sandstone remains of the human built dwellings that still remained. I remember the inner-silence of the stranger awakening me to the reality that I might actually now be writing. I remember experiencing myself observing multiple layers of time converging, or perhaps I was observing myself experiencing? I can't say; the observer and the experiencer seemed to be one. I remember having the strange impression that I was embodying the merging of all history and human experiences, as if to show me that what we call the past and the future are the same thing.

I had the strange feeling of being here as me, Marian, wanting to relate in a new way to this apparent stranger, Yair, and I was also here as me, experiencing Bathsheba in a Hebrew play of failed relating as though history was being drawn forward. And I was also here as me experiencing one of these Israeli children in a future event drawn backwards. And I thought, my God; we, Yair and me, are caught in the present moment—between two poles, the past and the future, the Hebrew version of what we call love and the Greek/Christian version of what we call love, and we're seeing it for what it is—two sides of the same coin. And, in that instant, it seemed we'd stepped into a peculiar predicament that felt like an invitation—an invitation inviting us to change it. The Mind, the inner-workings of the Mind, observing everything that's going on inside. What else is there?

I walked in silence beside him, filled with the incredible certainty that for this moment—for this encounter, I came into being. We stopped at various points along the white dusty path to observe the digging and read the excavations plaques posted to mark and explain the various archaeological sites. I wondered about the Ark of the Covenant, and where it might be. Was it buried with King David in a hidden tomb down below? After ten or fifteen minutes, he handed me his water bottle which I gladly took and drank from. We stopped at a site believed to be the palace of King David and leaned against a low stone to rest.

Then we climbed the steps towards the Jewish Quarter passing the Western Wall to our right which was now behind us. We greet a massive—splendid, gold Menorah trapped inside a protective Plexiglas box. I feel like bowing, I do. He seems not to notice. I run to catch up to him curious—wondering—if he'll respond to what I'm thinking.

It's for the Third Temple he says without turning back to me.

What's that? I ask playfully.

Smiling, They can't perceive any other way than that—stones—a Temple of stones, he says, That's how the mind becomes after two thousand years of diaspora and frozen tradition—fossilized around an idea. It would take a miracle to tear it down.

It's hot even for October. Do you need more water? He asked. He slows down to ask me what I'd like to eat. I suppose he's trying to think of where we might go. I told him I didn't mind—salad—something like that is fine. Since this was my fourth time to Jerusalem in less than a year, I was familiar with some of the little restaurants, and I pictured one near the Cardo, a newly excavated Roman Market, but I didn't mention it. He immediately knew, as if by telepathic intuition, to what small restaurant I was referring to and led the way. Later, when I was reflecting on this groundbreaking day, I thought that since he is a native of Jerusalem, and since the Old City is very small, then it is only natural that he knew...simple...

It was a little off the regular tourist route and I could have my favorite Israeli chopped salad with a huge serving of goat’s cheese. It seems he was only interested in Hummus, repeating several times that he liked it so much and something about being careful with his food since he'd recently discovered he's allergic to dairy and a whole host of other things. We're almost there. He took a sharp turn right, and we entered the courtyard of a home. The immediate silence we experienced was overwhelming, a short relax from the unbearable intensity of the crowded and dense Old City – thousands of years of accumulative human history - human experience. There were just four tables, all dressed with bright clothes—waiting—empty under a magnificent trellised canopy of trailing Jasmine.

Lunch felt a little awkward to me. Yair didn't engage in the usual chit-chat, though he did tell me a little about himself, that he was an artist, lived in a spiritual learning community for several years and he loves the Bible.

The Bible. he declared as if to impress me, although many traditions rely on it, is anti-traditional and revolutionary in its essence. I am puzzled! How can the Bible be anti-tradition? I've never heard anyone start out this way. The only Bible lovers I know, the Christians I've known in Raleigh, love it because it supports their beliefs, and that give them a sense of solid security.

I pause for a moment, and he stops talking. He thinks I need to reflect on the paradox of what he's just said, but no, that's not it. I'm sipping on wine. What I mean is, all traditions use the Bible to establish their own authority, he continues to qualify what he's said, but he's also probing...testing...to see if I’ve joined him on his mental roller coaster.

But the Bible itself supports one thing only, and that's man's mental freedom. Man's freedom to choose.

Man's freedom to choose? To choose what? I ask in quick response to see if I can catch him in a net of his own making, fully expecting him to say something abstract and non-earth bound, some sort of New Agey spirituality—that sort of thing.

Life! Is there anything else to choose?

His native Hebrew tongue makes his sentences—his expressions seem a bit stiff in English. He must be thinking in Hebrew and translating in his head as he goes along. I make a mental note. I want to ask him about that later—I know nuances in language can render things so inaccurate, and I want to watch out for any unintended language trap, like the one I set up for him.

Life? I ask.

Yes, but...that's just a word. It could mean anything to just about anyone.

That's right. And most of what we call Life today is not Life at all; it's a prison. It's only when the prison walls collapse, even if just briefly, that you get a momentary encounter with Life...what the Bible calls Life that is.

Yes, I know. Reaching for my glass, realizing that by saying 'I know' with a sense of having arrived, will provoke him to want to correct any idea of personal transcendence.

It's not a conclusion. It's not a goal to be achieved. He adds, just as I predicted, scooping up hummus on pita tips.

The waiter comes back to pour more wine. Yes. I nod to the waiter. Thank you...'toda'. I say, not wanting to miss a small opportunity to impress Yair with the little Hebrew I know. The waiter pours from the bottle on the table, but I cut him off at half a glass. I don't want to spoil this dialogue with too much wine, but there's a fine line between control and loss of it. It's that fine line I'm seeking in this dialogue, that unseen line that I know as the frequency of Life, and you know it the moment you touch it with someone...but it's fleeting...one brief movement down that fine line and then it's gone. I've never been able to stay with it long enough for Life to fully emerge, as one will inevitably push the other off.

There are long pauses of silence. It's been that way all morning, but the walking and the occasional stopping to look at the map, or read a plaque explaining an excavation, made the silence more bearable. My default mode, in a situation like this, is to rush in and fill the void with small talk. But I don't want to...or maybe I do and something else is holding me back. This moment...this encounter is profoundly different. His face is dabbled by the sunlight. We are sitting in the shade of a huge olive tree. To my right, throngs of tourists huddle down an ancient cobbled street. He's wiping the edges of the Hummus plate, drawing the bread around in circles... I smile.

How did it all start for you? I ask. I mean, how did you get here?

He laughs: "You mean, how did we get here?"

I smile again, and marvel at the simplicity of language. One small change from a 'you' to a 'we' and my guard drops down. Can I trust it? It's a momentary acknowledgment between a male-female encounter, but so what? I've seen that trick many times before. The guard goes back up.

I look around nervously to see if I can spot the waiter again.

Do you want anything else? He asks.

No, I was just wondering...I mean it seems we've been here a while, and I was wondering if he's switched shifts or something. What time is it?

It's two. Do you have to be somewhere?

No. I was just wondering, that's all.

The lunch crowd has cleared out. We are the only ones still here, except for a group of young Israeli soldiers, who've just sat down. What am I to make of all this? Is he the one? Can't be. He's married. I'm not getting involved with a married man again. And aside from that...aside from all this talk about the Bible, and freedom from various forms of mental-conditioning, he hasn't mentioned why? He hasn't given any indication as to the reason for it.

I watch Yair carefully, noting the way he carries himself. He's handsome, very tall, gray coarse hair but not balding, rugged but in an elegant sort of way.

Why do you think that is? I ask.

He pulls back the chair and leans back...

What? You mean the need to transcend our mental-conditioning?

Yes. Why do that? Why bother, if it's comfortable...and it is...it seems it is for most people, what makes one leave their comfort zone?

I have no other option, He surprises me as I thought he’d just talked about aware choosing a minute ago and in that sense, I chose. Real choice is not between options.

It is so simple, yet so amazingly revolutionary, I said realizing the full implication of such an approach. It means that what we normally consider as choosing isn't really choosing; it is rather preference. Choosing is an act of awareness.

I am not joking. he says, the Bible is the most revolutionary human document ever. The archetype Abraham, and his offspring, discovered real new possibilities in life; a mentality of abundance, generosity, and unconditional love. It only seems to us that back then, these possibilities existed just in the way they are available for us today. I start to enjoy his somewhat stiff and formal English. "Such a revolution is so immense that it’s seen as so threatening to our ordinary state of mind that all theology and I mean all theology, he stresses the 'all', so it really implies to the totality of all, has been invented to combat it."

He pauses to see my reaction. After a long silence where I was trying to gather my thoughts – gather my life, he continued: I like to be very practical. I think of myself as Abraham to personally and directly face his archetypal life and belief dilemmas. Furthermore, Abraham also represents our future possibilities; in that sense, he is probably the most advanced science fiction character known. The relevance of the biblical mental wavelength today is quite apparent. It is not only Abraham – all the characters of the Bible are us: Adam, Moses, King David and Jesus are all us. Therefore, the Bible isn't just folklore, it is the guiding map of this present reality.

I'm not sure I follow what he's saying. Perhaps it's because it all seems a bit stiff—or perhaps because I'm a dumb blond. I tried to follow along with his thoughts on all this but his words were his mental springboards into volumes of personal experience—that raised many questions about Life and our purpose here. I glance at him across the table and smile. He's quite serious I think, and perhaps he might have delved into the whole area of interest that has led me to Israel—writing about the possibility of encountering a different kind of male to female relationship.

I was after the Jesus Papers. I was hoping they would reveal the true nature of the encounter between Mary and Jesus. Yair personally knew Saul Davidoff, the mysterious collector that allegedly possessed the Jesus Papers. In fact, rumor said that he was his closest friend and 'spiritual son', but he showed no interest in my Jesus Papers story. He just indifferently acknowledges that the collector in question is the owner, and that the papers are most likely stored in a bank's safe in Switzerland. How could he be so apathetic to such a dramatic possibility? I thought to myself. His serenity and mental silence continues as we sit through lunch and it’s throwing me off my usual game. I push the salad around the plate, barely touching it. I feel a bit self-conscious and awkward in his silence. He loves the Bible, he is Saul's best friend and he doesn't see the potential of the Jesus Papers that could change the course of the Christian religion.

All known traditions try to hypnotize us, he said with a burning look, to put us to sleep with all sorts of irrelevant stories and questions, so we conform. They are all very entertaining and try to keep the system intact so as not to make waves, and most of all, they are there to stop any kind of change or possibility of transformation. Just changing the Christian tradition and religion won't change anything. The true issue is to change human traditional mentality; the mentality that continuously enslaves us to a past, any past... I was stunned not so much by the content, as by the totality of his statements – it was more energetic than anything else - a penetrating frequency and it felt as if two gigantic arms had lifted me and shook me to the core.

While I was trying to figure out this bold and strange Israeli, he told me that recently he had been writing a book...about the Hebrew Bible. It had a very long and daunting title; 'The Hebrew Bible - the Evolution of Consciousness'. It is a secular view on the Bible. he clarified, to make sure I understood that he wasn't part of any kind of 'Born Again Jew' movement.

What would I do with the Jesus Papers? How will I prove that they are real? He bombarded me again: And if they are real, what does it mean to me today, in the here and now? What can I draw from it so it will enhance my understanding of life and stimulate mental growth? My God, I can't even prove that Abraham, Moses or Jesus were real historical figures! So, what does that leave us with? He gazed at me directly and continued: Idealizing the Jesus Papers or Mary Magdalene is idolatry.

He asked me why I had come back to Jerusalem. I said to write too. I didn't really want to have to explain what that was all about; didn't want to have to get into the whole subject of alchemy and what I was feeling—my impression on the whole Jesus story; and aside from that, I could tell he had very little interest in historical stuff. His take on the matter is that whatever was happening then—between them—between that couple—is happening now. It was apparent that he viewed these things more as archetypes—aspects of the collective consciousness—and in that regard, not subject to the space and time limitations we put on them; that much in my state of bewilderment and shock, I did understand.

We talked about the tomb of David since that's where we'd been that morning. A friend, Dave, had asked me to walk over a specific footprint to see if I had a 'feeling'—an energetic sort of thing—about a site where the underground burial chamber might be. I was curious to see if there was any truth to the speculations made by Dave in a book he’d just authored, that David’s Tomb was actually buried under the City of David; and I wondered what it might reveal if discovered. He smiled and said: Tradition must continue to make itself seem relevant or else it will simply fall away.

He picks up another piece of bread and passionately dives again into the Hummus.

Delicious! He says, undaunted by the weight of conversation.

That’s an extraordinary undertaking, I mean your book, don’t you think? I ask politely shifting the conversation from my book to his. I was still assuming he was just another New Ager floating around in nothing really real other than a theory wrapped up and delivered with vapid words like, 'Divine', 'Oneness', and 'illusion'.

It’s true it’s a huge undertaking, he says, absolutely. But what else is there to do in this world? Why go through all this 'shit' if you’re not going to take on a huge challenge. If I don’t try to climb some Everest, I really don’t know what I’m doing here. We sit together in a long silence.

There’s more salad here if you like. He passes a large bowl of salad that’s been sitting there and offers it to me. I’m not hungry. I take a spoonful to be like him—to share the same food.

What's the alternative? I asked looking for something solid to cling to. The waiter cleared the finished plates off the table, removing my glass. It was about 2:30 in the afternoon, and the restaurant had mostly cleared out, and it was beginning to cloud over. I don't have an answer, he said, as if guessing my thoughts: I'm searching like you...committed to my own growth...inner-growth I mean, and I'm trying to stay open to whatever presents itself, and you presented yourself to me today... He paused for a moment, perhaps realizing that he'd just removed a plug. I'm sure he could see it in my face. Up to that moment, I'd felt an element of control. I knew he was attracted to me, for the same reasons the Professor was. And having survived the Jesus chaser Professor, I was very careful...

As if he caught my thoughts, he went back to trying to impress me: The Chosen People are not the Jews nor the Christians nor the Muslims, nor are they the nicest or cleverest children in God's kindergarten.

What do you mean? I shouted. I was quite ready to leave, when an inner voice tempted me to stay and let a full cycle revolve; it surely had something to convey to me... We couldn't possibly have stumbled on each other for no reason…

Perhaps the greatest Hebrew of our time, he simply stated, is Pablo Picasso who expressed vast mental freedom without referring to the biblical text at all. In fact, he barely knew the Bible.  I thought to myself and what has Picasso got to do with Judaism? I couldn't figure Yair out but remained silent and attentive...

But as if that wasn't enough, he continues his strong and harsh thrust: "The Chosen People are those who choose and trust Life; those that are mentally mature enough to be aware that they are making choices, and that by those choices, they are creating a reality for which they are willing to assume full responsibility. This has nothing to do with any kind of tradition. It's quantum physics!" My whole being was at a standstill.

I must admit, I was desperately searching for answers; I didn't even fully know what the questions were, but I still needed to hear answers and more answers to quiet down the enormous uncertainty I was experiencing. The pondering power of his basic and simple insights left me breathless. I was shocked; it was repulsive and ignited all my resistance, yet at the same time, was extremely masculine. I was completely puzzled, but also completely drawn to the frequency. It drew me to him in an unimaginable force; it wasn't sexual but I must admit sex was also involved. He wipes the last of the Hummus with Pita in a tempting circular movement and impolitely stuffs his mouth and utters with a mouth full: Good Hummus is an art!

I caught the eye of the waiter and asked for the bill. I insisted on paying as that was something I could put my hands on. He nodded casually and simply agreed. It didn't seem right that he should pay since all he'd had was Hummus and I drank two glasses of wine, and aside from that, paying gave me a small feeling of control...

Romance is dead. He said while I was rummaging through my purse. What? Where did that come from? Is he that astute? Is he really reading what I'm thinking? I push back from the table. He leans in. What I mean, he says continuing; Is that you can't avoid the question.

The question?

The biblical question of relationship; 'the love thy neighbor'...the question of relationship between everything...you...me...

While we were eating, it had lightly rained; freshening the air and sprinkling tiny drops of water on the paved sidewalk, clearing the atmosphere from our troubled quest for true love. He laughed and said: 'Love' is a word. 'Truth' is a word. 'True love' is just two words. The waiter came back to take the money. I'd already pulled out a two hundred Shekel bill.

It's the first rain of the season. he said. With the rain, the mood changed in Jerusalem that afternoon as we made our way through the sparkling wet Jewish Quarter of the Old City, down the narrow steps towards the security gate, then passed the Western Wall, or you might say the 'Wailing Wall'.

I ran a little ahead of him down the narrow-cobbled stone streets. I thought to myself that it must be hard for him to always stoop down at people as he was so tall. Approaching the Wailing Wall from above offered a different perspective. The hoards of religious men, dressed in black, their long side curls framing their serious faces were non-definable from up here, but from this vantage point, they looked like the coming together of a mass of indistinguishable ants busily working towards some end—the culmination of the biblical story interpreted through a male lens.

Jerusalem—the city that offers itself still, to this day, I thought, as the stage in the theater of history from which the world of Western Civilization has been played out. He was a few feet behind me that day—at least that's how it seemed. I felt an inner-confidence about where I was headed, and I was undisturbed by the thoughts of others who mocked me for my deluded imagination. It's impossible, I thought, to convey what's driving me at a subconscious, at my sub-conscious level. I don't understand it myself, but it's more real than anything else I've encountered, and I'm willing to accept that to others it might seem romantic, but that like love, hope and even creativity they are, at the end of the day, just words.

We'd parked at the bottom of the hill in David's City, so we had a short walk to get back to the car. He touched my hair from behind as I ran a little ahead him in the gentle pouring rain. I stumbled into an Arab taxi driver as I crossed the street...I laughed with embarrassment...I picked up the pace again, trying to stay just a few steps in front. His touch moved me inside; I could feel his hand on the back of my head. Something about his touch seemed so familiar to me...tender and strong...and in that instant, I felt I could trust him though I couldn’t fully understand what I was feeling but instinctively it felt right... was I light headed? I passed it off as the wine at lunch. Then the touch again...very gently on the top of my head. I felt something unmistakably familiar. No, it must have been the wine. He didn't have any. I suppose I felt I needed it. There was something about the meeting that made me feel a little off balance.

I’ve come to Israel this time with a word from the prophet Amos, amongst other things, written on my heart. He says that, in that day, which could be any day, the Bible is not specific but suggests an appointed time unknown even to the angles, the tabernacle of David will be restored, the plowman will meet the reaper, and the treader of grapes will come to know the one who holds the bag of seed and peace will once again reign in the Land. In other words, there will be a time when all these things; plowman, reaper, treader of grapes and the sower, will all come together as One and we’ll—all humanity—drink the new wine of a new experience of earth.

By 'we' I don’t mean him—the man walking behind me, the one who’s inviting me into something I may not be ready for. No, that would suggest that some individual or small group of individuals might be responsible for such a Messianic event—no, that’s not what I mean at all—I’m just saying 'we' as the collective 'we'—the 'we' of our current culture. Later, when we (just him and me for a change, nothing universal) drove back, he would tell me that it’s useless looking for the actual site of David’s Tomb, instead we should ask ourselves: What is humanity called to do for the tabernacle to reveal itself again? He was referring to consciousness and the possibility of touching a new mental horizon. According to Dave, my friend’s research, the Tomb of David holds several tons of gold, and there are speculations that the Ark of the Covenant and the tablets with the Ten Commandments, might be in there too. I’ve taken it a step further as my fertile mind is apt to do, and gone so far as to imagine that it could be filled with ornate.

He wasn't interested in that either. And frankly, if I am honest with myself, nor was I. It was just something to do; to occupy myself. We eventually got back to the subject of the book—my story—he wasn't satisfied with the few crumbs of information I offered him, so I quoted Hemingway: I believe that basically you write for two people; yourself to try to make it absolutely perfect, or if not then wonderful. Then you write for who you love whether she can read or write or whether she is dead or alive.

While we were negotiating the mental space between us, what was said was irrelevant. There was a strong undercurrent dialogue that was really going on. The content was secondary. What was important was the energy and the Hebrew Frequency. We thought we were in control but my vibrating field of energy was