Falling Through Time: A Sacred Prostitute Returns to Egypt

By Aloka and Avalyn Doyle

It is 1987 and thirty-three-year-old Lina has just left her husband and two teenage sons and returned to her mothers house, emotionally spent from the pain of harboring the secret of domestic violence for too long. As her journey eventually leads her to the mountains and into the arms of new lovers, Lina has no idea of what lies ahead. She only hopes it is peace.

After enjoying sexual freedom for a while, she remarries a kind and gentle man and lives in the Australian Alps. But Lina begins to feel dissatisfied with monogamy, leaving her with unfulfilled dreams of freedom and travel. After she makes a shocking discovery of past lives as a sacred prostitute and realizes how it has affected her modern, sexual adventures, Lina travels with nothing but a backpack to the Middle East to search for answers. Vulnerable and terrified, she plummets through time, reliving death and entombment. When she meets old lovers, her fear is explained. But can she survive illness and exposure within a strange but beautiful culture?

Falling through Time reveals one womans fascinating search for God, meaning, and redemption after she travels to the Middle East to uncover secrets from her soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Sep 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781504309820

Aloka

Aloka has been a writer and visual artist for over thirty-five years. She is inspired by travel to power sites, nature, and living in isolation for long periods of time. India and France are her favorite places in the world. Aloka currently lives in Rowville, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia. Falling through Time is her first book.

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Copyright © 2017 Avalyn Doyle.

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The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

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ISBN: 978-1-5043-0981-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-0982-0 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 09/25/2017

Contents

Prologue

Ancient Egypt - 50,000 BCE

Rebirth - 20th Century

Lina - 1987

Lina

California - 1989

I Am the Meeting Rooms for AA

Lina

I Am Mountains and Sky

Lina

Journey to the Middle East The Royal Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan Lina - 1994

The Yellow Taxi

Jerash

Petra

Wadi Musa

Meeting With a Past Life Lover

Altar Sacrifices

The Muezzin

I Am Petra’s Mystique

Lina’s Trance

Friday, Prayer Day

Sabre’s Seduction

Into The Desert

Wadi Rumm

Valley of the Moon

A Memory

Stranger in the Desert

Narzi

The Bedouin Family

Return to Aqaba

A Memory from Petra

Death and Deception

Revelation

The Healing Woman

Pythagoras

Sabre Reappears

Return to Petra

Forbidden Desire

Trembling For Love

The Crossing

The Sea of Galilee

I Am the Light of a Sacred Past

Capernaum

Fever in Israel

Nazareth

Akrad

Migdal

Lina

A Sacred Act

I Am an Exiled Woman

Mt Carmel

Evangelism

Death for Eternity

Akka’s Treasure

The Sacred Prostitute - 3,200 BCE

The Wandering Scribe

Akka’s Promise

Into the Fields

Mushra

Initiation into Love

A Family Meal

Home in the Olive Grove

Captured

Aloka

The Ceremony

Travel to Philae

Imprisonment

Sacred Geometry

Aloka’s Training

I Am Loop in Time

Secrets Revealed - 2005

I Am the Yellow-Walled House

Lina

The Whiteness of Truth

Lina - 2011

Aloka – Soul Retrieval

Note

List of Illustrations

Prologue

Ancient Egypt - 50,000 BCE

A rattling cold slid into her bones. Chilling waves rose from deep in the earth and she quivered like the reed-rushes around her. Aloka lay semi-submerged in silt and mud. The Nile’s ancient currents threatened to drown her. Losing consciousness, she watched the stars become blurs of silver between translucent dark and dawn.

It would be Isis she would return to. She knew that. The Great Goddess, who governed the Sky and the wheel that turned to life, then death, for women born from the Sacred Ones, had been her teacher through the transition of many lifetimes. Though, mostly invisible, her powerful, spiritual essence vibrated like a sheath of magic. But where was she now - the one who made physical death appear an impossibility?

We are eternal souls recreating ourselves. Aloka heard the echo of Isis’s words. Was this just another illusion that Aloka had accepted as truth?

There was promise of eternal youth and inviolate protection, if one followed the secret methods revealed in the sacred rites. But what was this - her body rotting before her eyes? The smells oozing from her pores were unbearable. It was surely a mistake - an untimely death. Her mind was blurred by pain and she couldn’t understand the betrayal.

An Ibis skimmed across the top of her head and the wing-beats feathered against her scalp. She was bald. Rubbing her prickly head she smiled briefly, remembering her last shave - something required by Temple rules - relieving the sensitive priestesses of any unwanted, psychic residues picked up while mingling with the common people.

Unexpectedly, Aloka felt surges of power moving up her spine. Her primary task as an acolyte, a priestess in training, had been to interpret the Light-codes: those subtle, vibrational emissions radiating from the celestial orbs. Her gift made the future foreseeable, and manageable. She felt most powerful when she was mediating dangerous sand or lightning storms: the whirlwinds of magnetic force destroyed crops and confused the village workers, and maintaining harmony was her gift. She loved to bask in that energized, field of power. Maintaining harmony in her body-mind also ensured regular rains, and the waters of the Nile were crystalline turquoise - luminous with healing light and vitality.

Aloka was usually seen sitting on the stone-platform jutting out from the main Temple building, overlooking the Nile. Beside her, glimpses of her familial - the cobra, its hood flattened and golden - scared off any curious sightseers. Carvings of Sekmet and Maat decorated the semicircle edge of the stone dais, and were effective distractions aiding Aloka’s need to be barely discernible between curtains of diaphanous fabrics shimmering in the breeze - those breezes that lifted in caressing waves off the surface of the river.

Her body was a receptor. Streams of cosmic Light would stimulate her mind, so that on many days, she was saturated by visions and couldn’t eat. But, she was nourished, and glowed - often trammelled by ecstasy - and felt invincible in her powers. The Great Mother Isis had trained her, but it was the self-mastery she had finely tuned under the tutelage of her Mistress that she found most satisfying.

For death to creep up on her, without preparation or omen, was beyond her understanding.

And where was her great love? Surely he was searching for her?

Nefark had been able to escape the frightened mob ransacking the river-side town, two nights previously. She had seen him run through the shadows. He had been terrified - she could see that by the black flames zinging through his aura. That was strange enough, knowing how astute he was to political shifts, but where had her beloved vizier gone? Also, she doubted any of her temple-attendants were still alive. They didn’t have the adept’s skill for reading future times, and would have been taken by surprise. But, as much as she wanted to avoid thinking about it, her body ached with the knowledge that she hadn’t been aware of the threat, either, until it was too late.

She shivered, wishing to pull her radiant-blue cloak around her. But, like everything else, it was gone. While she could still think, she had to figure out what had happened. It was obvious, now, that she had lost her clairvoyant acumen.

The quick flare-up of violence from the humans, seemed to come towards the Temple-enclave in a storm of gathering power. Briefly, Aloka had seen visual thought-forms pulsing with resentment. But the attack was weakened by confusion, and being fuelled by anger, didn’t have an energy that was sustainable - however potent.

Suddenly, she could see that there had been a failure within the codes: the magical rites that kept the Temple in a shield of Light. The spiritual enclave couldn’t be seen by any who vibrated with fearful thoughts or intentions – making it inaccessible to most people. The Starseed beings who peopled the Temples, melded as a protective, dynamic force that was impenetrable because of a unified commitment to ritual and service, over hundreds of thousands of years. They had experienced lifetimes as governors of power. What was this revolution then?

She sobbed. It was Nefark she wanted more than anything - his touch, his gentle laugh, his wise counsel. She knew a lot, but he seemed to know more. His knowledge of the myriad of Starseed bases throughout the galaxies made him a fascinating and inspiring orator.

He was a Walk-In, he had told her once. Only human, until his powerful enquiry into the Light-grids over the planet gave him a connection to a stream of wisdom that wiped his mind clear of old, tribal conditioning, and created new connectors in his brain. It had become necessary to take him into the enclave. He would have been a constant disturbance, otherwise, as he was especially inspired to talk to anyone who would listen about his enlightening experiences. His failing, that he lacked experience because he hadn’t been a student through decades of discipline and esoteric training, didn’t preclude his understanding of the Temple Mysteries.

She would meet him again. She knew that - even as she felt an astringency pull at her cheeks, her tongue seeking moisture. In which lifetime he would be her lover again, she couldn’t say.

Through half-closed eyes, she scanned the etheric-pages revealing several of her future-lives, searching for a glimpse of his profile. It was the smell of him she fervently hungered for. But, she was asking for too much. Her body-liquids began to solidify, and her rarified senses smoked away to merge with her Ka. The esoteric book-of-her-soul disintegrated. Her ability to read her future faded completely.

But then, she was suddenly spinning, her body caught up in a vortex of fury. She cried out, thinking this was punishment from the Gods. She was being propelled through the star masses into a time and place she didn’t recognise.

She felt her feet on sand. An orange mass of land stretched before her; it was a land that seemed endless. Large, stony landforms were outstanding features that glittered under a hot sun, and the atmosphere felt thin. The golden, subdued air of her beloved homeland was a strong contrast to the brittle, blue and white light that stung her eyes. But, the land was pregnant with histories.

She solidified, and her body felt refreshed. Her feet tingled with heat. Each tenuous footfall sent waves of pictures into her mind. She closed her eyes to stop from falling forward.

When she opened them again, her mind was empty and clear. A mob of very black people stood around her. They were nodding, and seemed comfortable with her sudden appearance. They started to move in circles around each other, weaving their bodies, creating trails of light, while stamping the ground. They were communicating their history to her.

Hearing and seeing their stories, she watched their skin darken from the same golden tone as hers, to blue-black, as each millennium moved the race from place to place.

Beginning in Egypt, the diasporas sent them south. The wanderers initially built small pyramids, wishing to recreate the power vortexes they had experienced in their beloved homelands. They soon came to realise their abilities and reasoning for doing so, had been wiped from their memories. Fortunately, the shamans, who became honoured and respected tribal teachers, carried the germ of knowledge deep in their cells about the creative power of Starseed civilizations. They continued to move into an unknown future, protecting the esoteric knowledge until power could be co-joined with harmony again.

As nomads they were uncontainable. Their constant movement separated them from local laws that were established to reduce autonomy and the natural development of wisdom from experience.

They instinctively knew that physical freedom gave them a connection to the land-grids. Ultimately, the planet is a being of vast intelligence and connected to the mathematical grids of the universe. By following the grid-lines - by way of an intuitive response to the land - they nurtured the interconnected, energy lines between human and earth, and intergalactic intelligence.

They subsumed their individuality for universal conservation. It was a commitment based on harmony, supported by a plan encompassing hundreds of thousands of years of change.

They ventured further south drawn by an invisible line of destiny. Aloka heard the names of lands that were completely foreign to her understanding of the world: Ethiopia, Mongolia, Tibet, and India. She saw a land-bridge; she saw islands disappear and rise again; then pages of strange script describing sacred rituals.

She was thrilled to be able to see so clearly, and exclaimed, I haven’t died after all. I have only been sent forward to another time-space so that I can guide the ignorant. The group dancing before her didn’t respond. She realised, to them, she appeared as a myth, an omen. She would be their deity. The original Starseeds had been seen as such when they first arrived in Egypt.

A silver luminosity began to move through her skin, making her bones melt and slip between her joints. Sadly, it became obvious that whatever information she had come here to decipher, was still managed by those who governed her life-force. She was mistaken about her spiritual advancement. She sighed, the Gods were testing her. Wanting to achieve mastery beyond her training had caused her many set-backs, and humility was something that she found hard to accept. She quickly perceived the black jackal, Anubis, skirting the edge of the silver field.

So then, what am I here for?

"To see the land of your future, at a time, when all of the wisdom you will lose will be returned to you. This return of wisdom you must earn. You have avoided self-enquiry and misjudged your power. As a disciple of Isis, absolute obedience is required. It is your destiny to see yourself only a speck of the whole. The fabric of Creation is vast, and your part in that is just one tiny thread."

The deep, resonating voice seemed to rise from the rocks around her. Then, when it stilled, a dull hum started to shake the earth. Emptiness engulfed her, and she knew, more potently than any other time of her existence, that she was completely alone.

Losing power was the most terrible thing she could imagine. Would she become so very ordinary in her next incarnation that she lost all of her mystical skills? Would she lose the ability to read time, like the marks on a sheath of papyrus; seeing pictures of her loves lined up like an actor’s cast?

Argh, my beloved!

Again she felt her hands smooth over Nefark’s shaved head, running her palms down his neck and back to make him shiver in ecstasy. But then, suddenly in horror, she watched him crumble like dust under her touch, and knew he had not survived.

In the years they had known each other, they instinctively sensed that if they were discovered as lovers, he would be stripped of all of his possessions and sent naked into the desert. She sighed, remembering the risks they had taken. But they had been confident. They knew how to make themselves invisible to the minds of the common folk who were very enchanted by their base needs for companionship and food. The buzzing survival-mind was a disturbing, etheric noise to the spiritually adept. Her beloved was the Pharoah’s vizier. Nefark and Aloka were superbly trained to confuse anyone who might forget their own business and pry into the affairs of the Starseeds. It was easy to create confusion by directing clouds of gnats or mosquitoes into any home – biting, burrowing invaders. The two lovers would laugh, delighted that they could co-join in powerful games that very few had the skills to understand, or create.

Every time, when they slipped away to make love, usually behind the oil-stores - the massive urns, cold, but protective - Aloka worried that she might lose him. It was a constant itch in her flesh. This irritation, that their superiors were very well aware of as a fault corrupting an adept’s integrity, was one of the reasons she was forbidden to have sex with those who were not of her lineage. Purity of the bloodline made the Rulers exceptionally sensitive to the Gods and their transmissions, and supported magical abilities.

Aloka, as one of Royal birth, was chosen to lie with her cousin. The children, of that union, would carry the sensitive awareness of other realms and the ability to interpret visions received from otherworldly entities. The purity of the Royal genetic line, ensured Godly powers. There hadn’t been a child - though Aloka believed she would have conceived soon. She wouldn’t countenance the idea that a priestess who slept with a man of low birth, wouldn’t be able to hold the sacred seed of a Royal. Now, there was no time left. She was done with this age and power.

Ahh, my beloved! We hummed like the thrumming of hummingbird wings - so sweet, so musical!

They had had similar knowledge about how to move between dimensions and instinctual, alchemical skills. She hadn’t met anyone, even among the Royals, who had such refined senses. She often wondered about his true birth, but in these ending times of an ancient and powerful civilization, many lifetimes before her life in Australia, most of the rules of inter-relationships had been corrupted.

She lifted her head above the thick reeds to try and gain a bearing. But, it was no use. It was impossible to move her body, now, and she allowed raking sobs and terror to destroy her spiritual balance. It would be an ignoble death.

Aloka’s ancestors had arrived from the destroyed Atlantean civilization to act as spiritual rulers and helpmates to the tribes. The mathematical planes of the crystalline structures that had supplied Atlantis with power and access to infinite intelligence, were the same mathematical formulas that gave structure to space, and the harmonious movements between planets and time-holes. Aloka’s intimate knowledge of these workings of nature was established in her light cells. The essential, Light information would be retained by her soul’s own grid of intelligence, through many lifetimes.

Her name, Aloka, was the same as the acolyte who hadn’t finished her Initiation before Atlantis was destroyed. Her task, from that time, was to complete her initiation. In this life, also, it seemed she had failed.

She knew in her blood that the present destruction of her small city and the people’s uprising was inevitable. It was the dispossession of the Sacred Ones. The result would be the cultivation of new civilizations, emerging free from severe distinctions between humans and those of God-birth.

Seeing Hathor’s scythe, the crescent moon, through the thready, morning haze from smoke and rising, river steam, she knew, finally in peace, that all she had learned was perfected knowledge given by the Great Mother, and sacrosanct in her soul. She would return over and over to earth, living the her-story of woman. She would lose her individuality, in this tempering of her will, and become a receptor to the collective stories of the earth’s soul.

Many women of power would be reborn in the future time. Their innate understanding about their feminine natures as refined vulnerability, would be naturally in harmony with the Light transmissions. They would refer to the I Am Presence as the enlightened gateway: the Divine force through which true passion, and hearts’ desires - or pure will - would access the remarkable beauties of the God realms.

Remarkable, scientific discoveries, aligned with spiritual knowledge, will finally agree about the vibrational underpinning of all existence. The I Am Presence, or God/Source spark, is the refined vibration within all matter – whether, seemingly, inert or sentient. All is sacred.

Essential%20Presence.jpg

Rebirth - 20th Century

Lina - 1987

You know, we were going to have you sent to a home for the mentally insane. Her jaw is set tightly, and she makes sure her glasses are firmly anchored on her nose. She shifts her shoulders uncomfortably; I suspect she is thinking the neighbours might hear.

The traffic hums on a highway that seems to come closer to the house every year. My childhood home is losing its rural gravity and becoming part of the city grid. Most of the gardens are being carved up to make room for more units, or granny-flats.

I don’t know what to say to my mother. Shocking silence pounds through my veins, and my blood drains away to a place out of reach of my heart. This is what my mother believes about me? That it’s a mistake to make choices for my safety? My body starts to hum in sync with the traffic. How can my need to leave a man who terrorized me be considered madness? I turn aside for a moment, feeling frost and ice-burnt leaves on my back. I sense an Antarctic iceberg drop from its floe. The chill ripples over sea-worthy kilometres, entering my body. But, I am used to insurmountable, climatic factors.

Warmth begins to return to my fingers and toes as I see the calendar over my right shoulder, on the yellow-wall of the kitchen. It’s under the clock - the same clock that has waited for meals to end, and tempers to cool, over decades. I remember that it’s summer - February 5th, 6th, maybe, even the 7th? The day isn’t clear right now as my head is filled with the sound of noisy bees. The house seems to shudder as I remind myself of the year. I am thirty-three. Surely I have something to say to this woman who is my mother?

But he used to hit me.

More than once?

I had fled back to the yellow-walled-house, some years previously, with bruises down my neck and limp with pain from the tremor of holding the secret of domestic violence for too long. I suspected that I was like most good, 1950s’ girls, contracted under an oath of enchantment that demanded a willing smile for every occasion. I didn’t realise, however, that I was also in accord with my mother’s lack of response to anything that was too challenging.

Yes. He hit me all the time. Threw food at me, if he didn’t like what I cooked; pushed me out of bed in the middle of the night …

Well, you can be a bit out there with some of your ideas. What about the boys? You need to think of them first.

Her arms are folded over her large breasts. She is wearing one of her hand-knitted jumpers: powder-blue, the collar just skimming bobbed, blonde hair. I wonder for a moment if she is grey under the perm? She’s looked the same for as long as I can remember. But then, mother’s eyes glaze, as she looks up to stare at the ceiling where she has wiped the kitchen-soot into a storm-cloud. I think she may be noticing a spot that she has missed - the undercurrents of tornado-esque pollution whipped-up by a winding arm; her jaw clenched with determination.

Often, I had come home from school, seeing her teetering on a chair on the kitchen table, reaching upwards, or delicately balanced on the kitchen sink, washing windows, cupboards, or pelmets. Arguments at dinner-time, echoed her disappointment and suspicion that he was at play somewhere, enjoying his workmates and post-eight-hour-workday beer, while she laboured in solitude. This was the task of woman, though, she had taught her daughter to ask for more. But, obviously, escape from a bad marriage wasn’t acceptable.

You know. . . I always wanted a daughter.

I have heard these words so often before. Yes, I could say: you have one. Aren’t I your daughter? There is a weight of something else when mother asserts her mothering instinct, and I wait for more of her story. She turns.

Your father and I….. Walking to the kettle, snug in the corner near the stove, morning sun catches the edges of porcelain and chrome. "Would you like a cup of tea? And there it is: more of nothing.

Yes, please. Politeness is familiar.

The phone rings. My aunt has called, and mum picks up her tea, dragging a chair over to the phone to settle in. Thankfully, taking my cup, I leave her and walk down the hall.

What is it that stops me from speaking honestly? Becoming pregnant at seventeen was difficult, but, am I still in shame for loving sex? Now, that the marriage hasn’t worked, I wonder if mum will say: I told you so. I feel my body automatically fill with cement every time I need to say something.

I am an observer, and take lots of internal notes while watching other people respond easily, speaking to loved-ones. I so wish to be able to say how I feel, and hopefully, draw my mother closer.

Can she not see how it had been for me for years, living with intense fear, scared of making the slightest mistake? Surely my husband is an emotionally, and perhaps mentally, unstable man? There was nothing I could do to please him, no matter how I adjusted my attitudes, dress, or friendships. I have urgently created a scaffold of safety around my children, and continual surveillance has exhausted me. I can’t do it anymore.

The weight settles more acutely in my body as I hide away in my childhood bedroom - the sanctuary where I hid, drawing and writing stories, as a child. The room, where I hid my menstruation pads in a bag under the bed because I couldn’t stand the penetrating stare of my mother, and the shame of being born a girl.

I remember the artwork I did on the walls: the black aura of a Jimi Hendrix painting on one wall, now finally covered by substantial wallpaper, where layers of paint had failed. I trace my eyes over the white-flowers on navy-ground - beautiful in a hot room. I touch the walls, revisiting the solid presence - a friend who would listen, and be comforting. The room has a large window to the north, now covered by smooth vertical blinds, free of the girl’s room prettiness, with its frilled, white, cross-over curtains.

I thought my parents were spiritual!? I try to grasp how I can deal with this situation. My dad talked of meeting his Maker when he died and being accountable. I guess, in his mind, anyone other than an ordained-minister has no right to talk to God. I really don’t know what my mother believes? She never has any religious opinions. I figure out, that explaining to them that God had told me to leave my marriage, has scared them.

I have left my two sons, a home that isn’t mortgaged, long-term friendships, and financial security. When I told my parents about receiving a divine message, it was only an abridged story - all I could think to say after a year of meditating and chanting mantras. The teachings of St Germain were introduced to me during yoga classes, during that year. My yoga teacher told me that I needed to make a decision, after observing me during several, pranayama sessions. Nervously, I wondered how he could read me so clearly.

I realise that even the image of me doing yoga, coupled with classes in Oriental Philosophy, has resonances of a cult - considering my parents resistances to the love-child revolution in the 60s. I had had an impulse to join the B’hai Faith, when I was fourteen, and received a long lecture about group-hysteria and the influences of evangelistic, religious leaders. It seems, now, I have confronted them again with a reality they don’t understand.

It must be fear of the madness gene that runs through the family. Mum has said, that her biggest fear is to lose her mind. News, that I hear voices, particularly God’s voice, in my head, is probably too much for her. Mum’s sister and a sister-in-law were sent to sanatoriums at different times. Both of them received electric shock treatment. One aunt never came home.

Sensible, then, to keep my head down and move on with what I want to do - receding back into secrecy, continuing to hide my spiritual views. I can do that. I’ve been doing it for thirty-three years.