Note: Roberta considers herself a spontaneous channel for
the Communicators of Arina. Her first series of channelings began in 1979 when
she made internal contact through meditation with those who provided her with
her soul history and the history of the sacred kingdom of Arina.
I was born in 1935 and raised during the Great Depression,
World War II, and the Korean War when our family’s recreational choices limited us to simple forms of pleasure, like picnics and road trips. My father
loved road trips and so did I. His mission centered on his
desire to know his territory. He loved to travel, explore, and investigate the
life and land within his reach. His enthusiasm for upcoming family trips
infused all of us with high energy and anticipation. These outings inspired me
then and set the stage for a quest I would take up later in life. For beneath
the surface, hidden from view, lay the knowledge and light of Arina, ready to
reveal itself once again.
We never suspected then that we lived within the inner
temple zone of the circle of Arina. And neither did we realize that our trips
took us through the highways and byways of that ancient kingdom. We lived near
an area known as Valley Falls State Park on the Tygart Valley River
in Fairmont, WV. It was a wonderful place for picnics. We spread our table near
the river’s edge overlooking random clusters of giant sandstone boulders. There
beneath an endless blue sky and warm spreading sunlight, we nourished our bodies
and renewed our spirits.
What fun it was to move freely like the wind, contacting all
elements of the park -- sliding down the crashing waterfalls, splashing in the
large sinkholes, welcoming the touch of gentle breezes, delighting in the spacious atmosphere, enjoying its fragrances, touching the solid earth, and
immersing myself in the water while relishing the feel of the sun’s heat on my
skin.
Occasionally, I caught glimpses of Indian women along the
banks of the river washing their clothes and laughing together as they worked.
When I talked about what I saw, my parents always said that I had a wonderful
imagination. But when my grandmother Ma was with us, she’d say that I was “just
seeing between the lines.” Wherever we went when we traveled I saw things
other people did not see, beautiful things, mysterious-looking people, and
friendly creatures — all part of a great whole, rooted in an “untouched
stillness.” So for me, the Sunday drives were more than fun, they were
visionary adventures.
But it wasn’t just for me and my father that our family took
the Sunday drives. My mother and sister were into them, especially
during those weeks when my father had time off from work. Our whole family took
these outings to a whole other level. Like a small well-organized army, we
gathered our resources, our chairs, blankets, pillows, swimsuits (in the
summers), towels, food -- lots of food, and camping equipment. Anything and
everything we needed for a day or more got neatly and expertly packed in the
car by my father.
In planning our trips, we always looked to explore a “new”
road or to find a different way to a familiar destination. Once we started out,
my father always searched for cemeteries. He walked among the stone tablets,
the gravestones, and the monuments, drawing inspiration and insight from the
epitaphs engraved on their stone surfaces. His curiosity about the local
people, their names, and their histories inspired him to keep a journal. The
epitaphs honored the ordinary people who had died and often revealed short vignettes
about their histories. Often he discovered the names of those people and
families who originally settled in a particular area or helped build a
particular town.
We didn’t just stop at the cemeteries. His explorations took
us anywhere and everywhere — museums, public buildings, country stores,
churches, rivers, mountains, parks, and small out-of-the-way towns. In our
explorations, we endeavored to feel the pulse of the people, and the
land itself.
I kept my father’s traditional road trips alive after I got
married. As my children grew, our Sunday afternoon drives quietly became a
favorite thing to do after church, especially if farms and cattle were part of
the itinerary, as these things especially interested my husband. We
traveled in all directions. We’d let our feelings determine where we’d go. Most
of our Sunday trips remained within a 20 to 30-mile radius of our home. But
sometimes on Saturdays or weekdays we’d branch out, going north toward
Pittsburgh or northwest to Wheeling. Once there, we’d turn and head south to
Parkersburg, following the route along the southwestern boundary of Arina that
led to Elkins and the area of the south gate.
Our favorite trips became our drives east from Morgantown to
Grantsville and Deep Creek, Md., the area of the east gate of Arina. My first
encounter with this area came on a hot August day in 1961 when my parents took
my family and me on a picnic. Back then I-68 didn’t exist. We simply followed
the back roads out of Bruceton Mills, WV. I marveled at the beautiful farms and
the spectacular mountain vistas. We crossed into the high meadowlands of
western Maryland then descended into the valley basin and the town of
Friendsville, MD., a quiet sleepy town on the Youghiogheny River, ringed by
mountains. The road my father had chosen passed right through Friendsville and
before I had time to form any solid impressions we moved out of the town proper
and entered a narrow tree-covered mountain valley.
As we drifted through the valley, the silence deepened
and I focused all my thoughts on the presence of peace and the lush beauty
of nature that embraced us in a cocoon of well-being. The air was pure, fresh
and vital. It recharged us. The rushing creek alongside the road ran swiftly
over great shiny boulders. We floated through a tunnel of trees while noticing
patches of bright bluebells, white, yellow, and violet wildflowers that grew
on side of the road and among the trees and on hillsides. My father pulled off the road so that we could gather our wits and
together make certain we shared the same sense of wonder about this “new”
discovery.
In leaving Bear Creek Road we came to a crossroads under
construction. The construction crew had the day off, so we found a shaded area
over the rise of a gentle hill down near the creek in which to picnic. My three
young children found a small pool of water between two large rocks in which to
play. After lunch I sat on a large rock and soaked my feet in the cool water,
contemplating the soft white aura of light that surrounded my kids.
Light and peace filled every atom of my being and oozed
from every rock, tree, and blade of grass. As I sat, nestled in the oneness of all life, my children climbed from the water, dried off, and
then curled up on the blanket next to my sleeping parents. I stretched out on
the grass, listening to the earth, the wind in the trees, the songbirds, the
chirp of crickets, the flow of water. I hummed a joyful tune that
filled my heart with peace and contentment. It was my love song to life itself.
Today, I-68 passes by Friendsville and it is not uncommon
for people to see the Friendsville sign and to take the exit and to check out
the town. Friendsville is still the quiet sleepy place it was in 1961, but tidier, clipped and cared for. A spirit of friendliness bubbles beneath the
surface and new methods of healing are finding expression through an
eclectic community of people who are seeking a higher quality of life. Bear
Creek looks just the same except for the few newer homes. The Bear
Creek Road and its passage through the mountains still hold the pristine energy
and beauty I remember from those earlier times.
1961–1979:
From, 1961 through 1979, my life centered on family and
the farm. However, my experience at Bear Creek had opened me up to the unique
healing energy and the peace on that small patch of earth that drew me like a
moth to a flame. Almost any reason, good or bad, validated my desire to travel
east toward Maryland and to find a spot in Grantsville or the Deep Creek Lake
area to “think things through.”
I traveled every back road and stopped in every village in
what I now know as the area of the east gate of Arina. Everywhere I traveled in
that part of Arina, visions came to me. But try as I might I couldn’t hold them
for long. They offered me glimpses of strange buildings, large bodies of water,
and funny-looking creatures that made me laugh. I returned repeatedly to
this area because it always made me feel happy, purposeful, and content. Little
did I know then that the feelings that nurtured me rose from an inner well of
memories forged over a long lifetime 30-thousand-years ago.
By the time I had connected with Omar and Arin through
meditation in the late 70s and heard the stories of Arina, I had already
explored Grantsville, Deep Creek, and Oakland Md., and Aurora, Thomas,
and Davis, WV. All these places had become vacation spots for me and my family.
I discovered the truth of what Omar and Arin told me about
Arina–that each place carried unique energy to soothe and to heal, to
dissipate and dissolve old patterns that no longer served the evolution of
life. I learned firsthand that the sacred energies of Arina cleanse and revitalize
the Life Force that runs through our bodies (the chakras and the systems linked
to the chakras), preparing us for a higher path of freedom and joy.
Grantsville, Md.:
Driving to the top of the newly constructed I-68 exit of
Grantsville and seeing the panoramic view that stretched out before me for the
first time caused my spirit to soar and I rejoiced in the relief I felt as the
weight of all my earthly concerns suddenly dropped away.
Today, Grantsville still speaks to the same longing people
had centuries ago when they came to Arina, seeking a lost mystery, an ancient
peace, buried in the heart, long-forgotten but not gone. Here, atop one of
Maryland’s highest mountains, right off Interstate 68 (I-68) on historic Route
40, the sun still shines on the idyllic town of Grantsville, Md. Visitors from
all over love the delicious food and the homey ambiance of the restaurants.
Down the road from the town proper of Grantsville in a cove along the Casselman
River the famous Penn Alps Restaurant sits on a knoll next to an artisan
village.
To enter the artisan village is to enter a dimension of
nature’s pervasive goodness. The cottages, the artists, and their crafts,
pottery, and art embody the qualities of love and care that balance the heart
and stimulate the soul. The land around Grantsville calls people to carve out
lives of simple pleasures, away from a world that yields no peace, where
passions often overtake goodness. Here at the east gate of Arina, its
atmosphere and purpose live on, impressing the soul with the desire “to think
it through,” to start the inward journey; “to look within to where the wonder
of reality lies.”
The Scenic Overlook:
Soon after I discovered the town of Grantsville, I found a
scenic overlook and rest area along US Route 219 near Cove Road. For years I
knew “The Cove” held a special meaning for me. I would return repeatedly to
that lofty place, to appreciate the beauty of the farms, pastures, and forests
below. Peace flooded my body, and the serenity led me to contemplate the deeper mysteries that lay beyond my grasp. In later years after I meditated I entered
a period of “seeing the world with new eyes,” and then the Cove took on a more
expanded meaning.
Standing at the edge of the overlook, new fields of
perception opened to me, and I would see the subtler forms of life structured
in the consciousness of that place. I stood in the modern world yet aware of
another dimension of time and space where the walled city of Anawalkia once
stood. The Cove sits at the place where the wall ended. As a spiritual
archaeologist, I could see the place as an ancient testing ground, and
those who could by the power of their minds pass through the wall or levitate
over it, could then enter the mysterious inner realm of Androvinka (Arina),
having passed the test of Arin.
Revisiting those ancient times and examining my feelings in
the Now, I know the place as a living vestige of serenity that deeply patterns
the mind and heart with symbols of perfection in earthly life. Before I knew
about Arina, before I fathomed the deeper mysteries of the Cove, I surrendered, allowing my spirit to flow out over the valley and enter a state
of profound rest. To this day, I still go there in my mind when I meditate.
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