Sandplay therapist and teacher Betty Catharine Jackson, off on a tangent?

Sloan Bashinsky, with “Ignition”, the day after she drew herself onto his drawing pad, September 9, 2015

Betty Catharine Jackson

Depress ctrl and + keys together to increase text size; depress ctrl and – keys together to reduce

Today is September 21, 2015, the Fall Equinox.

The title of this new post at goodmorningkeywest.com is borrowed from the article Sandplay therapist Betty Catharine Jackson wrote for the Journal of Sandplay Therapy, (Volume 04, Number 2, 1994), when she and I were married, which she signed off on as Betty Jackson-Bashinsky. Sometimes after we split up in 1995, at her request, Betty converted to Buddhism, according to something I read in her bio on her website maybe a year ago. I sent her a brief note, saying nice website, hope she was doing okay. Yesterday, I was unable to find Betty’s website. Sandplay Therapists of America’s website (sandplay.org) shows Betty as vice-president and a teaching and a board member. What do I know? Maybe that’s Betty in the “Ignition” drawing, dated September 9, 2015. I moved out of her and my home on September 10, 1995, headed for Nepal.

Going back in time, to when I was in Zollikon, just up the lake from Zurich, Switzerland, for a month, staying in a flat Dora Kalff, who had founded and developed Sandplay, had arranged for me and Betty, for a Sandplay training she attended in the summer of 1988, I did a few sandtray sessions with Dora’s son Martin Kalff as the therapist. That, too, had been arranged by Dora, and then by Martin and me corresponding. Sometime during that one month, we went to a Tibetan Buddhist temple and watched a video about that strain of Buddhism. After the film was over, I asked Martin if God had any place in Tibetan Buddhism, because there was nothing about God in the video? Martin said there is no concept of God in Buddhism, which is about increasing consciousness.

I figured God existed, since the two angels who paid me a visit in early January 1987, and woke me up in the wee hours, told me, “This will push you to your limits, but you asked for it and we are going to give it to you.” I knew they meant the desperate prayer I had made maybe ten days prior: at the end of my rope, out of bright ideas, feeling I had failed in every way a man could failed, I bowed my head and said: “Dear God, I do not wish to die like this, failed. Please help me.” Perhaps as an afterthought, or as an ego thought, I then added, “I offer my life to human service.” Pondering that remembering prompted by the angels’ words, I then was stuck three times by what I understood was spiritual lighting. It was electrical. I saw bright light flashes. It jolted my body. I lurched with each strike. I was left shaking, sweating, as the two angels, whom I later came to know as Jesus and Archangel Michael, faded into nothing. I saw no wings. Just two whitish ethereal beings, in plain view, above me in the darkness, as I lay under them, on my back, in my then girlfriend’s bed, who by then was awake, but she said she saw and heard nothing but my body lurching.

Perhaps Buddhism, for people like Betty and me, raised in Judeo-Christianity, is off on a tangent, an escape attempt from our karma, our fate, destiny, path, whatever. Or perhaps converting to Buddhism is genuine, from the soul. Perhaps Betty’s soul really is Buddhist, or perhaps she was running away from God, or from a covenant she made with God, about which she told me maybe two years after we separated, which covenant she later denied ever having made. That covenant is why this is being written and published, as per my dreams. I think even Buddhists understand such a covenant cannot be ignored, walked away from, without consequences - perhaps Buddhists would call it karma.

I personally heard Dora Kalff say she viewed herself as an esoteric Christian.

Dora Kalff

Dora was my dear friend. She passed over a few years before Betty made the covenant. I imagine were she here today, Dora would say the consequences of that covenant being denied by Betty, not only affect her, but, due to her high position in the Sandplay community, bleed into and affect that community.

Maybe Carl Jung, were he here today, would agree, or at least say:

Just this morning, around dawn, I saw for the second time the same domestic rabbit beside the golf course on the island just above Key West, that I saw about the same time of day about a week ago. I sometimes heard Dora tell of a young girl she had as a client, who was cured by picking up a rabbit and petting it, which belonged to the farmer next door to Dora’s home. Dora said the rabbit had the same symbolic meaning in the east and in the west. The child was being torn apart by her parents’ spiritual traditions, one was eastern, the other western; the rabbit cured the child.

Betty Jackson loved rabbit jewelry, I gave her a good bit of it. Sometimes I called her “Rabbit Woman”. The rabbit by the golf course this morning was the go signal for me to publish this new page at goodmorningkeywest.com.

Farther along are a few emails from me to Betty, in September 2015, as I was directed in dreams to do. All of my dreams, all of them, are instructive, directive and/or corrective. I figure my dreams are made by the angels, who came to include Mary Magdalene Melchizedek, a reincarnation of Betty once knew she was; and by Kali, whom, I was told in a dream in 2003, was my wife. I awoke, terrified, even as I recalled Dora often saying, in the deepest part of a sandplay process, clients reach to the other side of the world for their symbols. In one of my sand trays with Martin Kalff, the Garuda was centerpiece. I think, based on all the heads she collected in the traditional art of her, Kali isn’t big on thinking. She seems to be very big on doing and how it’s done. I view her as sort of a female Jesus.

Kali drew herself a number of times onto my drawing pad, the older drawings went by the wayside via life’s ups and downs, I hope she doesn’t hold that against me; here’s the last drawing she pushed through me. I keep getting in my thoughts, for a very long time, “Not even Shiva messes with Kali.”

Here are the emails to Betty, from me:

sloan bashinsky

9/07/15

To: bettycjackson@______.com

Hello, Betty -

Hope it’s okay for you, given time, gravity and life’s servings.

As explained in today’s post at goodmorningkeywest.com, a website knockoff of the movie “Good Morning Vietnam”, I was put in dreams and other recent events, synchronistic or whatever, to go back into this which I had hoped was finished, but karma never is finished because I want it to be finished.

The full post is included below this letter.

In late August, 2005, my father died, and on Valentine’s Day 2006, I received the $1,000,000 inheritance under his will. From 2000 until then, mostly I was homeless. Some of it I lived on the street. Some of it in other people’s vehicles, or in their homes. Some of it in homeless shelters. Some of it, when my father gave me Christmas stock, in an apartment, until the money ran out.

I spent the $1,000,000, as follows:

$375,000 for one wooded acre and a single-wide trailer on Little Torch Key, the island just below Big Pine Key. I was forced to sell the Little Torch property in August 2013, to have money to live on. I had bought the place at the top of the market, and I sold it at the bottom, for net $90,000, after real estate commission and other closing costs. Felt like an idiot. Even so, I loved that place, right next to a state wildlife refuge. I called it Walden. It tore me up to give it up, and my rat cat, Miss Kitty, who had kept the hordes of wild wood rats out of the trailer, and off my bed at night. She thought she was a jaguar. I had found her in the Key West animal shelter, looking for a rat cat.

$350,000 I gave to people and causes which needed financial help.

All but about $50,000 of that went to one person, a backwoods, uneducated, younger woman from Clayton, Georgia, by then living in Gainesville, Georgia, whom I met in a really bizarre way in March 2005. She has huge spirit facilities, but is messed up in her mind and emotions, and was disabled by various physical ails humans have, and by being overwhelmed by her psychology and by spirit forces, and due to being a spirit empath - she ongoing picks up stuff in other people, which lays her low. Many times have I used her as a “diving rod” to “dowse” situations in which I was working, to get a read on the spirit, through her. If I had not taken care of her, she probably would have died. I was told to take care of her. I did that until I ran out of money about 6 months ago. I continued giving her what little I could out of my Social Security retirement, $740 a month, until 2 months ago, when I no longer could do even that.

The rest of the $1,000,000, I spent on living expenses and some seemingly stupid spirit work assignments, which were given to me to do, including taking a cheap apartment in the 5 Points area of Birmingham for 6 months, 2007, running for public office 8 times here in the Florida Keys: 4 times, mayor of Key West; 3 times, county commission; one time, school board - reminded me of the Boulder Waldorf fun.

I have a girlfriend, or more than that, who currently is in the county jail. She had enormous spirit potential, is not entirely the mess she appears to me, has been in the past. I met her after I had run out of money, so she was not part of that. I spend a little each month on an inmate phone service, so she can call me and her mother, and sometimes I put a little into her jail commissary account. She probably will be released early next year. She’s in for violating her probation, by drinking vodka. The original offence, assault with a deadly weapon, an unloaded Glock, I reported several times at goodmorningkeywest.com. She did, earlier, shoot at a frog making a lot of noise in the swimming pool at her then boyfriend’s home. She’s from Missouri - was state cowgirl rodeo champion in high school. Bizarre early childhood, finally caught up with her. She’s 56.

I am sleeping nights in the city’s homeless shelter, one island above Key West, which get to by bicycle; that’s how I get around Key West.

Last November, prompted by dreams my friend in north Georgia had, then by my own dreams, I wrote to my father’s lawyer in Birmingham, John McKleroy, with whom I attended law school and tax law school, requesting he pass the email along to my father’s widow, asking for a $500,000 advance against my 2nd $1,000,000 inheritance from my father, which each of his children are to receive on her death. I targeted Joann, mainly, not my father’s estate, because she had received a $14,000,000 million in cash darn near death bed codicil bequest from my father, which codicil he executed when he was basically under hospice care, some months before he died.

After my father passed over, he came to me in a dream and asked me to do something about he had left nothing to his grandchildren, and I asked Joann, who was well provided for without the $14,000,000, to give it to my father’s grandchildren, including Joann’s grandson through her daughter Suzanne my father had legally adopted and treated her as his own child. Joann blocked me out of her email account. I also asked her to treat my father’s first son, Travis, as a grandchild, as he had been cut out of my father’s life altogether since before I was born. In dreams, Richard Strauss and Aubrey Loftis had learned a lot about Travis, after I firsts dreamt about him. Dr. Leo Bashinsky then confirmed to me that I had an older half brother.

Regarding the request for a $500,000 advance against my second $1,000,000 inheritance under my father’s will, I suppose I sent 50 emails to John McKleroy, containing stuff I had written and published at the Key West website and at a similar goodmorningbirmingham.com. Silence came back, which was what I expected. I resisted going into that at all; it really pissed me off to be put to do it. I feel about the same about writing to you.

Oh, In 2000, my brother Major killed himself and tried to make it look like it was murder. I was told that the day I learned he was gone missing, before anyone knew he was dead. I published that on my websites, and that caused a great com motion in Birmingham. The local coroner and the city detective assigned to the case, and the FBI, all later concluded it was suicide, make to look like murder. Even now, most people who knew Major believe he was murdered. But his first wife, Gail, and their daughter Sloan, named aft er me, believed he killed himself and tried to make it look like murder.

Later that year, or maybe it was the next year, my stepsister Suzanne died of cancer. My sister Elisebeth and I, and I suppose Travis, are my father’s surviving children.

Maybe 10 days ago, in a night dream, Jesus, looking like he might have looked in the Gospels, came in a dream and told me I should go for all the gold I can get. I think he meant Golden Flake money, but also there is alchemy.

The rest of what I have to say to you is included in the post from goodmorningkeywest.com today, which covers several topics, leading into you and me.

Sloan

Labor Day: redneck tantra and other little known spiritual disciplines – Key West ashram [There were various topics in this post, leading to the part about Betty Jackson and Sloan Bashinsky. You can scroll down, if you do not wish to read the preliminary material, although reading it might provide a fuller picture of Sloan Bashinsky.]

Posted on September 7, 2015 by Sloan

This is Labor Day, which I explained to three Hispanic men yesterday, who work at Harpoon Harry’s, is supposed to be a vacation from work. They laughed. Maybe for the angels. Maybe the angels view labor like giving birth.

Depress ctrl and + keys together to increase text size; depress ctrl and – keys together to reduce

Saturday, at Jack Flats sports bar and restaurant on Duval Street, I sat at the bar next to Michael Miller, a local architect, who sits on the city’s Historical Architectural Review Board (HARC), which is where he and I first met, when I spoke out, in the fall of 2013, against HARC approving the Peary Court development.

Michael Miller

Later, I started bumping into Michael at Jack Flats, where he watched his alma mater Texas A & M play other college football teams. That’s when I started to get to know and really like Michael. Quite a few times, at Jack Flats, we talked about Peary Court, and the fellow advising its developers, Jim Hendrick.

Peary Court

Yesterday, Michael said he heard Hendrick pulled out of the Peary Court development. I said I had not heard that.

I asked Michael what he thought about the city paying the developer $55,000,000 for Peary Court, for which the developer paid $35,000,000 about two years ago? Michael said he thought that would be nuts for the city to do. On top of that, the developer wants to hold back the center of the property, on which to build 48 market rate units, while the city will have to build the allocated 48 affordable housing units somewhere else.

I asked Michael if he did not live in Peary Court? Yes, he said, and the buildings are full of mildew and mold. Back when the Navy still owned and managed Peary Court, it was kept up pretty well, the mildew and mold were dealt with okay, but after the Navy got out of it, Peary Court went downhill, he said.

I’m typing this up in Sippin’ Internet Cafe, on Eaton Street, near Tropic Cinema.

Just a little while ago, a fellow I know pretty well came in here and I told him what Michael had told me last Saturday about Peary Court. The fellow said his father, who was in the building business, came to Key West for a visit, when Peary Court was being built by the Navy. He father said they were using aspenwood in the construction, which is made up of compressed wood shavings made in sawmills. His father said the only thing termites like better than aspenwood is the glue that holds it together, and you don’t used aspenwood construction where there are termites or high humidity. His father said Peary Court was temporary housing, eventually it would have to be torn down.

Michael asked me Saturday, what’s wrong with the city commission? I replied, this city commission? Or the city commissions now and past – generally? Both, he said. I said, well, it’s hard to say, but something is wrong, that’s for sure. Each member has only one vote, nobody has any power. The Sunshine law won’t let them get together away from commission meetings and plot and scheme. They don’t seem to have any vision. Michael said all they do is react. I agreed.

I asked Michael if this was his last stint on HARC? Yes. I said I bet he will be glad to be done with HARC. Yes.

Michael is quite astute about college football. He seems quite astute as an architect, too. After graduating from Texas A & M, he attended Harvard University’s Graduate School of Design.

Michael told me last year of an architect friend of his in Maine, who told him that Pritam Singh, a local mega developer and Jim Hendrick’s good friend, got run out of Portland, Maine, some years ago, and his life would be at risk if he came back there, arising out of having once married the daughter of a prominent Portland family, and then talking her into letting him invest her substantial inheritance in his real estate deals, which went belly up and she lost everything.

When I retold that to my friend who came into Sippin’ a little while ago, I said I bet Pritam will never put that up on his website, as part of his bio and great achievements. My friend agreed, said Pritam at one time lived on Wisteria Island, in a homeless encampment, when a man was publicly hanged there. I said Jim Hendrick had told me Pritam used to be homeless in Key West, as a way of making Pritam more sensational, rags to riches, but Jim never told me about Pritam being run out of Portsmouth.

When I told Michael Miller in Jack Flats, that Donna Bosold, who is runing for a seat on the city electric company board, is Jim Hendrick’s wife, Michael said he did not know that. I said Jim started the company Donna works for, Critical Concerns, Inc., which later represented the Peary Court and other developers, so Donna would have a job, but you don’t see Donna and Jim are married explained in the Citizen articles about Donna as a candidate for the local electric company board seat.

Michael and I went back to watching Texas A & M beat up on Arizona State, and Alabama beat up on Wisconsin. Michael said Alabama looked pretty good, like it might beat up on a lot of teams this year. He said A & M plays Arkansas in two weeks and he will be in Jack Flats for that. I said Arkansas looked in its game earlier that day like a darn good football team, I will be in Jack Flats to see the A & M – Arkansas game.

It’s a heck of a lot more fun watching college football games in Jack Flats, than it is messing around in Key West politics.

I didn’t think to tell Michael that Jim Hendrick and Pritam Singh say they are Buddhists.

I am messing around with something personal, described briefly in yesterday’s angry birds have landed, Key West spiritual warfare institute post at goodmorningkeywest.com:

…a new fun personal assignment floated into my fun life during my dreams last night – Or rather, it already had floated in, but I didn’t see it until the dreams last night. I’m mulling how to frame telling my 3rd wife, who became a Tibetan Buddhist student after she and I parted ways, with her taking nearly all of my personal wealth, which I had given her permission to do, if that was what she wanted to do, that the promise she later made to God, she told me, to make a more equitable distribution, a promise she later denied making, is up for her to reconsider, along with the karma she earned for breaking that promise, and how she now can mitigate some of that karma. When I convey that message to her, it is likely Kari and Brenda will be demonically attacked. It is more than likely I will be attacked.

Real Tibetan Buddhists would read that paragraph, and this post, and not even bat an eye. As would real followers of Jesus. As would real Sufis. As would real yogis.

Maybe I should set that assignment aside, let it incubate some more. Or maybe not.

The first clue it was headed my way …

The other day, I checked out a detective book from the county library, The Godfather of Kathmandu, by John Burdett, a new author for me. I was drawn to the book because I spent time in Kathmandu and the Nepal highlands in September and October 1995, after my third marriage had crashed and burned, and I was reeling.

I’m about 1/3 of the way into novel, which is about a Thai police detective, with serious leanings toward spiritual development, hastened greatly along by his meeting a perhaps rogue Tibetan Buddhist lama, who has taken up trafficking in heroine to finance what is shaping up to be the Tibetan counterattack against China, for it having invaded and stolen Tibet from the Tibetans. The Tibetan invasion will be, not with guns and bullets, but with tantra. How that will playout, I suppose is revealed as the novel progresses. I also suppose the godfather of Kathmandu is this odd lama, who lives in Kathmandu, and apparently is not rogue, but represents his religion, and is backed by it, if only covertly.

The author Burdett seems pretty steeped in knowledge of Tibetan Buddhism, the flap jacket of the book says he lives between Thailand and France. Whether or not he is steeped in the actual practice of and mysteries of Tibetan Buddhism, I cannot say. What I can say is, the Tibetan lamas know many things they do not tend to share with the rest of the world, and Burdett keeps saying that.

Boulder’s Pearl Street Mall

When I lived in Boulder, Colorado with by third wife, whose name is Betty, there was a Tibetan Buddhist lama, Trungpa, a rinpoche, actually, who founded Naropa Institute. Trungpa really liked chemicals, especially booze, and he really liked having sex with any male or female devote who would have sex with him. Trungpa eventually died of liver failure. His handpicked American successor continued the high ways of his teacher, and eventually it came out that many of the successor’s devotees had contracted AIDS from him, without him having told them he was HIV positive.

A great hoopla then erupted in various spiritual circles around America, mostly outrage over such atrocious behavior, but there was also outrage among a segment of the Boulder Tibetan community, that it was publicized. They argued what had happened was a high spiritual practice, and it was karma, and it was nobody’s business but theirs. A new lama, a real Tibetan, younger, with a clean record, was sent in, finally, by the Tibetan Buddhist heirarchy, which had tried to stay of it. The part of the community, which remained loyal to Trumpa and his American successor, left town, I think I heard they moved to Nova Scotia.

Well, my theory about the Tibetan Buddhists back then, and today, was it was their karma to be invaded by China, and the real lamas knew that and, if not openly, then privately, they accepted it and moved forward. What was the karma? I don’t know for sure, but I do know, after World War II, the United Nations was formed, and Tibet declined to join it. Tibet was an isolated nation, surrounded on three sides by mountains. They had no worldly political or other aspirations. They were a neutral country. Yet, after the Chinese invaded Tibet, the Dalai Lama tried to get the UN to save Tibet, but, too bad, the UN replied, you are not a UN member nation; you declined to join; there is nothing we can do. Thereafter, the Dalai Lama continued his efforts to get Tibet back, instead of accepting the karma.

Even as the Dalai Lama, and other lamas, did move on and away from Tibet, and started sharing Tibetan Buddhism and some of its ways and secrets with the rest of a world starving for a new view of human and spirit ways and interactions. Not that the Tibetans had all the answers, for they did not. But they knew many things they were not sharing with the rest of the world.

All of that had formed in my mind and soul before I reached Kathmandu in September 1995, from which I would take a bus over to Pokahra, to trek up to Annapurna Base Camp, 15,000 feet elevation.

There, below the rim of huge peaks, which dwarfed the Colorado Rockies, I would watch a spectacular sunrise come up over majestic Fishtail Mountain behind me,

splashing sunlight on the opposite rim of Fishtail’s equally huge relatives, wondering if the Buddha would appear to me, but, no, a great blacksmith appeared, the same great blacksmith who had first come to me in Boulder, in late August 1994, and who had kept coming to me, whom I came to understand was the Christ.

The blacksmith had first come with a huge black storm, in a dream, and I saw him an a vision the next day, and this then fell out of me into my diary:

I am the blacksmith,
this storm is my forge,
you are my carbon gemsteel
I hammer into my blackdiamond laser sword
to slice thunder and lightning
and sleet and hail
into sunbeams and rainbows …

The day before I checked The Godfather of Kathmandu out of the county libarry, I saw a double rainbow over Fleming Street, where the libary is.

In the summer of 1995, just before Betty said she wanted us to be apart, the blacksmith came to me with …

Angels walk beside you
and call you their brother,
even as you curse the heavens
for making you one
who wields the lightning –
be kind to your brothers and sisters,
but take no prisoners,
kill them all in my name,
as I have killed you,
so that you, and they,
might live …

Birmingham’s Vulcan

The blacksmith, not the Buddha, would wait at Annapurna Base Camp, to greet me that September, 1995. Although I was awash in mystical expeiences in those mountains, not one “Eastern” mystical thing happened; it was all about the blacksmith.

I came back to the States, all torn up in my heart and soul, and moved back to Birmingham, Alabama, my hometown, where I did not do very well, because I refused the angels’ attempts to get me to change my promise to Betty, to let her decide how much of my assets I would walk away with. I had given her my word, and that was all there was to it.

By and by, I fell into what I later would call the black night of the soul, in which I nearly perished. During that time, I went back to Boulder, briefly, en route to Idaho, hoping somehow to trigger relief. Betty had told me in a rare dream that I was on a dangerous assignment, and she was protecting my back. Protecting my back had a special meaning to me, which Betty knew, when we were together in Boulder. But Betty was not there, and I went further west, to visit an old friend, Kay Henry, who lived in Salt Lake City, Utah, but by then also had a buffalo ranch in southern Idaho. Like me, Kay was a trust fund baby. Unlike me, she also made money at what she did for work as a radio show host.

On the return trip back to Birmingham, where I had been enduring the black night, I stopped at the Sloan Motel, no kidding, in Burlington, Colorado, next to the Kansas line, and called Betty in Boulder and got her answering machine. So I wrote her a letter on the motel’s stationery, saying I had tried to catch up with her, what had befallen me, she knew about dark nights of the soul. We’d had a joke, when she got mad at me about something, she said she was sending me back to Burlington, where I had come through when I decided to move to Colorado, to be with her and her son, Evan.

After I got back to Birmingham, Betty called me at my home. She had been out of the country. She asked if there was anything she could do? I told her about my dream about her, and said probably nothing she could do about the black night, but I was broke. That’s when she told me of the promise she had made to God. She sent me some money several times. Then, I cashed in a life insurance policy on my father’s life, and let her know that, and that I was okay with money for a while. Later, I wrote to her and told her she ought to settle up, even if it was to pay me only a dollar, and if I didn’t hear back from her, I’d take that to be her answer. I did not hear back.

I thought it was over. But it wasn’t. Kay Henry, who never liked what I had done with Betty re my on assets, called me in Birmingham and said God had told her to do what she could to get Betty to honor her promise, and if she didn’t try to get Betty to honor it, then God would show her, who really owned her inheritance. Kay was discheveled, she had never been treated that way by God.

So Kay wrote to Betty. Betty reported Kay to law enforcement. It got really wild. I told Betty what Kay had told me, and that I had nothing to do with what Kay was dong, and even had tried to talk her out of it. Betty did not budge.

The rest of that long drawn out that saga, in which I was personally involved, including further attempts by the angels, using me to get Betty to honor her promise, would take a lot longer to tell here today. In the end, I was directed in dreams and other ways to expose Betty before her significant friends and professional associates, who, like herself, were students of the Swiss woman Dora Kalff, who had founded Sandplay Therapy, which you can Google and learn about if you wish.

Dora Kalff

Dora was a close friend of the Dalai Lama, which came about after she had taken into her home a Tibetan refugee after the Chinese invaded Tibet. It was years before Dora knew the refuge was a lama. Then, he introduced her to the Dalai Lama. That lama became the de facto father of Dora’s two sons, one of whom, Martin, had become a Tibetan Buddhist. Dora did not convert, said she was an esoteric Christian. At one time, she was a good friend of mine, as was Martin.

In 2004, I stumbled across something Martin and a couple of Betty’s other Sandplay friends, who also had been my friends, posted to the Internet, telling Betty’s view of what all went down. I was astounded they had published it, instead of letting Betty publish it herself; and I was astounded they had not sent me a copy.

I spent maybe two horrible weeks writing comments under that posting, while I was under constant demonic attack – it was horrific. As was horrific the self-examination I was put through by the angels, mostly in my dreams, all of which I explained in the comments I made to that posting. Then, I went to the posting to add more comments, and it had been taken down. Without any explanation, it was gone, vanished.

Maybe in my comments I explained what happened to Kay Henry, after she asked me one day on the phone, when she was agitating Betty to honor her promise to God, what was wrong with Betty? I asked Kay if she really wanted to know the answer? She said, yes. I said, demonic possession.

Whereupon, I heard Kay shriek, then I heard her running around her home yelling at something, which was attacking her, and I knew it was demons, and I started yelling into the telephone for her to stop fighting them and to let me handle it, and finally she started whimpering and she stopped fighting them, and I said, in the name of the Christ, I ask for protection for Kay and for me, and the attack stopped.

It had long been Kay’s way to fight fire with fire, but you simply do not fight demons. However, there is no way a human being can do that and come out okay. I told Kay I was really sorry, but I hoped she had learned something. She was disheveled.

Not long after, Kay told me that she was suffering chest congestion, it was increasing, and I said she was going through a spiritual passage and it would pass; that sort of thing happened to me off and on in my lungs. But it continued, and Kay went to a spiritual healer of the Eastern kind, who told her she was sluffing off stuff, it would pass. But it did not pass, and Kay finally went to a physician, who had X-rays done, and she had a terrible, rare, fast-moving cancer in both lungs.

Kay lost one lung, and while she was losing the other lung, she fell out with me, because I had dismissed a lawsuit, which Kay had gotten a lawyer in Boulder to file against Betty. By then, I was paying the lawyer and had used up all of my money on the lawyer, who was offering to go forward pro bono, but he agreed with me, even if we won at the trial level, Betty would appeal, and I was not up to a long, protracted litigation, so I thanked him and bid him adieu, and filed a pro se motion with the court, asking for the case to be dismissed, on the ground that Betty was insane and demonically possessed, and was not responsible for what she had done.

I figured the judge was for sure convinced I had just diagnosed myself. He dismissed the lawsuit, without prejudice, leaving open the possibly of it being refiled.

I never heard from Kay again. I imagine she died within a month of when she fell out with me for dismissing the lawsuit. I did not tell her that fighting the demons had caused her cancer. Perhaps I should have, but she was ailing so badly, I let it slide.

Maybe about two years ago, I looked Betty up online and found her Sandplay Therapist website, and saw in the bio that she said he was Buddhist. That was the first I knew she had converted. I sent her an email, saying, “Nice website.” I have not communicated with her since then.

I think it was in 2010, Betty’s son, Evan, tracked me down online, and we began a fond renewal of our relationship, which had terminated abruptly when I left Boulder in 1995, headed to Kathmandu.

Betty and her first husband, Bob, Evan’s father, had very much wanted Evan to go to college, like they had done, but Evan was not cut out for that, and he knew it, evidenced by his joining the US Navy right after he graduated from high school, and then he told his parents what he had done.

When Even told me that, I said I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall to see their reactions. We had a good laugh. I was so proud of him. He had escaped, and he was living on the west US coast, as far from them as he could get, and still be in the continental US.

I had often felt, when I was Evans stepfather, that I was the only person really on his side, even though it was seldom easy, because he was really struggling, and I was really struggling with my own life and the angels, who were introducing me to stuff no American Tibetan Buddhist I have met could possible imagine, other than perhaps Betty, who saw what the angels were doing to me when she and I were together.

Maybe the author of The Godfather of Kathmandu can imagine what I’ve been through; he can, if he himself really was initiated by a high lama. Maybe I will try to contact him after I finish reading his novel. Maybe I won’t.

Meanwhile, here is something the Thai detective’s police chief boss, also a very rich drug lord, told him about the American movie, “The Godfather”:

“Old Corleone was a total sissy for refusing to trade in smack, and Sollozzo was well within his rights to try to have him bumped off. What’s wrong with trafficking in heroin? The smack goes to Europe or America. Some self-obsessed narcissist who otherwise would be causing untold pollution driving to and from work every day, probably in a car without passengers, only to go burning electricity in an overheated office somewhere – thanks to us he stays home in a stupor and gets the sack. His work gets outsourced to Bangladesh, where someone does the same job better for one fifth of the pay, which he used to feed a family of seven, and to top it all he commutes to work on a bicycle – the whole earth benefits … This is the trouble with farang jao paw [westerners]: They’re shortsighted, triumphalistic, and they don’t have buddhist restraint or humility – that’s why I hate dealing with them.”

Me, I hate dealing with Americans who have become Buddhists, or think they have. Actually, it’s just a band-aide on top of whatever caused them to reject the tradition into which they were born, which big sore still is in them, grumbling and gnawing away.

Betty was born Methodist. In her early teens, she was repeatedly stalked sexually by her best girlfriend’s father, which Betty kept to herself. The result, she was unable to have an orgasm during sexual intercourse, after she started being intimate with men. She was that way when she and I met in the fall of 1987, in Boulder. She remained that way until we went to Zurich, in 1988, where she was to do a 1-month Sandplay training taught by Dora Kalff to quite a few of her students.

How it came about that Betty started having orgasms during intercourse was I kept nudging her to stop trying to have orgasms in other ways, and she finally had one with me during intercourse the first night we were in Zurich. The next day, she had another orgasm during intercourse. She was between freaked out and estatic.

Betty was a licensed clinical social worker. She had spent a lot of money on her training and therapy. That had not healed her sexual dysfunction. Being a Sandplay client had not healed her. A redneck mystic from Alabama healed her, the old-fashioned way. Nothing mystical about it, although the heavens were starting to show themselves to us at that time, and then the heavens would burst open for us, on us, after we were back in Boulder.

Maybe I should rethink this. Maybe instead of emailing Betty that she needs to think more about the promise she made to God, she should send me $500,000 for healing her of her sexual dysfunction, which is not something any mental health professional, Sandplay therapist or Tibetan Buddhist lama she knows, or ever heard of, would have been able to do for her.

Or maybe I should bill Betty the same amount, for instilling in Evan that he needed to follow his own star, not his parents’ vicarious need for him to be like them.

Yeah, a dream before dawn today inspired this post. In the dream, a blond woman sidled up to me, said she wanted to be my wife and we make lots of babies.

Betty is blond. Probably what really caused her to want to end it between us, and what caused her to take most of my assets, was, more than anything, she wanted to have another child, and although I had a vasectomy successfully reversed, according to the urologist who did the surgery, followed by a second far more strenuous surgery in a dream, which left my testicles black and blue and swollen up the size of baseballs for a long time, we did not conceive a child. I keep telling Betty we were not, as a couple, ready, and that really was not what she wanted to hear.

Nor did she care for me saying, she was the cause of most of Evan’s difficulties, because of awful fights she had with his father, when they were together, and because she took three jobs, to stay out of the house and away from Bob, who had lost his job, while Evan was still a toddler.

When people asked me in Boulder what I did, as in, what was my work?, I would defer the question over to Betty, who said, “Sloan is the mailman.”

It ain’t a fun line of work, usually.

sloanbashinsky@outlook.com

Sloan Bashinsky

9/11/15

To: bettycjackson@____.com

money

Sloan Bashinsky

11:54 AM 20 September 2014

To: bettycjackson@.com

Hi again, Betty - dreams came back around, leaning on me to write of you and me again, which went onto goodmorningkeywest.com as part of today’s post, below, a link to which also was posted on Facebook. Sloan

sandplay therapy – Key West style [There were various topics in this post, leading to the part about Betty Jackson and Sloan Bashinsky. You can scroll down, if you do not wish to read the preliminary material, although reading it might provide a fuller picture of Sloan Bashinsky.]

Posted on September 20, 2015 by Sloan

Depress ctrl and + keys together to increase text size; depress ctrl and – keys together to reduce

I was told in my sleep last night that Mississippi beat Alabama, and when I went online this morning, I saw the Mississippi Rebels football team had beaten the Alabama Crimson Tide, 43-37, a game Alabama could have won but lost due to a late interception, just like it lost to Mississippi last year by a late interception. I told some football fan buddies in Jack Flats sports bar yesterday afternoon that I felt Mississippi might be too much for Alabama, which has no field goal kicker, poor pass defense, a not very good punter and is weak at the quarterback position.

I was at KOTS, starting to nod off reading a novel, when that game started at about 9:30, entirely too late for a college football game, but that’s what the TV moguls arranged. I awoke, hoping the adverse outcome for Alabama wasn’t metaphysically influenced by my not having finished dealing with something personal my dreams indicated needed further attention from me. That has happened before. Maybe more about the most recent possibility in today’s post.

Meanwhile, maybe I should become an Auburn fan. They got run over by LSU yesterday afternoon. And I mean that literally, the LSU running game was fierce. Their star running back was injured in the 3rd quarter, though. If his injury was not serious, LSU might be the SEC team to envy this year.

In the Key West litter box, a letter to the editor in today’s Key West Citizen (keysnews.com) caught my eye, I added the pic:

Whistleblower’s reward travesty of justice


Monique Acevedo stole more than $400,000 in taxpayer money. Her husband Randy attempted to cover it up and let the theft continue. Katharine Reitzel blew the whistle so there would be an end to the thievery. What was her reward? She was given the option to retire, resign or be fired. What would your choice be?

After more than five years, her case of wrongful termination was finally heard by Judge Mark Jones and the determination was made that the case should go to trial and the dates were finally set. A few weeks later, the judge wanted to hear the school board’s defense again. What a surprise when he threw out the case. Is it normal for a case to have all legal arguments completed, be set for trial and then be re-opened for argument? “Good ole boy” network at work here?

Why not let her case be heard by a jury of her peers? Five years ago, Judge Jones let Randy Acevedo get away with his felonies with only a slap on the wrist. Randy has now been rewarded with another high-paying government job. Additionally, there were probably quite a few applicants that were much more qualified for the IT position, but were passed over for another Bubba.

What was Katharine’s reward for performing her fiduciary responsibility? She lost her job and her livelihood. She was protecting us: the hard-working taxpayers of Monroe County. Why is there a law to protect whistleblowers when it will not be enforced? I cannot imagine the stress and duress this woman has been through. Where is the justice?

Nancy Turenne

Marathon

I was in the courtroom when Judge Mark Jones sentenced Monique Acevedo to 8 years, as I recall, after dismissing her defense lawyer and a psychiatrist’s claim that what really drove Monique was she had bipolar disorder. I suddenly felt so sorry for her, for she had been given two prison sentences, instead of one. I was certain she was not bipolar, but was driven by her own personality defects and by oxycodone, which, I understand, is a synthetic version of heroine.

I had been reading the Citizen reports leading up to Monique’s pleading guilty, then arguing she was mentally ill. It was my impression then State Attorney Dennis Ward would have been happy with 6 or even 4 years, and when 8 years was handed down, he was surprised. He called me a couple of days after Monique’s sentencing and we talked about it. He said Judge Jones once had a wife who did to him something similar to what Monique did to Randy. I said, oh, maybe that’s why Judge Jones gave her 8 years, and why he didn’t put Randy in prison, where I felt he belonged.

As for Kathy Reitzel, School Board member Andy Griffiths told me he felt she had waited far too long to blow the whistle, and that’s why he voted to get rid of her. I felt that was lame, because it probably didn’t matter when Kathy blew the whistle, she knew there would be retaliation; that’s the way of things in the Florida Keys. If Kathy had not blown the whistle, the Acevdeos may never have been caught. If Kathy had not been State Attorney Dennis Ward’s star witness against both Acevedos, they might not have been convicted.

Judge Mark Jones ruled that the whistleblower protection statute did not apply, because Kathy quit, to avoid being fired. Make no mistake, though, the School Board fired Kathy, and she chose to quit as one way of them getting their way. Only an insane person in the school district will ever blow the whistle, after what that School Board did to Kathy. I believe the members of that School Board, who are still in office, are Andy Griffiths and John Dick. Maybe the voters will fire them the next time their seats come up for election.

On the environmental front, Jerry Weinstock, M.D, Psychiatry, whose second vocation is trying to protect Mother Nature, authorized me to publish an editorial he submitted the other day, I added the pic:

Scenario of Horror

I have done many years of research, for a book, on the terrible demolishing of the Key West natural environment including the bad decisions we continue to make degrading our natural heritage.

I have lived and dove and fished and closely observed south Florida for almost 8 decades, including our precious keys. I have drawers full of my notes of observation detailing our endless, continuing desecrating of our natural heritage, the environment, land and ocean.

I received catastrophic news that was substantiated and printed in the Key West Citizen Newspaper extracted from the Sarasota Herald Tribune on July, 31st , 2015. For days I could not write due to numbing shocking frustration and wrath.

Basically just adjacent to The Big Cypress National Preserve and the Everglades, plus the 2 wild life management areas a formal proposal was put forth by Kanter Real Estate, LLC. They filed an application with the Florida Department of Environmental Protection to drill an exploratory oil well 12,000 feet deep. Let me make this as lucid as possible for myself and for readers. What this means is that this drilling could and would impact the entire vast biosphere of south Florida. This unprecedented invasive well placed in a region of immense fragility would endanger and put at extreme risk the whole treasured Eco-system. Ignored would be an unparalleled valued tract of the planet that people draw inspiration from, acquire tranquility and peace of mind and for some people a reason to go on with their lives drawing from the healing aura of this natural treasure. It possesses hope and sustenance that is dimensionless, in fact, infinite.

Factually, all oil drilling whether it is labeled fracking or not requires chemicals. Drills require lubrication which are termed “muds”. These are composed of hundreds of compounds, usually each oil corporation has its own protected recipe. They are all composed of hundreds ofcompounds, some heavy metals, including outright poisons like Cyanide and Arsenic or related deadly chemical substances. South Florida, our home is one contiguous mass of flowing water, both on the surface and the aquifer underneath, all connected, all integrated. Toxins from drilling and open pit mining, which was also applied for, will leach directly into our water flowage, that finds its way, unerringly into the sea and our critical drinking water, vital to a civilized society. It all spells doom for the keys and all of South Florida including crucial organic life in all directions fish, lobster and crabs. dead. This is a soup of death, carrying lethal toxicity. This sends my head spinning. Have we lost all reason, all sanity? It is part of a maniacal frenzy, crazed exploiting. Spills of all kinds most likely could occur chemical and petroleum. In addition to all this the application includes a license to do seismic survey of the sacred Big Cypress Swamp wetland. What this means is to set off explosives in order to measure and analyze vibratory returns. A solemn protected area, a retreat for the last of our remaining wild life, last of an intact ecological system. What does all this mean, shredding the remainder of our natural heritage ?

Newer extraction methods as shale mining or hydraulic fracking, tar sands, deep offshore drilling have been known but sane humanistic environmental safeguards have prevented the chaotic deadly pollution that these diabolical methods create. There was a morality that has gone the way of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker. Bristol Bay’s proposed pebble mine in Alaska is a prime analogous destructive mine in a priceless fragile wrong biospheric location. Sanity has gone. Are we in-line to suffer the fate of Ahab the sea captain in Herman Melville’s Moby Dick in his crazed pursuit of the great white whale? This application for oil drilling, mining and seismic exploration is fanatically crazy and ought to be treated like an animal infected with rabies.

There are many ways that civilizations come to an end.

submitted by Jerrold Weinstock, M.D. (masters level ecologist.) 305-304-1563and 305-294-3094——-Key West, Florida. ( one Bougainvillea ave. )

On the USA War Machine, Inc. front:

Rich McKay shared Daily Kos‘s photo.

September 18 at 5:35pm ·

Daily Kos

SIGN THE PETITION: Dick Cheney MUST be charged with war crimes—https://actionsprout.io/8C431A

• Michael Shields, Diana Dodson and 14 others like this.

Comments

• 

  Bruce Kurt Why is that criminal’s face in front of me?

  Like · Reply · September 18 at 8:32pm
• 

  Jeannie Williams Yes! And a traitor to the US.

  Like · Reply · September 18 at 8:32pm
• 

  Roy LeMeur I think I’m gonna start saying this every time Dick Cheney is mentioned… Let’s hope he is buried far from a populated area so that the stench of urine from the millions of people lining up to piss on his grave won’t be offensive to any local population.

  Like · Reply · Yesterday at 1:19am
• 

  Sloan Bashinsky How about his boss?

  

  Like · Reply · 21 hrs
  • 

    Roy LeMeur I think you need to ask yourself “Who’s the Boss?” in the W and Cheney relationship.

    

    Like · Reply · 21 hrs
• 

  Sloan Bashinsky and his boss’ successor?

  

  Like · Reply · 21 hrs
  • 

    Roy LeMeur It seems that you just can’t run an empire bent on world domination these days without becoming a war criminal smile emoticon

    Like · Reply · 21 hrs
  • 

    Sloan Bashinsky looks to me the two are one

    Like · Reply · 15 hrs
  • 

    Roy LeMeur Not a lot of difference if you are simply a functionary of the monied and powerful people behind the scenes that are actually running things.

    Like · Reply · 15 hrs
  • 

    Sloan Bashinsky Obama is a functionary of the monied and powerful people behind the scenes? Perhaps unknowingly, if you mean the military industrial complex which isn’t exactly behind the scenes. Looks to me what is behind the scenes running Obama’s war policy is the Devil.

    Like · Reply · 2 hrs
  • 

    Sloan Bashinsky Same ran Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, Rice, Powell, although there were plenty of humans behind the scenes cheering them on. Even lots of Democrats backed the Bush wars.

    Like · Reply · 2 hrs

As for the personal thing, which I mentioned early in today’s post,

while I was watching LSU run over Auburn yesterday afternoon, a fellow came into Jack Flats and sat himself on the empty bar chair beside me and reintroduced himself as a fellow who had once written to me from Jacksonville, Florida, who was homeless there, wanting to know what I thought about him coming down to Key West to be homeless? I did all I could to discourage him, but he came anyway. Now he is has a job cleaing up the ocean adjacent to Higgs Beach and is staying in communal housing in Catholic Charities adjacent to the soup kitchen. He said he reads all of my daily posts. He said he found me very different in person, than reading me; I was more fun in person. I said that’s because I’m playing, watching college football; when I’m writing at goodmorningkeywest.com, I’m head to head with Lucifer behind the scenes.

Then, off and on for about another hour, even as I kept trying to shut him up, he proselytized his spiritual views, which, as I grokked them, are: nobody knows what’s happening, ever; everything that happens is supposed to happen; if you keep doing the same thing over and over again, nothing will change; he’s perfectly happy with his life, because his life is just how it’s supposed to be; nobody has any reason to complain about anything; if you don’t like what someone says or does, you are responsible for how you feel, not him. I told him he was preaching to and trying to convinced himself, he had no comprehension of how he came across to other people, and all he cared about was himself.

I also told him, if he kept after me, he was going to learn that what he perceived in my writings as a grouch would prove to be a very happy person compare with how I would start talking to him. He kept after me, and I kept letting him have it, until finally I told him to be quiet, I didn’t want to hear anything else he had to say.

After leaving Jack Flats, I kept asking the angels what in the hell that was all about? Surely there was a message in it I needed to see, which was for me. Nothing came.

Pedaling my bicycle toward KOTS, I thought maybe I should stop at get a couple of bags of peanuts from the Shell station at Palm Avenue, in case I got hungry. I got the peanuts, ate one bag, even as I was going into hypoglycemia really fast. Earlier in the day the same had happened, briefly, then had self corrected. I ate the second bag of peanuts, and the hypglycemia got worse. So, I stopped at the McDonalds, where a homeless friend on his bicycle ahead of me had pulled in, and I ordered a quarter pounder with cheese, $4.40, egads! I wolfed that down, as my friend wolfed down two double cheeseburgers, the best buy, he said. The hypoglycemia subsided, but did not disappear.

My homeless friend already had told me his father now lives in Alabama. He mentioned yesterday money he had stashed with his father. Before, he had mentioned he would be rich when his father passses over. He said the air in Key West is really clean, compared to the mainland. This is the best place to live for clean air. The air is not clean on North Roosevelt, with all of the motor vehicle traffic there, unless the wind is really blowing, but I agreed, the air here is far cleaner than the mainland. Maybe he was there with a message for me from the Lord, that Key West is the best place for me. I had told the fellow at Jack Flats, when he asked me if I liked Key West, that his question revealed he did not read my daily posts, for if he did read them, he would know I don’t like Key West.

So, my dreams last night aimed me right at my 3rd wife, Betty Catherine Jackson, about whom I wrote maybe two weeks ago, without providing her full name. She was the student of Dora Kalff, who founded Sandplay Therapy, who took in a Tibetan Buddhist lama refuge, whose son Martin became that lama’s “adopted son” and student in Tibetan Buddhism, which religion Betty eventually adopted according to what I once saw on her website, which I cannot now find online. There is a good bit online about Dora Kalff, who was my dear friend.

Sandplay – Dora Kalff – YouTube

? 50:20

www.youtube.com/watch?v=aWd40dMH70c

Sep 30, 2013 – Uploaded by Psychosmart

Pioneer in sandplay, psychologist Dora Kalff, talks about the sand box and demonstrates and analyses some …

Dora Kalff, founder – Sandplay Ohio

www.sandplayohio.com/dora–kalff-founder.html

Dora Kalff began Sandplay in Zurich, Switzerland. She completed training as a Jungian analyst, but because she did not have a traditional college degree she …

What is Sandplay | Sandplay Therapists of America

https://www.sandplay.org/about-sandplay/what-is-sandplay/

Apr 19, 2015 – …circle of heaven, the center, realized in earth, the square, emanating in the four directions… Additional readings. Working with Dora Kalff …

?Frequently Asked Questions – ?Links – ?About STA – ?Working with Dora Kalff

Sandplay: A Psychotherapeutic Approach to the Psyche …

www.amazon.com › … › Psychiatry › Child

Amazon.com, Inc.

Sandplay: A Psychotherapeutic Approach to the Psyche (The Sandplay Classics series) [Dora M. Kalff, Barbara A. Turner PhD, Dr. Martin Kalff] on Amazon.com.

I gave Betty full power to decide what, if any, of my worldly assets I would take with me, if she and I ever broke up. All of my assets were derived from an inheritance from my father’s father. Betty took about 85 percent, after she said she wanted us to be apart. I had supported her and her son entirely, for 8 years. I was spirit-blocked from making a living wage, which she knew. She thought my father would die soon, and I would receive $1,000,000. My father did not die. I ran out of money and lived mostly homeless after I ran out of money in mid-2000, until my father died in late August 2005 and receiving the $1,000,000 inheritance on Valentine’s Day, 2006. How that all got spent by the fall of 2014, I have reported several times at goodmorningkeywest.com. I also explained it to Betty in the email I sent to her.

Betty told me in 1998 that she had made a promise to God that, after her son was grown and no longer needed financial help, she would make a more equitable distribution of our divorce settlement, in which she also had gotten one half of the farm she had inherited from her mother. Her brother inherited the other half. I had paid the lawyer and the estate taxes for Betty’s half, so she could get her half of the farm.

I wrote about some of that in the Labor Day: redneck tantra and other little known spiritual disciplines – Key West ashram post at goodmorningkeywest.com. Then I emailed Betty, including that post and saying more to her. Then I had a dream, in which she came to me, pleasant, as I was tending to cleaning up one small dirty mess and dealing with a big bug in the air. Then, in my sleep I was told I needed to practice forgiveness. Then, I sent Betty a p.s., which I thought took care of the dirty mess and the big bug in the air, which, the bug, seemed to be about my forgiveness of Betty.

Then, I seemed pushed in a dream to out Betty online. But why out her, if I was practicing forgiveness of her? Leaving KOTS shortly after having that dream, I saw a domestic rabbit at the nearby golf course. Rabbit Woman was my pet name for Betty. I understood the rabbit pointed me toward Betty, and I felt it was about giving her a pass, since I had been told to practice forgiveness.

Well, yesterday seemed to go another way. Low blood sugar, temporary diabetes, see Betty in diabetes? I did. My gut felt poisoned yesterday, until late, after Jack Flats, when I used the toilet. I had 4 years of no bowel movement during a dark night of the soul, when I was with Betty. She was fully apprised of the dark night. She was fully apprised of the spirit world, multiple dimensions. She experienced multiple dimensions. She used her dreams.

The fellow in Jack Flats first contacted me from Jacksonville, Florida. Betty’s last name is Jackson. That was what he was about, Betty’s and my marriage failing left me wrecked for a very long time; it still gnaws me, and not the just being homeless result. It gnaws my soul. The last time I saw Alabama play Mississippi in person was in Jackson, Mississippi in the early 1970s. I was there as the guest of the owner of Jitney-Jungle, a Jackson-based grocery chain with which my father’s snack foods company did a lot of business.

So, I suppose I’m going to be putting something together, to put up online, sort of along the lines Betty got Martin Kalff and other friends of her and mine to put something up online telling her side of what happened, which was hardly complete, and she knew it, and I’m pretty sure they knew it, because they had already heard my side of it, from me. Mainly, the part where Betty denied she ever made that promise to God, which she told me she had made.

So, maybe God has not yet forgiven Betty, for I really do not want to be going into this again. I told her that in my email to her, which she may not even have read; perhaps it went into her junk mail folder and she did not even see it; perhaps she saw it and did not open it, and deleted it unread. I don’t know, other than she did come to me in a dream the night after I sent the main email, laying it all out. She was friendly in the dream, beckoning. Sandplay therapists are very big on dreams.

www.sandplay.org

Betty had a weakeness in her lungs, which demonstrated in a weak chronic cough. I first started getting pneumonia shortly after she and I met in September 1887. I came to associate my pneumonias with me working through something in spirit, thus not something to see a doctor about. The recent respiratory tract disturbance, now seeming on the mend, set me up to complete this round of what the angels want me to do with Rabbit Woman. I heard Dora Kalff say the rabbit is the only symbol with the same meaning in the east and the west; it is the feminine.

I suppose my lady Kari Dangler’s golf pencil taking up residence in my chest, thus Kari doing that, as reported recently at goodmorningkeywest.com, also had something to do with my going back into it will Betty, who probably has been in my chest all these many years. Kari’s probably doint a little housecleaning, since she’s my lady now. This post begins with the first of her most recent drawings. Here’s that drawing’s companion, maybe Kari’s version of “sandplay therapy”.

From time to time Betty accused me of trying to destroy all forms of mental health therapy, including sandplay therapy, via the therapeutic work the angels were teaching me. I told her she was right, that’s exactly what I wanted to see happen, because life itself was sandplay, so was no need for little sand trays and standplay therapists, who, I heard Doral Kalff tell her students many times, could not take their patients past where they themselves had progressed, but angels can take their patients past any human’s progress.

Ciao,

sloanbashinsky@outlook.com