This Changes Everything, Page 3

CHAPTER ONE

  First Contact between the Many Worlds Collective (MWC) and Clara Branon, Ph.D., in northern California, December, 2012

  The clear, cool, northern California night of December 21, 2012, I go to bed at around 8 PM as I usually do. I always meditate in bed at the end of each day. As I near the end of my meditation, about to go to sleep, I hear several voices in a kind of chorus, speaking my name: “ClaraBranon… ClaraBranon… ClaraBranon… ClaraBranon…” They sound expectant, insistent, and are saying my names as if they were all one word. Not loud, not scary, but right in my bedroom.

  Ridiculously, my first reaction is not fear but bewilderment, and a bit of resentment.

  Again? More interruptions of my sleep? What, now? Who are you and what do you want? Go away!

  I project expulsion images.

  Here are the reasons.

  Ever since I am about five years old, I have nighttime experiences that go way beyond strange. Objects in my room or on my walls take on new identities, shapes, purposes. My radio’s numeric display seems to pulse, move, change: it seems to be trying to communicate with me, but I never know what it’s trying to say. I sense and sometimes "see" creatures moving along the ceiling or walls or right through them. Posters and pictures assume new positions with changing contents, colors, or designs which then open up or move around.

  Often, when I live near a cemetery, as I do for eleven years growing up and now, for six years in Kirov, I get “visitors”: newly-dead spirits. They are confused, wandering and pausing at the first dwelling they find. They don’t seem to want anything from or even see me. They’re only passing through.

  I often talk to them aloud, as I do tonight: “Who are you? What do you want?” Or, I try to command or inform them: “Go away! You’re dead.” In recent years, I also chant mantras, burn incense and sing to them.

  As soon as I turn on a light, all of these apparitions and occurrences, objects and fixtures return to normal and the specters and creatures drift or scurry away. All is right, again.

  However, none of them ever speaks aloud or seems to know my name before this evening.

  So, although being visited or having other odd events at night isn’t all that new to me, hearing anyone speak my name is.

  I am tired and not in the mood, so my first reaction is to eject them.

  They do not leave. They keep chanting.

  "ClaraBranon..."ClaraBranon..."ClaraBranon..."

  As I turn on the light, fully expecting them to disappear/go silent, they repeat their request for my attention.

  "ClaraBranon..."ClaraBranon..."ClaraBranon..."

  I become increasingly curious while aware of a flutter of fear. “How do you know my name?” I ask.

  As my eyes adjust to the light, some shapes begin slowly to appear. They do not materialize, exactly: they are translucent, insubstantial.

  My turning on the light should return everything to normal. I’m beginning to have a sinking feeling that my life never will be “normal,” again. My bedroom is getting stranger by the moment and I’m starting to feel a bit more scared.

  I now see more clearly: there are five of them. Four seem to be standing and one is floating, hovering about five feet above the floor. This one is not even vaguely humanoid in shape; it looks kind of like a very small zeppelin, about the size and shape of a large, griseous (my emailed Word Of The Day last week: bluish-gray), smooth, beach ball, but ovoid. This one repeatedly draws my focus.

  Two of the taller ones are somewhat humanoid, but much thinner and taller than most humans. The one closest to the wall has feathery, cilia-like coatings on every part of its body. Its upper-most part (head?) is not round or ovoid, but flat and perpendicular to the rest of the body. The top part is about as thick as an old-style laptop computer with flashing lights that blink other colors besides blue all around its perimeter. I half expect it to make sounds like the R2-D2 droid in Star Wars, but there are no beeps or clicks emanating from it (or any of the figures).

  The constant movement of its coating makes it seem as if it’s underwater, since there is no apparent reason for the hair-like parts to be moving. It has two lower appendages that are a lot like human legs but thinner and with two joints each. The leg parts move in opposition to the ones below or above them, like a flamingo's. This figure has four mid-level appendages that are somewhat like arms but each one is different from the other three. No fingers; each one tapers to a point.

  The one next to the bluish, sea anemone-type humanoid is more transparent and its features are harder for me to discern. It is not quite as tall as the blue one, but still taller than the other two and I (I am five feet tall), with the zeppelin bouncing just below its "head" area. It seems slightly jacinth (light orange), but that is more of an impression on my eyes than an actual color.

  Instead of one upper, head-like part, it has a subdivision of four connected pieces. Each one is somewhat triangular; together, they form a kind of separated pyramid, connected at the bottom to the rest of the body. At the top, the tips seem to meet but the sides are not closed, so I can see through the edges to the wall behind it. This head pyramid has indentations at various points where I expect there to be orifices but I can’t tell if they are.

  The rest of it shimmers as an undifferentiated, blob-like, oblong shape, with my floor fan vertically impaling its turquoise image, kind of old-style robotic. If it has appendages, I can’t see them.

  The other two are not humanoid, but do appear to be standing on some leg-like appendages. They also have oblong, virescent bodies with no apparent distinction between each part and the other. They have bumps and dents all across and around their bodies which make them resemble one of my favorite foods: pickles.

  One of these standing, non-humanoid beings is shorter than I and the other is about my height. The zeppelin hovers longways between the top of this one and pyramid-headed one.

  The two tallest ones' top parts almost touch my ceiling, which is about eight feet from the floor. They are clumped kind of like a Greek chorus in a stage play, standing/hovering at the foot of my bed. As I peer at them more closely, I realize the reason they are difficult to see: they are holograms―computer projections―not actually physically in my bedroom at all.

  Now I understand the reason that the robotic orangish one appears to have my floor fan going right through it. I have a picture on the wall behind the fan and I can still see it, somewhat indistinctly, through the “bodies” of two of the others.

  I feel myself start to shiver a bit and realize I’m sitting up, which puts my shoulders outside of the covers. It is not warm in my house (I like it that way; about 60 degrees). I’m usually hot, but, right now, running adrenaline, definitely a bit shaky.

  Particularly since I have strange visits so often, I don’t usually think about the fact that I’m not wearing anything but a sleep-shirt and underpants in bed. On this night, I suddenly become very aware of my almost-nakedness, probably because these “folks” don’t disappear when I turn on the light the way the rest of my visitors always do.

  I have no robe anywhere nearby. So, I do what anyone would do. I politely ask them: “Would you mind waiting for me in my dining room while I get dressed, please? Have a seat, stand or hover: whatever you want, OK? Then, we can talk.” I point out my bedroom door in case they’re not clear on my small cottage’s layout.

  They seem to agree but do not actually answer. They glide through my doorway into the dining room. The last one out manages to shut the door without touching it. How does he do that?

  I hurriedly change into clothes. I am wearing navy blue sweat pants and a purple, thermal, long-sleeved shirt because they are the closest at hand. Very informal.

  Oh, damn. From now on, whenever this is on replay—because I have no doubt someone, somewhere, is recording this for all eternity—this is what I am wearing! Arggh!

  What is the proper attire to wear when one greets ET visitors in one’s home at bedtime? I giggle. WWMMW (What Wou
ld Miss Manners Wear)? More giggling.

  What if they can hear my thoughts?

  It occurs to me belatedly that I am nervous. I gather my inner thoughts into a more serious form and take a deep breath. May all beings benefit from whatever comes next, I pray. I finger comb my unruly, curly hair and open the door.

  As I move toward the group in my dining area, I see that they are gathered around my round dining table. The zeppelin is kind of on it, looking more blue than gray. The short, green pickles are side-by-side near me and the thinner orange and blue tall ones are on the other side of the table.

  When I see them all still there, I breathe a sigh of relief. I certainly don’t want them to disappear before we actually get to talk.

  By then, my mind is racing through possibilities. They are aliens! I am feeling excited and intensely interested. I assume that if they mean to harm me, I’d be harmed, already, so I am rapidly becoming less scared. Brimming with questions and curiosity, I go right over to them.

  My upbringing kicks in, maybe because they are around my dining table, and I ask them automatically, “Would you like some tea or something cold to drink? Are you hungry?”

  They make some noises that must be their ways of showing amusement.

  They aren’t here; they are holograms. They can’t eat or drink anything. Duh.

  I sit down in my chair which they seem to know is mine because it isn’t blocked or occupied. I look toward them, expectantly, but I realize I don’t know where to look. Only one of them has anything resembling eyes and the other four do not even really have anything I would call a face. Reflexively, I keep my focus on their upper bodies’ uppermost sections and on the zeppelin’s middle.

  I ask, “How may I be of service? Why are you here to see me?” I put a slight emphasis on “me,” and they respond to that, first.

  “You ask us to come,” they intone, in unison.

  Considering for a moment, I chuckle. “Yeah, I guess so,” I reply. “But, why now? And, I can’t be the only one inviting you. So why come to me?” I repeat.

  They make those amused sounds again (at least, that’s what I think they are) and do not respond further.

  I shrug and ask, “Will you help us humans? I have lots of questions.”

  “We have lots of answers,” one of them says. I think this comes from the zeppelin, whom I am already privately calling “Led.”

  Will it think that appellation is disrespectful?

  Wait! Are they telepathic?

  I then ask: “Who are you? Do you have names? Where are you?”

  “Led” answers. It seems to be the spokes-alien. “My name is %^&!#. You may call me ‘Led’ since my name will not fit on your tongue.”

  His name seems to be a mixture of the sounds of water boiling and a river with lots of rapids and bubbles.

  Right on that, Led. I can't reproduce those sounds, not being a sound-effects professional.

  I realize that I am only slightly shocked that Led can read my mind. I say, “OK. ‘Led’ it is, for you. How about you other four?”

  One by one, they introduce themselves. First, each sounds their actual name, which I can’t really describe here very well. Suffice it to say I believe I hear only parts of what they vocalize. Most of what they “say” sounds like movements of nature elements: running water, crackling fire, leaves rustling. I would not be able to reproduce any but the smallest components of their names and those not very well.

  Immediately after giving me the respect of saying their actual names, each one picks a nickname that Earthers all still use. I laugh when I hear their self-chosen monikers: everybody wants to be a celebrity, even aliens.

  The tallest, turquoise, sea anemone-type with the flat head and blinking lights, says, “Call me ‘Mick.’”

  That’s easy to remember. Mick Jagger can still “light up” a room! Years of being a classroom teacher makes my trying to assign associations with names a habit that comes in handy, now.

  This is fun! I lean forward and look expectantly at the other three.

  The second-tallest, jacinth humanoid, says, “I’ll be ‘Ringo.’”

  Ringo Starr wears garish and colorful costumes with The Beatles, especially in the Sgt. Peppers era. "Good," I say.

  “Can I be ‘Janis?’” asks the shorter “pickle.”

  Hmmm. Janis Joplin as a pickle. There's a Woodstock connection... Arlo Guthrie sings the pickle-motorcicle song and she sings there, also. "Sure," I agree.

  The taller “pickle” says, “I like ‘Diana.’”

  Does "she" mean Diana Ross or the late Princess of Wales? It doesn't matter. I nod. "Okay," I say aloud, in case they're not all telepathic.

  I decide to view these two to be females. I am a female and I like pickles. It will have to do.

  English definitely needs more gender-neutral, omnigender and transgender pronouns and concepts. I have no idea at this point if any of these species has binary genders or any at all, nor if these names indicate what each identifies as.

  “All right!” I point at each one, in turn, as I would in a classroom: “’Led,’ ‘Mick,’ ‘Ringo,’ ‘Janis’ and ‘Diana’ you’ll be."

  “Now that we are all properly introduced,” I continue, “Back to business. Why are you here?”

  “Earthers need help, yes?” Janis asks.

  Led adds, “We are approved to help.”

  “’Approved’?” I query. “By whom, or what?”

  They seem to turn to one another and confer silently. They then respond in that odd chorus, again, “The ‘Many Worlds Collective, InterGalactic Council’ sends us.”

  I sit back, a bit stunned. I mean, it’s one thing to be confronted by holograms that are not humans and not like anything on Earth. It’s quite a different thing to be told in clear terms that there are many worlds and that they are united in some way.

  “Is Earth a member?”

  Again, the “laughter.”

  Diana responds: “Yes, but Earthers mostly don’t know about being a member, yet. Most of you don’t even know about the Collective, right? You are to refer to it as the ‘MWC.’”

  I nod slowly. “Most of us?”

  “Well,” explains Led, “This is not our first contact with an Earther. We are here all along and we have thousands of contacts over the millennia. This is the first one you are allowed to make public.”

  “I am allowed to make public?” I repeat, starting to panic a bit. I picture a media frenzy occurring right outside my rural cottage. Yikes! What is starting, here?

  “Well,” continues Led, who must be the leader of this group, “you are the only one we communicate with directly. You then communicate some of what we share with you to the rest of the Earthers. We direct you to provide information to Earthers with the help of your chosen Media Contact. That’s the only way we can communicate with Earthers and be helpful, right now. This is the MWC's standard, approved method for first contact and Transition periods.”

  I silently take this in. Deep breaths. Oy. Life as I know it will never be the same. My Buddhist teacher, Lama Sangyay, has a saying he uses whenever I arrive at a new insight, recognize the Absolute Truth and pierce illusions. I invoke it, now: This Changes Everything!

  “Are you ready?” Led asks.

  “Ready for what?” I ask, my stomach doing somersaults. I take a deep breath, and notice that I'm now shaking. “What does ‘communicate with me’ mean, exactly? What 'Media Contact'?”

  “We each bring you information. Starting next month, you, as our liaison, are instructed to share pieces that Earthers need in order to adjust successfully, living as a new planetary member of the MWC. Our intention is to improve conditions here through Earth's membership in the MWC and our presence,” explains Mick. “We give the standard information to you, all at once, and a page of instructions with it.”

  “Then,” continues Janis, “You communicate it, bit by bit, according to our timetable. We provide the sequence. You do
not give Earthers everything at once; that never works well. Liaisons disburse just enough, as each bit is needed and as Earthers are ready. You do not Access everything at once, either; you do it gradually, during your Excellent Skills Program training.”

  Excellent Skills Program... "'ESP training'? Really?" I barely have time to wonder about that when Diana turns to me and seems to undulate.

  “This won’t hurt at all,” Diana says.

  "Wait!" I groan, starting to protest. How would they know what might hurt me? I look at each of them but can’t read anything on their forms. I do sense from them all only benign, interested, even affectionate attitudes toward me. So, I ask, somewhat tentatively, “What do you do and what do I have to do?”

  “Sit there and relax,” Mick says. “We do the rest. We do this often with beings constructed as you are. They say there is no pain at all.”

  Where is my inner skeptic? Why am I not more afraid? Oh! Are they helping me calm down? I can do that myself.

  "Please wait a few minutes while I prepare?" I take a few deep, slow breaths to get more receptive. I try to clear my mind, but in creeps: Lie back, and think of England. I suppress another giggle. Nervous, much?

  I silently chant a few mantras and recite a Buddhist aspiration prayer, committing to do no harm, to utilize strength, discernment and courage. I also recite our main prayer, dedicating the merit of all actions and thoughts to benefit all beings. Then, I turn my mind to rest in awareness, my main practice: emptiness, radiance, joyful, compassionate, peaceful, with open, spacious, focused attention.

  After a few meditative minutes, I'm clear and primed. I say, “OK. I guess I’m ready. How long will this take?”

  “Hardly any of your time,” Ringo replies.

  The slight emphasis on “your” does not escape my notice. How do they perceive time? I have no time to consider time because they start.

  Immediately, each of them moves slightly toward me.

  Even though I know they aren’t here, I still lean back a little as they approach.

  Yikes! Here we go.

  I feel the energy above and on top of my head shifting, as if there is an opening being formed. But, Diana is right: it doesn’t hurt. It feels weird, as if something in me is expanding but not taking up space, exactly. I also notice this same feeling in my chest, above and in my heart, very strongly. Then, the sensations move, coming into each of my other five chakras (center of my throat, "third eye" area on my forehead, my solar plexus, the front of my pubis and the bottom of my coccyx), and also, on the bottoms of my feet, and all up and down my spine. I hear a slight “whooshing” sound, like a car fan on low.

  I imagine they are filling up my “tanks” with data. The whole “download” takes about one minute.

  I feel very warm, but not too hot. I force myself to continue to breathe evenly. No one moves.

  I now feel the apertures closing. The energetic activity's waning, slowing down. The fan noise slows to a stop. The inner expansion doesn’t go away, exactly, but the feeling recedes. I sense and then see each of the MWC members moving slightly away from me.

  I begin to panic: Don’t leave! I almost shout this out loud.

  “We’re not leaving, yet,” Led tells me.

  He can hear my thoughts. I feel better, immediately. It isn’t only his words; this alien has some kind of soothing power. Nice. He must be using this calming mojo ever since they get here. That explains a lot.

  “OK,” I say. “Thanks.” I still don’t know what to do, next. I need more instructions.

  “Here is the Instructions page,” Ringo responds, also tuned in to my thoughts, I see. He extends a bright orange, newly-protruding, thin, arm-like appendage toward me, pointing to my heart. I feel something soft but firm, poking into me there, almost imperceptibly.

  Before I can ask how a hologram can touch me, something rises out of my heart area and appears in front of me: a hologram of a sheet of paper with English writing on it. It hangs in the air at my eye level.

  “Wow!” I breathe. I am impressed. Like magic! I know it’s science, but, wow! I start to feel excited, again. This is so cool. Do they even use paper, or is this apparition's form for my benefit?

  I can easily read the writing even without my reading glasses. But, more importantly, I feel the meanings in my heart. It’s hard to explain, if you never have this experience (although, by mid-March, many of you have similar experiences to draw upon), but it’s an amazing feeling. I feel the same way, sometimes, when chanting in Tibetan or Sanskrit during my meditation practices or ceremonies, but this is much stronger than that, even. The phrase “inner knowing” takes on new meaning when we humans “read” this kind of heart-arising text.

  Buddhists use mind-to-mind transmission as the most advanced method for learning and teaching; this is explained to us repeatedly at teachings I attend, so I have direct experience that feels the way this does. Also, when there is an important lesson, meditation instruction, history or other written information to impart, the preferred way Tibetan Buddhists teach is to have the realized leader read aloud while students read along in silence or listen. An entire book can be transmitted, which can take days or weeks to accomplish. In this way, students “receive” both the words and the conceptual and experiential wisdom from the teacher, who imbues the text with these precious aspects and conveys them through the teacher’s speaking the text aloud.

  Similarly to both of these, I experience this new knowledge blooming in my consciousness via my viewing this holo text. Awed, I am less afraid than impressed and my trembling has slowed.

  I look at the "paper." 1) Decide whom your main Earth Media Contact is. Interesting that this is #1. It has not yet occurred to me how this information will be disseminated. They have an excellent point. Not only is my life to be changed forever by being the main communicator with the MWC members, but so is this media person’s. It is a very important decision. How to make it?

  “Do you have any suggestions?” I ask them. Do they already have someone picked out? I hope they do.

  They seem to exchange another one of those silent conversations. Then Led says, “It’s up to you. You spend an enormous amount of time with this person. This exclusive media access launches his/her journalism career. We suggest that you choose someone you want to have around and who is near the beginning of their career, since you are doing this together for quite a while.”

  “Really?” I ask. This is an ongoing thing, being the liaison? They downloaded what feels like the entire contents of the Internet into me. How brief can my liaison role be if I'm disseminating all that? “How long is ‘a while’?”

  Another silent conversation. “In your years,” Janis says, “about thirty.”

  “Thirty?” I squeak out that word. I am shocked. In thirty years, I’ll be 88. How is this going to work?

  My next thought, crass as it sounds, is, Will I be paid? I currently do not have a job, although I look for about 18 months. I get laid off from my last job so I am receiving unemployment payments, but not for much longer.

  I have no other ongoing way to support myself. If I am going to do this, be the MWC’s Earth liaison, especially for thirty years, I don’t see how I am ever to be able to have an ordinary job again.

  I am about to ask how I can arrange my life around this when Led responds: “You are paid, of course. The MWC has a fund and all the Earth governments contribute. It is required."

  “You also have to move,” he continues, “but we talk about all that in a few days.”

  “Move?” I squeak, again. “To where?”

  “The home you keep ‘seeing’ yourself living in, perhaps,” Led replies, “with your husband, perhaps, soon after you’re together. Or, alone, somewhere else. Remains to unfold, in this timeline.”

  That stops me, cold. How do they know about my visions? Are they tuning into me before tonight? Of course they are. Oh. Yeah. Telepathy. Whoa. Seriously. THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING! This means I can
tell My Future Husband! Or, not. They also know about alternate timelines? Of course they do.

  More laughing noises.

  I am suddenly getting very tired. This happens to me. I can go and go full speed then hit a wall of exhaustion, which means I very soon have no ability to process words. I get almost drunk-like. I say and do illogical things, make odd jokes, and generally become unable to function intelligently.

  It is almost 10:30 PM. It is ‘way past my bedtime. I am about to hit that wall.

  I can hear my mom’s voice in my head, “Clara can sleep anywhere, anytime.” It’s true. I sleep in busy airports, bus stations, classrooms, and almost everywhere else. When I’m tired, I sleep.

  Since my life is going to be altered, irrevocably and very publicly, very soon, I want every possible night of relative peace and quiet. I want them to go home, wherever that is. And, I want them to come back.

  I announce: “I need to go to sleep, now. Come back tomorrow, please?”

  They seem to agree.

  Janis says, “We come back when you call us, but it may not be tomorrow.” Then, answering my unanswered question, “It doesn’t have to be at night, anymore,” she adds.

  I slump in my chair with relief and exhaustion. This alien contact and download increase my tiredness. I am never a “night person,” anyway.

  I promise, “I’ll consider instruction number one. When I know whom I want to choose as my Media Contact, I call you to come back, OK?”

  One by one, they bounce, blink, wiggle appendages, quiver, and then fade slowly out.

  Led is the last to disappear. As he dissolves, he calls out, “Sweet dreams.”

  I laugh as I get up slowly and walk over to use the bathroom. I feel as if I’m in a stupor. I return to my room, remove and throw my clothes on my chair and crawl back into bed.

  I notice, distantly, that I am still shaking a bit. This kind of shivering, a kind of kundalini reaction, is familiar to me. Many times, due to high stress fear or excitement, from the adrenaline rush and its departure, I experience this all-over trembling.

  I slow my breathing deliberately, say some more silent prayers and become more still as the high energy dissipates. Tired, but still mentally awake, I begin to do my “homework.” Whom could my Media Contact possibly be?

  As I lie in bed, I select and discard, one by one: NPR correspondents, local and national TV people, other radio journalists and almost anyone I’ve ever heard of: too old, too far away, wrong politics, too obnoxious. Whom would I like to spend a lot of time with? Who needs—and deserves—a career boost? To whom do I want to award the "story of the century/millennium."

  Then, it comes to me. There is a local, free, alternative weekly paper that serves northern California. It has agreeably leftist leanings and some great freelance as well as staff reporters. Maybe I can find one of them, preferably a Latina woman (always trying to even the scales in the world of work). I start to picture her: she is newish to her career, sympathetic to this topic, familiar with science, keen on multicultural (multiplanetary?) issues, and also has media contacts.

  I nod off, planning to research that in the morning. I find her. I can sense her presence already. Interesting.

  As I fall asleep, I wonder, again, Why me?