Birth of a Visionary

February 3 saw a celebration of the birthday of Sunburst Founder, Norman Paulsen. Following is an excerpt from his book, Life Love God, which begins with a description of his birth.

We are descending. Beneath us lie the waters and the land. This sphere, a celestial garden floating in space, is unmatched in beauty. Where the winds and waters meet the rising of the land, a jagged point appears. Tall cliffs and rocks challenge the heaving, bright blue waters. Above us the radiant body of Father Sun watches in silence as Mother Earth performs her daily revolutions. My life and love flows outward and downward to mingle with visions of crashing waves and torrents of spray. Rainbow images dance in clouds of mist, slowly settling upon glistening monoliths of stone. I encompass all that I feel and observe, moving on toward the east.

Rolling hills and bright green meadows now confront me. Scrub oak, sycamore, and willow, with boughs long bent to the ever-present wind, struggle with their loads. Point Conception, long known to native peoples as the western gateway to the spirit world, contains an ancient necropolis. The western gateway, graveyard for earthbound ships, thrusts forth their stricken bows, caught in its awesome beauty. It’s the point where winds and currents meet and ancient spirits move, fog-shrouded at times; mysterious—and deadly to mariners.

Beyond the coast and over the hills, a fertile valley nestles. Open fields present rich, dark sod to Father Sun’s embrace. A river moves snake-like through the flat and furrowed fields to join the sea at Surf. Sycamore and willow along its banks reach up to gather light from the abundant heavens. This land, this fertile valley, was once the home and refuge of an ancient native people. New owners have now built up a town, thrusting up steeples proud against the sky. We have arrived!

There, up from the river, cradled against the faithful hills, lies the village. White houses with green and red roofs spread out a varicolored carpet. I move closer to see white picket fences covered with honeysuckle and rose. Horses pull wagons on dusty streets, wetted down each eventide. People with faces, each one different, are walking, riding, working. The heavy ring of hammer striking anvil fills the air; horses start in their traces. I stop to watch the spiral motion of coal smoke, its pungent odor heavy on the fresh sea breeze. Across the way, children run and play on a vacant lot.

Impelled by silent motion, I come upon a street running north and south. The house I am looking for faces the rising sun. A picket fence, an open gate, greet me. Green lawns spread out their velvet surface beneath two tall palm trees. Yes, this is indeed the dwelling place of the blind Buddha, my father-to-be.

The blind man walked with a white cane, feeling the earth beneath as he moved. He was stalwart and precise. Deprived of earthly vision, his hearing was acutely extended. He heard the message of the whispering wind and the babbling brook as he extended his life outward into all beings and images around him.

He found me standing there on the street in the midst of his life. My spirit-image flashed before his inner vision; I had startled him. He stopped walking to stand alert in a silent greeting. Time stood still for him. “You have finally come to help me, to be my eyes in this world. I am so very sad and lonely here. No one understands me, no one. My wife tries, but finds me too withdrawn in the Spirit.”

“Long have we been friends,” I replied, “and again we meet. My spirit is fixed upon rebirth here. Our lives must be joined together for a time.” We moved on down the street, floating in a cloud of joy.