ET-Human Link

by Dana Redfield

Overview

In her relentless quest for the truth, alien abductee Dana Redfield breaks new ground in The ET-Human Link, a book that probes new depths of personal experience as well as forbidden knowledge and history. From Atlantis, to biblical and American Native legends, to "other world" memories, Redfield shows a picture of alien abduction like no other. She explores the formidable terrain of human origins, DNA, consciousness, reincarnation, and theories about evolution of the soul, daring to propose a profound purpose behind the UFO presence. Presenting her theories with the verve, wit, and often lyrical tone of her writing, Redfield draws us into the metaphorical channel between life and right hemispheres, between mind links and "metafractals" - connections between metaphors, events, and experiences - to share her vision of the "golden children" we are becoming.

• From the author of "Summoned: Encounters with Alien Intelligence"
• Redfield's in-depth knowledge of the alien abduction phenomenon blended with personal experience, startling insight, and characteristic humor
• Opens the door to new theories about the purpose and duration of extraterrestrial intervention
• A compelling work on a topic that may redefine humankind's perception of ourselves, our history, and the universe we live in

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781612832302
Publisher:	Hampton Roads Publishing Company, Inc.
Publication date:	06/01/2001
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
File size:	916 KB

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One: The Voice of Mystery

It is curious to observe that even scientifically trained researchers who accept the idea of multiple universes, or the few ufologists who understand the idea that space-time could be folded to allow almost instantaneous travel from one point in our universe to another, still cling emotionally to the notion that any nonhuman form of consciousness is necessarily from outer space.

--Jacques Vallee

Revelations: Alien Contact and Human Deception (1991)

In the beginning were the letters, then the numbers, then the communications began. In the beginning, I called them guides, and resisted the idea they were extraterrestrials. They knew me intimately. When they called me Little Sister, I did not blink, did not think, why are they calling me that? Maybe it was just a term of endearment.

First contact, in 1989, was brief, with a group intelligence who said they didn’t have bodies like us, and had no names. I had read a book that mentioned an "invisible college," which had rung a bell inside me. So during meditation, I asked about it. Was this invisible college real? A "voice-thought" responded, calling me Little Sister, informing me that I would have a dream that night that would answer my question. Nothing like this had ever happened before. I knew it wasn’t my own thoughts, not a "higher self," not God . . . who/what was this?

That night, I dreamt of being in a huge auditorium, packed with people. We were engaged in meditation, and other spiritual practices. The next day in meditation, I asked for them, and amazing me again, they responded. I pressed for a name. "Big Brother?" (I was Little Sister . . . figures.) Next, they suggested "Mountain," then "Tree," until I got exasperated with their jokes.

"Come on, give me a name that will impress me and tell me something about you." "Clio."

After the conversation, I looked up the word. Clio is the muse of history. I was impressed because I had been studying ancient history. Who were these guys?

The contact with Clio was short-lived. After a few conversations of a spiritual nature, I asked them a question about my husband’s work status and what they said turned out to be true. Then I asked them if my husband would pass a ham radio test. Oh, yes! And Tom would receive the call letters he wanted. But he didn’t pass the test. When I asked Clio why they had lied, they said, "Don’t use us for trivial matters." Knowing they lied, I could not trust them, and ceased the contact. Later I understood the lesson. Who, in the flesh, can we trust one hundred percent to always speak the truth? And yet we tend to expect the truth from telepathic or channeled sources. Contact with unseen intelligences is not an advantage. It’s a responsibility. We are responsible to exercise discernment. Many have been made fools by passing on bogus channeled information. While at the time I was miffed by Clio’s trick, later I was grateful I was forewarned not to trust everything that came over the transom.

The record in my journals (details in Summoned) showed a significant number of UFO-related dreams and "nocturnal events," from 1985 to 1989. When Clio inserted themselves into my consciousness, I was not of a mind to consider my dreams or the occasional light and sound phenomena as signs of involvement with ETs, this despite the evidences of implants in my hands in 1986. But later I would wonder about a dream that occurred a few months before the contact with Clio. I dreamt I met with Nordic kinds of ETs who were standing outdoors in a countryscape beside a disc-shaped silver spaceship. They commissioned me to write a book for them, and I agreed. My "dream self" knew the beings, but awake, no way did I think that such a meeting had actually occurred. In those days, my view of out-of-body travel, and various other adventures in consciousness, was detached and intellectual. I thought such things were possible, but if I were engaged in something like this during the night, wouldn’t I know? You know when you know, and it is a kindness not to know too much, quicker than can be readily assimilated and integrated into the "daylight consciousness." The "veils" were thick in those days, serving as a protective shield. These were the days of education in preparation for more to come.

Four years after contact with Clio, communications began again, now with several different intelligences. Feeling a taboo against it, I didn’t ask for names this time. As with Clio, the communications were telepathic--immediate and two-way. I recorded the conversations as they happened, never expecting to share them with the public. If I had thought that, I doubt the conversations would have been as light and as intimate. When I did consider sharing some of the information, it was always in terms of a novel.

From the fall of 1993, I was in contact almost daily, until the phenomenal events began in May 1994, nine months later. Contact didn’t cease then, but it would never again be quite so relaxed; it was more formal, then taking on the characteristic of messages. Then came downloads of "encoded" information.

The advent of the phenomena that breached my physical domain (the "UFO catalyst") was cause for emotional and spiritual crisis. I felt betrayed by the intelligences with whom I had communicated. Why didn’t they prepare me? They did. I would come to understand that it was part of the challenge to exercise my own mind to expand consciousness of these events and their mysterious purposes. As I moved through the catalyst, I suffered disruptions in relationships and residences. I was confronted with ridicule from the public, and suspicion in my personal relationships. The public didn’t care, and my loved ones wanted me to "change back." Stop all this nonsense. But I couldn’t. And then I didn’t want to. I wanted to solve the mystery. How could such a thing happen to a person, and the public not care? This was the greatest mystery.

On the emotional level, I felt like a victim at first, but on the spiritual level, deep in my soul bones there was a sense that I was cooperating in a purpose. This faith carried me through the mental, emotional, and physical trials. The "dual identity" feeling was with me constantly then.

The dreams, the phenomena: all were expressing in the "language and signs" of alien abduction. And yet I couldn’t "buy" the alien invasion story, the one that cast me as a breeder of hybrids, or a “plant” in some kind of conspiracy to overtake the world. Symbology for that was present in some dreams, leaked into some of the conversations, and presented during hypnotic regressions; but I had something others did not: nine months of contact preceding all this business, when the telepathic communications were intimate, and a different story was recorded in my journals, one that I understood in the feeling-remembering-recognizing way. I survived the phenomenal catalyst by keeping the faith of those early communications, remembering that I was connected to "old friends," who never left me, though sometimes I certainly felt they should have rescued me from my troubles. But they did send flower holograms, and sang to me in tones.

Over the years, from the dreams of extraterrestrials, to the communications, through the catalyst, and afterward, I was always of two minds, one skeptical, logical, and analytical--the “daylight mind,” which tenaciously clings to taught knowledge; the other, the part that "just knows" things, but has no words to communicate the knowing until I wrestle with angels to give voice to the mystery.

It began innocently enough in August 1993, as an excitement building up in me, as I prepared to host a writers’ workshop for a Seth Conference in Colorado. I wouldn’t be talking about writing in conventional ways; instead, the focus would be on the magic of communication, which I had stumbled upon like a crystal rose left on the path by fairies.

As was stated in Summoned, it began when I noticed certain correlates of letters in names and words that were meaningful to people in personal ways. For instance, the letters MO were strung like pearls on an unseen string around my life. My birth name was Moore, I was adopted by Morse, I was living in Moab on Moenkopi Street, and my best friend’s name was Montgomery. These were hints of something profound that seemed to overlay our lives like an invisible template.

As I prepared my presentation for the conference, my mind was galvanized by the mystery. I hoped to show aspiring writers something of the enchanted forest of communication beyond the concrete city of language. I was seeing something of the blueprint and inner architecture of communication, a mechanics of meaning hidden within the outward structures, like seeing, in a wooden rocking chair, the tree from which it emerged.

And so in a fire of excitement like nothing I had ever felt before, I whipped together charts and posters and handouts, marked up with the formulae and hieroglyphics of my discovery.

I was a child discovering a new face in the mirror, a soul behind the silver shining through.

By October, the presentation was a vague memory of kindergarten stuff, as I sat at my kitchen table, day and night, a student in the invisible college of communication.

It was both me bringing up into the light of consciousness memories, it seemed, of a long forgotten science of language, and angel energies attending, as if hovering over my shoulder, instructing, guiding, inspiring. The rightness, the passion, the ecstasy I was feeling made it seem that I was born to do this work, with everything else quickly receding into a pale memory of a life spent stumbling in the shadows of the sparkling world I was penetrating at my kitchen table.

The essence of the light was discovered in the letters of our alphabet, their very lines hiding mysteries of designs and energies unseen by eyes trained to recognize only the outermost meanings taught and recorded in dictionaries and thesauruses.

I was rediscovering the music of language and her minstrels were talking to me. But the form of the genius came not as melodies on the page, but rather as a hidden design glimpsed in the numbers behind the letters. These were discovered by analyzing the geometric shapes of the letters and how each related to the others, revealing an esoteric mathematical design that I sensed underlay every created thing on Earth. I had studied quantum physics, and the geometry of fractals was speaking to me. Like Benoit Mandlebrot, who discovered the mirror world of fractals, I was seeing its glimmer in language, the art forms of the letters generating pictures in the conscious mind that translated to meanings in the subconscious beyond the reach of the intellect.

As a cloud cannot be captured and studied under the lens of a microscope, it was impossible to record on paper everything I was seeing in the door of light between two worlds. The complex letter and number formulae were but chicken scratchings on the ground compared to the vision in my mind. The complexity evolved into drawings that captured the essence of concepts too large to be contained in words. Sometimes I felt a force moving my hand to draw at a level of artistry beyond my normal abilities.

It all made for a suspicion in the minds of observers that I had cracked my beam and had gone over the edge. But I knew it was not so; I discovered I was not alone in knowing about the hidden design in language. A friend recognized in my work a similarity to kabbalah, an ancient esoterica practiced by Jewish mystics. Ordering a couple of books on the subject, I confirmed that, indeed, my work resembled that of Jewish mystics. And some of the stories emerging from my work with letters and numbers were Jewish in tone and flavor, persuading me to believe that the ease and familiarity that had attended me at the table was suggestive that I had done this work before in a past life.

In one book about kabbalah is a picture of a Jewish mystic bent over a table at work. Though it is only a painting, I knew that man intimately: his soul, the passion that drove him, my own fire. It seemed my soul was Jewish, but behind and above that was this "other" beginning to penetrate my consciousness--the extraterrestrial element, like a breeze sighing through the branches of a new Tree of Life.

Tangential to my work with letters and numbers, contact with alien intelligences had begun. It was as if the energy of the work with the alphabet and numbers spilled so much light into my mind, it seemed to brighten out to a mystical landscape beyond the borders of my normal consciousness. And this, too, was familiar, and more intimate even than I had felt from the guidance working over my shoulder at the kitchen table. Now there were "voice-thoughts" speaking by the energy of telepathy, and the communications were so natural and intimate, I was swept up in the conversations without a thought of ramifications in my everyday human life.

The information conveyed to me in the beginning struck deep chords of familiarity, as if the purpose of the work with letters and numbers had been to scramble the circuits in my daylight mind to widen channels for contact with higher dimensions. I was quickly shifting into a "wave mode" of communication, finding in it an immediacy of understanding that seemed to bypass the intellect and speak directly to my soul. Unaware that this shift in communication was affecting my speech and writing patterns, for a long time I could not understand why people couldn’t "hear" me, while, in contrast, I felt I was experiencing leaps in insight. If I was to be scribe and messenger, reality was showing me the opposite: glazed eyes, conversations cut short, complaints people didn’t know what I was talking about, or hints that I was sounding awfully high and mighty, like some Mother Superior who thought she knew the woof and warp of Wisdom.

While I suffered this bewilderment, unable to understand what exactly I was doing to alienate people, I had a need to talk about events that were occurring on the periphery of contact; but not yet events that made me suspect I was more than a person engaged in communications with "old friends." For instance the dream that was so vivid it seemed like a visitation, the appearance of "Los Angelos," who also seemed an old friend, someone I had dreamt about before. Except there was no facade of chumminess that night. The widow-peaked visitor conveyed a sense of extreme devotion and serious purpose. His face haunted me for weeks.

Behind and above the enthusiasm I felt for having rediscovered an ancient art-science, which had initiated communication with the Others, I knew this was not all for my edification and entertainment. In the background, there was a lumbering purpose yet to show. I could feel it, and it made me uneasy. I needed to talk it all out with human old friends, but I had slipped into a mid-zone between two worlds, a place that would eventually be cause for a degree of isolation never before experienced . . . extremely difficult for someone who thought her talent was in communication.

I was unaware that I had crossed a line over which I would be unable to cross back. Life would never be the same. There would be no going back to the comfortable slumber of consciousness that was uninformed of this tangential world into which I had stumbled like a child discovering a magic ring in the sand and stepping inside it with all the trust of a newborn thrust into this foreign world we call reality. Earth is a world foreign to a newborn, and I was that again, a neophyte plunged through some magical hidden womb and secret birth channel, like the center of the spiral on a snail’s shell, seemingly an inert thing, but hiding a vortex as active as a whirlpool.

This was hardly the common story in the literature of alien abduction. I was well read on the subject, I thought, and nothing in my experience pointed to abduction.

Except, in 1986 there was the appearance of triangle-shaped lesions, showing blood, on my hands, and a small spherical ball protruding beneath the top skin of my left hand: a small drama I had neatly forgotten.

Though the marks and the ball suggested implants, my rational mind could not accept it, in the same way so many scientists cannot accept the UFO presence, despite volumes of documentation of sightings, and testimonies of encounters with nonhuman beings. I reasoned it out. It was ludicrous to think that a spaceship had hovered over my house, swooping me up to implant the devices with no signs whatsoever that I had left my bed. This was my intellect protecting me from evidence of intrusion. My emotions could not cope with the notion of intrusion from an unseen inner cosmos. But there was undeniable physical evidence that I had been messed with. I glossed it all over with humor and a small vaudeville of recording the incident in my journal, drawing pictures, engaging my husband as photographer of the peculiarities, and displaying the marks and the protrusion to my chiropractor. I was not inclined to anything as radical as MRI (magnetic resonance imaging) or even X-rays, for that would have been to admit I believed the ball was more than a calcium deposit, coincidentally appearing at the same time the triangular marks startled my attention.

Soon afterward, I was compelled to study quantum physics, ancient history, mythology, and genetics, not connecting the compulsion with the discovery of the evidences of implantation. It was as if my mind dropped a shade in order to forget the suspicious marks and the ball as I pursued these new subjects; as if this were a logical next step on the path of a novelist and artist. I was a virtual illiterate in the world of mathematics, and sciences beyond anthropology and archaeology had never interested me. But quickly I found in quantum physics a language that spoke to the mystic in me. Though I had no grasp of the math, reading about quantum physics was like feeding my brain ice cream sundaes.

This study would later serve as stabilization as I was jostled through the UFO catalyst; for in quantum physics was explanation of how we could move through walls and windows to enter ships that plausibly could fold through space/time dimensions, rendering irrelevant concerns about the limits of travel faster than the speed of light. Super strings, multi-dimensions, and time warp tunnels were still controversial theories, but I had done my homework. With a little learning, I could not be intimidated by people who claimed it was scientifically unlikely, or impossible, that extraterrestrials could be visiting us. The resistance to our reports of contact and encounters was not based in sound thinking, but in fear of the unknown. Scientists were just not ready to study experience as a viable doorway to knowledge.