Free EBook Samples: Free ebook sample of "The Alpha Soul: Pursuing Your Premortal Purpose" by Keith Clark

THE ALPHA SOUL: PURSUING YOUR PREMORTAL PURPOSE

BY: KEITH CLARK

Cover: Reverie , by Ryan Bliss

© by Ryan Bliss

©2011

All rights reserved

Printed by Lulu Publishing

FORWARD

By: Skye C. Byrne

I don’t think it would be incorrect to say that many people at this time in the history of our species have a lot of fear and a lot of confusion. The fear manifests in many forms: fear of the future, fear of getting older, fear of getting sick, fear of not having enough, or doing enough, or being enough, and of course, fear of dying—and so does the confusion; we don’t know who we really are, what we should be doing, why we’re doing what we ARE doing, or what the point of it all is.

I wonder if any of these common fears and confusions can even begin to be addressed, let alone resolved without an understanding that this physical life we are currently inhabiting is only one fraction of our “real” life, and that the person we think we are—John or Sarah or Tom or Barbara—is only one tiny aspect of our “real” self. . .?

Not very many pages into The Alpha Soul, you should feel the clouds of fear and confusion give way to a bright, blue sky. By its end, I believe you will have the courage and faith to begin to live the life you really want to live—the life that will fill you with happiness, peace, and fulfillment—and the life, perhaps, that you were MEANT to live.

My single experience of Keith Clark is of someone who gives completely and unconditionally of himself, at every possible opportunity. And so, because of that, and because of the magnitude of what you might discover within these pages, this book truly is a gift. You owe it to yourself to open it and take the journey from the dark into the light, from fear . . . into the Alpha Soul.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I’d like to express gratitude to all those who’ve made this book a reality through their support and, in many cases, tedious hours of counsel and correction. First, to my Divine Maker, the source of the inspiration I’ve been so fortunate to channel. To my wife and daughters, each of whom carries me through the most difficult times, and to my mom, the first to believe and appreciate this work.

I’d like to thank my father, who instilled in me a love of words; Chris Riseley, who told me as a college freshman I could write and helped me believe I could; Sgt. Maurice Hudson, who gave unreserved support over and above his job description in Iraq; and Royden Shurtz, who introduced me to a life of self-improvement in the first place.

My eternal appreciation goes out to Michael Blair, who helped restore my sanity after The War, and to Darren Coleman, who gave me the space to be me when I struggled to find myself. Finally and sincerely, to Susan Richardson, whose work with words and straightforward advice took this book from tolerable to terrific.

To Alison

Whose brilliant Alpha Soul

Lights an eternal beacon

INTRODUCTION

Eternity reflects you . . . really, the “you” that lived before birth and will survive when you die. Within these pages you’ll ponder what your past life might have been like and what your future may hold. Here will unveil an allegory of pre-life, past-life, and mortal life, with no jilt in rhythm or pause for break. Just as your existence on earth passes promptly, the story rolls forward and flashes backward, simultaneously offering answers and raising questions. Your only alibi is “you”: your only bookmate. As your eyes peruse the paper and sift the pages, you might fall in love with what you find. The three possible candidates: You as you are, were, or will be.

Life cannot be quantified by the gap between birth and death, but by the quality of the relationship with the person who wears your clothes, sleeps in your bed and reads the thoughts from your head.

The soul, itself, will be reintroduced throughout these chapters, the soul that seeks acquainting with itself.

You, the Alpha Soul, introduced as “the light that dwelleth in every man (or woman) that cometh into the world,” make up The Tao, The Intelligence—The Mind beyond the mind—the eternal and invincible you, the one beyond fears and limitations. This book seeks to introduce you to this micro sun that gives your soul its life, to tell you where it came from and where it’s headed, to present a clear picture of its relationship to our spirit and body, and to expose you to the motivation and power that springs from discovering and uncovering its light. In order to fully understand this authentic intelligence, or original nature, we must plunge into the depths of our eternal history, call it past or pre-mortal life or lives.

We can know the nature of water only by the quality of the spring. The answers you find herein will not only clear the fog from your stream but will explain what kind of trickle pursues the course. The phrase “human being” posits nothing except an image of a humanoid with two legs, two arms, and an intellectual capacity slightly greater than monkeys.

The real question isn’t who are we, but what are we? We know that we’re different from animals. We know we’re unlike plants. We’ve heard we’re made in the image of God, but what does that look like?

Uncovering the evolution of our original substance, from pre to post life, through the unfolding of ancient and modern mystics and other religious symbolism has brought about a refreshing revival of truth. At last the pieces seem to fit, the puzzle’s almost completed and the players agree—meaning: All over the world, religion, tradition, ancient

CHAPTER ONE

VIVID PEACE

(Based on actual events)

On one of those hot, hazy mornings when your brain turns to mush and your machine gun barrel becomes too hot to touch, I guarded the gate wearing an unbearable forty pounds of clothing and gear. The thermometer signaled 125 degrees Fahrenheit. The dusty bunker smelled rank with body odor and urine and every square inch of concrete lay tarnished by battle flack and filth.

All day long guards stopped and searched cars before allowing the vehicles to enter the base. We had been instructed to watch for white BMWs and Iraqi Police trucks, both of which had been stolen by terrorists earlier that week. My watch noted quarter till two and I had already picked out three or four white BMWs amid the random traffic, not unlike seeking a particular clown among many in a circus.

I folded my arm around my bulletproof vest to support the butt of the M-240 machine gun which I pointed out at the street. No one could pass without the commander’s approval, which authorized lethal force against potential intruders.

A roar on the distant asphalt pierced our ears. In an instant, two vehicles rocketed toward the gate. My right hand cocked the first round into the chamber as I spun the weapon to the left, aimed at the first car that entered the kill zone. My heart pounded in my chest. I needed only to pull the trigger and let the bullets rip through the driver side window.

A feeling of peace that I can still vividly remember passed over me. “Everything’s going to be all right,” it seemed to say. My trigger finger didn’t budge.

The vehicle in pursuit pulled twenty feet to my right and stopped. I identified it as an Iraqi Police truck! A man in an officer’s uniform leapt to the ground—armed! Not moving my machine gun from the first vehicle, I drew my pistol and pointed it at the man’s chest, safety off, trigger ready.

Again, the feeling that “everything would be fine” eased my anxious hands.

The gate sergeant and an Iraqi translator frantically questioned the anxious passengers of the supposedly “hot” vehicles. When the guards discovered that two Americans and a legitimate Iraqi Police Squad occupied both, they harshly scolded the vehicle occupants for their radical approach to our position. “You know that gunner almost killed you, right?” the sergeant shouted at him, pointing at me. My training urged me to shoot them. Authority would be on my side. If I had shot them, I wouldn’t suffer any judicial consequences. The tragedy would be chalked up to “all in the line of duty,” but I would have borne the guilt forever for killing six innocent people.

I’ve never forgotten the halting voice that saved those strangers. I’ve often labeled it as God. Could it have been my own feelings? After growing up in a very religious family, I had strayed far from the standards of my faith and the internal compass of my own conscience. If it had been God, why would He interfere, and why would He talk to me?

***

After Iraq, my social, spiritual, and personal life fell even lower. Despite my experience with the forewarning voice at the guard post, I felt alone and completely disconnected from any higher power. Though I worked for a beer company and an auto parts store in Virginia, I knew I had been born for greater things, but I had bought into society’s way of thinking: Security over purpose. And I felt financially secure, until one day . . .

Driving to church gave me a rare break from routine and the opportunity to get out of the apartment and socialize. After entering the glass doors of the brick chapel, I slipped into the back pew, the least noticeable aisle, and straightened my tie. It felt uncomfortable to be a part-time churchgoer in such an active congregation. I sat so far back I could barely hear the discourse. My body ached from work and my collar irritated my neck. Why had I traded such a beautiful morning for such a boring infusion of monotonous rambling?

Suddenly, in the middle of the preacher’s sermon, a voice spoke, the same one I’d heard in Iraq. “Leave now!” That’s unusual, I thought, God telling me to leave His house. Then a slice of reality sunk in. I had been offered a temporary construction job in Arizona to help out a family member, and had turned it down, twice. I needed to “leave now” and take it. I may never have listened, had not an unseen energy accompanied the prompting and made the idea seem exciting and adventurous. I walked out of the church immediately and returned to my apartment, where I made some phone calls, packed everything I could (including a parakeet) into my Jeep, gave away the rest of my furniture and possessions, and set out to cross six states.

This change of environment eventually resulted in a higher education, a shift in career choice and a marriage.

What follows, in this book, results from vital life decisions like this one. A higher power ended up directing each one of these decisions at a time when I felt completely unworthy of direction, content to live without it. I hope that by reading this book, decisions may come your way, decisions that inspire you to action beyond your presupposed worthiness and above your current capacity. The following will help you understand your identity, the original purpose to your life, and where these promptings may come from.

This book came to me by either mere coincidence or divine synchronicity (you must be the judge). I had been ardently searching for truth in a public library, pulling stacks of dust-laden books from the religious section shelves and hoisting a pile of them to the table, feverishly opening each cover. Taoism, Sufism, Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam, Christianity, Kabbalah, Mormonism and religions I didn’t even know existed.

I wanted the answer to one question, one question that summed up, for me, the purpose of life and my true identity. I made the following inquiry: Did something eternal exist within me before my spirit and body formed?

I knew, as we all know, that almost everyone will physically grow old, suffer and die. I also knew, from my own observations and also from a fervent religious upbringing, that if spirits reside inside our bodies they aren’t all the same and they definitely aren’t all angels.

My inherent, inner humanness thus posed this all-important question: If our bodies will disappear someday and our spirits can be devilish and carnal, then where is this “goodness” that exists in everyone now? Where is this perfection that my humanness tells me resides within every person? Are we composed of two parts or three?

As a kid I used to watch the old black and white video Boys Town starring Spencer Tracy. In that movie, Father Flanagan says, “There’s no such thing as a bad boy.” I believed that. I’d always believed that, but how could it be true if my body and spirit acted belligerently, arrogantly and sinfully?

All these and many more burning questions led me to a pinnacle of inquiry where my head, as well as a stack of religious and spiritual information, lay in quiet, dusty deluge on my bedroom floor. The answers arrived sooner than I expected, from scraps of paper, a book here, a verse there, and it seemed fate conspired to grant me the answers I’d always sought. The word “Intelligence” bombarded me again and again from various writings, replacing words I had known my entire life: perfection, peace, the glory of God, light and truth. What resulted lies before you. Within this book I endeavor to share the spiritual details of human existence, important to your happiness because you belong to the human family.

You now embark on a journey within, where all the solutions you ever sought await your retrieval.

CHEATING THE GRAVE

“Unlike an animal, man is not told by instincts what he must do. And unlike man in former times, he is no longer told by traditions what he should do. Often he does not even know what he basically wishes to do. Instead, either he wishes to do what other people do, or he does what other people wish him to do.”¹³

–Viktor Frankl

The dirt felt chill as they lowered my body into the fresh pit that would house my bones longer than any home or apartment ever had. There I would remain to rot far longer than I had worked for any company or endured any marriage. I stood near the edge of the pit and wondered what emotions I would experience if I hadn’t been dead. It would have seemed pure torture, like being stuffed in a cave and watching the entrance bricked over, especially when the spade started tipping dirt onto the last possession my lifeless skin would ever touch.

Overcome with curiosity, I submitted to an impulse and dove into the coffin before the gravedigger shrouded it with the first layer of soil. My bones creaked as the weight of the earth, black as death, and smelling of it, increased on top of me. To think of every human life ending in such a way made me wonder. I would have slept like this forever if I hadn’t possessed a spirit as my religious mother always told me. Mother . . . I always looked at her as one of those stately, composed women who mean well, but never view matters as realistic or functional when they offer their candid advice. No, I could see she’d been right. All those bedtime scriptures and “now I lay me down to sleeps” had befitted a caring parent who knew too well that someday her boy would “die before he woke” and that a soul, defined by his boyhood to manhood actions, would live on. I believe she’d had the answers all along. Oh well, it didn’t matter what I believed. Dead meant dead. What could I do now except guard my lifeless corpse and make sure my ex-wife didn’t dig me up to look for loose change?

I felt strangely comical, despite my “grave” condition, so I gathered up my spirit, or whatever energy I had left, and pushed off the bottom of the casket, rocketing myself through the soil and howling like a banshee. I rose ten or fifteen feet off the ground in a whirl of smoke and gazed down at my onlookers, only to find them leaving, all except the man holding the shovel. “Wait,” I shouted, “you’re missing the show.” No one seemed to notice, or care. Eternity would last eons at this rate. I leaned up against a juniper tree and counted the cars as they drove away. Two, four, six . . . not as many guests attended as I’d expected. I always wanted a big funeral. I never thought I’d hang around to see everyone personally (or spiritually), however.

When night came, I stood near my grave. The man and his shovel had vanished. I started to wonder how many other deceased people, at that moment, hovered around the cemetery gazing at their dead bodies. A slight shiver ran through my spirit and suddenly I felt very uncomfortable. I wanted to leave but felt overly connected to my corpse. Once you spend a lifetime with something like that, it’s not easy to leave it behind. I can’t speak for everyone, of course, but I’m sure people exist who would toss their bodies off in a snap. Not me. My body radiated health and vigor—a perfect specimen of the male figure before the train wreck. The thought was tinged with sadness at the isolated event. I saw myself racing through town in my haphazard way when the shrill train whistle became muffled by my blaring music and I missed the glare of the two flashing lights as I answered a text on my phone, and then . . . My thoughts drifted off. The real prickly notion was that I’d been alone when I passed, just as my single tombstone stood alone among the graves of countless deceased couples. Well, I couldn’t just stand there and guard it for eternity. “To H*** with my body,” I finally surmised, “What’s someone going to do, kill me again?”

The wind blew and it momentarily disfigured my form as I braked my way down the steep hill. I felt a sudden impulse to check my house and dog. I didn’t know why. I just suddenly considered it the most important thing to do. When I arrived at the townhouse, I slipped through the door. Yes, I actually walked right through it, and there lay my Daisy, pure cocker spaniel, sleeping like a baby. I paused for a moment on the hardwood vestibule, wondering what would happen, and then reached down to pet her. I couldn’t feel a single hair on her body! She did not respond. Near tears, I heard a key turn and the door opened behind me.

My girlfriend stepped in and stood next to me. She had changed out of her black dress and into a pink trouser suit. Through the large front window I noticed a robust businessman parked in the driveway, someone I recalled as one of her previous boyfriends, waiting in a Mercedes. I tried to ask her why he always showed up at awkward moments, then reached for her hand, but felt nothing. No one could see or hear me. Jackie swooped down next to Daisy and stroked the canine’s fur. “Want to come home with me, girl?” She proceeded to gather up the dog, some food and dog dishes from the pantry, and left me dumbfounded and utterly forlorn over the details I’d clearly overlooked in our waning relationship.

For the rest of the night, I sat in my bedroom in a sinking depression. I had tried to eat—couldn’t do it, the food slid right through—tried to drink a beer, which made a mess, and when I tried to sleep I found it impossible. I began to wonder: What do dead people do besides linger around lost causes, in line to get their hearts ripped out? I whispered this unintentionally.

“Do you want to find out?” A soft voice answered where my conscious mind asked no question, coming from somewhere over my shoulder. At first I thought it a hallucination of my mind, but my mental facilities didn’t speak with a drawl, and the voice definitely originated behind me. I began to pant in startled astonishment. Someone read my thoughts. I whirled around as the idea emerged that I might be surrounded by billions of dead spirits and not even see them. I saw nothing. I listened for a few minutes. Nothing. Whatever sickening mental trick I’d had played on me had ended. No more words popped out of the lurking shadows. My chills subsided . . . If only I could sleep.

Sunlight peeked through the blinds as I considered my next move. Work. I needed to go to work and find out who replaced me.

Although I disliked my choice of employment, I had an ego to placate; that hadn’t died. I couldn’t have been replaced by just anyone.

The bus station welcomed me with diesel fumes and stale cigarettes as the concrete menagerie of benches and curbs awakened my distaste for public transportation. Locating the right bus amid the throng of passengers became easy when I discovered I could walk through the crowd, but finding a bench aboard the shuttle where I wouldn’t be sat on appeared more problematic. Being a spirit and having someone sit on you could be likened to sleeping in the same sleeping bag with a complete stranger. Even if you can’t touch each other physically, it seemed a little too intimate. I grimaced and squeezed into the gap between a mother and her screaming child.

Spilling out of the crammed bus and onto an empty sidewalk, I felt relieved. I had arrived in front of the loan offices where I last worked and now could walk through the building and discover what had happened to my slavish occupation.

A flurry of commotion met me inside the marble-floored menagerie as I stepped into the secretaries’ garbage can and gazed up at the most gorgeous employee of the month, seated cross-legged in front of me. I pretended to have a conversation with her since I knew she couldn’t hear me. “What’s up, sweetheart? I always wanted to tell you how great you look in that skirt. What do you say you and me . . .” Just as I started to go into detail, she reached through me to file some applications. Forget it!

I walked through her desk, flipping-off a few co-workers as I passed their cubicles. You snobbish frauds, I laughed out loud. You’re all going to die! You’re going to end up like me and yet you spend all your time doing something you hate. I pointed my nose in a somewhat elevated position as I approached my office with an air of nauseous comedy.

In that moment, I still remained unaware of the seriousness of my condition. As a ghost, I no longer lived, breathed, or interacted with humanity in any usual sense, but I continued to pursue my desires, oblivious of the impending loneliness I’d tasted the previous night—I needed to fill my needs!

There, sitting in my leather chair, behind my walnut desk, sat the ugliest person I’d ever seen. He wore coke-bottle glasses and a shining white head surrounded by a horseshoe of stringy hair the color of dirt. His pooh-brown suit hung too loosely on his mantis frame. He spoke through his nose, producing a sickly wheezing sound with each asthmatic breath, and opened and closed my well-oiled drawers while inspecting their contents with a critical air.

My boss faced him, thumbing through paperwork as he responded to the inquiries echoing from the trainee’s nasal chambers. “The job is pretty straightforward, Mr. Stanley. There really isn’t that much to understand. You seem quite talented. I know your background consists of title work, but you’ll catch on quickly, probably a lot quicker than the guy you’re replacing.”

What did he mean, “You’ll catch on quicker than the last guy”? My fist started to clench as I reflected on all the long lost hours I’d wasted for that ingrate: Years of testing, training and late nights, only to satisfy this human leech. I kicked the leather chair. I slandered them both. I fronted the chief two inches from his nose and cussed until my face turned red. He continued talking to Napoleon Dynamite as if nothing had happened. This made me even more irate. I tried to pick up a phone book to bash Mr. Stanley in his coke-bottle glasses, but as the book sat undisturbed I ended up looking like someone doing a pantomime. I finally collapsed, flabbergasted. How could I be so replaceable? I had worked there ten years, passed every exam, closed loans no one else could touch. I slunk down next to the wall. If Hell didn’t exist, this would do. Laws, buildings, doors, and people couldn’t touch me. Their barricading influence did not make the slightest effect, but I dwelt alone, trapped with my ghostly brains and body and only myself to blame, forever.

That night, after everyone left, I reclined in my old chair—feet on the desk. G** D*** my rotten existence, what I wouldn’t give to be human again. As my mumbled words fell silent, a light began filling the room, turning everything white until it reflected so brightly I could scarcely see. When it dimmed enough for me to make out the cause, I saw a tall, very slender man with white hair and a ruddy complexion. If someone told me Clint Eastwood’s Angel had arrived, I would have believed it.

“Do you really mean that?”

Still too astounded to think, I found myself confused by the question. “Do I really mean what?”

“Do you really want God to damn you?” He drawled as if from a John Wayne film.

“What?”

“Because I think you’ve done that yourself.”

“What? I haven’t done anything to myself. What are you talking about and who are you?”

“You wanted God to damn what you’re going through, to make you human again, but you’re already damned, human or not. Don’t you see that no one is responsible except you?” His pointed chin popped back as he gave a polite chuckle that said this should have been obvious to me. “Well now,” he relaxed, “I’m here for a reason.” He sat down in the chair across from me and pulled out a round concave mirror in the same way a cartoon character produces items from behind him in mid air. The mirror measured the size of a small computer and boasted a keypad with a variety of knobs and buttons. “My name is Pete Moss. I’m here to show you your life.”

“My life?” I must have ingested some alcohol last night after all.

“Yes . . . well, parts of it anyway. I’ve been assigned to go through it with you, chapter by chapter. We’ll analyze your motives and whether or not you did anything for the right reasons.”

“Wait . . . hold it right there.” I interrupted. “You mean it’s not enough to do the right thing; you have to have the right reasons?” This baffled me. I leaned back and laughed in disbelief.

“That’s exactly right! And you’re in for a show, too. Some people really get a kick out of this.”

“I’ll bet,” I muttered sarcastically.

The angel turned on the mirror’s screen and started turning the knobs until my name appeared on its top.

“Do I have to do this?” I asked hesitantly.

“Yeah . . . well, if you ever want to abandon this life and move on to something better,” he replied. “Or I could just leave you here to experience more days like today.”

He made a good point. I had no good reason to wander around earth when I couldn’t touch anything or talk to anyone. “Okay, okay, let’s get it over with,” I relented.

“Let’s start at birth. . . .”

From that point on I received a Jimmy Stewart narration of my life, from my day of birth through my troubled adolescence, complete with video footage, compliments of the magic mirror. Short pauses occurred every few minutes so I could be asked an embarrassing question like: “What was your thinking behind this?” or “What was your motive behind that?” I always gave a brief, mumbled answer that didn’t make any smidgen of common sense now that I’d died.

When he asked me why I became a loan officer instead of a writer, I felt a pang of regret.

“Let’s go back and take a look.”

“Please, don’t . . . don’t show me that. I have no desire to . . .”

“Sometimes it’s what we’re most afraid of that we must see.”

“I really don’t want to.”

I had no choice. The mirror started flashing pictures as if fast forwarding. Then it stopped at a scene from high school. I, the classic high school geek, wearing a big curly head of hair, bell-bottom pants, and a cheesy half-cocked grin smeared on my face, watched myself almost wipe out another student with my food tray as I sat down at the cafeteria table next to Kay. Kay had been my very best friend. We’d done everything together all summer and now that school started we’d scheduled almost every class together so we could help each other with homework. I had written two novels . . . with her help. Not colossal novels, but good for a junior, or so my English teachers admitted.

The concave mirror scrolled forward under the angel’s direction. This time it stopped in my senior year of college at a time when Kay had driven from Penn State to see me. Our friendship waned back then. I had been in the library poring over my business law textbook.

“Hey stranger,” she said playfully as she slipped into a chair next to me.

“Hey.” I looked up quickly, then back at my work.

“How are you and Ashley doing?”

Ashley, my latest relationship, I didn’t want to talk about. “We’re fine.” I felt a cold knocking in my stomach and I spoke without looking up.

“I’m in town for the weekend and I’d love to spend some time catching up.”

I didn’t reply.

Purchase this book or download sample versions for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-18 show above.)