HOT AIR AND ANGELS

Isabel Wolff experiences

a higher vibratory level at a mind, body and spirit festival

'OK, EVERYBODY, relax. Close your eyes. Now, take a deep breath. And release. Take another deep breath. And release. Take another deep breath. And release.' The small, airless room on the top floor of London's Royal Horticultural Society was filled with the gentle respirato- ry noises of 50 or so dedicated New-Agers, each of whom had paid £10 to attend Sharon Klingler's `Angel' workshop. Enti- tled 'Guides, Masters and Angels', it would, according to the publicity, enable them to `move beyond the barriers of time and space into the world of light to con- nect with the beings that reside there'. Ms Klingler, who runs the Starbringer Centre in Ohio, is just one of over 100 speakers at the annual Festival of Mind, Body and Spirit which has been taking place in Lon- don this week. Miss Klingler brushed her long, dark hair away from her dimpled, forty-something face. Then she hitched up the jacket of her yellow silk trouser suit and perched casually on a high wooden stool.

'We are now going to call on the angels to assist us,' she continued, soothingly. `They will take all your problems away.' Her voice floated mellifluously above the gentle, regulated breathing. `All you have to do is concentrate.' The atmosphere sud- denly intensified. 'You should be starting to experience a higher vibratory level,' she announced after two or three minutes. 'Begin to lift your frequency.' The face of the silvery-haired woman next to me stiff- ened visibly; a small muscle flexed rhyth- mically at the corner of her mouth. 'And now you can begin to hear the voices of the chorus of the angels,' said Ms Klingler, her voice rising gently. 'And you can see the fantastic light of the angelic chorus.' The collective breathing became ster- torous and more rapid. 'And now you can hear the music,' she said, 'and huge num- bers of angels are coming to you.' Her voice rose to a crescendo. 'Hear them singing,' she intoned. 'Feel the joy. You are engulfed in their light. Call to the voic- es of Michael and Gabriel, Uriel and Ariel. Your mind is vibrant with their power. And now the angels are embracing your problems and they are ascending with them, and they lift them higher and high- er. There are so many angels that there is no blue left in the sky. It is all white, white, white. They are embracing you. Yes. Yes. It is done. So be it.' A deathly hush descended, punctuated only by the distant twittering of a solitary sparrow. Then the assembled throng began to blink and slow- ly re-open their eyes. Ms Klingler smiled at them ecstatically, like a mother watch- ing her infants awake.

Did you really see any?' I whispered to my neighbour.

'Oh yes,' she replied ecstatically. 'Lots. I want to do it all over again.'

I left the angel-conjurors to it and crept away. What should I do next? I consulted the official festival guide. Should I have my karma healed or my aura cleansed?

'Clean your windscreen while you're waiting?' Should I become a cosmic thinker or dis- cover the 'Power of Gems and Crystals'? There was an interesting-looking workshop on 'Native American Healing Techniques' and another one on 'Finding the Goddess Within'. Perhaps I should be reincarnated instead. I went into the main hall and wan- dered around the exhibition stands while I tried to decide. Here there were people selling rainbow crystals and Paraguayan rainsticks; radionic amber pendulums and Kirlian 'aura' photography. There were Hawaiian massage tables, and banana chairs; illuminated crystal balls and instant astrological charts. In the background I could hear the plangent hum of Tibetan initiation bowls; the smell of patchouli and sandalwood hung heavily in the air.

'This is all about wholeness,' said the fes- tival's director, Graham Wilson, as we stood outside the Yoghurt Shoppe stand. 'People are exploring their physical, mental and spiritual health. There's a great deal of curiosity out there. We've had to increase the festival from five days to ten, and we've already had 50,000 people through the turnstiles.' Behind us the Federation of Spiritual Healers were doing good business too; so were the apricot-robed followers of Hare Krishna. To one side, a recumbent woman was having the unlighted end of a flaming candle inserted into her right ear 'They're called Hopi candles,' said the ven- dor, Mike Webster, 'after the Hopi Indians in Arizona who use them.'

'The candles are hollow,' he added. 'And when you light them, the heat creates a vacuum which sucks out all the wax. Much better than having your ears syringed. Jolly good for migraines too. Did you know that the ears are the gateway to your past lives?'

On an adjacent stand was a colourful mural of a big UFO with seven small spacecraft descending from its open undercarriage. It was entitled 'Revelations from Outer Space' and it was advertising the Aetherius Society.

'We believe that beings from other plan- ets have been making regular contact with mankind,' explained Mrs Alyson Lawrence, an earnest-looking young woman in a blue and white floral dress. 'Our founder is Sir George King. He has been named Primary Terrestrial Mental Channel, and he is to became the Voice of the Interplanetary Parliament. Since 1954 he has received over 600 predictions from the Cosmic Masters, all of which have been proved accurate.'

'Like what?'

'Like the collapse of communism and the depletion of the ozone layer.'

'He predicted those things?'

'No,' she said. 'The Cosmic Master pre- dicted them, but used Sir George as a vehicle. She paused while she sold a book, You Are Responsible — Mars and Venus Speak to Earth. 'We want to co-operate with beings from other worlds,' she resumed. 'We want to help them to make the planet earth a much more spiritual place.'

'Where do these beings came from?' I enquired.

'Well, we believe that there is life on Mars, Venus, Jupiter and Saturn.'

'Isn't the climate wrong for that?'

'Well, they're a not quite like us,' Mrs Lawrence explained, confidentially. 'They're much more advanced; they're really astral beings. They travel through space and time, co-operating with the spir- itual karmas. Did you know that the Bible is full of references to UFOs?'

'Is it?'

'Yes. Elijah wasn't taken up to heaven in a fiery chariot. He went up in a flying saucer. The Star of Bethlehem wasn't a real star; it was a spacecraft. The gospels say that the Virgin Mary was visited by a so-called "Angel of the Lord", but in fact angels are really Cosmic Masters. Jesus is a Cosmic Master too.'

'Isn't that a bit blasphemous?' I enquired.

'No,' Mrs Lawrence replied, thoughtful- ly. 'I'm interested in reality. Anyway, I'm not a Christian, because I think the Church has suppressed so much truth about the universe.'

'Some people might say you're all a bit cracked,' I said to Mrs Lawrence's hus- band, Richard, who is Secretary of the European Aetherius Society Head Quar- ters.

'I think very few would say that,' he replied. 'And, in any case, some of the greatest figures in history have been described in that way — just look at Galileo!' He paused for breath. 'You've got to investigate — that's what all these people at the festival are doing — and I think as the years roll on and the Age of Aquarius comes round, people will find our ideas totally acceptable.' I went upstairs into the Past Lives work- shop, run by Denise 'Whitefeather' Linn, an American of Cherokee heritage and the festival's star attraction. She was in the pro- cess of regressing 240 people simultaneous- ly. She has been known to regress as many as 900 people at one time. She instructs her clients to relax, concentrate, and imagine that they are going backwards down a long, dark, mist-filled tube; then, when she gives the word, they allegedly pop up in some previous life. Exploring the decisions they made in this past life helps them to solve problems in their present life. I crept in during the post-regression 'sharing' session; Ms Linn, a glamorous figure in white, was only just visible on a stage at the far end of the crowded room.

'Any luck?' I whispered to a thin Ameri- can girl, Susan.

'Yes,' she said. 'I was a soldier. I died in a battle. Someone threw a hand grenade at me. It was sad.'

'What about you?' I asked Jane, a British teacher. 'Nothing,' she replied. 'Not a sausage. I just couldn't do it. Anyway, I don't really believe in all this stuff.'

'Then why have you paid £30 to come to the workshop?'

'My friends thought it would be a good idea,' she explained.

On my way out of the festival I visited the ladies. 'I've never seen so many inse- cure people in all my life,' said a cleaning lady rather contemptuously as she emptied a bin. 'What a bunch of weirdos. And these healers — some of them would put a spell on you!' She laughed, then she lowered her voice. 'And I've been finding some pretty funny-looking cigarettes in here, I can tell you.' She smiled indulgently. 'Mind you, it could have been worse. It could have been syringes.' She secured the neck of the black bin-liner and gave me a sympathetic look. 'Never mind, dear, I expect you've had a nice time. Will you be coming again next year?'