Diary of a Yogi: A Book of Awakening

Diary of a Yogi: A Book of Awakening

by Guan Shi Yin


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Based on the life of Altair Shyam
A mystical tale of revelations and transformation.
A book of beauty and presence that transforms the way you love and opens your heart to the miracles of this precious lifetime through the power of pure intention.

"This is it. Diary of a Yogi - a True Story is more than a book.
It is a journey you take that will profoundly impact your life.
This is your chance to go into the forest and emerge transformed."
Jane Tara

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781982212308
Publisher: Balboa Press
Publication date: 09/20/2018
Pages: 194
Sales rank: 235,810
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.45(d)

About the Author

Altair Shyam is a teacher, healer, and mystic who guides the way of love, unity, and harmony for the New Gaia. Altair has an extensive background in healing, teaching, and education and holds degrees and certifications in counseling and alternative health, business, and mindful and heartful education. This is his second book.

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Mary pressed her jade cross close to her heart and moved through the brightening morning, taking care to keep to the trees out of sight of the early-morning workers. It was surprisingly quiet. The three lines of apple trees, heavily laden with fruit, ran the length of the orchard and caught the rising sun glistening on their dew as if they were dressing themselves to be more attractive for the first pickers. Mary caught a glimpse of the Maori elder, a tohunga, walking toward her from afar in the light of the morning. She reached for an apple and looked back the other way, avoiding the glare, and stepped back along the path to the tallest tree. That part of the path was still in the gloom and decorated with golden lanterns inset with tiny silver candles whose flames flickered in the early-morning breeze. The seats along the path were oak, not pine, and reserved for special guests who loved to stop and sip the home-made apple cider.

Mary stopped beside the first bench and touched the wood gently. It gave off an amiable scent and a warmth like a friend beckoning her to sit with him or her.

"Everything will be okay," she whispered to herself.

She had encountered tohungas (elders) before and knew they were able to shift form and travel across worlds if they wished. It was just as her grandmother had said, just like the stories she had been told.

She only wants a minute, she reminded herself. It can't be that bad. Stop worrying.

But she held the jade cross more tightly against her chest. She strode ahead down the path and through the open door to the packing shed at the other end of the orchard.

No one here, she thought, ignoring the sign that said: "Wipe your feet." Thank goodness for that.

Settling herself on one of the old packing crates just inside the door to steady her nerves, Mary's eyes darted back and forth along the walls of the shed and out through the door. The only light came from the sun and settled quietly on an old, beat-up crucifix that hung on the wall above an equally old advertisement for the orchard's Gala apples, which the owner prided herself on. Mary had lived most of her life in the Far North, so this working holiday in the Deep South was a rare foray into the liberty of southern charm. She had never been away from home before and had never met an elder. She had thought that kind of meeting was reserved for more distinguished people than she was.

She stood up and looked around.

The light moved and settled on her shoulder.

"Can I go now?" She was talking out loud to St. Anthony. Whenever she was in trouble or worried, she would ask him for help.

She felt a warmth extend out from her heart as if the saint had placed his hands there.

"Okay, okay." She took a deep breath.

The room was big, with a pool table in one corner for smoko, or break time. The ashtray at one end was littered with cigarettes. Along one wall was a stack of crates for packing, stored about five high. A jar with drooping violets and chrysanthemums needed changing, its water browned with hints of green mold at the sides.

"They could do with a clean," she said under her breath.

She sat on an old leather armchair filled with newspapers that crackled as she sat. She pulled her legs up and hugged her knees to look at the last wall, the one adjacent to the door. There were family portraits going way back in the owner's history — at the far end, a fierce warrior wearing a long, feathered cloak with tattoos covering nearly all his body. He stared at her with mana and authority, powers she felt she didn't possess.

"What are you looking at?" she said in response. But before she could wonder if those eyes really saw anything at all, she heard a shuffle of feet wiping themselves on the mat outside the door.

She shrank down in the armchair and wished she could disappear. She couldn't hide, but she could be quiet. Very, very quiet.

The light seemed to change in the room as a woman entered. Mary was dazzled for a moment, so she could only focus on the woman's legs and bare feet. Slowly she made out an outline. She was very small, Mary thought.

Then a deep voice boomed, interrupting her thoughts, "KIa ora. Hello, Mary. My name is Alice."

It was the tohunga. Mary held her breath, not daring to move. She thought she could see another figure beside Alice but shook her head, thinking it must be her imagination.

"How do you know my name?" whispered Mary. The voice was small and didn't even sound like hers and shook a little.

"I expect you will understand all that in due course."

Mary just nodded.

"And you've brought the future for me?" smiled Alice, reaching out to take one of Mary's hands.

"Yes, well ... er, no, I didn't know exactly why we were meeting. You did say it wouldn't be for long."

"That's right, just a minute in your time ..."

"A minute in my time?" Mary could feel the old woman's grip tighten around her own.

Mary bent slightly, trying to wrest her wrist free from Alice's grasp, but she was curious about what the elder could see in her hands.

She watched as Alice began to trace the lines of her palm slowly and gracefully as if she were writing on water. Alice must have been in her seventies, but her nimble, light movements belied that fact. As she continued tracing, Mary's vision became hazy, and she became aware, as before, that there seemed to be a second figure in the room that separated from Alice and settled just next to her right shoulder.

Mary was tense with anxiety. She was scared of bats and birds and crowded elevators, so having such strange forces so close was both exciting and terribly unnerving.

"W — wh — who?" she stammered. But Alice seemed to have anticipated her question.

"Your son," said Alice.

Of all the things she could have said, this shocked Mary the most. She was just sixteen years old and at a private girls' boarding school, and she had been kept as far away from boys and men as her mother thought humanly possible. The idea of a son had never entered her mind until that moment.

"Would you like to see what will happen to him? He has a fortunate future if you can help him make it into one."

A great fear was welling up inside Mary. Alice was said to be involved in magical arts with charms and spells, and her father, Hupini, was reputed to be a wizard, a great medicine man with powers in makutu(the black arts). He had knowledge beyond normal humans and could kill an enemy at a distance simply by projecting his will. Mary was scared that if she got caught up in this, something awful might happen to her.

What she saw next, however, completely banished all fear from her mind.

Alice took some toetoe grass from her pocket and rubbed it on Mary's palm. Then she began to chant a prayer, a karakia, mumbling in low, soft tones that Mary could not understand.

As Alice spoke, continuing to rub deeper now, the grass turned into a white powder that filled the lines on Mary's palm. In front of Mary's eyes, the palm became a lattice of thin, white, flowing streams across a lush, pink land. Alice cupped Mary's hand in her own and poured the thin streams of powder into her own palm before releasing her grip on Mary. Alice then stirred the magical streams of powder in her hand with her other finger until they all dissolved into one miniature ocean in the valley of her palm. She threw this alchemical mixture up into midair and all over Mary.

Mary gave a shudder as the umbrella of water descended onto her, feeling for all the world as if a puddle had been dropped on her from heaven above. Alice mumbled one more word before turning and leaving through the door she had entered and gesturing for Mary to follow.

Mary was dumbfounded. Her thoughts were racing. What had she really seen? Was she bewitched? Where was Alice going?

"Wait!" she called, but it came out as a croak.

As she spoke, she heard shouting, a clamor steadily rising into a battle cry from the far end of the orchard. And the sound of bells. A terrible sound, not like the sound of a bell calling a congregation to church but of many bells clanging as people were bludgeoned to death.

"'Just a minute in my time,'" said Mary. "I thought we had more time than that."

For although she was swift getting to the door, Alice had vanished, and in her place was a scene of devastation.

The door, the one the elder had entered and left by, now opened onto a horizon torn ragged by dense, mottled, brown mountains.

The light grew more intense. The veils of time trembled and parted and unfolded above her and to left and right like curtains drawn back against the backdrop of the mountains. The arcs of light swirled around her, increasing in brilliance and magnificence right across the horizon and touching the lips of the sky itself. She could hear the hiss and fiery bellows of vast, unimaginable forces forging weapons for battle.

"Soldiers!" came a cry, not in her own tongue but in a language and voice that was both strange and yet familiar, and she knew with a mixture of joy and trepidation that it was the voice of her son.

Suddenly, a heavy hand knocked her forward, and she lost her breath and could only lean over and pant and gasp as bullets rang overhead, ricocheting off prayer bells. She was standing in the eggshell colored sands of a main courtyard in front of what seemed to be the main temple of a monastery. Its thick, whitewashed mud-brick walls were no defense.

"Impossible!" she thought in vain as another round of artillery fire clattered off the already heavily damaged doors of the temple's central gate.

Voices barked severe orders in strained voices. The monks around her were clearly trained for fighting as they moved into a defensive formation but they were hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned by the soldiers pouring through into the temple grounds from the streets beyond. Soldiers that were heavily armed against the monks, many who only wielded farming implements and short kitchen knives. The monks could only fight at close range, and so they waited, vulnerable to snipers and attacks from the air. Though the monks exploded with fury when the soldiers came closer, so many fell, wasted lives and helpless victims in a rebellion that was not of their choosing.

Mary was dragged back inside the temple gates and crouched low inside against the thick wooden doors with their beautiful brass ornaments. An arcade swept along the interior wall alive with ancient pictures of many Buddhas. Painted in extraordinary detail with flower petals that gently melded together and Buddha's robes folding so precisely and intricately, Mary watched in horror as the first wave of Chinese soldiers defaced the frescoes as they ran past, gouging and hacking the faces of every Buddha from the plaster.

Mary looked up at the sky and gasped as fire burst from the air and artillery shells smashed into the columned prayer and chanting hall. The hall faced a huge altar of Buddhist symbols flanked by eight towering gold painted images of the Buddha. Tiny yellow flames in front of each statue flickered and then died out as if signaling the death knell of the heart of the temple, as the innumerable brass bowls brimming with cloudy yak butter were pitched and tossed into the carnage. The thick sweet scent was mixed with blood and the toxic fumes of the spent artillery shells hanging heavy in the dim light.

If she thought she had time to get her bearings she was mistaken, as another shell burst through the wall on the opposite side of the courtyard and opened to a vista of squat stark low stone buildings. Sporadic leafless trees skewering the landscape burst into flames as the soldiers passed.

In the direction the shell had come from Mary saw many platoons of soldiers coming to join the ones already looting the temple, and in the radiance of the light she was tugged headlong out of the fray and over a bridge where she saw her son. She heard a sound that struck her heart with dread. A terrifying scream. Her son. The soldiers, standing in formation to block any exit from the bridge, had opened fire.

As Mary watched, a bright line marked the track of the bullet that pierced her son's heart. He pitched off the side of the bridge and fell into the river below and was borne away. The soldiers were following so quickly that they swept past her as if she was a ghost. Their real target was the temple at the center of the monastery. They ran straight on without hesitating or turning to the side.

More artillery shells flew overhead ripping straight through the remaining walls and devastating the enclosure within.

None of this mattered to Mary. The Light was becoming transparent and the veil between her own time and that horrid memory was thinning. Her heart felt like stone, and her body was heavy. Little figures were running through the monastery, as bodies tottered and ran and were cut down in flames. The temple was a mass of twisted wood and metal, a pall of smoke rising from its centre.

The bridge clearly felt the weight of the carnage and creaked, cracked and then collapsed into the river after her son.

Mary was no longer on the bridge, but she wasn't in the river either.

"Goodbye my son," she said although she didn't know where the words came from, it could have been an older Mary that was speaking. "I have to go back across now, but I will find you, again."

Her heart thumping painfully with love, Mary turned away and flew up, and reaching out felt a hand, the Elder, encouraging her onward.

"That is where your son will die, 17 years from now in 1959, on the bridge across the River Tsangpo to the Samye Monastery in Tibet."

There was a loud crash as the last remnants of that horrid scene below fell into an abyss.

Mary was floating, perfectly still. She looked down and found her body, lying prone, in the sunlight of the orchard morning. The veil was still there, and she didn't want to return, but she made a big effort, pushing until she was gliding just above her body, one step, then another and then she leaped to the far side with all her strength. She landed with a soft thump and then a whoosh like all the air being taken out of her. Her body heaved, and she took a big breath.

After a moment she opened her eyes and dug her nails into the fresh earth to make sure she was home. There was no way back. The tohungastood some way off, then nodded to acknowledge her, turned and vanished into the trees.

Mary was alone.


Z ahor

Altair woke and seeing his mother Mary's laughing face, began to laugh too. Mary pretended to hide, and every time she reappeared it made Altair laugh harder, until he laughed so hard that he got hiccups.

She made soft shooshing noises patting him gently on the back, until he burped up the air and lay back in her arms with an angelic demeanor.

Mary and Altair were besotted with each other. Everything about the other was perfect and delightful.

"Time to sleep, little darling. I shouldn't have woken you sweetheart."

Altair was the son of a hospital manager and a hospital matron. At just two years old he began to lucidly dream which frightened him out of his wits. He had the same dream, night after night for an entire year, a dream in which he was a monk on a bridge, falling off into a chasm. The dream always ended the same way, with an enchanted sound, like Om. Altair was a very curious, gentle child with a slight build not unlike a Yogi and curly brown hair which made him look like Apollo, a nickname his elementary school teachers called him. The school lay directly opposite his house. He had many good friends but he was happiest gazing into the stars, and so he wrote to NASA when he was five years old asking to be an astronaut on the first one-way trip to Alpha Centauri which he had noticed was the closest star to where he was now. NASA responded by inviting Altair to join them when he was eighteen which only encouraged him to go deeper into researching the planets and the stars for signs of life, a habit which would pay dividends many years later when he bumped into a real extraterrestrial being.

Like every star child, Altair managed to find exactly who he needed to at exactly the right time in his life, while he went about the daily tasks of eating and sleeping, going to school and doing his homework. When he was thirteen the blessing in his life was Hannah, and he recognized her by a blue light that shone around her. The blue light appeared in front of him every time a truth or important signpost, which I call a light post, or significant person would appear. A light post is a sign on your path that you really should not miss, a sign that you have deliberately planted upon agreement with that person or truth, prior to incarnating here, so that you would know them when you met them. It may not be a blue light like Altair's. Sometimes it is an uncanny feeling that you have both met each other before. Hannah was in her twenties, tall, goddess-like, with golden-red hair that shone like spun gold. She wore her hair long and smiled with a radiance that would have shattered the heaviest darkness. She was graceful and assured and loved to hear Altair play the flute. "Do you like Mozart?" she would ask, which of course was Altair's favorite composer and "Won't you stay for tea?" she would insist, once they had finished playing a duet, with Hannah on her baroque recorder.


Excerpted from "Diary of a Yogi"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Guan Shi Yin.
Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

Acclaim for 'Diary of A Yogi', vii,
Quotes, ix,
Dedication, xi,
Acknowledgments, xiii,
Preface, xv,
Foreword, xvii,
Fact, xix,
Introduction, xxi,
About Guan Shi Yin, xxiii,
About Altair Shyam, xxv,
Chapter 1 Samye, 1,
Chapter 2 Zahor, 9,
Chapter 3 Eden, 25,
Chapter 4 Koya-san, 37,
Chapter 5 Kailash, 49,
Chapter 6 Ketumati, 60,
Chapter 7 On the Road to Sarnath, 76,
Chapter 8 Pleiades, 87,
Chapter 9 Potalaka, 103,
Chapter 10 Kalachakra, 121,
Chapter 11 Avalon, 130,
Chapter 12 Shambhala 2425, 142,
Epilogue, 151,
Free Extract from 'Diary of A Yogi Guide – Portals of Presence', 153,
Portals of Presence – Samye – Dream Yoga, 157,
Practice, 165,

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