Reykjavík Grapevine - 19.06.2009, Side 10

The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 8 — 2009
“Are They God?” I ask clairvoyant
Guðbjörg Sveinsdóttir, referring to
Ásgeir, the collective consciousness spirit
who speaks through her - also known as
Them.
Ask a stupid question get a cryptic
answer: “Everything is God.”
And for God’s sake, don’t go asking
Them who or what God is. You’ll get
precisely the same answer.
At times, I almost feel like I am talking
to an old priest or pastor, only one that has
lived many lifetimes. Somehow though,
Ásgeir never lets you get quite too close,
never lets you catch Them out. It appears,
at least on the surface, They know precisely
what They are talking about. And yet,
there is part of me that just doesn’t want
to believe all this - I hate to say it - New Age
poppycock.
I have the opportunity to ask Guðbjörg
all manner of questions since she is
driving back with me to Reykjavík from
the north of Iceland where she has just
given a two day course on how to contact
your spirit guide. I’ve been trying to think
of something that will truly rock the boat.
How does Ásgeir react when people ask
when they are going to die?
She smiles, a kind of Marilyn Monroe
twinkle, then says: “Normally They just
laugh and then say something like: “Why
do you want to know that?” Of course,
most people want to hear they are going
to live a long and happy life. But Ásgeir
are not going to give you anything on a
silver platter. They’ll challenge you, prod
you. Believe me, They’re not for the faint-
hearted.”
Two days earlier I arrived at Ragna’s
home around nine thirty in the morning
on a Saturday. The houses are tightly knit
almost like in some suburban enclave
somewhere in the American Midwest; it
reminds me of Desperate Housewives,
only without the Mexican gardeners, and
it’s deadly quiet. I listen for birds, seagulls,
sounds of the sea: nothing.
There’s a strange vibe in the air.
Maybe it’s just me.
An entirely ordinary looking housewife
greets me at the door, says, “Oh, you must
be Marc. We don’t all speak English here,
but we’ll do our best.” There are twenty
people in the living room, all sitting in a
circle, bundled up, blankets tucked around
their knees, sipping coffee and munching
celery sticks. To me, this looks almost
like a wedding shower. Most are women
between the ages of 16 and 70, but hidden
in a corner I notice one man; somehow he
almost blends into the furniture.
Later I ask Guðbjörg what kinds of people
go to see her.
“All kinds,” she says. “Taxi drivers,
politicians, housewives, businessmen,
sailors…even writers.”
“What exactly are these people looking
for?”

“Happiness, of course.” Many visit
Guðbjörg when they are having some
sort of a personal crisis; and yes, probably
more women than men. One way or
another, Ásgeir helps them develop, move
on. Some have even been known to go on
to become mediums in their own right.
“And why more women?”
“Well you know what they say about
women being more in touch with their…
emotions.”
At first, Guðbjörg herself guides
us through meditation; later, as things
progress into trance - and by now a few
are breaking down into tears - the gravelly
voice of Ásgeir’s collective consciousness
takes over. We are told to envision a light
that runs through the centre of our bodies
- a kind of celestial thread - finally rushing
out from our heads, connecting us out
into the Cosmos.
In a séance that I attended just a week
earlier, another medium, Hildur Clausen,
channelled the deceased spirit of Ólafur
Trygvasson. Ólafur’s spirit was barraged
with all sorts of metaphysical questions,
but one bit of arcane knowledge that
surfaced struck me as much the same:
all souls appear to be connected by some
kind of spiritual light-cord whether
alive, dead, or somewhere, well, in
between. This is one of the theories that
appears to be a staple of New Age astral
transcendentalism; this, and that the
universe is a conscious, thinking entity.
Origins of this silver umbilical cord
train-of-thought can be found in the
teachings of Indian mystics, but also in
the ritual and myth of other indigenous
cultures: Native Americans, Inuit, and the
Australian Aborigines. Life force appears
almost universally to be represented
by light, even in the most conservative
Christian traditions.
Much of the time, an animated
Guðbjörg jumps around the room, strides
along the circle from person to person
encouraging, cracking jokes, whistling
and singing slightly out of tune - and I
can’t quite make out the words. At times
I see her as a kind of native medicine
woman; the only thing missing is a great
drum. Perhaps this is truly what Guðbjörg
is: a modern shaman.
When we slip into meditative trance,
she asks us to imagine that we are in a
room, our very own private domain. In
another session, we exit our room and
come upon a forest down by a lake. Here
a wizened old man waits to introduce us
to our individual spirit guides. There is
not a single person when later questioned
who has not met theirs. Some are famous
spiritual leaders, numerous claim to have
encountered Jesus, Joseph of Nazareth;
others unknown individuals: a woman in
a red cape, a man named Jon. I myself
meet three guides, one of whom - believe
it or not - is a Native American by the
name of Big Owl. Each of us receive some
sort of metaphorical gift: a key to unlock
secrets, a candle to guide the way through
the dark, a knot to unravel.
I start to wonder if what I have just
experienced is so way out on a limb? I try
to equate these otherworldly visions with
other experiences: being regressed by a
psychoanalyst, an artist’s inspiration, last
night’s dreams.
Is this just vivid imagination working
overtime? Then again, what in God’s
name is imagination anyway?
Perhaps there truly is some force,
some omniscient spirit - call it what you
will - trying to reach each and every one of
us through this cord of light.
There is no way Guðbjörg could have
planted all these images into our heads
through mass hypnosis, is there?
When I finally get home, I look up
‘Big Owl’ on the internet, and to my
astonishment find that a Cherokee Chief
of the Appalachian Mountains sometime
during the mid 1800s had precisely the
same name. He was taken down by a US
cavalry bullet before his time.
For the moment, I’m simply struck
speechless.
10
Transcendental Iceland | Part 3: Crack in Time
Radio To The Other Side
In search of the Real McCoy
Words
Marc Vincenz
Ever wondered what upside down
coffee cups are doing cooking on
the radiator? If you’re Icelandic,
you probably already know. If
not, remember stories of gypsies
reading tealeaves? Since most of
us don’t use tealeaves anymore,
we reach for the next best thing—
the dregs of filter coffee. Icelandic
housewives will tell you it’s just
a bit of malarkey. But believe
me, there’s real methodology to
it—apparently each dribble is just
like a reading line on a palm. Once,
not so long ago, there was no
TV and no Internet; it comforted
you through the long winter,
and foretold the early arrival of a
brighter, warmer spring.
1. Big Owl takes control
Marc Vincenz keeps delving into Transcendental Iceland.
Next issue: I attend a séance, meet the spirit of someone who claims to know
Adolf Hitler personally, and ask him all sorts of unnerving questions.
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