In this book, Dr. Eben Alexander, a neurosurgeon with 25 years of experience, a professor who taught at Harvard Medical School and other major American universities, shares with the reader his impressions of his journey to the next world. His case is unique. Stricken by a sudden and unexplained form of bacterial meningitis, he miraculously recovered after a seven-day coma. A highly educated physician with extensive practical experience, who previously not only did not believe in the afterlife, but also did not allow the thought of it, experienced the movement of his “I” into higher worlds and encountered such amazing phenomena and revelations there that, returning to earthly life, he considered it his duty as a scientist and healer to tell the whole world about them.

Prologue 1

Chapter 1. Pain 3

Chapter 2. Hospital 4

Chapter 3. Out of Nowhere 5

Chapter 4. Eben IV 5

Chapter 5. Otherworld 6

Chapter 6. Anchor of Life 6

Chapter 7. Flowing melody and gate 7

Chapter 8. Israel 8

Chapter 9. Radiant Focus 8

Chapter 10. The only thing that matters 9

Chapter 11. The end of the downward spiral 10

Chapter 12. Radiant Focus 12

Chapter 13. Wednesday 13

Chapter 14. A special type of clinical death 13

Chapter 15. The Gift of Memory Loss 13

Chapter 16. Well 15

Chapter 17. Status No. 1 15

Chapter 18. Forget and remember 16

Chapter 19. Nowhere to hide 16

Chapter 20. Completion 16

Chapter 21. Rainbow 17

Chapter 22 Six faces 17

Chapter 23. Last night. First morning 18

Chapter 24. Return 18

Chapter 25. Not here yet 19

Chapter 26. Spreading the news 19

Chapter 27. Returning home 19

Chapter 28. Superreality 20

Chapter 29. Common Experience 20

Chapter 30. Return from death 21

Chapter 31. Three camps 21

Chapter 32. Visiting Church 23

Chapter 33. The Mystery of Consciousness 23

Chapter 34: Crucial Dilemma 25

Chapter 35. Photograph 25

Applications 26

Bibliography 27

Notes 28

Eben Alexander
Proof of Heaven

Prologue

A person must see things as they are, and not as he wants to see them.

Albert Einstein (1879–1955)

When I was little, I often flew in my dreams. It usually happened like this. I dreamed that I was standing in our yard at night and looking at the stars, and then suddenly I separated from the ground and slowly rose up. The first few inches of lift into the air happened spontaneously, without any input on my part. But I soon noticed that the higher I rise, the more the flight depends on me, or more precisely, on my condition. If I was wildly jubilant and excited, I would suddenly fall down, hitting the ground hard. But if I perceived the flight calmly, as something natural, then I quickly flew higher and higher into the starry sky.

Perhaps partly as a result of these dream flights, I subsequently developed a passionate love for airplanes and rockets - and indeed for any flying machine that could again give me the feeling of the vastness of the air. When I had the opportunity to fly with my parents, no matter how long the flight was, it was impossible to tear me away from the window. In September 1968, at the age of fourteen, I gave all my lawn-mowing money to a glider flying class taught by a guy named Goose Street at Strawberry Hill, a small grassy "airfield" near my hometown of Winston-Salem, North Carolina. I still remember how excitedly my heart was pounding when I pulled the dark red round handle, which unhooked the cable connecting me to the tow plane, and my glider rolled out onto the tarmac. For the first time in my life, I experienced an unforgettable feeling of complete independence and freedom. Most of my friends loved the thrill of driving for this reason, but in my opinion, nothing could compare to the thrill of flying a thousand feet in the air.

In the 1970s, while attending college at the University of North Carolina, I became involved in skydiving. Our team seemed to me like something like a secret brotherhood - after all, we had special knowledge that was not available to everyone else. The first jumps were very difficult for me; I was overcome by real fear. But by the twelfth jump, when I stepped out the door of the plane to free-fall for over a thousand feet before opening my parachute (my first skydive), I felt confident. In college, I completed 365 skydives and logged more than three and a half hours of free-fall flying time, performing mid-air acrobatics with twenty-five comrades. And although I stopped jumping in 1976, I continued to have joyful and very vivid dreams about skydiving.

I liked jumping most of all in the late afternoon, when the sun began to set on the horizon. It is difficult to describe my feelings during such jumps: it seemed to me that I was getting closer and closer to something that was impossible to define, but which I desperately longed for. This mysterious “something” was not an ecstatic feeling of complete solitude, because we usually jumped in groups of five, six, ten or twelve people, making various figures in free fall. And the more complex and difficult the figure was, the greater the delight that overwhelmed me.

On a beautiful fall day in 1975, the guys from the University of North Carolina and some friends from the Parachute Training Center and I gathered to practice formation jumps. On our penultimate jump from a D-18 Beechcraft light aircraft at 10,500 feet, we were making a ten-person snowflake. We managed to form this figure even before the 7,000-foot mark, that is, we enjoyed the flight in this figure for eighteen whole seconds, falling into a gap between the masses of high clouds, after which, at an altitude of 3,500 feet, we unclenched our hands, leaned away from each other and opened our parachutes.

By the time we landed, the sun was already very low, above the ground. But we quickly boarded another plane and took off again, so we were able to capture the last rays of the sun and make one more jump before it completely set. This time, two beginners took part in the jump, who for the first time had to try to join the figure, that is, fly up to it from the outside. Of course, it's easiest to be the main jumper, because he just has to fly down, while the rest of the team has to maneuver in the air to get to him and lock arms with him. Nevertheless, both beginners rejoiced at the difficult test, as did we, already experienced parachutists: after training the young guys, we could later make jumps with even more complex figures.

Out of a group of six people who had to depict a star over the runway of a small airfield located near the town of Roanoke Rapids, North Carolina, I had to jump last. A guy named Chuck walked in front of me. He had extensive experience in aerial group acrobatics. At an altitude of 7,500 feet the sun was still shining on us, but the street lights below were already shining. I've always loved twilight jumping and this one was going to be amazing.

I had to leave the plane about a second after Chuck, and in order to catch up with the others, my fall had to be very rapid. I decided to dive into the air, as if into the sea, upside down, and fly in this position for the first seven seconds. This would allow me to fall almost a hundred miles an hour faster than my companions, and be on the same level with them immediately after they began to build a star.

Usually during such jumps, after descending to an altitude of 3,500 feet, all skydivers unclasp their arms and move as far apart as possible. Then everyone waves their hands, signaling that they are ready to open their parachute, looks up to make sure that no one is above them, and only then pulls the release rope.

Three, two, one... March!

One by one, four parachutists left the plane, followed by Chuck and me. Flying upside down and picking up speed in free fall, I was elated to see the sun set for the second time that day. As I approached the team, I was about to skid to a stop in the air, throwing my arms out to the sides - we had suits with wings of fabric from the wrists to the hips, which created powerful resistance, fully expanding at high speed.

But I didn't have to do that.

Eben Alexander

Proof of Heaven

A person must see things as they are, and not as he wants to see them.

Albert Einstein (1879 - 1955)

When I was little, I often flew in my dreams. It usually happened like this. I dreamed that I was standing in our yard at night and looking at the stars, and then suddenly I separated from the ground and slowly rose up. The first few inches of lift into the air happened spontaneously, without any input on my part. But I soon noticed that the higher I rise, the more the flight depends on me, or more precisely, on my condition. If I was wildly jubilant and excited, I would suddenly fall down, hitting the ground hard. But if I perceived the flight calmly, as something natural, then I quickly flew higher and higher into the starry sky.

Perhaps partly as a result of these dream flights, I subsequently developed a passionate love for airplanes and rockets - and indeed for any flying machine that could again give me the feeling of the vastness of the air. When I had the opportunity to fly with my parents, no matter how long the flight was, it was impossible to tear me away from the window. In September 1968, at the age of fourteen, I gave all my lawn-mowing money to a glider flying class taught by a guy named Goose Street at Strawberry Hill, a small grassy "airfield" near my hometown of Winston-Salem, North Carolina. I still remember how excitedly my heart was pounding when I pulled the dark red round handle, which unhooked the cable connecting me to the tow plane, and my glider rolled out onto the tarmac. For the first time in my life, I experienced an unforgettable feeling of complete independence and freedom. Most of my friends loved the thrill of driving for this reason, but in my opinion, nothing could compare to the thrill of flying a thousand feet in the air.

In the 1970s, while attending college at the University of North Carolina, I became involved in skydiving. Our team seemed to me like something like a secret brotherhood - after all, we had special knowledge that was not available to everyone else. The first jumps were very difficult for me; I was overcome by real fear. But by the twelfth jump, when I stepped out the door of the plane to free-fall for over a thousand feet before opening my parachute (my first skydive), I felt confident. In college, I completed 365 skydives and logged more than three and a half hours of free-fall flying time, performing mid-air acrobatics with twenty-five comrades. And although I stopped jumping in 1976, I continued to have joyful and very vivid dreams about skydiving.

I liked jumping most of all in the late afternoon, when the sun began to set on the horizon. It is difficult to describe my feelings during such jumps: it seemed to me that I was getting closer and closer to something that was impossible to define, but which I desperately longed for. This mysterious “something” was not an ecstatic feeling of complete solitude, because we usually jumped in groups of five, six, ten or twelve people, making various figures in free fall. And the more complex and difficult the figure was, the greater the delight that overwhelmed me.

On a beautiful fall day in 1975, the guys from the University of North Carolina and some friends from the Parachute Training Center and I gathered to practice formation jumps. On our penultimate jump from a D-18 Beechcraft light aircraft at 10,500 feet, we were making a ten-person snowflake. We managed to form this figure even before the 7,000-foot mark, that is, we enjoyed the flight in this figure for eighteen whole seconds, falling into a gap between the masses of high clouds, after which, at an altitude of 3,500 feet, we unclenched our hands, leaned away from each other and opened our parachutes.

By the time we landed, the sun was already very low, above the ground. But we quickly boarded another plane and took off again, so we were able to capture the last rays of the sun and make one more jump before it completely set. This time, two beginners took part in the jump, who for the first time had to try to join the figure, that is, fly up to it from the outside. Of course, it's easiest to be the main jumper, because he just has to fly down, while the rest of the team has to maneuver in the air to get to him and lock arms with him. Nevertheless, both beginners rejoiced at the difficult test, as did we, already experienced parachutists: after training the young guys, we could later make jumps with even more complex figures.

Out of a group of six people who had to depict a star over the runway of a small airfield located near the town of Roanoke Rapids, North Carolina, I had to jump last. A guy named Chuck walked in front of me. He had extensive experience in aerial group acrobatics. At an altitude of 7,500 feet the sun was still shining on us, but the street lights below were already shining. I've always loved twilight jumping and this one was going to be amazing.

I had to leave the plane about a second after Chuck, and in order to catch up with the others, my fall had to be very rapid. I decided to dive into the air, as if into the sea, upside down, and fly in this position for the first seven seconds. This would allow me to fall almost a hundred miles an hour faster than my companions, and be on the same level with them immediately after they began to build a star.

Usually during such jumps, after descending to an altitude of 3,500 feet, all skydivers unclasp their arms and move as far apart as possible. Then everyone waves their hands, signaling that they are ready to open their parachute, looks up to make sure that no one is above them, and only then pulls the release rope.

Three, two, one... March!

One by one, four parachutists left the plane, followed by Chuck and me. Flying upside down and picking up speed in free fall, I was elated to see the sun set for the second time that day. As I approached the team, I was about to skid to a stop in the air, throwing my arms out to the sides - we had suits with wings of fabric from the wrists to the hips, which created powerful resistance, fully expanding at high speed.

But I didn't have to do that.

Falling vertically in the direction of the figure, I noticed that one of the guys was approaching it very quickly. I don't know, maybe the rapid descent into a narrow gap between the clouds frightened him, reminding him that he was rushing at a speed of two hundred feet per second towards a giant planet, barely visible in the gathering darkness. One way or another, instead of slowly joining the group, he rushed towards it like a whirlwind. And the five remaining paratroopers tumbled randomly in the air. Besides, they were too close to each other.

This guy left behind a powerful turbulent wake. This air current is very dangerous. As soon as another skydiver hits him, the speed of his fall will rapidly increase, and he will crash into the one below him. This in turn will give both paratroopers a strong acceleration and throw them towards the one even lower. In short, a terrible tragedy will occur.

I twisted my body away from the randomly falling group and maneuvered until I was directly above the “spot,” the magical point on the ground above which we would open our parachutes and begin our slow two-minute descent.

I turned my head and was relieved to see that the other jumpers were already moving away from each other. Chuck was among them. But to my surprise, it moved in my direction and soon hovered right below me. Apparently, during the erratic fall, the group passed 2,000 feet faster than Chuck expected. Or maybe he considered himself lucky, who might not follow the established rules.

“He shouldn’t see me!” Before this thought had time to flash through my head, a colored pilot chute jerked upward behind Chuck’s back. The parachute caught Chuck's one-hundred-and-twenty-mile-per-hour wind and blew him toward me while pulling the main chute.

From the moment the pilot chute opened over Chuck, I had only a split second to react. In less than a second I was about to crash into his main parachute and, most likely, into himself. If at such a speed I run into his arm or leg, I will simply tear it off and at the same time receive a fatal blow. If we collide bodies, we will inevitably break.

They say that in situations like this, everything seems to happen much slower, and this is true. My brain registered the event, which took only a few microseconds, but perceived it like a slow-motion movie.

As soon as the pilot chute rose above Chuck, my arms automatically pressed to my sides, and I turned upside down, bending slightly.

The bending of the body allowed me to increase my speed a little. The next moment, I made a sharp jerk to the side horizontally, causing my body to turn into a powerful wing, which allowed me to rush past Chuck like a bullet just before his main parachute opened.

I rushed past him at over one hundred and fifty miles per hour, or two hundred and twenty feet per second. It is unlikely that he had time to notice the expression on my face. Otherwise he would have seen incredible amazement on him. By some miracle, I managed to react in a matter of seconds to a situation that, if I had time to think about it, would have seemed simply insoluble!

And yet... And yet I dealt with it, and as a result, Chuck and I landed safely. I had the impression that, faced with an extreme situation, my brain worked like some kind of super-powerful computer.

How did it happen? During my more than twenty years as a neurosurgeon—studying, observing, and operating on the brain—I have often wondered about this question. And in the end I came to the conclusion that the brain is such a phenomenal organ that we are not even aware of its incredible abilities.

Now I already understand that the real answer to this question is much more complex and fundamentally different. But to realize this, I had to experience events that completely changed my life and worldview. This book is dedicated to these events. They proved to me that, no matter how wonderful the human brain is, it was not the brain that saved me on that fateful day. What came into play the second Chuck's main parachute began to open was another, deeply hidden side of my personality. She was able to work so instantly because, unlike my brain and body, she exists outside of time.

It was she who made me, a boy, rush into the sky. This is not only the most developed and wise side of our personality, but also the deepest, most intimate. However, for most of my adult life I did not believe this.

However, now I believe, and from the following story you will understand why.

My profession is a neurosurgeon.

I graduated from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill in 1976 with a degree in chemistry and received my doctorate from the School of Medicine in 1980.

Eben Alexander

Protected by the legislation of the Russian Federation on the protection of intellectual rights. Reproduction of the entire book or any part thereof is prohibited without written permission from the publisher. Any attempts to violate the law will be prosecuted.

A person must see things as they are, and not as he wants to see them.

Albert Einstein (1879 – 1955)

When I was little, I often flew in my dreams. It usually happened like this. I dreamed that I was standing in our yard at night and looking at the stars, and then suddenly I separated from the ground and slowly rose up. The first few inches of lift into the air happened spontaneously, without any input on my part. But I soon noticed that the higher I rise, the more the flight depends on me, or more precisely, on my condition. If I was wildly jubilant and excited, I would suddenly fall down, hitting the ground hard. But if I perceived the flight calmly, as something natural, then I quickly flew higher and higher into the starry sky.

Perhaps partly as a result of these dream flights, I subsequently developed a passionate love for airplanes and rockets - and indeed for any flying machine that could again give me the feeling of the vastness of the air. When I had the opportunity to fly with my parents, no matter how long the flight was, it was impossible to tear me away from the window. In September 1968, at the age of fourteen, I gave all my lawn-mowing money to a glider flying class taught by a guy named Goose Street at Strawberry Hill, a small grassy "airfield" near my hometown of Winston-Salem, North Carolina. I still remember how excitedly my heart was pounding when I pulled the dark red round handle, which unhooked the cable connecting me to the tow plane, and my glider rolled out onto the tarmac. For the first time in my life, I experienced an unforgettable feeling of complete independence and freedom. Most of my friends loved the thrill of driving for this reason, but in my opinion, nothing could compare to the thrill of flying a thousand feet in the air.

In the 1970s, while attending college at the University of North Carolina, I became involved in skydiving. Our team seemed to me like something like a secret brotherhood - after all, we had special knowledge that was not available to everyone else. The first jumps were very difficult for me; I was overcome by real fear. But by the twelfth jump, when I stepped out the door of the plane to free-fall for over a thousand feet before opening my parachute (my first skydive), I felt confident. In college, I completed 365 skydives and logged more than three and a half hours of free-fall flying time, performing mid-air acrobatics with twenty-five comrades. And although I stopped jumping in 1976, I continued to have joyful and very vivid dreams about skydiving.

I liked jumping most of all in the late afternoon, when the sun began to set on the horizon. It is difficult to describe my feelings during such jumps: it seemed to me that I was getting closer and closer to something that was impossible to define, but which I desperately longed for. This mysterious “something” was not an ecstatic feeling of complete solitude, because we usually jumped in groups of five, six, ten or twelve people, making various figures in free fall. And the more complex and difficult the figure was, the greater the delight that overwhelmed me.

On a beautiful fall day in 1975, the guys from the University of North Carolina and some friends from the Parachute Training Center and I gathered to practice formation jumps. On our penultimate jump from a D-18 Beechcraft light aircraft at 10,500 feet, we were making a ten-person snowflake. We managed to form this figure even before the 7,000-foot mark, that is, we enjoyed the flight in this figure for eighteen whole seconds, falling into a gap between the masses of high clouds, after which, at an altitude of 3,500 feet, we unclenched our hands, leaned away from each other and opened our parachutes.

By the time we landed, the sun was already very low, above the ground. But we quickly boarded another plane and took off again, so we were able to capture the last rays of the sun and make one more jump before it completely set. This time, two beginners took part in the jump, who for the first time had to try to join the figure, that is, fly up to it from the outside. Of course, it's easiest to be the main jumper, because he just has to fly down, while the rest of the team has to maneuver in the air to get to him and lock arms with him. Nevertheless, both beginners rejoiced at the difficult test, as did we, already experienced parachutists: after training the young guys, we could later make jumps with even more complex figures.

Out of a group of six people who had to depict a star over the runway of a small airfield located near the town of Roanoke Rapids, North Carolina, I had to jump last. A guy named Chuck walked in front of me. He had extensive experience in aerial group acrobatics. At an altitude of 7,500 feet the sun was still shining on us, but the street lights below were already shining. I've always loved twilight jumping and this one was going to be amazing.

I had to leave the plane about a second after Chuck, and in order to catch up with the others, my fall had to be very rapid. I decided to dive into the air, as if into the sea, upside down, and fly in this position for the first seven seconds. This would allow me to fall almost a hundred miles an hour faster than my companions, and be on the same level with them immediately after they began to build a star.

Usually during such jumps, after descending to an altitude of 3,500 feet, all skydivers unclasp their arms and move as far apart as possible. Then everyone waves their hands, signaling that they are ready to open their parachute, looks up to make sure that no one is above them, and only then pulls the release rope.

- Three, two, one... March!

One by one, four parachutists left the plane, followed by Chuck and me. Flying upside down and picking up speed in free fall, I was elated to see the sun set for the second time that day. As I approached the team, I was about to skid to a stop in mid-air, throwing my arms out to the sides—we had suits with fabric wings from the wrists to the hips that created powerful drag as they opened fully at high speed.

But I didn't have to do that.

As I fell vertically towards the figure, I noticed that one of the guys was approaching it too quickly. I don't know, maybe the rapid descent into a narrow gap between the clouds frightened him, reminding him that he was rushing at a speed of two hundred feet per second towards a giant planet, barely visible in the gathering darkness. One way or another, instead of slowly joining the group, he rushed towards it like a whirlwind. And the five remaining paratroopers tumbled randomly in the air. Besides, they were too close to each other.

This guy left behind a powerful turbulent wake. This air current is very dangerous. As soon as another skydiver hits him, the speed of his fall will rapidly increase, and he will crash into the one below him. This in turn will give both paratroopers a strong acceleration and throw them towards the one even lower. In short, a terrible tragedy will occur.

I twisted my body away from the randomly falling group and maneuvered until I was directly above the “spot,” the magical point on the ground above which we would open our parachutes and begin our slow two-minute descent.

In this book, Dr. Eben Alexander, a neurosurgeon with 25 years of experience, a professor who taught at Harvard Medical School and other major American universities, shares with the reader his impressions of his journey to the next world.

His case is unique. Stricken by a sudden and unexplained form of bacterial meningitis, he miraculously recovered after a seven-day coma. A highly educated physician with extensive practical experience, who previously not only did not believe in the afterlife, but also did not allow the thought of it, experienced the transfer of his “I” to the higher worlds and there encountered such amazing phenomena and revelations that, upon returning to earthly life, , considered it his duty as a scientist and healer to tell the whole world about them.

Copyright holders! The presented fragment of the book is posted in agreement with the distributor of legal content, LitRes LLC (no more than 20% of the original text). If you believe that the posting of material violates your or someone else's rights, please let us know.

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