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Product Description

This paradigm-busting program can teach anyone how to access their own creative power to heal and transform their lives.

In 1997, Dr. Richard Bartlett experienced a life-altering event that redirected the entire course of his personal and professional existence. Suddenly, by lightly touching others with focused intent, he could make pain instantly disappear—and, most astonishing of all, he could teach anyone how to do it. Now, for the millions of Americans looking for empowerment in an age of declining healthcare, Dr. Bartlett shares this scientific phenomenon in a book of explosive potential.


Matrix Energetics applies the principles of quantum physics as a unique and effective approach to healing. This is the essence of energy medicine.” — C. Norman Shealy, M.D., Ph.D., president of Holos University Graduate Seminary, founding president of the American Holistic Medical Association, and author of Life Beyond 100

“Richard Bartlett is an invaluable gift to this world. He is one of the few people on the planet who are breaking the boundaries of what we have imagined to be possible for humankind.” — Rhonda Byrne, executive producer of The Secret

Matrix Energetics does more than just take you past the cutting edge — it launches readers through a new set of beliefs about what constitutes health and what is possible for us to affect immediately. I have been in the business of personal transformation for many years and can assure you that reading this book will open all your senses to more of what you are truly capable of.” — John J. La Valle, M.B.A., NLP Master Trainer and co-author of Persuasion Engineering™

Matrix Energetics is powerful, versatile, easy to learn, and simple to use. It is not limited to any one form of healing. For over fourteen years, I have witnessed physical, emotional, and disease reversals, including terminal cases. Dr. Bartlett’s methods are among the most exceptional of the healing modalities that I have studied. This book will be of long-term value to all who read it.” — Christopher Hegarty, Ph.D., alternative health researcher/journalist and former editor for Alternative Medicine Magazine

About the Author

Richard Bartlett, DC, ND, holds a degree in chiropractic and a degree in naturopathy from Bastyr University. After discovering his own extraordinary healing capabilities, Bartlett created Matrix Energetics as a system for helping others access their untapped potential. He is the author of Matrix Energetics and The Matrix Energetics Experience, and has helped thousands of people transform their lives through his national workshops and seminars.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.


The Birth of Matrix Energetics

The little girl was three years old. She arrived with her mother at my chiropractic office at 6 pm, the last patient of a very exhausting day. I had driven four hours to get to my office in Livingston, Montana, that morning. The night before, I had stopped to sleep at a motel in Missoula, Montana, too exhausted to complete the drive from Seattle. I was enrolled in Bastyr Naturopathic University, taking a course load of thirty-one credits a semester in order to earn my degree in Naturopathy. Even with my heavy academic schedule, I still had to put food on the table for my family. I had not yet passed the Washington State Chiropractic board exam, which necessitated the bimonthly trek to Montana where my chiropractic practice was still flourishing, in spite of my very part-time schedule there.

Notwithstanding the title of “chiropractor,” I had somewhat of a reputation in my local community for being this strange guy who practiced weird medicine. I was accustomed to unusual cases arriving at my doorstep. In this instance, the mother told me that her little girl had gone to the neurologist and had been diagnosed with a lazy eye. The doctor told her that there wasn’t any treatment or surgery that he would recommend. If she wore an eye patch, maybe she would outgrow it by the time she was a teenager. The mother looked at me and said, “Well, that’s not good enough for me. What do you think?”

I went into a deep trance, no doubt induced by sleep deprivation, and started babbling about a television episode of Superman that I saw in the 1950s. In this particular show, a little blind girl wins an essay contest sponsored by the Daily Planet. The prize is a trip around the world with Superman. When Clark, Lois, and Jimmy go to her New York apartment to meet her, Clark is stunned to find out that she’s blind. Perplexed by this strange turn of events he asks, “Sweetheart, why would you want to fly around the world with Superman?” The child replies matter-of-factly, “Superman doesn’t really exist, but I want the Daily Planet to fly Mommy around the world so she can find my Daddy.”

In this episode, the girl’s father Dan had been out for a nice weekend drive with his young family and had a terrible accident while swerving to avoid a pedestrian. The family car had run headlong into a corner lamp post, shattering the car’s windshield and showering the occupants with shards of broken glass.

It was not immediately apparent after the accident that their young daughter could not see. She was an infant, so it was difficult to tell at first. The specialist they took her to confirmed the awful truth; she was totally blind. When asked what their options were, the doctor replied sadly that there was nothing he could do. In an effort to comfort the distraught parents, the doctor wistfully explained that sometimes blindness just goes away after a spell, but that they should not get their hopes up too high.

The family struggled to stay together in spite of the terrible stress and guilt the father had been experiencing ever since the incident. After many months of living with a crippling case of guilt, the man could bear it no longer. Every time he looked into his wife’s eyes he saw accusation in her gaze. Unable to look at his daughter any longer, he left one night and never returned home. A friend, when queried, reported hearing Dan say that he was going to join the Foreign Legion or something.

Saddened to tears by this tragic story, Clark decides that there must be something he can do. What good is it to have super powers if you just have to stand by helplessly? He realizes that if he is going to do anything in this situation, he must start by convincing the little girl that he is indeed Superman. Spying an iron poker leaning against the fireplace, he walks over and brings it back to where she is quietly sitting. With gentle resolve he holds the iron implement out for her to feel, then gently places the rod behind her, and bends it slowly into a ring that encompasses her frail neck. Stunned, she whispers, “You really are Superman. No one else could do that!”

With a sad smile Superman replies, “Yes, I am, honey,” and kneels down to gently reshape the steel poker into its original form.

As he kneels in front of her he notices with his X-ray vision that there is a little piece of glass in her eye, lodged near the optic nerve; perhaps that could be the cause of her blindness. Later that day Superman talks to a surgeon, who agrees to perform exploratory surgery (this is before lawyers, of course) in an attempt to restore the child’s sight, assisted in the procedure by Superman’s X-ray vision.

The little girl regains her sight and flies around the world with Superman. When they fly back through the window of her New York apartment, Mom and Dad are there holding hands like young lovers. (Superman has already found Dad and brought them together with the hope that they will reconcile if given a little interval of time.) Sigh. Another half hour of fantasy with the requisite happy ending.

As I finished telling the story, coming out of my sleep-deprived haze, I turned to the mother and said, “I have no idea why I just told you that.” As I gazed at her, I noticed that standing to her right was none other than George Reeves as Superman! “I must be delusional,” I thought, but there he was, a three-dimensional hologram, his red cape flapping in a non-existent breeze. I could have reached out and touched him. A beam of light traveled from his eyes to the little girl sitting on my exam table. With my inner sight, assisted by Superman, I saw a dark blockage of energy deep within the area of the brain that houses the connections for the optic nerve.

I’ve been used to strange things happening in my practice. In fact, I have come to rely upon incidences of intuition, “magic,” or the seemingly miraculous to occur. But this was a little over the top, even for me! In my vision I saw a yellow ray streaming forth from Superman’s eyes. Yes, I know X-rays can’t be seen by the naked eye, but I had to be able to see the energy in order to know that something was happening. I decided that whether this was a powerful hallucination, a messenger, or something from The X-Files, it was obviously important. I resolved to pay close attention and do whatever seemed to be the most likely course of action.

I slowly realized that there was no way to reach the blockage. I couldn’t get to it, and I doubted that the girl’s mother would let me drill. I briefly considered using an intra-oral cranial technique, where you put your hand in the mouth and lift up on the plates of the skull to move it in that direction. That might have worked except that she was a three-year-old. I knew from a painful experience with my own son that if you stick your hand in a child’s mouth it can scare them, and in response they tend to bite.

As I checked my conceptual bag of doctor’s skills, I discerned no likely alternative. Maybe I was crazy, but I decided to go with the game plan of the big guy in blue with the red cape. I am a bit of a pragmatist, and weird or not, if an event like this occurs I know there is a good reason for it. I usually just go with my gut instinct, which in this case was fairly screaming at me to pay close attention and try something new.

I placed my right hand with index finger extended on the little girl’s brow, right at the location where Superman’s laser beam eyes were directing me. Suddenly, a beam of energy shot out of my hand, penetrated into her skull, and flashed into the area where I had intuitively noted the energy blockage. The blockage dissolved instantly! I could see this surging energy streak all the way across the terrain of her temporal lobes, into the occipital region of her brain. It then flowed down the neurological pathways involved with the processing of visual information.

Having completed its journey, this mysterious energy turned and shot back the way it had just traveled, coming to rest at the optic chiasm where the visual pathways from the eyes intersect. The child’s eyes appeared to glitter and sparkle, and a moment later she proclaimed, “There are two of you!” Acting on a clinical hunch, I performed a visual test called “accommodation,” and confirmed what I had suspected; she was seeing normally for the first time. All evidence of the “lazy eye” had vanished. As strange as this tale may sound, this marked the birth of what later came to be called Matrix Energetics.

An Answer to a Prayer

Just because the energy I call Matrix Energetics discovered me, or I appear to be the one who made it up, this doesn’t in any way suggest that this ability wasn’t in the universe long before my experience in 1997. Countless energetic forces pass through our bodies and energy fields at every moment of our lives. We may not have developed the sensory acuity necessary to detect them with our physical senses, but that doesn’t mean they are not there.

At this very moment, how many frequencies or bandwidths are passing right through our bodies? Think about it. There are radio broadcasts, TV programs, cell phone conversations, and microwave transmissions all around us, to name just a few. Information, in the form of frequencies and waves, continually inundates us. In order to pick up this information, all we need is a receiver apparatus and an antenna. There is evidence to suggest that the unconscious mind serves as the receiver and our electromagnetic field functions as the antenna. Our need or desire acts as a force of attraction, which programs our awareness to seek out experiences or information. That’s one reason I think the experience of what I have chosen to call Matrix Energetics happened to me. I had a desperate need and a burning desire, and I called out to the heavens for assistance. Something heard and responded in a way I never could have imagined.

What I had been doing in my chiropractic practice at the time was no longer working very well for me. My hands had been mysteriously cramping, to the point where my fingernails sometimes dug deep into my palms. It was getting harder with each passing day to work with my hands to adjust people’s spines. I prayed for help to the angels and guardians who seem to have always hovered near me, and are unfailingly present in my times of need. When the answer to my supplications came, it was in a form that I never would have consciously imagined. I just wanted my hands to quit curling into knotted fists so that I could go about my job of being a chiropractor. What I received instead was the answer to why my hands were responding as they were. Apparently, this new energy was trying to manifest through me, and perhaps, in some unconscious manner, I was blocking its flow and the full expression of its purpose. I had asked for my hands to stop hurting. The answer was for me to open to and embrace the special qualities of this energy flowing through me.

The Guardians of Matrix Energetics

My journey toward Matrix Energetics and my current life’s mission probably began one October afternoon when I was ten years old. It was mid-afternoon, right after school on a Friday. I had gone to the local drugstore to buy a comic book. Having exited the double swinging glass doors of the store, I waited patiently at the crosswalk of the busy intersection for the traffic light to change.

The walk sign flashed as I stepped off the curb. A car ran the red light and came careening toward me. I turned my head toward the sound of the racing engine and planted my feet, trying to decide which way I should run to get out of the way. The car struck me full force at chest level. The impact launched me off of my feet. I flew backward through the air, my face toward the sky, spine arched in extension.

Time almost seemed to stop. I was calm and felt no sense of fear. I recall the wind whipping around my face and the scenery going by like time-lapse photography. I felt totally at peace in the grip of what I would now define as an altered state of consciousness. At the moment before impact on the hard asphalt road, a voice that would be a harbinger of future events spoke loudly and clearly within my head. It said, “Slap the mat!”

Without conscious thought, I tucked my chin hard against my chest, flexed my arms at my elbows, and at the last moment extended my arms palms down, slapping the pavement in exactly the manner I would learn years later in Judo class. But how did I know in that moment what “slap the mat” meant, and how did I know to instantly respond to the urgent command of the powerful and somehow familiar voice that had commanded my attention, saving my life? Perhaps through a gracious helping of guardian angels? Or, perhaps I was tuning in to a universal knowledge of such things?

Years later, I had another strange and time-distorting incident with a distinctively martial arts flavor. It happened in seventh grade on the asphalt playground of my Catholic parochial school, Our Lady of Perpetual Help. My school experience was more like Our Lady of Perpetual Harassment. Kids at any age can be mean to each other, and the bullies and braggarts who perpetuate the mythic underpinnings of the grade school experience seem bound to pounce with fervor on any perceived weakness in a schoolmate. My class of peers decided I should be singled out in the pecking order for special attention, since I was both inordinately shy and intelligent. Well, okay…I was a bookworm nerd.

This special treatment had been visited on me for a number of years. Looking back on those times from the safety of my present perch, I realize that I might as well have painted a target on my face that read, “Be mean to me, I won’t object.” I had somehow developed the mistaken impression that because I was enrolled in a religious school, I should be meek and humble, love my enemies, and turn the other cheek. I was the perfect sport for a certain class of boy who majors in petty acts of meanness. Well, that was about to change forever.

During recess on the playground my tormentors were engaged in a lively game of soccer. To this day I do not know what possessed me to volunteer to play. Not being what you would call the athletic type, I had never participated in school sports. It was out of character, to say the least, for me to overcome my timidity and ask to participate in the afternoon soccer match. It was also out of character for my classmates to somewhat graciously allow me to play. Something was up.

I began to play and in my only deft sports moment in history, and to my utter amazement, I captured the ball away from the captain of the soccer team. He fell to the ground, landing on his chin and grazing his face along the tarry surface of the hot, hard asphalt. His face burning with acute embarrassment and a cold fury, he rose to his feet and rushed at me with his hand balled into a fist. I gulped once and prepared to experience pain. Raising my arms toward my face, I cowered behind my hands in a feeble attempt to fend off the brunt of the coming blow. Then something completely unexpected and magical occurred.

Time slowed way down (again), as I watched the enraged bull charge very slowly toward me. As the extended arm of my attacker came closer, I was seized with a strange inner confidence and ability that nothing in my previous experience could have foreshadowed.

I had all the time I could ever need. My hand rose up of its own accord, palm intercepting and seizing the fist that was hurtling toward my face. With precision and grace, I caught the fist in my outstretched palm, allowing the momentum of his punch to continue forward. I sidestepped and simultaneously dropped my leading shoulder, deflecting the momentum of his swing.

Next, I pivoted smartly on my heel. As his arm passed over my lowered shoulder, I simultaneously turned into his body, lifted him up, and threw him expertly to the ground. My assailant lay stunned, his outstretched arm still in my hand. Taking a quick step forward, I planted my right heel against his throat. My impromptu kata now completed, time suddenly sped up again, and I found myself staring down at the somewhat bewildered face of my would-be attacker.

Graciously, I bent over to help him to his feet, as a shocked and perplexed throng looked on. Undoubtedly furious at this unexpected turn of affairs, he punched me in the face and stalked off, to accompanying boos from the spectators. This incident spelled the end of his popularity, and signified the dawning of a whole new chapter in my life.

Later that day, some girls in my class looked in my locker and discovered a book on Ju Jitsu by the popular author, Bruce Tegner. From that moment on, no one ever picked on me again. Rumors quickly spread that I had been secretly studying karate for a long time. Well, every dog has its day. I wonder what they would have said if they knew that I had bought that book two days before the incident and had not even cracked the cover?

One More Lesson

As if the previous two episodes weren’t enough to get my attention, I was certainly awakened to the powerful forces at work in my life during the next strange event that happened to me. It was just after four in the morning on a bitterly cold January day in Bozeman, Montana. I did not want to get out of bed. Quickly, I went through the arguments for and against what I knew I had to do. Let me see now, I am nearly broke, my kids are hungry, the light bill is past due, and I am not yet seeing enough patients in Bozeman to support my less-than-extravagant lifestyle. I’m definitely not a member in good standing at the local country club.

The wind was blowing hard, and a solid sheet of glistening snow was steadily falling. It was not an ideal day for a six-hour road trip to beautiful, if rustic, Missoula. But my contacts there had booked a solid weekend of clients for me. I was quite likely to make more money this weekend than I had made in the entire previous week. In my previous incarnation as a professional musician I had never missed a single gig, and I wasn’t going to start now. The show must go on. That issue decided, I wearily pulled on my jeans and sweater and went to the closet for my heavy coat and snow boots.

As I left, my wife called out to me, “Be careful of black ice!” I had never seen black ice so I didn’t believe in it. Shrugging off her caution and resolving not to be late, I put my foot down on the gas, and my vintage 327-cubic-inch engine and I surged uncertainly forward down the deserted highway. Thank God the roads are empty. I should be able to make up some time on the long straight stretches of road that lie ahead of me.

Just outside Butte, I encountered the very phenomena that my wife was always worrying about: the legendary, slippery, and all but invisible black ice. Not only did I belatedly discover the reality of its existence, but a patch of the stuff on an icy bridge just outside Butte’s city limits had my name on it. I barreled headlong toward my destiny at a speed in excess of 80 miles per hour. With the great time I was making, I’d be in Missoula soon. But then my tires started across the patch of slippery death that had formed in the center of the bridge. Horrified, I felt my wheels begin to skid out of control. In a panic, I took my foot off the gas and gently pumped the brake pedal, but I was moving too fast.

I frantically applied my brakes more forcibly, fishtailing the back end of my car so that I was now racing head-on for the bridge’s pylons. I looked down at my speedometer seconds before impact and noted that it showed a crisp and lethal 65 miles per hour. I was staring death in the face and it was grinning back at me. Accepting my fate and abandoning all illusion of control, I put my hands up to my face and screamed with all of my heart, “Archangel Michael, help!” Then I hit the pillars of the bridge.

There was a blinding flash of electric blue light and then nothing. I felt as if I were floating, suspended in a big blue bubble of protective energy so thick that no harm could befall me. Archangel Michael is the defender of the faithful and the protector of the innocent. I believe in the concept of Grace, and perhaps my earthly allotment of this precious quality was not yet used up. Whatever the reason, I found myself sitting in my still-running car, in the middle of nowhere on an icy stretch of bridge, completely unharmed!

After several minutes, I recovered enough to take stock of my situation. Trying to open the driver’s side door, I discovered that it was tightly crumpled, so I had to roll down the window and climb out. I was shocked to see that my whole front end was crushed up toward my windshield. It was the dead of winter on a deserted snowy road, and no one else appeared to have been so foolish as to drive in these conditions. If my car would not run, I would probably perish anyway, as the wind chill index had driven the temperature down to fifteen degrees below zero. I wondered if my life had been saved from certain death so that I could slowly freeze to death. “That’s very funny, God; I love you too!”

Resigned to deal with whatever came next, I climbed back through the car window, slid behind the wheel, and put the car in reverse. I held my breath in fearful anticipation. The wheels spun a little bit and then, finding a purchase on the slippery road, I backed up and threw the transmission into drive, continuing on my appointed rounds. I arrived without further incident at my destination and went to work.

When it was time for the return journey home I pulled into a gas station and filled up the gas tank. Other than that, I could do little else to check the serviceability of my vehicle, as the hood of my car was so thoroughly crumpled and mangled that I doubted it would ever open again. Trusting that divine intervention was working well so far, I drove home to Bozeman, silently entreating the class of angels who doubled as car mechanics to hold the car together just a little while longer. I pulled into my driveway, and just before I turned the key, the car’s engine seized up and sputtered to a stop for the last time. The car was such a total wreck that I later had to have it towed away for scrap metal. Once again, my guardian angels had come through on my behalf, and gratitude doesn’t begin to cover how I felt — and continue to feel!

A State of Being

Our culture has taken things such as near-death experiences and mystical encounters, and shunted them off to the side where they can be avoided by normal consensus reality. Typically, the Western medical attitude toward people who see visions is to prescribe drugs designed to curtail that state of altered awareness so that they will fit in with the expectations of polite society. Contrast this with shamanic cultures and traditions, where you might ingest sacred substances to induce an altered state in order to divine your life’s purpose. An encounter with an angel in that reality is encouraged as a normal part of life.

When I was in Bastyr getting my N.D. degree, I took a course called “Abnormal Psychology.” We were studying schizophrenia and so-called delusional states, talking about how hearing voices in your head was a bad thing and to be avoided. I raised my hand to ask a question. My professor looked up from the assigned reading and acknowledged me with a bit of a grimace. Alas, he knew me well. Not wanting to disappoint his expectations, I innocently asked, “I hear voices in my head — and they told me to go back to school and get my Naturopathy degree. Does this mean I am schizo-something or another? Should I have opted instead to ingest a course or two of psychotropic meds?”

A grin broke through his usual sardonic manner as he replied, “No, that’s probably just normal for you, if any such term applies in your case.” What could be more normal or sane than listening to the voice of inner wisdom as if your life may depend on it? I can tell you from experience that sometimes it does. What do you think would have happened to Moses when he heard the voice of God speaking from the burning bush if there had been psychiatrists traveling with the tribe of Israel? Contemplate that for a while. Can’t you just see it? The tribal psychiatrist learns that Moses is hearing voices again and prescribes some noxious plant root, or mercury, or whatever was available to them at that time to make the voices to stop. I wander where that would have led: certainly not to the land of milk and honey.

To use Matrix Energetics you do not need to have had such non-consensual experiences. Superman does not need to appear, you do not have to be clairvoyant, and you do not need to have a near-death experience. All you need is to shift the way you see and experience reality around you. The practice of Matrix Energetics is a state of being, not a technique. You can use techniques to measure and track what you are doing, but the key element is tapping into the matrix and holding the state of possibility. Sounds easy — yes? Believe me, it is remarkably easy to do. But first you must be able to experience a new possibility that will counteract the years of conditioning that you have experienced by living in this world.

Copyright © 2007 by Richard Bartlett


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