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Why the words. . .
I wrote in September ’87 journal that I glanced at Ernie and Frank’s (I think) cartoon on my desk. Descartes says, I think therefore I am. And the gent disappears after being told this and the logical thought is, if I don’t think, I am not. And like tea, I steep, how can one live…
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Within Memory Recalled. . .
Home of One’s Soul The Teachers Speak. . . Every so often, out of one’s domain, there is an isolation that swamps one. It is difficult to shake, and yet there it is, evidence that this is not home. There is a portion or many portions appealing to one, yet basically, the at home feeling…
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the morning sun on time. . begin again. . .
The lines from Tom Atkins Quarry House website from the Poem Making Rope stopped my heart the moment I read the lines . . . . . history . . . . that does not die because a few care enough to remember and live the old ways, sure as faith, and twice as strong…
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With Gratitude served. . . .
Come To My Table Come to my table and sit awhile and I will tell you tales of years gone by, attended by loves and those who held magic in their hands. We have supped and laughed and cried some, but mostly told the tales that love spun out of gold. It was…
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Why Hope Springs Eternal . . . .
The Road To Damascus. . . And Paul, on the road to Damascus, unaware of forces pulling at his thought was none the less surprised. In the privacy of mind, how could an invasion of thought not his own be in conference? So it is, in the wars of the visible and invisible worlds, the…
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Mavericks Wear Many Costumes. . .
January 14, 1990 Journal Entry. . . I was reading Jane Robert’s ‘Unknown Reality’ and came across her channel Seth saying about a world where the Sciences were directed in another way. Instead of outside of oneself, the detached observation of outside influences, for instance, studying an amoeba all by itself instead of in its…
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The Deep Within. . . is the connection. . .
I scribed October 10, 1983. . . We wait for this day. You hear the arguments in the head and you think all the while the hands do the mind’s bidding. In this we find a great interest and comfort knowing that it is possible to function in a secular life and continue to grow. …
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With These Hands. . . love. . . gratitude. . .
To Use These Hands. . . . from another time. . . As dawn breaks, my fingers of both hands curl about each other and I marvel at their slimness, their ability to elicit the feel of themselves, each digit wrapped around the other. And I think that nothing, no other world will ever…
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The Dance. . . We as participants. . . .
The Dance. . . . There is a dance that our feet learn to do when first we stand up. That dance is learned well, for even when our legs no longer dance, our phantom feet remember the dance. They itch to dance. …
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The twig bent. . from where I come. . .
I have delayed posting because of ill health. Also because I wondered if what I have been involved in has been so much busy work. At times we have to confront and reassess. And because I am heavy with verbiage, there is much verification. Not all bad and some even passable. I have written on…