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When We Trash Our Souls. . . .
Our Connectedness. . . . There is a connectedness I see and it weaves through everything. I am not certain where it leads nor if it ever had a beginning. But this I know. It is real and it is firm and it is gutsy. Not a word that is elegant, but true to…
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The Journey Begins. . .
(When asked often lately, how to survive as a mystic in today’s secular world, sometimes the questions just need a repetition of previous work. I edit for space.) Previous entry the Teacher speaks. . . When your mentor, the Nazarene, thought man should be accountable, he did not wish for man to keep coming…
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Where Can We Go?. . . .
When I was in public grammar school and we were let out for weekly religious class to go to our places of worship, I sat on my hands in the basement of the old church and sweated. I was not answering the priest’s question and knew I would be punished but what he was…
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Awards That Hang On Our Hearts. . . .
It would never have occurred to my mother or my mother in law that there could be fun in the raising of children. It simply was not in the frame of thought in their lives. Children were work for my mother with eight and too much work for my mother in law with one. That…
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We Are What We Know. . . life everlasting. . .
When we reach the point in time that we feel there is no energy to meet another challenge, we relent and let go, we hope lightly, and prepare to depart. We have lived our lives in preparation of our next address. Those who love us know we won’t be disappointed. We, ourselves, probably not so…
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The Crucible For Memories. . .
We, the each, are nothing but memories. We are the Lord of Memories for ourselves and for those of our commitments. And what we as the crucible for those memories have made of our world. The painful we hope we have overcome and forgiven and the good will have repeated itself forever more. For the…
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We Are The Vaults of Memories. . . .
Who Will Feed The Children? . . . Unsteady on his legs, I watched my grandson bend down and pick up his book. In one motion, he touched the book to his lips. In another time, when I was young, I saw his great grandfather move with just such a motion to pick up a…
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When The Gold Shows. . . .
I wonder how many of us met last night, during the night in the class of Broken Pieces 101. I woke up thinking it was my friend Maria’s (fullmoonfiberart) post I read awhile ago on how we seem to become friends with others who are broken. Perhaps the broken pieces of us want to…
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Proof That We Came and Were. . . .
‘what is eaten at the table for conversation will determine the digestion of the world’s table.’ the teacher. . . After The Gathering. . . . I take the lemon wax and spray and wipe to a fine polish, the table where food and love have been served. I take the memories from the…
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The Evolution Revolution. . .the boot is lifting. . .
And the children shall lead them he said. And we will listen to the children. There will be stories about where they came from and who they saw. And I asked the four year old, did you have a good time with Annie? Her name isn’t Annie he said , it is Olivia. And…