From an Upper Floor

In each of us is our dream, our desire.   The striving, the process is the only thing worth the struggle.  This is why we work at it.   All else are diversions.   They are but a tangent of the premise.  Either the striving or the process finds the dream for us or we do not find it.  The goal is unimportant.  Goals can change.  In the search, the striving, we will find our  Self.   And we may find nothing but compromise with the Earth, the Heavens and our Self.  But because of the striving we then put all of us a step closer to brotherhood in the making.  And the next generation will find a depth, a richness and a spirituality just where they are and will build on what was a dream.  They will find no reason to tear down but every reason to enlarge the dream and depth of it.

It is not only the way of the world.   It is the way of the Universes for life everlasting.  To learn the rudiments, to learn the process puts the mystery back where it belongs.   Within the godhead and in the being who is part of the godhead.  The Divine spark resides in man.  Not only are we human but divine.  We are in God.   It is no longer appropriate to qualify ourselves as only human.   We are more.  We must bring the god premises down to where we are or lift ourselves up to where we think they are.  And our lives must reflect the highest and best in us.

Some are given greater glimpses, more in depth visions of greater scope.  But they are still only glimpses.   We all are given those moments when we know we are more than what we appear.   What it means is that from where we are, we are  to pursue in depth what it is we require to bring the greater vision to us and give greater meaning to who and what we are.  We then are able to reflect it in who we are and what we do.   It is no small thing we are asked to do.  

It is not only our world we must concern ourselves about but all worlds.  Those yet to see the light of day but also the mysteries of night.

In my mind I am still in the midst of the Big War as my generation called it.   I am collecting my belongings,  gathering them closely under my long, big black coat and huddling close to vacant buildings.  The snow is dirty  with footprints and other soot beneath my feet and I long to have it disappear so I will not be so apparent in contrast.  Across my head mortar fire pierces the cold night and I stumble.  I think I am dead.  My possessions are scattered and there is no life without them.  They exemplified my personhood and now I am not even an idea.

Again, there is another skirmish, still from another time.  A speaker stands among the multitudes and is giving forth an idea to clothe man’s mortality, he says.  ‘I give to you Spirit, for without its recognition you continue to think you are nothing.’  My life is just fine I think and my catcalls and railing against him yields only to my spatting at him and running him through the village.  I followed him and made his life miserable till we both died.

I stood watching my young son in a high collared uniform one day at smokey tracks as the long train waited for the boys to board.   I stood by impotent with grief as he gazed into the face of his young love who held her upturned face with a hand firm on her straw bonnet.  The pain etched in both faces stays with me still.   Too old to battle that war, I battled others.

In triplicate sometimes.  A young man waged stop-gap measures in a series of events with eyes that held pain written before this century began to fulfill itself and thought only this life brought insurmountable problems.  Others in great numbers have incurred wounds that modern medicine with all its magic cannot even begin to heal.  And others whose mail is  addressed to places I cannot pronounce leaves no recourse but to worry about the uneasy state of affairs.   But I know war and you know war, too.

But I do not worry unduly.   There are places in my memory box which are unleashed and in dreams I am enmeshed in wars which only the history books have access to.   My age precludes my participation in the earliest skirmishes, we are taught.   But I have the details written in my genes.  I have the human interest stories etched on my heart because I was there.  And you were, too.   We have fought the enemy and continue to fight him.  He is our kin.   He is our brother.  He is us.  I am he.