For What It’s Worth

A warrior does not give up what he loves, he finds love in what he does.

The warrior stands rebellious, graphite sword in hand, contemplating over a cosmic plain.  Below him or her is a spinning sphere full of trials, tribulations, threatening adversaries, and tempting shortcuts.  Across the plain rises a mountain called mentality, full of promise but harboring a myriad of challenges.  On the other side of the mountain awaits something of which they are not exactly sure.  Could it be valor, transcendence, illumination, possibly enlightenment?  Or perhaps something more sinister hides behind the mountain in the shallow shadowed valleys below.     

All he or she knows is that they must carve a chivalrous path through life’s uneven landscape and scale the mountain, leading the way for those who seek something better on the other side.  They must guide with empathy and compassion through the shades of peril that lay ahead.  They know that death is an option from which they cannot opt out of.  They are very aware that survival could escape them, but they are prepared and are capable of leading those they love to safety regardless of their own well-being.  But they are also confident and their spirits can barely contain themselves.

Follow Your Heart

The warrior wears their heart as a shield, protecting what they love from the evil that lurks in the dusk of fear.  They defy the nightmares of deceit, false belief, and the judgments that create suffering and false happiness.  It is a war that once was waged within their own hearts and minds.  They stare fear in the eye with an awareness that the inner conflict of adversity has already taught them.  They know that truth, divinity, and unconditional love are what lie ahead on the other side of fear.  They know what is at stake and it is more important than anything else to them.  It is Freedom.  Or call it cerebral liberty if you will.

The warrior breathes benevolence for what they wish to protect, in this case, the reverence of love, and freedom of the mind.  Their tears are hidden behind their eyes, for it is love, not hate, which motivates.  They acknowledge that bravery comes in the presence of fear and not in its absence. Afraid or not, they keep emotional arousal at bay and instead use its energy to finish the task at hand.  They are confident in their skills of struggle and that conceit is an exploitable weakness.  They feel everything that everyone does, but answer otherwise.  Their commitment to peace and harmony is deeper than any river they have ever crossed.  It is what they live, love, fight, die, and write for. 

The warrior knows that in order to win the war against fear, they require awareness, valor, discipline, and promise in order to transform the emotional body of the whole.  They know their inner strength is a weapon but how it is used depends on their hearts and minds, and of course their soul. 

Be Aware

Awareness is the most vital tool of a warrior.  We often think we are aware but to be purely aware does not involve thinking whatsoever.  Awareness is unpolluted because there is no interpretation to the thinking process.  To be aware means that we perceive with clarity the truth of what is happening in the present without opinion.  In a moment of pure awareness the dialogue in our mind stops.  We see from a point of view separate from the scrutiny of our mind.  It is in the awareness of an epiphany that balance finds its way beneath the warrior’s footing, balance being extremely important, as we will discuss later on as we stumble down this road. 

Awareness is essential because it is a state of consciousness that allows us to discern between the facts and the truth, and between the story and the lies in our mind.  Our mind is filled with false perceptions and false beliefs.  The mind is crafty, but it is also full of assumptions and limited patterns of perception, it is easily fed with distraction. 

Self-awareness is the clarity to know who and what you are, and not become so entangled in the image of yourself.  Your self-image that is your utmost distraction will often misrepresent the sense of who you really are.  False internal images can lead you to lower self-esteem and self-confidence, or they can lead to being self-centered. 

Mind Your Head

If you have an idea of who you are, then contemplate that you are not that idea in your mind.  You are the one creating and discerning it.  When you become aware that the images of self that you hold in your mind are nothing but illusion, you recognize the essence of freeing yourself from self-importance.

The warrior has the courage to question his or her own beliefs.  By challenging our own beliefs, we begin to recognize the lies that cause our own suffering.  To challenge our own beliefs requires courage because it is a means to the end of the illusion of safety.  A warrior learns not to defend what we believe, but to challenge those very beliefs ourselves.  It is in this way that we are able to sort the truth from illusion.

Discipline is of the utmost importance in the spirit of a warrior.  Discipline is stringent upon staying the course when faced with the inward challenges of the mind.  A warrior must have the discipline to continue to practice against his or her own mind, without any outside motivation.  They must exercise their own free will at the command of their heart without outward representation.  This often means going against the fearful opinions in our minds that allure us with patterned illusions of both punishment and reward.  They must also carry close the discipline to follow their heart when tempted by judgment.

Love Yourself

The warrior must commit to self-love.  They can then extend that love amongst others, as well as humanity.  Self-commitment is required because along the journey we are certain to fall many times.  It is with strong commitment that the warrior gets back up again.  It is common to fall upon the fleeting judgment of others.  It is easy to love some people, particularly those who treat us with mutual respect.  However, it requires an incredible commitment to love in the face of those who reject us.  This commitment will challenge us.  It will challenge our beliefs about our own judgments, while teaching us that pure compassion is the only defense required. 

The warrior is committed to love beyond their own self-serving interests and what it will bring them.  This is how we become happy past our own paradigm of longing.  Over time, we become committed to love for the sheer enjoyment of expressing love.  This is what the spirit of a warrior lives for, to love.  They nourish themselves with the love they express.  A warrior will always express their love, even when challenged. 

The warrior always expects the best from themselves.  They may not always overcome everything they are faced with, but it is with certainty that they will give it their all to rise above failure.  They will make the best of every situation and seek to unleash their greatest potential even if they do have to dip into the madness of their own mind.  They expect to set the example of what it takes to lead and inspire others, no matter how close to the edge they take themselves.  Therefore, they must be ready, willing, and able to carry the burden, even when lost in the arid desert of their mind.   

A warrior understands that they only have one life, so they treat it with reverence and fill it with those peculiar moments that make life worth living and with those they find meaningful.  Sometimes a warrior must walk away from everything he was to find out where he truly belongs.

The Takeout

But what do I know? I am not necessarily a warrior, I am just some guy who likes to write, but I believe in something much more greater and graceful than the good we are promised.  I have a vision and I believe in it with such passion, I will seek it out until the day I die.  The funny thing is that it’s right here within me.  It always has been, somewhere deep, and probably pretty damn dark.  But it is true; there is a light of faith that will always shine through.

It is in these moments when I write that I find meaning.  The means of myself seem to meet with pen and paper.  For some odd reason, I associate words with leaving a mark on the world.  I’m not sure why. I do know it is borderline brutal to be an open book in a world that barely reads anymore.  But writing allows my soul to saunter with creative experience and not wither away to the misuse of boredom’s mediocrity.  I guess it allows my mind its daily serenity and by treating every minute as a gift—with a gift—is a great way to align my life the way that I see fit. 

So, let us stop wasting these precious minutes, and start running towards those dreams.  Starting with today, go get whatever it is you wish to deserve from this life.  Or you could just continue to put it off until tomorrow, but eventually, you will have to either walk away from what it is the spiritual path demands or stare it down and give everything that you have got to get to the results that Heaven and the One Upstairs desire. 

And for what it’s worth, the warrior knows that he doesn’t have a lot to offer, but what he truly believes in is worth something, as long as he can manage to stay out of his own damn way.

–BeLove

Lost & Found

All roads lead to the heart; where we plunge unhesitatingly into the river of passions always flowing through life.

“Just on the edge of the forest, rises a mountain, and passed this mountain lies a lake. On this lake rests a village, to the west of the village is an island. On this island sits a blissful sanctuary with endless charming bells,” spoke the lovely woman.

The boy saw she was genuinely dressed with her own eccentricities and wore a veil of light that was covering half of her face. He had never seen her around the town before.

“Have you ever visited the sanctuary?” she asked.  “Go find it. Go tell it on the mountain and tell me what you think of it?”

Captivated by the woman’s beauty, the boy climbed the mountain, and found the village by the lake. He sat down on the rocks next to the alpine lake and stared out at the horizon, but he saw only what he always saw: blue sky, sunshine, and jagged peaks.  

A bit disillusioned, he walked to the nearby fishing village and asked if anyone there knew about a hidden sanctuary with beautifully ringing bells that was once situated on an island?

“That island hasn’t been around for many, many moons, since the years that our ancestors first settled here,” said an elder fisherman. “There was an earthquake, and the island was swallowed up by the mountain under the lake. Although we can no longer see the island, we can still hear the bells from that sanctuary when the lake starts churning from a summer’s wind, and the mountain below starts moaning for air.

The boy went back to the rock by the lake and tried with everything he had to hear those bells. He spent the entire afternoon of a summer’s day there by that lake, but all he heard was the gentle sigh of the waves, the sailing wind, mixed in with buzzing bees and that of an osprey’s cry.

When night fell, he was gone from home for so long that his family came looking for him. They found him on that rock and took him home.

The following morning, he went back to the rock. He was stumped that such a striking woman misled him. He thought that if she ever returned, he would tell her that while he didn’t find the sanctuary, he heard the bells bellow with the waves from the mountain moaning beneath the lake.

Months and months had passed; the woman never returned and the boy forgot all about her. He was now convinced that he needed to discover the treasure buried deep within the submerged sanctuary. If he could ever hear those bells, he would be able to reveal the sanctuary’s whereabouts and salvage what treasure was yet to be swallowed up by the mountain underneath the lake.

He lost interest in his daily routine and even in his friends so dear. He became the laughing stock of the other children’s jokes. They would say: “He’s not like us. He prefers to sit by that lake, gazing into nothing because he’s apprehensive of competing and being beaten in our games of societal influence.”

They all went to the shore to see for themselves. There he was, legs crossed and all, staring into oblivion upon the horizon. They all laughed at his expense and left him to his own devices.

Although he still wasn’t able to hear the sanctuary singing from below with the crashing waves, the boy learned about other things.  He learned how to unlearn himself.  He began to realize that he had become so used to the waves that they were no longer a distraction.  Soon thereafter, he became habituated to the cries of the osprey, the buzzing of the bees and the wind blowing through a wilderness full of trees.  

A year had passed since his conversation with the lovely woman. The boy could now rest mindless of all the other noises and distractions, but he still could not hear the bells ringing from the hidden sanctuary.

The fishermen in the village started to come by and talk to the boy, always insisting they heard the bells daily, while offering their perceived advice on how to hone in on the hope of hearing them.

But the boy never heard them. 

It was some time later, however, the fisherman tainted their tune: “You’re wasting your life away thinking about those bells hidden in the depths of this lake. Forget about them and go back home to where you belong. Perhaps it’s only us fishermen who can hear the bells.”

Another year had passed, when the boy thought: “Perhaps those fishermen were right. Maybe I would do better to grow up and become a fishermen and come down to this rock of mine, because I have come to love it here.” As well he thought: “Perhaps it was just another myth and the sanctuary was destroyed by the quaking earth many moons ago and those bells haven’t truly rung since.

That afternoon, he decided to make his way home.

He walked down to his rock to say goodbye to the lake. He took in the scenery one last time that had surrounded him for so long. Because the bells no longer consumed him, his smile took to shape beneath the shining sun; he heard again the harmony within the buzzing bees, and the cries of the osprey blowing with the wind of a wilderness breeze. Far off in the distance, he heard childlike chatter, and he was glad to be becoming on his way towards his home, where he would resume his childish antics with his friends.

The boy was as happy as happy could be, as only a child can know, as he was grateful for being alive. He, as sure as shit assured himself, that he had not wasted his time.  He had learned the contemplation of nature and he respected it more than himself.  

Then, as he stared into the sun, with the harmony of the bees and the cries of the osprey, and as the childish voices meandered with the wind, as it blew through the forest of trees, he heard the first bell.  And then there was another.

Then they came in sprawls of rhythmic beauty, until, to his great joy, all the bells in the drowned sanctuary were ringing. 

A couple of years later, the boy returned to the village, a grown man. He returned to the rock by the lake. He was no longer consumed by finding the treasure in the sanctuary hidden beneath the lake. Perhaps the treasure had been a byproduct of his imagination after all, and he hadn’t really heard those sanctuary bells ringing, so loud and clear that one lost adolescent afternoon. He decided to sit and contemplate upon his rock as he had always done and listened for the other half of his soul.

Imagine his surprise, when behind him the acoustics of a crackling autumn’s leaf startled him.  He turned with leisure to his wonder. He saw the lovely woman who had spoken to him about the sanctuary and the bells.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I was waiting for you,” she replied.

This time the veil was lifted, and the man felt like a boy again amongst the glow of her timeless beauty, despite the passing years, she was becoming more beautiful; much like her, the light she exuded before had not faded with time.

She handed him a dusty old notebook, filled with blank pages.

“Write: A warrior of love and wisdom values a child’s eyes since they are able to glance at the world without resentment. When he wants to find out if the person beside him can be deemed worthy of his trust, he looks to see him as a child would.”

“What is a warrior of love and wisdom?”

“We both know that you know that already,” she replied with a glowing smile. “He is someone capable of comprehending the miracle of life and its rebirth, of fighting till death for something he believes in—and when hearing the bells that rang from the sanctuary within yourself, you know He is the one who set them ringing from the depths of your soul.”

He had never thought of himself as a warrior. The woman seemed to hear his thoughts. “Everyone is capable of these things. And, though no one thinks of themselves as a warrior, there inside the depths of us, we all are.

The blankness of aromatic redemption canvassed his senses, and as he fanned through the empty pages, the woman beamed again.

“Write for the warrior,” she said.

—BeLove

When a man makes up a story for his child, he becomes a father and a child together, listening.

Feed The Flow…

It is of hope to me that some would come to discover that the most impenetrable landscape, that the most unusual adventures are the ones seen and experienced from within.

Clearly creativity springs from something that rises, rolls, surges, and spills into us rather than from something that just stands there hoping that we might, however circuitously, find our way to it.  In this sense we never “lose” our creativity.  It is always there, filling us or else colliding with whatever obstacles are placed in its path.  If it finds no inlet to us, it backs up, gathers energy, and pushes forward until it breaks through.  The only way we can muster its insistent energy is to spin it in a positive way as to continuously mount barriers against it, this is so it can be diverted away from the channels that are poisoned by the destructiveness of negativity and negligence. 

If we are gasping for creative energy; if we have trouble holding onto the imaginative, the morality of our own creation; if we struggle to focus on our personal vision, acting on it, or following through with it, then something has gone wrong at the spring of the source, between the headwaters and the tributary. Perhaps one’s creative waters are flowing through a polluted environment, whereas the pollywogs of imagination are killed off before they can grow into maturity. But more so than not, if creativity is bereft of constant flow, sometimes you have to let it build, like a pile of driftwood gathering from a Spring runoff, holding its own, until it’s time had to come to break the damn levee…

My mind may have well gone ahead and volunteered for any one of the dozen marathons going on this time of year. It was moving constant and in all directions. These marathon states, how should I describe their phenomena? In a marathon state I infinitely lack something, my heart swells to the point of sickness, it feels like a tearing eagerness ripping at the fabric of my being. This two and a half, “going on twenty” year journey into the creative depths of myself has bled through a lot of things that spill from the core of me.

The sentient part of my soul often wishes to express itself in ways most are not accustomed to. There are some symptoms of an overdose of caffeinated emotion. Or it could be that these butterflies intermingled with a heavy heart and lightheadedness were just some subtle vibrational twitches in the direction of all things synchronistic and full of surprise. I have at times had sense of being the instrument of a higher power. I often feel that I’m either being used as an example of human error or as a mere shadow of the suitable things to come. Which in the sense of excitement and deliberate expectation, was pushing me closer to the edge.

I was not so completely unrealistic that I failed to ask myself whether by a sensible person I meant myself. It was evident I had become one of those proud sensitive kind of gentlemen who liked to give so much trouble because I have been adorned with this passion for such internal matters that seem of slight interest to any so-called sensible person.

As I found my way swimmingly to the edge of the bank, I gathered my things with what little bit of wit I had left. My smile went wide with the framework of contentment. I had fallen under the influence of all things speculative and metaphysical. It was time to approach the premises of universal eagerness, asserting that the appearance of mankind on this earth as a whole, was a good thing, a little bit more immature and held to a lower lack of accountability then generations passed, but nonetheless curable in the esoteric sense.

I was starting to become keen again, to the peculiarity of things, within the depths of which certain secular tendencies often touched on “not” telling the truth. It’s these thoughts that sent my mind into frenzy nowadays, with their accelerating rhythms and paradisiacal philosophical deliriums that provoked the explosion of layers of an unknown consciousness deep within me. It was my hope that by reducing the strength of these outlying forces, that I might not run through the fire, perpetually on the edge of chaos before throwing myself into the depths of the river, all the while panting with joy and amazement.

I was becoming altruistic in the realm of all that is romantic in a short period of time, this writing, somehow had it’s hand in the digging of the depths in the trenches where which I often dove headfirst. I often think that the sickness in my heart somehow spread into a sort of high-strung emotional poetic disorder. This is how I sometimes felt, and still do from time to time. Too often I am washed over with a sense of being, poisoned by an eagerness, and a congestion of tender impulses finessed with fever, spun with all of it’s enthusiastic dizziness. Love did after all bring out my deepest peculiarities.

It’s not to be considered a bad thing at all; I’d be one to guess that it belongs to the nature of this path that leads to my own sort of inner salvation. And so it is that owing to my eagerness, I began to connect breathing with joy again, and owing to the gloom of sickness, I looked to connect that joy with light, and owing to the absurdity of my own thoughts, I allied the light that shone upon the walls around me with the light that burned inside me.

I had materialized myself as one of those Hallelujah and Glory types. Furthermore concluding that man, this one in particular, is nothing but a continent of creative divide. One minute you are creating this, the next that. Though it belongs to those who are sensible, they are the ones who look to offer their personal experiences as a helpful lesson to the rest, hoping to energize the hearts and minds of others and do right by them—an intensive sort of public relations project. And for those who share no sensibility, or offer no empathy, let them be as they may. They will wake up sooner or later.

There are times when I see all of these thoughts of mine with copious amounts of idealism spread about. But there are other times when to me, all I see is pure external delirium, a toxic entity of animosity spreading far and wide, burning the fields of indigenous love, and sucking God’s Muse dry of Her very own blood. With everyone so sold on gold and the so-called good, it has become much easier to bat an eye at evil while we tuck it into bed for the night. But it is a certain gold that greed seeks, and there is certain honey hued Inner gold that builds and spills from within.

Some will only understand this once they themselves are sufficiently stripped of their hodgepodge of ideas, considering little by little the blandness of ordinary conversations, that are often too careful to avoid the essential subjects, such as the purpose of life, and the path to the other side. Instead some are left to measure just how dull it can be to waste time playing solitaire when going up against the stacked deck of subversion.

Though it is of hope to me that some would come to discover that the most impenetrable landscape, that the most unusual adventures are the ones seen and experienced from within, where beauty blossoms with the ordinary, where each moment can be richly unique, where the splendor of honey-filled joy is found where it’s least expected, if only one knows at which angle to capture the light, which in my opinion, is an angle that bends from within. Maybe they would finally realize that once they reached the Stairs that leads to door of the Inner Kingdom, they would see that everything else is barren poverty.

I have grown exhausted of everyone looking at everything with a negligent set of eyes. In my refusal to participate in the decline, I no longer wanted to be one to trample millenniums of wisdom, or to accept the reign of cynicism and the establishment of barbaric beliefs. Nor would I any longer find comfort in being an accomplice to the establishment of greedy manmade ideologies, all of which spread one way or another with the idea of repressing consciousness, all the while converging on the excessive accumulation of possessions. I had to find myself hidden in the midst of them all. I finally came to understand that with this undertaking, in spite of its discretion, very well could capture a collapse better than anything else. So off to set the foundation of an Inner Church I went, as it is so to speak, I took to the canvas of God.

We’d all be much better off, if we all went to work on ourselves, as much as we go to work just to live.  As I get in the car to drive to work, this river, this valley, it swells subtle with summer and new beginnings. Life was being drawn in the grass with the glowing green of growth. As one last thought runs through my mind, I find it unfortunate that we have been to the moon, we have charted the depths of the ocean and the heart the atom, but we have been standardized with this fear of looking inwards at ourselves because we have grown customary to the belief that this is where all of our contradictions will flow together within the confluence of the inner river.  But it is only if ourselves, would allow the decongestion of our ability to choose the ethical choice between what is right and what is wrong, we would find that free will ain’t so bad after all.

In closing, man is an ever-flowing river of creativity until the very last breath he draws. There are no limits set by this eclectic and electrified universe upon man’s cosmic totality, or his multiplication power. Each man sets his own limitations in accordance with his desires. He may Be a tiny stream which gathers little energy and carries a weak current or he may be roaring river, with the weight of eleven hundred and eleven cubic feet flowing through him at all times. This is true of all the energy borrowed from the universe by all of us. It is there in infinite quantity. The gauge for the kind of flow each of us have within us is set by ourselves.

—BeLove

Creative Clarity

Creativity involves breaking out of established patterns in order to see things in a completely different way.

Creativity is a shape shifter. It is something that is not defined with pattern. It carries with it, its own mentality. One moment it takes upon itself this form, the next that. Creativity involves breaking out of established patterns in order to see things in a completely different way. It is this bedazzling spirit that appears to all of us, yet is hard to identify its existence because there is not one of us that can agree upon what we read or saw as far as ourselves or our eyes are concerned.

Are the wielding of colors upon canvas, just as similar as paint chips and wallpaper? Is this evident of its creative existence? What about a pen versus paper, a rosebush bordered along a garden path? Yes and yes. What about the cooking up of love’s revolution? Why the hell not? Is it touching with delicate love the petals of a rose, or pulling off the Big Sweat of the swelling summer, or tying upon your line a pale morning dun because the trout see them better in the morning sun? Yes, yes, and yes. What about finding ones voice, or rearing a child towards adulthood, or better yet helping raise a nation from its prayerful knees? Hell yes.

Creativity is the tending to love like the orchard it is, finding the words that see fit. And when the cosmic thread finds its fabric, you sew the creative life that has been so graciously given to you. All of the above belong to the creative river of life. Creativity is the celestial river beneath the churning river of life, which flows from in and out of our souls.

Some say the creative life is in the living of ideas, some say it’s by doing, I believe it rests in the simplicity of being you. It is the love of something, having so much love for something—whether it be a band, a collection of words, an image, an idea, let alone be it humanity, that touches us in a way nothing else can. All that can be done to satisfy this craving is to create. It is not a matter of wanting or needing to, it is not a singular act of will; one solely must.  

The creative force flows over the spiritual terrain of our soul looking for the natural hollows, the channels that exist within us. We become basins of belief, tributaries of truth; we are the shallow pools, the serene ponds, and most important the sanctuaries of sanity.  The wild creative force flows into whatever garden bed we build for it, those we are born gifted with and those we have to dig with our own bare hands.  We don’t always have to fill them, but first we must build them.  

In lore, there is an idea that if one prepares a special spiritual place, then the creative force, or source of the soul, will hear it, sense its way to it, and call it home. Whether this force is summoned by the prayer of biblical proportions, “go forward and prepare a place for the soul” or, as in the movie Field Of Dreams in which a farmer hears a voice urging him to build a baseball stadium in the middle of midwestern nowhere USA. “If you build it they will come,” is a way of saying to prepare a place for the longevity of the creative force. It induces the soul to take the imagination to places that life could only dream of.

Once the inner river finds the estuaries and branches in our soul, our creative life fills and empties, rises and falls just like the seasons of a wilderness river. These cycles or patterns are responsible for the different climates of spiritual survival. Certain patterns of paths are the ones we must walk to get through the arid desert of the mind. Things are created; thoughts are fed, then fall back and die away, all in their own right time, over and over again. Creating one thing at any certain point in the river feeds those who come to the river, feeds those far downstream, yet even others in the deepest pools of imagination.

Creating is not a solitary moment. This is the clarity of creativity. This is its power. Whatever is touched by it, whoever hears it, whomever tasted its ingredients with the perfect balance, they sense it, they see it, and they are fed by it. This is why beholding someone else’s creative words, imageS, or ideas fills us up, and inspires us to do our own creative work. A single creative deed has the budding potential to feed this starving world. One single creative act can cause a river’s torrent to carve through miles of stubborn stone.

I have always thought of the following song’s inspiration as being that of creativity, more so necessarily than that of female persuasion. See you all soon. Thanks for stopping by.

—BeLove

On The Substance Of Life

Long before the road to hell was paved, man was more than able to find his own way to Heaven through the nature of himself.

It is a befitting attitude to engage amongst any consideration pertaining to the better tasting substances of life, those which intertwine modesty with the miraculous—minus the madness—which might I add is often easiest to find. It is in the nature of our being to cradle with our thoughts, certain testimonies that are measured by the height of our curiosity. This nature, in a way, finagles with the fact that creation has always been the very foundation of our “being,” and from it we must build our existence.

I have often spoke of finding one’s self, but I’ve come to grasp that the meaning of life is to in fact, in the constructive sense, create yourself. It is in the nature of creativeness to offer hints of clarity that help to keep the mind clear of unnecessary debris that must be swept clean. There is no better time than now to clear said debris. Long before the road to hell was paved, man was more than able to find his own way to Heaven through the nature of himself.

 Whoever compels you to go one mile, go with him two.

Matthew 5:41

Into The Mystic

In as much as we are possible, we should strive to resemble the idea that He had of us when He created us. As should we be expected to laugh and smile with our worries as they recover from self-susceptibility. Worries aren’t something that are to be handled with the constant maneuvering of them to and fro, between that of suffering and sentimentality. Worries are to be handled in the sense of all that is lackadaisical. A stumble here and a fumble there, but it is in the delight for life’s spontaneity that leaves the spiritual energy of love forever hiding in plain sight.

Life is too damn rigorous in itself. Let alone should we allow it to leave us left worried all the damned time. Life and its more delicate moments are to be treated to the delicacy of creativity. Life is about creating from the core characteristics of our being, getting more centered with the edge from which we leap, which of course is considered to be love.

How delicate life is when death doesn’t spare a dime of mercy? Time is way too short to worry about what others may think. Death is always right around the corner and as precious as life is, why hide it’s beautiful touches of madness? With that being said, even deeper into a thought let us sink.

“Maybe I was wrong to grow up at my own pace and for feeling underwhelmed at my own choices, to choose what I did when I did. Yet these are the circumstances of who I am today. Nowadays, I’m content with being a child at my core. I’ll be the first to tell you, this is the most beautiful part of “being,” because without our childhood, to us, there would be no core. At our core sits the beauty of childlike chaos; it’s how you handle it as you get older, which will speak volumes of your character and exemplify how you treat and react to others.”

“Is it not up until about nine or ten years old we knew of nothing but that of unconditional love? We are all children at heart, are we not? The heart knows nothing of age. We are just as nurtured and matured by foolishness as we are by goodness, and by all of the random acts of kindness that we have, without thought, accumulated over the span of our lives. Its the simplicity within this wholeheartedness of understanding that keeps those dark days somewhat sunny. These actions even left unseen are eternally adolescent and wild.”

“From my less than critical decision making throughout life, I came to see that by creating from the deepest layers of me that I was beginning to truly feel “free” from me. It was like something was being excavated from the deepest depths of me, uncovering lodes of gold, the kind no “inward” coal miner ever suspected to exist. There is not a thing more romantic than the semantics of the shedding of who we are from the layers of our own and especially that of the societal gold standard”

Sparks Of A Touched Soul.

“It shouldn’t be so hard to imagine that the ten billion inhabitants of this rock we walk upon would set out upon the same sort of self-exploration. But it is, and will continue to become more difficult, but there is hope yet, but first the sun of subversion must set. It is unfortunate these days that thought is being manufactured beneath the shadow of shady tactics leaving most to be worried about what exists within the toxic perception of their own collective ego.”

“So it is rather for now that we are left to just a small army of those who truly hope and pray for Heaven on Earth. It is true that with universal self-understanding, all of humanity would be given backstage access to that of inner bliss, as they come to approach the cliff overlooking the meaning of life. And as I stand now teetering, it is from the edge I jump into the depths of Heaven on Earth.”

“It would be a certain sort of pleasantry to see all of those whom are wrapped up in the elegance of their fur lined egos, lining the streets to have their souls scrutinized. Maybe Heads of State would come out in soft parades to reveal intimate state secrets with the desire to better humanity, all the while confessing their own dreams for the inner improvement of themselves. And we may come to find revolutionaries in the streets preaching the revolution of consciousness, while hearing about the pseudo-Christians who urged the (moral) slaying of each one of themselves so that Christ can indeed succeed their own ego. Hopefully businessmen would surprisingly escape from those venture capitalist ways and run to the emotional stock exchange to trade in their valuable assets for eternal values. Maybe academia would tear up its diploma to board the myth of the ship Argo, while oilmen drill for the eternal black gold that springs from the kingdom of Self.  It is then that may we see converted chemists extract several megatons of spiritual energy from the atomic rubble of war.”

We’re still a long way. However, Heaven on Earth doesn’t only reveal itself in our immediate surroundings—it emigrates.

The Beauty Of Spiritual Energy.

In Closing

Genuine dissent must always keep a human measure upon the height of righteousness. It must be free and spontaneous. Or what the hell? Let us just call it wild. The slighter gestures of spiritual bewilderment are often the most significant, because they are not premeditated.

True, he who dissents alone may confine the element of dissent to words, to inward declarations, to poetic thoughts, to symbolic gestures. He too may fail to act. Gestures are perhaps not enough. Perhaps they are to the eye, a slight of hand, and perhaps to the heart they may fit just right. And perhaps it is to hope that over time these tokens of appreciation will once and for all, force the hand of ego upon its flight of ascension away from that everlasting inner eternal fight. The truth of this is divine in nature, this is when we can truly taste the sweetness of honey in the substance of life.

It is for now must I go on and get to where my sanity has found the perfect fit. Time has grown of the essence. The reality of summer’s looming swell of chaos has beckoned the call of the beast below. We thank you from the bottom of me for taking the time to read. Godspeed.

—Ryan  

Sanity is the beauty that hides behind madness put to good use.

Being Love

We can only take with us what we have given; and all we can give is the sacrifice of ourselves.

This post should be considered as a philosophical parable. This parable in particular is spoken with a sense of urgency that we must begin to love all beings because divinity resides in every being. Within all of us is an invitation to plunge into the core of the absolute, to blend in with love, as salt does in an ocean. As it stands now, the time has come, to undoubtedly take that plunge.

The only way to know love is by becoming it. The only proof we have of pure love, although decisive and definitive, is by experience, which runs the risk of slipping off the edge into madness or even yet, sinking six feet under. But better than both of those is the experience of absolute love. Experience is essential to the detachment from and the surpassing of those finicky margins of love’s mental state, its desires, and continuous encroachments.

The Energy Of Delight.

It is the supreme illustration that we become what we know, and what we know is the authenticity of what we are, that being love. The inner experience of love is the greatest wealth there is. This is because love constitutes the very essence of the being, and the only way to truly find the being is to love. At this level of realization, all opposition for the need of “proof” evaporates. We ourselves are the proof of what we are looking for when it comes to love. For Christ’s sake, do we not demonstrate it to ourselves everyday?

My ears begin to ring as if angels are singing with a harmony as exquisite as it is esoteric. When spiritual destiny beckons, you follow it, even if you’d rather back out. Everything works and falls into place for the best. There is a sort of metaphysical law that forbids us from keeping such spiritual animation to ourselves—we must share it with others or else it will be the cause to the effect of having it crush us. Personal fulfillment doesn’t mean possessing a certain enlightenment; it means to establish a network of communications that will diffuse it.

Others need to be awakened, but we need them to avoid falling asleep. Those who have accumulated too much of the long aforementioned spiritual energy of delight and sit idle with it will eventually be consumed by it. It has to circulate, all the while being distributed with the hope for humanity.

The Time Has Come

When we are alleviated to the heights of a certain experience, our unconscious is no longer encumbered by and submerged in emotion, as it avoids the inflation of ego. We don’t carry the right to egotistically keep such a treasure, when we’ve received so much, we must know how to give everything we have. How’s the old saying go? He who does not respond to a gift by giving is a thief.

It is as a matter of fact, even in Heaven, we wouldn’t be happy knowing there are so many unhappy. Happiness is something that will crumble to dust if confined to possessiveness in the exclusive sense. Happiness must respond with gumption in the moments when pain and suffering come to intimidate the mental state. This is especially true when bound with the rebirth of a deeper understanding within. Taking care of the weak and the unfortunate, or simply those, who for the moment are in distress, or are encountering some of life’s setbacks, will protect us more than any wall ever will.

Since I have stumbled upon the topic of a wall, please allow me to further build on it. There are but two ways of facing a wall. The first being that of the desperate, banging their heads against the lack of a true issue. The other, that of the power of pure love sitting in front of it, as it disappears by the delight of contemplation. It is in the depths of contemplation that one finds a certain way of putting one’s self on the edge to be more centered. As he lights the flame of love within him, he holds the wall to candle and watches as the wall of hatred burns to ashes. While the flames of love are but the mirrors in which I see Thou.

Now I realize what we are. Now if only everyone could realize this! But it may only be able to explained in the poetic sense; even then it is problematic to go around telling people that they are walking around shining like the sun.

The Mask Of A Dream

This poetic sense that comes from within the love of ourselves is by understanding the sensibility and value of solitude. It is in fact the vocation of solitude to make us realize things with such clarity that would be impossible to see for those who are immersed in the cares, the illusions, and the technological automation of a herded collective existence. You see, solitude is necessary for the broadening of our inner horizons.

My solitude, however, is not for my own, for I see how much it belongs to everyone—and that I have a responsibility for it in their regard, not just my own. It is because I am one with them that I owe it to them to be alone, and when I am alone they are not “they” but my own self. There are no strangers in this life.

It was then, as if in a moment’s notice that I came to understand the secret beauty of love in the depths where neither sin nor self-knowledge cared to reach. At the core of love’s reality, the person sees all others through His eyes. If only we could see ourselves as we really are. If only we could all see each other this way all the time. There would be no more war, no more hatred, no more cruelty, no more greed…I suppose that the worse thing that could come from this truth, would be that we fall down and worship each other with unconditional love. But this cannot be seen, only believed and “understood” by a peculiar gift.

In closing, it is us as free-thinking individuals to testify that a priori, anyone can take a lovers’ leap into the infinite, that for any one, so long as they are prepared to pay the price and truly want it—which means wanting nothing—this natural annexation from desire is where manifestation swims laps in the ocean of possibility.

The candle burns in a flickering silence. I had reached the edge of an inexpressible fullness. But what was most exquisite was that I didn’t know it. I wasn’t aware of this extinction of everything because my ego had extinguished itself.

And it is in this return to Unity that there is an obvious return to the Essential. And it is this return to the Essential that will make it possible for the Essential to return.

—BeLove

As Within, So Without

Silence merely whispers at the edge of eternity, like a light fringe of foam at the lip of a wave.

He stands toward the stars, staring stoned with a suffered gaze. The thoughts that cradle his imagination are being spoiled with over processed knowledge. At least this is what he thinks, and this thought alone is diluted. This exact moment’s perception of himself clenches at him like the white-knuckled clasp of a man gone mad behind the wheel of desire. He knows this inward perception of him is self-inflicted from the sound of his own inner voice—that parasitical ego—dancing mad through the tranquility of his inner peace.

He knows it will pass, much like the forgiveness of time, tomorrow holds the key to the land of milk and honey.  But like desire, these spells of self-destruction were beginning to wreak havoc down every avenue in the city he calls life—his thoughts were becoming more congested, which in turn, brought everything to a standstill. Above and beyond all reasoning, he needed direct knowledge where subject and object coincided with perfection, or else risk confusing the moon with his own finger pointing at it.

He knows that all of this suffering is self-catapulted upon the sandcastle of his own conscious. As the castle erodes, should he have to rebuild it with chaos? He sometimes thinks so, but he knows that a sandcastle made of chaos is just a few farts in the wind away from his mind being turned to dust. He must settle down and allow the chaotic cloudiness to clarify itself within him via extended contemplation. Which bear in mind, he had been skimping on. The things that make you go, hmm?

He always knew the wounds of life would heal with a slight scar. That he would eventually fall back into the flesh of his own Being. Still he would always scratch at the scars upon his soul, with the sole intention of aggravating the past.  From this, his psyche would never be the same, yet his thoughts told him that by revisiting the past, it might somehow send him spiraling towards the future.  

While the possibility of this does exist, the depths at which he would need to seek within himself would take him deeper into the wilderness in which he already sits.  This is something he believes that he is not yet fully prepared for, but we’ve yet to see the final score.  The path is there, a bit hidden and maybe arid, but there nonetheless.  Will he really ever know where it goes?  In all honesty, he hasn’t a clue, but this is no longer a concern of his, only His. 

A Pictures Worth A Thousand Words

He understands that the spiritual passage is not for the faint of heart.  It’s just as well he knows that from the beginning of this journey, he must create an atmosphere about him that will carry the content of his posthumous existence, while leaving something of worth behind for his kid. He comprehends that the future of the world will not be changed by his words, but their future will be and that May in turn change the world.

This point must always be kept in mind when he starts questioning the “why” upon the fringe of all things.  After all, the silent mind merely whispers at the edge of eternity, like a light fringe of foam at the lip of a wave.

He has learned that salvation is not a reward, but a very wild and normal consequence. If not to even say that it is a natural process of the inner work in which he tries to achieve for himself, as well as that of his innate disposition. This being what pushes him in the enduring direction of his voluntary search that seeks some higher purpose in the creation of his life. He knows these words are but the footsteps along this long and winding nomadic expedition in search of his Spirit.

He can and will attest that it is a path filled with treacherous steps that lean into all sorts of different hidden angles and patterns. But they are his, they have put him here with this pen in his hand. And at this point, he understands that he and this pen tilt at a geometric point where the horizontal and the vertical meet, an invisible cross of sorts.  He sees that this path is built for only him.  And he sees that your path is nothing like his.  It is yours and yours alone. And should our paths meet let it forever be sweet.  

On a good day he understands that those he thought he was helping, in the end, he came to learn that they were helping and teaching him, and he as well, himself.  He is, sometimes too often filled to the brim with the facility of his own thoughts and the sublimity of his own reason.  But it is time to insulate those thoughts he hates to love, while loving to hate, with the fashion of his old self again.   This meant it was time he get to wherever needs to be at the present time.

It took him awhile, but he finally learned how to outwit the craftiness of his thoughts, only because the answers themselves brought about new questions. And it is today, as we mark it, that he has finally taught himself a valuable lesson within the inner work of his better habits.  

It was then he laughed with a joy that shook through his body from his head to his toes.  It was such a laugh that it put money in his pocket, because it paid no doctor bill. It was a laugh that made him feel alive as he was now whole.  It was a laugh that howled from the depths of his core.  It was then he heard providence call, and he knew he had to answer it, with no intention of hanging it up.

And by and by his smile rises with a new dawn and the sun, she rests upon his weary-eyed thoughts with clarity. The boy had laughed himself awake from the depths of a bad dream, a different man. So with that being said, I leave you with the truth.

What we say about God isn’t what counts, but what we let Him say in us; this right we grant Him to say Himself—instead of us.

-BeLove

Illuminating Light

Into the woods I go, to sharpen my soul and make myself whole.

I must speak with clarity that I write these words as a person who has lately experienced light. I am not speaking in particular about “the light.” It is a kind of light-in-the-being, which in all honesty, is a difficult thing to be precise when pinpointing its genesis. This is especially pointed out with precision in the pace of today, where so many erroneous, silly delusive actions and phenomena litter the landscape of a simple life.  But it is you the reader that should consider it as something highly spiritual passing through.  It is I, the author, whom considers it to be God.   

This light though, however it comes to be explained, is now a real element of who I am, like the breath of life in itself. I have experienced it once before, and it has lasted long enough to convince me of an altogether unreasonable amount of joy.  And it is once I felt the light for all it is was worth, that it has since become second nature to me. But if the light vanishes, a man will spend the rest of his time on this earth seeking the light.  

As the man looks all around, he starts to see “the light” in all things.  It will begin to shine everywhere he looks, in conversations with strangers, in the glow of an afternoon rainstorm—it seems to illuminate most everything that gives rhythm to his creative storytelling soul.  So now allow me to add a little light as to why I will forever write.

The semantics of poetry and storytelling run the same course as the language of dreams.  In the light of both contemporary and ancient dreams over the years, and as well as the sacred texts and works of such mystics as Rumi, Homer, and Merton and the work of poets such as Dickinson, Whitman, Pessoa, and so on. There appears to be within the soul, a poetic and artistic function that surfaces when a person spontaneously or purposely ventures towards the instinctual core of the soul. 

The Wilderness Within

This place in the soul is where dreams, stories, poetry, and art all meet.  It establishes itself as the enigmatic environment in the instinctual and wild nature within, or as I like to call it, the wilderness within us all.  In contemporaneous dreams and poetry, in the old folktales and scribes of the mystics, the entire atmosphere of the soul is understood as having a life of its own, or the world to itself.  It is most often symbolized in poetry, painting, music, and dreams—as one of the vast elements such as the burgeoning depths of an alpine lake so blue, the windowpanes of a sunlit sky, the windblown dust of earth, or a flickering flame, forever kept trimmed and burning with His oil.  

Into the woods I go, to sharpen my soul and find myself whole.

From the core—mystical matters and notions rise up through the person who experiences “being-touched-by-the-light.”  From there the person may engage the audience by talking about the edge.  But you must know that this edge has forever been a metaphor for the edge of my soul.  The fear of straddling this edge, the jumping from cliffs, it was all within the well of me.  Myself, diving headfirst into the once shallow waters of me.  It was about finding out how deep I was willing to go.  And the following is how I have come to find myself whole.    

It is then, when the creative mind becomes exhausted from the hauling of its own fleeting ideas and matters born of ego, he will carry this ideological and egotistical weight to said edge of himself and throw every last ounce of it from the cliffs of his conditional being.  The rightful sensibility in this is that his creative capabilities will be returned glowing infused with God, or washed with the soul’s remarkable psychic sense of life.  Either way, this carries a seismic effect within, a sort of profound and sudden awakening, and a channeling of the senses that revolutionizes the mood with a heart of heroism.  

When one is renewed, his overall mood changes.  When one’s mood is changed, one’s heart is changed. This is why the language of dreams, images, and the poetry that arise from the soul are so important.  In combination, they have the power to change one thing into another in a way that is so testing and torturous to accomplish by our will alone. And in the sense of sensibility within all of this, the core Self, the instinctual and wild Self, the authentic Self, finds itself whole, as both healer and life-bringer. Now, if you would all be so kind as to allow me to? Allow me to leave you with the direction I seem to be heading.

Whenever a story or fairytale is told, it becomes night.  No matter the dwelling, no matter the time, no matter the season, the telling of tales causes a star laden sky and a sun-reflected moon to rise from underneath the eaves of reality and hover over the imagination of the captive audience.  Sometimes by the end of the tale, the dwelling is filled with daybreak, other times shards of stars are left behind, and sometimes even a storm-ridden sky will turn to sunshine.  

But whatever it is that is left behind, it is the abundance that the creative has to work with, and he shall forever try and use this abundance to show all souls the way towards His light.  But for now I must get some rest. Sleep tight. 

“For God’s gifts and His call can never be withdrawn.”

Romans 11:29

-BeLove

Illuminating Love

You are the soul of the soul of the universe, and your name is Love.

-Rumi

One must bear in mind the odd angles that the rays of love have to take in order to reach a heart like mine. It is in the nature of love that we are here to love without condition. But the reality is that conditional love runs rampant, rearing its ugly head on those relationships we hold so dear. The effects of conditional love have become so distorted that the flesh takes flamboyant turns in the direction of that which lay behind us. It has become plain as day to me that most all of us compare today to tomorrow with that which happened yesterday.

In the deformity of loving with conditions, unconditional love is suppressed and the soul is left powerless. Therefore conditional love will not let us alone from suffering. But if you see the purity of love for what it is worth, you begin to understand that we owe our entire existence to unconditional love, because unconditional love is indeed the settled debt of the soul.  Once that debt is settled, suffering sees itself away from the heart.

My whole being has long applauded the idea of unconditional love. Though I haven’t always been one to practice unconditional love because of the conditions that I myself have bound to love. I have often obligated it to my own attachment with the expectations of what I believed love should be. It is in my opinion that this has always been wrong.

Rays Of Love

It is unfortunate that it took me this long to finally figure it all out.  But it is better to have learned late than to have not learned at all. The only way I came to understand this was by making it a priority to love myself without conditions.  It was tough to achieve, especially in the struggles of finally putting the ego to rest.  But it did happen through extended contemplation and in the due process of rewiring my heart with my soul. All of this has helped me to see what unconditional love truly is with a newfound intensity. You see unconditional love is as light as it is heavy, which holds steady with an all around balance.

It Is What It Is

Pure love—unconditional love—is the poetry of life.  A poet will come to understand that there is nothing of value without love and of course death—more on death down the road. For this post I wish to keep these words somewhat aligned with that of jubilation and joy.  See without love, there are no lessons.  Without love there is no darkness for the diamond in the rough to shine.

Today’s culture is quick to throw love off the cliffs of belief into the icy waters of doubt far below.  For not only are they scared, but they lack the patience to see love for what it’s truly worth.  Which I have come to find is both timeless and priceless.  There is no fear in love. Pure love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made pure in love. 

It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

1 Corinthians 13:7

This world has become for the most part soul-less. Though there is an awakening of sorts happening amongst us, this too shall be discussed later on down the line.  The world nowadays with its “tinder” love and don’t care mentality emboldens a quicker, thrashing about to find a swift spark to bargain with someone that burns forever in the now.  But the miracle of love we seek takes time: time to find it, time to nurture it, and then time to bring it to life.  After all, lust is just a maze, in which love can’t find its way.

The modern ways in which we seek love have become conditioned to that of perpetual motion.  When in fact the purity of love is perpetuity in itself, carried by the notion of chivalry. There is no surprise in the fact that all of us wanting to love become confused and anxious, while dancing with the madness of conditional love, unable to stop the frantic jig, while spinning past the things we, in the deepest part of our souls cherish the most.  But I quit spinning a couple of years ago. Please bear in mind this does not mean that I am not spun. There’s that double negative again;)  

Though there is a way, a better way, which takes into account that of human error.  Our fears, our quirky behavior, our atrocities that shadow our eccentricities, they are very much held accountable.  And it just so happens, in the cycle of individuation, we are guaranteed to stumble upon something that points in the direction of said way… 

Roots Of Love

This path I have long walked has forever been riddled with the roots of love. It is just ahead through the canopy of this forest, a subtle sign from heaven above seeps through showing the way. A long lance of sunlight lights my longing for this world to see the truth of unconditional love. But first I must fully feel the truth of it myself for myself. I slow my steps, careful not to trip over my own two feet until I come to a stand still.  Though it is in no way that I am guaranteed not to fall—yet these words they are certain to spill.

A Sense Of Bliss

This stillness, the solemnity that broods in these woods, it sparks a sense of loneliness as it tells itself upon my spirit. But it is in spirit that I have found happiness in this solitude, and this is where I found bliss on the way through to You. The loneliness that has often simmered in the silence of my mind has given me something I thought I would never find, that being You. This is You moving through me, is it not?

My soul shivers more often that not with Your intent nowadays. While my hopes and dreams, they bend toward Your light. This light looks to promise growth in the warmth of Your love. It satisfies my desire to feel the love I need, the love of You. It is true, this light, Your warm-heartedness alone seems to speak directly to my spirit with hints of something that will always fill my heart with a sensibility that is forever unconditional. 

You are the soul of the soul of the universe, and your name is Love.

-Rumi

I feel a love within myself growing in the depths of redemption with You.  It is the unwavering love that we have all cherished from those who have perished upon Your Heaven above. It’s unconditional in every sense of Your word. It is pure, it is clean, it is angelic, and in Your nature it will forever be illuminating. And yes, I do have so much more to say, but let us save it for a rainy day. You see, it is true, rain—has always assumed growth.   

See you all soon.

—BeLove