Living The Dream

Recognize what is in your sight, and that which is hidden from you will become plain to you. For there is nothing hidden which will not become manifest.

-Christ

These ends of mine

should mean to meet

one would think

when walking down a one way street.

 

So for now take a seat

kick back and relax those feet

—go on get some rest

as the day is undressed

by tonight’s nurtured nest.

Soon I’m going to need you all

at your very best.

 

But if you have any needs

while I’m tending to these seeds

in this garden of good deeds.

I’ll be right over here

serenading songs of Shakespeare

through a distant whisper

for it is true—Love is something

that all souls can hear.

 

But it is time for a new endeavor

something with a bit less pressure.

Once stuck in the depths of a river

that flowed to a place called never

but upon the horizon I now see forever.

 

The pounding beneath your chest

might be me giving it my best

because of time I am no longer pressed

see these steps—they move sprite with zest.

 

So as the sun it sets to the west

sung low by a choir of light

smiling in the shape of an angel’s flight

 

It is God above that fills my heart

and I feel something within—brimming

my mind no longer spinning.

 

For that was the day

when fury went the way of forgiven

and greed—well it turned to giving.

You see my friends

It was but a day

when life looked Love in the eye

and the dream took to living.

BeLove © 2018


As It Always Was

Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.

-Christ

I’ve always stood still

though tall in a shadow

scattered with fear.

Then came a window

left wide open

only to walk the tightrope in.

 

It is now the sands of time

through which I sift

into the direction

of the sun

my sights they shift.

 

In the beat of a heart

it all shines through

The love, the light, it’s in all of you.

Somewhere between

the rock and a tree and Love’s jubilee

I found you all

in the finesse of me.

 

But again came the call

from a distant squall

one I’ve heard

my entire life.

The one I now know

for I must follow.

 

It’s harmony that sings

in the joy it brings

through the gospel we hear

to make the choice

from a voice so clear.

 

It is as it is,

as it always was.

 

It echoes through eternity

down the path that guides me.

The divinity inside thee

has now become my reality.

BeLove © 2018


 

 

 

 

Be Wilderness

Above all else, guard your heart, for all that you do flows from it.

Proverbs 4 : 23

Over the last decade, I have had this intermittent dream.  This dream has sometimes haunted me but it has mainly kept my spirit fed.  It’s one of those dreams that feel very real in the midst of my slumber.  So real, that I wake up disoriented and it takes me a few moments to establish what is real and what is make-believe.  It was only until then, and now again, upon another rendition of this dream that I’ve started to claw at the surface of it’s significance with the hope that I can pin down the purpose of its meaning through intrinsic interpretation.  The dream always begins in the same exact setting.  My actions and decisions in the depths of the dream have always been the driving force as to which direction I take to reach my destination.  A destination that is still very much up in the air, because in the dream, I never reach it.  Not that I am aware of at least.  I would like to take some time now and share the dream with you.


I come to be awakened on a mountainous boulder.  I stand upon shaky knees balanced high above an extravagant raging river flowing furious with Old Man Winter’s runoff. The morning wasn’t breaking so much, as it was infiltrating through my blurred vision.  I am entrenched in some vast and splendid wilderness.  The only sound other than the deafening silence of loneliness is the symphony of an unhinged river’s rage.  My first thought, is whether or not the trout are biting?  Where’s my fly rod?  I look all around and see that it is nowhere to be found.  “Son of a bitch,” I mumble to myself.  My head floats on a swivel as I assess my surroundings.  There is a vague plume of smoldering grayish smoke about a football field’s length from where I stand.  I assume that it’s the remnants of last night’s warming fire, or maybe it’s a burning bush.

Campfire

I am captivated at the spectacular scenery that encompasses me.  It’s the most picturesque sight I’ve ever laid my eyes on.  The morning sun is awakening from its slumber and painting the mountains purple in their majesty.  As the golden hour washes over the craggy cliffs that tower over me to the north, I think to myself what a sight for eyes sore with solitude.  There is a chilled crispness to the air that is evident with every breath I exhale.  I shiver with the essence of something similar to seismic activity rippling through the core of me.  Could this be a celestial vibration that I am on the right path?  This tricks my mind into believing that a shroud of warmth will follow in the friction of my frivolous movement.  Which it does, but only for a waning moment.

Without an inkling of warning, the radiant brilliance of sunshine is swallowed by the looming threat of a surging storm.  The wind begins to carry a swiftness behind it that nudges my stability into a stumble.  In the sense of simultaneous, I reclaim my balance and I manage to reorganize the awareness of my environment.  My complacent moment of reflection is now superseded with a sudden urge to seek some place a bit more sheltered.  I succumb to the shivering sound of silence again.  I am cold and extremely parched from thirst.  I barely gather myself and plot my escape from this elevated pedestal of uncertainty.  The only way down is a slippery slope soaked in imprecision.

Fog

I start my descent down a trail I have no familiarity with whatsoever.  The brewing storm begins to serenade the uncharted wilderness with a booming, marching thunder—sprinkled with flickering bursts of magnificent light.  A steady mix of cold rain and snow beckons from above.  My walk moves into an opportunistic sprint.  I sense a hint of fear and become scared; unaware of the conditional circumstance that awaits my lack of carefulness.  I stumble again but this time balance escapes me and I fall.  As I fall, I try and let my limbs go limp.  I do this under the instinctual cognizance that external limbs are less likely to break or snap like twigs when not constricted with fear.  In focusing upon this my head introduces itself to the hardest substance it has ever felt and I fall unconscious.  After a few moments, I come around back to my senses.  By hook or by crook, I manage to pick myself back up.  My head is screaming with a sharpening discomfort that buries healthy pleasure with an unsettling pain.

In the depths of my agony, I realize that I clumsily yet successfully maneuvered my way down the mountain.  I stagger around for a moment and slowly digest that I have no idea where I was before, let alone now.   The smoldering smoke from before is now thick and heavy—its density has consumed every bit of clarity I had left about me.  I start traipsing through the fog; I have no sense of direction.  I feel like Vertigo is just sitting back, waiting to confuse the issue more than it already is.  I walk for what seems like an eternity, feeling like I will never reach a destination.  I think to myself, am I dead?  Could this be Purgatory?

Thirst is all I can think about, what I wouldn’t do for one sip of water.  My head is still screaming at me and the smell of some metallic tinge is following me like a wafting cloud.  The genesis of exhaustion steals my strength and I decide to take a breather.  I lay down with my burdens in hand, crossed upon my heart and I close my eyes.  Thirst and warmth fill my mind but even the comforts of home can’t keep the exhaustion at bay any longer, I fall asleep.  Even with all of the misfortunes that have graced the short-lived morning I sleep like a rock.

I am startled awake by the sound of a snarling animal.  Scared, scarred and shaken, I quickly stand up—dizzy.  Sudden fear enshrouds the wooziness in my head and I make sure my presence is noisily felt.  Adrenaline alone allows my equilibrium a chance to achieve even distribution.  I can see nothing in the fog, but the snarls are now more of an echo and seem further away than I originally thought.  I gather anything I can find that will help me defend myself, nothing more than a few sticks and stones.  “Hopefully they wouldn’t break my bones,” I whispered to myself as I collected them.  “At least my sense of humor was still going strong,” I thought proudly.  With a ginger demeanor, I walk in a brisk manner towards the opposite direction of the echoing snarls.  They seem to be growing closer the further I get from them.    In the shuffling madness, I catch my breath and I start to run again.  All of the sudden, the stability of solid ground was flooded by an icy soaked, but buoyant brook of excitability.

Hallelujah, it was water.  Miraculously, I had happened upon the river again.  In a baptismal elegance I fall to my knees, submerging my aching head into the rivers depth; my hands interlock themselves into a chalice.  The river is littered with glacial silt.    I remind myself to not let gluttony get the best of me.  I allow myself enough to quench the parched feeling that had hindered me throughout this shortened pilgrimage.  I am tempted to indulge until my heart’s delight, but I know that will only be detrimental to my well being down the road of this journey.  In my ecstatic behavior of blessedness, I neglected to notice the snarls were still very much on my tail.

The Perfect Swimming Hole

The denseness of the fog was lifting itself in a tedious manner and visibility was beginning to show itself again.  The only way to safety was through this river of Doubt.  I vaguely glance upon an echelon of rocks, strung together and placed conveniently for my stride.  I take the steps one by one, slow and steady wins the race, I thought.  I turn to look for whatever it was that has been trailing me since my fall.  In the faint distance, I can finally see what has been hunting me.  I see a wolf that looked to be plotting his next move, for he is as thirsty for blood, as I was for a drink of fresh water. I have a hunch that I haven’t seen the last of him.

I continue upon the stepping-stones with ease to my stride. The river grows mighty in its wake.  The farther I follow this path into the remote midst of this river, the more vibrant and sunny everything becomes.  The air has a warming touch to it now and I was gaining strength as clarity was becoming more constant.  The steps were starting to demand longer strides and I even had to wade in the water from time to time.  Then came the next challenge.

I was walking these stones for at least a mile and still no sign of the west bank of this river I have now dubbed Doubt.  Now here I stood on the last solid rock.  The glacial silt seemed to ablate itself from Doubt.  Roughly twenty feet below me was a budding stretch of backwater; followed by another pattern of rocks that perceived a promising path.  I carefully careen myself down the last slab of solidity that I could see.  I am knee deep in Doubt now, her waters, clear and chilly.  I drink from her until my heart’s delight.  I am amazed at the pulsating autumn hues that grace the forest around me.  The bursts of orange, yellow, and red—paint the landscape with a buffering beauty.  I shiver again from the soothing sensation of vibrational purpose, and wade with bewilderment.   The reverence I have for this wilderness is deep.  As deep as the river Doubt is about to get.

Up Close Waterfall

The pattern of rocks only got further away from one another as I waded towards them.  In my carefree comportment I didn’t notice that Doubt’s waters had risen with rapidness.  I began to panic, and as it grabbed my legs, well you know?  It pulled me in.  The icy and submerging blanket of water acted like shock therapy and triggers that everlasting instinct for survival.  I notice a large piece of driftwood floating with more poise than me and push my way towards it through the vicious current with every ounce of energy I have left.   As I am within arms reach of my saving grace I shiver again; followed by the most acute pain I have ever known.  The last thing I remember resembles the immersion of drowning.

I come to be revived on a pebbly beach.  I was spooning a piece of driftwood half my size as though it was a pillow.  My head is splitting with an ache but the air is steadily warm now, almost arid.  My damp clothes are the only thing between the luxury of warmth and me.  The river Doubt had turned into a creek that was now just a trickle of murky looking sludge.  The harsh reality sinks in that I have drifted far away from where I believe I belonged.  For the lush wilderness had become a barren desert.  I take off my top layer of clothing and lay them out to dry.  I canvas my newfound surroundings and see that there is only an inkling of shade beneath a ballooning bush of sagebrush.  This shade could only be used as shelter from the scorching sun for maybe two hours a day. I look behind me and see the monumental mountain reaching for Heaven above while nothing but sagebrush and high desert for the foreseeable future ahead of me.  Hunger pangs are making themselves known now.  I scrounge for something to eat.  I find nothing but a handful of ants.  I eat them and it is true, they are crunchy and sour.  I make a fool of the pangs by chewing on some sagebrush.   The sagebrush becomes a brief but nonetheless shaded shelter from a fierce sun and its cold-blooded heat.  I take off my shirt and use it as a pillow.  The shade summons me silently to sleep.

Vision

I wake up blistered from the scorching sun.  The sun was at its daily peak burning everything that lies in its wake.  Shade was nowhere to be found.  I put my shirt on and it feels like the incendiary ants I ate earlier as a snack are stinging me.  “Karma, is an instant bitch,” I scream silently.  The pain quickly becomes unbearable as it feels like I am being broiled.  I have no choice to go back into the wilderness, but first I had to climb the monumental mountain.  The mountain of eternity seemed to rumble with agreement as rocks start to tumble down the slopes with an awaiting earnestness.  The mountain was as massive as it was intimidating.  It interrupts the rolling desert plain with an abruptness that sprawls ten thousand plus feet into the horizon, almost out of midair it seemed.

I was more ready for this climb than I believed I was.  I start singing at the top of my lungs; maybe I was hoping for one last possibility that someone might hear me, or maybe I was just a bit stir crazy,  “Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams, telling myself it’s not as hard, hard, hard as it seems.”  I try my best at impersonating Robert Plant but I am positive I do it no justice whatsoever—I imagine the Hammer of the Gods are laughing out loud at me.  As I expected, only silence followed, still I felt a little zanier yet confident than just a few minutes before.  At least my sun-drenched sanity was still sticking around for the time being.

Moondance

“Time to go.” The voice said as clear as the afternoon was. I spun around, spinning with bewilderment.  There was no one within a day’s walk of me.  Yet the voice was shrilling with a sense of comfort.  Maybe it was the stern approach that would not allow me to take the demanding tone lightly.  Without question, I started moving with fleetness.  I proceeded to blaze my own trail up the mountainous terrain.  I must’ve gotten my underrated second wind because I covered an extensive amount of ground, in a short period of time.

Just before dusk I had to slow to a steady pace to assess my situational circumstances.  The wilderness was becoming thick and the forest was filling itself out like a puzzling maze.  Humidity filled the air and night was beginning to fall.  The dew was beginning dampen the environment with a chill that stuck to my bones.  Though the colder air acted like aloe on my scorched skin, and I welcomed its comfort.  I slowed down but kept moving at a steady pace.  My path now carried more clarity with it than I had seen so far on this everlasting journey.  My motivation was bullying me into another exhaustive state but the adrenaline wouldn’t quit pumping through my blood.  I came to a sudden stop, when I thought I heard the snarls again.  It was nothing but an insect the size of my forearm, humming a sort of wilderness lullaby. But in the distance I heard the howling of a wolf, and instead of becoming frightened, I felt security wash over me, I was no longer the only living entity within this wilderness.

I stumble upon a path.  This is another sign that I am indeed headed in the right direction.  And as I come upon a fork in the path that heads in different directions—I become surprised with the pleasantry of a sign.  For a sign, signaled hope.  The sign shared the following morsel of wisdom.   Here lies the confluence of two, once mighty rivers.  One was called Soul, the other Ego.  One must choose between the paths wisely for there may not be another opportunity for you to find your way to the Promised Land in which you seek.  I kneel and pray, the voice answers with a vibrational pulse that echoes through my entire being.  I walk towards the merging trails.  I converge my steps between the both of them and I walk with purposeful intention through the valley of the shadow of death.  I begin to bushwhack my way through my metaphoric fear and leave it behind, where it belongs.

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I feel a few raindrops grace my presence and notice a mountainous thunderhead forming over my head.  I do not fear this storm because I know it is all in my mind.  But as the storm begins to drop golf ball sized hail upon my head, I pray for something to shelter me from the storm.  I walk brisk down the path and as I turn a corner, much to my delight there is an old outhouse.  I fall with exhausted grace into its storm-shielding demeanor.  I am content in the solitude of this ageless four-cornered Calvary.  And I see an inscription of scripture carved upon the wall.  And just below it was an insignia of biblical times.

Arrow

He made my mouth sharp like a sword; in the shadow of his hand he hid me; he made me a polished arrow; in his quiver he hid me away.

Isaiah 49 : 2

As I finish reading this profound scripture the walls around my head start to cave in, and I hear the shrieking laughter of a child.  Soon there followed the sweetest voice my ears have ever heard.

“Daddy, wake up.  Naptime is over.”

I scream startled waking from an afternoon snooze, dazed and confused.  He had dove  upon my chest.

Shaking with sudden comfort, he says to me, “Dad, what are we going to do now?”

“Save the world my child, at least for you, that’s what we are going to do.” saying with confidence.

“Okay, but first can we go to the river?” he asks.

“Of course we can kiddo, but after the rain stops,” I say much to his dismay.

The steady rain patters away on the roof, putting my mind at an ease it hasn’t felt in quite some time.  My vision is no longer blurred and I realize my purpose now.  The light flows from my heart to my mind will never be dimmed ever again.  It was time the dream turned to reality.

  -BeLove


Potter’s Field

The crypt you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.

I climbed the fence

to old man potter’s field

where the fog hung low

just above the ground.

 

While I looked all around

those eerily empty tombs

this is what I found.

 

Where there stood

a certain headstone

void of a name

instead etched with inscription

’twas a bit of wisdom

written with a twist

and this is what that epigraph read:

 

“Remember me, as you pass by,

as you are now, so once was I,

as I am now, you too shall be,

so prepare for resurrection and follow me.”

 

With a pen and paper in hand

I left a silly note—

a small little anecdote:

 

“To follow you, I won’t consent,

for I do not know which way you went.”

BeLove © 2018


An Open Door

If you listen to what’s inside you will find what it is your soul delights.

Where love lives

the heart it gathers.

Gathered by a door

that’s never locked

opened to heaven

where it sits within.

 

Though time we suffer

through its refrain

of constant pain

falling like sleeves of rain.

 

So you must stay close

beside that door.

For the key is you

and the time is now

to know that you

are as true

as you always knew.

 

No need in asking

if it’s true?

You are the chosen few.

 

What are you waiting for?

Go ahead

open that door.

BeLove © 2018


Pinnacle Of Purpose v.3

In life, wisdom only has value if it helps us to overcome some obstacle that stands in the way of our dreams.

A sliver of sunlight is all that remains as I wander into the darkness of this chasm, I do not expect this light to last for much longer.  It is cold, muggy and damp down here. There is no path down here except for a craggy rock formation that resembles a half constructed spiral staircase.  The solitary mechanism leading me through these depths is a suspicion that somewhere I can find my intuition and shadow it all the way to safety.  I come upon a concealed corner and I peek around it with caution.  Wouldn’t you know it? There it is, my intuition barely reflecting a likeness to a light of hope through a narrow hallway.  The maze of hazy reflection looks to be an opening towards a way out of this unfamiliar underworld, or it could be a direct path to hell.

The flashlight flickers violently against the constricted chamber of the chasm, meanwhile shadows start to play tricks with my mind.  These shadows take a toll on my equilibrium and the scene around me spins until I fall to my knees, spun.  I almost pass out on the way down.  From my fallen position, I begin to feel that I am not alone down here.  I feel a strong sensation of another presence and it washes over me. My anxiety tackles me to the ground.

It is completely dark now.  My body blooms with dread and a cold sweat trickles down the back of my neck, only manifesting panic into a deeper state.  There is something about complete darkness that arouses the hidden fears that have been hiding in our souls since we were children.  I feel all around the ground looking for my flashlight and all I feel is little metallic pieces spread about in a scattered manner with a few batteries to boot.  The horror becomes unbearable while the simplicity of breathing vanishes.

My thoughts turn to the worst and my worry overthrows my entire thought process.  In the face of death I start to feel pity for myself.  What would my family and friends feel in the actuality of my disappearance?  Would they send a search and rescue team?  How long would it take for them to find me?  Another wave of terror moves over me.  No one has any clue where I am.  I told no one of my plan except my four-year-old son.  I told him the day before that I was going to climb a mountain, although I never said which one.  Then I think about him and the tears begin to flood my eyes while I envision his fatherless life flash before my eyes.  Would he think somewhere in the back of his mind that I ran away from my responsibility of raising him?  The presence I felt earlier is back again, only this time it seems to be inside me.  It is stronger than it was before.  My heart starts beating with perseverance.  An unknown strength lifts me to my feet.  “Just breathe,” there was the voice again.  This time though I know exactly where it came from.  It came from within me.

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I expel all of the air out of my lungs, emptying all of the fear that filled me minutes ago.  Then, I inhale, slow and determinate, allowing confidence to settle inside my thoughts for the mission that lies ahead.  I do this for quite some time and I can feel clearer thoughts coming in waves that are crystallizing with a vision that resembles a ladder that I have never in my life seen.  I inhale one last time, only this time I concentrate on allowing unbridled love and harmony with the world to enter my body and before I can exhale, I see a light and it guides me.

The light in which I must reach looks to be some two hundred odd feet atop this cryptic wall that stands before me.  If I were to get halfway up and fall, death would be eminent, either quickly, or slow, torturous and lonesome.  I focus on the path towards the light and put the paralyzing fear behind me.  I climb towards my meaning with all of my strength. The climb is easier than I thought it would be.  The wall is formed with many cavities that allow me to gain significant heights with little effort.  I was almost to the top when I came to the final hurdle.  The only way out of here was to jump over to the ledge behind me about six feet across and two feet higher than were I stood.  There is no room to get a running start and absolutely no room for error.  My hands are already bleeding with a bearable pain from the jagged edges of the wall.  I tighten the straps of my pack around my shoulders and tighten my shoelaces.  I do not affix my thoughts to the consequences of what may happen next, instead I just jump.

In life, wisdom only has value if it helps us to overcome some obstacle that stands in the way of our dreams.  I climb out and bathe in the sunlight without a thought in my head for almost an hour.  Finally, I push through the glory of surviving death and I climb to my feet.

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I can see the summit from where I stand now.  I sit down and inhale the mountain air with a deepness that consumes me with an extraordinary amount of love for life.  Not only my own, but every single aspect of life that walks this earth.  I see the undignified process in which the human mind falls into the trap of might over right—we are not superior to other species—and it sickens me to stomach.  So much that I become queasy and begin to dry heave.

We are the only species that is aware that our death is imminent and because of that we allow empathy to give way to fear and apathy.  The latter spreads through the soul like wildfire and destroys the goodness that was once the foundation of philosophy.  Men become despots and look to protect their namesake with violence, war, greed, and gluttony, by destroying love.  Little to they know, that when the manifestation of love is interrupted, the one responsible for that interruption becomes beholden for its recreation and the rebirth of the original manifestation.  I prefer to not sound like a broken record but it is cyclical.

Death is not something that we should hide from instead we should allow it to motivate us to do the best with what we can with our lives.  Life is a battle that must be fought with worthy causes and not inflated wars.  It could be considered vanity to act in such a way to prevent one’s name from being forgotten by performing good works, but vanity is merely an inward reflection of one’s self in the mirror of good and evil.  When we become aware of the significance of death, we become braver and we seek further heroic conquests that better our soul because we have nothing to lose—for death is certain and when we no longer fear this, we find perfect harmony. You see death is our constant companion and it is death that gives our life meaning.

I take my last cigarette and light it.  I take one last drag and savor it for awhile.  This will be the last time I taste the conundrum of a cigarette in my life.  I crush the lifeless stick on the rock below me.  Life gestures my direction and I must proceed with the path that has been laid before me without any personal vice that has the power to extinguish my soul. I put my backpack on, and I start the final ascent towards the pinnacle of my purpose.

The sky wraps around my being and I am overcome with a sentiment of the endless Quality in everything that surrounds me. Everything, from the blue that paints the sky to the wind and her capricious breeze that holds me steady every step of the way.  Every thought that goes through my head carries a hint of gospel with them and they turn to the glory of the God.

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Back in the chasm, when I first felt the presence, it is something that I’ve always known was in there, you know, in the depths of me.  There just hasn’t been any entity that was capable enough to extract it from me.  I, of course, know that I am the only one that can become who I am to be, but sometimes, the most unexpected ray of sunshine plunges from the heights of heaven for us to bask in, if only for a moment and in the blink of an eye—forever starts to make sense.

I believe that God was manifest in the darkness of primitive mankind, in the storms and the cavernous depths of the soul.  Man started witnessing God’s hand in all creatures, as well as the beauty of Mother Nature, the trees, flowers, waterfalls too, then they saw his evidence in the cold winds, the rain, the sunset, and the snow.  You see, the spirit really does rest in all things if you are willing to believe.  There have been difficult times when God seems to hide beneath the catacombs of evil, I believe this is his way of allowing wickedness the chance to transform itself into hope.  One thing is for sure—he has never ceased to exist inside the heart of each and every one of us and the love that makes it beat. Remember wherever the treasure you seek in this life is, that to is where your heart is, that is where through good works you will find the importance of love and the perpetual bliss we all hope still exists.

I walk through an atrium built in the expression of granite.  I look toward the summit and a presence, stronger than anything I’ve ever felt, stops me dead in my tracks.  My heart starts to flutter and a feeling consumes me from the depths of my core.  The feeling cleanses my soul as it leaves my body and stretches outward over the land that surrounds me, this mountain, this wind, throughout Mother Nature and all of her beautiful caprices—spreading like a wildfire that cleanses all souls with purity instead of wreaking the havoc of hatred.  It has only one purpose and that is awaken the love rests inside all of humanity.  It cannot be stopped; it will not be stopped, for love has risen once and it will rise again.  I take another step and the view from this summit is the most spectacular, I have ever seen.  For once, I finally see me.

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Author’s Note:

The history not only of thought, but also of opinion, action, and consciousness too, of morals, aesthetics, politics, is to a large degree just a history of dominant preconceived patterns that follow certain paths. Whenever you look at any particular civilization, you notice that the most characteristic writings, or any artistic fragment, reflect particular paths of life. Those whom are responsible for these writings—or paint these pictures, or compose the most beautiful pieces of music—are dominated by the patterns of these paths. In order to identify with our civilization, in order to explain what our civilization is, I feel it is important to isolate the dominant pattern of these paths, to which present day culture obeys, and attack it head on.  See you soon.

-Be Love


 

Pinnacle Of Purpose v.2

I divvy up the pros and cons of one way versus the other and before I know it I am a hundred feet higher than a moment ago.

I have been rambling upon this high road for some time now and I must mention how well preserved it is. I appreciate how pleasing the aesthetic path intertwines with the rugged landscape that wraps around me. The dirt is fresh and the nature of this trail is sparkling with unspoiled conservation. The mind behind its maintenance schedule I imagine to be comprehensive and able to delegate specific duties accordingly. The loose packed earth beneath my feet bounces with a bit of buoyancy. My feet and their tenderness breathe a sigh of relief in lieu of solid ground. The trail has been advancing with moderate gains of elevation and exhaustion turned back towards the car a mile or so ago. This reestablished motivation proves itself as positive and I climb at my leisure towards the pinnacle of me.

I have finally settled my mind from its previous mishaps and refocus upon the technique of breathing slow. The upward slope demonstrates a steady approach that allocates the compass of my breathing back to a more north and south direction. My steps turn up the tempo and my stride covers more ground in lessened time. As my confidence grows with the rising elevation, my thoughts transition towards the translucent touch of creative process.

As of late, I have been spending so much time in my head trying to create that I feel destined to get trapped. These thought traps belong to a state of paradox, because they have their roots in both the good and the evil aspects of creativity. They exist with the sheer tenacity of balancing each other out. These thoughts when shaped by goodness are blessed with the creative process that is graced in morality. Then there are those thoughts that when shaken with sinful ingredients that prove to be injurious to the creative process altogether. The latter is not thought to be true to the nature of beauty and creation.

As my mind ventures deeper into this wilderness, my senses seem to develop into a disoriented state. Is my mind working so fast that it is pulling away from the receptors of sensory? I clear my head of distraction’s debris. This is followed by the sensation of a chilly, dampening effect stifling my right foot. The path without any heed or warning was now a small stream, stemming from a mountain spring.

I stop for a moment and pull off my shoe, balancing on a wiggled rock, I recycle its soaked contents right back into the spring-fed stream below me. I proceed to wring out the moisture wicking sock. I lay them down and allow them the time to dry. I sit on the rock next to them and devour another apple. The sun is crisp and the wind steady. The view I have for this lunchtime matinee has got to be one of the most memorable moments these eyes will remember, even more so when shut.

I shut my eyes and rearrange my head into thinking about the substance of a mountain spring. Bodies of water that spring up from underground like the one below me are measured to be sacred. The water from these springs is thought to have healing properties that are applied through the spiritual presence of a guardian angel. It’s of no wonder why I feel so content and comforted just sitting here for an undistributed amount of time. I go to stand up with the meager intent of not nodding off for an afternoon slumber. Before I get up, I whisper a few words in the direction of due north, followed by restoring the comfort of protection to my right foot. The cooling effect of the damp sock feels amazing but I am suspicious of the inevitable blisters that lie ahead in the dampened arena of hiking socks.

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I notice a stairwell of granite that cuts straight upwards and through the sereneness of a switchback alley. I divvy up the pros and cons of one way versus the other and before I know it I am a hundred feet higher than a moment ago. This way, while exerting a lot more energy, should cut a half-mile or so off this leg of the trail. I harness my breathing and my thought process aligns with another cycle of rhetoric rap shackling.

I ponder with the discreet conflict that occurs in the creative process. The conflict between creativity and the pursuit of moral perfection is one that has gotten my attention in this recent stanza of life. In the pursuit of principled perfection all a man does is absorb into his ego and concentrates on his own preservation and salvation. When the process of candid creativity takes over a man, it is an experience that is supposed to make him forget himself. The experience alone takes him to a higher habitat in the world. The creative process has its roots in Paradise before the Fallen world. Creativity is suggested to inspire the artist to forget his own progress and sacrifice his identity. Creation and its celestial development has always been the beating heart of heroism.

Heavy breaths echo through my ear canals and I have to stop and breathe with more depth and delivery. It almost feels as if I am exhaling out of my ears. The view and the immense beauty that accompanies it, only enhances the clarity of my vision. Even though my thoughts are picking from the unripened fruits of my mind, I do feel more in tune with my own imagination and the surroundings in which I see things is much more sharp and significant. I drown my parched demeanor in ice-cold water and quench my thirst for knowledge with one huge gulp. I take out the camera and snap a few photos. This helps calm my mind because when I open different avenues through the creative process, it allows another approach for inspiration to flow with the force of positivity, instead of eroding the process in which one chooses to be creative.

I contemplate upon a wildflower for a substantial amount of the day that didn’t hold time hostage. The thoughts I left upon that wildflower are better left for the universe to conspire over. I start back up the hill again and I begin to feel a different sense of freedom that I have never felt. I climb at the pace of contentment and splendor.

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What I am beginning to feel can only really be described as an overflowing energy that is coated in creative goodness, and it welcomes the strongest of possibility towards the building of new and grounded realities. The air of this newfound freedom buries the negative fixations I have often placed upon my own spirit, deep in the darkness of my self-interpreted struggles with sin. The freedom that is ringing in my ears at the moment, replaces the vicious negative cycle with the burden of positive reinforcement and the circulative quality of redemption. It is within the positivity of the creative process where the contents that are the most valuable in life are found locked away in a tomb. A tomb that is a lot closer to you than you think. The love inside you is the only key you will ever need.

I arrive upon the home stretch of the climb, or at least I believe it to be. The even ground is a sight for sore eyes, or legs on this particular day. The trail is pristine upon this plateau. It looks as though no one has beaten a path through this isolated wilderness. I feel a gust of spiritual sobriety move through me. Now that I think about it, I have not crossed paths with anyone. The eeriness of this awareness starts to kick in and I realize that I haven’t crossed paths with another soul on this trip. Have I? This stumps me with significance and I fall upon the stubbornness of a tree stump. I light a joint in hopes of stumbling upon a kindred and wandering soul.

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The sun and her warmth take me to a stream where the water is cool and flowing with mystic purpose into the wisdom of the mountain. I am walking along the small embankment when I see her. “Finally someone else,” I say to myself. I walk over to introduce myself and I stumble into the stream. Well at least I got her attention, I think to myself.   I go to reestablish my footing and she is already there to help me up.

“Thank you,” I say humiliated.

“Are you hurt?” she asks concerned.

With confidence I say, “Only my ego.”

“I bet,” she says laughing.

“What is your name?” I ask.

“Charmeine,” she speaks with the air of an angelic voice.

“Are you alone?” I ask.

“No, there are more of us than you would believe,” she says with certainty.

“Have you been here long?” I ask amidst confusion.

“Since dawn,” she says with purpose.

“How much further until the summit?” I inquire, still confused.

“As long as it takes you to get there,” she delivers with wisdom.

“Wait, what?” even more confused than before.

“Just wake up and keep going,” she says. “You are so close to finding…”

I open my eyes to a piercing sun and I sense the saturated surprise of an impromptu nap. I look around for any sign of life, especially her. I am not at all surprised by the lack thereof, instead I notice a flock of birds, as I gaze in their direction, they start to sing a lullaby written in a verse of nature’s harmony as they fly towards the summit. I recollect myself and proceed to giddy up this home stretch of purpose.   I cannot help but smile in light of the most pleasant dream.

This stretch seems to have seen a lot of traffic over the years. One must believe that the closer you get to the summit the more similar these paths are upon the weathered landscape of belief and quality. My thoughts turn anxious and I have to remind myself that I must quiet the mind and let the moment sink in. I do this with a rather quick sequence of reflection and it works. My mind is relaxed and I gather all of the mental supplies needed for the next endeavor into the beauty of creative love.

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Love and her realm have held a mystic manner within themselves since the beginning of time. Love is both abstract and concrete. Love is from the source of creativity. Love is created out of nothing; therefore love is created out of freedom. Without freedom there is no such thing as creative activity. Without creativity there is no such thing as love. Like the first awareness of love in a soul, there is the creative conception when the soul hears the symphony, perceives the poetic verse, and becomes aware of the discovery of presupposed bliss. Love is the interaction of grace and freedom.

When the creative process is lacking love, it trickles towards emptiness and the soul is terrified of emptiness. Boredom spawns from emptiness and this generates into the evil empirical desires of lust and diabolical retribution. It is a constant struggle to defeat boredom by means of goodness and virtue. This is a struggle that I have confronted first hand, this is the main reason I am where I am in this exact moment.

The mountain rises ahead of me without intimidation. I can sense that I am getting closer to where I need to be because the sight of blue sky is becoming more filled with clouds than the terrain is of rock and granite.   I stop for a moment to tighten my shoelaces and take a drink of water. My feet feel as refreshed as my mind and I proceed forth on my journey.

The inner creative act and its fiery impetus are meant to leave the heaviness of society behind it, with the hope of overcoming the obstacles developed by said society. Through this, there will come an external realization that this act is subject to society and the original act can and will become restricted by it, yet there is always hope through courage and strength that the creative act gets past the stagnation of society’s mindset. It is a characteristic of personality that we carry the capability of breaking through the primary source of society’s stubborn demeanor. If the creative activity is spiritually authentic and not determined by social influence, then the pursuit of righteousness becomes representative of its paradisiacal conception. An authentic creative process alone can save the soul from being twisted by arid abstract virtue and the abstract ideals that have been slanted towards the rule of law. The idea of love is layered in truth, goodness and beauty. Therefore love and the creative process must cease to project itself upon the rules and norms of law; instead they must continue to become a vital force of the inner creative fire.

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The love that is lacking an inner creative fire is not love but lust. Lust is the presence of poison running through love’s veins. Passion lives in both love and lust and can be manipulated as either good or evil. Lustful passion is evil and has its roots in original sin. I would like to discuss perhaps the most fatal of man’s passions—that of sex.

I feel it necessary to attain this passion as positive because it is a passion that can easily enter an enlightened and sublime form instead of being uprooted and destroyed. Sex is simply impossible to destroy, and it would be useless to concentrate upon its existence with an unconstructive struggle. Without sex there would be no life.  Without the unbound love of a woman, man would be left to rot in hatred’s cage of hell.

Every heart-shaped hint of creative inspiration that has a deep spiritual feeling overcomes and revolutionizes against the sinful struggle of sex. True and unbound love is the only way to overcome the sinful sexual passion that tortures us all.   True love and the sexually vital energy it encounters is sublime and becomes a source of inspiration in the creative process. In the end, a sexless life is as bad for the creative process as is the waste of vital energy in the lustful desire for sexual passion.

The hue of blue that encompasses me at this elevation is as mesmerizing as it is meandering. I have to sit down just take it all in. I can see for miles in every direction. I feel more in touch with my reality and myself than I have in my forty-year life span. I take off my backpack and dig for my cigarettes, I light one and it tastes like death, but for some reason, I enjoy it. I really should quit smoking these things but in the absence of alcohol over the past month, I find myself still hooked on this soothing vice. I think to myself about all that I have felt and considered on this magnificent day hike.   My mind has never traveled this deep into its own wilderness. These considerations have never crossed my mind until today. I adjust my head back upon the emphasis of breathing with consistency again and I stand up slowly, my legs are beginning to feel like jelly and I trudge onward.

Before man was filled with lust and his thirst for knowledge put its hands around the throat of love, it was considered to be the vital energy of the universe. It was, and I believe it still to be, capable of converting evil passions into creative forces. It must be noted that the thirst for knowledge is love directed in a certain way different than that of the ethics of morality. The same could be said to be true of philosophy, which means love of truth.  Passion became creative through Eros, so therefore creativity, whether good or evil, could be considered erotic.

Love can only transform evil passions into creative forces if it is regarded as a value in itself and not as a means of salvation. Love in the sense of goodness proves to be useful for the salvation of the soul and becomes a source of life-giving energy. Love is the fountain of creative energy and is of creativity itself. Love is the radium applied to the cancerous spirit in which it destroys the infection of hate and its ingredients of evil. The love within the creative process calls for action in regards to the concrete comprehension of truth, goodness and spirituality. One cannot love man alone for his qualities. In this respect, love is a grace that is given freely amongst all nurtured life, not for qualities, and expects nothing in return. Love is a gracious and radiating energy that fringes upon the outskirts of bliss.

I stop dead in my tracks. I look around and there is no path under my feet, just cleverly hidden granite that manages to keep me in line with my own path. Two feet in front of me lays a crack in the mountain. It’s fissure is as big as a couple of football fields. I have finally come upon the chasm of me and I must cross it.

To be continued.

-Be Love-


 

Pinnacle of Purpose

Then I was standing on the highest mountain of them all, and round about beneath me was the hoop of the world. And while I stood there I saw more than I can tell and I understood more than I saw; for I was seeing in a sacred manner the shapes of all things in the spirit.

The mountains have been whispering to me my entire life.  I just didn’t listen to them with lucidity until a few weeks ago.  It is not guaranteed, but it is possible that what I have been searching for most of my life will be discovered atop this pinnacle of purpose that rises before me.  It is my hope that this mountain of reason, logic, quality and all of the other fine philosophical points in between, waits with discovered determination at the summit of me.

My momentum swings sideways with the twisting and never-ending switchbacks.  One foot in front of the other with my own steadfast approach is the pace at which I choose for this present line.  I turn my focus to the method in which I breathe.  A deep inhale follows, right behind it a long and drawn out exhale.  This dovetail technique of breathing seems to allow me the prospect of bypassing exhaustion altogether.  Who would have thought that apposite breathing was so cooperative?

There is something I begin to feel stir through my feelings as I gain elevation.  It’s almost like my mind is lifting itself above the flat land endemic of confusion.  I stumble with acuteness upon Cathedral Lake.  The serenity of her stillness empties my mind of all thought for a few moments.    

I see a rock.  It is shaped with the expediency of a lawn chair.  I start walking towards it and I find myself staring into the mirrored clarity of this wilderness lake and observe the reflection of the mountain behind me and then myself.  The sensation of insignificance that I feel, forces me into a guarded posture.  I shake the shit out of my head and deep within a feeling of insignificance, I have absolute composure for the first time in my life.

“It’s when the mind is pure and still that it can put all points of perspective right and under the shroud of heaven.”

I see everything with a different set of eyes these days.  I try and listen for all of the things I cannot hear and everything becomes much more clear.  I stand and walk to the lake’s edge.  I touch the surface of bliss with my foot and the effect is gentle and flowing.  It ripples with a delicate pattern across the unbroken surface of eternity.  It does not interrupt the stillness, instead it transcends the way in which I visualize the value of life’s quality that surrounds me.  It feeds my satisfaction and I stand with more gumption than I had moments ago.

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A recollection of a past occurrence flickers with the kind of vividness that exists only in a memory, which makes me grin.  The future seeps through and I see it as a mere plan that is meant to collide with the present at any given moment.  The only reality that I face is standing right in front of me, two thousand feet in extended elevation.  This reality is no longer intimidated by time or fatigue.  The path ahead of me is not a means to an end; it is the way to which it all makes sense.

I devour an apple and proceed to rip open a generic fueled granola bar.  I examine the wrapper and the word backcountry, spins my head into a deeper cycle.  The backcountry should be considered in a way that exemplifies the environment of theological thought.  All civilizations and theocracies travel through this same backcountry of thought, with the same divine denouement waiting perched atop the same pinnacle of purpose.  The difference lies in the many trails that distinguished theologies have developed to reach their own summits of sanctity.  The trails all lead through the same stream of consciousness but the terrain one must cover varies with significance.  The views are diverse when approached from different routes.  It must also be conceived that the views from the differing summits are identical and the bliss experienced is also constant amongst all of the distinctive theological dogmas.  It is also the strides in relation to the pace at which we climb the ever-changing terrain that provide us with clandestine clarity.

I caught a thought earlier on the hike.  The thought that erosion is starting to give notice alongside these high-trafficked trails of serenity.  Erosion is a definitive process.  It is a process that while slow and methodical it can have devastating effects on the well-defined landscape that once thrived in its absence.  Much like the effect it has within the landscape of a mountain, erosion also has an adverse effect the mental landscape of elevated thought.  I call it mental erosion, because as time keeps chugging along so do the ideas and the philosophical undertones of those ideas.  The trails that have been beaten by the feet of seekers of truth can become so eroded that they must be shut down and closed for the sake of safety and the sanity of other seekers.

Over the course of history there have been men that deem these trails impassable, they then reroute these trails.  This is done because man no longer trusts or believes in the quality of the original path.  Mental erosion is a process that crawls, but by logic it is the only course of action that allows societies to be situated by moral beliefs of what is right and wrong.  By doing this, the very definition of quality has proven itself as undefined.  

I finish my snack and tighten up the laces on my shoes.  I gather myself and focus on the breathing technique again.  I take a gander at the path ahead and agree with myself that I’ve always been the type of person to wander off of the beaten path.  There are some of us that prefer to approach the less traveled route and make our own leeway in the direction of our singular pinnacle of purpose.  I look around and decide that I must employ my pioneering disposition and this leads me to the decision that I have to blaze my own trail up this mountain.  And that is what I do.  

Mountains are to be ascended with as little exertion as possible.  It sounds foolish but it is true.  It is also true that one should not hold any amount of aspiration for the sole purpose of bragging rights.  Mountains should be respected not defeated.  One doesn’t conquer the mountain once they reach the summit they conquer themselves.  The reality of your inward nature manages the pace at which you climb.  There is an equilibrium that exists between restlessness and exhaustion. It is the binding of this balance that once achieved the sky is the limit, or in this case, the summit of Mt. Tallac.

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As I gain elevation, the thinner air loosens my skeptical thoughts and I start to feel more aware of a transcendent presence.  I feel more in tune with myself. I believe this is because the deeper I venture into this wilderness, the louder the voice of reason echoes within my mind.  I begin to isolate myself with the distinctive and widening environment that encompasses me.  Out of nowhere, I become more aware of the significance of how insignificant I a really am.   The environment in which we live embraces its own philosophical concept.  The natural world is not something we should strive to control and influence for our own gain.  After all, Mother Nature is God’s muse and if we are manipulating her for her resources, are we not manipulating God for his continued hospitality?  The momentum behind living well is equivalent to how comprehensive we preserve the roots of God’s Country.

I look around and realize that I have found my way back onto the established trail.  I am rather content with this because the path I chose was a little steeper than what my comfort level is used to.  I am also glad because the granite field before me is ridden with hidden crevices that could put a damper on any given ankle’s daily routine.

As I continue climbing, I forget about the breathing technique and I feel the suffocating effects almost in an instant.   I have to stop and rest for a moment.  I am doing everything I can to catch my breath, finally after minutes of heavy breathing, I turnaround and think about giving up.  I could just turn around and head home, call it quits, nobody knows I’m up here, so no one can be disappointed in me.  I see a path about a hundred feet higher in elevation than where I stand now.  It looks a little less traveled than the path I am on now.  It is also almost at a ninety degree pitch to get up to the path.  I think long and hard about what I should do.  I dust the motivational muse off of my head and start heading back down the mountain. That’s when I heard the voice again. “Keep climbing,” it said. I spin around looking for any sign of life and that’s when I was greeted with the most unparalleled panoramic view of purpose.

In seconds I found myself on the elevated path.  I am on the high road and it is high time to finish this journey of discovery.

To Be Continued…

*This post is an ongoing branch of one of my first posts “Be Wilderness”.  If you haven’t read it yet please go scroll down the main page and read it.