A Fork In The Road

When it comes to forks in the road, your heart will always know the answer, not your mind.

When you return to the path that leads to the fork. Take it and it disappears as the choice lies both ahead and behind. Though both roads lead somewhere, one will take you nowhere.

To stop in the right way is to move on, to spend more of you (not to acquire anything, but to provide more.) To cling to something, to know one has it, to want to use it more, to squeeze all of the enjoyment out of it: to do this conscientiously is to really quit living altogether.

It is to stop fixing one’s attention and one’s thirst on what cannot satisfy it. Though life itself “goes on” and there is no “stopping,” life is forever content with itself, but does not know that it is so.

To leave things alone at the right time: this is the right way to “stop” and the right way to “go on ahead.”

To leave a thing alone before you have had anything to do with it (supposing that you ought to use it, maybe ought to have something to do with it) this is also stopping before you have begun. The less one wants, the more one has got. There is no need to wish for more. Use this philosophy to go on.

MOVING FORWARD

There was a time when we all wanted to make a difference in this fallen world.

It was towards the end of my adolescence when I decided to express only half of what I was feeling through the medium of writing. The reason was simple, but knowing me, one may never know the absolute reason.

This was at which point I discovered that I had turned into a person incapable of expressing more than half of what I felt. So I quit writing altogether.

Then it came again, that desire to to express myself through writing, to maybe exert some spiritual strength again through my rambled thoughts. This was three years ago almost to the day.

This time though it was different, it went deeper, a whole helluva lot deeper. Something grabbed a hold of me, it was as existential as it was ridiculous. It was a need for some kind of purpose that didn’t know the definition of mediocrity.

Was it right of me, to walk away from all that I have known in my life to seek said purpose, to walk my own path, the path in which place I haven’t a clue as to where it leads?

In the end, these are nothing more than open-ended questions that most ask themselves in order to keep life interesting.

And yet, still I continue with writing to this day, years have past, and here I am, employing my consciousness as best as I know how, with my heart on my sleeve, and always something to say, while living in a dream I mean to weave.

A CREATIVE CHOICE

A few posts ago, I had mentioned peeling back the layers of one’s self. And I spoke of the creative masks that some wear as a shield of said self.

Between writing poetry, fine tuning a novel, trying to keep up with a consistent blog, playing a patron of photography, and working as a Chef for a busy little bar and grill—I often feel like I have bit off more than I can chew.

But it is these outlets that help to keep my mind firing on all cylinders. It, being creativity, is instrumental in keeping my soul sane and my spirit unrestrained.

I’ve come to the realization that these outlets are nothing more than creative avenues that I have taken to shed the layers of who I thought I was, whom I was conditioned to be. They are all just the creative pieces that are slowly putting together the puzzle of me.

At the end of today, I’ll admit it, and tomorrow too. I have always been a hopeless romantic, through and through. And men this day and age aren’t conditioned to admit these things. All I am trying to achieve through creativity is to escape from the clutches of life’s cultured conditioning.

I have become more aware that the ends no longer justify the means. Because there are no ends, there are only means. Life means to carry us from unknown to unknown. Each moment filled with marvelous mysteries, and I know from where I came, but yet do I know where I am going. And this is what the creative journey has always been about.

I stare blindly with awe at the surprises that life and creativity have in store for me. It’s true though I often feel afraid all the same, but that is normal when on an unknown expedition through the deepest depths of one’s self. And yes, still I kneel and pray everyday that this may be the day that I finally learn how to get out of my own damn way.

THE TAKEOUT

I know that if I only think of the goal, I am nowhere near able to pay attention to the subtle signs that the universe shares along the way. It is just the same that if I only concentrate on the question, I will not hear the answers that have always been right here ringing within me.

This is why I must surrender myself to the great unknown of creatively weaving my own path. I cannot stop now, or else I may never know where my choice is meant to lead. And that is a “what if” I do not want to ask myself when old and grey.

WHEN THE TIME COMES TO MOVE ON, ONE MUST MOVE ON WITHOUT THE WORRY OF WHAT COMES NEXT.

Sometimes you have to wonder, I mean really wonder. I know we make our own reality and we always have free choice, but how much is fate?

Is there always a fork in the road, and are there two ordained paths that are equally fateful? There are hundreds of paths that one could choose as this way or that—there’s always a chance, and it’s true that chance is the only constant.

It is to choose love with constancy and consistency more than it is anything else, and to make this choice with instinct is the only way that will lead us to the places we are meant to go. And oh, the places we will go…

WHEN IT COMES TO THE FORK IN THE ROAD, YOUR HEART ALWAYS KNOWS THE ANSWER, NOT YOUR MIND”

It is at this critical creative juncture in life, at this fork in the road of me; there is only one question:

What does love do now?

No other question carries any relevance. No other question has any meaning. No, there is never going to be any other question in your life as important to your very own soul.

I’d be the first to guess that we have to go back to where it all began, to remember why I started writing again…

—BeLove

Somewhere To Be

And so it is now, this now is all there is, for in the moment is the only place we are truly meant to live.

Here I am, a sum of the parts of the man I once was, and the man I am to be. In this moment of truth, in these fragments that fall creative and free, I am still somewhat me. Though these words, sometimes construed, they are true, and they do carry me down this delightful path farther into the depths of me.

I’ve been thinking lately about the relationships that have grown on me, the ones I’ve yet to know, and those that have fallen away with time, with distance, and some with the misunderstanding of youthful exuberance, but most importantly the misunderstood parts of me. All of these relationships have played an imperative role in my life, like water saturating the roots of a tree.

I try not to confuse happiness with sadness, nor with regret. As this only confuses the issue even more. After it is all said and done, whether in his shoes, or her shoes, we all have our issues.

It is not the easiest thing to do at times, to not add to the confusion of the issues at hand. I’ll admit it. Though, I do not hold any regret that the uncertainty of things happened the way that they did, because it is the way things were meant to be.

I am more than aware and fully understand that I did have a choice in all of the matters that make up the landscape of me with these trials and tribulations so true. So I chose what I felt was needed to be felt, and I feel as though I acted as I should have acted in those moments that make up me.

And yes maybe I believe in fate a little too much. Perhaps I put too much pressure on the future, while still grasping at the purpose of my past.

It is more than likely not, or still even so, but insofar as I can tell there have been actions as small as the slightest glance of an unknown smile, the delicate laugh of an upset child, or a fleeting thought upon such an event as monumental as my very own death, they have pushed me in different directions oh so intricately. But you must see, all of these instances have placed me perfectly right here, right now, in the awareness of my very own clarity.

There was no other way to get here. This meandering, erratic, and crooked path of creativity has actually been the straightest of lines through my own mind, as I took the plunge into the creative core of me.

Take away these thousands upon thousands of somewhat organized words, thoughts I once thought of as direction, written with mistakes, sometimes poetic, even those with regret, and suddenly I am a different person with a different history, an entirely different future.

Yet to think like this takes away from said clarity. So I would have to hold it steady with the heavy load of regret because it would take away from where I am to be, that being here, in the now, and in the key of me. So instead let us not think of such things.

Still here I still stand, so very thankful for the joys and sorrows of life, because without them, it is here I might not be.

I am just as well blessed to know all of those I’ve known, and was honored to meet, some were mere acquaintances, some just passing by, and some still the best of friends, and for those I’ve yet to meet, I believe it’ll be so very sweet…

Yes it’s true, we never know what joy awaits us unless we believe that it does indeed wait for us somewhere upon shores of believing in yourself wholeheartedly. But we are only human and the sorrows of our past sometimes get the best of us all, and it becomes that much easier for us to fall. Still one must remember to smile when rising back up to stand oh so tall.

THE TAKEOUT

A man who might be full of sadness and regret, who might not give a damn, or who might, just might, remember that the future is inevitable and the past is gone. It is to realize this, wherein waits the joy that comes with not knowing what tomorrow may bring. But tomorrow does not belong anywhere if I’m not here, in this moment as we speak.

This is the meaning of my free. The freedom I have found in the creative waves of my own deep blue sea. The freedom to feel what I feel when I feel it, and to write it down on paper. To be real and stand up somewhat haphazardly yet with stability in a world where the illusion of normalcy is more often than not—awfully foggy.

Still it is my pleasure to share with you what I believe, whether or not, it’s with me you might agree, nor what you might think of me. I am me and that’s all I can be. You are free to see me however it is you please.

And now I see that every experience whether good or bad, has led me, or will lead me to where I need to be—at the very least eventually. Every single victory, every little losing streak and the simplest of mistaken identities have all led me right here to the creative edge of me.

So let us not be afraid to shake things up. And just as well, maybe jump, knowing we should not expect success, and the awakening of our wildest dreams to come to reality overnight. What is meant to be will come when the moment is right. It always does.

For the best things in life only happen when we least expect them. The universe has her ways. And everything you could ever want, or have prayed for, will come to parade before you, if you would only allow it to, without expecting it to.

So go on ahead, get lost, and maybe get lost again. Harness the wild within, and find yourself again, then again and again. Work hard, hustle harder, and don’t quit until you make yourself present with life and proud of who you are, in this now and all the more presently, where life is forever beckoning, and all the while Heaven waits patiently.

And so it is now, this now is all there is, for in the moment is the only place we are truly meant to live.

But for now if you would please excuse me, I have somewhere to be…

—BeLove

Depths Of Discovery

Without leaving himself, one grows with the vastness of the cosmic scope within; and yet: the farther one goes, the less he knows.

“Backwards and downwards,” the laughter and then the deep breaths, for long durations there had been nothing else. These were the only pieces of me left intact, or that I was able to find in my animated demeanor.

I sometimes felt like a memory of three words, carried by a broken down glory on the back of an empty pack of cigarettes. But it sufficed. The experience of life has been both essential and delightful in regards to the growth of me.

Over in the corner, on the fringe of awareness, the light still lingers; and in a flash of two memories colliding, my sensitivity to the light has somehow improved. 

In the beginning brightness had been all over the place and everywhere the same. It was a shining spectrum of silence, boundless but uniform. Essentially, it was without flaw, still indeterminate. And yet, while It remains all that It has forever been, it was as though the gentleness of bliss had been limited by the interpretation of an activity.

Poetry. 

The first time I finagled with the rhythm of rhyme, I felt like my soul was bouncing all over the place. Funny enough, it was when I first stepped off a plane in Colorado with the deepest cut by my side some twenty years ago. It’s true—every movement in genuine love is poetic, if not hallucinoginec.

This is how I behaved over the next few years. I was determined to stabilize myself from this exercise in spiritual growth and self-recollection from the grip of an adolescent lesson layered with love and loss, all the while doing it with a smile. I felt that the aim of poetry would saturate the deserted depths of my arid soul, only to revive the active connection between my self and the divine powers that Be. I felt that it helped to heal. I realized that it was, as it is that follows.

Poetry is an activity that is at the same time a pattern, a kind of living lattice of discovery; universal, infinitely complex, and exquisitely delicate.  A vast web of knots and divergences, of parallels and spirals, of intricate figures and their curiously distorted projections—all shining, active, and most importantly alive.

It was from then on, that first written poem, that I wanted to drape the world in the radiance of poetry, but I didn’t have enough material, nor the confidence to boot. My first attempt ended somewhere back in my twenties between my head and my heart. Sure poetry was lovely and generous, with its fields of gold. Still its goodness was the sort of goodness society had long considered out of date, so I gave it all up.

Besides, the radiance I wanted to deal in was an antiquated kind and in short supply throughout this shallow world. What I needed was a newfound radiance altogether, something a little more gorgeous and chivalrous that wouldn’t allow my imagination the time to pine away in the darkness of me. My imagination had to assert itself so that the art manifested the inner powers of my own nature, that which is love.

Without leaving himself, one grows with the vastness of the cosmic scope within; and yet: the farther one goes, the less he knows.

Then I found it again, that need for poetry, out west, a few years ago, this time it hit pretty close to home.

Does poetry have the power to pick you up in California and land you in sunny Salt Lake City a few hours later? Could it validate the distance between ourselves, and that, which lies ahead of us? Some think it has no such power. And nowadays public interest only grew wherever power did.

In the days of old, poetry was a force to be reckoned with. The poet had real romantic strength in the material world. Of course, the material was different then. Souls were still being wrapped in the fabric of divine magic, right up until the Industrial age slithered its greed around the heart and soul of mankind.

The romantic poets of society’s influence have always done what they were expected to do, they sprinkle beauty amongst the chaos, only to eventually give in to the pursuit. They chase ruin and death harder than they chase women. They set their talent ablaze, followed by a mental decline just before they reach home, and they dive headfirst down a slippery slope that slides upon a watery grave.

No, society is proud of its dead poets. Most everyone takes tremendous satisfaction in the poet’s self-taught testimony that reality is too tough, too big, too damn much; too awfully rigid with an expectation that bounces off the emotional checks and balances of a soul.

It is often thought that to be a poet is a school thing, a skirt thing, a church thing. The weakness of an unhinged spiritual prowess was proved in the childishness, madness, drunkenness, and despair of such marvelous martyrs.

So poets are loved, but loved because they just can’t make it here in the real world. We exist to loosen the grip on the feelings of experience by unraveling the tangled knots of life. We justify the cynicism of the hard-hearted men who say, “If I weren’t such a corrupt, unemotional piece of work, I couldn’t get through these times either. Look at these good, tenderhearted men, the best of us. The poor bastards perished by their own weakness, crazy sons of bitches.”

All the same, the desire of a poet will at times intersect at the corner of contradiction within himself. Maybe it’s an urge to be magical and cosmically expressive, shadowed articulate; to be able to approximate anything. Maybe it’s to be wise, philosophical, to find that common ground between the beauty of words, spirituality, love, and science, to prove that the animated emotions of the spiritual imagination are just as potent as any well-oiled war machine. Maybe it’s to believe in an ability to free and bless humankind with an unconditional love that spills from the light in the sky above.

But all the same, there in the shadows of his drive and desire, hides an inkling of expectation to be famous, and in this expectation of fame, there always hides a muse, a woman, there was always a woman behind the scenes.

Of course, it always came down to women. Freud himself believed that fame was pursued for the sake of the women. But the women were pursuing something else.

Everyone of us, both man and woman alike, are always looking for the real thing after being had and had by all the phonies. So we pray for the real thing and we rejoice when the real thing comes along. That’s why the world will always romanticize its love for poets. This is the bittersweet truth of poetry.

“Upwards and forwards,” I say silent to myself shadowed by a sudden glorified onslaught of distant laughter.

Once more a few lit fragments of self fall back to me—the same as they always were, but in some way associated, this time, with a particular light in the bright lattice of an intricate relationship, located somewhere in between what is right and what is wrong in the middle of me. It situates itself approximately on one of those little infinite nodes of intersecting alignment that shines from the core of all souls. I believe we can all agree from where in which I believe this light shines.

This pattern of intersection projects itself from another pattern, and within the other pattern I find another, larger fragment of me—a long lost memoir as a boy, scrambling out of the puddles of an adolescent ditch, wet and muddy to my knees in childlike poetry.  I shout at the shadow of a man above, “jump you chicken shit, just jump.” And as the shadow jumps, I hear a faint howl echo with laughter.

An indeterminable voice within my immediate surroundings introduces itself as gentle as possible to my contemplative state, startling both me, and my thought process awake.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated and fasten your seatbelts, flight attendants please see that all tray tables are folded forward and seat backs are in the upright position, and that all overhead baggage is put away and bins are secure. We are clear for takeoff.”

Yes, it is true that a poet cannot perform societal open heart surgery, nor can he heave a bird of pewter steel thirty thousand feet in the air at seven hundred and seventy seven miles per hour, only to land soft, gentle and safe in good ole sunny Utah.

But he can damn sure die trying.

—BeLove

Off The Beaten Path

When the path ignites a soul, there’s no remaining in place. The foot touches the ground, but not for long.

Most people—by which I mean most of us who grew up on the outskirts of the American Dream—grow up, get an education, find a steady job, and then after time has passed, maybe fall in love and get married.

Yet in reality I started working at the ripe old age of fifteen years old, fell in love numerous times, got married then divorced, partied like a cliché, and never managed to graduate.

In other words, the order I have chosen to live my life is well on the opposite end of normal and most, more than likely, consider crazy.

Since my adolescent years, even before surrendering my childhood to puberty, I’ve despised the idea of working a stagnant, nine-to-five, cubicle ridden job.

I mean hell, I wanted to be a pilot when I grew up. I found it fitting for my personality, all winded and flown. Maybe that is why I have come to admire writing so much, because these words often carry my mind away with them, while giving flight to my soul.

In my late teens and early twenties, after I had managed to burn a few bridges with some that were close to me, as well as the local law enforcement, I was eager to find my way elsewhere, and I wasn’t the only one who wanted to see me on my way.

So after much deliberation as to what I wanted to be at the age of twenty-three, I decided to head west to try and figure it all out. I went in search of a place where I could find and be myself tried and true. I went looking for me.

It was a simple, rather happy-go-lucky sort of idea: running away from all that you know, on the prowl for a freedom that had its roots firmly embedded beneath a dream bound by a white-picketed fence with a few beautiful children running wild, all the while living a life so carefree.

But I didn’t necessarily want the security of mediocrity, or at least that was what I told myself. I found that I was at ease on the road. Something about it felt like home. I was relaxed, readily patient to find my niche, no matter what it took.

It was then that I found myself forty-two hundred miles away from my home. The first leg of the search for myself had led me to Denali, AK. I had one friend at my side, only to be surprised as I stumbled upon the lifelong kind of friends when I arrived.

Still I was sort of terrified, yet somewhat excited about having not any idea as to what my future held, or what I might find. That summer is still etched with perfection amongst the canyons of my mind. The winds of life had carried me to the place I was supposed to be. I was at home not knowing where I was going next, and it was an ecstatic feeling.

There was nowhere to go but everywhere to be, so I just kept rolling right along through life like a star shooting through the night. Little did I know though that I would soon find a place where my restless carbon dusted bones could settle down for awhile. It was soon thereafter my time in Alaska, I found my way to the place I have called home for almost eighteen years now, that being Lake Tahoe.

There was a budding counterculture vibe taking root in Tahoe back then, still is, and probably was long before I arrived. It was a vibe that vibrated deep in the depths of my magnetic soul. I felt like a cicada longing for the light of paradise in the night, I couldn’t contain myself. It was my kind of place and I didn’t want to leave.

I managed to lockdown a steady job playing Chef at a little off the beaten path ski resort, just south of Tahoe, nestled away in the beautifully serrated Sierra Nevada.

Even back then, not so long ago, at the turn of the century, a place like Lake Tahoe cost a lot less to live than it does today, though it was quite easy to exceed the cost of any given liver on any given day. Life was wild, livable and lackadaisical, always on the go just to slow it down.

But I was always broke, working like a slave on a snow farm, all so I could afford to stay comfortably alive, while wetting my whistle with the blowing winds of adrenaline, if you know what I mean? Man is quite the universally thirsty race. Always thirsting for something one doesn’t need.

Lost souls like my own were running from all corners of the country to this metaphoric fountain of youth, on the hunt for just a hint of never-ending bliss.

My newfound friends and I were hellbent and determined to live a not so ordinary life far and away from any attachment, for a life we could call our own.

Yes indeed, life was headed in the right direction of love and light. I had found my niche. Yet even still, knee deep in myself and paradise, something was missing.

I soon began to realize that no journey carries one as far unless, as it extends into the wild around us, and that is as far as it goes into the wilderness within.

Before I continue the journey, now is the time that off the beaten path these written thoughts of mine must go…

All throughout time, yet not so much as of late, man has been eagerly pursuing, ever so curious at the precise whereabouts of “Heaven on Earth.” This exact curiosity could, and should be applied to ole Christopher Columbus. When he set sail upon the ocean blue, he went looking for bliss, in search of a different kind of freedom, and by God, he found it.

While the pilgrims brought with them bits and pieces of purity, scattered about spirituality, they also brought with them violence and supremacy. Let’s be honest, Plymouth Rock stood as promised with the poise of paradise and the white man was going to call it his own at whatever cost. And to make sure to institutionalize paradise, they, of course, quickly created a bank and a university.

Still spiritual men and sacred clerics throughout history believed without knowledge—even warning those on the hunt for something else—that to be aware of a certain inner kingdom was the foundation of freedom long built in a man’s heart. And to find that freedom, man had to travel to all ends of the earth just to find himself. And just as Augustine spoke of the path, “it is not with steps, but with yearnings,” to truly find one’s self.

See the journey has always been about moving away from one’s “fallen” condition. The condition in which we are not free to be who we are to be without the need to please. You see, freedom is about the journey and not the arrival. And to finally come to understand that after all this time…

Paradise simply exists in you, the person, the self, the untethered soul, but mind you, it is the radical self in its uninhibited freedom. It’s the beast, stripped of pride, no longer weighed down by the winter clothes of ego, call it a spiritual and enlightened nakedness if you’d like.

It’s instinct unleashed. It’s the soul set free from one’s own stupendous ways. It’s a light within that rises with the sun upon the land of milk and honey. It’s an inner salvation that shivers ticklish up the spine.

Yet how I came to the realization of all of this took thousands of petty mistakes along this journey through the depths of myself. And if I may be exact, it was up until this precise moment. Better late than never one would guess.

Til the next time…

—BeLove

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

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

Familiar Reality

I haven’t come this far to only go this far.

If we don’t change, we don’t grow. If we don’t grow, are we really living?

-Unknown

It is a good thing, perhaps, to write for the pleasure of the public eye, but it is a far greater and nobler thing to author for their direction an authentic and substantial benefit.  The latter is the exclusive object of this commentary.  If it proves the means of restoring to healthy shape one solitary victim of humanity, of igniting once more the fire of faith and joy in his or her stonewashed eyes, of bringing back to their sedated heart, the swift and plentiful impulses of brighter days, then and only then shall I be sufficiently rewarded for my work.  Maybe my soul will permeate much in the same sacred delight that a good, god-fearing man, feels after his enactment of a good and unselfish deed.

I haven’t come this far to only go this far.  This thought races through my head more often than not as of late. I stare through a glare at half of my reflection as it merges with the beauty of a surprise “summertime” sunset.  I’d be a bit particular to speak with optimism that this is much the same view as Heaven affords its clientele.  But what do I know, these are just thoughts, fleeting and pure.  And the words that follow share the same boat.

Fleeting Purpose

What I’m trying to do here, among other things, is to layer the imagination with spirituality, poetry, humor, reality, and above all else purpose.  I have never declared this writing as being dressed in the uniformity of style that society is so tickled with.  I suppose when a reader finishes one of my posts—assumed the reader finishes the post—that maybe they fall into a state of gentle bliss and escape the faculty of their own fleeting thoughts for a moment or two.  Maybe the reader has encountered some unpredictable way of “awakening” in a sense.  It is possible that possibility alone has expanded itself along the corridor of their universe.  Or maybe it is that I like to write because it helps me to crawl out of the ditches of my own life, that I myself have dug.  But the only way I know to crawl is through the creativity of change.  

The other morning I woke up and finally understood what I always thought was to taxing to understand.  Progress.  It is the most industrious word in the English language.  There is nothing that can undermine the very definition of the word progress.  The moment one decides to take a seat and deny progress the chance at manifesting itself, one should just go ahead and accept mortality’s invitation, so to shorten your pursuit of paradise. 

Creative Change

The first step towards embracing change is to develop a progressive and creative routine that breathes betterment into your overall well-being.  These routines could range from a daily workout to creatively writing, or hell, cooking for a living.  It’s when we improve ourselves through habitual hobby that we leave little to no room for our thoughts to drift away towards all things that we assume to suffer in our life.  It’s the fact that when we find something we are passionate about, our inner mechanism of success switches on and we portray a future full of purpose, envisioned by creating hope.

The Light Of Growth

Creativity is continued growth per change.  It is the crafting of something unique that had no presence in the world before. It brings forth something out of nothing.  Nothing becomes something, which in the end, befits change.  There is also a problem with change and that is whether or not something wholly new is feasible.  In a world where old-fashioned concepts have become standard and ethical direction is ever changing, is it possible to create genuineness from the goodness of a soul? I guess it all depends on the individual.

True change should be measured as something that engages catharsis and the purification of our senses.  It also over time help us to extract our own soul, bringing it home to the heart where it has always belonged.  Creativity is a process built on change, and over time it pulls us away from our peripheral and judgmental thoughts while pushing us into the realm of perpetual spirit.  It is the liberation of the spirit from all of the external elements that suppress spiritual and even personal development. But creativity is the consistent victory over said elements.  To say the prior words with more simplicity, to immerse one’s self in creative acts of tenderness is to expel all that is toxic from ones life.

Change In Direction

As of now though, work beckons below, this view alone has my mind firing on every last cylinder.  These thoughts forever fleeting, but they are coming together in a fleet that will cleverly chart the course through the chaos of me, let alone us, them, and you, the reader. It is to be considered of course, that you the reader, made it this far?

Change means that what was before wasn’t perfect. People want things to be better. It is human nature.

The beast has been astray for a quick minute.  He’s been downstairs planning his attack against another kind of beast altogether—a beast of industrious culinary proportions. His head or hands, whichever you prefer and if they even exist? They have never been more full.   He operates in an entirely different way when given a certain task. Let us be honest here—his borderline sanity meshes well with orchestrating chaos. It’s his kind of place.  

I must go sharpen my knives, recalibrate the scales of success, all the while rallying in a new wave of troops.  It’ll be a a band of broken pieces, but when those pieces are placed together properly, the wholesome beauty of growth is a gorgeous thing, and I’m just crazy enough to water them all with my own sort of insane sensibility.  So let us go, and let us watch how the numbers grow.  Let us get to where we were going a long time ago. I’d suppose this is when the story gets good. But who I am to know what the story holds. I’m just the one telling it. But I do, I feel the target set upon my soul, with the aim being set in the direction of a dream. 

The Takeout

There are short-lived sorrowful seasons of life that to often tend to weigh us down with anxiety.  Yet the time has now come to turn the corner towards the spring of redemption.  Hope has always hung on to make a show of revival—not needing any reason to back it—only because it is in the nature of hope to revive itself when the spring in its step has finally sprung.  So go on, get out there, water yourself, create growth, create community, create hope, and then put our own damn name on it, and stamp it with love.

Home Sweet Home

I look to the Neapolitan sky, speaking silent.  I am thankful for this solid ground.  This path seems to be synching towards something splendid. You gave me this view, this crew, all for a reason didn’t You?  There are still many questions to be answered, but it is in the fullness of time that the answers we seek usually arrive bound with astonishment, as we are left scratching about our heads with a mystified air surrounding us. 

-BeLove

Tickle The Truth

Look within. Within is the foundation of good, and it will ever bubble up, if thou wilt ever dig.

—Marcus Aurelius

The spiritually hungry are always ready to learn more, for their hearts are eager to discover new truths.

Proverbs

As a man with a humbled heart, I strive for truth and goodness.  If they ever find themselves in my possession, they may bring to me an unknown kind of heavenly happiness, but happiness itself is not of my creative and conscious purpose.  As much as I am engaged in the pursuit of happiness, it is the truth that I seek and not happiness. Though it is possible that when the truth comes to be found, it may just be holding hands with happiness. And it is true that having a creative attitude towards life, as a whole is not man’s right, it is his duty. 

A Creative Direction

Within this fallen world, I still see beauty everywhere I look and my creative nature will forever follow said beauty.  And being somewhat of a poet, hope will always find enthusiasm hiding behind beauty in the depths of a dream.  This enthusiasm becomes second nature to the poet because the truth of what he is, is within him.  

A voice sounds off in his soul, which is fed with a creative energy equal to the power of all societies.  You don’t make yourself interesting through madness, eccentricity or anything of said sort. In the truth of what is, the poet finds his enthusiasm in the ability to drown out the noisy distractions that this world seems to offer us on a daily basis.  He becomes fit to hear the essence of all things.  

It’s about to get deep.

Now let us focus on the truth of creativity. Creativity is the moral imperative that applies to the ethical department of life.  The effort put forth towards artistic and cognitive activity carries with it a moral value that is unswerving when one starts to understand that the realization of truth and goodness is an act of creative nobility.  

Digging For The Truth

Whatever I write from this point on, is for mere guidance of me and maybe you, and of course the boy.  There is nothing nonetheless in the truth of these words than that alone.  It is my life’s constant gravitational pull that has at times—pulled me towards the truth of me, myself, and I.  These words, they may be the hidden paths, which lead to the truth of heaven above, but heaven already exists in my heart, and that is the truth in itself. 

I would rather not be the man who looks upon his reflection and for a moment forgets the manner of man he was.  Yet at the same time, I strive not to try and remember myself lest I come to find the person I am not.  The first step toward finding me, who is of the utmost truth, is to discover the truth of God.  So if I have indeed been in error, the paramount step towards the truth is the unearthing of said error. 

Digging Deeper

Shall I flee far away, and hide within this wilderness of me? Shall I hurry for His shelter far away and free from tempest and these storms of me?  I seek no treasure or experience—I seek only the truth.  So whatever storms come, they come, and we brave them by dancing our way through them until the sun shines upon our souls. Is this not correct?

It is in my opinion that first you must truly know and love your self. Then you will become aware of the true “being” of God beneath your own fleeting thoughts. You will learn to wait with stillness underneath the chaos of confusion as you begin to recognize the unconditional love for yourself that hides behind reclusive pain.  It is after one has become aware of the darkness in the depths of faith—freedom, salvation, and even enlightenment—are but seeds of the truth.

Nature never gives up. And that is the truth.

Seeds Of Truth

In the reality of spiritually awakening, something emerges from within you that grows so much deeper than whom you thought you were.  And as much as the old version of myself is still around, something more powerful than anything I have ever felt grows within my soul. Someone has determined it necessary to anoint this head of mine with a sacred sort of oil, leading me down a path I never thought existed.  

A seed must crack and break free from its shell of comfort, so to seek the light of salvation through devastation. This “breaking free” will look like complete destruction of a person to those who look at this world externally. Followed by the discussed judgment of “that boy is a few sandwiches short of a picnic” mentality.  A losing of the mind, though in a lot of ways, can be of the highest kind because of what it is about ourselves we creatively come to find.

He has His own Way of bringing us out of our shells, of bringing us into the world—the world from which I long held the illusion that I was withdrawing. Most of my life I’ve felt some “far off” kind of sensation that something was leading me somewhere of significance.  But in the harshness of my disbelief of His will, the path has seemed to twist and turn in all sorts of direction.  And the only way to get through to me, I feel, was that He had to move through me from dead center, from the Cross within my heart. 

 The Truth Beckons

So in my own direction with my ego I went. Then came the flux of imagination, sensation, and insight, followed by an up close kind of ache for the sacred knowing of an astral plane beyond good and evil.  And that in it self is the dark truth of something heavier than I’ve ever known, I guess that’s why I will forever draw these words with the manner of me—to find the lightness of my own being. And maybe they could help me to become more aware of my own ego? 


At last, the light of the truth it beckons.  It glows in the awareness of this ego of mine. It has long lurked in the shadows of this creative wilderness.  Oh this writing, the spilling of my own fleeting thoughts, why must they exude my ego, why must they be the truth of who I am in God’s very own heart? And so it is I’ve come to understand my ego, and from understanding comes God’s growth. And why it is, that the beacon of light from within, will always be the beckon of hidden truth I seek.

I have wandered deeper into my own soul than even I’ve ever fathomed over these past few months—deeper than most wish to go. Lucky for me these words have been instrumental in keeping my feet on the path in a wilderness so deep. Maybe this depth has setup permanent camp in this wilderness of my mind. So allow me to tickle the truth with the gravity of this pen.

Tickle The Truth

The great fleeting feelings and thoughts are gone but not forgotten. And if we will not awaken the awareness of humanity’s collective ego—the collective of goodness, spirit and soul of society will never be convinced to participate in the geometric pattern of angels, and society will sink deeper into the abyss of suffering. So now the time has come to lift the veil of Maya.  Illusion is real and reality has become a dream, no longer illusory.

The truth of heaven and of fallen angels will sow the seeds of the future for humanity as a whole. Both like to speak to us in dreams with certain criteria we never knew to exist.  But we spend most of our lives dissecting our dreams, instead of living those dreams. These dreams, they come to us as we sleep, to help us see the concealed divinity in other human beings. All the while sharing with us a map that creatively charts the course of imagination across the abyss that so often divides us all from the truth of His Spirit.  And upon the latitude and longitude of the heart, we find flesh and soul at crossroads.

The Story Grows

In the end all happiness really is—is the quality of your inner context. Each and every life that blesses this planet is in fact a story waiting to be told.  Each life has a table of contents, that divvies up the chapters by those delicate and life altering situations that each and every one of us face every single day.  Happiness is growth. Growth from all of the pain and suffering that once prevented us from believing in ourselves.

So let us join hands and build one another before we judge one another.  Is this not spoken in the law of Christ, to nurture instead of destroy?  So instead of fighting amongst each other, let us nurture the foundation of truth with unconditional love and help us allow a bright future for our children. Let us build a new path that leads to somewhere the world has never been. 

“Bear another ones burdens and fulfill the law of Christ”

Galatians 6:2

The Takeout

Man and his moral dignity with its freedom are determined not by the purpose to which he aids his life, but by the source from which his morality and the ensuing activities that spring from said source.  It should be worthy of a note, that in a sense, “the means” from which a man chooses, are far more diligent than “the ends” in which he pursues. 

To consider things and situations only in the light of the effect they burden upon me is to stumble upon the doorstep of hell, so as I stand up, rising out of my own hell, it’s time to reach for the truth of heaven.

-BeLove