For The Love Of Rain

Let them call me rebel and welcome it, I feel no concern from it. But I should suffer the misery of devils, if I were to make a slave of my soul…

Allow me to say a few things before this rain is made a utility that they plan and distribute for a price.  By “they” I am speaking of those who do not understand that rain is a celebration, those who do not appreciate its gratuity, those who think that what carries no cost has no value, that what cannot be sold as material is not real, and that the only way to make something real is to place it on the market as something material.  

Yes, the time will come when they try and sell you even your rain, such is capitalistic theory. At the moment it is still free, and I am in it, dancing. I celebrate its gratuity and its worthlessness all the same.

This rain I am in is not like the rain that falls in the city. It fills my surroundings with an immeasurable and confused sound. It shields the slanted roof of my home with His persistent and controlled rhythm. And I listen, because it reminds me again and again that the whole world is run by rhythms I have yet to learn how to recognize, rhythms that are not those of man but of Him, the Engineer.

As I meander through this rain, sloshing through this deserted night, I stumble upon a temporary shelter as the night has fallen dark. The rain has walled me in with an immense virginal myth, a whole new world of meaning, of secrecy, of silence, of rumor.

Just to think of it: all its noiseless speech pouring down, selling nothing, judging no one, soaking the parched ground, drenching the trees, filling the streams in this wild with rejuvenated water, washing out the dwellings that have stripped the wild of its heart.

What a thing to be here dancing in this rain, in the forest, in the darkness of night, cherished by this wonderful, dripping, perfectly innocent speech, the most gentle comfort in the world, with the kind of talk it makes alone all over the ridge lines, upon the edges of my mind, and through the conversations of streams throughout the hollows of my soul.

No one started it, and no one is going to stop it. It will speak as long as it wants, after all, this rain was of the Engineer.  As long as it speaks I am going to listen.  

But I am also going to sleep, because here in this wilderness I have learned how to sleep again beneath the dampness of a dripping wet lullaby. Here I am not unknown. The trees I know, the rain I have known, and this darkness of night, I have known for too long. I shutter my eyes and sink into the stream of this rain soaked darkness of which I am part, and the stream goes on with me in it, for I am not unknown to it.

I have become unknown to the noise of the city, to the greed of machinery that knows nothing of sleep, the hum of power that swallows up the night. Where rain, sunlight and darkness are held in contempt, I cannot sleep. In my older age, I have found it harder to trust anything that has been fabricated to replace the true nature of my wild.

I carry zero confidence in places where the air is first fouled and then cleansed, where the water is first treated with something deadly and then deemed “safe” with other poisons in the name of greedy filth.  

All of this is the asphyxiation of a myth. The city lives its own myth by choking the reverence out of nature. Instead of waking up and silently existing, they prefer a material and fabricated dream. They have constructed a world outside the world, against the world, a world of mechanical fiction, which condemn nature and seek to only use it up, thus making it harder for nature to renew itself, and that of man.

Of course this celebration of rain cannot be stopped, not even in the city. The woman from the deli scampers along the crosswalk with a newspaper disguised as an umbrella, scared to get wet. Men traipsing down the road like ballerinas, so not to get their little loafers soaked.

The streets, suddenly washed, become transparent and alive. The noise of traffic gives way to the splashing of splendid fountains. Kids bouncing from one endless pool to the next, not a care in the world. Children are well aware of the celebration of rain. As there was nothing more important than in the moment of a sudden rainstorm through the eyes of a child. The joy soaks through their souls and gives life to their innocent and blooming imaginations.

One would think that the city folk in a rainstorm would have no choice but to take into account the nature of its fresh wetness, its baptism and its renewal. And they themselves would assume that noise is left to the wilder ones, the country boys. To the city folk, the rain brings no renewal, renewal can only be found in the forecast of tomorrow, and the glint upon the windows of buildings will then have nothing to do with the new and blue sky.

“Reality” will remain somewhere inside those walls, counting itself while selling itself with frantic and complex determination. Meanwhile the disgruntled patrons scatter through the rain bearing the load of their obsession, with more vulnerability than before, but still barely aware of the reality of rain.

They do not see the light that shines with reflective beauty from the mirrored puddle, and which they themselves are walking on water with the same stars as above, or that they are running through the sky to catch a ride, on their way to a shelter somewhere in the Associated Press of an irritated social life.

But they do know that there is dampness abroad. Perhaps they even feel it. I cannot say. Their complaints are more often than not, mechanical and lacking spirit or soul, but every once in awhile comes a smile…

In Closing

Naturally no one may believe the things said about this rain today. It all implies one simple lie: only material is real. That weather, not being planned, not being fabricated, is impertinent, a blankness on the expression of progress. (Just a simple little operation, and its whole wet mess may become relatively tolerable. Let business make the rain that will give meaning to its meaning.)

They sit in their city and criticize the hardships of rain and of nature. I sit in my own little piece of wild and wonder about a world that has both, progressed and regressed, and vice versa. I have at one point or another guessed that I am part of what I thought I must escape. But I’ve learned upon this arid path that it is not a matter of escaping. It is not even a matter of speaking with a boisterous voice. It is a matter of soaking it all up and waiting til the surroundings in which I sit needs it to grow.

Industry is here. Utility is also here and both are here to stay. When the utilities of PG&E illuminate and warm my home, it is no one’s fault but my own. I admit it. I no longer kid anyone, not even myself, they keep me safe from their wild out here in my wild. They will suffer not from my bluff, and I will pay them their patronizing complacencies in the silence of this rainfall.

I will let them think they know what I am doing here in my own little wild. Let them call me a…

Suddenly, a light flips on, and behind it, scampering footsteps follow in the same delicate pattern that pitter-patters much like this rain. They fancy their way upon the window seal of my old broken soul.

They came heavy at first, but oh so gentle did they turn as genuine happiness approached, the kind of happiness that God’s magic was made of. The boy, for whom some of these words today have been written, was now awake, so therefore I must, we must, escape these thoughts, as it’s time to get him ready for the day.

And from his wise little mouth, the first spoken thoughts of this morning poured upon me like a stream of dampened light. A light so simple and pure, it put the darkness to bed.

“Dad, are we gonna play in the rain again today?”

“Soon enough kid, soon enough”

—BeLove

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

The Good Fight

Instead of casting blame and hate, let’s cast shadows of our hands in figurines of hearts on all the walls that were meant to be broken down for the revolution of love.

My animated imagination may not neccesarily be relied upon for certain guidance here today. I am too excited, I must admit, by these currents of joy. I feel the need to laugh rising, mounting, which has always been a sign of my weakness for the extraordinary. My creative blood has a hankering for high stimuli, absurdities and extremes. Yes be aware, my soul is awakened.

Sometimes I am ashamed at the way that I have come to trust the light in my own darkness more than the light radiated by others. How have I come to be so captured by this kind of neurotic creativity? All of these pictures and words with their rhyme like sentences; they have me wrapped around this little pen. Lest we forget about this lens and through writing! Though I do not mind it, it keeps me on my toes.

The light that shines in this darkness from within myself is nothing more than a sacred glow that spills from the solar plexus. It’s true that I have, too often, found it nourishing and liberating to fathom what a fiend I am beneath all this business that has to do with biological cells and creative contemplation, which is more than likely, only divine in appearance and upon the surface, but oh so lit up and infinite below.

Over the past few years, the incubation of these words has become an exchange between my heart and soul. Writing these words is nothing more than a thread that has woven my head with that of my heart, by way of my soul.

Now I must struggle with the contradiction that I have to live with, in appearing before you with what I deem a disguise, because I hardly ever wear both my heart and my mind on my sleeve like this in my day-to-day routine. What I typically wear are a pair of chef pants and a tee shirt.

Which brings me to a few questions that folks have recently been asking me to great extent?  Whom do you represent?  Which religion do you embody?  Which political party do you represent?  My response is often the same, which is does it really matter? 

All in all, these aren’t difficult questions to answer, because at the end of the day, I represent me. I choose to represent love in all arenas of life. I choose to believe in the moral good of society, as a whole and that alone should grant you the knowledge as to what side of the fence I lean on. I could come with the notion of perhaps speaking on the grounds of a starving artist. Even though I may not seem like one.

In speaking for artists I really am speaking for a very eccentric kind of person, a marginal personal, because the starving artist in this modern world is no longer an established person with an established place in society. Most of society realizes with keen sense today that the artist stands outside the boundaries of establishment. But is anyone really established, and if so, under what pretext?

We are marginal people who withdraw deliberately from the margins of society with a purpose that pertains to expanding the essence of human experience. From the consequence as being one of these “strange” people, I speak to you as a self-appointed representative on the periphery of people who have done this sort of thing with or without consideration of consequence.

Thus I now find myself representing the artists, perhaps the hippies, the so-called liberals, and perhaps even the poets among you. And let us be honest, all the term liberal stands for nowadays, is a more politically charged way of calling someone a hippy. More on the freedom and liberation of things down the road.

But we are the people, regardless of what anyone says, who are seeking in all different directions the way to a better day, and who have no established absolute status in this confused world whatsoever. So yes, maybe in an underhanded philosophical way, I speak for everyone, including you.

So instead of casting blame and hate, let’s cast shadows of our hands in figurines of hearts on all the walls that were meant to be broken down for the revolution of love. Because in the end, love will save us all.

And now I must ask you to do me a favor of considering me not as a figure representing any certain institution, but as an insignificant person who comes to the table now asking for nothing but your charitable patience while I say one or two things that has nothing to do with where my head was headed when I started writing today. If you are interested, then good, it is here for you to read. But there is probably a whole mess of other things you’d be better wise to spend your time doing.

Are we as hippies, artists, and poets relevant? No, we are deliberately irrelevant. We live in the shadows of an ingrained irrelevance that is appropriate to every human being. The marginal man accepts the basic irrelevance of the human condition, an irrelevance that is manifested by the reality of death.

The marginal person, the artist, the poet, the displaced person, the prisoner, every last one of us lives in the presence of death, which will eventually make us call into question, the meaning of life.

We struggle with the fact that death will one day happen to us, so we instead seek something deeper than death, and the purpose of the artist, the marginal person, or the poet is to go beyond death even in this short-lived life. And it is the purpose of “we the people” to go beyond the opposition within, and amongst that of ourselves, including life and death, and to be, therefore a first-hand witness to that of the light of love and life.

And now here we are moments from morning, the birds start to sing. The bells begin to ring, and in the distance, the whistle of a train sings. I stand up without much thought. The light creeping through the curtain could not have come at a better time. I adjust my mentality to grab the thoughts from a box I wrapped in prayer beside my bed last night.

There is a freshness to this morning I haven’t felt in a long time. My mind is finally cleansed.

It’s time we fight the good fight.  

—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

Ode To Tahoe

The water is clearer than the air, and the air is the air that angels breathe.

-Mark Twain

“…at last the lake burst upon us—a noble sheet of blue water lifted six thousand three hundred feet above the level of the sea, and walled in by a rim of snow-clad mountain peaks that towered aloft full three thousand feet higher still… I thought it must surely be the fairest picture the whole earth affords.”

-A distant relative of mine—Mark Twain

Should I stand perchance
and gaze upon your shore
while your waves they dance
—abrupt and still
where my thoughts 
shall spill forevermore.
 
I look so deep 
within your emerald depth
for as much
as what I seek
is likened to your clarity. 
 
And so it is
beneath a mirror 
—tinted zephyr
here I stood 
dreaming awake 
fifteen years to the day.
 
For my gladness 
you have given
and my wishes true
as your hue blue.
Though in your reflection of me
I will always see a storm-savaged sea
amongst these waves of tranquility.
 
Floated by your youth
upon a buoyant breeze
with your water and your sand
you took me by the hand.
And so I swam
through the depths of you 
so deep and blue
so tried and true.

BeLove © 2018