A Little Light

Writing is, in effect, the act of validating the distance between us and the things surrounding us.

It was early in the morning, on a day long past, when I finally pushed away from self-doubt and started fighting with lead and words against this paper again. That morning I was triggered by a memory of something an old friend said to me some time ago. Like some refrigerated light of inspiration flickering in the dark, and as a shiver ran up my spine, I somehow managed to remember his advice word for word.

He said, “Writing is, in effect, the act of validating the distance between us and the things surrounding us. What we need is not necessarily sympathy, but more along the lines of a measuring stick.”

It was that morning I began scanning the world around me with measured intensity. This was almost three years ago. It was the year this so-called creative crisis began—three years spent abandoning one thing after another, all because of the elephant in the room.

Like a train plowing full steam ahead upon a burnt out bridge, I started casting out the freight, then the benches, then finally the poor old conductor, getting rid of the weight of everything while taking on nothing substantial at all.

Was this the right way? How and the hell I am supposed to know! Sure life is more or less abrasive like this, maybe more heroic, but I tend to get anxious when I envision what it will be like to be old and facing the task that waits beyond this life.

I mean, what may be left of me after they bury, or better yet, cremate my old and withering corpse? Either a box of bones I become, or not even a chard of bone. Maybe it is just specks of dust I am to be?

My friend used to say, “People with dark hearts have dark dreams.  Those whose hearts are darker, don’t know how to dream at all.”

The day I heard he had committed suicide, the first thing I did was look to the sun splattered sky and I closed my eyes. It hit me in that moment as I prayed; all the dreams he’d spoke of and saw in his sleep for thirty some odd years had vanished into thin air. Without a sound—poof—they were gone like an afternoon rain on some midsummer’s pavement. Why had he given up on his dreams and himself? Were his dreams still floating around, lost in the ethereal sense? I think so.

I have one last little thing to say about writing, before I walk deeper into my own wildest dream.

I find the act of writing very excruciating. I can go a whole month without coughing up a few beautiful words, or I go on a spree and write four nights and five days straight, only to realize that the whole purpose missed the mark.

All at the same time though, I adore the tenderness of writing, maybe more than I should. Scribbling poetic meaning to the inconsistencies in this life is a piece of cake compared to actually living it.

I think if I remember correctly, I was in my late teens when I discovered the delight of writing by way of poetry. In the sense of completeness, it blew my mind wide open. I barely spoke to anyone for weeks. If I could just keep my amusing thoughts about me, I felt, I could convince the whole damn world to fall in love with love again, while digging up and discarding intact systems of standards, and maybe even revise the movement of time.

Unfortunately for me, it took me twenty years to see that this was indeed, all the more me, deceiving me. Had I really let my emotions control and fool me for so damn long?

When at last, in recent days, I gathered something from the weight upon my shoulders. I took a blank notebook and drew a line smack dab down the middle of the page; then I listed all that I had gained from this standard on the left-hand side and all that I had lost on the right.

It turned out that I had lost so much more—things long abandoned, trampled under foot, sacrificed, betrayed—I had to turn the page to write them all down, even then, I ran out of empty space.   The only word found written on the left hand side was also written amongst the lost on the right hand side, with the simplicity of, “Me.”  And that in it self doesn’t sound as simple as it really is. 

There is a gulf that separates what we attempt to perceive from what we are actually able to perceive. It is so deep that it can never be measured, no matter how long our measuring stick is. But when in doubt, one must either shorten or lengthen the stick however they see fit.

What I can put down on this paper is nothing more than a list. It’s nowhere yet near a novel or even literature, nor is it necessarily art. It is just a notebook with a line drawn down the middle of it. Though it may contain suggestions of something moral, if you look hard enough.

But if it’s art or literature you’re interested in, I suggest you look to the Renaissance period, or that of the ancient Greeks. Pure art exists only in slave-owning societies. The romantics of old had slaves to till the fields, prepare their lunches and row their boats while they lay amongst sun-stamped atriums, composing poetry while being besieged by geometrical theories. At least that’s what they say art is.

I am starting to lean in to the belief that art and creativity are just us giving ourselves away to the slavery of our own soul. Which is not, by any means a terrible thing.

But if you’re the sort of person who raids the refrigerators of silent kitchens looking for something to snack on, or even just a little light in the dark, at three o’clock in the morning, then you can only write as appropriately as is seen fit.

That’s who I am and who I aim to be, just as soon as We can get control of this damned old train.

—BeLove

After Life

“In every waking man, death dreams asleep.”

At this particular moment I must, almost in the delivery of a confession, without conviction, say that I do not consider that my birth began my original existence. Not yours. Not anyone’s. 

On creative grounds, if on nothing else alone, I cannot accept the view of death taken by most everyone, and taken by myself for most of this life—on creative grounds I am therefore obligated to oppose that something so extraordinary as a human soul can be wiped away forever.

No, our dead are about us, shut off only by our metaphysical denial of them. It is as we lie nightly in our own little astral hemispheres asleep by the billions, our dead approach us in our dreams, sharing certain ideas upon the spectrum of our souls. It is possible that the dead may consider these ideas to be their nourishment.

And maybe, just maybe, it is that by seeing these ideas in our dreams come to life is all they really want in the realm of Eternity.  And just like this particular idea of mine, all of our ideas could be considered as these sort of fallen leaves that maturity transforms within us as we approach the autumn of our lives.  

Our souls are fields of fallen leaves that cover this life with layers of metaphor and spirituality. And there are times when we may find ourselves barren with boredom, and instead of getting creative to pass the time, we starve these ideas of our dreams with the aridity of our own doubt. We let them dry up and wither away, which yields our dead from ever harvesting the sweetness of life again, and this our dead do not like.

And for some of us, the time comes in our life that we burn a lamp upon our fields of ideas so that our dreams may set our soul ablaze.  It is damn near dreadful to think of waiting for our dreams to illuminate our natural lives with all that is love and light. Especially when time has become of the essence of all that is oh so precious. So instead of think, one must light the flame in the cavern of their soul and see what shows itself.

It is by setting fire to our souls we see that the flames of divine love burn on the pyre of fervor, as our wildest dreams come to life. This is the ethereal eagerness of creative development, that burning of the mind that wipes the slate clean kind of thing.

But to take a seat and watch this short little life pass us by without looking to leave behind some kind of mark is to invite death on our way to rock bottom, only to shorten the timing of its demanding pursuit.

Don’t kid yourself though; the dead are with us, protecting us, living with us in our dreams, and within our hearts they live through us.  They are always watching over us on this spun little sphere, which is our institute of freedom.  In the next frontier, things are much more cosmic and clear; the kind of wide-open clarity that eats into freedom with a certain balance of bliss.

We are free on this earth because of cloudiness, because of human error, and because of marvelous contradiction of law and limitation. It is as much because of beauty and goodness as it is because of the blindness of evil. These have always gone hand and hand with freedom. Good and evil, like life and death, are two sides of a coin placed long ago in the mouth of the Departed.

If we lived only one of our days to the fullest, filled with consciousness and goodness, we would find the density of an entire lifetime in the simplicity of one day.  But we have become so intricately dispersed with our distracted recreations that natural life must allow us tens of thousands of days so that we may finally come to understand…

“In every waking man, death dreams asleep.”

But there is hope for us yet, and it sleeps in the possibility to be more profound than we were long before and way beyond that of good and evil. 

For now though that is all I have to say about this matter. The songbirds are rustling in the distance, the sun soon to waken. Besides, all of these thoughts about a dream of death are likely to be nothing but a waste of breath, and now the time has found me in a hurry, under such pressure—all this unfinished business.

BeLove

Being Love

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

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

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

The Energy Of Delight.

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

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

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

The Time Has Come

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

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

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

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

The Mask Of A Dream

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

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

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

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

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

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

—BeLove

Illuminating Light

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

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

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

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

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

The Wilderness Within

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Romans 11:29

-BeLove

Written Confession

If I am to be a writer or a poet, I must always put on paper what I have become.

It may sound simple, but it is no easy task.

Hello.  First, let me thank you for stopping by.  Now where were we?  

I wrote the last post because I wanted to prove that we all have doubt.  Doubt in ourselves, doubt in God from time to time.  Hell, I have doubted God and myself most of my life. This doubt is similar to smoke, it will cloud your judgment of yourself, cloud your thoughts, cloud God’s purpose and His will for you.  

This smoke-filled doubt seems to be the absence of God.  Yet, God is still very much around.  He has just chosen to seem absent. But through the fog there is always a light and it burns within you, and it is God. You see he isn’t absent; those clouded thoughts are just the absence of faith.  I will now share with you why I believe this to be true.

Speak The Truth

My last post almost didn’t happen.  I was close to throwing in the towel when it came to writing again.  I almost put the pen down for good this time.  I was in a bad spot over the past week and a half.  It was all self-imposed from my obtrusive ego.  My head had swollen past the point of no return.  I wanted to quit writing out of pure defiance

Keep going.

The renewal date for this blog was coming up and I said to myself, just let it all go, just let it collapse like everything else in your life.  Sit back and “maybe” write the book and forget about the message while allowing mayhem to take the checkered flag from motivation.  My heart and soul were both vitally exhausted from moving constant in opposite directions of each other trying like hell to keep up with my mind.  

Don’t Doubt

And you know why? Because I doubted everything, and when I chose to do that I doubted Him.  I didn’t pray deeply for a business week worth of days, I didn’t get lost in the gardens of scripture for an extended duration.  I walked away towards the darkness of insolence from the path He had laid with the light of deliverance.  My soul had succumbed to the selfishness of pride.  

So come Monday morning, my day off, I awoke and I made it a point to speak loud and clear to the emptiness around me.  I spoke at length with Him about my dependence of Him, I begged for His mercy. And as I said before, when talking to myself, I have come to find that I am lot happier rather than listening to myself. 

So the day went it’s way and things were happy.  The kid and I played and created to his heart’s delight.  I was asked a million and one questions.  That plus one, was the best one yet.  “So Dad, did you know that God made me?” My soul stood silent and looked above and through the flesh, we winked and then I looked to him and all I could do was smile and reply, “Yes.”  

A creative mind is of a thriving kind.  All his idea. 

The following morning in the same empty room, I repeated my need for Him and His mercy, but this time I promised to start seeing the grace in all things as opposed to their shortcomings. The reason because spawned from my child’s question.  

Feeling Grace

This is something that we all do, instead of seeing the grace in something we look for the fault.  For instance, you have a child who has asked you the most mind-numbing but silly questions about farts and chickens all morning but then by the grace of God and who he really is, He reels you in to a place you have never been, a peace you’ve never felt.  That’s not just seeing, but feeling the grace of Him in all things.  

That night after the kid had gone to his mother’s house.  I was still going to quit, so I echoed my merciful dependence for Him, but this time I asked Him to give me the strength to see His will through, to allow me to see the grace of my surroundings.  I then picked up the bible and turned to Job.  Before I knew it the pen had found its way back into my hand. The words were written as follows the scripture.

He speaks in dreams, in visions of the night, when deep sleep falls on people as they lie in their beds.  

Job 33 : 15

And again the words they spilled from my flooded soul.  

Where I call home.


Allow God To Move Through You

These shades of mountain they glow beneath Your crescent moon, these stars they sprinkle my sight with a grace that shimmers of You.  And here You are moving through me with Your capricious wind, showing me what I should do.  Winter is in full force, and Your skies have been so grey, but every evening the inversion burns off and there You are so bright and beautiful.  This darkness and its significant other, that our flesh calls faith, is something we should forever see the light in.  So in the darkness of my doubt, let’s give them something to talk about.

Sometimes I feel that I should quit writing altogether, as some sort of gesture poised defiant.  In any case, I hope to stop thinking so much, because it has become impossible for me to stop writing altogether.  There is no way I can stop now, these words they help to heal, and it is possible that it is not only me.  Perhaps I will I write until death, and maybe even longer. Maybe I’ll write while in purgatory, except that I hope You and I can arrange some miraculous last inning heroics over my sins, and we shall leave purgatory in its own dugout, while you and I celebrate beneath fountains of champagne.  

And it seems to me that writing is not an obstacle in front of spiritual perfection in my own life, but sometimes it seems to have become conditional on which my perfection depends. Such is the mind of a poet.  If I am to be a writer or a poet, I must always put on paper what I have become. It may sound simple, but it is no easy task.  

To be a good person, and to remain myself, and to write about it:  to put myself down on paper, and now upon the world wide web, in such a situation, with simplicity and integrity, masking nothing, confusing no issue: this is difficult, because I am at times mixed up with illusion and attachment.  These too must be written, but how?  Without exaggeration, repetition, and useless emphasis.  That’s how.  No need for howling through the ears of anyone but You, who will always see the depth of my foolishness.  To be frank without boring You, it is kind of a crucifixion.  It requires so much honesty that is beyond my nature.  So let it be said, it must come from You.

Amen. 

The results of God moving through us are more or less a transparent holiness through the lens of Him. Creativity is the very act of God moving through man.  By living, praying and writing in the light of God, I have lost myself entirely by becoming public domain via Him.  

If you take anything away from this post, let it be as follows.  

We are all lost the majority of our lives, most of us have evolved to ignore our purpose and have become akin to just existing.  I was one of those people and I almost was again.  But believe me, we are here for the purpose of making the world a better place, via love, faith, and most of all hope through God.  

Within each and every one of us is a place called Calvary and the mind within it, has the ability to be and believe in whatever it wants to.  But the resource of abundant life has masked itself as debt and suffering, when true wealth has forever been funded by faith in God. 

This is why creativity is the most important natural resource that God has ever given us.  

And then they were whole—welcome back soul. 

-BeLove    

 

Powder Keg

Love is a wildfire—it burns all but itself, it destroys what is false, and renews what is true.

The fire of love for all souls that are loved by God can and will explode within you like the fire of God’s love—it is the same kind of love.  It burns you up with a hunger for the mystical happiness, first for those that are close to you, then of people you barely know, and last but not least, for everyone on God’s green earth.  Love has the power, the energy, to ravage hate forever in the beat of a heart. Love is a wildfire—it burns all but itself, it destroys what is false, and renews what is true.

This fire slowly consumes you with a desire that is not directed in the immediacy of action, but rather to God.  And in the sudden serenity of this burning desire you are conveyed to prayer first, rather than to action, or rather, action seems to accompany prayer and with desire, as if of its own accord.

You will not always think much of what you are to do, or to write for all souls—it just sort of happens when the hunger for God carries you away.  This hunger is exactly the same as the hunger for your own personal union with God, but now it includes someone else, and it is for God’s sake above all, though one should not aim nor detach, for or from the task at God’s Hand.

Here is a bit of hunger, and it is a direct reference to you all as a collective group, a group that is established as a representative who is individual, who might I add, is real. In this hunger is a vacuum of pain and suffering, but there is also joy and it is borderline blissful, and somehow it is complete with the conviction that God wants to and will answer all of your prayers.

Sometimes you get the feeling that when this desire for the love of all souls carries you away, God is commencing to shower all of His love upon you like some transcendent waterfall glowing with all that you need—almost like He’s overwhelming you with some honey drip of spiritual synchronicity.

You will find you are no longer worried about your own needs, but instead absorbed in the nuisance of desire for the bliss of that soul—that soul—or that one.  It must always distinctive and material.  It can never be abstract.

But it does not always have to be this way, you can lose sight of them all in God and pray for them as well or better perhaps, but it is still a sweet spot to be swept with the flames of this hunger for all souls, and then comes that strange mystical synch, as we all attain riches of joy from Him.  It makes you want to sing—songs will bubble up from your soul with effervescent joy and smother you with happiness.  And yes sometimes there is an anxiousness as if your heart would soon burst, giving birth to the whole world.

And He said to him, “Truly, I say to you today you will be with me in Paradise.”

Luke 23 : 43

I hope you enjoy your day, it is a powder day and we must go.

Yours Truly—

BeLove


The Task At Hand

And it is now that I see
the way You built for me.

A wise king winnows the wicked;

and drives the threshing wheel over them.

Proverbs 20 : 26

I will always walk

bound by the perpetuity

of two eternities—

one supposed the future

another once called the past

along this here eternal path.

 

Yet it is now that I see

the way You built for me.

Where my feet

they aim to meet

with an upright stride

as I walk away from yesterday’s pride.

 

It is true; it is You that I see

in the dawn of this coming light

and beneath Your glorious sight

it is my soul

You fill; for it feels so whole

as I bask within

this heavenly harmony.

 

So it is in this moment

in which I choose to spend

where I’ll leave it to the nick of time

should I find a hint of heaven

while I walk this endless line.

 

And never shall I ever

look at yesterday

nor upon tomorrow too,

But in this here with its now

or in the present,

I guess it leans upon

whichever way the moment went.

 

Yet instead of guess

allow me a promise to profess.

I now know You built this path

the one that spins with progress

like a wheel—I will turn it around

while I cover whatever ground

until it is me that I am certain I have found.

 

And it is this—that is all I can ask

within the mystery You gave my life

where so soon shall it all come to pass

as I look upon Your coming task.

BeLove © 2018


 

 

Rambled With Love

Love shoves me around this sanctuary of life; it recoils from within like a celestial gong as it reverberates within your soul.

Love brings us around. Love guides us drifted throughout the day.  Love, love, love, it lifts us up when feeling down.  Love walks with two steps upon the ground and four steps in, it sails with the wind.  It is love. It is solace.  But I do not care if it is solace.  I am no longer attached to solace.  I love God and that is why love will always carry me around wherever I choose to go.  I do not pay much attention to anything anymore if it is lacking in the realm of His love.  I haven’t the time for anything else but love.

And when the time clock of toil rings within my ears, it is like pulling teeth trying to make myself shift with the grind of life all because of love, this secret love, hidden love, opaque love, down in the depths of me and all around me, where I won’t talk about, where I don’t care to talk about.  And anyways, I don’t have the time let alone the energy to consider such trivial matters.

I only have time for the divinity of eternity, which is just another way of saying love, love, and more love.  Maybe a bit more common sense would snap me out of this, but love has always been seen as spotless through the mirror of clarity, and this I’ll always tell you.  I am not attached to it (one would hope) but it is love and it pierces with tenderness through the core of my being, where it is stamped soft upon the bottom of my heart.

Love shoves me around this sanctuary of life; it recoils from within like a celestial gong as it reverberates within your soul.  And I must be honest—love is the only thing that gives this heart of mine the gift that continues to tick.

Love radiates the way everything looks today.  The way it was up early this morning painting the dawn with shades of a bluebird.  These mountain peaks, they speak lovely in the silence of snowfall.  And through this patch of fog, or is it a cloud, or may it be smoke if You will, but it is love, and right now it is all I choose to see for You are here with me.

The boy, my child, he bounces brisk through the crackling snow, each of his footsteps symbolic for the fire sizzling within the comforts of the beast.  His thousandth question within the hour stumps me with a selfless attention and just like that the beast is gone.  He’s off seeking the answer somewhere buried in the depth of a childhood memory.  The boy he brings a balance to the beast, he keeps him bustling wild and on his toes.  I hear him sing a song under his breath, though hidden by the ruffling leaves, I begin to see, to hear, to sense the man he will grow to be within the love of You that now blooms in me.

This is the way things have come to be after prayer, and speaking of You while having a picnic with my child. Everything seems so mysterious yet simplified in Your Presence.  Your Son, Christ died for Love, not just in the collective sense, but within all senses, and even our very own sins, and this is the way that I shall write this, too. For once I feel whole because I am full with You.  You are the Love in everything I see as my own child has now taught me.

This is how “love” works, as I so often stood stoned by the choir of my thoughts, the less I worried about creating, the more possessed I became of Love.  There is a valuable lesson to be taught in the wealth of being poor in love.

Oh love, why can’t you leave me alone?  This is but a question built rhetorical in meaning: so please for the sake of Heaven don’t leave me alone.

At all times we must cooperate with love in His house, and His love sets a fast pace even in the first mile of the marathon, and if you don’t keep up, you may stumble and fall far behind.  And yet any speed is too slow for love—and no speed is too fast for you if only you would allow His love to lift you off your feet—after that you have to sail the “whole” way.  But it is only in our dual nature that we choose to come down from cloud nine and just walk instead, such is patience one would guess.

Allow me to be poor in the Light of You.  I’ve had a tough stretch of doubt, my thoughts twisting and turning, too much, as usual—such is the mind of a creative—always producing problems out of reality’s thinnest of air. This business sometimes burns me, and so I seek some proof.

Be exalted in your strength in the Lord; we will sing and praise your might.

Psalm 21 : 13

I am all dried up of desire and can only think of one thing—I shall stay put by this fire of You that burns so deep inside me.

These demons, my faults, my desire have all run dry, and yes my soul has softened like a wax the closer I am drawn to the candle of You.  We have come a long way turning the beast into creative energy, these shadows into support, my fear into fuel, my failures into kindling, my weakness into strength.  Let us not waste these agonies of life.  Let us use this pain to recycle all hearts with the Spirit of Love.

Amen.

-BeLove


Scenic Route

There’s a lot of optimism in changing scenery, in seeing what’s down the road.

Follow me this way

where just around the corner

waits a brand new day.

It’s love that litters a road

so gold that it forever glitters

upon the most humbled of abodes.

 

It is but a place

as infinite as space

where conversation lasts

in the silence along His path.

And time it rests with essence

while innocence glows fluorescent.

 

We then come to find it filled

with wholesome laughs

that burst with joy—

from the faith that spilled

upon our feet

and what awaits is but a story

written forever sweet.

 

Yet upon the map of midnight

it must be seen that hope

—will always shine

forever in our sight

and beneath these stars

we are filled with a vibrance

built by His creative balance.

 

And all He asks

is to love all so very true.

This is but the final task

to taste the fruits

grown from a tree—a tree called life

where it grows at the end

of this long and scenic route.

BeLove © 2018


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