Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.
In what a way does this valley awake today? At four-fifty in the morning there is not a single noise except in this sleepy head of mine—the bells ring, thoughts begin. Outside, nothing, except perhaps the cicadas, singing songs of yin and yang. The surreptitious and ceaseless whooping of a whippoorwill begins about five-fifteen; some mornings she is not always near. Sometimes there are two whooping together, a mile a way in the wild just west of here. The sun will soon wake without a worry.
The first chirps of the waking birds mark the point of that blind, sweet spot of a new day, under a dark and deep sky that is yet to fathom light, except that of the distant sparkles of Heaven. There is a twinkling of reverence and inexpressible innocence in this moment, when Heaven in perfect silence opens its eyes. The night sky begins to fill bright with pastels of purple and purpose.
The birds tweet towards Heaven, not with any kind of fluent song, but with an awakening question that is their dawn, their state at that virgin point of creation. By the sounds of their condition, they are asking if it is time for them to “be.” He answers “yes.” One by one they wake up. They manifest themselves as what they are, birds, and they begin to sing. In the present, they will be wholly themselves, and they will fly.
In the meantime, the most delightful part of the day fast approaches. That moment when creation thrives in its innocence and asks permission to just “be” once again, as it had to have done on the first day that ever was.
Wisdom has always sought to collect and manifest itself at that blind, sweet spot. That point of innocent creation.
My wisdom though does not always succeed, for I have fallen into a shoving match with self-mastery and do not seek the permission of anyone. I have too often faced these mornings with a lost and fearless purpose. And still I am not entirely sure what that purpose is, but I am breathing, and that means there is still time.
I know that time is what I have, to often, used as a method to dictate my own necessary terms. I suppose I was born with a inward ticker within my chest that has proven this to me from the very start. I know what the time is and isn’t important. I am more than in touch this morning than most days with the inward universal and divine law. I talk to myself out loud as to what I wish to lay with the day ahead. And if necessary I must maneuver my steps with the necessary adjustments to make me meet whatever it needs.
As for the birds there is not a time that they are aware of, or I’m not aware if they are. But it is at that virgin point between darkness and light, between nonbeing and being, when they awaken.
I tell myself the time by their waking, this from my experience of timing. This folly though is left to my own undertaking, and not theirs. What’s worse than said folly is that I think these birds and this rising sun are telling me something I consider to be useful, for example, it’s six o’clock in the morning. I’ve got to start getting ready for work.
So the birds awake: first the stellar jays and some that I do not know. Later come the song filled sparrows and pacific wrens. At last, come the doves and the crows. The waking of crows is most like the waking of myself—querulous, boisterous, fresh, and a little raw.
I listen to the silence of the wild. In the silence I hear an unspeakable secret, spoken with the sun and through the whippoorwill. Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.
Heaven is all around us and we do not understand. We cannot see, because with love we do not listen. It is as wide open and free as this sun saturated valley.
The blade of reverence is being ripped from our hands, and we do not know it. Each and every one of us are off, “each to our job and another to their merchandise.”
Lights on. Clocks tick. Thermostats rise. Ovens cook. Cash registers cha-ching. Smartphones fill the universal radio with static. Reverence for life suffers.
“Wisdom,” cries the morning sun and the birds beacon, though we choose to ignore them.
Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind, is written in his works.
All roads lead to the heart of a man; where he plunges unhesitatingly into the rivers of passion that flow through his life. He swims with madness in stride, but love forever at his side.
Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind, is written in his works.
When one dips into the madness of himself, he has only two options. He can either tiptoe upon the edge of insanity as long as he wants, forever wondering how deep his depth really goes, just to lose himself even more. Or if he wishes to to become one with himself, to harness this madness, he can jump from the edge of his cultured conditioning into the dark caverns of his heart and soul. This is by societal standards, also considered crazy and insane.
Though by way of a mathematical apparition that skirts the fringes of an analogy, a negative multiplied by a negative always equals a positive. This in theory is a fact. And it is finally that after all the time spent in the adolescence of an standardized algebraic equinox, I have found a way to use it in the daily routine of a word spun mind. Is it not the little things that make us whisper Hallelujah to ourselves?
It’s with a fine fury and frequent fanatics that by making the leap into the great unknown of myself. I allow my mind the best opportunity to get to the bottom of my heart, my soul, and that of me. Those eighteen inches from the head to the heart, is a dark path, but with enough light left in the tank of the heart, love shines and keeps the engine purring with purpose.
TAKE The Leap
The industry and application of spilling my heart and soul through the medium of writing, poetry, or any other sort of artistic application has proven to both churn and calm the amplifying currents of my psyche. It is after all, by the writing of these words that hum from the timbre of my soul—I find the only place where I’ve known to resonate whole.
Some may call these thoughts and obsessive inspiration of my mind—madness—and some may call them beautiful. I for one, consider them my sanctuary of sanity.
Some see me as crazy, some see me as strange, and there are those who may see something genuine. But at the root of it all, it’s the nature of all that is wild. It’s a little feral and a whole lot of real. And nowadays it seems that the only thing real in this world is borderline bat-shit crazy.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’ve flown the coop, bound away, butt-naked, clothes fluttering in the loose seams behind me, blazing the trail of my mental stability. Running off and away into the windy wilds of life, much like a primitive man would.
No, I know I’ve always been a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but I’m more than capable of foraging the fruits of wisdom from the seeds planted within this wilderness of me. The seeds by those I have loved and those who have loved me and those I’m learning to love with all of my heart. This is how I feed my own hunger for healing. Is it not in our roots, wherein lies our strength?
It is true that sometimes it feels like this journey up the mountain of my mind, and through the forests of my wild is nothing more than a metaphoric saunter through the dark night of depression and the bright lights of my soul.
Is writing my way of healing? My way of escaping the clutches of a mid-life crisis? I’m starting to believe that yes, it is. So with these sneaking suspicions of mine, it is of my chivalrous concern to turn the circumstance of my creative crisis in the right direction.
TELL THE TRUTH
It is when we search our soul via creativity, we come to see all things within ourselves through an inner eye. We begin to see that failure is fleeting, unless we give up, then failure grabs hold of the foundation of our lives. Success doesn’t give up. This is true no matter if others agree. The elastic youth of our souls have never been held to the shapes of constraint, and failure is a constraining shape only to the ego.
The judicial altitudes of earthly judgment do not have the true ability to rise to the astral heights from which we fell. It is through creativity, and it alone, that allows us to saunter through the landscape of our very own cosmic totality. To see the truth of the cosmic and divine law. And that truth is the exact same as the very last word we hope to feel before we die, and that feeling is love.
All of my life I have often took to the hankering of all sorts of mischief, the mischief of walking through life at my own pace, whether it be riddled with anxiousness or more geared in a sauntered stride of ease. I’ve always been one to look for things I can’t find, whether it either be my car keys, my mind, or the ability to understand something I’ve yet to learn, which could very well be unconditional love. I’ve always done things my own fumbling sort of way. I have questioned every damned thing, mostly myself and my own ridiculous thought pattern. And my style of writing through pain with healing in tow is no different.
EMBRACE YOUR PASSION
It is my god given right to choose my desires, my path, what it is that hurts me, which is proving to be myself and my expectations. It is up to me to choose the decisions that lead me in the direction towards courage, healing, detachment, and—sometimes—a touch of madness. And it is my god given gift to create however and whatever I may please.
It is important to embrace our passions and enjoy them with intensity. But there is not a need to renounce the pleasure and pain that comes with our passion; both are simply a part of life and should amplify the emotions to all who took part in them upon the landscape of our time.
We must not lose sight that the spirit of all “things” were always built to last, but is ourselves that get in the way. Nor, should we forget the bonding of lost souls that have been forged by the divine fiery parcel in the short time we’ve been on this earth.
Remembering this is more important than we realize. The small synchronicities throughout life teach us more than any textbook ever will, and this is only achieved in the awareness of the lesson that creativeness helps us to learn about ourselves. And I am learning this by writing with love and the truth.
While there is no greater priority than the truth, writing is also a spiritual discipline that is akin to all other prioritizing qualities of creation. It involves both the production of beauty and the beautification of the soul. As with other forms of art, writing involves a form of essence. The form is material: this paper, this pen, this table, my physical posture, my current state of mind, and so forth. There is a certain quality to the very act of writing, a quality becoming more lost in the age of twittering and emojis.
It is my wish to hold fast to the lost art and to the reverence of writing. This wish is related to balancing the influence of my wild nature and the pace of human thinking.
The truth of writing, both as an act and a product of this act, involves a harmonious blend of love, purpose and beauty. One cannot reduce words to the tasteless function of mere vehicles of thought. Words and their placement have to engage our sense of beauty, harmony, music, and the love inside each and every one of us.
THE NATURE OF BEAUTY
This beauty is nowhere more accessible to a writer than within his own creative nature and through nature itself. Nature distills this essence that is the fragrance that emanates from the divine parcel, otherwise known as the heart; and it is of certainty that the catalyst for writing, is none other than the peaceful landscape within us that we see as beautiful. It is a landscape that carries with it the gentleness of green slopes that cascade into a lake in the sky, with a promise of a peak shadowed by the horizon of Heaven above.
The reverence of writing is akin to the loving landscape that leads to all metaphysical and spiritual summits. The routine connection of the writer with nature in the broad sense, is no more the source of inspiration as it is to the chivalrous actions of a romantic poet.
In the end, writing with love forms an integral context that brings balance and shape to our souls, and to the truth of who we really are, and maybe, just maybe to all hearts it will make a difference. I’d guess to put it plain and simple, we were all written with love a long, long time ago, by the Those above, and that is the Truth.
So no, I am not crazy, very far from it. I’m just getting comfortable.
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.
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.
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.
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.
All roads lead to the heart; where we plunge unhesitatingly into the river of passions always flowing through life.
“Just on the edge of the forest, rises a mountain, and passed this mountain lies a lake. On this lake rests a village, to the west of the village is an island. On this island sits a blissful sanctuary with endless charming bells,” spoke the lovely woman.
The boy saw she was genuinely dressed with her own eccentricities and wore a veil of light that was covering half of her face. He had never seen her around the town before.
“Have you ever visited the sanctuary?” she asked. “Go find it. Go tell it on the mountain and tell me what you think of it?”
Captivated by the woman’s beauty, the boy climbed the mountain, and found the village by the lake. He sat down on the rocks next to the alpine lake and stared out at the horizon, but he saw only what he always saw: blue sky, sunshine, and jagged peaks.
A bit disillusioned, he walked to the nearby fishing village and asked if anyone there knew about a hidden sanctuary with beautifully ringing bells that was once situated on an island?
“That island hasn’t been around for many, many moons, since the years that our ancestors first settled here,” said an elder fisherman. “There was an earthquake, and the island was swallowed up by the mountain under the lake. Although we can no longer see the island, we can still hear the bells from that sanctuary when the lake starts churning from a summer’s wind, and the mountain below starts moaning for air.
The boy went back to the rock by the lake and tried with everything he had to hear those bells. He spent the entire afternoon of a summer’s day there by that lake, but all he heard was the gentle sigh of the waves, the sailing wind, mixed in with buzzing bees and that of an osprey’s cry.
When night fell, he was gone from home for so long that his family came looking for him. They found him on that rock and took him home.
The following morning, he went back to the rock. He was stumped that such a striking woman misled him. He thought that if she ever returned, he would tell her that while he didn’t find the sanctuary, he heard the bells bellow with the waves from the mountain moaning beneath the lake.
Months and months had passed; the woman never returned and the boy forgot all about her. He was now convinced that he needed to discover the treasure buried deep within the submerged sanctuary. If he could ever hear those bells, he would be able to reveal the sanctuary’s whereabouts and salvage what treasure was yet to be swallowed up by the mountain underneath the lake.
He lost interest in his daily routine and even in his friends so dear. He became the laughing stock of the other children’s jokes. They would say: “He’s not like us. He prefers to sit by that lake, gazing into nothing because he’s apprehensive of competing and being beaten in our games of societal influence.”
They all went to the shore to see for themselves. There he was, legs crossed and all, staring into oblivion upon the horizon. They all laughed at his expense and left him to his own devices.
Although he still wasn’t able to hear the sanctuary singing from below with the crashing waves, the boy learned about other things. He learned how to unlearn himself. He began to realize that he had become so used to the waves that they were no longer a distraction. Soon thereafter, he became habituated to the cries of the osprey, the buzzing of the bees and the wind blowing through a wilderness full of trees.
A year had passed since his conversation with the lovely woman. The boy could now rest mindless of all the other noises and distractions, but he still could not hear the bells ringing from the hidden sanctuary.
The fishermen in the village started to come by and talk to the boy, always insisting they heard the bells daily, while offering their perceived advice on how to hone in on the hope of hearing them.
But the boy never heard them.
It was some time later, however, the fisherman tainted their tune: “You’re wasting your life away thinking about those bells hidden in the depths of this lake. Forget about them and go back home to where you belong. Perhaps it’s only us fishermen who can hear the bells.”
Another year had passed, when the boy thought: “Perhaps those fishermen were right. Maybe I would do better to grow up and become a fishermen and come down to this rock of mine, because I have come to love it here.” As well he thought: “Perhaps it was just another myth and the sanctuary was destroyed by the quaking earth many moons ago and those bells haven’t truly rung since.
That afternoon, he decided to make his way home.
He walked down to his rock to say goodbye to the lake. He took in the scenery one last time that had surrounded him for so long. Because the bells no longer consumed him, his smile took to shape beneath the shining sun; he heard again the harmony within the buzzing bees, and the cries of the osprey blowing with the wind of a wilderness breeze. Far off in the distance, he heard childlike chatter, and he was glad to be becoming on his way towards his home, where he would resume his childish antics with his friends.
The boy was as happy as happy could be, as only a child can know, as he was grateful for being alive. He, as sure as shit assured himself, that he had not wasted his time. He had learned the contemplation of nature and he respected it more than himself.
Then, as he stared into the sun, with the harmony of the bees and the cries of the osprey, and as the childish voices meandered with the wind, as it blew through the forest of trees, he heard the first bell. And then there was another.
Then they came in sprawls of rhythmic beauty, until, to his great joy, all the bells in the drowned sanctuary were ringing.
A couple of years later, the boy returned to the village, a grown man. He returned to the rock by the lake. He was no longer consumed by finding the treasure in the sanctuary hidden beneath the lake. Perhaps the treasure had been a byproduct of his imagination after all, and he hadn’t really heard those sanctuary bells ringing, so loud and clear that one lost adolescent afternoon. He decided to sit and contemplate upon his rock as he had always done and listened for the other half of his soul.
Imagine his surprise, when behind him the acoustics of a crackling autumn’s leaf startled him. He turned with leisure to his wonder. He saw the lovely woman who had spoken to him about the sanctuary and the bells.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I was waiting for you,” she replied.
This time the veil was lifted, and the man felt like a boy again amongst the glow of her timeless beauty, despite the passing years, she was becoming more beautiful; much like her, the light she exuded before had not faded with time.
She handed him a dusty old notebook, filled with blank pages.
“Write: A warrior of love and wisdom values a child’s eyes since they are able to glance at the world without resentment. When he wants to find out if the person beside him can be deemed worthy of his trust, he looks to see him as a child would.”
“What is a warrior of love and wisdom?”
“We both know that you know that already,” she replied with a glowing smile. “He is someone capable of comprehending the miracle of life and its rebirth, of fighting till death for something he believes in—and when hearing the bells that rang from the sanctuary within yourself, you know He is the one who set them ringing from the depths of your soul.”
He had never thought of himself as a warrior. The woman seemed to hear his thoughts. “Everyone is capable of these things. And, though no one thinks of themselves as a warrior, there inside the depths of us, we all are.
The blankness of aromatic redemption canvassed his senses, and as he fanned through the empty pages, the woman beamed again.
“Write for the warrior,” she said.
When a man makes up a story for his child, he becomes a father and a child together, listening.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
You are the soul of the soul of the universe, and your name is Love.
One must bear in mind the odd angles that the rays of love have to take in order to reach a heart like mine. It is in the nature of love that we are here to love without condition. But the reality is that conditional love runs rampant, rearing its ugly head on those relationships we hold so dear. The effects of conditional love have become so distorted that the flesh takes flamboyant turns in the direction of that which lay behind us. It has become plain as day to me that most all of us compare today to tomorrow with that which happened yesterday.
In the deformity of loving with conditions, unconditional love is suppressed and the soul is left powerless. Therefore conditional love will not let us alone from suffering. But if you see the purity of love for what it is worth, you begin to understand that we owe our entire existence to unconditional love, because unconditional love is indeed the settled debt of the soul. Once that debt is settled, suffering sees itself away from the heart.
My whole being has long applauded the idea of unconditional love. Though I haven’t always been one to practice unconditional love because of the conditions that I myself have bound to love. I have often obligated it to my own attachment with the expectations of what I believed love should be. It is in my opinion that this has always been wrong.
It is unfortunate that it took me this long to finally figure it all out. But it is better to have learned late than to have not learned at all. The only way I came to understand this was by making it a priority to love myself without conditions. It was tough to achieve, especially in the struggles of finally putting the ego to rest. But it did happen through extended contemplation and in the due process of rewiring my heart with my soul. All of this has helped me to see what unconditional love truly is with a newfound intensity. You see unconditional love is as light as it is heavy, which holds steady with an all around balance.
It Is What It Is
Pure love—unconditional love—is the poetry of life. A poet will come to understand that there is nothing of value without love and of course death—more on death down the road. For this post I wish to keep these words somewhat aligned with that of jubilation and joy. See without love, there are no lessons. Without love there is no darkness for the diamond in the rough to shine.
Today’s culture is quick to throw love off the cliffs of belief into the icy waters of doubt far below. For not only are they scared, but they lack the patience to see love for what it’s truly worth. Which I have come to find is both timeless and priceless. There is no fear in love. Pure love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made pure in love.
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
1 Corinthians 13:7
This world has become for the most part soul-less. Though there is an awakening of sorts happening amongst us, this too shall be discussed later on down the line. The world nowadays with its “tinder” love and don’t care mentality emboldens a quicker, thrashing about to find a swift spark to bargain with someone that burns forever in the now. But the miracle of love we seek takes time: time to find it, time to nurture it, and then time to bring it to life. After all, lust is just a maze, in which love can’t find its way.
The modern ways in which we seek love have become conditioned to that of perpetual motion. When in fact the purity of love is perpetuity in itself, carried by the notion of chivalry. There is no surprise in the fact that all of us wanting to love become confused and anxious, while dancing with the madness of conditional love, unable to stop the frantic jig, while spinning past the things we, in the deepest part of our souls cherish the most. But I quit spinning a couple of years ago. Please bear in mind this does not mean that I am not spun. There’s that double negative again;)
Though there is a way, a better way, which takes into account that of human error. Our fears, our quirky behavior, our atrocities that shadow our eccentricities, they are very much held accountable. And it just so happens, in the cycle of individuation, we are guaranteed to stumble upon something that points in the direction of said way…
This path I have long walked has forever been riddled with the roots of love. It is just ahead through the canopy of this forest, a subtle sign from heaven above seeps through showing the way. A long lance of sunlight lights my longing for this world to see the truth of unconditional love. But first I must fully feel the truth of it myself for myself. I slow my steps, careful not to trip over my own two feet until I come to a stand still. Though it is in no way that I am guaranteed not to fall—yet these words they are certain to spill.
A Sense Of Bliss
This stillness, the solemnity that broods in these woods, it sparks a sense of loneliness as it tells itself upon my spirit. But it is in spirit that I have found happiness in this solitude, and this is where I found bliss on the way through to You. The loneliness that has often simmered in the silence of my mind has given me something I thought I would never find, that being You. This is You moving through me, is it not?
My soul shivers more often that not with Your intent nowadays. While my hopes and dreams, they bend toward Your light. This light looks to promise growth in the warmth of Your love. It satisfies my desire to feel the love I need, the love of You. It is true, this light, Your warm-heartedness alone seems to speak directly to my spirit with hints of something that will always fill my heart with a sensibility that is forever unconditional.
You are the soul of the soul of the universe, and your name is Love.
I feel a love within myself growing in the depths of redemption with You. It is the unwavering love that we have all cherished from those who have perished upon Your Heaven above. It’s unconditional in every sense of Your word. It is pure, it is clean, it is angelic, and in Your nature it will forever be illuminating. And yes, I do have so much more to say, but let us save it for a rainy day. You see, it is true, rain—has always assumed growth.
Look within. Within is the foundation of good, and it will ever bubble up, if thou wilt ever dig.
The spiritually hungry are always ready to learn more, for their hearts are eager to discover new truths.
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.
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.
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.
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”
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.
I sink with the weight of a thousand unanswered prayers—the ice-cold pain of rejuvenation sets its hook in my soul.
I now know the questions of my dreams are ones that only God can answer.
Goodness is achieved not in a vacuum, but in the spreading of hope, always attended by love.
Some sort of mirrored reality stares back at my reflection—hollow with eyes blue as the void. I see the edge. My mind walks along some celestial cliff. Paralysis attacks my legs. My stomach swims through an ocean of butterflies. I feel my heart pound with the rhythm of the crystal blue, white crested waves of persuasion churning below me, as they crash with winter’s effervescence.
My imagination falls upon a field of metaphors and instead of picking these written wildflowers for you, I leave them scattered about for you to decide? Which are worth picking and which are worth leaving behind to bloom?
This life, this story, this blank piece of paper, these words, what significance should they all carry? What is it all for? It has to be for something not wrong, but right—right? I am able to do what’s right, or should I stand wrong, maybe corrected? What is a man to do in the fashion of goodness’ sake?
As I fall from the cliffs of some astral dream, like hundreds of times before, the cement painted sky above comes to collide with the baptismal blue waters of the place I call home. I sink with the weight of a thousand unanswered prayers—the ice-cold pain of rejuvenation sets its hook in my soul. I wake up in a cold sweat. I now know the questions of my dreams are ones that only God can answer.
All through life, we are established and broken. Then we are broken and rebuilt. Such is the American dream, in its current blood red state of self-destruction. Its obsession with the self-destructive particulars of the wounded man has grown to be comical. These words were first written in some creative outpost, so it’s time we get down to business. If love were ever to become a revolution, I can’t think of better time to fan the flame.
Somebody asked me the other day, if I thought I was some kind of warrior? My response was, “Absolutely not. The moment I decorate myself as a warrior, is the moment the ego bears judgment on my being. One does not self proclaim themselves to be a warrior. This is full of idolatry and pride. The soul speaks chivalrous or it doesn’t. It is as simple as is it sounds. I just want to do right by the boy and by God. Although love is his namesake, it is for goodness’ sake that I do this for Him.” She looked a bit lost in my answer but you could see the light shine in her eyes as it came to make sense.
The Poet Barks
But at some point the poet will contradict himself, and as of now, I cannot think of a better time. There is no time like the present to revolutionize my mind. It is my very own idea of love. It is but a jubilee, maybe a rendition of what love, or even who I used to be.
Man’s association with chivalry is pretty much dead. The self-proclaimed warrior is associated with uselessness, because he does not respond voluntarily. A warrior knows his purpose, it is rigorous and it takes a special state of mind that is eternally unbending. To be a warrior is to be a seed of God’s purpose and to nurture His love wherever one goes with consistency. I guess where I am going, isn’t this or that way, but it is His way. Therein lies the difficulty of finding the seed of our purpose in a garden filled with God, faith, and wildflowers, and unfortunately, evil.
The goodness in the garden of good and evil wasn’t that far gone, so hope had stuck around, and because of this, goodness held a solid chance. So with these words, please allow me this dance.
Americans! With our outrageous ideas of love, saturated in the outpouring of domestic tragedy. Who are we to think so highly of ourselves, after all of the wars, the wholesale revolutions, devastation and death camps? We’ve soaked the earth with the blood of both the innocent and the guilty.
And still it spills forgiven from our hands? In the cremation of love, evil lingers in the scent of ashen hate. Hate but a hungry beast, fed through the vacuum of fear, racial indifference, and disbelief, and never in the sense of preserving goodness’ sake. What do our personal troubles amount to? Do we really suffer, compared to the others some consider of equal or lesser value? America’s democratic abundance does have its own peculiar complications. Does it not?
America is God’s experiment, such an experiment of dogmatic unity gone wild. Many of the wounds created by the dogma of elder civilizations have long been healed with this newfound wound, which is a mystery in itself. America didn’t like those who walked with this curious value that lacked pride. It ostracized those who embodied the special interest of compassion. America has lost its ability to understand the truth in the love of liberty and finding one’s self.
The goodness of man was created in scarcity. So what shall we anticipate from the false facilities of man with his plenitude? This is why the world could always use a couple more writers written in as poets, to maybe point out the flaws of the hardened heart.
In the adolescence of America, love was built on the template of a myth. It’s why we fell head over heels in love with the idea of love. Love is the thickness in our blood, rich with the platelets of self-desire. It was intricately embroidered with the fine print of bliss, but then our boys had to go across the pond and paint the hillsides of Europe with the blood of fascistic imperialistic belief.
Women were then given an image to uphold and the wild soul of woman was slowly cut off from her genuine self. The boys, they came back patriotic but broken men, suffered from the inevitable effects of evil, while death was seared into every sight they would see for the rest of their lives. This was the beginning of the end in my opinion, love put on a mask of comfort and sensibility, covered by the veil of fear and pain. This was when pure love went into hibernation. And sometimes a poet must carry the weighted stick that pokes the bear of love and lead it back into the wild where it belongs.
In the early days, revolution promised mankind a permanent and interesting life in love with moral goodness. Revolution was the work inspired by love and compassion. All classified aspects of the societal food chain were in a state of excitement led by the energy of delight in the poetic revolution of life. Or as William James put it, human beings really lived when they lived at the top of their energies.
My soul is fed by the energy of love, all souls are. This is why we often feel so connected to those we hardly know. It’s the energy of God’s delight, coursing through our veins. But what is there to be so sensible about love if, as I feel, I have waited thousands of years for God to send my soul fallen upon this earth? Here I am supposed to capture a true and clear image worthy of love before I return, before my human life ended. Being sensible with something as wild as love does absolutely nothing to mitigate the fear of “missing the boat.” I believe anyone can see that.
All of life has been spent in sin and virtue, in good and evil, in labor and struggle, in sickness and in health, in gifts, in sorrows, in achieving and regretting, in planning and hoping, and in love and fear.
Suppose a man were at once in his life to disappear into God for the space of a minute. And suppose he had seen things, considered them, known them, made judgments about them and spoke of them, out of acting wise or not. Suppose he stumbled in and out of prayer, while seeing the smoke of doubt envelop his surroundings. Yet he walked through clean to the upright side of obedience. And in this obedience, he tasted the vague sweetness of God, where he found spiritual ease in prayer.
In all these things, life is but a fabric sewn together with uncertainties. But in the moment of a knick in time, the minute in which he felt deliverance to God, the fabric of life comes to be woven by the pure love of God.
“No good thing does he withhold from those who walk uprightly.”
Strength In Numbers
It is in this ecstasy of pure love that we arrive at the true fulfillment of the first commandment, loving God with our whole heart and mind, and all of our strength. Therefore pure love is something that all should aspire to please God, and we ought to desire to inspire all with unconditional love. Not just for a minute, nor half an hour, nor a week, but forever. It is in these souls that conspire to love, that peace will be proven to be force in this world.
We are the strength of the world, because we have become the tabernacles of God. We are the ones who keep the universe from being destroyed. We are the little ones, we do not always know ourselves, but the world depends on us. And though no one seems to realize it, we are the ones for whom it was all created and we shall inherit the land.
We are the ones who renounce the world and throw away the meager possessions. We alone appreciate the world for what its nature has given us. We understand joy, and those who are hateful and angry—joy will destroy. We are the clean of heart, we feel God in our hearts, and our freedom has no limits. We wash the world with God’s light.
So come, let us go into that body of His light. Let us live in the cleanliness of His song. Let us shed the labels of the world like clothing and enter barren into His wisdom. For this is the prayer answered when He hears the cry: “Thy will be done.” And this is all that one seeks, when he tries his damndest to do something for goodness’ sake.
One may never know why he held the great unknown so close to his chest. He often grasped at its searing celestial pain under intense circumstance. Sometimes he would even reach for it and pretend to fill it with emptiness. Then came the day when he filled it with what he thought was emptiness and instead it was God who filled his heart with joy. And as he felt a sensation like no other shiver up his spine, he knew it was God telling him it was time.
To be continued…
This is merely an excerpt from the book, call it practice if you will.