The Elephant In The Room

It did occur to me however, that it might become too dangerous to continue this contemplative experiment of giving myself fully to this wild.

In a stream behind my eyelids was a long procession of the suffering, the sick screaming from their beds of torment, the homeless and starving stranded, the blasphemous drunks, all the failures with their heartbreaking cries, the dying drenched in the sweat of agony. 

I could hear them clamoring from inside of my own walls, so I let go of my power over them and allowed tenderness to take me over in successive waves.  

It was no longer only my weeping soul that left me surprised, it was all of humanity showing up in my thoughts, as the dazed and confused, “woe is me” multitude within myself disappeared into thin air.  

In this immense valley, all I could see was a chalice overflowing with mist and sunlight. The high desert sagebrush whispered in harmony with the babbling bliss of the stream surrounding me. Spring bloomed everywhere with its little bouquets of love scattered all about, and off in the distance roamed the elephant in the room.

Now that I better understood the unique aspects of each and every being, their hidden and opened wounds, how each one, in the end deserves more commiseration than blame, I began to better understand myself.

Over the course of my visits to this stream in the past few days, I have been discovering with each visit that my actions, more than words, were teaching me how the bottomless pit of human suffering deserved compassion more than indifference. 

My socially distant happy place.

I understood that one must be equally patient with everyone, including themselves, knowing that everything that had been heard—thoughts, opinions, projections, feelings—was inevitably subject to change, that brutality concealed fear, just as being aggressive covered up any weakness, and that for all of these thoughts, my own inherent contradictions had slipped out one by one, until finally making their way to the surface upon this stream of conscious.

From this height, it was no longer possible to be angry with those who took to being nasty: their nastiness was the cause and effect of their suffering.  And it is on this level I stand, not just perched upon a chair with a pen in hand, as this has always been the vision He had hoped for humanity.  

Every simple creation was moaning and this moaning was a warning to me: bliss would not be allowed as long as one human being was suffering in this life.

Sitting with my legs criss crossed under a weeping willow, I began to breathe even slower, calming myself into an even more contemplative state.  

I had barely succeeded through trial and error: some parasitical thought always managed to cross my mind at the worst possible moment, as a biting horsefly buzzed its wings about my ears.  I had to surprise the transformation of unexpected ideas, forgotten faces, and landscapes appearing from the deviations of old memories.  

Fortunately by way of consolation, I thought of a lesson Christ once taught to the disciples:  “If you practice just one-twelfth of what I have taught you, your salvation is guaranteed.”—although I had no clue as to what this one-twelfth of a fraction should be, although I have a pretty good feeling. 

Perhaps, it could be a simple dedication to the imagery of these snowy Sierra Nevada mountains, the purple hue of sage and Spring grazing upon the valley floor.  Or perhaps it is in remembering a quote that I hadn’t thought of in forever, “It is in You, You friend of the humble, that I find my only refuge.”

A CREATIVE REFUGE

But I had to escape physical refuge for the time being and so I gave up on time altogether.  At exactly high noon, the sun passed through the summit, the valley suspended in darkness: it was night in the middle of day.  The hours grew listless in this idleness.  Sparing any and all effort, every gesture stood out in the social distancing of space with the same sharpness of budding foliage against the skies of tomorrow.  Another quality of time such as this had emerged from the glaring absence of a schedule.  

With my breathing as slow as the hours and days passing on end, I slipped into the universe, repeating in mini stature, the phases of expansion and retention.  From the massive breath of silence I loomed over the futility of words.

A subtle modifying of my consciousness was taking place, the first signs of which appeared in my handwriting—I was keeping tabs on this journey—which suddenly, in itself, seemed so miniscule.

Without any resistance, I gave into myself as the angles of my personality began to round themselves out.  No longer regarding me as an intruder, the wild beast within me understood that I was no more a threat, but a confidante. 

A few grouse settled in the brush beside me, without any hesitation as to making their presence known.  And while I had yielded completely to contemplation, a family of whistle pigs dutifully whistled my direction, as the elephant roamed even closer.

At the end of the intensity of these past few weeks, I began to savor a special quality of things that signal the emergence of another recipe for reality, of a transparency, the gustation of a serenity where the soul wanders wild and endlessly. 

And in these weeks gone by, in the hazy hours where the foghorn of discouragement could have bellowed, everyday I find more comfort and renewed faith in the thoughts of the boundless inner wealth of each and every being.

It did occur to me however, that it might become too dangerous to continue this contemplative experiment of giving myself fully to this wild. My imagination, of course, made the first few attempts, risking its suggestions. Then I had to move around the over-processed feelings that someone had snuck into my isolation, and was prowling about my freedom.

It was then the mountains before me creaked and cracked, shaking the earth below my feet. I feared that a landslide of unforeseen circumstance would come hurtling down upon my state of mind.

Then came the stirring of soon-to-be insomnia, as I snacked on the last of my cookies, I wondered how I would fare—isolated in this valley so full of shadows—if ever I should have some sort of medical emergency arise.

I had drawn the story out in my head repetitively in short time, like caricatures of some spiritual conquest; the rising altitudes of the absolute replaced by the endless abyss, the raptures of bliss, of nocturnal terrors, mystical madness and mental illness, they all wrapped around me with the unraveling fabric of fear. 

Strangely enough, and yet not soon enough, the fragrance of sage and Spring refilled the emptiness of my senses.  And it seems as though through divine timing, my thoughts had refined themselves with finality.

THE SPOKEN TRUTH

In learning solitude, I have been in isolation for a long time. But to become fulfilled, man needs his creative purpose; it’s only later in life that he can withdraw to isolation, when he has the right to do so and his vocation has found solidarity.

In being taught that “nothing will come to pass until the right moment comes,” such solitary foolhardiness proves to be premature, exposing one to an upside-down life full of expectations, and for a long time I didn’t want to venture any further into my own depths for expected closure, but I had no choice in the matter.

I had, for too long, allowed my blossoming mentality to repeatedly follow the cycles of the seasons. It hasn’t been just a matter of a few years of precocious blossoming, with mentally sound flowers that blossom in the Spring, then wilted in the Fall, only to reopen the following Spring, but through the whole of my entire existence, for reasons I have yet to fathom.

However, the difference between the mind and a flower is that one starts over again from the same stem and repeats the same cycle, whereas the other, each time, departs from a rich understanding of past experience and sees that each new path is marked with the progress that came from the paths before.

But before I could truly sacrifice my ego, I had to acquire a new one, to construct and create it. I was at that creative crisis-ridden age that needed it for commencement and maybe it was the purpose of something rekindling my imaginative fire some time ago. It is why I believe I started writing again, because this commencement of change would lead to the cessation of who I was by entailing the shape and maturity of the man I am to become.

But before dying myself, I had to live in the throes of my childish self and my own creative stubbornness. I had to find a different kind of freedom. I had to see the city from a different angle, survey the landscape of life, blend in with everyone, as to eventually confront myself. Yes I did, I had to suffer and love, and just as much as to why I must, finally see this damn elephant out of the room.

—BeLove

The Path To Understanding

When it comes to self-isolation and shutting the world out, things are bound to get wild.

In the beginning of his experience as a thinking being, man faced a vast unknown. Everything was unknown until it was experienced, and even then its function or, we may say, its cause and effect continued to be unknown. Man was more than able to reach a valid explanation in his own mind, or at least with own his way of thinking, upon the fact that fire was hot and water was wet. Experience validates this.

He could not, however, explain the change in the seasons of both the external nature and that of love, or the change from daylight to night. Nor could he fathom the changes that took place within himself mentally and physically as he grew through the various cycles of life.

It is as well he could not find a satisfied explanation in regard to the phenomena of nature’s wild accord, such as an unforeseen winter storm, the sonic boom of thunder, a bolt of lightning, the eclipses of both the lunar, and the solar kind, and as of now, a certain virus, let alone any of the other magnificent and novel wonders brought to you in part by mother nature and quite possibly the media.

In this sense, man once faced numerous more unknowns than man today, and still after many many moons and millenniums of existence man still lives in a universe much of which remains unable to be explained.

To many individuals the word mystical fosters images of strange and mysterious practices and ideas. When in actuality the mystical is nothing more than the meanings that lie beyond the range of ordinary knowledge. That which one cannot explain or is beyond comprehension one classifies as unprecedented.

For example, the antiquated man, who couldn’t understand where thunder and lightning came from, decided that they were actions or the result of actions demonstrated by a being which he was unable to see, a being that was beyond the range of all his physical senses.

It is an idea that may have presented one of the building blocks that caused man to develop superstition and religion. This as to assign the cause of conditions that were beyond his immediate apprehension, beyond the grasp of his environment, to the factors outside himself and outside his environment, which led to the establishment within his mind of the concept that there are celestial forces that lie beyond his ordinary range of perception.

Therefore, all that existed outside of his experience which had been accumulated by memory and in the mental misinformation that lay in the area between that of the grand insane and the great unknown, is a concept that is paramount to the beginning of mysticism.

A PROGRESSIVE PURPOSE

As man progressed in his thinking and uncovered the boundaries of the unknown into the known, he developed what we now call science. That is, man studied the phenomena with which he had to cope with and gradually dug up the answers to some of the questions that previously hadn’t been unearthed.

So the concept that mysticism has to do with strange or weird practices, a concept so very prevalent nowadays, is not without some basis. Science, as we know it today, has taken over the boundaries of much that was considered mystical in the past. What was unknown has progressed into the known and no longer hides in the shadows of doubt.

The mystic still confirms, however, that there are experiences still not completely understood. We are not able to explain the philosophical problems that occupy the mind throughout the ages, or the sweeping hysteria of fear-induced fascinations. It is in this instance though that the problems of philosophy are considered suffice enough for us to touch base on.

These problems of the philosophical offer a plethora of possibilities which often include, but are not limited to; the question of reality, the nature of God, and whether or not fate, and or purpose actually exist in the universe.

It is also on the fundamental basis that we are not able to ever truly know the meaning of life, or the whereabouts of the soul. Nor are we to figure out the perennial problems in regards to the nature of evil, and the relationship between our heart and the mind, without looking within ourselves first.

There are some out there that criticize philosophy and its purpose for never reaching a concrete conclusion. It is valid criticism, because when a final conclusion is reached, the subject has been handed over to science. The problem that is solved has been passed through the realm of speculation straight into the lab to be dealt with on a concrete basis.

This does not mean that all such problems in the arena of science have reached final solutions, but the trend often heads in that direction.

Philosophy though, leads man to a deeper understanding. The depths of this understanding then leads him to the creative experimentation of certain things. And from this experimentation he is led in the direction of accumulative laws and principles that become the basis of an inward quarantine that leads to him understanding himself.

Man will use this knowledge to the benefit of all that is positive, or to the detriment of his well being. This all depends upon which way he wishes to exert his creative energy, and how he responds to the environment in which he finds himself surrounded.

And so it is to be believed, that philosophy, man’s wild contemplation of himself and the universe is considered a prerequisite to science, has its roots firmly embedded in all that is mystical.

THE UNCERTAINTY OF THINGS

There are some phenomena which are not yet explainable through physical science, insofar as much as we know, the mystery of what comes next is left to speculation. This mystery is nothing more than a mere extract of the mystical, the invisible immensified.

Neither are these mysteries dutifully explained in present day psychology. As the realm of the reactionary human mind is less explored than the realm of the entire universe.

Thus leading us to consider our self first via isolation and then by gauging our surroundings and the underlying methods in which we see fit to survive within our own inner environment, all the while trying to explain the circumstances in which we cleverly operate and live our individual life.

To contemplate upon our purpose and our placement in the universe, we must think in terms of philosophy, not as a rigid discipline, such as mathematics, physics, or chemistry, but with an inward speculative and healthy discipline, albeit spiritual.

Many may consider this way of life as being too detached from actual day-to-day experience, too visionary, and therefore, pretentious and academic. When it is the opposite that should be seen as the popular concept. And we are all about to get a healthy dose of detaching ourselves from the conditioned routine of life.

Yet philosophy, at its core, is a reflection of your own solitary thoughts and the conclusions in which you reach. Anyone whom has considered a thought after an experience has happened, becomes a philosopher. Each individual has developed their beliefs throughout their lives, which in turn, will guide their actions on the path to their fateful purpose.

The Path Leads Within

These actions are the means that lead to certain ends of things. These beliefs and aspirations help us to chart the course through the turbulent waters of life. The process of charting the course is all about setting a new aim for ourselves, which is in itself a healthy and philosophical function.

We may come to conclude that life is a process of thinking, about both the positive and it’s negative. Man is a wild thinking animal. And the process of the way he thinks is just as important as the steps that lead him through a wildly unknown experience, as he directs much thought towards his place in the universe.

Thoughts of such wild nature lead him to his reality, his philosophy, his own way of life, and the actions he takes to get his point across while coming to discover what life really is all about.

THE TAKEOUT

In the end, man is always intrigued by what he does not understand, in our daily routine we read of events that are mysterious and unexplained. These always attract too much misinformed attention.

The report of an unknown object moving through the night sky, the report of an individual who seems to gain knowledge other than through physical perception, the reports of a sort of virus sweeping the globe with its pandemic fear—these the cynics will say, are not verified. Some will state that miracles cannot take place in a universe controlled by established laws.

Possibly the cynics are right, but also possible is the fact that there are events and conditions that do not give in to the existing limitations of human analysis. There are unforeseen forces playing in the universe which in terms of man’s advancement go, sometimes seem to have no basis for valid explanation. And yes miracles do exist if one believes in them, and all of the mysticism they have to offer.

So with that being said, live life to the fullest while being careful out there, stay healthy, always avoid unnecessary exposure to certain things, and most importantly look deep within yourself and maybe create something more beautiful than you ever imagined, like love.

It is in the way that I have long seen things, when it comes to self-isolation and shutting the world out, things are bound to get wild.

—BeLove

Free That Thought

When our thoughts and their understanding wants it, divine wisdom will flow like the wind through us.

The edge of the forest follows a row of hills in a line so straight it looks as if it has been drawn with a ruler’s perfect measure from Heaven above. Off in the distance sits something like a crumpling wad of evergreen construction paper. All I could make out of it was a vast and wild thicket of trees.

The branches shone with dullness in the sun all the way up to that point, where they disappeared into the infinite green. It seemed as though the landscape would continue like this for an eternity, or however far one was willing to go. I cannot lie, the idea excited me just as much as it did in the beginning. If this was how it was going to be, then bring it home to me.

I extinguished the negativity, stretched, and placed my eyes upon the sky.  I hadn’t looked to the sky for some time. In fact, it had been awhile since my eyes rested on anything, even me.

Not a cloud was visible in the crystalline blue sky above me. A veil of fog hovered in the silent air over the wild, as often happens in the spring, like an elusive membrane waiting patiently to be infiltrated by the endless sky above. Particles of sunshine trickled down like little drops of rain, collecting itself in a puddle, going almost unnoticed on the path before me.

In the warmth of this breeze, the light, as so often before, wavered in and out.  The air flowed synchronistic with leisure, like a flock of lovebirds flying between each and every tree.  It skimmed the forest lined slopes along the edge, crossing the path, and passing through the groves of me without so much as ruffling a leaf.  

A crow’s sharp cry cut through the gentle morning like an arrow, and disappeared over the ridge. The undulating mountainous wild ahead resembled a giant sleeping beast, cozied up with the warmth of infinity.

Suddenly I felt the sharpness of death from the pain in my feet, they were exhausted, and it was only growing worse.  

Or was it?

JUST A THOUGHT

It was then I decided to give in to the voices of my own mind speaking from within, from my own depths, and one of these voices said that there was my body, in nature, and that there was also me.  I was related to this nature through my body, but all of me was not contained to it. The same goes for said so-called pain.  It is all just a mental illusion that I am not at all contained too.  

In the mental discipline I have been practicing over the past month or so, and of which I am beginning to feel the positive effects, it is of the truth that stability and tranquility have been the practicing prerequisites in the establishment of my own peaceful thinking. 

Practicing these two things day in and day out, does allow one a promising result from will alone.  This will to better one’s way of thinking is a direct link which connects the dots of the soul to the world as-it-is.  Through practicing this mental will, the soul frees itself from the distraction of daily routine, as it delicately tunes itself to the spiritual instrument of dreams.  So please allow me a moment of fine tuning.

Thinking, the power to think and to know, is a source of freedom.  Thinking makes it obvious that spirit exists.  The physical body is a mere agent of the spirit and its mirror.  It is both an engine and a reflection of the spirit.  It is the spirit’s ingenious memorandum to itself and the spirit sees itself in my body, just as I see my own face in a looking glass.  My nerves and my illusions reflect this, much like the pain in my feet as of late.  

This earth, and all of its inhabitants are a literal mirror of thoughts, just as Heaven is a metaphysical mirror of love.  You see, in Heaven, you don’t reflect on love, you reflect it, and the tragedy with the contemporary thought is that it has forgotten how to be a mirror.

Yes it is true, we are all divine by nature, human by habit, and magnificent with glimmers as we meander towards our ultimate destination, that being death. And the habits of thinking itself is just an embodied thought, embodied by the fact of death alone.  

Death is the dark tapestry behind us that the mirror of Heaven needs in its reflection if we are to see anything through the eyes of love.  Every negative perception of an object causes a certain amount of death in us, and this darkening state is born out of death’s necessity. 

One will actually start to see the truth of this when one learns how to obtain the inward view of one’s self.  To do this, one must get out of themself and stand far off, in the contemplation of solitude and nature of our own wild. This is the only place in which genuine reflection comes.  One will then see, that death knows no mercy, and to quit worrying about every damn thing and just be.

In this life we attract the reflections of what we think. And we also attract what we judge in this life. If you worry all the time, those worries you will constantly find. If you think people are dishonest, you will attract dishonesty. If you are focused on sickness or disease, you attract more suffering. If you focus on poverty and being broke mentally, then you will gain nothing more than an endlessly empty account of the soul.

Every objective thought you hold in your consciousness becomes your cage of reality. Tune your focus upon abundance and honesty towards all, and that which you believe and see, will be. So instead try and embrace the good, embrace every little bit of love, and all the lovely and good things will come endlessly and naturally.

IN CLOSING

If there is nothing of a message in these words but some hints of egoism and its death, some illusion that my fate is being outwitted by my own self, or my own avoidance of the reality of the grave, perhaps my writing these words is not worth the trouble.  This of course, waits in the remnants of what is to be seen.  And maybe that alone is worth the trouble. 

But before we go any further, one must bear in mind the odd angles that the rays of love, faith, and light must take in order to reach a broken soul like mine, which you will find in the words I have long left behind.

It is just as well in this different perception of light, that I now understand in part, I think.  When our thoughts and their understanding wants it, divine wisdom will flow to us like the wind blows around us.

And what I mean by this, is that I have placed too much of a hidden emphasis over the years on the darkness of external things.  So now, I must deviate from said darkness, and turn my attention in the light of the right direction.  That being forward, towards the daunting mountain that looms lit ahead, and into the depths of the wild within me.

—BeLove

Depths Of Discovery

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

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

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

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

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

Poetry. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he can damn sure die trying.

—BeLove

Passing By

The best thing to do with solitude is to play it cool, but today something is heating mine up.

The sky is silver and warm. There is a patch of bare aspen at the bottom of the valley.  The dying limbs sing their song with the wind that can be heard even up here. I hear a machine, a bird, and a clock. The clouds bloom astronomical and cosmic.  Through them the inevitable airliner passes.  It’s undoubtedly full of commuters from San Francisco to Salt Lake.  

What kind of commuters? This I have no need to decide. They are out of my world, way up there, sitting busy in their isolated, arbitrary lounge that doesn’t even seem to be on the move—the lounge that somehow picked them up off the earth in California to suspend them for awhile with instant coffee and timeless cocktails just to bring them back down to earth in sunny Utah.   It’s mere and marvelous, the suspension of contemporary life in contemplation that delivers you somewhere. 

There are other worlds high above me.  Other planes pass over, with more contemplation and complex modalities of concentration.  

I see the armed plane, the warship of the sky with the bomb in it.  It flies lower than the rest.  I look up from the wild, in the direction of the closed bay.  It’s but a pewter-steeled crow pregnant with eggs of destruction below its breast.  A womb easily and instinctively opened by lack of patience!  I do not consider this technological beast to be related to anything I believe in. Much like everyone else, I live in the shadows of these apocalyptic cherubs.

 It is more or less likely that we are being surveyed by it, on an impersonal level.  Its number distinguishes my number.  Are our numbers preparing at some point to correspond in the benign mind of a supercomputer?  Should this concern me, though I live in the solitude of my own soul, out here in the wild, as a reminder that I am free enough to not be given a number?

This is, and there always has been, in fact, a choice.

BE YOU

In an age where there is so much conversation about “being yourself” I reserve to myself the right to forget about being myself, since in any case there is a very vague chance of my being anyone else.  Rather it begins to seem to me that when I am too intent on “being myself” I run the risk of impersonating my own shadow.

Still I cannot pride myself on the freedom of being me, simply because I am living in my own wild.  Should I come to be accused of living in the wild like John Muir, instead of living in the desert like John The Baptist, all I would be able to answer is that I choose not to live “like anyone.” Or “unlike anyone.”  We all love somehow or the other and that is that. It has become a compelled necessity for me to be free to embrace the necessity of the soul of my wild, or in other words, my very own nature. 

I exist under the canopy of a forest wild.  I walk through the woods of myself out of necessity. I am both prisoner and escapee of my own prison. I cannot necessarily tell you why, born in Mississippi, my journey has led me to the foothills just east of Lake Tahoe in western Nevada, the perfected beautiful fusion of both desert and wilderness. I have considered going further, but it is not certainly practical.  It makes no difference.  

Do I have a “day?” Do I spend said “day” in a “place?”  I know these trees here.  I know the birds here.  I know the birds in fact very well; there are precise pairs of a dozen different species chirping in the immediate surroundings of my own expanse.  I share this expanse with them, forming this landscape of ecological balance.  The harmony alone from this gives inspiration to the idea of “home” as a new pattern. 

As to the crows, they form part of a different pattern.  They are strident and self-justifying, like man.  They are not two, they are many, and they are brash with vulgarity.  They fight amongst each other and the other birds in a constant state of war.

BE FREE

There is a mental ecological expanse, too, a living balance of spirits in this corner of my wild. There is room here for so many more songs besides those of the birds.  Of compassion, for instance, or hope, energy, maybe essence, or a newfound delight, or it may just be the dry confusing voice of myself, a half-assed poet with windy promise.   

There is also love, whose climate is perhaps most suited for the climate in this corner of my woods, hot and humid, damn near smothering at times.   It is a climate though that doesn’t warrant a need for explanation.  

It is a good thing to find these feelings deep in these woods, to hear these songs in my own wild, but they also choose themselves to be here in the present in my silence.  In any case, there is no lack of feelings. 

Solitude is cool.  It is a self-sufficient feeling of low definition in which there is little to decide, in which transactions are few and far between, if not non-existent. There are no packages to be delivered, nor do I bundle up packages and deliver them to myself.  There is no intensity.  There is no give and take of questions and answers, problems and solution.  Only prayer.  Problems begin down the hill.  Over there under the waterfall at the fork in the path you will find the solutions.  

BE REAL

Here there are woods, and wolves. Here there is no need for rose-colored glasses.  “Here” does not look to warm itself up with references to “there.”  It is just a “here” for which there is no “there.”  Solitude is cool, calm, and collected.

Community as a whole is a fiery core.  Fiery with words like “must,” “ought,” and “should.”  Community is devoted to high definition projects—“making it all so clear!” The clearer it gets the more clarity must be had.  It branches out.  You have to keep clearing out the branches.  The more branches you clear out the more branches grow.  For each one you cut, back grow four or five more.  On the end of each branch is a big bright-eyed and bushytailed question mark.  

People are running all around with branches of meaning everywhere.  Each to their own is very concerned and anxious to know whether all of the others have received the latest message.  Has someone else received a message that he has not received? Will they be able to pass it on to him? Will he understand it when passed on? Will it be necessary to argue about it? Will he be expected to clear his throat and stand up and say, “Well the way I look at it is my…. way?”  

The best thing to do with solitude is to play it cool, but today something is heating mine up.  They keep thinking that you have a unique message. When they find out you haven’t…Well, that’s up to their interpretation and worry.  Not mine.  I’ve got my own war to win inside.

-BeLove

Wisdom’s Will

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.

“But should we?”

—BeLove

Finding Finesse

My real self wanders elsewhere, far away, wanders on and on invisibly and has nothing to do with my life.

When someone goes searching for something, they don’t allow themselves the time to see what they have found. To search means to have a goal.

To find something means to let it be free, to be wild, when you find it. When searching—the goal is all our eyes set themselves upon—unable to see anything else, let alone allow a liberating thought into the mind. The suffocating grip of expectation clutches at our well-being and we lack the ability to see what we truly want without any clarity.

When I started writing again, I was searching for meaning in life. I didn’t feel like I had anything of clout to leave behind. So I searched.

STAY INSPIRED

Now that I look back, meaning was all around me. I just wasn’t looking at it right. Writing was my way of harnessing madness and the self-imposed crises that I stared down in the mirror of myself everyday—and my way of somehow weaving them into a form of inspiration. I thought that maybe I had the ability to turn my life around by volunteering my own self towards the universal dream, and that it would trickle down amongst the rest of you.

But above all else I picked up the pen again to leave my child with a piece of me, a bit of my wisdom, in case if I ever found the Pearly Gates a little earlier than He or I had planned. I thought maybe, just maybe, I could turn things towards a more promising direction for future generations, because in my self-assessment of the shit that surrounded me, I thought the future was doomed.

LOOK WITHIN

I searched nonstop, high, low, and in every nook and cranny for any clue as to what happened to love, where did love go astray?

How could its flames be relit with a passion unlike anything the world had seen. Was unconditional love just a pipe dream? Why was love left to mere ashes, while man fanned the flames with hate.

Both spread like wildfire, so who was the arsonist responsible for the fire of hate set upon love’s wilderness? Somebody is always responsible right? No, my perception was.

And all the while my soul was wandering elsewhere, far and away, it wandered on and on invisibly and wanted nothing to do with my life, yet my ego was thriving. You see love and goodness has always surrounded me. It is only human of me to sometimes focus on the negative instead.

In that never-ending search for my soul, I got lost, very lost. I was looking with inelasticity through myself, as well as all that I saw. I was looking too hard at the extremities of my surroundings, instead of looking into the depths of me. I was looking at the edge of the inner me from those outside, and it made me question my worth. So I went to work.

I was seemingly eager to take the pilgrimage into my own self but never eager to get down and dirty with what I might find. Instead, I would often drown what I found in a bottle of whisky and flush whatever goodness I did find, down the drain of disbelief. I have done it more often than not since I once spoke of the Zen In Zest.

As this whole derogatory approach to my dream has taken an inconsistent shape, it is shaking itself dry, with one line at a time. I still see the dream, and now I know the approach in which I must take.

THE WAY

The other day I took my son to one of the places my heart calls home. It’s one of those places that you don’t get to see everyday but when you do get to see it there is a quaint feeling that touches your heart. It has an effect that ripples through the soul for an eternity.

It’s the river on which I learned to fly fish, which was more rambling about from rock to rock with my head in the clouds, fly stuck in the trees kind of fishing, very similar to someone’s personality you’re growing to know.

That was years ago though, and it was those same years ago that the very wound which still burns within was indeed smote upon the banks of this river. We will not talk about that wound just yet. This story is about healing not suffering.

GOOD VIBRATIONS

As we came to the river, I felt something. It washed over my entire being—the hair upon my arms stood alert with chill bumps, or it is possible they were simply being industrious as progressing towards the sunshine. After scaling the surroundings much in the same way a wolf protects its pack, I saw no signs of impending danger. And I allowed the boy to run as wild as he wished, while for words, I fished.

I sat down upon the banks of that river and stopped listening to myself and allowed the river to overtake my reflection with it. My senses became sharp with the subtle swelling of green, the summer surrounded us, the clarity of the water with its granules of sand lingering between my toes pushed my thoughts to memories I have carried around since my childhood.

I remember the happiness I felt as a child after spinning in the sun all day upon the shores of the Gulf of Mexico. I remember my mother’s beautiful smile, my little sister and the bewilderment of her first time seeing the ocean. I remember the painted airbrush aroma that filled all those little whimsical beachfront markets. I remembered the bright lights and endless echoes of childlike joy from an amusement park once called Miracle Strip.

Everything in this moment of my mind was so gentle, pure, clean, and most important it was real.

SILENCE THE MIND

We were by that river for so long that time must have stopped. I rested with folded hands, while listening and watching him explore his new surroundings without searching for anything particular.

I started to see things in a way I never thought possible. I started to understand through his eyes, that he was teaching me more than I could ever teach him. He didn’t set himself upon any goal, at least not that I am aware of, he was just living in a moment of pure freedom. I saw the simplicity in the valiant wild of his finesse; he was grasping his wild and I must admit I gently wept. As I pulled it together, I started to pray.

I prayed for those that I love dearly, and those that I know are in pain, and those whose hearts are filled with hatred, division and fear. I prayed for him and his future. Then I moved on to myself and as I was wishing for some kind of sign, a burning of the bush, so to speak. Then I prayed for forgiveness, that forgiveness was for myself and from those I’ve hurt in my life.

It was then it came again—that sensation. It was reverberating; my soul had become a conductor of infinite proportions, as a current of electricity sent shockwaves through my entire body. Everything tingled from my head to my toes and my mind—it mingled. It floated away with the timeless stream of the river.

TIME HEALS

Everything was silent, except for the river. The once swiftness and churning of a rushing river had moseyed into a babbling brook. My senses were reeling with the aromatics of a summer’s day, the scent of a blooming wildflower, the purity of gentle stream flowing so clean, and the heat of the sun all coming together, with the finesse of a refined awareness.

The wound inside slowly started to blossom, my soul was ripening with the realization, or the knowledge, as to what wisdom was in all of its practicality. Had I reached the goal of what seemed to be a never-ending search?

You see wisdom is nothing but an eager finesse of the soul, a gift, a secret art to think gently in every moment while living life to the fullest—it is the experience of oneness, to be able to feel love for its divinity and not attachment. And for the first time in awhile, I began to breathe with cohesion.

And then it happened, a memory of pleasantry began to fill my heart with delight and as a tear trickled down my cheek, my mind had officially surrendered to my heart. This tear told me all I needed to know, after all a tear, means that love still lingers.

Getting Lost. Finding Finesse

As something wise was blossoming from that wound deep within me, I opened up an eye and there was the boy within inches of my face staring, smiling at me, like he knew that I was waking up with inner harmony, grasping at the knowledge of eternal love of enlightenment.

As I came to, he looked at me with eyes that I seem to have known my entire life, my own. And out of nowhere he said, “Dad, I love you, but you don’t need to look anymore, you know what to do because its right in front of you.”

In the blink of a teary eye I no longer wanted to give it up, and by the grace of God my child had just shown me the Way.

-BeLove

On The Substance Of Life

Long before the road to hell was paved, man was more than able to find his own way to Heaven through the nature of himself.

It is a befitting attitude to engage amongst any consideration pertaining to the better tasting substances of life, those which intertwine modesty with the miraculous—minus the madness—which might I add is often easiest to find. It is in the nature of our being to cradle with our thoughts, certain testimonies that are measured by the height of our curiosity. This nature, in a way, finagles with the fact that creation has always been the very foundation of our “being,” and from it we must build our existence.

I have often spoke of finding one’s self, but I’ve come to grasp that the meaning of life is to in fact, in the constructive sense, create yourself. It is in the nature of creativeness to offer hints of clarity that help to keep the mind clear of unnecessary debris that must be swept clean. There is no better time than now to clear said debris. Long before the road to hell was paved, man was more than able to find his own way to Heaven through the nature of himself.

 Whoever compels you to go one mile, go with him two.

Matthew 5:41

Into The Mystic

In as much as we are possible, we should strive to resemble the idea that He had of us when He created us. As should we be expected to laugh and smile with our worries as they recover from self-susceptibility. Worries aren’t something that are to be handled with the constant maneuvering of them to and fro, between that of suffering and sentimentality. Worries are to be handled in the sense of all that is lackadaisical. A stumble here and a fumble there, but it is in the delight for life’s spontaneity that leaves the spiritual energy of love forever hiding in plain sight.

Life is too damn rigorous in itself. Let alone should we allow it to leave us left worried all the damned time. Life and its more delicate moments are to be treated to the delicacy of creativity. Life is about creating from the core characteristics of our being, getting more centered with the edge from which we leap, which of course is considered to be love.

How delicate life is when death doesn’t spare a dime of mercy? Time is way too short to worry about what others may think. Death is always right around the corner and as precious as life is, why hide it’s beautiful touches of madness? With that being said, even deeper into a thought let us sink.

“Maybe I was wrong to grow up at my own pace and for feeling underwhelmed at my own choices, to choose what I did when I did. Yet these are the circumstances of who I am today. Nowadays, I’m content with being a child at my core. I’ll be the first to tell you, this is the most beautiful part of “being,” because without our childhood, to us, there would be no core. At our core sits the beauty of childlike chaos; it’s how you handle it as you get older, which will speak volumes of your character and exemplify how you treat and react to others.”

“Is it not up until about nine or ten years old we knew of nothing but that of unconditional love? We are all children at heart, are we not? The heart knows nothing of age. We are just as nurtured and matured by foolishness as we are by goodness, and by all of the random acts of kindness that we have, without thought, accumulated over the span of our lives. Its the simplicity within this wholeheartedness of understanding that keeps those dark days somewhat sunny. These actions even left unseen are eternally adolescent and wild.”

“From my less than critical decision making throughout life, I came to see that by creating from the deepest layers of me that I was beginning to truly feel “free” from me. It was like something was being excavated from the deepest depths of me, uncovering lodes of gold, the kind no “inward” coal miner ever suspected to exist. There is not a thing more romantic than the semantics of the shedding of who we are from the layers of our own and especially that of the societal gold standard”

Sparks Of A Touched Soul.

“It shouldn’t be so hard to imagine that the ten billion inhabitants of this rock we walk upon would set out upon the same sort of self-exploration. But it is, and will continue to become more difficult, but there is hope yet, but first the sun of subversion must set. It is unfortunate these days that thought is being manufactured beneath the shadow of shady tactics leaving most to be worried about what exists within the toxic perception of their own collective ego.”

“So it is rather for now that we are left to just a small army of those who truly hope and pray for Heaven on Earth. It is true that with universal self-understanding, all of humanity would be given backstage access to that of inner bliss, as they come to approach the cliff overlooking the meaning of life. And as I stand now teetering, it is from the edge I jump into the depths of Heaven on Earth.”

“It would be a certain sort of pleasantry to see all of those whom are wrapped up in the elegance of their fur lined egos, lining the streets to have their souls scrutinized. Maybe Heads of State would come out in soft parades to reveal intimate state secrets with the desire to better humanity, all the while confessing their own dreams for the inner improvement of themselves. And we may come to find revolutionaries in the streets preaching the revolution of consciousness, while hearing about the pseudo-Christians who urged the (moral) slaying of each one of themselves so that Christ can indeed succeed their own ego. Hopefully businessmen would surprisingly escape from those venture capitalist ways and run to the emotional stock exchange to trade in their valuable assets for eternal values. Maybe academia would tear up its diploma to board the myth of the ship Argo, while oilmen drill for the eternal black gold that springs from the kingdom of Self.  It is then that may we see converted chemists extract several megatons of spiritual energy from the atomic rubble of war.”

We’re still a long way. However, Heaven on Earth doesn’t only reveal itself in our immediate surroundings—it emigrates.

The Beauty Of Spiritual Energy.

In Closing

Genuine dissent must always keep a human measure upon the height of righteousness. It must be free and spontaneous. Or what the hell? Let us just call it wild. The slighter gestures of spiritual bewilderment are often the most significant, because they are not premeditated.

True, he who dissents alone may confine the element of dissent to words, to inward declarations, to poetic thoughts, to symbolic gestures. He too may fail to act. Gestures are perhaps not enough. Perhaps they are to the eye, a slight of hand, and perhaps to the heart they may fit just right. And perhaps it is to hope that over time these tokens of appreciation will once and for all, force the hand of ego upon its flight of ascension away from that everlasting inner eternal fight. The truth of this is divine in nature, this is when we can truly taste the sweetness of honey in the substance of life.

It is for now must I go on and get to where my sanity has found the perfect fit. Time has grown of the essence. The reality of summer’s looming swell of chaos has beckoned the call of the beast below. We thank you from the bottom of me for taking the time to read. Godspeed.

—Ryan  

Sanity is the beauty that hides behind madness put to good use.

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