Knowledge and the Reality of Existence
Children of the Wind 3 0f 4
Writings by Sha’Ra On WindWalker
(in collaboration with Sha’Tara EarthStar)
Copyright (©) 2017 Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing
Published by: Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing
Chilliwack, B.C. Canada
Cover pictures by: Top, Tommy Skarpling
Bottom, Clésio DaGama
All pictures found on FreeImages.com
Space Picture: ESA/Hubble
Next Series: What the Trees Taught Me
I hope you enjoy these writings. Feedback is welcome.
These books represent a varied collection of remarkable “outside the box” thinking (and subsequently, writing).
If you are one of those trammeled and importuned by strong beliefs that won’t let go, this could be your chance to break free. I’m not asking you to believe what is written therein—I can’t say I believe all of it myself—but it makes for an interesting “other than” perspective. Reading these books can be compared to painting by numbers. You have this standard picture outline and between lines are colour numbers. You match the numbers to the colours and eventually you have a painting. It’s not great art, of course, and everybody knows that but it gives you the impression that you did it yourself. We all know that is how the System operates. It gives us a number of colours and our life is laid out and numbered, from cradle to the grave. There isn’t much we can do about it, it seems. It’s the System.
Ah, but there is something we can do about it. We can ignore the numbers. Use random colours and mix them. If “3” is green, we do pink on one of the “3” sections and arbitrarily use orange on the next, and so on. Pretty soon the System doesn’t know us anymore and guess what? We discover what real freedom can be. It begins by breaking the rules; by daring to violate those imposed beliefs. Here’s one for you: Did man ever land on the moon? Of course they did, you will say. You saw it on TV, or you saw the videos and read the reports and documentaries, right? Ok, fine. But that is not the point since landing on the moon or not did nothing to change the way people interact with each other. So the point? The point is to paint a different colour on the “moon landing” section of your life’s canvas. A “fake moon landing” colour. Now really go into this idea. Break the template here, convince yourself it was all faked in some studio, for whatever political reason. Then proceed to prove to yourself that it was so. Study this bit of history; look at the clues. What happens in the end? In the end you realize it doesn’t matter at all whether they landed on the moon or not. What matters is, you dared question it.
The material in here questions “taken for granted” ideas, sometimes seriously, sometimes with humour.
You know, it’s hard to think these days, when everything is handed to us via TV and the Internet. Everything tells us how to think, and does so in the blink of an eye. We don’t have to wait for the President’s state of the union speech, or the preacher’s rant on a given Sunday. We Google!
Can a mind atrophy? You bet. Look into these booklets and think about thinking.
I awoke in a dark place
where all the secrets are kept.
They made me sweep the floors
and keep the shelves tidy.
They felt safe to have me there
because I couldn’t read
and my ears had been made deaf
though my eyes not blinded.
I knew of no other place
so I never complained:
was the work tiresome, boring?
I could not formulate the question.
One day changed all of that:
a quiet stranger came in,
I don’t know how he got in,
but he looked and smiled at me.
I had never seen such a smile --
he seduced me with that look --
I followed him around:
he took a book and showed me letters.
See how they follow each other?
he said, leafing through the book,
and how they speak to you
when you follow with your finger?
How quickly the letters came alive
as I followed after them laughing --
“Shhhh…” he cautioned,
finger to his lips and smiling still.
“Do not awaken the watchers
or let them know you understand
or they will do you harm
and I cannot protect you.”
How right he was to warn me
but so excited, I failed to heed:
they heard me, the ones in the dark,
they came and took my eyes away.
Now I’m just another dark secret
locked up within their black collection;
just a thought that saw the light
if but for one tiny moment.
I can no longer tidy the shelves,
so I just sweep the floors slowly:
I must be old now, I think
but I still remember the stranger.
I remember his smile
and my fingers tracing meanings
upon the pages of secrets
in the dungeon of the Time Lords
I remember the first line I read:
‘Tis in remembering that we live.
and as long as I remember
I know I am alive. I know.
Standing on soft sand,
the wind gently touching my skin,
I am totally free from society’s rules.
I feel the exhilaration of this freedom;
a feeling as old as time – or even before -
before laws were enacted and taboos made
to create human shame and misery.
I allow the sun to warm my body,
stretched out on dry white sand
and the usual crowd arrives
loud, boisterous, ready to do its thing
as is done on modern nude beaches…
I wonder: Why has this sacred place
become a market place for fools
in search of beer, pot and whatever else
lurks to satisfy what’s below the belt?
What happened to the quiet enjoyment
of these moments of physical freedom
and simple childlike contentment?
I wander to a remote point
to let soft waves wash over my body
and listen to their music.
It is here I must make a difficult choice:
Do I leave this place?
Do I stay and watch the Yahoos destroy it?
Or do I create my own sacred space
where no one but me can enter?
From crystal waters rises an angel:
beaming with pride, Father Sun
casts her slender shadow upon the sands.
I, a man,
transfixed, awed, await
her coming forth.
A vision does not lie: she comes
and freely creates my dream --
we embrace as lovers would;
her soft breasts push
against my trembling, pulsating skin;
she awakens the god within
and on a shore of paradise
we indulge ourselves.
With her, shame bears no meaning;
nor guilt, nor embarrassment.
Together we understand
the Creator is honoured by our love
shared with bodies entwined;
together we understand
our eternal state of beingness.
Even as I watch and feel,
I, the man,
realize I make her dream of flesh
To the gentle Earth she gifts her presence;
for her she conceives the Star Born child
from my loins
and together now,
the angel of the sea and the man
henceforth walk hand and hand
upon this blessed land…
Is it possible,
Is it feasible
for a human mind
to conceive of something impossible?
An interesting thought:
can anyone think the impossible?
If “yes” – then what is it?
If it has no description
then it does not exist
because it cannot be conceived!
If that is so, could we say
that whatever the human mind conceives
must then be within
the realm of the “possible?”
Possible, impossible, some would say
it’s just a play on words:
I don’t think so.
Thoughts create our reality,
not “God” and not “gods” either;
nor fate, nor even destiny.
Our thoughts are what creates
and that is why every “thing” in our reality
exists: It was thought up
because even when it did not exist
as we see it
it existed as pure possibility
within the realm
of all that which is possible.
It’s Autumn, and from my porch
overlooking a sylvan mountain lake
I see the sun rise over distant rocky peaks…
In the cold dawn and deep stillness
I can hear my thoughts so clearly!
What is the measure of a man?
the question has been asked so many times,
it has a million answers!
But for me, here, in this quiet place,
it means I am what I chose to be,
not what others would have me be.
How much can one choose one’s direction?
Ah well, I can answer that:
by how much one is willing to explore
places shunned by most;
by how much one is willing to take on
- and prove wrong -
the plethora of nay-sayers and gainsayers.
Before I caught on; before
the “normal” label went to the garbage
with the ill-fitting clothes they made me wear;
when I was young and unsure,
I was ashamed of who I was:
for I couldn’t hold down a job,
or live a “normal” life
within the System parameters.
Now a beautiful companion
who accepts me as I am
comes to sit beside me
and share my thoughts:
together we create such poetry
with power to change the world.
I sat on a bench in the sun,
a wise wanderer came to me and said:
“I take life as it comes, catch the flow.
Did you notice life’s like being in a big river:
you don’t swim upstream or you’ll drown, friend,
take a lesson from a piece of driftwood.
No struggle, just going along for the ride and yet,
an artist on the shore,
paints the scene and there it is:
in a gallery for all to see, yet still floating,
caught in the magic of light and shadow
by the magician in paints.”
“Just by being who I AM in this sunshine
I can heal the world, I can change
the kaleidoscope of life around this town.
Even if I know no one here,
I know all things inside my mind
and this knowing brings me to the edge of time.”
He slowly drank the coffee I bought him
and with a smile, he disappeared.
The moon should have been shining. That had been a big part of the plan before the climb was decided upon. But the clouds had rolled in from the west, unexpected and black. The sun had gone down behind the sea in a blaze of crimson and purple haze and the islands had vanished in a thickening gray mist.
Still, it was a warm night and the trail was well marked. “I’ll use a bit more caution,” he thought, “and I’ll get to the summit, pitch my tent and wait for morning. What’s so tough about that?” He hefted his pack and continued his climb up Mount Waddomarly whose stark grey bluffs rising out of the forest greens discouraged all but the hardiest hikers.
A frog croaked in a nearby drain area and he noticed the shale under his boots was slippery and wet. He crossed the crumbly shale flat without tripping and began to climb in earnest. At times his eyes would adjust to the darkness, but the changing shadows deceived him. Still, he could easily make out the trail, a slightly lighter thread in the oppressive darkness.
Lightning flashed across the sky in the west, too far for the sound of the thunder to reach him. He hoped the storm would blow north or peter out before it reached the foot of the mountain. He did not relish the thought of spending the night huddled in a light summer tent, waiting for the light. In these mountains, it was better to keep moving and stay warm by exercise than stopping to outwait the night or a storm.
A jagged break in the cloud cover brought the faded light of the moon to briefly bear upon his situation. The trail was there, meandering up to disappear in the dark. He saw the black silhouette of the first bluff ahead then complete darkness as the clouds closed again. Another streak of lightning cut across the sky and this time he heard thunder after a few seconds. The storm was not diminishing, nor turning. He may as well face it: he would have to weather it, either by continuing on, soaked to the skin, or by huddling in his tent under a tree.
He heard a noise like a mountain stream rushing down over rocks, but he knew there was no stream at this point. He stopped to listen. It was the wind. It was coming up out of the valley. Lightning struck somewhere below, followed immediately by a violent blast of thunder. He heard a crash. And the wind was upon him. Branches whipped across the trail and caught him in the face. For a moment, he could not see and panicked. The whole world seemed to be shaking, moaning and screaming now.
Then it came. First the rain, whipping through the air like needles of ice. Then it grew heavier, gradually turning to hail. Leaves ripped from twisting branches blew across his path and the trail simply disappeared under the crush of the storm. Not far, another crash, and this time he felt the vibration from the falling tree. Water was beginning to trickle down his neck and needling through the sleeves of his light squall jacket.
He crawled into what seemed a bit of shelter around an old stump. He didn’t trust standing timber in such a wind, but the stump might protect him if a tree fell near by. He found no level ground upon which to pitch a tent. So he did the next best thing: he pulled it out and simply draped it over his head and shoulders, crouching at the base of his stump, shivering. And now, he’d have to wait. There was no longer any choice. The storm had obliterated the trail BB no going back, no going on. If he survived the night, he’d have to assess the situation in the morning.
And that’s when it hit him – his own thoughts: “If he survived the night.” He’d never been faced with the need to consider survival before. He wasn’t the greatest climber but he’d done quite a few, and he was used to hiking in the mountains. Of course, he’d never been so stupid to take on a dare before: to hike old Waddy at night with just a day pack, a light tent and no survival gear. He had nothing to make a fire in these conditions, just a lighter and a few ordinary matches. He had no flashlight – that was part of the dare. No extra clothing or emergency rations. In short, he’d been a complete idiot.
Well, he could beat himself up all night and that might keep him alive, but it wasn’t a pleasant prospect. He could blame his friends for egging him on. He could feel sorry for himself and that’s what he fell into. In the midst of nature’s fury, as more trees fell and branches crashed to the ground all around him, he began to whimper. A small branch blown by the wind fell on his head and he screamed. He peered through the opening of the tent and that’s when he saw it.
He froze. He felt the cold sweat stick to his back. Ahead of him, in the whipping hail and tossing branches was a white figure casting a pale light all around. It was human in shape, but seemed taller. It was not moving, just standing as if staring at him. He stared, it stared. He blinked several times but each time he looked, there it was, pale, unmoving, casting that weird light but not lighting up any of the surroundings. It was as if the light it was giving off was actually sucking the little that the storm created.
How long he stared at the thing, he did not know. All he remembered was that eventually it seemed to just blink out. Nothing. Just the storm, the noise, the pounding rain, the fading thunder claps and the whipping trees. And thankfully, sleep.
Henry woke up under a bright sun. Never had he seen such greenery. Or such a blue sky. He pulled off the cover he’d made of the tent and looked around utterly bewildered. Nothing was out of place. No broken branches, no scattered leaves. No fallen trees. The trail was as he remembered it from the Sunday before when he had climbed to the second bluff with his girl friend, at which point she asked to return to the park and their vehicle.
He was cold and hungry, but otherwise fine. He was dry and clean. He clearly remembered the storm, the violence of the wind and the intense fear it had given him. He knew it could not have been a dream. He would never have stopped there had the weather not turned on him. Oh yes, he had experienced it. Then he remembered the figure; the white form that had stood in the storm and stared (so he felt) at him. He remembered the intense longing he had felt, despite his fear, to go to it. He remembered staring at it for what seemed a long time. But then he remembered nothing. Just that he must have fallen into a deep sleep.
“Wow!” He said as he folded and packed his tent. “Wow, wow, wow!” he repeated as he shook his head vehemently. Then before he got back on the trail to continue, he decided to look at the place where he thought the figure had stood. He walked down the bank from his stump and slid between two trees. Just then he felt he was being held. He looked down and hidden by a rotten log and moss was as deadly drop of some three hundred feet or more. Then he understood! In his fear and eagerness to find shelter, he would quite likely have worked his way down there – and fallen over the hidden precipice.
He backed off, still feeling as if someone or something had a hold of him, and looked up. All sensed a serene feeling of well-being. A touch that was not human but definitely caring. Feeling secure but foolish, he asked: “Was that storm for real?” “Yes!” came the reply, but not in a word form. He just knew it. “What happened to the carnage?” “We corrected it for you!” “Who are you?” he asked. “We are the spirit of the mountain. We came to welcome the moon and were interrupted by your fear. We sought to make it go away!” “But why?” he asked. “Because we do not countenance fear. Only the humans bring fear into this world. We try to keep the humans out on our festival nights, but if we cannot, we try to defeat their fear. It is difficult.” “Did I ruin your festival night last night, then?” “Oh no! We put you to sleep. Then we danced. It would have been better if you could have joined us, but then you could not have returned to your kind ever again. We know you like the mountain, but not in the right spirit. We cannot have you stay with us. Now please be on your way. You will be safe.”
Henry walked up the trail in a complete daze for some time. He ate some food and drank water. His mind was reeling from what he thought he had seen and heard. His mindset still refused to accept what had just transpired, but it could not forget the storm either. Finally, he turned around and walked slowly back to the park. It seemed climbing old Waddy had lost all meaning or purpose! indeed if there ever had been one. He felt small, hollow and insignificant. At the same time, he felt certain that he had just been given one of those rare glimpses into an alternate reality; that he could start all over and never look back.
I met her
bearing the warmth and fragrances
of Summer in paradise.
Beneath her angel wings
life burst forth
from this once-cold shore;
her eyes spoke to me of love,
a love I had never felt
a love with no expectations,
no boundaries; wild and free,
enough to cover the earth.
Her hands touched my body,
like no woman ever had,
arousing hunger and excitement.
My passion, my sexuality,
so long dormant
she fanned into a blaze
and the pounding of my heart told me
she had forever changed
my perspective on sex,
Today I stand on this same shore
where we met in the Summer.
The sea tosses wildly, announcing
the changing season:
another woman leans on my arm,
and she too holds
the fragrance of love.
A question I’ve been wrestling with the last few days: At what point does faith cross the line into fanaticism?
The more I consider this, the more murky the waters become. Faith is generally considered to be a great thing. Fanaticism on the other hand leads to horrors and atrocities. What I’ve tried to do until now is separate one from the other. This is faith. That is fanaticism.
What is faith? Simply put it means to believe in ‘something’ that possesses an intangible kind of superior power – usually that ‘something’ is called God but it can be anything. Certainly in today’s world more ‘faith’ is put in numbers that represent the power of money – and how much horror and destruction is the result of man’s slavish devotion to that God? Another time.
I want to stay with “religious” faith. The “believing in God” type of faith. It is only through faith that anyone can believe in God since God is not a logical nor provable concept – if it were you would interact with it naturally without the need for faith.
So what happens once you believe? You find yourself immersed mind, body and soul in a totally one-sided relationship within which you exercise no control. Having entered into such a relationship, you have to obey your God’s law; his every dictate, his every whim. The only option you have is to refuse and be damned for it. Not a light burden to bear.
So, what does he want from you in this obedience? That depends on your God’s character or attributes.
If he’s the generic deity conceived of as being absolute love then this would be what he’d want: That his followers live a kind of life that would mimic or emulate who he is. You would look at these God believers and you would feel ashamed of yourself for being such a selfish-thinking person compared to them. You would see the sincerity and depth of love they have for one another and it would be beyond anything you’d ever seen before. They would live simple lives full of compassion. You’d encounter them everywhere sharing their resources and helping others. They’d never complain no matter how difficult their lives are. You’d look into it deeper and lo and behold, you’d see miracles as a result of their passage. You’d find the homeless and other rejects and discards of society in their homes. If you queried them about political issues, or about money problems, they’d smile at you and ask why you spend time worrying about such silly things when the world is so full of sorrow and one life so short.
You would watch their children emulating their parents. They’d be out in the community doing chores for others and helping in whatever way they could. The older ones would be instructing the younger and any other inclined to listen in. If you asked these youngsters why they are giving their time helping others rather than indulging in recreational pastimes, playing sports or just hanging out they’d tell it to you straight: it’s how believers are supposed to live and really, it makes me feel good to do this. It’s not because people think I’m a good kid you see, but because of the way it makes me feel inside. Nothing else could make me feel this good about myself.
Understand I’m not speaking of exceptions here, but the norm. If you asked any of them how they feel about those who disagree with them, or who may make their lives harsh because of misunderstanding or envy, they’d tell the truth: it’s hard to accept but it’s how we must live. So we endeavour to love our enemies. And we try to explain or we try to help them.
You may ask them: What if you were really persecuted because of the way you are, what then? And they’d all say the same thing: It’s not for us to determine the course of events. If society turns against us, it should come as no surprise. We would accept it, not because we are afraid to fight back but because ‘fighting back’ has never amounted to any significant change and our faith forbids it in any case. It is endurance that makes us strong in the end. That is how the world changes.
Strangely those who believe in a generic “God of love” do not act that way. Even more strange, those who believe in their religion-based God; who consider themselves the only true believers, even less so. Why? Because to be successful a religion must have the numbers. Numbers mean money and money means power. So the ‘true faith God’ has to cater to basic selfishness in order to keep up his numbers and stay in the Powers’ game of control.
It’s not hard to please this God. Do your religious thing. Pay your dues. Attend meetings. Accept what you are told without question. If your Church or Mosque or Temple says God wants you to go to war to kill the enemies of your country or religion, or round up your non-believing neighbours and “put them to the sword” (a favourite divine expression from the Old Testament) you don’t question that. You do what you’re told and as much as possible, find enjoyment or profit (preferably both) in the performance of your divine duty. History has clearly shown how true faith expresses on this world. Current events show nothing has changed.
Coming back to the title, the problem is in the concept of “faith.” Faith is a one-side relationship within which the believer is totally dependent upon the object of his faith. God’s will (whatever that may be, it’s as flexible for those who believe as it is intransigent for those who refuse to!) is not open to discussion. It is not debatable. Only religious institutions through their appointed leaders can interpret that will. It is not open to personal interpretation or understanding without violating the articles of faith.
My conclusion? Faith can only express through degrees of fanaticism. I know this experientially. Many believers of my acquaintance are shocked, outraged, upset, over my claim that I have no soul and that I can ‘bargain’ with God as an equal on any given day; that I should think God and I can sit at our round table and discuss serious issues. Yet should that not be the most common aspect of being a believer? Why should it be thought of as blasphemous that someone would develop a working relationship with God? Because believers arrogate to their institution the sole right to communicate with God. Those not of their faith who claim such a thing are consorting with demons, or at best, are delusional.
How big a step is it now, given the parameters of power necessary for religious institutions to ‘sick’ their followers upon those blasphemers and send them to hell through persecution and genocide? Not big at all, just a slight shift in the power structure.
So, what prompted this? An exchange with a very, shall I say, passionate person regarding the faith. No matter what I do now, since I refuse to tip-toe through the tulips of religion’s thorny garden, I am utterly lost. Since I reject ‘the faith’ then I have to be speaking for the Devil. If I dedicate my life to serving others, it’s because subconsciously seduced by the Devil I promote an agenda of destruction towards the ‘true’ faith.
But here’s my greatest crime. I defend a person who after waiting upon God for personal healing and getting nowhere turned to ‘familiar’ spirits and found healing from them. This person is wrong, case closed. If God won’t heal you, then you have but one option: to die… as Hemingway might aptly have put it… alone, in the rain. This person is going to hell, but I even more so for agreeing with his choices, supporting ‘what works’ rather than tradition or faith.
How far, say in the last two thousand years, have Earthians come in understanding of their personal responsibility to life? In terms of true compassion? In terms of self-empowerment allowing them to make their own choices based on logic and common sense rather than following the dictates of their institutions and their institutional Gods?
Of the inauguration of at least two world-class religions; of the great constitutional promises of freedom and equality; of religious reformation; of ‘liberal’ churches; of ‘liberal’ governments; of social revolutions intended to make this world a better place in which to live, what can be said?
This: it’s been a catastrophic failure fuelled by faith bathed in bloodshed and unimaginable violence against nature and the helpless.
Dance with love empowered!
Dance with faith on fire!
Dance upon vibrating waves
of kinetic pandemic energy:
Dance your life away, freely
even as the world watches
Spin a magic web
of soothing, healing power
those who shake greying heads
muttering old beliefs
and ancient curses.
In your mind’s eye
the tombs have opened,
and the dead no longer need
to walk their vale of tears
upon the face of an Earth
they never saw,
they never knew.
Where were you
the telephone rang
in empty rooms
Where were you
in empty streets
blood hounds baying
of prowling death
Where were you
you lie here now
Where are you
From many years of observation it seems to me that Earthians look upon life in two basic ways. To clarify what I mean by “life” let it just mean one physical incarnation and passage in time.
One: The "animal" concept - the hedonist - we're not here for a long time but for a good time -- interpreting "good" any way one chooses.
Two: As a spirit being destined for heaven (hell being for those above!) for whom physical incarnation is of little or no consequence.
Before I go forward I must remind the reader to insert all the “within variables” of belief and action between these simplistic extremes. For ‘variables’ I could say the intermediate twilight zone between the natural and supernatural order of things; the “incarnate” and the “disincarnate” states. A couple of examples. Some people can “see” disincarnate entities, or commune with them, yet remain unconcerned about a possible post-death future. Some die-hard atheists, when their personal going gets harsh or frightening can be heard invoking God in their extremities. It is quite amazing what an untrained and undisciplined (un-oriented) mind can accomplish of the bizarre and ridiculous!
So now you have the typical Earthian lack of common purpose; lack of understanding, the mind-chaos of lack of agreement except perhaps, this one: “Don’t mess with my beliefs (or lack thereof) and don’t try to remind me that the life I live is not according to the potential my position in space/time demands of me.”
As previously stated, I basically live two parallel lives: one in this world and one in dreams. Last night’s dream “lesson” took me through a full incarnate term, from beginning to end, and the question at the end was, “Why?”
Certainly it’s a good and proper question. Because based on my observations, neither the narcissistic, nor the “spiritual” Earthian paths require the “Why?” question. They have no “Why?” What they have is a sudden and utter end of free choice. The first means total destruction of one’s individuality into the nether. The other means total annulment of self-will into absolute divine will from which there is no appeal. Both cases negate importance of whatever may be “learned” in one incarnation.
So according to current wisdom, these are my choices: to die and become nothing - no memory, no mind. As useless as the ashes the "dearly remaining" may choose to scatter to the winds. Or, conversely, I become the mindless tool of some divinity I chose to serve while in the body and for the security of "heaven" I accept everything that's handed to me. Like Adam and Eve in Eden, I have no choice on how to live my life henceforth. If "God" says I'm having a good time, then I have to be having a good time. If my reading serves, it would seem that in "heaven" I don't even have the choice given to A&E (Adam and Eve - or - Arts and Entertainment, take your pick). I have "life eternal" and I can't even sin by once more choosing to partake of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil and start a new adventure in space. One must assume that "evil" cannot be permitted in heaven. It was cast out with "Lucifer"... (That naturally begs the question: can legitimate choices remain if the choice between good and evil is removed? -- for another time!)
That’s rather a bleak outlook, seems to me. There must be another, more meaningful choice. One that would give some sense to; that would validate, my struggles in this flesh. For of what good is it to learn lessons if one is scattered to the winds, obliterated at death? Of what good is it if whatever lessons learned are of no consequence, or value, when one is ensconced in some pre-determinate heaven?
So it came down to the choice I’ve made: that of becoming an Avatar. A living being. In whatever form, spirit or flesh, incarnate or not, able to continue to choose my choices, a being of infinite free will, responsible for all that I engage, or engages me, accepting without recourse but upon my own understanding, the vagaries which space/time may bestow upon me. You fly by the seat of your pants, literally, believing and un-believing as the worlds turn and demand that you learn to dance to their music.
Now I can answer the “Why?” question.
[Arthur O’Shaughnessy – English poet 1844-1881]
We are the music makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world forever, it seems.
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown:
And three with a new song’s measure
Can trample an empire down.
Perhaps only a chasing after the wind?
Perhaps the stubborn belief
in a timeless love on some undefined horizon?
Nevertheless this is the morning – chosen -
the early; the pure morning,
when still under the enchantment of dreams
I meet the woman I love in infinity -
or I create her (and why not?)
shaping her from the dawn’s clear light:
for me, there will be no more waiting.
In my vision
the slanted rays of the rising sun cast
her unmistakable shadow across mine,
both outlined in dew-speckled grasses.
How could this burning desire
not bring forth that which we call “real”?
For the reality of this vision -
whether of spirit or flesh
has already changed every part of my life.
in the process of changing one’s life
through the manifestation of something good,
should one just sit still,
meditating on every possibility?
(Possibilities do not engender the new -
only the tried and abandoned or failed.)
Should one keep moving like the wind
with new thoughts – impossibilities -
written with tears upon the rain,
yet powerful enough to warp the face of time;
to weave new patterns upon the fabric of space?
Hesitant I may be, yes, but not cowed by fear
of drastic consequences from unexpected results.
I have desired her since the dawn of time
and now, I have seen her -
I won’t turn away from this event B not ever.
There were many to dance with
it was that kind of night
the air warm, a light breeze moved
through my dress just so
right and certainly I knew
many were looking
I was in that kind of mood
to match the music in my ears
the blue lights spinning in my eyes
near the open center
I kicked off my shoes
and swirled along waiting
knowing so certain
there were many but there was you
While the room still smelled
fresh as did my body
throwing caution to the wind
I extended an arm
we danced enticed by gravity
of desire ever closer, tighter.
I’ll never forget the way you looked
coming in through that door
you said to me
we smiled, spun and whirled
the world and its cares away
you leaned down
lightly brushed my expectant
lips with yours.
Would you be the one
I asked simply
who would never forget me
would you be that one?
And you smiled so openly
so sure: oh yes you said --
then let me go
let me go now
Don’t watch to see if I stay
to dance with another
if I leave the way I came
or vanish as a vision
or the figment of a dream
don’t ask my name
just go to another
one to marry and to forget.
Can any species of ISSA* evolve itself spiritually while insisting on setting limits to everything it touches?
At a certain level of awareness, beyond the instinct for basic survival, the ISSA being encounters a new kind of fear. A fear much more dreadful and terrible than that caused by the appearance of the predator and the certainty of death. A fear that the cold terror of a predator will not go away even after one’s painful death in its teeth and claws.
Why this happens, I don’t know, but that is how it is. So to counteract this new information; to find some modicum of peace, the awakening ISSA looks into the fear, the cloud of permanent death in endless pain and loss and “sees” beyond it someone who has the power to change his fate. A great being or supreme being; a creator; a God. This gives rise to a whole new set of choices through new rules for living. It’s not just basic survival anymore. It’s living by stringent laws. It’s worshipping. It’s giving up one’s nature so it may be re-made to conform to that God’s desires. It’s obedience. It’s responsibility guided by a moral code. And most certainly it’s a point of no return.
What is a god? Obviously someone greater than the believer. What is God? That is the Supreme Creator beyond whom there is nothing: no continuity; no life; no infinity. The best description of God I’ve ever seen is an opaque sphere that is the containment field for all that exists and all that exists is made by, kept alive by, depends entirely on, and is the undisputable property of, God.
Lots of things happen within that sphere. To the spiritually short-sighted awakening ISSA that is a truly huge place. It seems to have no limits. Who apart from God, in any conceivable length of measurable “time” could ever see to the end of this sphere? Rhetorical: can’t happen, ever. Why? Because there is nothing outside of the sphere. So goes the story.
So the point is that as long as there is God there has to be limitations to everything. The great creator must in time become the greatest tyrant imaginable. He must, to safeguard his creation, prevent any of it from escaping his control. Within the sphere they can’t escape. They can be disobedient but all their acts can be dealt with, and surely will be. Life within the sphere is a specific culture and it is kept jealously apart from “anything else” which of course, to the ISSA I’m talking about, does not exist.
Now imagine an ISSA mind that goes a little wonky, after repeated assaults within the sphere. A mind or individual essence that after much suffering, begins to long for life beyond God’s control. It has reached an understanding that as long as it functions within that control, it will suffer. It doesn’t know why that is, but it knows this. The mind becomes rebellious and daring. It flies off here and there on wild tangents, testing the waters and the air currents. It looks at ideas and theories about everything. It exercises its own power of reasoning against that of the Deity in question. It decides to break free of the collective mindset that insists life ends in the annihilation of the self, or is saved (makes sense) only through believing in God, however nebulous that concept is.
The mind practices free fall and eventually comes to land painfully against the shell of the sphere. It looks for openings. There are none but eventually cracks are found and by painstaking search it finds one just wide enough to slip through. Now comes a momentous decision: should it break out, risking who knows what, or should it give up and return to same old, same old because really, there is no escape from the sphere except in what promises to be an even worse fate?
That choice you too will make when you find that crack.
The point being made is that life is infinite. That is its nature. It cannot be naturally contained within a belief system, any belief system. God, the great creator and of necessity maker of laws can only exist (have power over) as a belief system. There are many today who still believe in God but proudly proclaim they practice no organized or recognized form of Religion. What a wonderful illusion they have concocted for themselves! Whoever believes in God is completely immersed, body, mind and soul, in Religion!
What about those who believe there is no God? Are they free of God? That’s the other side of the marvelous illusion because they are still within the sphere and at every turn they must encounter that which can only be of God. Laws and certain moral aspects of behaviour without which, so they think, Earthians would forever be at each other’s throat, killing each other and taking each other’s things. Do they realize it is the pressure cooker of living within the unnatural limitations of the sphere; the pressure to conform; that creates these eternal problems? But how could they? They are not permitted to even imagine life outside the sphere. One of the most basic sub-routines of the soul programming is to prevent the “soulful” from such imagining.
Who then can be free? I can still see my teachers smiling sadly for they earned their own freedom under difficult and painful circumstances. I still hear them expounding these simple, infinite truths about life outside the sphere:
“Believe all things, believe in nothing.”
“When none of it matters, is will all be yours.”
“Life at the highest levels known to us is all giving.”
“In the lower worlds compassion becomes the greatest force.”
“Beware assertions not demonstrable by those who make them nor backed by personal experience: they are lies.”
“The truly humble always gravitate to the highest places.”
“The only word in your language that can properly describe the “oneness” you seek is ‘everything’.”
Filled with this understanding I open my arms wide to encompass that “everything” and realize that all of it is flowing outward from me endlessly. Yet for all that, as long as I do not think I am doing this, I remain full and expectant. And each new step is a discovery, both sorrowful and joyful.
(*ISSA – Acronym for intelligent, sentient, self-aware.)
Walking naked on a sandy beach
on a warm summer day:
can there be a higher expression
of total freedom?
No clothes, no harness nor chain
to smother the body,
preventing it from feeling
nature’s tender, gentle hands caressing the skin.
What if you are male
and happen to have an erection
while admiring others sharing this freedom?
Why should anyone feel shame
when seeing this expression
of unrepressed sensual pleasure?
The questions to ask are:
why do people become uneasy,
with one body’s natural reaction to another?
Why do humans so easily confuse
the issues of sex and of love?
Shouldn’t they ask themselves if somehow
their taboo on sexuality is a taboo on love?
The final question: why taboos at all?
We accept pain readily enough;
what’s wrong with pleasure?
I am Tara the WindWalker,
daughter of the four changing winds,
wild, untamed, filled with the intensity of desire,
I survey the sleeping dream land
of man’s chaotic will…
Sometimes, I rest quietly in velvet clouds
shrouding high, snow-covered peaks,
to behold and contemplate late sunsets of June
heralding the ghostly summer moon…
Sometimes I ride the twisting tornado,
unannounced and unwelcome,
churning and tossing,
yet never to harm or destroy
but only to awaken, for it is time!
Yes, my laughter sometimes frightens
the sleeping children in their beds
but how else to awaken them
when so comfortable?
Sometimes, in a rush of emotion
I let out my breath over the sea
and her waves rise as mountaintops
to smash themselves with utter abandon
against those ancient rocks which arose
to contain our unchecked power
on those days of birth pangs:
Oh, woe to the ship that ventured out
on such a day!
Calmed, I come at night as a gentle breeze
to ruffle your beautiful curls
and blow over your long eyelashes;
to watch as you open them slowly, so reluctantly…
Smiling into the innocence
of your interrupted sleep
I scatter the dust of the day
from your unfocused blue-green eyes.
Breathing deeply of divine life,
dissipating the smoke of loneliness and fear,
you look out at the glory of the moon
haloed in white, smiling gently at you:
I am your mother, O child of desire:
Always allow for the unexpected in life
and never be afraid of this world’s long shadows!
The waves carry sand
to carpet the ocean floor
as I frolic with the wind
along shifting shores
rejoicing as my tired feet
are gently massaged
by sand and water.
Old grey faces stare back at me
from giant cliffs
so silent and still
and I feel a kind of sadness
thinking they are not free
to move with the wind
and dance in the sun.
“Do not be sad for us:
We too journey as you do
but on a level human understanding
does not grasp as yet.
When we passively sit along this shore
we learn balance and rhythm
as we feel the rise and fall of waves.
Gradually, as children
dismissed after class,
to scatter happily and return home,
we too become as little ones
and wind and waters
take us merrily along
far across the oceans.
Only humans feel bondage:
it is a state of mind,
not an act of creation.”
Do we have any real existence apart from what we expose to each other as we perform within the limits of our “officially permitted” lives? Outside of what we are allowed by authority; by what we support, what we believe in; what constrains us?
The question brings us back to the Adam and Eve conflict. Within their grasp was that which seemed desirable but which authority taunted them with while denying it to them. We are told they lacked nothing in “Eden” – so really, the temptation to reach for knowledge could not have amounted to much. But it did. Eve was (is) an intelligent woman who intuitively knows she is being manipulated and played for the fool. Real life, she reasons, exists outside the confines drawn by the creator “god”. Of course she had no way of knowing what the costs of opening herself to knowledge would be. It doesn’t hurt to remember that she went for that which gives knowledge, not that which gives eternal life. Eve was (is) no fool! She knew that eternal life without knowledge would have translated as hell, as was Eden to her. It denied her access to her humanity.
It wasn't the knowledge -- it is not the knowledge -- that causes our problems. It is the Powers who would keep us from ever reaching up into the tree itself. Eve - woman - got a bit of it, her "mate" - man - even less, and she has suffered much for the little that she did get. What of the one who wants it all? Who would dare all the Powers to attain, not full knowledge for that is infinite, but the freedom to boldly swim in it? To climb the tree and taste of its many fruits? To sleep and to dream in its topmost branches?
Knowledge translates into personal freedom. To gain this one has but to reach "outside" all the confines and constraints imposed by the Powers. One has but to transcend the space/time continuum and enter infinity -- alone. Then one may speak of vision. One may speak of understanding. One may speak of self-empowerment. True knowledge is a frightening reality because that is where true vision comes from.
Speaking of vision, today I saw the fragile reality of earth. I was amazed that such a thin web of energy could hold such complexity; could appear to be so strong. But then I realized I was doing a comparison: strong, compared to what? It is only compared to the rough, crude, mindless aggressive weakness of man that earth can appear strong. She is not strong, only determined to survive for she too has a dream, a passion, and a terrible ordeal yet to undergo at the hands of man before she is free to grow into her own power.
For the few who are beginning to see, it is easy to become awed by the desecration brought on by man’s folly on this world. But his passage can be compared to dumping a bucket of liquid offal in the front yard. To the insects beneath the deluge it will appear as if the world is ending. But a bucket is soon emptied. The devastating flow and the stench cease. The power of life will absorb the horror and beauty will return. Even the bucket will rust out and disappear, or crack and shatter in the sunlight to blow away in the wind.
The passage of man upon this jewel of a world will not destroy the planet. She will heal and learn. Not likely is she ever to agree to house such a parasite in the future! As for man, the intelligent and sentient creature who has refused to pursue the knowledge Eve opened the way to at such personal cost, he will pass away as will all his works he still believes are so wonderful. Yes, even his greatest achievements in writing, art, philosophy, these, not being borne of true knowledge, will fail him also. In the end he dies alone.
I remember a line from a poem I read long ago:
“I think that I shall never see
a poem as lovely as a tree.”
Words to that effect. The ardent beauty of the shimmering web of interconnected life I was privileged to glimpse today I cannot describe in words. I would not want to do so. Some mysteries should not be desecrated by crude description. Beside, anyone who truly wishes it can see the same thing, from any place on earth.
We do not, now, have a tree of knowledge growing in our own yard, even on our own world! The Powers of earth destroyed it long ago. So how does one “see” beyond space/time and the standard stale stories that form the boundaries for the Earthian mind as surely as do the boards of a hockey arena or the limits of a football field? How does one relate knowingly to what cannot be known; that lies beyond all that is known, believed in or imagined?
Life demands two things of intelligent, sentient and self-aware beings (Who, me?). That we evolve to something totally new upon reaching a certain translation point (Mind in Planck space!) or that we die -- cease to exist -- should we refuse or fail this translation. These are not choices but pre-determined events based on one's state of mind. To explain simply: think of a pot of water you must bring to a boiling point to complete an experiment. If something fails in your set-up, for example not enough heat, the water is not boiled and cannot be used. It is discarded. The experiment has failed.
If you’d like to try your hand
at understanding Lavender
then you must be very sure
that life is not a game…
You won’t need a reason
just to be alone with Lavender
for her light so warm and pure
will draw you like a flame…
(Approaching Lavender – Gordon Lightfoot)
I gave myself the name of Lavender
Oh, it was so long ago
in the very first meadow
among the fireflies and the honeysuckle
when no one else had yet awakened
from the dream we had shared.
I stood alone and viewed the world
as it looked before the first sunrise,
starlight reflecting from the waters
rippling gently upon swaying branches
of yet un-named trees.
In the wild unknown fullness of night
which others such as I still feared
where countless things had not yet appeared
I stepped forth sensing the land’s desire
and finally came to rest upon a hill
lulled by the call of a whippoorwill.
When I awoke from my sleep
the long night stretched forth beyond time
under a canvas of spinning stars
and a soft glow surrounded me:
the land’s open invitation to explore
all the veiled things she had in store.
I rose from my bed of sweetgrass
forever endowed with the fragrance of life,
the touch of the flowers of Earth --
for such was the name of the world I beheld
when I was called to awaken from my dream --
and from the hill gushed forth a young stream.
Many years, long and short, have passed
and Earth, awakened under sun and moon
filled with light-seeking life blossomed wildly
in rash and spontaneous joy --
but came the starless darkness and I cried
as in the endless burning so much died.
Though hidden now in cares and sorrows,
my earth body changed, aged, worn, broken --
in heart I remain true to my awakening dream
and still upon a hopeful earth I choose to wander.
I remain the same as on my first night, Lavender
whose breath retains the freshness of flowers
which now grow but between endless tombs.
Oh, sweet Lavender
your smile is like the golden sun;
I’d love to see you laugh and run
as naked as the sea
Oh sweet Lavender
as fragrant as the name you bear
please cast away the clothes you wear
and give your love to me…
(Approaching Lavender – Gordon Lightfoot)
Marriage – definition:
a religion / state
sanctioned social relationship,
packaged and sold:
a bill of goods.
Who has ever truly found this
to fulfill the in love-ness
of the first meeting?
Ever consider this?
We accept, accept, accept,
never asking who benefits?
We marry, we pay taxes, we vote:
must do the ‘right’ thing after all.
But what about the obvious?
family breakups and breakdowns,
as fast as the ‘I do’ passes the lips!
Sign of new freedom or disaster?
I say: let it be!
No sense flogging a dead horse:
it won’t run any faster.
Have the party
let her wear the pretty white dress
don’t make any promises
no one has ever really kept!
Here’s something that puzzles me
about humans on planet earth:
They gleefully start wars
exploit, oppress and kill one another
(preferably their weak, poor or
their women and children -
for these pose no real threat
to the warrior’s safety.)
But let a human walk the street
in the nude, let’s say,
and society raises a fine uproar
at such horrible immorality!
Within moments the perpetrator
is in a paddy wagon or safely behind bars
to have his mind analyzed
by the world’s greatest shrinks.
In some societies, he’ll be condemned to death,
in others, never see freedom again.
We oppress, starve, kill, murder:
none of it is wrong if it is done right,
that is, it’s government certified,
or the economy demands it,
or God, or Allah, call for it.
But we cannot walk around naked,
or have children out of wedlock
that’s perverted and adulterous, you see,
and for that, one surely deserves to die.
So say those who lead us: to where?
To endless war and endless death
to protect their wonderful morals.
If you were from another world,
would you not think this quirk a bit strange?
Of time, I cannot even speak
for truthfully, it is a meaningless measure
from then until now, how would we account it?
Of space, what can I say
of the parsecs we fled across, then re-crossed
ever searching for the ones we lost?
But of tears, though uncounted, uncountable
of those, yes, I could weave a tale indeed
for the ice of your comets is made of those.
The great sundering, how did it all begin?
What dark shadow, what unholy terror
suddenly swept throughout the outer worlds?
How innocent we were then; how unprepared
for such things to emerge from friendly space!
They came, first a vanguard, Others, friends,
so we thought for we knew of nothing else.
Into the minds of the weaker ones they entered
and there sowed fear, deceit, lies; covetousness.
We saw ourselves then, no longer beautiful.
We learned to hate, oh, so well, so utterly
but Them we did not hate, not then, not yet:
we feared and worshipped for we sensed their power.
Then came the Masters, and we served these from fear
for they were ever clothed in living flame.
We gave them our lands and they took our children
and so many were those we never saw again.
We swore allegiance to them; they taught us war
and skilled we became at shaping weaponry;
at bearing arms; and at killing? Masters in our own right.
In our fevered minds we saw shining, spinning worlds
and all we could think was, Go! Conquer them, enslave,
for the Lords want them as jewels for their crowns
and if we do not, they will wear our bones instead.
We did as we were bid, we flew the ships, we fought the wars;
we conquered, slaughtered, made ourselves rulers
on worlds that once had been our nighttime stars.
But their hunger nothing could sate
and their oppression became too heavy to bear.
We begged release, claimed we had served long
and served well, that we had earned our rest.
We asked to be returned to our world: how they laughed
to see us beaten, gloating over our despair upon learning
our world had been destroyed to make the weapons.
We turned our faces from these terrible Masters then
and walked away to our certain doom
for we knew they would never stop demanding more
of what we once so willingly gave without exception.
We knew they would come after us and if we did not fight
we would become as those we had enslaved in pits and mines.
Then we heard the voices of the lost ones
coming as it were from the forgotten outer worlds;
the voices of our children, the voices of our mates and mothers
a universal cry of woe we could not turn away from.
Instead, in rage we turned upon the Masters as one
and the fires of our struggles lit up space as Northern Lights
at times illuminates this planet’s nighttime skies.
Came our final inevitable defeat and we fled, hiding in the darkness,
in the dreadful emptiness of unknown space and there, singly,
we sang a song. A song filled with so much woe and suffering
when it echoed among the frozen wastes,
these bled diamond tears into the void.
Not so much a place or space; not so much a time;
but a great loss yet to be made right.
And so we search, even today, even here,
and one by one we find the lost ones, we find you;
though no longer do you cry for you were seduced
by space, by time, and to you remains little, if any,
remembrance of distant worlds. Just empty words;
your thoughts, earth-bound, the graffiti of life.
Sex, a commodity, a means of support,
instant gratification of lustful passion,
yes, instant… and instantly lost:
must it always be that way?
What have humans failed to recognize
when indulging in sexual pleasure?
An ageless Woman says wisely,
I wouldn’t have sex with you if you asked -
sex fulfils neither you nor me.
Are you willing to let down your defenses?
Can you share all the love you have known,
all the love you know, or could know -
with me in one moment of passion?
Do you want to transform one moment
into an eternity of knowing?
Would you know me? A yes is enough.
Love waits for no one.
Jeffrey Lewis is a rich man, at least by the standards of the ten or so thousand population of Seabird Point. He may not be well liked by the residents of his chosen locale, but they are deferential to him nevertheless since his pleasure craft factory employs most of them.
Seabird Point is a promontory that looks upon the open Atlantic and boasts a well-advertised seasonal tourist industry and between that and the Lewis Yacht Manufacturing Inc., the three mandatory schools – elementary, Middle and High; a lawyer’s office, real estate, the bank and a doctors’ clinic with part-time satellite medical drop in, not much else. Oh yes, I forgot to mention the Presbyterian church that serves for every kind of Christian and bake sale and craft event locals can dream up.
Sorry, I forgot another main aspect of Seabird Point, La Bella Roma Ristorante. How could I forget that? Apart from the yacht plant and government establishment, it’s the largest employer in town in the summer. It is also Jeffrey Lewis’ favourite eating place. Even at the height of the tourist season when every nook and cranny of Seabird Point has been rented out or filled in by unsuspecting south bound migratory tourists with more money than brains, Mr. Lewis can bring himself and his entourage to the Ristorante and get a table.
Today is such a day. It’s eighteen hundred hours; the sun is low but bright over the sparkling chop and not a cloud in the sky. A steady breeze stirs the magnolias restless. Voices of people can be heard through the smoke and aromas of barbecues behind scented flowery hedges. Well, what do you expect? This is, after all, Seabird Point. Are there problems here? At the height of tourist season? Certainly not outside the camouflage.
Jeffrey Lewis’ chauffeur driven limousine flashes its grey paint down the main avenue. He’s hungry and eager to find his comfortable place at the table overlooking the break water past the yacht club with its sea of waving masts and brightly reflecting hulls. The parking lot is full but that doesn’t matter. The imported British chauffeur stops the car by the steps leading to an open set of double doors. He briskly steps out and opens Mr. Lewis’ door. Jeffrey nods, puts his white yachting cap and jacket on and steps up. He is greeted by a young and very attractive hostess in a short black décolleté, past the usual Friday evening line-up of hopefuls for the lobster feast, to sit alone at his large empty table. The sea is beautiful this time of day he thinks as he receives his drink and the waiter makes a pretense of listing the menu specials. Jeffrey absentmindedly waves the card away to have his usual, specially prepared and served piping and spicy hot.
He waits. There’s a commotion at the entrance. He turns to observe, partially interested. A family of tourists, he expects, is getting antsy waiting for a table? He sees a wheelchair being pushed forward by a small woman, and pushed back by the hostess. Two waiters attend the scene. Interesting. No altercations are permitted on Seabird Point at the height of the tourist season. It’s just not in the program. Who is re-writing the lines? Everyone in town knows how to behave to pluck the most amount of money from the migration.
For some time now Jeffrey had begun thinking over his life. It had been exciting once but now that he owned the fastest racing yacht along the coast, where was the challenge to win a race, or the pleasure in receiving the expected award? The plant was doing well, certainly, but it was a boring enterprise over all. Mostly small orders for cheap fiberglass fishing boats. It smelled also, even in the office on the fourth floor of the Lewis Building three blocks from the factory. His wife had left him for a skipper and his two daughters were safely out of his reach, one in New York married to a law firm (or was it a lawyer?) and the other in San Francisco pretending to be an artist on his money. He’d had several affairs, but they were much like his contracts for small pleasure craft – they wouldn’t take a long voyage in deep waters. And Jeffrey had once loved deep waters.
He heard the woman pushing the wheel chair cry out. That’s it, he thought, I’m intervening in this. I can’t have this in my town. He gets up and walks tall and very white in his uniform, to the entrance. The woman holding the wheelchair is short, as he’d thought, but feisty. She wasn’t going to be pushed out so easily.
“Ah, excuse me please.” Everyone in Seabird Point knows Mr. Lewis’ voice.
Silence now, except for the woman who looks him in the eye and says: “Look, I don’t know who you be sir, but I know this. There’s a large table over there where you was sittin’ and I just asked if I could push my son’s wheelchair in and we could sit there. Me ‘n the three kids,” she points to a young girl of about fifteen years much taller than her mother and a younger boy about twelve, “been on our feet most of the day. Sir, my son in this here chair is dyin’ see? Some cancer thing they got more names fer ‘n Carter’s got pills is the cause.
So I took my savin’s to bring him to this place as I was told of from my friend Cathy who does the Internet thing. Nice place she says, and beautiful view of the ocean. Took all I got but I reserved a bed and breakfast that would take my little Jeff in and we come by train yesterday. Today I made a reservation for dinner here so he could see the ocean while I fed him but they stuck us in the back along a windowless wall. That wasn’t the deal, sir. Jeff wanted to sit and watch the gulls soar, the yachts move on the water and the sun set on the open ocean. We be from Kentucky sir. There ain’t no ocean to see or smell. It was gonna be this one time for us all. Janie, will you wipe his mouth girl? Sorry sir, he can’t quite manage no more… and sometimes I think I won’t either, but each day comes and we manage it, all of us together.”
Customers and staff alike, everybody is struck dumb. The woman’s story hangs like a pall over their self-centered lives. But Jeffrey Lewis has a vision. A beatific vision. He is transported to heaven while listening to the woman’s dream. Such simplicity, such beauty. Hell, such power. In his mind he compares her to his prize yacht and realizes she is much more, by far. This is it, he thinks, this is what I’ve been waiting for, hell no, what I’ve been setting myself up for.
Tall and imposing, he looks down at the owner of La Bella Roma Ristorante, Mr. Arturo Bellini who, upon being advised of the commotion, had waddled his portly self to the scene still wearing his chef’s hat.
“Signore?” One word that leads to the predictable answer:
The servile tone is almost overbearing, “Ah, yes Mr. Lewis. We will escort her out immediately. I’ve called the police. There will be no more outburst, I promise you.”
“You don’t understand, Art.” Jeffrey intones in an exaggerated soft southern drawl, “Throw her out and I buy this place and shut it down. No, I burn it down myself and sit out there on the stone wall to watch until the wind blows away every speck of dust and rust of it. You will bring this woman and her family to my table now.”
He turns and walks back to his table, taking his drink to another seat, leaving the view side open for the wheelchair. He punches his cell phone and calls off the local constabulary. Then he makes two more phone calls, one to his pilot. The other to a private clinic in New York.
It’s a truly magnificent evening as the breeze dies down and the chop eases off. A small flock of rock doves lands among the terrace tables and the iridescent birds peck intently for fallen crumbs as the sun drops from a pink sky to a much deserved rest below the phosphorescent sea.
on a blue day
playing a song
I love to hear:
on oceans I’ve
of exotic trees
of places I’ll
of sweet-scented pines
in deep-set canyons
where mighty rivers
of snow melts
in the high sierras;
of birds soaring,
of geese and eagles,
of the albatross:
I eagerly hold out
my spirit’s hand
to receive your gift
and I learn
about a world
where all is
where all is
a world that was…
(but so long ago,
how can I know?)
a world that will be
For I learned this
in my wanderings
that your lovely gift
your touching song
without a measure
you are strong
you are true
full of riddles
you can bring
standing on a seashore
you can herd
placing the rainfall
where you will
you cannot answer
I appreciate your gift
let me add it
to my hope
that you and I
may be complete
A million sparkling stars of gold
in receding waves
sprinkle the sandy shore
around my playful fingers;
A billion grains of sand
bound for the sparkling sea
support my naked feet
along my simple quest -
so I ask:
If the answer lies not
in deep starry darkness
beyond soft blue skies
in smooth washed sands
If it lies not
in tall cottonwoods
or regal firs
in multicolored pebbles
tickling my feet,
making me dance
the age-old dance
to the music of the laughing breeze?
I see a vision:
A male shadow,
a female shadow;
outlined in pale moonlight
upon still ground.
Suddenly a song is heard:
it is the music of the stars;
the music of the spheres
coming to Earth
to awaken all that is asleep.
The shadows begin to tremble
to move to one-another
caught in the magic of the music.
Gracefully, they dance;
their shadows blend;
become as one upon the Earth.
These are voices from the heart,
the sounds of life given and nurtured;
the vibrations, which support my being
in space and time, the music
which accompanies my body
causing the seed to grow,
strong, wise and loving in all of life
until the day I return again to her womb
to be reborn and to repeat
the endless cycle of life engendered
within my mother: the earth
and thus I honour her in her labours
by listening and loving:
I hear the call of a great horned ow
on the high branch of an old spruce;
the soft patter of snow-shoe hares
circling a haystack in harsh moonlight;
the crackling of the northern lights
flashing fiery waves of coloured lights;
the song of frogs on the edge of a pond
on a clear spring night reflecting stars.
The gentle ripple of wavelets
bouncing against a half-submerged log;
the laughter of coyotes in distant fields
mocking the bark of the farmer’s dog.
Yes, these are the voices
that forever echoes in my mind
that forever remind
of my passage on planet Earth.
A flowered meadow;
a stream flowing through;
pine trees softly soughing
at the edge of the opening
as a gust of Autumn wind
brushes against my face.
as I stand by the edge of the stream
that I did not find my calling in life:
I received it.
It found me because I came here
and just as the seeds grew
because a stream flowed by
and flowers now cover its banks
so does life always meet us half-way
if we know where to stand.
Try as I might to find the right path
I found frustration at every corner
but when I stopped struggling;
that elusive path appeared…
I ponder these thoughts
as the sun paints bright colours
upon an ever-shifting canvas
of evening clouds.
It’s a pleasant walk home today.
Her long brown hair moves gently in a gust of wind,
waves caress her feet as she gazes at the horizon,
contemplating: I wonder at her;
cannot reach the place
where she hides her thoughts.
No matter: silhouetted against the sun,
every curve of her tanned body
speaks only of perfection;
every glance, an invitation; every supple movement
makes my body come alive.
Ah! The way she walks,
the gurgle of her laughter, the sultry tones of her voice
between the waves;
the flash of her full smile when I reach for her hand;
the carefree toss of her head!
A friend once asked me,
“What is the most beautiful creation?”
To which I replied:
“I know of nothing more beautiful
than mountains with jagged cliffs
above flowered alpine meadows
on a clear, sunny day…”
He said, “One thing tops it all: a woman in all her glory,
wild, free, happy in her beingness
the true Goddess unchained as a melody;
that is the most beautiful creation
ever brought forth by love.”
These books contain a form of free verse poetry, essays, short stories, thoughts, opinions based on observation, and some humour and imagination, engaging the heart as well as the mind. A critical look at many current issues intriguing and plaguing man. Spirituality, interaction with nature and environment, social changes, dwindling resources. Well worn issues now, indeed. But the poetry and other works in these books gives this subject a different perspective. I daresay that here we can find a "higher" vantage point from which to look at ourselves within the cosmos.