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A History Lesson for Beginners

 

A History Lesson for Beginners

The Less-traveled Paths 3 0f 4

 

Writings by Sha’Ra On WindWalker

(in collaboration with Sha’Tara EarthStar)

 

Copyright (©) 2016 Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing

 

Published by: Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing

Chilliwack, B.C. Canada

 

Cover pictures, Top: Manu Mohan

Bottom: Caetano Lacerda

 

All pictures found on FreeImages.com

 

Space Picture: ESA/Hubble

 

Next Series: What the River Taught Me

 

I hope you enjoy these writings. Feedback is welcome.

Foreword

Creating Knowledge

Silent Sam

The Immune System

Mashed Potatoes Or Alphabet Soup?

The Tale Of Coco The Dragon

Welcome The Dawn

Compassion

The (Actual) Happiness Machine – Inspired by Ray Bradbury

Stranded

Unfettered As The Wind

Dying System

“You Cannot Sing Our Songs Because You Have Not Shed Our Tears.”

The One I Love

I Want More

Stuttering

How To Predict The Future

Time And Consequences

Vanishing Dream

Star Dancer

Space

Wisdom Speak

Be The Teacher

Man’s Greatest Failure

Path Of Infinity

The North Fence

Spiritual Awakening

The Teacher

A History Lesson For Beginners

One Last Wish

I Would Speak Of The Desert

Looking For Signs

A Path Maker

Foreword

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.

Creating Knowledge

Stillness reflects harsh

upon a sapphire face of a sub-alpine lake

encompassed by ridged hills

dusted with early snow.

 

Observer in a gallery of life, I am,

standing still within my painting

where nothing moves -

nothing calls and nothing cries.

 

Confronted with this silence

like many before me, I contemplate,

a god, wondering without knowledge

what happens when movement begins?

 

What form, movement

within this creation of my mind?

Will it be order within chaos?

Wisdom or stupidity?

 

There is but one way to know:

“Make it so” I say in my mind

and the movement, the dance

begins, ever new:

 

Wisely directed, it will continue

on and on, phasing through infinity.

Stupidly set-up, it will come to a certain end -

chaos overcoming order -

 

And of all this, what is the gain?

Knowledge.

Knowledge to correct paths:

encouraging wisdom, eliminating stupidity.

Silent Sam

Seems as if those events happened in a different era, on another world. But they happened just less than 60 years ago, in this country. Certainly, those were different times.

 

I was a child then, just five. It was early summer and while my father—never dad—was busy with chores and mother—never mom—was preparing the usual breakfast, I wandered off alone to climb over the small hill where the garden grew, already lush. I had this thing in my mind, that I would see the then already rare dance of the prairie chicken. (Known to birders as tympanuchus cupido – for the sound the male makes during mating.)

 

I knew I wasn’t allowed past the garden. I’d been warned that bears would regularly cross the field beyond the garden because there were no fences there yet, but that particular morning I wasn’t thinking about that. It was a beautiful morning, already warm as the sun had been up since five o’clock. I followed the path into the hayfield. The alfalfa wasn’t very high yet so I could see quite well, way out to the tree line which to me seemed very far away. There was another small rise that had a bare patch on top and that’s where I thought the prairie chicken would be dancing.

 

The warm drying mud (or gumbo as people of the prairies call it) felt good on my bare feet as I walked on, listening to the flickers drumming on dead snags and sometimes looking up to watch hawks already rising up and circling over the fields. I was to learn, much later, those were mostly buteos and marsh hawks, very common in the north.

 

I thought I heard something in the stillness of that morning. I stopped to listen, hoping it was the prairie chickens beginning their dance. A large form suddenly blocked the morning sun: it was a bear. To a child of five, any bear would seem huge. This one, reared on its hind legs, loomed over me like a veritable moving mountain. I froze, transfixed by the oldest fear known to man. The bear eyed me, leaned it’s head forward and took one step towards me. I couldn’t even scream.

 

Suddenly a silent explosion of dark brown fur hurled itself from the ground beside me, leaping into the bear’s face, clawing and biting. Snarling, the bear turned from me to confront its unexpected assailant. It was Silent Sam, the neighbor’s mid-sized mongrel dog. Sam had no vocal chords and although we’d seen him many times making the motions of barking or howling, only a wheeze came out of his mouth. He kept on attacking that bear and the fight, thought mismatched in size, had surprise and rage on Sam’s side. The bear finally sideswiped Sam and sent him rolling through the alfalfa. But it had had enough, forgot about it’s potential breakfast of a human child and lumbered off into the brush at the edge of the field.

 

Sam came limping and bleeding back to me to ascertain that I was alright. Together we walked back to the house. When I told the story, the predictable happened. I got a severe spanking for disobeying strict orders and Sam was put back on his chain to lick his non life-threatening wounds.

 

Now get this. The police weren’t called. No wildlife officer came to trap the bear and “relocate” it, or to destroy it. The event barely caused a ripple in the movement of a life focused on basic survival. What was important was that the “normal” flow wasn’t disrupted. The chores were done, the crops tended, and those who had part-time construction or railroad jobs wherever in that slowly opening area, left for work on time. And I was to remember a very important lesson: that nature has a way that demands respect, and her way isn’t man’s way.

 

You live in a different world now. A world filled with instant news media and human interest stories; trauma specialists and shrinks; political correctness and all the rest of that bureaucratic claptrap. A much more “civilized” world, of course. So you may not understand the denouement of this event. But you be the judge as to whether your “modern” society’s way of handling such a situation is better now.

 

There is another aspect to this story, one that interests me particularly. Silent Sam recovered quite well from his lacerations and had a good summer. But that fall, he just died. I know it wasn’t from any trauma—dogs aren’t made that way. But Sam knew what he had been given life for and he realized that his purpose had been fulfilled. He had done what he was supposed to and there was no point going on—it wouldn’t happen again.

 

Angels, whether guardians or of any other kind, exist and manifest themselves in many forms. Would that we were evolved enough spiritually to recognize them when we encounter them. Alas, this is hardly a time to be talking about angels. It won’t be angels who will rescue this society from its self-chosen path to hell.

 

So thank you, Silent Sam. Thanks for saving my life, and thank you also for having the courage to act upon your convictions: twice.

The Immune System

America: the coddled society

with drugs are a-plenty

pill pushers – doctors – more!

so eager to give you paradise.

 

Feel a little ill, feel a little pain

rush to the doc’s office to complain:

take a routine examination

and what do you get?

a routine prescription, that’s what.

 

Rush to the drug store,

don’t wait to get it filled,

pop, pop! POP ‘em all!!!

the red pill, the blue pill, the white one,

now everything’s OK,

you can watch TV again -

no head-ache, no pain,

need something else to complain.

 

But what are flu’s and colds and such:

Diseases? Signs of poor health?

Of course not!

They’re testing the immune system,

see if it’s working; if all is OK.

By-pass the test with a pill -

feel OK in the moment

but your immune system is not tested,

its batteries may be dead;

last upgrade not done

comes a deadly virus,

sorry, it is not there for you

your body becomes infected

and death not far away.

 

Choice: make yourself feel good -

pop that pill, relieve that ache, carry on

with the party, the game, whatever:

sooner or later the real thing comes

and you won’t know until too late

your immune system lacked an upgrade

and wasn’t standing by:

no response to the alarm.

 

Accept a cold, a flu, an odd ache and pain:

they’re there to test the system, not to kill.

 

Every human being is the author of his own health or disease.” (Buddha)

Mashed Potatoes Or Alphabet Soup?

Heaven is mashed potatoes,

creation is alphabet soup!

cried the laughing poet

driving down main street

in an old sports coupe.

 

In heaven all’s as well as well can be,

or so we’re told, and who’s to say?

No difference at all, we’re all the same

an unchanging world and really tame.

 

No need to ‘practice’ love in heaven

for that only works in black and white,

and isn’t that so? Have you tried loving

what you cannot differentiate?

 

False prophets of this age

‘There are many more than many’

say all is 'one'- there is no difference

Oh, sure: but one what? One mess?

It’s a bowl of mashed potatoes.

 

There’s a contradiction in the theme:

ego it seems lives on in higher realms.

As proof – angels no less

once found it lying near the throne of God.

 

So they picked it up and thought it better

than harp and halo and flowing gown.

Why? How should I know? Were they bored

in their mashed potatoes heaven?

 

Ego gave them their coveted difference:

it pissed off the Big Guy, but what the hell,

they had fun playing with their alphabet soup

and we(re still doing it – and we call it life.

 

And the moral of this little tale

is quite simple, and more than obvious:

if you learn to spell and eat your soup

the world is on your spoon.

The Tale Of Coco The Dragon

Once upon a time in the great land of Am, there lived a few very large dragons. Each was distinguished by his personal color. One of these was a terrible red dragon called CoCo and his Owners were very proud of him because he always fought his way to the top against his main opponent, a slightly younger great blue dragon named Peeps.

 

In those days, the great dragons did not need to leave their native land to grow fat, so they never learned how to fly and their wings grew stunted.

 

But as we know, the one constant in the universe is change, and being a part of the universe and despite pronouncements to the contrary by the Owners, change forced itself upon the land of Am. A new breed of dragons began to appear, smaller and hungrier. These smaller dragons of necessity developed the ability to fly. Not so well, at first, and many fell prey to the great dragons. But some managed to escape and by stealth and speed, were able to beat the ponderous great dragons to many a feeding place.

 

Eventually there came enough of these smaller dragons that the Owners of the great red CoCo (not to mention the Owners of the blue Peeps) became quite agitated. Their revenues from CoCo’s forays upon the land started to drop, and Coco himself often went hungry and became despondent. Not only that, but the people of the land of Am began to lose faith in the old dragons, and many rhetorical doors were closed against them.

 

The Owners feared these changes were ominous and it was time they should hire handlers for CoCo. From all over the world these came as soon as they received the summons. Once gathered on the Hill of Atlan, they were told their task was to make CoCo fly, whatever the costs. Unwilling to speak the truth of the matter, that obviously CoCo and the other great dragons could never fly, these hirelings assured the Owners they would be able to make the great red dragon take to the air and in a matter of time, clear the land of all lesser dragons.

 

At first they went for the obvious: CoCo was too fat. So they cut back on the fleets that brought him his food, and the land holdings he’d been given to wander about in and the number of slaves who brought him his food, so he would be motivated to move out, seek his own food and claim new territory for himself. They captured many of the smaller flying dragons and leashed them all around CoCo so he would see them fly as they sought to escape his belching fire and slashing teeth. CoCo ran and jumped, but still his wings were too stunted to be of much use. Another group of handlers tried an new approach: they attached the large outer scales from the flying dragons’ wings unto CoCo’s, but when the ponderous mass flapped its ridiculously small appendages, the false add-ons just tore off.

 

Meanwhile, in other lands and with permission of the Owners, other handlers created clones of the great red dragon. These were not as large, nor were they as bright red as CoCo, but they could not fly either since they followed the same pattern as CoCo’s in build (by dictate of the Owners who greatly feared loss of control).

 

But at least now the Owners had “their dragon” operating all over the world and were no longer as dependent on the food supply from the land of Am. Of course Peeps’ Owners did the exact same thing and red and blue dragons could be seen everywhere one traveled except that now, they were no longer openly fighting each other, though the myth of competition continued to be promoted among the people.

 

And so, for a time, things carried on. Smaller dragons were born and flew. The weak or careless ones were fried and swallowed by CoCo and his clones, or by Peeps and his clones, but enough of them escaped to continue to fluster and frustrate the Owners.

 

Is there an end to this story? Oh, yes, there certainly is, but not quite yet. You see, the Owners still believe, and must believe, that their dragon will eventually spread his mighty wings and fly over the whole world burning and gorging. To this end, they hire more and more handlers in vain attempts to force the old pertinacious dragon to diet and exercise.

 

It was said long ago, you cannot teach an old dog new tricks, and how much less teach an old ossified dragon with stunted wings to fly!

 

But then, that little saying comes under the heading of ancient wisdom, and as anyone knows, wisdom is no longer politically correct in Am… and perhaps nowhere else in Never-Never Land either.

Welcome The Dawn

Hear the songs—welcome the dawn

pushing away the endless night!

Like the birds, every morning,

give a breath of precious love;

like the trees, breathe deeply

of life to awaken your soul;

let all your senses feel

the sun’s diffused light

shining through branch and leaf,

aware of beauty shed without measure.

 

Like a river fed by myriad streams,

giving life along its path,

gather up your strength every morning

and from the wildest of dreams

brought back from the night

ride a white Unicorn with joy

and pass it on in awareness

to your mother, the gentle, loving earth!

Compassion

What is compassion?

Is it a feeling?

Something one does for someone else?

Simply a virtue seen in those

one would call good people?

 

Perhaps that is how it manifests

when we observe it;

when we try to practice it

but that is not what it is.

 

Compassion

is a language known to all

who call themselves intelligent

sentient, self-aware beings.

Perhaps we could call it

the language of the Universe

from the depths of the Cosmos.

 

Another way of looking at it:

compassion -

The greatest expression

of Universal love

and on earth, love in action.

 

Perhaps compassion

was the language of the gods,

those who created the worlds

(and us!)

and perhaps they left it as a choice,

whether we would use it or not.

 

Perhaps it is that legacy

we lost to the vagaries of time

when the difficulties came

and we chose survival

over love.

 

If it’s as simple as that

how simple it is

to get back into it once more

and make the Earth

dance in joy.

The (Actual) Happiness Machine

Inspired by Ray Bradbury

 

Ray Bradbury wrote a short story called “The Happiness Machine” in which a man seeks to bring happiness to all the people of his small town. This garage inventor tinkers for many weeks and finally completes his machine after neglecting his wife and children and not incidentally, causing much unhappiness all around. But it was all worthwhile, he thinks, when finally the machine is ready.

 

Out of desperation, and some anger, his wife insists on trying out the machine. To his great shock, she comes out of it crying. Oh, the beautiful things I saw there, she exclaims, only to discover it’s all fake. I didn’t go to any of those places, didn’t actually experience them, not will I ever. I just saw them, then had to leave them to return to this place, this reality of basic drudgery and poverty. So what’s the point? She asks her husband. I am sadder now than before I was in the machine because now I’m thinking of those places, and things, I can never see or have.

 

Predictably, he doesn’t understand it. So he goes in the machine and attempts to “see” what she sees. He pushes his machine so hard that it overheats and catches on fire, eventually destroying itself and the garage it was in. Then the inventor gets it: he already had his happiness machine. It was all around him, in his life. It was just a matter or realizing that it doesn’t get better, and if it does, one has to make it so by working at it, not by avoiding it. His wife, of course, already knew this. And the children naturally knew it also, they never questioned it. The questioning comes later in life, fuelled by advertising and endless System lies that feed covetousness and greed, which translates into selfishness and bestial activity.

 

Every weekend, especially now in the height and heat of Summer, our freeway is jammed packed with people driving away from the City like rats abandoning a sinking ship. All of them are going away, hauling, driving, pulling, dragging, their happiness machines. Car and truck loads. Trailers, open or closed, full of stuff. Campers and motor homes. Boats, canoes, kayaks, bicycles, horses—every type of happiness equipment imaginable, is trundled out of the City and taken out for a short airing to pollute some hillside, some lake shore, some waterway somewhere. So many happiness machines clog the roadways that traffic is often snarled, crawls or comes to a standstill. Tempers flare. Illegal moves abound. Accidents happen. Yet, it seems, many of the happiness machines make it to their destination, are “plugged in” and people ride in them for a few hours until it’s time to pack them up again and repeat the process of driving back to the hated City, to lock up (or store at some cost) the happiness machines so they aren’t stolen, and return to some dead-end job, while dreaming of the next outing in the happiness machine.

 

But where’s the happiness? Even those who own the loans, mortgages and collect insurance premiums on the happiness machines aren’t happy at all. They are afraid. They know it is all an illusion and it can collapse at any moment: the machine is already overheating and can catch fire at any moment. They’ve seen it happen already to some of the machines and they are scared. Likely no amount of fire fighting skill or heroism on the part of the fire fighters can stop the happiness machine from being destroyed completely, along with the garage it’s stored in.

 

Where then, is the happiness? What if, just for one day, people looked through their window and saw their reality with a different eye? What if what they saw was this: This is my life, and at this moment, this is as good as it gets. If I want it to be better, all I have to do is help someone else make hers, or his, better, should they want to. My happiness machine can be compassion, understanding, caring. No need to take out loans on a machine that only brings me illusions of happiness. No need to worry about theft insurance: if someone wants to steal my compassionate nature, they are welcome to it. I can get more.

 

It’s Sunday morning. There are a couple of people I know who need my help today and that’s just what I am going to do when I shut this down. Go out there and do something nice for somebody. Leave them with a good feeling. That’s the kind of world I want to live in and that’s my happiness machine. Not terribly revolutionary, is it!

Stranded

I feel totally stranded

at the edge of some flat world;

a world I am less and less inclined

or able to understand.

Some say the world is just fine,

it has been that way -

it will continue to be that way -

but I look out my window

and see a different story.

 

I heard someone say,

“the majority of humanity

is compassionate

and loves their fellow man,”

Yes? If that is so

why all the endless violence?

And why do most

torture and destroy nature?

 

I think the people of Earth

are hopelessly delusional

about the state of their world.

I think the aerodynamics

of their social system

are totally wrong.

 

I believe the social Titanic

is about to be breached and sink

upon the ever-returning icebergs

of global social apathy.

Unfettered As The Wind

To the giant cathedrals

in the ancient, timeless forest

I took her.

Her frail body wracked

by pains she no longer could bear,

I laid gently among the roots

of an ageless fir whose top was lost

in the morning mist…

Though she no longer spoke in words,

I listened for her goodbye, her final wisdom

and as her breath ceased to flow

it was through her eyes

that she expressed her desire

that I, in love, allow her

to take death’s gentle hand.

 

Impossible it is to speak

of the void filling my heart in this moment

as a mist from a nearby waterfall

mixes its tears with mine:

together we cry our loss.

 

After the vigil, I leave her earth body

gently covered with silt, soil and wet green mosses

knowing that in earth’s long awaited Spring

she will give birth to sweet scented new life…

thus do I take comfort in my pain.

 

Now, her spirit freed, she paints the sky

glorious shades of cosmic colours,

Her laughter, the song of her life

instills renewed joy within my heart.

 

As darkness falls, I turn my eyes to the stars

and a sudden gust of wind touches my skin.

It is her spirit leaving earth,

unfettered as the wind,

off to places we knew in times long past:

I resume my journey

and no regrets for having known her

such a short time.

Dying System

People struggling to survive

on the fringes of a cold, dying system;

hiding from the tycoons

and their henchmen called governments -

trying desperately to find a place

in the global slave market

(euphemistically called employment)

where the chain is not too heavy

and the price less than the wage

with something left over

to feed the children in the cold.

 

The planet’s life-giving mantle

cracks, dries, freezes

and oozes of poisonous fumes.

The system has run its course

but who is aware of this fact?

Not those who still chase the elusive dollar,

- the rich buying a corporation -

- the poor, a lottery ticket -

nor those who strive to keep

the best place at the trough.

 

And as the trough deepens or shortens

fewer and fewer snouts fit into the opening.

Ignorant government lackeys,

with indecent laws and crippling taxes

lick up the fat of whatever remains

after bankers and CEO’s take the cream.

 

Miserly rich rail against starving poor,

these left with but one option:

to die for the god of free enterprise.

 

Will this madness not end?

An academic question already answered:

Not if but when.

“You Cannot Sing Our Songs Because You Have Not Shed Our Tears.”

This amazing statement is a direct quote from a dream I had last night. In this dream I walked upon a desert. Not flat, but with very large dunes and protruding rocky outcroppings standing starkly out of the endless sands. Rocks and sand were the same beige-brown shade.

 

As I walked in a north-westerly direction in what the lengthening shadows said to be late afternoon, I came upon a small group of tribal people. Even in the dream, I knew they were not “real” in the sense of having flesh. They were ghosts. Men, women, children, some animals, probably goats. A couple of dark brown camels. (I don’t know, are camels always the same uniform color?)

 

They were below me in what is called a wadi. As I approached, they turned to me and said these exact words: “You cannot sing our songs because you have not shed our tears.” And they added, as I looked around, “We are the people of the wadi.” as if, somehow that explained everything.

 

As suddenly as it appeared, the vision vanished and I came awake from the dream. Then just as suddenly, I understood many things that had puzzled me for years. This has to do with songs and with music.

 

Everywhere in the world, groups of people have created their particular songs. Songs and music are tribal, ethnic expressions of collective feelings and emotions. Quite often, too often, you can sense the suffering, the losses, the pain and sorrow of a people in their music and songs. There are, of course, the happier ones: songs of love, songs for weddings and other happy celebrations. There are religious hymns that also recall terrible times and horrible persecutions, as well as deep devotion to the god of that religion. And there are the powerfully emotional, martial, savage, war-praising nationalistic songs.

 

The wadi people I encountered were speaking of some great and terrible ordeal inflicted upon them in which they were all destroyed, their way of life wiped out. One instance? A million instances? Long ago? Today? It does not matter, does it, for time neither forgives nor forgets. Nor do the songs that recall the real laughter and real tears.

 

Such songs, such music, is no longer being created, at least certainly not in the land of the spoiled and the rich. We live in a globalized world under the aegis of greedy bankers, overt corporate oppression and the commercialization of every creative act of Earthian humanity. Everything has a price tag, an ISBN product code. If it does not, it has no value. If the market place says your product sells, it sells. If it rejects it, file it, it may as well not exist. No heart, no spirit, just dollars.

 

And what kind of “music” do people produce today?

 

Raucous, raunchy, shallow, contemptible in its paucity of message or feeling. A gross hoax, perpetrated by screamers, squawkers and pounders, an artifice “full of sound and fury, signifying nothing” to quote someone. Meaningless, deafening commercial clanging of rock and roll padded by trite and whiny country and western style. This is just as true of modern religious singing as the more offensive kind inflicted upon everyone by the prevalence of radio and television.

 

Modern music, especially the music of America and its clones, has no spirit. It is a direct expression of the emptiness and shallowness of the society that produces it, and listens to it. It is the musical noise of commuter-clogged freeways, of ATM’s and drive-thrus, of carbon-copied sports events, of over-indulgence, coarse laughter and slovenliness of attire and general posture. It is the expression of a people that has brought many to tears and sorrow world-wide but itself never having to bear same. A spoiled, self-centered and basically pointless people; a people that will pass with barely a footnote from their history.

 

Perhaps, many years hence, survivors of this people will have shed enough tears through the lost years that they too will create songs that no one else can sing. Perhaps. And it is going to be a very long and very pain filled passage of time.

The One I Love

A vision of the one

I have come to love.

I saw her

opening up like an alpine flower

high in the hills

above the green valleys,

companion of hawks and eagles,

of fogs and snow squalls,

or waving gently in cool breezes

under the summer sun…

 

I heard the washing of the waves

upon a restless, living shore;

heard the sands hiss in the waters;

heard the cry of gulls and terns

flying low over tidal flats

and I saw a golden clam shell

emerge from the sea and the sand,

open to the skies:

she rose from the shell,

clothed in mother of pearl

as unique as any one could be.

I Want More

Why do we want a job?

Or need a job?

What is the motivation in the quest;

in staying with this labour?

 

Some would say “lucky“of the one

who finds and holds a job

that gives both enjoyment and satisfaction;

when positive energy flows out of the effort;

when it seems society even benefits

from such work.

And luckier, indeed, if it pays well…

 

But if success becomes the driving force;

when the work pays greater dividends

and possessions, prestige, power

accumulate as a result,

how quickly the motivation changes

from one of “I would give more”

to one of “I want more!”

 

In our society, ‘tis not the labour

that’s counted as valuable

but the amount of money it returns:

for success is counted in money earned,

not in satisfaction received,

much less in gratification given.

 

Forgotten are the lessons of the past:

that one’s honor is tied directly

to one’s willingness to serve.

Stuttering

The mind can’t picture

a word like “ppp-rrr-o-bbb-lll-eee-mm”

as a problem until too late:

the tongue flips helplessly,

feet stomp, head shakes,

trying desperately to get one damn word out

at least before the day is done!

 

“You’re abnormal; you’re not one of us!”

said society mocking, perhaps afraid

of contagion, of disease!

A speech impediment can really be

swift judgment of one’s mental ability

 

Children only know ‘normal’

until forced to realize

there are differences, degrees

of normalcy in this society -

some impairments at least rate help,

a graded sidewalk, a wheelchair sticker

on the windshield -

some rate a degree of compassion,

some only bring about mocking and jeers:

ddddooo I mmmake mmmyssself cleeeear?

 

Years of harassment from peers;

of put downs for lack of communication skills;

take their toll, leave their mark, even kill.

It wasn’t society who said to me one day,

Judgments are the heavy stuff of human life.

Don’t let these trouble your gentle soul!

Always remember you have the last word,

whether you can speak it out loud or not!

Determine the course of your life

according to your hopes and dreams.

Human speech is but a hindrance

to pure communication:

know you not that gods speak without words?

Don’t worry about the so-called smart,

nor what they may think of you:

mould your impediments into blessings!

How To Predict The Future (and be certain of the outcome)

Predicting the future. The ability, the art, of prescience – what a gift that would be, right? But, say those who’ve been here and beyond, don’t you know you all possess this ability? How can you proceed if you do not predict your future? How can you know anything if you don’t have a handle on where the “anything” is taking you?

 

What is the future? Something pre-determined by the gods, the “mighty ones” of old? Something mindless, inevitable, indeterminate? Something terminal? Finite? Better than? Worse than?

 

A lot of questions and all the wrong ones. To get the proper answer, ask the proper question - the answer is always within the question. Want a better answer -- ask a better question.

 

How about, “Who is the future?” The only answer is, “I am.” So now I’ve brought it to a place where I can know it. I can determine the future because I am dealing only with what belongs to me, what is me. Out of the endless slices of life carved out of infinity potential, this one is mine.

 

It’s no different than wanting to build a new house. You have to have a piece of property that is yours. You can’t just build on any empty lot you see, or next to some people’s house because they left some room on one side of their yard. Why do we think it is different “out there”? As below, so above – get used to it. That’s how it was before you got here!

 

So, I am my future. The next proper question is, “What do I wish to predict for myself?” That’s right. Whatever I wish my future to be, that’s what I’m predicting. How do I make sure my predictions come true? I make sure I have the money necessary to get started at least (money means “energy”); I get my materials together and begin to build according to the plans I made and duly filed with the proper authorities.

 

With dedication, single-mindedness and courage in the face of certain adversity; if I do not give up; if I don’t go running to “experts” to do it for me, I will end up with my future.

 

You see? It’s like here. The cosmos is a subdivision. Follow certain “rules” of common sense and add whatever value you wish to it, such as compassion or empathy (my choice of bonus material) and build. It will always come about according to your commitment.

 

Will my “predicted” future cause problems if it is diametrically opposite to whatever is already established where I plan to “build”? The answer to that is, “no.” Your construct – your future – will dovetail perfectly with whatever is working itself out, out there. Your intersecting future may be powerful enough to cause a shift wherever you “build” but that is only because the change needed was waiting for a catalyst and you provided that.

 

The “authorities” had changed the requirements for building but the old “owners” refused to abide by the new rules. So, you become the “change agent” to break up the old pattern. And you may well suffer greatly in being this catalyst. Many old systems have become ingrown and so comfortable they no longer wish to change. Some can no longer change. They sit upon their slice of life and consume all the good things and no longer give back anything. Such things need breaking down. Life demands it.

 

“How do I determine what kind of future I want for myself?”

That’s a childish question. If you know enough to realize you have a future, you should know that you will create such based on what you have already become. Look at your current “value”; who you are today: your vices, your virtues, your belief systems, what you accept and what you reject. That is exactly the pattern, the plan, you will take with you to build your new home. Once you file your plan (death is the registrar) you can no longer change it.

 

Tomorrow belongs to the future and you’ve already predicted what that will be. The Old Man with the legendary scythe and the black hooded aba robe is sitting at his desk smiling. He is looking at your plan and waiting for you to affix your signature to it. So if there is anything at all that you wish to change, now is the time.

 

There are always those who believe they have no future beyond this life. Well and good, and that changes nothing. They will return to “this life” no wiser than before and each time, believe they’ve never done it before. They will continue to deny every indication they may be wrong in their assessment until some shock breaks their pattern.

Time And Consequences

No matter which rule I try to bend

you are Time and no one’s friend

and does that make you my enemy?

For if it does, and you go my way

step by step on this endless journey

woe is me, most certainly

for I must love you, that I must

but how in you can I put my trust?

 

Long ago, ‘tis said, the Master taught

if you would live meaningfully,

then learn to love your enemy.

I see you smiling at my confusion

I quite understand your derision

for omnipresent you believe you are

and even were I to find my star

and there think from you to hide

‘twould not be so, you would abide

 

Correct me on this, if I’m wrong

if for a greater freedom I long

that time becomes for me the ‘All’

that whatever I find, small or tall

I accept the joy, I accept the sorrow

though it be in happiness or in woe

I drop the very last of pretenses

taking life with her consequences.

Vanishing Dream

The love of two:

a lasting state of bliss

or a vanishing dream;

as vanishing cream -

hiding the blemishes

until the rain of tears

and sweat of the brow

washes the illusion away?

 

What is this love

people fall into

with such passion

and fall out of

with equal passion

or hardly noticing

until the years pass-

and wondering why

takes too much effort?

 

What is true of love?

Where does it come from?

Is there a love machine

deep in the depths of space

sending its music

across the void?

Does it emanate from Earth,

oozing out of fissures?

Is it distributed wildly, aimlessly

by some little imp with a bow?

Does it come from a god

hidden in some heaven far away?

 

Want to know what I think?

What I’ve seen along the way?

Love only exists

if

someone decides to make it -

and that’s why it’s called

making love!

Star Dancer

She had characteristics of a winter bird. Slim of build, almost translucent of skin, she could stand in a doorway and remain unseen for long moments. Though she sought to remain mainly quiet, there was a soft and gentle quality to her voice. Not weakness, not self-pity, but her way of remaining in the background, to observe the world silently or with an encouraging word now and then. A killdeer on a windswept dune in December heard only after darkness covers the shores. She could remain alert and active for long hours and you never saw her eating or drinking beyond basic needs.

 

She was not what would be called pretty, only beautiful, with the movements of an animal and the velvety touch of an angel. She never wore makeup and draped herself in the simplest second-hand clothes. If asked why she didn’t spend more on her attire, she’d smile, shrug. “It doesn’t go with the innocence of children” was the extent of her explanation on the subject.

 

The innocence of a child would have described her. She was called naive by some. She’d say, “Do not confuse innocence with naivety. I choose to remain innocent. It is my way of counteracting the many grave faults of this man’s world. Do not make the mistake of thinking I am unaware of what goes on here or helpless to do anything about it.”

 

She was an empath. Compassionate. When she interacted with strangers, she smiled mostly and they helplessly smiled back at her and one-another. Children were attracted to her until the time they lost their innocence. Then she faded from their eyes. They won’t remember her until they get old and tears will roll down their lined faces in realization of what they let go.

 

There were tragedies in her life as in every life. Through it all, she brought hope and comfort where none existed. That was her nature -- to give and never take. It was as if she gave her own flesh and blood to those in need. She "fed and clothed" by what she did not spend on herself - that was one of her "open" secrets. But with each sorrow, her translucence increased. A dawn would come to finally dim her starlight beyond earthly recall.

 

It didn’t matter what they called her, I knew her real name. I remembered her from times before time. She was of the Star Dancer; those whose home is the Cosmos; who scatter themselves as stardust over myriad of worlds and touch the lives of countless others. Sadly, yes, some of us get lost and for long periods, sleep in forgetfulness. Our memories of the Star Dancer are but myths in the conflagration of time that burns within our tortured mind.

 

But she came. A speck of dust on the wind, she appeared on my horizon. I began to remember as I watched her. I remembered dancing among the stars, in and around the great ship. I remembered so many things, my head ached and all my senses blurred with the impact. I hardly dared give in to this vision, but I had to, just had to. Did she come for me, to awaken me?

 

What does that matter? What matters is she came, scattered a bit of magic stardust and there was joy where none had been. What matters is, I now remember and can continue to do some of what she began. What a gift she left behind! How could anyone mourn such a passing?

 

Go, Star Dancer, return home and don’t be shy to tell them of a task well done.

Space

A

tapestry

completed

in symbols:

experiences

faced

woven

gently

by graceful

fingers.

 

Emerging

from

shadow,

a spirit

breaks free:

another

conception

dawns

into

a cycle

of

perpetual

space.

Wisdom Speak

Roaring oceans

call surrender

from selfish goals.

Raging mountain storms

chastise hunger

for mundane thrills.

 

In the tossing chaos

that is my mind

I hear a peaceful voice

speak this wisdom:

 

“When darkness

pervades your soul;

when anger and fear

grasp your heart;

when selfishness

rules your desires;

reach for yourself

and you will see

you are not the things you own

nor the beliefs you were given.

You were never

unclean or sinful,

but a being of light

hidden in a coffin.

You can open the lid

and walk out

…anytime you choose.

Be The Teacher

His Irish flute still plays

gently through my silent mourning;

in remembrance of his passing

tears water my eyes

as rain on autumn leaves.

 

Yet through my pain

a channel remains open

as I remember these thoughts

he left with me:

“When the sun shines on me no more,

and the path you travel

seems pointless without this love

find the courage to close the door

on a chapter of life that for you

exists no more.”

 

And these words he also spoke to me:

“A day will come for you to speak

to the world with your own voice.

You will write your own chapter then,

and from chapter to novel

your own life will unfold,

new and wonderful.

Keep in mind that dependency

is for children, for those

who mistake fear and laziness

for obedience.

Never remain anyone’s student:

be the teacher, as you were intended.”

Man’s Greatest Failure

In all of man’s short history, what has been the greatest single failure?

 

There is only one answer to that question: the consistent and stubborn unwillingness to admit to current conditions and take responsibility for those conditions on an individual basis, no excuses.

 

There have been individuals who stood out as exceptions. We know some of those because they made the history books as martyrs of System and mobs!

 

What is it that causes Earthians to so predictably refuse to look at their current condition? To refuse to compare it to previous episodes of history that would clearly predict the certain outcome of their current state?

Hubris of leadership and apathy of followers.

 

I’ve been sampling the mood of the land with some stories lately with predictable results. Same old stock excuses.

-- Yes, there are problems but we cannot solve them. They have existed since the beginning of history and will continue to exist. Life struggles on. We make the best of it.

Or, God has foreseen these problems and soon all will be made right again. We only need to have faith; to believe, hope and pray.

Or, as we advance technologically we will be able to understand better and solve our own social and environmental problems.

Or, well, it’s obvious: it’s those horrible suicide bombers and those Koreans with their nukes.

Or, it’s those American invaders of the Middle East taking all the oil and those Corporations pushing for a New World Order.

Or, it’s those nations who won’t control their populations, creating imbalance.

 

One thing that comes out clear: it’s never “my” fault. And even if it were, it would be but a tiny little part of the big problem and since I have no financial, political or religious power, there is nothing I can do about it.

 

The belief remains that only those who have power can make significant change. Either you have tons of money; you are president of some great military power; you head an international human-aid organization, or are part of a popular, militant protest group or you are nothing. An individual on this world has no power. So it is taught; so it is believed.

 

If it is taught that an individual has power, it is not the kind of power that would affect the churnings of those other Powers. It is a silent, self-absorbed “power” that plays with itself with scents, candles, prayers, funny clothes, off-the-wall beliefs, incantations, rituals – a power that seldom passes beyond the walls of one’s church, mosque, temple, social club, apartment or pages of one’s Internet blog. A power that preaches to the converted and hopes never to encounter a serious challenge; that would never challenge the Big Bad Guys; that is fulfilled by a trip through Disney Land; that says, “I’m ok, you’re ok. Let’s be secure in our sameness, party and have fun.” A power that is really just another game.

 

Let the smallest ripple of change come among such a power and it vanishes as a puff of smoke.

 

Is earth in trouble? That’s some rhetorical question! Will the Powers that be do something real about the trouble? Another rhetorical question.

 

If we answer “yes” to the first question and refuse to slip into the prepared statements denying our involvement, then what? If we answer “no” to the next question and refuse to accept the prepared statements denying their lack of involvement, then what?

 

There is a kind of power that requires none of the trappings mentioned above. It comes forth when one individual awakens to a sense of purpose. When a message not tainted by any Earthian belief system is received and acknowledged. The rest is destiny. There is no turning back. It will be as complete foolishness to those who play and those in denial. It will be the most difficult thing ever attempted for the one who forges this path.

 

The Golden Path. It shatters illusions. It laughs at obstacles as it topples and overcomes them. It pushes through the darkness and makes its own light. It is compassionate yet cares not for the safety of any who embrace it. It demands everything of those who walk upon it.

 

Where everything else fails, it remains.

 

“There is a way that seems right to a man but the end of it is death.” (Proverbs 14:12 – the Bible)

 

“Wide is the gate and broad the road that leads to destruction and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life and only a few find it.” (The gospel according to Matthew, chapter 7 – the Bible)

 

“Ignorance is ever the final refuge of the prideful.” (Chronicles of the WindWalkers)

Path Of Infinity

Think about time

as your path to self-understanding,

to self-empowerment,

to “infinity”

as you go through your endless changes.

 

A few billion years from now,

you will realize what I am saying here.

It does not matter what happens in the end.

It matters what you do with you.

 

You are your past and your future.

There is no present in the sense of living.

Time can be played on,

can be compressed or stretched.

But it cannot be stopped.

It cannot be “present”.

 

The best way to walk

the path of infinity

is in compassion.

 

For compassion

cannot be bought and sold

as so-called “love” can;

cannot be institutionalized

as faith is in religion;

cannot fail as do

hope’s endless promises.

 

Compassion is for the self-empowered

for it is one’s own

to do with as one pleases:

it is never reciprocal;

never dependent,

has no expectations.

 

Is it then “unconditional love”?

No – such a concept is an oxymoron,

a contradiction -

anyone can test this

and discover the truth of it.

The North Fence

The north fence followed a rutted road for half a mile. It had been laid in a perfect line but now sagged tiredly, its top curving out from the pasture it enclosed. Some of its old posts were rotted and broken; seasons of cattle pushing their thick hairy necks through its barbed wire creating the wavy leanings. It was an old fence now, although those who had built it were still only in young manhood…

 

Shutting off the engine in the beat-up Volkswagen Beetle, I walked to the corner post, leaning pensively, a foot on the brace, staring down the fence line. The grass rustled in the narrow ditch, the clover waved under the weight of millions of pollen-hungry bees.

 

The cosmic time-machine engaged, the past returning. Yes: there’s the horse-drawn mower, taking the first swath in the rich alfalfa. The July air is clear, clean, pure; the sky of the deepest blue. Grasshoppers rise in the air. The rhythmic clicking of the mower’s pitman arm and cutting blades, the clinking of chains and metal harness loops the only sounds. What a time to be fourteen, entrusted with the mowing of the hay fields!

 

But it isn’t the mowing, however, that occupies most of my thoughts. It’s Liz. The crazy “in love” feeling she gave me had started the winter before, and grown until it had taken over my entire life. Strange that my best friend’s sister should suddenly affect me like this; stranger yet the fact that she seemed unaware of this, and laughed at my clumsy attentions.

 

Elflike, she is innocent, free, unselfconscious. Loving water and having no lakes or rivers to swim in on the high clay flats of the Peace River country, she often resorts to splashing in abandoned or unused “dugouts”: water holes dug in the hard clay by bulldozers to provide water for the homesteads. The previous evening, while driving a belching tractor past one of those old ponds, I had seen her playing in the water, her nude, slim, tanned body shining in the slanting sub-boreal sunlight. Her small, partially-formed breasts tantalized me as she had stood on the edge of the pond and waved to me before plunging in the water, her carefree, teasing laughter lost in the noise of the machine…

 

Slumping forward, body undulating with the rise and fall motion of the spring-steel mower seat, thoughts of romance and love filled my world. A wonderful reverie of a perfect future when, together we would do great and wonderful things flowed unhindered. The team plodded on, lost in their own dreams as the air grew hotter and drowsiness sought to overcome driver and team. A half-dozen swaths later, the team arrived again at the north-east corner water barrel and stopped for a drink. Once more, the north fence offered its straight line to the view and once more came the feeling of pride. My older brother and I had laid out that fence just a month before, and received the greatest commendation ever from dad on his return from work down that dirt road: critically scanning the line he had declared it… perfect!

 

A crackling noise from the car’s cooling engine broke the reverie. A bitter-sweetness filled my heart as I drove on, wondering about Liz. Three years earlier, we had been scattered as prairie chickens by a shotgun blast: she to the outskirts of Edmonton and I to southwestern British Columbia. Untended, like the north fence, our romance had suffered the effects of time and pressure.

Spiritual Awakening

A fish jumps out of the water

and sees a new environment,

with trees, clouds, a deep blue sky

forever changing,

each leap, each ‘now’

projecting a changing landscape

to its expanded awareness.

 

I am so much like that fish,

as I “leap” into other realities;

as I notice the changes in my mind

from who I was (thinking I was)

to who I am (or think I am!)

 

My perception of life is redefined

as I look deeper into possibilities:

past lives, future lives

yes, even the present is changing!

 

Some would call this

a spiritual awakening

but really, the more I interact here,

the more I’m tempted

to just call it a whole lot of fun.

The Teacher

The Teacher’s path is as the wind;

no one knows where he is from

nor where he goes.

He travels space, he travels time.

His word is spirit,

teaching the open minded,

giving to the seeking,

finding the lost,

strengthening the timid,

upholding the faithful.

 

If you have heard these words,

you have heard him:

“Know and believe your truth:

everyone has a different story,

each a grain of sand forming a beach;

not one ever like another…

Be swayed by nothing

but your own discoveries,

your own awareness.

 

Thus shall the Cosmos

give ear to your prayer;

open its abundance;

hand you the key to every door,

and any door you open

shall never close,

nor any dream you dream

not come to pass.”

A History Lesson For Beginners

 

What was it like before?

 

That question is even more important in understanding the flow of history than its corollary: “What will it be like after?”

 

The children of the great houses were all gathered together. Today they would get to hear the Ones Who Remember. And if a child’s name was called, that one would even get to ask one question.

 

The Ones came after the children had settled down from their restlessness. They could not be seen, of course, but every child knew them, and how many of them there were in the room, representing every stage of their world’s development since the beginning.

 

“You have many questions of us, naturally, but we must focus on that which suits this day’s remembrance and of thanksgiving. We will tell you, in our own thoughts, of the great struggles that led to this world, your temporary home in the cosmos, becoming what you already know to be one of the Hidden Worlds.

 

“We exist in a fold. To the rest of this universe, and beyond, we do not exist. We are the Lost, those who will be found only if they wish it. At this juncture, we do not. Come with us now as we lead your mind into the so-called past and let us show you a piece of your history.

 

"See now the great conflagrations raging within many galaxies; great artificial ships invading world after world and plunging them into darkness. Watch as your ancestors, us, gather our minds together to face this threat to our freedom, perhaps our very existence. Here -- look carefully now -- meet the Beings of Light who came to help our beleaguered worlds and provide assistance in averting this threat. Do not look upon these too long for their light, even filtered by our Mind, remains stronger than any can hold.

 

“Turn now and observe the Beings of Darkness responsible for this universal terror; those who swallow up the Light and create Worlds of Shadows. See how they plot to overthrow every form of order and plan to control life ever-after. These we have dubbed the Time Lords. Mighty they are here, in their youth and prime. Mighty and terrible. Their crowns are ringed with captive stars and moons from the worlds they have destroyed. These do not understand the purposes of Life. They are predators. You understand that now as we focus their energy within your minds. You see how the dictatorial order of their time-construct shatters balance and destroys relevance in the flow of natural life. Masters of Time and Masters of the greatest Lie every told. They hold trillions upon trillions of ISSA’s in thrall, even to this day of their waning.

 

“Now we take you back to our deliberations with the Light Being who chose to stay with us and guide us. It was this Being who explained how our world could become one of the Hidden Worlds, if we were willing to attempt moving it from its location, rifting it into one of the infinite folds that form the borders or boundaries between universal realities. Our deliberations were short as you see. It was very persuasive and we saw no logical or workable alternative: either we moved or we became enslaved to time, to a “when” from which our past would be eradicated and our future no longer ours to determine.

 

“Not all worlds thus moved survived. The energies of some were as yet too chaotic to hold under the pressure, the fear or panic, caused by rifting. These unfortunates literally shattered to become lifeless fields of asteroids. But in their death they confused the Time Lord’s scans and those of us who subsequently survived slipped through the predators’ nets in the confusion.

 

“To attempt a successful jump we mind-joined all the ISSA beings of our world and as soon as we reached planetary consensus, every voice in the Mind saying “yes” we gave the Word to the Light Being. Look now children upon that place in the Satarella System where your world sailed happily among its once bright and beautiful Sisters. See the gap there, and notice the darkened and saddened countenance of the Sisters. They chose to remain and were enslaved. Billions of ISSA’s have died there, and continue to die.”

 

Suddenly, in the silence that followed this brief journey in history a clear young voice arose in the Mind: “I shall return to the Satarella System and cause change there. I will help awaken the enslaved people whatever the cost.”

 

“Yes you shall. And that is how it is done. As long as there are those who freely volunteer to go out and help others at whatever cost to themselves life will continue to evolve and what is called “evil” will always be defeated.

One Last Wish

It seemed right all along,

meandering through life

just following the river,

minding my own business:

it seemed right,

but was I led astray?

 

I have become as a blind man

and cannot see the light;

Like a poor man

who feels every breeze

through threadbare clothes.

No longer do I find comfort

along the river’s shore.

There is no refuge in those places

that once meant assured safety.

Am I just out of tune with life

or has my time run out?

 

What wouldn’t I give to really see

a bright new sunrise over a hill

or feel the gentle warmth

of the sun’s rays under the trees

at the edge of a golden meadow.

To discover a new passion

and find a renewed strength

to open my heart to life.

 

I’d like to let all that unused love

(I didn’t even know I had ‘til now)

spill out and flow onto the rays

filling the valleys with light.

I Would Speak Of The Desert

I would speak of the true desert,

that great sea of shifting, hissing sands

roiling and slithering over itself

storming its discontent in the winds,

ever thirsty for a drop of water

ever open to receive moisture

yet upon receiving,

ever drinking itself parched.

 

Its thought is only for more.

Greedy as the grave it buries all

that would sit quietly for a time

bordering its grasping madness;

holding within its vaults as easily

the hopes and dreams

of invading armies;

of quiet villages

or star-crossed lovers.

 

Seas, rivers, plains and meadows

lie crushed within its airless layers

never to see the light of day again.

But is the desert sated for all that?

Ever further it probes, sucks and swallows;

as if life were to it an affront;

as if it could bring itself new life

from its endless predation.

 

The desert, that great greedy thing

not alive nor dead, yet ever expanding:

how it reminds me of man

creeping angrily over this world

hungrily searching for resources

he may extract, transform, sell, consume

in his vain attempt to satisfy his thirst,

a thirst that can never be satisfied thus;

a thirst that can only be quenched

by self-effacement and compassion

but who can convince a desert

-- or a man --

of inappropriate behaviour?

Looking For Signs

“The secret of the true scientist is not what he knows. It’s what he asks.” (The Raft – Stephen Baxter)

 

By that knowing description, one sees little difference between a real scientist and a philosopher. Both have a greater awareness of past and future because they are not afraid to ask questions about everything. To get better answers it is necessary to ask better questions.

 

Sometimes when I contemplate the non-material world, for example the world of thought, I see questions (the really good ones especially) as a core of solid energy surrounded by a colourful aura that plays around it like northern lights. That aura is the dance of all possible answers to the question, and that dance is choreographed by the question -- not the questioner. The questioner is but the observer. As the observer, you don't get to dance until you've transmuted and been absorbed into the aura of answers. There you begin to understand what it means to have unlimited choice.

 

Breathtaking! You first become the question, flow out into the aura and are “born again” as your answer of choice. Presto: here’s your new reality! Outside the artificial boundaries of the status quo, everything is magic.

 

To be sentient means to be able to feel.

 

Caution: feelings are not emotions. While emotions are entropic despite their apparent energy, feelings are the pathways of “ascending” life. The auric field of THE REALLY GOOD QUESTION is made of feelings, immanent, not informational. Our feelings of incompletion drive us to ask ever more esoteric, daring questions of all that stands between us and the “flux” at the edge of infinity (the “Thirteenth Floor”) or the edge of the made and the thought.

 

It all begins with common enough feelings – pain, pleasure, desires, wants. Then we begin to reason deeper and look for “signs” to validate our feelings. We are developing self-empowerment through independent sentience, independent reasoning. We no longer accept what we are told, nor do we seek signs to signal that “God’s in his heaven and all’s well with the world.” We know it is not so, by observation. And we now ask the really tough questions of “God” and the “world.” We make them aware of our particular; our individual “PRESENCE” within them. “Commune with me” we say to them, “or forever remove yourself from my path.” Here we give back to God what is God’s and to Caesar what belongs to Caesar. Now we are free.

 

We look straight into the desert and see our Golden Path stretching behind and before us to infinity. We see our past and future; our sorrows and joys. The blood we see here and there is indeed ours, as are the bleached bones. As are the monuments erected in our names… as are the lovers we are entwined with… as are the children we brought forth to live and to die as strangers in a very strange land.

 

We were there… we will be there. No longer trapped by an illusory “now” we hold it all together in our own holy grail.

 

Sentience: I can feel this world and each day it shrinks a little more in my feelings for it, as it loses its beauty, its health, its purpose. Each day it resembles less the plum, more the prune. It shrivels as a beautiful young woman does when driven to degrading vulgar and lewd conduct.

 

And I look for signs. Is it so? Is it not so? Are these feelings “wrong”? As if feelings could ever be wrong!

 

I was told long ago that the onset of major man-made disasters – wars in particular, but economic downturns are a good indicator of this as well – are preceded by the unchecked growth of parasitic bureaucracy. Wherever bureaucracy increases and takes over, know you are on the verge of disaster and great suffering.

 

Is this not so today? With the advent of computers, bureaucrats have proliferated. Millions of dysfunctional autistics affectionately dubbed "bean counters" or "quants" assiduously count their imaginary beans in every cubicle on the planet that holds a computer and from these "counts" the greedy, lascivious pea-brains that head government, religion and business form their image of the new world: a giant ledger endlessly spewing out numbers of profit and loss. Unless this changes -- and why should it? -- war that physically touches every human on this world -- cannot be far away.

 

I speak here of global signs within the System. I do not speak of individuals who have transcended this madness to live self-empowered lives detached from the mess. If you think my feelings regarding the global situation are wrong, you are invited to show me another [valid and verifiable] global condition to the contrary. This is not a challenge. Let’s just call it a comparison. After all, I have nothing to defend here. Earth is not my home; it’s just another terminal.

A Path Maker

A path maker,

beats a track in deep snow,

walking to, then fro,

so older ones,

those not so sure of foot,

smaller of stature,

or a woman with child in arm

can get through without stumbling.

 

In his dream, the path maker

helps people along their own way;

he extends a helping hand,

a kind thought,

offers an encouraging word

to make a memory from a smile…

 

I realize how each individual

must walk his own path.

This does not mean, however

one cannot place a few markers

along the trackless void.

 


A History Lesson for Beginners

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.

  • ISBN: 9781370466191
  • Author: Sha'Ra On WindWalker
  • Published: 2016-11-20 19:50:16
  • Words: 11755
A History Lesson for Beginners A History Lesson for Beginners