How Should We Approach Life
Children of the Wind 1 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 picture of Child by: Todd Gorton
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.
This is a very noisy world because people love the noise they manufacture, as if, somehow, it made them more powerful, or safer being blanketed and dummied down by their noise-making institutions and toys. Now there is another, older noise resurfacing, at least in America (include Canada in that as there is no longer any difference between these political entities), and that is the rumble of revolution. Not an organized marching band type drumming and giving of orders to man barricades, but bravado talk from people who have no intention of sacrificing anything to making anything ‘right’ which in their minds has gone ‘wrong’ and needs redress. It’s pathetic, even as talk, because it has no direction, no leadership, and definitely no intelligence has as yet attached itself to this rumble which may instigate random acts of localized violence against the wrong people and nothing more.
As I was reading through “White Gold Wielder” (from the Thomas Covenant Chronicles by Stephen R. Donaldson), I came upon something that reminded me of what Earthians are like. Quote: “ ‘The Waynhim are made creatures. They have not the justification of birth for their existence, but only the imperfect lores and choices of the Demondim. And from this trunk grow no boughs but two-the way of the ur-viles, who loathe what they are and seek forever power and knowledge to become what they are not, and the way of the Waynhim, who strive to give value to what they are through service to what they are not, to the birth by Law and beauty of the life of the Land. This you know’…”
And so it is, ever since Earthians gained knowledge that allowed them to differentiate between good and evil. To gain this knowledge was a bold and dangerous move whose consequences could not be anticipated. The Makers feared this more than anything because it was in ignorance they had nurtured their made creatures so they could manipulate them at will, control them, keep them in blind servitude, in slavery. The discovery caused the Makers to lose control. The made creatures soon realized that from knowledge came choice. From choice arose responsibility. Two paths opened before the made creatures with their new-found knowledge: the path of the ur-viles, of power over, of murder and self-justification (as exemplified by the story of Cain and Abel and down to the story of Bush and Iraq over weapons of mass destruction) and the path of the Waynhim, of the servant through self-sacrifice. Spiritually and mentally speaking, the race basically split in two, with the vast majority stampeding after power and wealth, and a tiny minority holding itself back, refusing the bait of the Matrix, the lure of power and money and in so doing, saving the rest time and again.
Of course it makes no sense to become a part of that minority unless we know (not just believe, but actually know!) that ‘everything is on its way to somewhere’ (as eloquently put by George Malley in the movie “Phenomenon”) and it doesn’t all end in meaninglessness at one’s physical death. How can one know this? It’s always been stated as a matter of belief, of believing in. But can we really know this?
Doesn’t that question bring us back to our attainment of forbidden knowledge way back when? At the time we could not access the mythical ‘tree of life’ by which one could live forever, but as with knowledge, wouldn’t it have to be a logical ‘matter of time’ before we did reach that tree? So, why didn’t we? Why are we still searching, or believing in religiously inspired fairy tales, or ‘dying’ by giving up altogether in despair or hedonism?
That’s an easy one to answer: because of the noise. By institutionalizing noise, the Matrix effectively cut off understanding. It destroyed, or blocked, our ability to reason our condition and situation vis-à-vis the cosmos. It brutalized us and made us once more the slaves of institutions that we were before we opened the gate to knowledge. We essentially did nothing with our gained knowledge because we were interfered with and continually dummied down. Those who did express a desire to explore their knowledge and shared it with the rest were persecuted and killed-all at the instigation of the Matrix. The Matrix created a new ‘doorway’ to life and that was through institutionalized belief systems. Heaven, for example for Christians, could only be gained through the Church, and the Church’s ways could not be challenged under pain of eternal damnation in a lake of burning sulfur-in hell. This is basically true of all successfully organized religions.
Religion, like government and money, has a particular kind of noise it uses to rally the sheeple. Its pronouncements make no sense unless one has faith. Faith, of course, is nothing more than a powerful delusion, a sort of brainwashing. Proof? Faith is at its best when none of what it claims to stand for is actually being produced.
As for government, it is best known as a thoroughly perverted institution made up of the most successful liars and certifiable psychopaths.
And as for money, let the current debacle in corporate mega mismanagement be witness to the fact that it too is nothing more than smoke and mirrors. Its gospel, its noise has been its advertising and the wasteful gadgetry it has inflicted upon the planet by putting it in the hands of overgrown children who never learned discipline, responsibility, or felt the least concern for the well-being of others. Of the three Powers mentioned, perhaps money has created the greatest amount of noise to drown the people in meaninglessness. Its claim to fame is it did this by simply catering to the Earthian’s innate selfish pleasure-seeking nature.
If we were certain that our individual life continues on after a physical termination; if we knew that it goes on pretty much the same way it was lived here, that no magic happens at death to suddenly make us perfect and wonderful mindless creatures in some heavenly institution for the mentally dead, what would that do to our current mindset or approach to life?
What if we were certain that having chosen to become a better person/being, we entered a new phase in which we continued to struggle towards that which is ‘good’?
What if we knew but chose not to care that carrying on in our selfish ways meant we would be taken over by another group of Power Controllers at death? That we would be bought and sold and installed on some world, perhaps even this one, to slave at another dead end job to live another life of futility and ignorance, mind blunted, blinded, brutalized within the noise of the Powers?
The question is, what if we knew, not believed or suspected nor hoped, but really knew, we indeed are in a state of permanent change requiring us to make endless choices that have timeless reverberations; choices that can aid and abet the Powers; causing us to get sick, to kill one-another, to destroy our world(s); or giving us choices that courageously implemented can make our worlds into literal ‘heavens’ that we can actually experience as living beings?
What if we realized that once we partook of knowledge we became the ones who must change the face of our world, or worlds, without interference from any Power or manipulative divinity? What if we became convinced that we are ‘it’ and no help forthcoming from anywhere to change our condition, and that condition is basically ‘eternal’ until we changed it?
Well, we do know this. It is the brutalization caused by the noise, the advertising of the Powers, of the Matrix, that keeps us from accepting what we know. So we remain slaves to ignorance and fight over the bones of our fleshless beliefs, enslaving our world, destroying each other in pointless competition and deadly wars that only destroy what is left of anything good on this world and in the end dying without knowing.
Revolution (however well organized) against any aspect of the Powers, or taking on a Power with any force once tried and failed or previously absorbed, will only meet with check-mate because all our moves have been entered in the Powers’ computerized programming and will be instantly and successfully countered. Only by surprise, by something entirely new, possibly something that cannot be programmed in the Matrix computers because it would be like a virus, can anyone hope to succeed. But before anyone can see this possibility, one must overcome the noise of the Powers.
And that demands a few simple things: the willingness to self-sacrifice to the well-being of ‘others’ (namely for strangers and enemies!); detachment (in its mystical/spiritual aspect); self-empowerment (living without expectations of any ‘help’ arising from any other source but those I cause to arise from within myself.)
“Beyond a critical point within a finite space, freedom diminishes as numbers increase. This is as true of humans in the finite space of a planetary ecosystem as it is of gas molecules in a sealed flask. The human question is not how many can possibly survive within the system, but what kind of existence is possible for those who do survive”—lessons of Pardot Kynes, First Planetologist of Arrakis.
(from Dune by Frank Herbert)
so very wealthy
every desire of my heart
is mine to have
to hold B and I know this.
I hold in my heart
to give without expecting
without having to pay back.
All is a gift,
however it feels,
appropriate or not
seems to me
that is what we mean
when we say “Love”
and it may well be
the only gift
that is truly free.
“Love” is a bird in the hand
who sings from
a nearby branch!
The River of Time flows faster
as one approaches its gaping mouth;
roaring waters echo wildly
through canyons of time-bound lives
seeking to escape the surging stream
into the unknown sea.
“Stop running away,” it says,
“I am life’s normal rhythm:
my flow cannot be reversed with fear.
Let my life-giving water become a mother
carrying a child: the soul of your life.
I am not an enemy,
I am the companion.
All that comes here
must reconcile with me
or fear me!
Give up the need to conquer,
the selfish demands crowding your mind,
the desire to win eating at your soul:
I can give you peace in this sojourn
as I must carry you to the portals of life.
April’s sun arriving,
of mountain harshness
in rainbow hues.
Changing of season
from bitter cold
of endless winter
to loving warmth
of sun-filled spring.
Awakener of dreams;
dissipater of mists;
usherer of hope;
renewer of strength,
Bringer of the Dawn:
April’s sun arriving.
‘Tis said, and so they call it, busy this life must be
and many a toil invented to put one’s hand to
and to be sure, equally true, many a pleasure
for balance calls a truce between heaven and hell
even while moderation teaches of common sense –
or would and tries but who can give her the time?
I was young once, though it seems no longer so
but what have the busy years taught of wisdom?
The desires that tore at my heart in early summer
remain and fuel it still at the onset of a long winter
as if naught but a few short months had gone by.
Of information I gathered much along the way
for she is a cheap and tawdry commodity
however scantily clad or well dressed she comes
wrapped to excess in billion dollar advertisements
but how easy she is to forget and to replace:
so well do I remember the insipid taste
of her too common wine at her too common bars.
There is also that which is called ‘experience’
though now I near the end of my twisting ways
I have to stop and ponder to what end the skills
I trained my ape-body to perform along the way:
No, I say to myself, wisdom does not reside in those;
if I thought to find her there I was indeed a fool.
‘Believe’ I was enjoined, ‘come into the faith of God
for therein it is all wise men find true wisdom’
and how, between lessons, did I my best to dance!
(Could so many people be so wrong about so much?)
And how I tested this belief, that belief and the other,
and sought explanations for what did not work!
But wisdom will not be so easily sidetracked –
and every night I returned disappointed and tired
she had these simple words to bring me a new hope:
“Each day, each moment you dare rise above yourself,
fear not for it is I, Wisdom, holding your trembling hand.”
In the calm of early morning
just after the sun rises
morning mist rises from an alpine lake
like ghosts dancing
before they must retire for the day.
Tall barren peaks of black stone
partly shrouded in Autumn’s haze
stand as silent sentinels
over this piece of paradise.
It takes my breath away,
perhaps even stops my heart beating,
even if for the briefest of moments:
before me alpine meadows shimmer,
colored by the season’s paintbrush.
A sky so blue, it hurts the eye!
Clouds so soft, it makes me want to cry!
Could I ever forget this place
or lose this moment?
Living on Earth is never easy:
there are so many ways to lose one’s way!
But when such a place as this
touches one as deeply,
nothing can ever again make one cold.
A squirrel gathers nuts in a sun-filled glade;
salmon struggles up a swirling stream;
the sun streams down over bluebells and chocolate lilies;
two eagles soar: pin-points on a blue horizon;
a Summer storm replenishes mountain streams;
and somewhere, waves crash against a rocky shore
and cottonwood leaves rustle in a midday breeze.
The cry of a gull comes from the shimmering skies
- in August they return from the sea -
and a raven soars by, diving wildly
to disappear somewhere below a rocky ridge;
a brown fox dances in the kinnikinnick
and red paintbrushes tremble in the breeze.
These images of the planet I hold sacred
even as one of millions of unseen faces
under the ever-spreading canopy of the city
whose smoggy breath forever hides the stars -
the city, where no one looks up anymore
except those still mesmerized by her neon gods.
Yet even here, in the great inferno, life thrives:
people talk and laugh at sidewalk cafés;
impromptu gardens drape balconies and window sills;
rock doves in iridescent plumage flap their wings
and trees still grow, surrounded in concrete and steel
and like humans, learn to breathe the poisonous fumes
of an endless flow of passing traffic…
‘Ah well, all is fine,’ I find myself thinking
as a soft breeze suddenly ruffles my hair
as I run across a tree-lined boulevard;
when the sun breaks through between highrises
to touch my skin as in my days in the mountains.
All of this reminds me of the beauty of Earth;
how privileged I am just to be;
to have experienced one colorful sunrise;
to have made love, if only once,
between the roots of a big old tree:
to be one of the undying echoes of life.
His life was never easy,
always an uphill struggle,
(or so it seemed to me)
but I learned a few things
watching him climb his hills
and plod through his storms
unmindful of bruises or losses.
One of the things I learned is
an “up” will be followed
by a “down” and a “down”
will be followed by an “up”
and this should create balance
but does it?
I could easily become an addict
of easy thinking here:
when I experience a “down”
I naturally would expect an “up”
to follow right along:
but is that a fact?
Is that how balance is achieved?
He showed me a different way:
how to find a state of being
where “ups” or “downs”
remain an external reality
while within reigns peace.
That peace is the balance
within the turmoil of life.
A restless wind whispers softly in the spruce on the edge of a small lake. Brightly shining stars and distant, paling northern lights cast eerie shadows in the late summer night. A great horned owl calls, answered by the howl of a timber wolf echoed over the waters. A startled killdeer gives its plaintive cry, repeated several times, then silence again. Glowing softly, a small campfire throws its own little stars into the night, their flickering, sinewy path changing to the mood of the breeze. A young woman sits near the fire, staring, unmoving, her dark eyes reflecting its dancing light. The minutes pass slowly as the stars trace their endless circle around the tail of little bear.
The woman stands and throws some broken branches upon the fire, watching intently as the flames leap up, crackling, hungry. She begins a slow dance around the edge of the fire, her bare feet moving through the drying grass, her footsteps blending with the lapping of wavelets on the shore and the sighing of the wind in the branches. She hums in a low monotone, unintelligible words passing her lips. Gradually, the song becomes more forceful. Proudly throwing back her head, her black hair cascading down her back, she lifts her hands up and starts chanting. The song rises and falls, hauntingly moving, echoes of ancient voices seeking words to an as yet unformed hope.
Her dance takes on a rhythmic pattern, her knee-length dress swaying as she approaches the fire then steps back lightly into the darkness of the trees, to reappear from another direction. Her voice rises above the trees, flowing through the rolling hills…
From the midst of the flame, a form takes shape, greying head bowed, hands held in blessing. The form addresses the dancer: “Daughter, what are you doing? Why dance with danger tonight? Why seek death? You are the hope of the people. Would you tempt the white man again and be accused of witchcraft? Would you die in his fire too? You summoned me… now answer me!”
Swaying gently, without looking at the flame, the song dying on her lips, she answers the vision: “I am your daughter. I cannot be otherwise and I have your heart also. You died to save me, mother, though I never asked it of you. Now, you are Fire Spirit. You live in the heart of the volcano at the centre of creation and possess the gifts of life and healing in full measure: would you deny me my own birthright and refuse me my homecoming?
There is nothing left here, mother. The people are ashes, spirits without homes. Those who remain are slaves eating crumbs from the hand of their conqueror. Should I fear a moment of pain and I too become a slave?
No, mother! Do not try to dissuade me. Tonight, I dance with the spirits under the stars. Tomorrow, I will dance in the fire. Then I’ll come to you and together we will prepare the medicine for the wandering spirits. We will rise with the breath of the sun in our mouths, awakening the land, shaking the ashes of the people in the winds until all becomes one and life pulses freely in the land again. I’ll see you tomorrow, mother…”
The flames died down and the vision vanished. She took up her chant and her dance, delighting in a myriad of physical sensations heightened by the knowledge that this was her last night on earth. In the morning, her relentless pursuers would find her. The angry new god would have his victim and enjoy a short-lived victory over the past. From his fire she would rise to become Fire Spirit and wrest the future from his bloody hands.
Things being what they are at this time,
we find ourselves forced to contemplate change
in the way we think, the way we act,
yet, like running naked through devils club,
the thought leaves our ego wounded and scarred,
desperately seeking shelter from its misery.
Perhaps, we say, we need not think of change
and things will go on as they always have,
yet, we know full well our final legacy will then be
not only pain and shame, but the worst of deaths:
the death of a spirit which can no longer feel
the pain inflicted on a passive world.
Bowing beneath man’s endless blows,
nature’s only defense will be silent death,
irrevocable, unless we mend our predatory ways!
If we refuse to listen, think,
when all is gone, who will be “mother” then?
(Devils club: broad-leaved shrub of moist undergrowth in
Pacific Northwest mountains, whose spines cause painful
infections under the skin. If you enjoy running naked in
the forest, avoid this shrub!)
Filling dreams without time,
love’s eternal presence
out of a world gone mad
I watched you and learned
(I think you were pleased).
I followed you into a stream:
you bent down to touch the fish
with healing hands
and where your hands moved
the water sparkled, diamond-like
as in edenic days, so long gone;
from your breath spring burst forth
a magic moment in shades of green!
You beckoned tenderly to me:
eagerly, expectantly, I followed you
to the river’s edge and together
we danced on swirling waters!
I thought to laugh then, with abandon:
in the joy of this sacred moment,
happy, unencumbered, forever young
tiptoeing on eddies, with only you
and the world I knew faded
it seemed forever
…but when I came closer
and saw your gentle, knowing face:
tears filled your eyes.
I had seen her dance
within the light of the rising sun,
along a golden faraway shore.
She had stood, radiant and blissful
at the edge of my greatest visions
which I now shared with myself only
while walking the city streets.
In the shadowy pre-dawn world
I was sadly returning home,
tired and hungry and burdened
from exposure to night vision pain.
Through twisting, twisted streets I wandered,
sharing a fear-filled sense of security
among strangers in unequal bondage…
On impulse, I handed my money to a beggar:
was it compassion,
or an effort to ease my heaviness?
A bit of both it seems, but in that moment
the sun pierced the space
between two great towers
and touched my back as a gentle burning:
I turned in wonder
and I saw her there: she of the golden shores,
as beautiful, as radiant as ever I’d seen
in my visions of paradise.
She had been waiting, watching, hoping
some day I’d give her cause to reach for me:
a touch of unconditional love towards another.
She smiled as she touched my hand.
I knew she would go when the sun set,
but she reminded me of tomorrow,
of endless dazzling days in her havens of love,
where my visions of her, my love for all
would bring forth eternal bliss for those
who entered there with us, unafraid and free.
The problem with opening one’s mind to the Cosmos is to realize that even though we obviously are little more than the nut that fell from the tree, we are all the trees in the forest. If you don’t think about it and go about parroting some new-agey jingles or pseudo-Tao like “all is one,” “I AM,” “I live in the now,” then this cosmic awareness doesn’t seem a big deal. You might even say, hey, that’s the truth of it. And remain just as unenlightened as the one who sees life ebbing in the bottom of a beer glass.
But when you think deeply and seriously about it, you can see the craziness of it. How do you approach such a thing? How do you draw near it without being overwhelmed by a sense of personal insignificance or overweening pride? Most deal with it either by putting that questing part of themselves on blocks for the duration, or they go running after other peoples’ gods and creeds, creating patchworks of their own in the process. I’m very familiar with the second approach: it was mine for many years. The problem with those approaches is, the nut remains a nut: it doesn’t germinate, doesn’t grow, doesn’t become a tree; doesn’t contribute as a part of the forest. It is stored and will be eaten in time. It will not develop a working sense of selfhood.
When I am alone on the River or the remaining wilderness, far enough from the endless hell of man’s motor world (did you ever notice there’s hardly ever a time when you don’t hear the drones or death screams of some motor, or siren, in the air, through the water or as vibrations through the ground?) I hear the wind through grasses and leaves. I can hear a leaf suddenly detach from a branch and float its way to the ground. I can stand on a gravel bar near the River and feel her passage, ever coming, ever ‘there’ and ever flowing down to the sea. I can feel the changes of temperature in the air and match them with the cloud designs in the sky. When a cloud of certain density approaches the sun my body can already tell how much the air is going to cool and it automatically prepares for the change. I can hear many birds (there are always birds) in the bushes and trees though often they choose not to be visible. And the busy and teasing hordes of insects. I smell the changes, either in rising waters or drying mud flats as the waters drop with the season. I smell flowers, herbs, ripening berries, flowing sap and the breath of leaves. I hear and intuitively sense the sigh of the wind – it’s not as impersonal as I used to think. And finally, I ‘see’ the Watchers; lonely sentinels watching over the land and the waters, collecting information, and when they are done, disappearing to be replaced by others. Chameleons they are, disguised as stumps of burned down trees, or pieces of driftwood; sometimes as clouds or hilltops; sometimes showing their faces in clumps of grass or bushes or stone faces. As a child I was afraid of them, for they were always alive to me and I could see them move. Now I know them and respect their place in the scheme of earth things. They are beautiful to me and I love them though to them I’m just a ‘thing’ to observe and catalogue. In all of that, I try to really understand, but it’s like being suddenly blinded and trying to move about in a world designed for sighted people.
When I enter man’s world I follow the same process of observance and awareness although here it is very painful to me. This particular society is totally brutalized and brutalizing – by looks, by attitude, by the visual atrocities and revolting sounds it produces and by its boundless gratuitous violence it calls exercise and entertainment. Only a totally desensitized brute – I use that word deliberately – could accept such a way; could fit into it, or worse, find enjoyment in it. This place that was once so serene; so peaceful; so pretty; has become a man-made hell. Why? Primarily a quest for money, profit. Secondly, a quest for physical/material comfort, convenience and endless pleasure, as if such a thing could ever be achieved; as if it could be a good thing. Even Pinocchio discovered, when hanging out with the Lost Boys that endless fun could never be. There is always a price to pay.
In this man-made world I see much that is sad. Of particular pathos are the Old People walking along noisy streets, their faces closed off, clutching shopping bags or pushing buggies. Too often I feel their pain in the way they walk, hunched over or limping, and I sense their terrible, unquenchable, loneliness. They sometimes come across as aggressive and rude to those who would help them and so they cannot be helped for in their time they didn’t care either and they really never learned to share, or to trust. Now it’s their time to gimp along, bodies propped by drugs and costly surgeries, to deteriorate, disappear and be swiftly forgotten. What is their legacy in the community? What have they done during their short, self-absorbed life? They believed and never became wise. And they brought forth the current generation of hedonists bringing down what’s left of their world through self-indulgent perversions.
Do I sound more angry than saddened by this downfall? Yes, I am angry. I am angry at a lying system based on money and power that has ‘educated’ these masses into a morally bankrupt morass of ignorance and stupidity. I am angry at those who advertise and sell their useless trinkets produced from the blood of the working slaves in ‘developing’ nations. I am angry at government and all its bureaucracies but particularly the misnamed ‘education system’ and I am past angry at every religion, every church, every lying mouth that preaches a gospel it doesn’t live by, or ever intends to live by.
But here too, I strive to understand so I don’t allow myself the luxury of remaining angry. I believe there is a possibility of some solution to man’s problems. If I did not believe that I’d be the ultimate hypocrite to think as I do, or to write out these thoughts. As I observe the continuing ‘fall of man’ in turn, I also am aware that after the fire there will be a remnant that may just have the wherewithal, the courage, to look at its past and utterly repudiate it. There will be people who will want something better than what their history has given them; who will refuse to consider the false promises; the lure of atavism. Maybe they will even burn the books, all the books (including mine if ever any get published) and certainly every vestige of every religious tome in existence so they do not remain to tempt some latter-day ‘preacher’ to look for spiritual and moral meaning in the past. There will be people who will be intelligent enough to realize that if you cull anything at all from a perverted past you will be bringing rotten fruit in among the new crops and you will be just as bad off as before, if not worse.
I have promised myself that I will return to this world, allowing enough intervening years, at the time of its worst ever trials for survival and rebirth. Only thus can I prove to myself that I care. It is my dream that at that time I will be able to offer this world some hope. I will have a gift to share and I won’t be alone. Those of us who return will remember ‘this’ and that will make all the difference.
Perhaps my ‘visions’ (which have come to shape my life) are only a pipe dream. Perhaps it doesn’t work that way, or perhaps I’m all wrong and things will not get any worse than they are now, or if they do it will be a minor cycle and things will get back on track and few the worse for wear. But somehow I doubt that. Even the most crass individual in this thoroughly self-serving society cannot be completely unaware of the terrible imbalance that already exists between the ‘rich’ and the ‘poor’ on this world. Surely even a pseudo-human can allow for moments of doubt about the ‘rightness’ of things. After all doesn’t the concept of being a ‘civilized people’ demand the exercise of compassion for those who hunger and thirst? For those who die for no better reason than this: that they live in territories where the major resources needed to feed an insatiable technology happen to lie?
The nut falls from the great tree. It lies on the ground and gradually becomes buried. For all practical purposes it is dead. But if there is a Spring, can it not sprout into a new tree? Even if all the old trees are gone, chopped down for firewood by haggard and ragged bands of semi savages, could there not be a new forest if enough seeds germinate and there is enough light and water about? Life on earth (and I suspect everywhere else!) is very resilient.
“It’s one thing to know what has to be done; it’s an entirely different thing to know what to do.”
[Dan Simmons – paraphrase]
Night shadows dissipate
in dawn’s enchanted songs;
of nature’s carefree ways.
Gently she arouses
A brilliant light bursts
in my mind’s eye:
I see beyond the tunnel
along a path long abandoned.
Now offered freely to my feet,
I choose to follow
this path of life,
this statement of love.
In her garden of flowers;
amidst fragrances unnamed;
my soulmate, my true love
rises to greet me
and remembrance sweeps over me
as her embrace consumes
infinite love’s desire.
If I were to be asked,
“What is life about?”
I would respond simply by reading
Gentle and beautiful!
I hear your sobs
in close darkness
while they eat and drink,
through their corruption…
I hear your sighs,
your helpless moans:
the evil ones are abroad,
the ones nurtured in hope,
in endless, boundless love…
I hear you crying in the night
for exalted ignorance.
What can I do, mother of life,
witness of joys and sorrows,
to ease your burden of guilt
and take away your sadness?
Is it enough to let you know
I too cry in the dark of night
when evil, tangible, palpable,
boldly claims this dying world?
I saw your tired feet
bleed in the thirsty sands:
You give life, you suffer
beyond any word or language
the consequences of folly…
Oh, Earth, Earth!
what did you hope to gain
bringing me here to this?
Did you hope that I, a human
as one, could atone?
Could learn in time
to speak the word of power,
the healing template?
Perhaps, perhaps, all is not lost
and there may yet be time
to counteract this invasion
from the dark side.
Someone once told me
trust in your guides, your gods, your God
and everything you want you will get:
So whatever I desire
(I said out loud, to be sure!)
all I have to do is put the thought out there,
and trust in spirit to look after the rest.
As from nowhere came an old man
who said with a crinkly smile:
“I’d be quite willing to bet
nothing will ever come by putting trust
in guides or gods, in genies or wizards!
Let me give you an example
with the old garden analogy.
To start, it’s a good thing to know
what makes a garden grow:
more there is than throwing seeds
helter-skelter over the ground.
You need to prepare your soil,
turning it over, adding fertilizer, maybe lime.
Seed what supports symbiotic relationships
of insects, birds and flowers
and don’t forget to space for growth.
Now you’ve planted, is it over?
Oh no. Now comes the real work:
you’ll need a shovel, a hoe, a rake,
a water supply and some stakes.
Hours to spend on hands and knees
weeding, thinning, banking
and finally, by Summer’s end
you should have a harvest --
that also means more work!
And so with all of life’s endeavours;
without personal effort
nothing good ever happens.”
I wanted to thank him for the advice
but I turned and he was gone!
In an uncertain morning
birds twitter in the shadows
streams flow silently
under the old white blanket
ragged over the feet
of silently waiting woods.
She awakens from dewy grass
Like a newly born flower
scattering petals in the winds,
lightly dancing upon moss covered cliffs,
softly singing her ancient incantations
through misty sunlit meadows;
flowing down sinuous streams
sweeping ice and cold before her
to the northern sea:
the last fragments of winter
vanish in the wake
of her passing.
Her original melody
echoes throughout the land
bringing all things to life:
creatures great and small rejoice
swept up in her perennial magic:
celebrate the rebirth
of the spring maiden!
When the last man died
when the last dark wraith
shrieked away with his soul
he left a devastated earth,
charred ruins and death
to mock the universe:
from his God
Man’s travail upon the earth
was not for nought;
his efforts brought forth
the fruit he sought:
when the last man died,
no life remained
to either mourn his death
or rejoice at his passing
as the case may be:
the earth stood naked,
formless and empty
waiting once more.
The winds of time
blew harsh and cold
dissipating his poisoned mists
and the sands of time
whispering, hissed angrily
grinding, burying eroding
every dream of conquest
and every mindless scheme
and no one left to count the passing years
when out on the dunes,
through shifting sands
from the bosom of the earth
and the centre of the galaxy,
joined by a shaft of brilliant light,
two human forms appear,
a young woman and a young man:
female and male
to cast their living shadow
over the land once more:
death’s black shadow steps back
-and time awakens -
on the eve of Genesis…
These two kneel, heads bowed
to one another in reverence,
then slowly begin
the ritual of re-creation:
side by side, arms outstretched
to parching winds
to biting sands,
they stand facing South
their eyes blazing
with the fire of truth in their heart:
they nod and smile at one another,
her left hand palm to palm to his right,
his left arm and her right
describing a perfect arc
to East and to West:
a rainbow bursts forth
springing new life
from within the dance.
Clouds form in the brazen sky
and somewhere the rain
begins to fall,
rivers to flow,
oceans to fill:
the sky turns blue
grass and tree
undulate in fresh breezes;
hooves thunder over the land,
and the air fills
with song and flapping wing:
snow upon a mountaintop,
waves upon a shoreline,
thunder across a darkened vale,
the sudden rustling of leaves,
the mating call
and the wind ululating
in an outstretched wing;
the laughter of innocence
from a human child
riding a white unicorn:
a primordial song of joy
the heartbeat of the New Earth…
new life reclaims paradise
where life will be once more
and forever remain
in the perfection
of this day.
my outer light
the soil of earth
birthing new life
in nature’s gentle
the sun’s radiance
the wind’s breath
over earth and sea
From the dried skeleton
of a hardwood tree
he lovingly carves
a life-like sculpture.
In humble thankfulness
for this natural bounty
he plants a new seed:
his own gift to the land,
a simple exchange of life.
Such reverence for life
presages man’s re-discovery
of unity in a living world,
re-kindles human hope
soaring beyond thought
of mere survival.
She is an old woman, hunched over,
huddled in an old coat, its faded blue
reveals the threadbare material --
she shivers in the cold wind
and seeks shelter deeper in her lean-to
among the strawberry flats displayed for sale.
Why is she there?
Do I have the right to wonder, even?
Perhaps she must be, to support herself,
too old to move through the muddy fields
or withstand the whipping rains and winds
along with her family recently arrived.
Perhaps she hopes to redeem her last times
bringing some added coins to the treasury
before her years stop falling as dominos.
upon the board of life.
If nature cares not for old or young,
I think that maybe society certainly should --
and if it cannot for whatever unclear reason
then surely “God the Responsible” must?
But the old woman in the strawberry shack
with four poles to hold the roof and no walls,
tells the story accurately – no blandishments
in the emaciated lined face that looks up at me --
or the lines around the mouth
that attempt to put forth the necessary smile.
She troubles me, this old woman
from a world I will never know
who came here looking for a better life;
who now must shiver in the unfamiliar cold;
dependent upon the bounty of strangers
whose language she cannot understand.
I’m troubled, not because of her, particularly,
but because she is one of millions
sitting thus by highways promising better things
while the world rushes by deaf to her sighs
and blind to her losses, bruises and wounds.
She troubles me, this old woman in faded blue
because she need not be there, begging,
drenched by the cold mist of plenty
expelled into her lungs by a thousand exhaust pipes
of happy campers on a Friday afternoon.
But why do I care? I think to myself --
what makes me want to engage this drama
within my heart and mind?
Then the child in me speaks the word
I no longer dare speak to those
whom I would call my equals: “No!”
Seems to me a good idea to think of the future;
not what I’ll do come retirement,
but that great and inevitable future:
the afterlife, as it is often called.
If life has taught me anything at all
it would be “as below, so above”.
A perfect world cannot exist anywhere
until such time I create it myself!
How does one think about an after life?
There are guidelines on how to enter heaven,
but what if heaven is not the chosen destination?
What if one thinks beyond that closed concept?
If I want a world where peace reigns,
should I not be creating such a place already?
Would not the same hold true
for all the rest of the good things
I envision having sway in my afterlife?
If I want an afterlife of love and bliss,
let me be love and let me live in bliss today.
If I want an afterlife of justice and compassion,
let me practice justice and be compassionate…
everyday I have left to live.
The sun pierces through the cracked window
highlighting a piece of hardwood he studies:
his gnarled fingers probe gently,
hands moving back and forth, searching, sensing.
The light strikes a shining blade: he picks it up
and begins: chiseling, etching, engraving,
calling from the wood a precious creation
capturing the memory of a fleeting life.
Time pauses in his drafty shop
as his sculpture comes to life
between skilled fingers and powerful hands.
His mind doesn’t dream of praises
nor compete for awards:
it sees only the task at hand,
enjoyment filling his soul,
anticipating the blessing
of touching a child’s heart
with a hand-made gift flowing with love.
For the carver, like the poet
gives substance to his thoughts.
Etched lovingly in chosen wood,
each image blends into the other,
imitating nature’s flawless harmony;
a reminder for those who understand.
“The life unexplored is not worth living.” (Socrates)
“We shall not cease from explorations
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.” (T. S. Eliot)
No matter how we go on about it, all of our living is to put some kind of personal meaning in it. From the sublime to the ridiculous, that’s what living boils down to. But isn’t life more than mere “living”? To go through the motions of living yet being at the mercy of storms of emotions brought on by feelings is not life. To be at the mercy of others telling us what life ought to be – that’s not life either.
How does “living” differ from “being alive”?
If we go over the history of “man” on this world, we see that many of those who chose to be alive instead of merely existing left their mark. They also suffered greatly, mostly at the hands of the others who refused to choose life and only knew how to kill those whose thoughts, ideas and actions threatened the relative comfort of the status quo. So, living means adhering to the status quo, remaining in the relative comfort of consensus reality.
Being alive means to dream, to have a vision that seeks a place beyond the confines of the system. Basically it means to explore one’s life on one’s own terms. This brings us to the place of choice between dependency or self-empowerment.
For me, having already chosen self-empowerment, it brings me to another choice – the choice of path to express this self-empowerment. And what better path than that leading to perfection?
The quest for “perfection” is not the common choice. If anything, it would make people laugh: Perfection? As compared to what? Indeed, not a simple thing. The individual has to determine what “perfection” means. Once that is determined, it means following a path that leads thereto with single-minded determination, no matter what the costs.
I have a name for the path to perfection – I call it sanctification. It’s a path of “holiness” – and we could without stretching the meaning, call it a path of wholeness, leading to completion. The completion of a cycle with the intent that it will qualify me to enter the next logical cycle in the series.
Basically, completing a cycle means entering a new one. New adventures, new lessons, new discoveries and new creations.
Ad infinitum. The path of eternity. The path of the avatar.
I also call it the “golden path”.
What qualifies as the most frustrating aspect of “changing one’s nature”? Of becoming someone you wish to be, but realize fully you are not?
What is the substance that changes an ordinary human being into, say, a hero or a saint?
What do you sift through to find answers to your world’s greatest problems?
Now then, how do we recognize our heroes, our saints, our “messiahs” and our “saviors” in today’s world? We don’t, and the reason is simple: They are hidden in…
I could go on, but the point is, at least verbally, made. That is why those who appear extraordinary, who constantly hold the headlines of the Media and the Press are no heroes and no saints, usually quite the opposite -- rare exceptions noted -- but remember that those exceptions are not seeking the Media's attention and usually resent its intrusion in their lives. Any amount of limelight always tarnishes the growing pearl. And just imagine this: Jesus, teaching the "Sermon on the Mount" -- perhaps the greatest spiritual teaching ever put in words on this world -- being recorded live and replayed on Sunday morning TV, segmented between commercials for a Ford truck, Maxi pads and a new McDonalds entree, then tastefully edited to end in time for the pre-game Super Bowl show.
This is another of those thoughts that speak of spiritual evolution and how such a thing is actually achieved. In my youth, brought up in strict Catholicism, I learned this fact: “There are no short-cuts to sanctification.” Of course, I wasn’t supposed to learn this, I was supposed to remember just long enough to pass my “Confirmation” tests. Who, in my world, gave a flying whatever to sanctification anyway? But I found it a fascinating attraction. In my mind I practiced “sanctification” and sometimes these mind exercises actually translated into changed perception of my social milieu; of greater acceptance of those who considered me, an alien, to be their enemy and would never let me forget it. Yeah, well, it’s called racism and jingoism, among other choice epithets. What I remember of those moments when my desire to be better than myself overcame my normal response is the great peace that came into my heart. I could, for a moment, cease my struggle against an unjust world. I could accept the inevitable and in doing so I could change it. All of my life this quest has remained an endless series of terrible see-saw battles, most of which it seems I lost.
But I never lost my taste for that elusive goal and each time I strayed from the quest, I eventually felt the pull to return to it and I did. That’s how it is, I suppose. And what is “sanctification” anyway? It’s putting spiritual awareness and values above the material/physical and somehow managing to live that way among the throngs of earth-centered people. It is awareness of one’s full responsibility to life as one encounters it in all of its forms. It encompasses all of those terribly politically incorrect concepts such as self-denial, self-sacrifice, selflessness through servanthood, love for enemies (real or imagined!), and finally, and above all, true humility.
Are there other paths one could choose other than this “extra” ORDINARY path of sanctification to achieve human evolution? To move beyond the current nature’s obvious limitations and weaknesses? To become truly great without being aware of the greatness part?
I haven’t found any. I’ve studied many paths, and been introduced to many, some very tempting. But all of them ended at the edge of a cliff. They promised me wings, certainly, but I was just intelligent enough to watch what happened to those who jumped off on the promise the wings would materialize through their faith in the promises (for which they had paid good, hard cash): they crashed and died.
There is no cliff edge at the end of the quest on the path of sanctification because it is a never-ending stairway to heaven and beyond, into infinity, into the unknown, into ever-expanding awareness. Despite the hardships, tempting, yes? But why, if so difficult? Could it be we can sense these challenges are real in an increasingly meaningless, artificial world?
The snow gives birth
to a gurgling stream;
her child ventures forth
to find it’s own path
through stones and earth,
leaving her essence
in clear mountain streams
and her children become
a mighty river.
What is Life
but a series of transitions,
Imagine a couple
blissfully paddling a canoe
on the edge of a quiet lake.
Suddenly, the canoe
is pulled down a hidden stream
and bouncing through white water:
Disaster seems certain for those two
but not so fast:
skilled at life,
they know a trick or two!
Down the raging stream,
screaming in white water,
laughing at the dangers.
See? They’ve been here before!
What for some
is certain disaster
is for others
but an easy transition.
from some God or angel or guide:
Just skill and common sense.
These are changing times;
old things getting cranky:
time to practice
There’s a loaded question! How do I tackle that? Do I use what Earthians have written about themselves and their relationship(s) to “All That Is” or what they have done since they got their first taste of human power through their collective mind? Or, should I base my analysis on what Earthians are mind-heart-soul engaged in doing this very day all over their world?
However I go about answering that, it’s not going to be pleasant “news” for most. So I best put on my armor of detachment here, and not enter this place with any expectation.
Last night I watched a movie based on W. Somerset Maugham’s story called “The Painted Veil.” New release and I’m not going to tell the story, just some pertinent segments of it. One statement that stands out at the outset is from the young wife attempting to interact verbally with her scientist husband lost in his research.
He: “Don’t interrupt me unless you have something worthwhile to say. I don’t want to just talk.”
She: “If people only talked when they have something worthwhile to say they’d soon loose the ability to communicate verbally.”
True. We hear this more and more with radio, internet and cell phones these days. The planet is being coated in verbal diarrhea. But people love the smell and sound of it and pay enormous amounts of money (energy) to immerse themselves in the effluvia. Meanwhile the poor and oppressed die by the thousands each day, and who cares?
Another conversation, on another topic, in the movie. An old nun in a “sisters of mercy” type convent/orphanage/hospital deep in the heart of China, circa 1925, speaks to the young wife who is bored with life out there without her socialite acquaintances and no prospect of having sexual encounters on the side – yes, even there it’s the “roaring twenties” where enforced morals were wildly if tentatively thrown out the windows of the old structures.
The young wife explains why she is there with her research biologist doctor husband: “It’s my duty.” she says. The nun knows it’s bullshit. She is there because she had no choice.
The nun describes how she ended up spending her life among the abandoned, suffering and dying multitudes for whom no one cares.
The nun: “Duty? That’s washing your hands when they are dirty.” Then goes on, “I fell in love when I was seventeen: with God. A foolish girl with romantic notions about the life of a religious.
“But my love was passionate. Over the years my feelings have changed. He’s disappointed me. Ignored me. We’ve settled into a relationship of peaceful indifference. The old husband and wife who sit side by side on the sofa but rarely speak.
“He knows I’ll never leave Him. This is my duty. But when love and duty are one, then grace is within you.”
There’s the key to being human. When “love” and “duty” become one, then you are complete. At least, as complete as one can be under Earthian conditions.
Two things then, we must have to know ourselves beyond the ignorance the System feeds us twenty-four-seven. We must be passionate about our life within the constructs we find ourselves in and we must understand duty. We have a duty to life. The more we “evolve” in mind, the more that which comes after us depends upon us for its own proper development.
As things stand, Earthians do not understand this. Yes, they have the mind to know it and the latent power to do it, but they live in crass and abject denial of their personal responsibility to life as it expands below and above them. They refuse to look at the etheric “neural” pathways extending from their mind out into the Cosmos. Are they sending out healing messages of “I’m here if you need me.” or “I’m coming to you to help you soon.” or are they sending out steaming streams of poisons from poisoned minds they are not willing to clear?
Those are not rhetorical questions. All one has to do is look inside, then look outside at the results. Jesus once said, Lk 11:39 “Now then, you Pharisees clean the outside of the cup and dish, but inside you are full of greed and wickedness. You foolish people! Did not the one who made the outside make the inside also? But give what is inside the dish to the poor, and everything will be clean for you.”
Interesting observation, coming from a well-known if grossly misunderstood avatar of Earth! Today’s world reeks of greed and “wickedness” in ways an entire book could not begin to enumerate. All based on deliberate selfish ignorance.
Earthians are utter failures at becoming human. To be human is to put others before oneself – IN ALL INSTANCES. There are no excuses, no extenuating circumstances, no way around it. Whenever I put my safety, my comfort, my possessions, even my own life before that of another – any other – I am less than human. I remain a slave to that which has molded me into something suitable to its own ends. I remain disempowered; a mean little bully in the playpen of Earthian stupidity.
Once we can reason the concepts of sentient life as intelligent and self-aware beings we become responsible – PERSONALLY responsible! – for all that we think, say and do. We become our brothers’ keeper in every sense. If there ever was a “secret” then that is the “secret” that life would expose but which the System hides so well within its artificial institutional constructs.
We are not only surrounded by, but exist in, something Dan Simmons calls "the Void which Binds." It has loosely been called "Spirit" and Universal Intelligence or Mind. We are individuals connected to everything else, not only by awareness or DNA, but by compassion... or lack thereof. We find ourselves constantly at a crossroads of terrible choice: to promote, enhance, build, honor, bless -- or to destroy. No place was ever made to house the ones who would remain indecisive in this matter. Mind evolution FORCES us to choose life or death. Jesus said it thus: "He who is not with me is against me."
To become human means to always choose life, even when it means one’s death. Again, quoting Simmons in “Rise of Endymion” – a conversation between Aenea, the avatar time-traveler and her protector-lover, Raul Endymion.
Raul: “But if there are futures,” I said, hearing the pain in my own voice, “why do you have to see one death for yourself? If you can see it, why can’t you avoid it?”
Aenea: “I could avoid that particular death,” she replies softly, “but it would be the wrong choice.”
Raul: “How can life over death ever be the wrong choice?” I said.
Aenea: [skipping other details] “Death is never preferable to life, Raul, but sometimes it’s necessary.”
Life is not what the System allows us to see. It certainly isn’t “religions” as in seeking eternal salvation… but surprise of surprises, life IS RELIGION. Life IS HOLY. Life IS SACRED.
Why? Because life IS INFINITE!
So much so that at great junctures in normal time-space, where we stare down into Planck space, or non-space, where everything emerges from nothing… it becomes necessary to abandon one’s life in order to “jump” to the next level of the game. Not from stupidity, such as falling off a cliff in a daring climb, but by deliberately “giving one’s life for another” as was taught and as has been practiced by a very few, growing fewer these last sad years.
No one; nothing; can accomplish this for us. Not even the so-called divine gift of salvation through Jesus Christ. That started out shakily enough and for screaming obvious reasons petered out (sorry there, Peter the Rock but you deserve to wear this pun my friend for you gave up on your empowerment and allowed the “Pretend Apostle” to take over, leaving you as a mere figurehead in the Church) after the first generation of “empowered” Christians died, mostly as martyrs. History bears this out and will sadly bear it out increasingly as Earthian humanity plunges itself into its black and bleak future (by choice: there are any number of futures to choose from).
We built this current “future” on what was advertised as cheap “CRUDE” oil and we ended up with a cheap, crude and extremely cruel world (witness just World Wars alone, not possible without the CRUDE). A turning now would be excruciatingly painful for all, including the rich and famous, and it won’t happen. So force will apply and the next generations will come face to face with pain the like Earthians have never experienced and could not even begin to imagine. Some alive today will be in that change. I have seen that particular Earth future…
Then in time they will choose. If rightly, they will live once more, rising through great sacrifice from their own ashes. If wrongly, they will disappear forever. That is how the book of life is always written. There are no surprises in the Void which Binds and the advertised short cuts of Religion and technology do not exist.
We always reap exactly what we sow. This to be remembered: according to the Book of Life, death is never an option for non-choice, nor is it ever an end. Always it heralds a new beginning. I did not say necessarily a “good” beginning though I wish I could say that. Only you, as an individual, can decide what that new beginning is going to entail.
I already know what it entails for me and my own choices, though made that I would know life, frighten me!
I’m watching the movie, “Grey Owl” – and it makes me wonder. Archie Grey Owl says: “I love the forest because it’s the last place where man isn’t in charge, the last wilderness… That was approximately 70 years ago. He was speaking of Northern Canada, where he had been a trapper and was now ‘employed’ by the National Parks to help save the beaver from extinction.
Locally, they are on the second run of denuding the mountainsides for the last timber. The trees have not had a chance to mature – being less than 100 years old. Most will be ground into chips or pulp and the soup glued together with oil by-products to make sheathing or “solid sawdust” furniture we so love to hate.
Old river beds are being ripped apart for their gravel to supply mushrooming human growth – housing and industrial complexes, as well as ever-expanding roads. From spring into late winter, so-called sports fishermen line the river banks, or anchor their very expensive fibreglass craft in the middle of the stream, casting their fancy lines, lures and hooks into the waters, hoping to snag something for their sport. And in the few remaining hollows and canyons, so-called hunters with laser sights on the deadliest rifles track and shoot the very last remaining wildlife…
Isn't it just grand to be an Earthian human today? Isn't it marvelous to be a part of this brave new world, where every bit of earth is being trampled, built upon, driven over, hacked, burned, poisoned, tamed, crushed, killed or left to die? Party on, dude! -- but where are the 6 plus billion humans going to go when the road ends?
A book was written once called “The Limits to Growth”. It was probably a good book, with a lot of good research and some gloomy predictions for the future. Well, the future is here, but it seems no one has realized it yet. Grisly wars are being fought over the last remaining known reserves of oil – oil: our current, perhaps final, global dependency. When the oil runs out, there will be what Michael Moore calls “the great die out” between 2010 to 2050.
We have pushed the known limits to growth beyond every limit. Panic is now the way of life in the richest, most militarily powerful economic unit on earth: the USA. If such a unit lives in paranoia, just imagine what that is doing to the hundreds of dependent lesser units around the planet? Panic in sentient worlds is a dangerous thing.
What “caused” e-humanity to reach this dead end? Lack of foresight and the simple fact that it is a race that is not adapted to the world it lives on. A race of “freaks” who cannot feel the pain and hurt it inflicts on others, whether these be humans, animals, birds, insects, plants or stones. The only power that moves e-humanity is narcissism expressed through unbridled greed and hedonism.
Is it too late to turn back? Oh yes, way too late. No movement of such magnitude can be turned back. But it is not too late for individuals to disconnect from the madness and change their mind. It is never too late for independent intelligent beings to face mounting and deadly collective ignorance and turn from it. It is never too late to abandon futile dependencies that have lost their reason for being and face reality. Life, or we can call it reality, has shown that all our collective efforts have been abject failures. Not one effort, however well-meant, however the sacrifices made, have accomplished what they were intended to do. Not one! I’ll mention one glaring example: Christianity. That should be enough right there to make the point.
Life does express symbiotically but this is a far cry from the collectives instituted by humans on this world. Collectives “collect” individual power to put it into the hands of the few, the self-chosen , self-appointed “elites.” Real power – the kind that can re-take power from the elites and return it to the people, can only be found in detachment and self-empowerment. These are the only options left to those who would make a difference today, who would live without the paranoia, the guilt, and the fear which this dying world is being poisoned with.
This is not a message of doom. In such times, it is better to go on without hope, because hope can be misleading, in fact, always has been. There is no power in hope. “I hope so!” What does that say? It says that I can’t make it happen myself, so I will wait upon… whatever I put in authority over me to make it happen. Hope leads to subservience. Well, we’ve certainly played that hand right to the end. And we lost the game.
Yes, “we” lost, but “I” did not. “I” won the day I realized what was going on. The day I walked out of a church for the last time. The day I said “No thank you” to an offer of promotion to management in a company I had worked in for 25 years. The day I deliberately refused to vote. The day I turned off the radio and TV for the last time. The day I refused to read the daily papers or any magazine.
In a herd, one dreams the nightmare of the group: the lusts, the bigotries, the stink, the trampling, the sweat, the fear, and finally the paranoia and panic when corralled beside the slaughter house.
Only alone can one become one’s own dream. There is only one such dream in the entire cosmos.
I saw her dance in autumn leaves
of misty vales;
I saw her run with wild horses
over wind-swept plains
her fading untamed world.
I don’t know why I saw her
as I was following the trail
of other hungry, greedy men
stripping her land of riches
long dead in the madness
called trading centres.
Perhaps it was just
a sudden warming breath
of the Chinook wind
which brought me a fragment
of her song from the wilds
causing me to stop and listen:
“Your soul will never be content
with riches sought from greed:
they bring but pain and misery
true riches are found only here—
in a garden planted with dreams
watered in celestial love…”
The sound of her voice,
the measure of her words
will haunt me forever,
the wandering poet
no longer able to believe
the world’s version of riches.
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.