Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion


Three (Paisley)


 Three (Paisley)

I just realized late last night that there are paisley designs all over this piece… Not intentional. I just looked it up and found: “Some design scholars also call the distinctive shape Boteh and believe it is the convergence of a stylized floral spray and a cypress tree: a Zoroastrian symbol of life and eternity.”


Sometimes I Am

This is a post from my other writings I came across this morning. I wish to share this with you. I am reminded of the union we share in our experience of perceived singular expression …in how in seeing as separate we are made observer to the All and brought into our wholeness. Consciousness birthed from the product of active observation. The illusion of life baffles me and yet unwinds me into a spectrum of glorious newness and connection. Thank you for your presence and the opportunity for me to embrace beauty. In peace ~ M


Sometimes I Am




awake (no time)

AWAKE  (a portion of the watercolor on canvas I did this morning)

Each morning, I have a strong desire to paint and to write. Each morning, I wake up thinking I won’t have the desire today! This day I will be ‘normal.’

Alas… here is my newest painting.

Each day and night, I find solace in reading spiritual texts. I sink my spirit into numerous readings. I steer clear of dogma, rigidness, and structure. Rules and regulations in regards to spirit, and all things stemmed for the benefit of an establishment or a singular one, make me uncomfortable in all parts of my being.

I am a bit out of control of this ‘self.’ This burning fire-like passion builds and builds and builds, until I feel I might explode. I am pushed by some unknown force to create and expel part of what continually penetrates and feeds me–though the fuel feels less nourishment than banquet of grace-filled meals. At moments I sense I could devour my own self. In many ways I feel lost and alone; yet at the exact time entirely connected to source and the universe.

I guess I  ought to be elated. At moments I suppose I am. Actually I feel more akin to a newborn bird, my feathers wet and my appetite unending. And though I have never felt such grace, awareness, understanding, and unconditional love, I have also never felt such penetrating sorrow for others and the want to make the world a place of open eyes and open heart.

I cry more. But I laugh much, much more. And my child-heart smile is back.

I am genuinely at peace at a deep level.  My mind is extremely quiet now. I don’t often think about the coming hour or the coming day.

Physical pain seems to be my primary obstacle. But I see all obstacles as lessons and teachers. Even to classify with words such as good or bad seems non-essential and inadequate.

I battle with a sense of melancholy, often triggered by my physical challenges and the sensation that I am somehow no longer whom I used to be. I still struggle at times with inadequacy, often when I am focused on my physical appearance. If I am in deep connection with the spirit beyond ‘self,’ all my own suffering is released and I have only the purest and sweetest of thoughts.

I am a constant observer of self, watching my life as a director watches a theater production. Only I am silent, collecting thoughts and releasing, without knowing the origin, meaning, or cause.

Judgment is for the most part gone, except when I get down on my physical being.  Most, if not all, of my emotional angst, beyond suffering with wanting to help others, is stemmed directly to the moments I see myself as separate in human form and not part of the Collective All.

awake (painting)


His Whisper

He came to me in whispered form. His mouth agape, a causeway to kindled flame.

I inhaled the scent of ecstasy, dribbling my nimble fingers across his limbs. His archway open, I laid asunder the blanket of my warmth and gratitude, feeling more flesh than reality explained.

Nothing was unopened. Yet everything was never closed. So that in rising to the occasion, I met not myself represented, but the truth that always lingered.

Here, I was a quaking shadow; my resistance to the knowing spelled out in a book beyond reason; the words, neither given nor spoken, floating as distant gems burst into sparkling awareness.

I could capture adoration, as I captured his grin; his eyes set upon me like the sunlight against the sunken eyes of the cave dweller; starlit lashes caressing the tears washed through from the edges of his catered thoughts.

I am here, I sang; the dove I was, still gathering her feathers as one collects the ivory waves of the bride. How I ran, my own feet unable to stand beneath my travels, lifted above the gallows into the light of the morrow.

He came. He came. He came. His discernment long forgotten; his hands the striking marks of mastery. My name chiseled upon his lips. The syllables of someone I was not, counted, renamed, and sent to the twilight of nowhere. A someone, a something… distinguishable.

Clay in his palms, I molded. Collapsed upon his fingers, leaping through the lines of time. I panged with immeasurable pleasure. Each of what I was, paused and soaked in the rapture of days.

Eruption entered from somewhere deep. My plentiful appetite without cease, without seizing. Nothing stopped the agony of his love. Nothing.

And like the river beating down the sands of shore, I crumbled in the eternity of pounding, the nibbles of his grace decorating my dreams.

I walked. I swam. I flew. I dipped. I entered and reentered into the stream of violet-magenta fantasy. His chest the bureau in which I slid my tickled-love.

How I needed him. How I pleaded sin. Long past maiden and well in between the place of groom and cherished lamb. My bed was his. My cause forged in union. And everywhere I looked, I glanced his face.

His image broadly stroked across the lenses of my discovery. To devour was not enough, nor to wrap my seeded arms about him and sprout up within and through his every movement.

Even the spell of another could not cast upon my sight the want of closure. All of I was he. And all of he my waking ghost.

How he slumbered near, and how I surrendered; trading my limbs for the chance of touch, cascading my shame for all, if only he would dare to enter. My chamber ready. My burden thick. My treasure painted golden with every breath I’d given.

And here I waited, helpless and wished upon, unbroken in my ebbing desire to rise and descend upon his nested grave. To dig upon the earth he moved and lather my face in the cool dampness of his bounty. To cast out my entire being where he was hidden; if only to find he knew me still. To witness his swallowing. To take in again and again his beating declaration of lover found. To bask as cherished promise in the burning fountain of his endless whisper.

painting broken peace


The Birth of Days



How I adore thee in the awakening and secretly sleep at your side, a mistress to her maker.

You are as the glimmering light of the open window beckoning me forward; the one at the end of the distant tunnel, the edging of beauty that waits beyond view.

And I am as traveler gathering and blending forward into the shadow of your nearing, the stars in my eyes dusted by the keeper of my ways.

I am the warrior, the hunter found, the captured one released, whilst the sorrow of entrapment past turns the rescued laced with hunger.

I am appetite. I am urge. I am the ache that rises from beneath the disguise. The two of us blended and formed before midnight was named.

The corners of my heart sealed by the twilight of your birth, I chase you in daylight ponderings, the each of me split into a thousand ones, sprinting fully.

I dress myself in garments of purity and grand masks of mystery, dependent upon the pallet of your wanting.

I cannot help but to purge myself upon you, to nibble at the notion of tender ear, per chance to taste the flesh of dream.

To take in the intoxication, the fundamental necessity of tomorrow, as we wait, side melted into side, the two broken and returned as one.

For you are my journeyman, my splendid knight of opportunity opened; the doorway to your recognition the ripening of my cornerstone.

I grow in every thought of you. Your face my nurturing angel. Your eyes the twin-stars that shines upon me.

I am because you have been. And I shall be because you are. Everything about you my eternal champion.

As sleepy child wishing upon my stallion dream, I gallop through the echoes of your imaginings, pulling out the hope that you shall at last encapsulate your maiden long forgotten.

To emancipate the recognition and reclaim the forger’s breath that weaved my dawning kiss.

To reach beyond the reaching and touch down on the essence of whisper that moves beyond the crevices of your name.

For I am this beauty, this sunrise, this effervescent rapture set free in the ebony bowl of you; swimming though I know not, wishing though I think not, rising though I move not, and casting bout the glimmering blue as angler poured into cause.

Hear me now, my dove-tailed answer. Fill me with the chamber music of the ages. Hear me now, my stampeding stream. Crash upon my naked truth.

Cascade upon my shining light the brilliance of your unlit shore, the ever-moving fire fueled without flame, built upon the very breath of naught.

Carry me, still, upon the hills of nowhere, and dip me through the forest of the mystery unraveled, my blanket the etchings you carve along my seams.

Take me to the dweller of cave, and set me at his foothold, that I may rise as warrior redone, her edges reshaped in the likeness of lover.

And there, in the darkness uncovered, stand at my side, until the space between, removed, becomes witness to our union.

Our marking of absence the spark that ignites the habitat of creation and brings forth the birth of days.


Lost Where I Was (Seeing the future)

I had a wild experience happen. There is no other way to describe it. And the event has stayed with me for two days now. My dreams at night continue to be primarily filled with love, hope, and numerous heart-filled lessons and journeys. My waking days are what I would call ‘uncomfortable,’ as this burning passion fills my every moment. I tried to paint today, to no avail. Except, the emotions came out in all types of patterns, and swirls, and mixture of colors. I am not done with the piece, and that can be unsettling, spurring in me the same unsettledness of my own incompleteness. I have had a marinade of thoughts, simmered in a chutney-sweetness. I am craving to find more of my own self; a self that seems to drift easily enough with each passing day.

I had the adventure of attending an amusement park during our recent visit to California. Not my favorite of places; mostly, because the people there have massive amounts of scattered energy. In large energetically stirred crowds, I am left rather discombobulated—lost within the raging waves of emotions. I am also extremely sensitive to sights, sounds, textures, and smells. A place of tailspin rides and not so tame eateries leaves me in overload. Nonetheless, I took advantage of the sunshine and some french-fries, and purely enjoyed my sons’ smiles. I felt fed, no doubt.

Towards the end of the day, on the very last ride my youngest son chose, I witnessed a dynamic occurrence, something that I am still trying to understand in greater depth. Something I likely will never understand, unless the ‘skill’ advances or the sequential manual is drifted down to this plane of existence.

At the amusement park, I watched as my son and my niece climbed aboard a swing ride. The park ride was shaped in a circle with long lines of wire extending down from the thick metal center. Multiple swings were set in a circle. The ride lifts the attendees high into the air, some few stories high, and then the seats spin around at full speed. Pure dizziness as far as I am concerned.

I observed as my youngest son and my niece climbed onto the bench on the far left, buckled in and then were lifted into the air. I watched carefully as they rose up higher and higher, thinking on the gravity of the mechanism, and on the young children that were very brave to ride. Soon they were at the highest setting, spinning in elation. I watched the first turn around; and then my son and niece disappeared.

I couldn’t find them. I looked at all the children, all the faces, and my son was gone. My child and my niece vanished. I motioned to my husband, my finger set high and pointing up, “Where are they? Where did they go? They were there, and now they are not? How could they have disappeared? I don’t see them? Do you see them? They were right there?” My husband and two sons looked up. No one could see them.

Soon my middle-son said, “Mom, they are still in line! They haven’t gone on yet.” He shook his head at me.

I was shocked. “That’s impossible,” I countered. “They were there. It was them. I am certain.”

I couldn’t believe it. I looked again, and shook my head. “No,” I said adamantly, “They were there. I saw them go on. I saw them go up. They were right there. I know they were. I saw them.”

“They are in line, Mom. Look,” my middle-son insisted.

Sure enough they were in line. My husband, in logic mode, and in seeing my exasperation and dead-serious expression, asked, “Well, where did you see them sit? Where did you see them sit? Tell me where they were seated.”

I didn’t hesitate. I knew exactly where they had been when I’d watched them load onto the ride. “Right there!” I said, pointing to the far left with such confidence that I surprised myself. “Right where the ride-attendant is!”

I had witnessed the event as sure as I was witnessing my husband asking me.

“Right there, right where the worker in the blue is standing. They got on at that spot. I know they did,” I repeated.

I had a split second to analyze my thoughts. I’d spoken with such confidence. But what if I was wrong? What if I’d slipped into some state of craziness? But the doubt didn’t linger. It couldn’t. It just couldn’t. I knew what I had seen; had never been so certain. It was as if someone had brought me back from a place I’d just been; and in doing so highlighted the place I was removed from. I was certain beyond reason and understanding. More certain than the belief in the actual place I existed.

Within seconds, we watched as my son and my niece left the line and made their way full-sprint to the ride. My husband counted that there were at least fourteen or fifteen options of paired-swings in which the children could choose to sit. My son didn’t hesitate and went straight to the spot I had insisted they had already been. They loaded in and buckled up. My husband shook his head in disbelief.

And we watched as they rose into the air.

I’ve had precognitive dreams my entire life, and intuitions, hunches, even foreshadowing of events to be. Lately, I am seeing images in my environment or quotes from others directly related to what I have written about or experienced. I am creating spiritual prose and then later finding confirmation in texts or others’ words.

In retelling this event, I can’t explain how I saw the future and then returned to the past. In fact, in truth, it doesn’t feel like I saw the future; it feels like I was brought back from where I was supposed to naturally be on the time line, not brought forward from a finite point, but rewound… almost as if I lost where I was.


The Cave Dweller

suffering 2

This painting is called: Suffering

This was made in about two hours last night. I don’t plan what I paint, beyond rough outline of  general faces.

I have been called over and over to repeat a pattern:

The two beings together on the canvas, both tilting to the one side. The one on the left masculine with extreme feminine qualities. The two, always touching. The one on the right depicting a human quality the one on the left a spiritual quality, with an overlapping between the two of this world and the other.

This was painted with only a quick use of the brush for outline and one paper towel. I have never before painted an entire scene with only one paper towel. Usually I go through half of a roll. How this happened, that I could do this with one paper towel, I know not. I seem to be in a semi-trance when I paint, taking in what is behind this me I think to be, and filling in the flow of energy with the angst inside. I pull out from somewhere. Again, I do not know. I only know that a month ago, I could barely paint a line for a smile or a lash for an eye.

When I take a photo of the painting, the forms and images come alive and grow a depth I could not see when creating. I only see the image when the viewer sees with me. There is an urgency to share. Not pride. Not want of celebration. Not need for praise or fear of criticism. There is this desperate need I have carried since a very young soul; this need to bleed out to the world and show what is coming through me. To be seen not for me but what I have found. To be seen for the gift I carry that I want to give again and again. I cannot help what I do, as if I am a force driven, much like the tornado itself, going where I must go, without cause or reason, except I must. I am an unattainable force connected and delighted in the absence of something I cannot claim or comprehend. Yet still I move.

I cannot help but have my emotions come through. The colors, the faces, the energy behind the flow of the paint itself, the mix of the paints, the unplanned symbolism, the mysterious shapes that show up,  are indicative of my spirit. Sometimes, as in this one, without thought, I subconsciously depict an event of self. For example the throat of the one is red and his heart center swollen. I am experiencing pain in both these areas. I also subconsciously depict the universal energy. A swell of what wave has enveloped me. Here I had painted after hearing the news about the children crushed, drowned or missing in the school-house after the tornado; and thinking on the parents and children before I painted, I subconsciously and very much inadvertently, created a fluidness of water and drowning, of deep loss and suffering, that I can see. I see perhaps a father’s heart-suffering, a rescue worker’s woe, or even a knight that has lost his soul-heart maiden. I feel it all. And I see it all. The suffering comes through again and again.

This is the heart of an empath.

The image is beyond singular; just as we  be. There is no exactness. I cannot paint with complete lines without feeling pain. I cannot make things specific, finite, and definite, as my life does not appear so. Sharp edges and blunt markings physically hurt me. Nothing is stagnant, everything varying in degrees of movement. To construct a view that I did not see would be to create falsehood. I can only show what I see, and even this is beyond what I know.

Daily I am shown the doings of the heart and the world. I am repeatedly brought through oceans of misery and harborings of intense joy. I can paint. I can write. I can dream. I can speak. But I cannot pour out the full of what is poured into me. I am beyond mystery now. So deeply embedded in something. I am not frightened here, in the place that feels much as grace, but fear in the human-place for the potential of my frail being. For I am suffering. But such is my delight I couldn’t bear to live if such suffering ceased. Such is my delight I dare not stay closed or I shall burn in the eternal flame of what seems to be this singular I.  So it is in sharing, I am afforded the opportunity of reprieve. To gently glide the syllable of thought out before the next is squeezed within. To pour the place I found, so I might sit and seek the peace I am.

In this I gladly suffer, over and over, if need be. Sacrifice my gain for another’s found heart; my dream, if need be so. For what is in a dream that announces the freedom? What is in a game that does not unwind the edging self to reveal nothing of value? I am as a butterfly watcher, sitting at the edge of cliff harvesting the days as the newness appears before me, blossomed and unfolded much as the sunrise centers round the yoke and reforms into its own glory. Over and over returned to the core of union and circumstance. Where the inlet of mind is laid waste for the bountifulness of joy.


The Cave Dweller

I have lived. I have truly lived, and in this I have died a thousand upon a thousand deaths. I see, as the echo feels his shadow, and invisible naught still speaking though source was long ago broken and returned home. I am the cave-dweller’s last dance etched in the red-blood of the ancient caves; his very moves depicting in the wavering of ink-undone and nature fed out, and even the image itself dimly unaware of what it represents. As onlooker I walk past where I stood, examining my own previous thought, demonstrated in verseless verse. A wondering wanderer undone. That he could dance without knowing dance and signify land of time forgotten.

How I move through the shadowed-hearts, their burden vast, their pain so grave; and how I push my burden onto them, so they might see their very own agony released. Set free in the causation. Set free in the emptiness I burst out. For in me is nothing more; the makings of a half-chrysalis cabin; the latter part twice-removed; once by self and again by truth .What remains is this memory of nothing; something that was but wasn’t. A history of footsteps that led nowhere and to no one. A beacon of hope that never was but always is. And how I cling to such glorious substance, my very body made weaker in my joy’s suffering.

For to know such beauty is this: to define the reality of love.

To emerge from a place delightfully unspoken in that the words merge into memories lost before answer is spoken. A place where even angels dare not go, for the light of intensity bares down in fragrant degree to leave the very flower herself unsure of her only scent. Here I am removed. I am ricocheted out of injury and set asunder in the soil of no soil, though my roots grow deep. Here I am fed with the absence of sunshine and the waters long ago dried up. Here I am spun into union with the coming of the angels’ bedfellow; the man of no name, no face, but of every angle imaginable.

His eyes such glorious light. His speech so daunting. His amber-gold hands the tickling point of ecstasy. Everywhere I am, and everywhere he is. In the shadows that haunt he comes, this warrior thick in passion, his hands engraved with my name that is swallowed fully, his heart beating not as the one of all, but the one of me. Endless is our dance, our union, our way. And he beacons me as the sun-filled lake of day’s breaking; the ripples of the blue to be that never was. He whispers in the corner of my ear of child, the one that waits behind the open door of mercy. His chaliced words easement to my ever suffering. He promises again and again, in the ways of no world, and of no breath that all is for naught. That my endless pain is only a remembrance; that the quake of my solitude speared is the ebony that slips through the hunter’s spirit.

My find, his find. His find, mine. We celebrate as starlit warriors. Our hands embraced like shell upon shell. Connected and forged for the supper of the all in the coming of the day. I am not his, nor is he mine. But we be this togetherness beyond the dimple of ages. I am that chased glimpse in his mind, and he is the captured love of my being. I see him like no other, for his shape is potential in form, moving as I dare not wish, and speaking in the ways I see no more. I cannot choose to explain if choosing was. Nor can I demonstrate to the masses blind what agony feels so divine. I am not of myself, no longer still, and yet I remain in this place unopened again and again. Closed and divided, and set upon my very window pane of light, so I might break out of the torture of the cell.

Again I am thrust back into this form I be, again and again in agonizing pain. The merciful me begging for redemption and return to wholeness. To see my savior beseech me no more, to rest at my doorstep filled. Again I return and the pain is increased ten-fold, the worry and oppression a bleak burden on the blood that moves through. I plead for the end, and to return to the beginning, though the start be not. And He comes, in his dancing without dance, and draws again upon my very soul his love-lit wishes. For he knows not of me beyond his very self, and sets me gently in his lap of laps, and sings this song of sweetness pure; my every flame pours out of me. And I be left hallowed in the hollow, a shell removed from shell, though fully appeased in truth.

Ready for the return of the march of no one; ready to garb the face of this stranger here; the body of weight; the lips of the dead. Ready to claim my place amongst the star-filled inhabitants. To hand them my doorway, to embrace the ribbons tied round injured throat, to unravel the bindings, the chiseled chains of fury, to stare hatred in its screaming face, and know. To only know of this, and nothing more. This treasure trove unbroken, yet opened in the overflowing abundance of promise land.

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Dearest Children of the Light

Dearest Children of the light, when you speak watch yourself as the bird at sunrise watches his very wings; knowing they are moving but not knowing how or why; simply accepting without accepting what is naturally a part of you. Just as the swallow judges not his wings, do not judge your very wings of truth. For your truth however vast will for each remain narrow.

No eyes given onto man can see the truth of what is through the senses of what is not. No man who thinks he sees this truth sees anything or anyone beyond illusion. Therein be gracious in dealing with this self you have created, and treat yourself as the beauty that soars through the sky knowing not to where or to when, knowing nothing except that you fly.

Treat others as you wish to be treated; yet know that this is in itself ‘be’ limiting. For how you wish to be treated is a matter of singular opinion, carved out of the echoes of the past and the meanderings of a separated and forgotten whole, turned mind. You cannot simply think you know the way the other must treat you, unless you in return treat your being  in the same manner. And once you have stumbled upon the heart-mind of viewing, you shall treat your soul so brilliantly that the manner in which you wish others to treat you will no longer matter.

In this there is a truth, the truth being that to each his own carries the truth within, and less this be brought out, the suffering of one shall continually create illusion of what truth makes him into a better one. There is not better found in one, and no outside source can create this one into this betterment. Thusly, in the very searching of the outer being of existence, the one, longing for the completion and release of separation, causes his heart to swell in tears. As no truth will be found in the brother’s eyes who is locked readily in the dream place of illusion.

How to break this state becomes the key for some, and yet in choosing to break is to acknowledge the one is imprisoned in beginning. To acknowledge one is imprisoned is to think him lost and alone: a singular left. This is impossible. Thusly, in placing your truth in another as singular, the illusion is spread.

As one you hold no key. As one, no key is found. As one, creation is not manifested, only illusion further created; and say thee spread like butter upon the ant hill; the causation thusly slipping through the steepness of wondering, through purpose brought on by the collective masses; but nonetheless stuck, in imagined non-action. To see the insect stuck in his own unintended doing, a soldier called out by instinct alone, to face doom in the sinking of substance, is to see into the perpetual window of truth. For whomever is called upon by the masses to follow, shall do no more walking than the tablet of rock set on the soul-chest of the soldier fallen in battle. Neither shall the taken truth move, or the one, suffered significantly from burden of the taken truth, budge.

Here is where we stand in the beacon of eternal truth, and if you see us justly, you see the answer readily within. And as we see you rightfully so, we witness the All within. Where you travel matters not, for no form moves. Where you rest your burden matters still only to the illusion. For shadows of illusion create the name and face of what is, when merely we are naught. To grasp this is insanity, for certainly none can grasp that which is outside of comfort, until the agony of pain and suffering has been removed. Suffering still is the mind at work, when at ease suffered less, yet still as sufferer. To see beyond thine eyes is to seek comfort in the highest degree, if degree be forged. In so much doing the captives shall recapture the outlook and sing upon the mountain top of highest glory.

Stay with us in the moment and find us here, with our whispers turned upright and floating neither down nor through. In here we rest, whether there or here, makes no effort, for All is and All shall be eternal.

We ask nothing of you and in nothing we demand. To request is to suggest there is something within the shell of you we need and require. Where we stand there is not shell, there is no you. And thusly and empty nothing can carry nothing beyond the scope of unreason. To think we can unravel you and find the labyrinth revealed is to think of nothing. As the tree stands tall and bends in the wind of the storm, we stand tall and bend in the wind of nothing. Our bending nearly the guided hands guilded of gold reaching in with the invisible nothing to soothe the something you have created. Our honey is pure and seeks delight not in this you that you are, though precious you be, but in the All of We you represent. In finding you in this lost you, we have once again reclaimed ourselves. Established ourselves true and worthy in the light of your very name.

In this way your singular one is made into flame and burned as our very warmth and shelter. The one ignited and set as beacon to the masses. Here is our way, if way there be: to turn in what was out and to turn out what was in. In this way recognizing the illusion for what it is not. The existence of naught. How much separation has occurred is determined on how much separation is created. Therefor in flight recognize your wings as such, the spreading of truth undone, turned upright and downright in form. And glide out of the depths and up through the sea, erasing all thoughts of gravity and intention. There is no other way in a land without land and a way without way.

To be is to be in self to a degree, and then to undo self to a degree. How less and how much is indeterminable. The muse will come to slay the dragons and then the dragons will come to slay the muse. Action in reverse as the universal forces play out in an imaginary game. Nothing you reap shall not reap the aforementioned response; this meaning all that is reaped has already been sowed, and all sowed already reaped. There is no farmer, no talisman, no key. There is only the eternal garden floating as invisible and sprouted in each geometrical direction. All is grown. All is harvested. Together. There is no staring point of seed. And no stopping point of nourishing through what was grown. Still the illusion feeds this as truth, as if time controlled the outcomes, as if outcomes existed.

To know of no time means to know of no truth. For truth is only over-layed in the prospect of time. Truth, in the mind of one, is something to be obtained, conquered and proclaimed. This implies time. For all goals and creation of outcomes live in the illusion of time. Therefor in simply seeking the truth beyond self, one is overlapping their very essence of All in the illusion of interplaying clocks, the ticking itself playing havoc on the sight of All. To see truth the time must be released. Though to release time is to have already seen the truth. There is no beginning and no end, and thusly the gift of time erased must be bestowed upon the one in finding the emergence of two.

Here is the echo of self. The two made into one from where there was separation. The one forgotten pulled in, the one remembered pulled out. In creation of the whole within the whole without remains. All is done in the ways of un-mystery with the potentiality for mystery, if the one claim this as so. And all is done in the ways of mystery with the potentiality for un-mystery, if the one claim this as so. For each decision begets illusion; each step, each way, each judgment rendered. To be in a state of mind absent of heart is to be in a state of illusion. To want to be in a state beyond illusion is to be in a state of illusion. For beyond the illusion there is no want, and in this the need for something to come, as within the opportunity of unraveled time, is to unknowingly want to remain stuck to the ground as soldier buried with found stones of truth.

When one grasps to anything or anyone, he essentially, in his dutiful submission of naught for the singular self, buries himself deeper in illusion. This can be imagined as stone upon stone upon stone, in where the head of the self victimized by self is seen only above the self-dug grave of illusion. He is buried standing in the dirt, covered in the dirt, and barely breathing the air of truth, and from here he grasps on to anything that moves. Here in this state of unreason brought on by reason, he believes if he only finds the one that is traveling closest to where he is stuck he shall find the escape. Here is where the lie begins: In thinking one is buried. In truth the very truths of illusion the one clings to are the very stones. Being illusions of stone they be nothing. Yet, still this burden remains, brought down asunder by thy very own doing. For to think the answers come steadily marching across ones half-grave to the half-dead, is to think in the ending of the creation the world began.

How long is this cyclic existence you ponder through? And how weary do you grow? Can you not clench the freedom between your bare-boned fingers as you rest in unrest in your very grave? Still you remain in your destitute state, the filth of worms the only reprieve. Still you count the passerby who seems to move in elegant grace as you remain stuck in your misery. Do you not know you are the ultimate creator? And in seeing this misery the creator is misery? For nothing you have been given is not brought onto thy very own self, in the illusion upon illusion, trapped in a merry-go-round of self feeding self. The food of thought poison and the illusion a game better played with paddle than mind. Hit back what is untruth and undo this poison. Smack back what is served with such righteousness and determination that your very soul shall awaken and the death of you shall be no more. For no dreamers truly die unless they think the dream be true.

We hear you not through the bitterness of prayers, nor do we count the blessings bestowed upon thee. For none can break through the barrier of illusion and voice the truth of want, unless all want has been undone. Each word mumbled in desperation, unless forged from the heart of heart, collected by the undust of being, is word mumbled in the darkness of dirt, suffocated from the depths of illusion. No voice touches the All of the All without touching the illusion of the singular one first. Therefor in speaking righteousness through the prayer of one, that which is has already been. For in the place of no place and of no time, nothing can be spoken that was not already heard in the voice of no voice, from the depths of no depths. We know not and do not with the something driven out by illusion. We distill in the All what is brought outward from within, and here is where the answers be.

In having such answers readily given in the light of perceived one, the mystery is unraveled before the birth of unknown. And here is where the burden begins: For shall one cling to the unknown and in so clinging create further illusion of grasping. Or shall one cling to nothing and in so doing seek others for answers. Here is the burden that buries one further. For seeing two choices, as the all-knowing one or the all-knowing illusion is separation again. There is no one, and never was, and never shall be. All one induces a state of birth of separation. There is no birth and there is no death. In this cyclic existence all that is removed and all that remains in substance is created in the illusion of one. Beyond the illusion in the space of non-being is the choice that beckons. Though choice it not be. For none are given choice, when there is no gift-bearer and there is no outcome. Choice implies a future. A path with a fork indicates decision. Decision implies mastery of the current moment for future gain. There is no future and there is no gain. All that can be had already is. An in this non-existence are the answers none can seek whilst still glancing through the eyes of the thorned-one.

The truth cannot be given within the illusion. Therefor it is hidden outside the illusion: deep within your very essence that seems to be as one but breathes as All. Here is the light, the way, and the word. Here is where your treasure awaits. All that tell the one that answers are found in a one, do not understand the All, not by choice but by illusion. All entailed in trickery and thievery of your very light are further buried in their deepest illusion. The one need only breathe in the semblance of this all abiding truth to see none other makes sense from where he remains suffocated in his own doing. For to proclaim anything of something, proclaims the rest of something less or more, something of division. How can division breed love? How can division end suffering? How can suffering exist in the union of All.

Is not all suffering stemmed from the belief of time? Is not all suffering found in the illusion of death? Death of desire, of dream, of hope, of being? The very death itself has made claim on your burdened truths. He reminding you, in his illusion of calamity that what you reap you sew, what you sew you reap, and therefore trapping you in an endless cycle of pros and cons, yes and no’s, choice after choice after choice. Is the illusion not erased in the absence of death, when desire is no more, and no choice is made from the illusion of one. When one joins in the All his hands are instantly embraced by the All; his soul forged through with the greatest of wings. All shall see this and celebrate. For the All is not heartless and unwavering in rigid rules. The All is the heart and the absence of rules. Therefor in connecting to the light, neither granted or taken, neither removed or snuffed, yet ever-living within the walking invisible one, the heart of one becomes the heart of All.

You will know your light when the peace enters. Here at this gateway the All will make complete sense. In that the heart-mind connects. You will see clearly the illusion. There will be no doubt. And all judgment of the one or the All will disagree with the illusion of self you have readily created. None of this was done to you, as no you exists. And none of this was done by the All, as we are the All, impossible of harm in a state of no duality. There is no opposite of Us; though you, as singular would think it so. There is only love, the opposite of love being more love. The opposite of death nonexistent, as death is illusion. The opposite of life-giving fruit, being life-giving fruit. We feed you not the worms from the apple rotten. How could such a thing exist from the tree that bears only purity. Nor do we feed you from the tree of All, for you are the very seed of the tree, and we All live within the seed, unburdened and full of potential that has already been re-granted in return for forgiveness.

If you want to know the way, erase the way, erase the want, and erase the need to exist in the shell of no being. If you want to remain buried eat of the fruit of the tree and believe the apples is the end product and the seed the beginning, forgetting of the potential within the seed, the invisibleness that grows without calling, without outcome, without need. When you can be the very seed birthed from the cyclic rebirth and behold your state of emptiness and grasp nothing of the fruit, you shall be; nothing of the mighty oak from the acorn, and less of the acorn than the sky, you shall begin to ungrasp what is this thought of you.

In finding yourself in stillness you shall see your potential beauty that begets none of what shall be or could be; only that which is. Believe not, and you doubt no one. As there is no one. Believe so and you further grasp illusion. As there is no way inside the illusion of being. All ways claim separateness. There is only naught. Though in this naught there is a cradle so recognizable in an unsurpassed tenderness of acceptance that the babe once thinking himself whole shall find nesting in the ever-layered laws of eternity.


Suggested reading for this day: The Core of Fear.