“Each day is another opportunity to choose to partake in the process of discernment. In implementing discernment, I stay on equal ground with all. In judging others’ behaviors, I automatically give up energy, and view myself as lesser- or greater-than. In observing, while gently releasing judgmental thoughts, I remain energized, at peace, and available to serve.”
“There are those who would profit off of their victimization. They make the most callous of leaders and point others astray. Listen with open heart to unveil deepest intention. Seek purity. Especially beware the individuals who magnify their victimhood, who justify their hurt — their proclaimed suffering masked as boldness. Be weary the wolf who appears meek and wounded; there in lies the deepest of traps. Step away from those who lead with a metal clapper.”
“An amulet of honor houses strength of character, a sense of right and wrong, and faith. It fortifies gentle wisdom, demonstrates patient maturity, and amplifies clear sight. True integrity shines in the deepest of caverns, silencing the monsters at bay without need of sword or flame. Be that which is true and free. Free of the damaging ways of the world, dictated in a million ways through a million voices. Shut out the dark of days, with truth and dignity, that which is the light of you.”
Hurt people point fingers at hurt people.
Some pointing is masked as good deeds.
Some pointing is masked as ill-will.
Both remain pointed fingers.
The observer watches in silence. The observer works behind the scenes, building bridges and building peace. The observer does not judge the others who are not like the observer. The observer is naught.
For the observer, there is no end point. There is nothing to point at. Nothing to claim. No one to listen.
The observer knows:
How the logic mind sorts, categorizes, discovers, and declares. Thoughts and grasping of truth . . . want, need, must do.
Judgment, evaluation, and end point.
Limited perception equating to magnified confirmation bias.
The observer knows:
Nothing in the singular world is in the collective world.
Where WE truly meets is in the in between space. Beyond the finite.
How singular judges and why singular judges and who singular judges is interdependent on the observer and receiver.
Perception is interdependent — bouncing molecules.
As singulars don’t squat on number lines. And aren’t stagnant.
All is temporary truth.
Each singular houses an internal eco-system filled with mysteries of the sea, beyond bone and blood is another bounty-filled treasure.
As good leads to bad and bad leads to good — things aren’t as they seem.
Power can be seized, when We see We as mirrors facing mirrors.
Power can be seized when We recognize ‘life’ as hypocrisy.
All truth creates separation. All words — sound formed by singular — create separation.
Once something becomes truth and separate, all outside that truth is alienated.
As one claims this ‘a box’, then what remains are ‘not-boxes.’
As one claims singular as better than, then what remains are less-than.
All words lead to boxes; all boxes leave singulars outside the box.
Rhythm and motions create knowings without words. Vibrations, sounds without meaning, are healing. Images without borders. Pictures without definers. A Mother’s heartbeat to infant.
Observer cannot claim to know any truth or any reality, without equally claiming another singular does not know the full of truth. For observer’s truth can only be observer’s truth, unless the veil of logic is peeled away.
Billions living in singular painted worlds. Each with a singular view. Which singular creation is the right one?
The observer does not have the capacity to choose and also houses the capacity to choose. The observer is a contradiction. The observer sees a singular world as contradiction. Observer can choose, but chooses not to choose. But in that choosing, he chooses.
Observer walks existence as a collective: an interdependent droplet in the massive sea. He cannot be the water rising, even if willed to be, without the body that remains. Observer can stand as a drop. if he was made to know the drop. But as Observer is the collective, he is the ocean.
Wherever there is division, there is finite. Wherever there is finite, love cannot be. As love is infinite. And one cannot slip infinity into a bottle.
Whoever is not inside a finite bottle, is excluded.
A flag that makes proclamation creates separation. It claims finite. It claims ‘right’ and ‘wrong.’ Right and wrong creates battles, war, destruction. No matter how right, no matter how wrong, it is division.
Love is infinite. It speaks only love. It has not bottle. It has not box. And thusly, all are invited. There is not inside, and therefore there is not outside.
Equality is in infinity.
Singulars cannot see what they are not. When they look at self they see singular. When they look down, or through, or in reflective glass: singular.
Love cannot see what it is not. When love looks, it sees whole. When it looks down, or through, or in reflective glass: union.
Love sees outside boundaries. Singular sees finite.
Love knows only love. Words are foreign. The concept of ‘me’ is foreign. Without me, singular doesn’t have to be as me, look as me, move as me, believe as me.
Love cannot expect others to believe in itself, because it cannot see belief. Love is because love is infinity.
Hate is finite.
Hate is woven from the fiber of boxes and the glass of bottles. Hate is made in a singular world.
Love is everywhere, as it is infinite. Love fills the emptiness. Love pours in where it is invited. Love fills the space about, within, and in between, in the narrow edges between lines and points.
Love is in the creases and cracks and crevices. It is fissured, stamped, emerged, broken. Love is the spaces. Love is the substance that houses the space. Love is the molecular structure within the molecular structure.
Singular knows boundaries, and time, and space. That’s why singular plants flags. That’s why singular makes boxes. That’s why singular paints itself, as it believes there are other singulars watching.
Non-singular is love. It watches the flags. It watches the boxes. It watches the paintings. But Love doesn’t try to do anything with the watching. It doesn’t think to do anything.
Love is not finite. It is outside loves realm of existence.
About 10 layers of paint, spent processing feeling displaced on earth and by others’ ways. The outcast watching and reflecting and attempting to communicate with a device to the other standing in odd, bird-like clothing. I am trying to relate the person to an animal, but they aren’t anything I recognize. The ‘helmet’ atop emerged from a combination of face-blindness and the unfamiliar atmosphere. The letter A represents earth, where there is no telepathy. Sometimes I am the one in the strange costume being judged, trying to breathe and adjust; but most of the time, I am the creature, feeling confused and bewildered, longing for home.
I’ve experienced these each since a small child. My book was a calling. A calling from my higher power. My journey here as well.
Like many a wanderer and light-seeker, my faith is shaken and challenged, often. I’ve faced a plentitude of demons — both spiritual and in human form.
It’s not uncommon for individuals who have been diagnosed with gifted intelligence or on the autism spectrum (or similar profiles) to have ‘unexplainable’ cognitive abilities. It’s not uncommon for the aforementioned to be extremely empathetic and empathic.
Some of us have a unique connection with the divine and hidden world.
Having experienced knowings my entire life, I have no doubt there is much more occurring than meets my worldly eyes.
Something I’ve learned in the eight years since my personal journey began with ‘Aspergers’ (now also recognized as ‘autism’), is that if I wait and watch, people’s true colors appear.
I’ve learned I need do little to nothing and all will unfold and be revealed.
Today, each time I’m tested, by one force of nature or another, one circumstance or another, (I now have 6 chronic pain conditions.) though the challenging circumstances typically result in the dark night of the soul — several dark nights — I’ve learned that I return from the bleakness and blackness to find my being fortified.
I return braver, and evermore determined to live by the light.
Perhaps because I’ve experienced miracles, I believe in miracles.
I am fortunate in having found inner peace with my calling.
I carry a profound sense of peace with my works and writings.
I rest my fruits of labor in my higher power’s hands. What will happen will unfold in the right place and right time. Who is meant to cross this path with me, shall.
I know without doubt that the end product, the fruits of my labor, are rooted from the soil of my intention. When intention is rooted in connection, love, and service, the fruits undoubtedly demonstrate their origin.
Today, I stand on the foundation of my past behaviors and actions. I stand with integrity. There is no closet housing a dark secret or shameful act. No hidden agenda to expose. No eagerness for ‘followers’ or eagerness to be heard, or right, or loved, or accepted. Only a calm knowing all is.
All I need do is observe. To watch what is attracted to each of the flowering fruits. To recognize not all fruits are nourished in righteous soil. Not all are watered in grace.
I steer clear of the fruit that attracts the maggots and flies.
I choose adamantly to bask under the shade of the fruit blessed in butterflies and hummingbirds.
I watch and observe my present words and actions. For what I sew in yesterday’s labors, becomes the future path I walk upon.
In the act of identifying as outside the norm, or in presenting outwardly with attributes which fall under the encompassing label of anomaly, one is thusly distinguished by self and society as an outcast.
Cast away from the middle ground, removed and divided from the dot that hovers on the center of number line– the heart of box, the eye of needle–one becomes adrift in a land of make believe constructs.
Broken truths, as yoke from egg, fall as they may; the sun of knowledge blinding the eyes from beyond. Beyond what is, removed. Beyond what is, replaced. Beyond, existing still in another time and place, forgotten and lingering on the threshold of reasoning. A waiting watchman set upon a hill of misty sky.
Society, as too a construct, dictates limiting and finite truths based on anomalies in perceived character. An interdependent system of preordained order that creates something of nothing, collecting assumed data as input, to produce a tangible interdependent product of conclusion.
Thoughts built upon thoughts. Castles in the sky illuminating bricks layered upon bricks of a builder’s wants and truths.
Even as the watchtower keeper rises, his naked eye upon the many, parading his power and dominating might, the causation blossoms. It’s blooms as dark petals penetrating what was in a place of no end, nor beginning.
As a bonafide noun and as a moving verb of action, the keeper himself, who houses his truths, in baskets woven by weaver same, cannot exist as a singular, without observing below. His careful watching a method for collecting truths and making sense of senses. A complicated matter, as even the senses were once eradicated from the mist, gathered in safekeeping to make sense of what seemed of something.
Interdependent is the onlooker, whether glancing in the clear lake or within the walls of decorated turret.
One, in himself, split he wanders; footsteps marching, pounding through the differences within and without.
Within, erupts comparison to aspects of other parts of self. In how fingers move to become separate from hand, as the heart from the mind. Likewise, spirit from soul, life force from nature.
Nighttime fails, and he, the one, divides and divides into separateness, not as an organic substance, of blood and pulse, but one moving in way in which the outside orchestra is silenced.
A singular onlooker, the outer world wiped clean, what is recognized, other than wholeness, other than a new one: undone, unraveled, re-birthed.
His mind drifts and a voice enters:
“As the baby is of all, undistinguished, as is man, though he knows not of this. By nature we take from what has been seen and create that which is unseen, illusions twisted into fabrics of causation that speak of a forbidden truth of naught.
A twisted, again, labyrinth of makeshift corners and caravans, marauding living forest of unknown potential. A potential to mask the substantial of what is, to procreate what has come before.
We are neither here nor there, but bound to the evidence set forth above and below us, as even the ground and sky become tangible in their blundered separation. How the blue that is not blue, divides the sky that is not sky, from the earth that is not ground.
And still, we seek this separation to makes sense of what is naught. Keying the inlet of mind with a cause for opening, as fish spawning in river too cold. What is birthed is naught, as creation is numbed in the shivering-blind.”
Opens the eyes, the keeper, if such word as ‘eyes’ existed. If such word as ‘words’ survived; if either ‘existed’ was scribed. For if person existed to scribe, with instrument to hold, and hands to grasp, had he grasped for the end, recognizing no beginning, recognizing his recognition was not of him?
A some semblance of a once someone drifted. Neither here nor there, in being, but in believing he be, and believing he believe.
For who is the one who believes?
Said I, “I am I.”
Said I, “I am.”
Irradiate the one (of I), irradiate the all of illusion.
Irradiate the illusion of more than one, irradiate the separation, the norm, the typical.
For it is not this ‘them’ that breeds and dictates isolation and destruction and ill-ways, but the belief of the belief.
For when all is erased, as pounding wave to sand, what remains out of sight, are the intricate makings of mountains crumbled, smoothed over by the ages of time within time. A barrier to existing within existing.
And how can this gentle mind of man, this watchtower keeper remain nimble, yet taught? Centered, yet swinging? A spectrum concaving into the unbearable light.
And though he be the mountains still, and the very sand beheld. There is nothing of nothing. No words in his tale, as the very breath that is blown, becomes wind to cast sail to sea drifting in existing, unseen.
The wandering keeper, stepping: a dream within a dream.
His castle, shifted.
The bricklayer, the valley, the very bricks, merged.
The one who watched becoming the one watching. The one who waited becoming the one who arrived.
Here I stand, abandoned.
Abandoned by fear, by doubt, by destitute.
Here I stand, embraced.
Encapsulated by love, by love, by love.
Her shadow emerged from light’s bowing down.
And I kiss her, my merry dancing bride brought to life.
The stellar glance of knowing.
The chisel of breath, against buried skin.
The emerging one, formed two.
Lightening shadow sparks in victorious rapture.
Stillness undone into solitude.
Envy bowing down to grace.
Laughing sticks, peering out over the valley of vines.
Inchworms soiling the ground in which they bleed.
Enough, enough, enough, the wise woman calls from the bounty.
Enough, my undone love.
Burry me with the masses.
Cast me aside.
Stomp on my chained heart.
Carve me with the pieces of him.
Just make the river dance stop.
Bring this ache to the caverned regions and rectify the cross in the making of my sacrifice.
Take what is yours, and feed me to the lion heart.
Take what is here, and lance the eyes I am from the corners of my logic.
Eradicate, separate, designate.
Do what is must, to remove the burden I carry.
Some ladened cauldron frothing with joy.
For I am not made to hold such passion.
I am not made to know this endless ribboned peace.
How it crosses the line.
How it marks me with swelling.
The light abiding within a fire set free.
Moving through skin as butter to sizzling pan.
Oozing its way through bubbling deliciousness.
I can taste me in your wanting.
Taste every aspect of humanity.
Feel my way through the scattered wilderness–thought upon thought, whirling in the twilight of dawn.
I am awoken twice-more.
Until morning dove sings me to sleep.
To the woven wolf centered in the start of me.
Formed before I breathed name.
Reformed before sound.
Can you not hear him?
My distant angel returned home.
Wrapped in the solitude no more.
Set free at the doorstep in which I laid my cherub gifts. Balanced at the opening.
Brought down from the starry sky to shatter this earthly maiden.
Crafted in the makings.
His hand, my hand.
His heart, my heart.
His coming, my spear-crested awakening.