Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.”

09 June 2010

ego as the slag of consciousness. to portray my parents as swingers would be taking poetic license.
blessed above everything to stand in early june afternoon sun in the garden with the windhorse and the roses and the drone of bees in the sage.  infinite encroaching armies of redroot but i am contented and complete.
accepting and recognizing my self more clearly, the Good Light that wants to shine through chainlink fence of ego ego ego and it rains.  cold and i can breathe the damp my skin drinks the damp something under a mushroom in the tall grass and the ferns black starbright eyes  napping. 

things have significance.  it is not that thing itself but what it signifies.  absolutely everything carries meaning, an external manifestation of an intangible truth.  we are clearing the way.  the world is clearing the way.
when you gave me this ring the first thing i recognized about it was how it gave rainbows in dark rooms.  stars in the night sky.  
i will not resign to insignificance, if only in my own life.  
i do not give up.  that is the thing they cannot take from me.  the lesson im here to be learning, and my light to learn it through.  
we talked about ego identification and the glass of milk we talked about feeding ghosts as an exercise in futility and it eats a lifetime.  our one lifetime.  walking down the way with my two feathers and my applewand and my dog.  it takes more than one thread to make a dress.  this, i said, is the sound of a soul in chaos.  

so i go home and mop the floor and make brownies.  i shut the windows against the chill, theres something particularly absorbent about this house, and the damp makes it sag.  i have cornbread and coffee and listen to the cd i burned her.  these intentional lags, artlessness, set you down in a parallel universe where the colors have different names.  long songs and storytellers.  a break in the wave.  one o'clock and its fairylites and candles, and i think a lot about the ocean suffering and how were so cut off from our true natures that we can say thats okay over there we dont taste the oil in our own mouths.  were killing ourselves.  
those of us interested see the great struggle and call it by different names.  i see others as i see myself, the soul a world for the Powers to struggle in, but others see me as agent of that against which to struggle.  this is the first lesser distraction, lumbering loosely jointed spawn of ego.  the manifested flesh is negligible.  its the soul behind the symbol that carries any weight.  and im done dragging it all behind me. 

that, and Golden Boy comes home this fall.  Blessed Be.

ten for today:

1.  home
2.  garden
3.  cool damp break in the weather that soothes and primes the heart for sunshine
4.  my boys
5.  music
6.  compassion
7.  laughter
8.  socks
9.  brownies
10.  that feeling just waking up in your cozy bed

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Blessed Be.

"And if the question were asked: What is more real, the mundane or the sublime? most would hesitate before they gave an answer. On the one side, details: say, the aftermath of a breakfast, dirty chipped plates in the sink, their rims encrusted with egg yolk. Against this, the unnameable: small aching heart with boasts, what can you know? Outside the cage of everything we ever heard or saw, beyond, outside, above, there lies the real, hiding as long as we shall live, there stretch and trail the millions of names of God burning across the eons. When all through this our end will come before we even know the names of us.

For many the egg yolk prevails." -L.M.

"Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well."

"The perfection of the Absolute where all Becoming stops and pure Being, immutable, timeless, unchanging, hangs forever like a ripe peach upon the bough." -E.A.

"...and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-rod and filled almost a whole mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psycho-skeletal outline." -D.F.W.

"At the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards." -H.S.T.

"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." -D.T.
"Cometh a voice: My children, hear; From the crowded street and the close-packed mart I call you back with my message clear, back to my lap and my loving heart. Long have ye left me, journeying on by range and river and grassy plain, to the teeming towns where the rest have gone - come back, come back to my arms again. So shall ye lose the foolish needs that gnaw your souls; and my touch shall serve to heal the fretted nerve. Treading the turf that ye once loved well, instead of the stones of the city's street, ye shall hear nor din nor drunken yell, but the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. I that am old have seen long since ruin of palaces made with hands for the soldier-king and the priest and prince whose cities crumble in desert sands. But still the furrow in many a clime yields softly under the ploughman's feet; still there is seeding and harvest time, and the wind still croons in the ripening wheat. The works of man are but little worth; for a time they stand, for a space endure; but turn once more to your mother - Earth, my gifts are gracious, my works are sure. Instead of the strife and pain I give you peace, with its blessing sweet. Come back, come back to my arms again, for the wind still croons in the ripening wheat."
-John Sandes, The Earth-Mother (excerpt, 1918)