A welcome to adventure

THREE QUESTIONS

Who will walk with me in the high meadow where the waving lupine caresses lavender on our bare feet and hides the rabbit tracks of yesterday? Who will hold my hand to jump-step the stream that flickers clouded fingers of light into our laughing eyes? Who will tumble with me down the grassy, tender slope of childhood memories where the game was more important than the goal?
Perhaps who is not the question or the answer here -
but I listen intensely just the same.

Where is the crystal pool with the mossy stones beneath the earth blessed spring of winter’s tears where we can wash our dusty feet? Where can we shed our false pride and imagined slights that gather like mold upon our skin, hidden beneath society’s brash garments? Where can we stand naked in warm cleansing rays of friendship and eternal love without the curse of shame cast in the name of faith?
Perhaps where is not the question or the answer here -
but I look deeply just the same.

When will I know that you have heard my silent, stifled cry for courage to conquer selfish, foolish right? When will the extraction of tortured self-inflicted spikes draw breaths of joy rather than sighs of fear? When will I hear the siren song that I know blends with the chiming star stuck bells of eternity? When will I cease to question that which my soul should already know from simple shaped internal bliss?
Perhaps when is not the question or the answer here -
but I wait patiently, just the same.

papa faucon

For Ninja Cat from papa

a Fitzgerald as comment …

SEED:
“Flying forth on wings of creativity”

One may drift-glide on
the updraft-essence of Mother Earth;
or yield to the draw of etherial winds –

but to move forward to wisdom’s hush,
you must brush wings
against the silent breeze
in measured beat of heart
and Eversong –

knowing that creation is of doing,
and that stopping
is of falling
back to
human form.

Dissection of Elixir

ELIXIR of CREATIVITY

A Fitzgerald Acrostic by faucon

Of E

Elation is essential to a rebirthed notion,
or blending of mind and spirit
in soulful reverberation …

or simply remembering
of what has been afore
through instinct or Current draw,
or kiss of faerie-dew …

for if you lack capacity for awe;
or are unwilling to dance at dawn,
then no magick drought
will quench your yearning

On L

“To love life is to know life,”
or so echoes ancient halls …
and pulsing blood and creaking bones
has little to do with wisdom –

but the joyous reflection of a flower’s tear,

or sudden laughter of gusted leaf,

or whimsy of a stranger’s glance

can bring life to somber drear,
or self-inflicted desert of inspiration.

Else I

“I” is an important word to know –
though only relevant because of ‘you’,
for creation is only found in ‘we’.

Stand on my shoulders
that I might see the world through eyes
beyond the limits of ego’s attention –
and any seed of intuition
that I may nurture to fruition
must surely come from another’s hand.

X marks the spot

Somewhere between exasperation and expectation
is a spot of exaltation
as one sees divinity in being one and all,
without exception.

Cross my heart and finger hex
that any thought may become a poem,
and each person met a story told –

and I am but the pen,
and willingness,
and parchment scraped clean
through adversity.

I Again

One could wallow in indecision,
implicit intent, or even intemperance
as source of inspiration –

but one only need look back at self,
as reflected in other’s myopic perception
and ponder the inequities
of being other than you seem –

and then describe in some lyric form
that “I” and “me”
are but figments
of divine attention.

R us

These five steps of introspection
all have a common theme of risk;
a concept overshadowed by respect,
responsibility and reason –

yet, it is the willingness to fail
that is the true fuel of creativity –

and that you will take the risk
while others remain but critics –

thereby but in the audience
of the living symphony.

Androgiosity

Each phrase that follows is an extraction from a poem or posting written by me - faucon. In each case I received a comment which indicated a gender view of the writer or deity focus of the phrase. You all can join in this. For each, decide whether the ‘deity’ effecting the action is ‘male’ or ‘female’, both or neither. Enjoy. No right or wrong answers.

“the thought was so profound that its energy fingered down like a flash of lightning to caress the soft hills of yearning earth.”

“Evidence of God’s hand is all around us but we don’t always see. The greatest culprit is that we don’t look, or perhaps are too afraid to see.”

“The twisted and gnarled trunks seemed like sinewy arms attempting to draw heavenly glory down to a troubled earth. Foolish, since God’s grace distills like dew on the petals.”

“Outside there is darkness, — and there, and there;
shadows fitting to those ever suffering
from yearning, longing or crush of endless shame.
But here is light, flickering hope, tiny passion flames.”

“I close my eyes in wondrous, silent thought
and seek the source of blessed, vibrant song.
Then I sigh aloud and laugh in fond relief.
I know ‘tis You that simply called my name.”

“What if the entire purpose of our existence here is only to be washed in the sea of our birth again and again until our souls are smooth and flawless? What if the grinding sand and crashing waves of our struggles produce a music we are not meant to hear?”

“Diamond dew drops do distill and join the twinkling of the brook,
and birth strong song of meadowlark and glint of fluttered fairy wings.
Man may mourn and dream of stealth while vengeful justice closes book.
Hopeful love runs unto the sea and cannot know what future brings.”

“What if a dream could play?
Would it dash with me to a playground swing;
back to innocence - forward to heaven’s climb?
Or would that we spin on that small carousel
where it takes planned help to friendship bring?”

“I cannot touch the blessings
that rain down on humanity.
But I know that you are there,
for I am cleansed in mercy
and renewed in flowering birth.”

The Flensing of Frogita

Frogita’s fine reflection invokes many thoughts on ‘finding our authentic self’ – and whether it can be accomplished by sloughing of detritus imposed by others and earlier perceptions, or whether one must just use what we are, and carve a better ’self’ through retaining what has brought us to now. Certainly I (faucon) hear echoes of found thoughts:

“the only thing standing in the way of a new idea is that and old one is in its place”

“always seek congruency between who you are and how you are perceived to be”

“carrying a cross may be essential to spiritual growth – carrying the wrong cross, fatal”

In forming our ‘new-self’, how do we decide what to keep and what to throw away? If our future options are somewhat guided by how well we balance ‘what has brought us here’, then is there not a danger in throwing things away.

A pondering – nothing more – with thanks to Frogita …

a quick archive search found this – perhaps in contrast, perhaps in support

“I am carved by hard chisel and polishing love. The chips that may have fallen away during this ’sculpting’ are already ground into the course dust of time. That which remains is most surely mine, and ever should be. I cannot deny who I am — where I have been. My spirit may progress in quick release, or evolve beyond the blocks of mind, but my past is what has brought me here.

The key perhaps is to become content, to seek balance between ‘what was’ with ‘what will be’. If this takes strength, if this demands courage, then I dare not throw away the crucible in which I was ground. Above all else, when I extend my hand to those in grief, pain and confusion, I must be able to say, “Been there — done that.” Only then will I be believed. Only then trusted. Only then authentic.

Only then me.”

Distractions

Soon, m’Lady Emrys will join us here –
reaching out from the Parlor of Riversleigh
where she is known a bit –
and by my words …

and we may provide a unique voice
as a conjoined couple,
yet so individual in experience
and creative spirit.

Some sisters have spoken of dispair,
discordance and depression –
and we can offer some the pain
of our growing together
as seeds of solace and cherish.

faucon
…………………………………………

Distractions

November 2003 –

I sit here in distraction of purpose,
drawn to half-heard tunes
of discordance,
marked more by disturbance of sought silence
than any rhythm of life –
or spirituality.

The world near and far –
of ’til and when –
is aswirl with confusion
that seeks no solution
save self-enhancement –
nay — self-dilusion -
that what happens within the limits of this attention
is more profound
than the breath of a flower.

Are we then trapped
in some fetid game –
in which reason and congruencies
are condemned
and the moral ‘bar’ lowered
— ever again until —
a man’s worth is measured by the footprints
on his soul’s back –
while be lies debased
in mudded, befouled despair?

How, my love
does one go meekly to this ‘honor’?
If it is to my call –
to serve as exampled proof
that even simple honesty and charity
is a source of fear and shame,
then perhaps the crumbling
of my spirit’s hope and yearning
will be known –
that others may hope –
just to be left alone
in peace.

This too will pass — thy will be done!
My brief sorrow is not of this –
but that thee have now questioned my adoration
thrice this past day — little one;
and such seeds of doubt
bring trembled tears –
for naught else matters –
save that I am your champion.

So — I can but know by empathic draw
and flickering lantern glow
that you are drawn to fears and needs
not yet shown or shared
or — challenged.

I will be patient — yet ever near.

On a Comment by Soulwright

SEED:
“I think I will sit at the creek a bit,
waiting,
listening for the whisper…”

A book of a thousand pages
could never outline a better plan
for enlightenment than this.

A moment set aside for contemplation;
an act of will more than planning …

To get off your feet off hurry-scurry
and be one with now and here …

All water touches the cycle of rebirth,
but a creek is closer to raindrops
than the distant sea …

patience and forbearance
are poorly taught in Western culture;
thus, waiting is a surrender of sorts …

One can embrace awe and wonder
by all the senses –
but never by speaking …

Yes, heed the whisper not the sign –
words writ more than 5000 years ago,
which can still guide the soul …

‘Nishish, nihush ne ziman’
……………………………………..

with thanks, faucon

Temple Dance

With Cher-Lynn’s help
I arrive early at the Temple,
not wishing to interfere
with the arrival of the many maidens,
clothed as pirates, crones and all…

but a quest is a quest –

the entrance is guarded by
hooded figures with lances
dressed in such colorful garb
they might be lost parrots –

but you are not interested in mundane stuff,
but of the Fertility Dances, no?

So I will tell you what came to pass,
in a double Fitz as is my call to dance …

Fertility Rite

She wore cloak only of ancient voice,
with silver veil of compassioned love
and shimmering crown of wisdom.
Hear the Light call!
Feel the essence sing!
Though soul is guarded by Questing Prayer,
my spirit draws down, ever down
to bind the heart and serpent base.
Rise up, extend, grow ever tall;
be forever now.

Spiceful incense swirling –
flirts with flute and drums un-nerving,
while candles cause the pillars to dance
in foretold march of ageless right.
Were I but young and of lesser will,
I would hear the Siren-Song
and join with thee,
as proof of man and eternity;
save faucon belongs
by pledge and bond
to Gwendydd Emrys.

The Spirit of Riversleigh

The Abbey will now share its role as ‘home base’
for me — and perhaps thee, with the
Manor House at Riversleigh ..

and I encourage you all to flit
back and forth between, –
and anchor and haven for more
adventurous pursuits.

I write then of the
“Spirit” who watches over the Manor House

You May
You may wander within a dream,
or dance, prance
or skip a pace or two –
even fly;
for no one can see or share,
nor would they dare to question,
or limit what can be of thee.

You may share your spirit in song,
or sigh, reply
to a soft whistled tune –
even cry;
for She does not even care,
nor heed melody or verse,
except what is found in your heart.

You may grasp another’s hand,
or wave, behave
as if they are a sister –
pray just try;
for the instrument you pluck
Is held by Her gracious hand,
heard even by distant stars.

You may come to Riversleigh
and breath, believe
the silence of Her singing –
don’t delay;
for the spirit you carry
is needed in fine chorus,
to stir the breeze of time.

faucon

Step on Board

I sit on the warf listening to the call of the sea,
and feel the pulse of Earth beneath my feet –
a divided claim — yet I am commited
to board the bngand ship.

I muse on the gifted ‘burst heart’
given in appeasement, and in refrain
hear a simple song of an oarsman
also reluctant to leave the shore –

faucon
………………………………………….

I search your eyes,
afraid of lies,
that hide your loneliness.
Just give me here,
a braided hope,
on which to hang your fears.

I know your heart,
a place to start,
to break the rusty chains.
I’ll sing a song,
it won’t be long,
before you love me once again.

Your laughter shows,
what your soul knows,
that you need a steady friend.
I’ll wait awhile,
to win your smile,
and release you from your tears.

I search your eyes,
afraid of lies,
that hide your loneliness.
I’ll sing a song,
it won’t be long,
before you love me once again.

………………………………………….

emboldened by a tune I can whistle,
I wade to the rope ladder
down which the rats have flown.

An Invitation of Innocence

Call to Abbey Dawn

There is, ‘tis true, a complement of glomming –
of blessed awakened dreams and quiet songs of dawn,
where Mother Nature seems confused — nay, bemused
‘tween realms of knowledge practical and conceptual.

The Abbey Lamp has burned in faith and forbearance,
as haven beacon for wanderers of the night –
not needed throughout the day as is our calling;
to be of Light and Welcome Message to strangers.

The wick is pinched and a thread of incense spirals,
and a portal of sorts opens, faintly yearning –
and any question asked of Rebirth or Covenant
must be answered by forthright Current of Ancients.

so join me there,
friends, sisters an all –
just outside the Abbey door
for a confabulation of group will
each dawn profound
while the pirates are away –

and the Lantern will respond
to thoughts and prayers
as thee might entrance
in verse and song
and soul touch.

papa — Lamp Lighter of Lemuria

Recording the Quest

The Courtyard was a place of learning,
which is too say that no one taught there,
but that everyone became a willing student.

Oh, some elders there might tell a story,
and draw an audience for a space or wit,
but then might as readily sit in another’s shade.

There was one though who never moved,
nor sang or danced or rhymed a phrase,
yet held beneath the most desired tree of all.

He patiently toiled on a tapestry of sorts –
oceans of creamy silk rolled on cedar shafts
of which only a tiny section was ever seen.

He did not paint in awesome sweep of brush,
or stitch threads of thought in colored cross,
nor sketch upon a faint design of memory.

Instead, he made, or caused to be, tiny dots –
pressed down and in with a quill of raven bone,
and formed of ink made in tiny ivory bowls.

He would call out to someone passing by — a stranger,
and send this one on a quest to find a special stone
from which he might grind powder of a different hue.

When the student returned, successful or no,
it amused the ancient to hear the story of their search,
and crowds would gather for amusement and more.

Some would offer substances for the requested inks,
and these were graciously set aside for another time,
and would be used in passing if one had real faith.

Dot by dot — colored specks of universality –
images emerged still uncomprehendable
across the winding scroll by his darting hands.

For he did not work to complete a scene at all,
but wound across to place dots of that color alone –
until the ink of that person’s gift was spent and done.

My ink is in there somewhere, next to yours perhaps;
surrounded by the touch of countless simple souls
beyond identity, but part of something grand, I know

papafaucon

Acting on Joy

Life’s Tune - papafaucon

If you should find yourself alone
and perhaps a little out of sorts,
or just touched by season’s doldrums;
then here’s a spirit quest to try.

Fix self up sorta’ medium fine;
just scrubbed look falls into line,
then skip o’er to the local grocery
or other mix of humanity.

Place a smile on your beaming mug
and a sense of awe ‘round your eyes.
Walk right up to any strange soul,
and with pure voice assured do ask.

“What is that tune they are playing?”
The looks may be strange or bemused,
but you will find n’er short or rude,
as they explain they hear nothing…

“Oh, then it must be me, I guess!”
you will explain with secret smile.
Then they will share amazing things,
and chatter ‘way like an old friend.

You will learn of the nephew born,
and the exciting job long sought,
and the sunset seen and favorite
recipe’ soon made for returning son.

Spend an hour or two, or maybe a life
in joyful bliss with your neighbors.
For everyone hears the eversong,
and just needs an inviting heart.

Well, it is about mining - sort of

Another ‘Will’ story by papa

By Will Alone

I got to spend a day with Will and Mrs as a gift from the school district; one of those strange ‘teacher days’ which dumped kids on the streets mid-week without parental supervision. I needed a couple of bucks for pending birthdays in September; which as a just-teen I recognized was the result of Christmas holidays. Providence allowed that Mrs needed help cleaning their basement, which I would have done for free – giving the adventures lurking on the shelves, but that’s another story. Will pretended to help, but mainly wanted to insure that none of his precious memories were thrown out ‘by mistake’.

I dusted off a copy of The Big Bonanza by Dan DeQuill about the history of Virginia City. “Hey, I’ve read that,” noted my pretentious self. “And I’m pretty confused about prospectors and minors – the difference, I mean.”

“Been both, and it was always just me.”

“Seems that some prospectors were charlatans like old H.T.P Comstock, or panhandling ner-do-wells like Sad Gulch Sam. Minors like Bowers and Mackey got the real money, I guess.”

“It’s a matter of temperament for many – like me, when I was single; freedom – adventure – dreams. Whether you use a pan or a shovel, prospecting pays ya for the amount of dirt you move from one pile to another – doesn’t need no smarts at all. Mining is all about being smart – knowing where to dig, and building shoring and pumping water out and air in. Come with me!”

He always honked twice before backing into the street; one for telling the world he was about, and one to tell Mrs he was off again. “Mine elevators always ring twice before going down,” he mumbled. “Once to tell the cage is empty, and three times for hauling up quick! Prospectors don’t need any of that.” The first stop was at a store with outside produce bins. “Mrs wants some avocados for a tea party this afternoon. If I’d known yesterday we could have selected any of these hard ones here. If you put them in a brown paper sack with a tomato in a dark place they will soften up overnight – simple. But now we have to fondle them all to find ones that is ready now. NOW! – that’s the important factor. Advanced thinking allows for many options – lack of planning or communication leaves only one – do it NOW!” So, he foraged through the bin while I sniffed the cantaloupe for a gift for mom. Back in the car he queried, “Think on it – were we prospecting or mining – or maybe doing mill work?”

We parked behind an aging brick building in a spot that seemed reserved for him, though no sign was evident. “You’ll have to pretend you don’t know me and enter separately. Tell them you are researching a school project and don’t talk – like in a library. You enter first and sit against the wall and watch – then leave after I do.” We stood before an oversized door on the third floor – “STOCK EXCHANGE.” Never been here before. Dad had said the old Will spent a lot of time here and made a ‘fair living’ playing the market. Beyond knowing of the ‘Great Crash in 1929’, stocks and bonds were mostly a mystery to me, and ‘commodities’ were a foreign country. But with Will as guide I was game for anything.

Boring! A dozen machines with glass domes chattered away like angry squirrels and several young men scratched arcane markings on a lined black-board barely visible though the smoke. No women either – just men with ties sitting around nudging and whispering to one another. Occasionally one of them would signal for a ‘page’ and hand him a slip of paper. I had always thought big money was made and lost here – never saw a penny. Hardly noticed Will either. He had donned a green jacket and was shuffling around with a dust pan thing and a little broom. He still looked distinguished with his mass of brilliant white hair and a lanky frame that gave lie to his 93 years, but somehow his manner made him invisible. Someone had to clean up the cigar butts, paper cups and discarded notes, I guess – but Will? I knew that he didn’t have to work – and had even been asked to teach at the University. Why this?

After an hour he had managed to traverse the entire hall, nodding to a couple of people, but mostly ignored by these ‘pillars of the community’. Then Will made some notes and dropped them in a box on the wall before leaving. Me too! I didn’t dare ask any questions until we were heading for his house – then wasn’t sure what to say. He spoke slowly. “Some of those men spend hours each day researching stocks and market trends and pretending they are doing more than guessing. Some of them appear to be ‘luckier’ than others and are quite successful. Can’t always tell, though.” I didn’t say anything. “Most can’t help bragging a bit, however, but only to close cronies and fellow speculators. Long ago I found it was easier to research people than the market. I track the success of about a dozen of these folks – many the sons of people who would recognize me – now dead. You only have to listen – and let them do the work.”

“So, you were picking up tips and secrets and then buying what they do?” I murmured, not at all certain this was an honest way to make a living.

“Nope,” he explained. “I just develop a feel for the ‘now’ of it – buying some futures when those ‘in the know’ seem to tap an unknown well of inspiration, and selling short before they realize the magic is gone.”

“What are you buying then – metals, commodities, products – what?”

“I don’t usually know or care – just a three letter code – doesn’t matter what it represents at all. Buy low – sell high – then buy again tomorrow. I buy promises and sell fears.” We pulled into the driveway – one honk. “Don’t tell Mrs we went there. Just give her these ripe avocados.”

I think I understood the difference between mining and prospecting a bit better that day. Didn’t understand Will any better at all.

Finding what you seek

Many seem to want a guide.
or experienced friend perhaps,
to assist on the quest. Perhaps, instead,
you should look in the right places –
the Enchanteur’s agenta is only an opinion,
you know.

I posted this on another blog somewhere - time,
but it seenms appropriate here.

faucon
………………………………………………….

BASKET of TEARS

I had wandered medium far to find her,
following ragged maps and antipodal advice.
Upon the seeing I was even less believing;
for she was too young to be a crone,
too tall to be an elf,
and too nice to be witch…
still –
flowers grew out of the rocks nearby,
and a spider was spinning webs between her hands
which were busy conducting a chorus of frogs …
so I guessed she be the one!

“I’ve get a problem,’ says I in practiced voice.

The frogs changed to three part harmony, but she doesn’t stop.

“It’s about this balance thing. I keep dreaming of this crooked stick with my spirit shining bright on one end, and my mind ajumble on the other, and it’s teeterin’ on this quivering point that appears to be my soul.”

She looks at me with eyes ‘bout a thousand years old, and puts on this scarf the spider finished and sits down on a stool that wasn’t there before. The frogs have all turned into a couple dozen baskets – each a different make and shape, but with gaping mouths the same.

“Tell me your story, quick and clear,” a tiny bird chirped overhead.

As I rambled about in mem’ry – more lost than found, she wrote strange symbols on selected stones and tossed them into baskets – no plan that I could see – no pattern nor rhythm nor chant – never missed though.

I recon some held more stones at the end than others even empty. I could have kept on except for fear of overflowing some, so I kinda wound down to telling a joke or two. More pebbles.

“Tell me now what you believe is important,” whispered she in a voice too rough for this smallish maid – and held up five finger plus one. I thought a bit and called three right off, as I had been taught by dad. The others were tougher as I had dozens from which to choose and only three fingers left to guide. I sorted through thoughts and teachings and promises from priests and shop keepers, knights and stable boys, tavern stories and what Amy told me last Thursday. She smiled a little to help me some, I think – least wise I forgot to be afraid. There! It is done.

She didn’t write any of these down, but the baskets skuddled about into a new pattern and an acorn dropped on my head. I was thirsty and noticed a little waterfall nearby where there had been a bush before.

Her voice was most musical now. “Now tell sir, what do you know that is true? Her other voice boomed, “What true things do you know?”

Well, no amount of head scratching and lip pluckin’ got me a very long list. Perhaps that is an easy question for you, my friend; but then you were not standing there with baskets a shaking time like rattle snakes. What I told her must have been all right since she didn’t disappear or lightning strike, but I felt as though both things had happened once or twice.

She pranced around the baskets like she had extra feet – or maybe her slippers kept changing color. Then she tipped over all of the baskets, each by each, and let the contents dribble out. Many held water that seeped into the ground. Others held ashes the fluttered away on a sudden breeze. A couple held leaves that spread a blanket on the gravel path. Onto this fell four stone – no more!

“The answer to these are all you need,’ she sighed, while describing the symbols on each – the focus of a problem segment self defined. “Now you may choose two of these, and I will give you solutions guaranteed for eternity.”

I left of course, with four stones in my pocket – and they lay softly now in my garden pool. The solutions I selected were better by far, methinks –
once I learned the complexity of my life was of my choosing …
and but a breath away from knowing,
once false beliefs drifted away.

There is only one thing I really know –
I mean with finality …

that someday another will come to me,
and I will set out some baskets,
and together we will be free.

On the Crest of the Quest

I started writing a Fitzgerald about
a thought on ‘creation’ and couldn’t stop …

if it doesn’t fit within the 55 word limit,
just write another one, I guess.

faucon
………………………………………….

CREATIVE FITZ’s

SEED:
“For future hope can be molded
by faith and action and love,
and the silver kiss of moonlight
that divinely touches the soul.”

If we sublimate by agreement
that which we innately know –
that everything’s ‘of creation’,
and cannot be else …
and chose that ‘to create’
is limited to crafting something new –
perceivable by others in this Attention
as unique and ‘in addition to’
what has come before …
then what becomes of memories
that I can live anew?

One can re-create the past, you know;
at least choose which specific events
weigh in on who you are today,
and jiggle your value orientation –
such things as will shape you future
more surely than divination.
Yet, the word ‘recreation’ is used up –
assigned to ‘having fun’ or
shifting from the daily grind …
rarely meaningfully.

What I know to be true
is that my future options
must follow the Golden-Mean
in Phinominal Expansion –
that the proportion of
‘what I make happen’ to
‘what happens to me’
is in ratio of the greater part
to all of what will be …
and that my ‘intent’
can shift the balance
‘tween these extremes.

Just being aware that I
carry a message of Light
insures that 38% of what will be
is a function of who I am today,
for I can only perceive that which
experience has prepared me for –
that which I know.
This leaves 68% open to vagaries
of chance or karma or fate –
or ‘believing’.

So, I would grasp at muse and ponder
to explore how I can by purpose
shift the balance above the 50% mark –
to insure that “what I command”
surpasses whim and folly;
or dreadfully,
choice of others.
How do I come to know more
and believe less …
and be enactive
in the dance of everbe?

By study and observation
I can draw for Conceptualization
that which some call magick,
and make it mine as science;
or tap the ancient mines of instinct
as a font of intuition;
or seek Revelation
from Ethereal realms beyond comprehension;
or perhaps just look back
to where I have been
and re-create who I am.

Looking for fun

RECREATION thoughts from papa with thanks to Jan

definition of ‘recreate’

“to take part in activities that are mentally or physically refreshing”

originally “to bring forth”

Fitz 1

For the creative spirit
to which poets lay claim,
there may be a need to escape
from the churning, caressing
draw to awe and wonder.
But if such diversion is, in contemplation,
to ‘re-create’ then our tail
is in our Orobourus mouth.
And ‘to take part’ is more onerous
as it implies ‘formed by someone else’.

Fitz 2

Would it not be easier to accept
that writing is recreation
in its purest essential form,
that to be ‘of creation’ requires
a ‘drawing forth’ of experience
in marriage with new perceptions
and touch of the Goddess-Muse?
Such creative flow can but
nudge the future of others
as we give readers
something to ‘re-create’
from.

Swirling the Grail

A Comment of Comments

Swirling the Grail

Oft times a thought expressed in a comment will prompt my writing as much as the original post, but perhaps I give too little thought to the impact of comments on others. I read every post on every blog of my attention – and every comment by every sister – and then write something each day; sometimes in response, sometimes in contrast, sometimes to fill a ‘hole’ left in my contemplation. Some of these I post – most I do not.

Sometimes I offer comments – often not; but do not consider it appropriate on any blog to praise or disparage simply because it is my turn. If a thought or theme touches me in some way, especially spiritually, I will acknowledge this ‘creative touch’, a message to the author, not the character in the story. I attempt to be brief – perhaps erring in the process – failing to recognize the need of others to hear a gentle, supporting voice. For me, creative essence is fueled by passion and a glimpse of another’s spirit – not by unctuous praise. In this I am probably ‘male stupid’ – never forgetting an anniversary or birthday, but failing to comment on a new blouse or perfume.

I consider each comment to my posts, and the nuance thereof for a reflective touch to improve the essence of my writing. I am amazed at concepts extracted far beyond my attention; and on re-read of my own poem or story, find thought-lines and currents revealed to self only through this exchange of thought. Aye – sometimes I surprise myself by reading , years later, a favored piece; only to discover evidence of a guided flow beyond reason. So it should be.

I do not look for laudatory adjectives or gushy praise, nor give much, expecting perhaps that anyone here is surfeit with balanced pride in their work or they would not post here.
This is possibly a trained and conditioned male view similar to the way I shop in a store vs the way many women do – not better or worse – just different. Sorry, chattering about cloths I cannot possible wear does not excite me – nor to I wish to spend the time. I wrote this piece several years ago:

EMOTIONS

Being a somewhat normal person, meaning that I make stupid mistakes and take the wrong things for granted, I have been at a loss to understand the huge difference in emotional response people have to similar situations. That of small children vs. adults(sic) is somewhat comprehensible, but the difference between the sexes is mystifying. Oh, I have read the books and chanced on Oprah and observed thousands of frantic others, but I am never close to being able to guess or anticipate … well you’ve been there. Well, something happened …
I was in a paint store picking up a couple of planned items; a little distressed because they were out of black spray paint of all things. I watched some young couples chatting over paint chips. Years ago I would have said “newlyweds.” Now? Anyway, a dose of fond memories swept over me. I don’t mean the task of selection, and re-selection, and re-trips, and… No, it was the brush of lost time and love and eagerness and… well, either you understand or you don’t.
I chanced to notice something I had missed before … been in the store a number of times. The whole side of the room where the paint was found… I mean the colored stuff, was decorated in pastels, with mock windows fringed with lacy curtains. Displays were grouped in sporadic disarray of different form and heights… sort of like found flowers in a garden. The side I was on, with the primers, ladders, brushes and junk was done in uniform grey… isles in clearly marked order. Men hastened in to my side, grabbed what they needed and headed off to some chore. On the other, besplendored side, women of all ages ambled about, some with beaus in tow, as if it were a holiday. That side was obviously female; the other side — my side …?
If this division, with the attendant emotional energy was not enough, I focused on the names on the myriad rows of sample chips. “Light Morning Mist.” “Very Peach Blush.” “Dawn’s Humming Yellow.”
Then I looked again at the row label ‘PRIMERS.’ Look yourself sometime. “Basic Rust Red.”
“Caution Yellow.” “Coverall Blue.”
Do I have to paint a picture?
…………………………………………………………………………………………………

So, should I change the way in which I respond to other’s work on these blogs? Can it not be enough that I create new poems in response to your writings? As a writer of note, do not each of you have faith that every piece you share will have an impact on someone – somewhere – mostly which you will never see? Should I find something to say about each and every post? Does my lack of comment suppress creativity – or do my occasional thoughts nurture it? What is the proper balance? I could post something on every blog every day, but do not because of these very concerns.

I ramble on …

I guess that part of the ‘essence of creativity’ is to recognize that:

The fact that you post is more important than what you post.

That you will share a new thought is more important than the depth of reason.

That you take time to read the thoughts of others and reflect,
is more important that any comment you can make.

That I can better reach out and touch a stranger’s soul today –
better than yesterday, because of what I read here;
is more important that anything I write.

That I write because I must …
and believe you do also.

How can I help??

faucon

Bag of Rocks

This story is inspired by Heather’s “unburdoning” drawing,
but based on real characters I met in Salt Lake City years ago.
The Canary wasis a real person –
the ‘facts’ were only stories whispered in soup lines.

Someday I might write a play about street people
based on what I learned as a volunteer there.

papa
………………………………………………………………………

“Have you seen the Canary about?” I asked the trio huddled close upon the garbage fueled blaze in the oil drum. The suspicious silence was predictable but they didn’t drift away, as well they might – seeing that I was not one of them – a street person, I mean. “I have a winter coat might be his size, and I’d like to say hello. Haven’t seen him since he jumped the rails up to Fargo – heard he was back.”

“Just leave it there on the fence. We’ll get it too him.” I wasn’t afraid they would steal it as Canary is five foot three at best and round as a pumpkin. Actually, I’d had the coat cut down for him.

“There’s a bunch more coats in the back of the van – take your pick and pass out the rest. I’d be obliged.” Then I waited to see if they would check first, or trust. I tossed Canary’s coat over my shoulder and joined them by the fire.

“Yer the one, ain’t ya? I don’t know which one spoke as they all had the same thought. “Canary has a spot behind that Italian restaurant on 5th – to keep the dogs away in return for first pickings you understand. Doesn’t get around like he useta.” I left the van in their care and protection and strode off toward the river, while crowds of shuffling indigents gathered to a silent call. They would wait until I was ‘round the corner.

“Lordy be! – why’d he bring us these coats – ‘n what would he want with the Canary?” Questions were as numerous as sleeves measured and pockets explored, and not just out of curiosity. Everyone liked Canary. Finally, an ex-preacher said he’d tell the story – not that that led any truth to it. Slip on a coat and listen in.

“First I’ll tell ya about Canary – how he got his name and all up there in Sing-Sing. Those few of you ain’t been in stir might not know that a man who snitches on his friends is called a canary – leastwise behind his back. The DA calls it ‘turning state’s evidence’, but we know better. So calling a person ‘Canary’ to his face is a compliment, meaning that he could of but didn’t and suffered for it. The name became permanent when Canary pulled his famous fainting spell. Didn’t hurt that he kind of looks the part.”

“I’ve never heard it – what was he in for anyway? Knowing how Canary is always helping folks, I’ll bet he didn’t do it.”

“Well, you’d be wrong – not that it matters much. Who a person is right now is more important than where he’s been, I recon. Canary was a medical student about to do the residency thing. Seems he came home late one night to find a burglary in progress and his wife dead on the dining room floor. The thug was just getting into a car out back. He gave chase in his truck ‘til the murderer flipped his car and crashed into tree at over a hun’ert. Some justice. Canary was convicted of man-slaughter as his only statement was ’I wished him dead and he is!’ He could’ve beaten the rap except there was another burglar there at the house – crying. Canary had let him go so as to chase the murderer, and wouldn’t give the police any descriptions or assistance about this man he claimed ‘helped him’.”

“So this coat guy is the missing burglar?”

“Maybe yes – maybe no. There is more to tell if’n you’ll shut up. This kind of loyalty to a commitment may seem strange to you, but was natural for the Canary. Up at the Place, he was more-or-less let be – a kind of respect, you know. He didn’t have to join any gang and didn’t become anyone’s slave neither. Didn’t hurt he used his education to teach and help others file appeals and such – even did taxes and healing for free. Rumor has it a couple of gangs were about to have a real set-to and Canary got the leaders together to talk. They settled matters peaceful like, but were about to get caught violating curfew, and the guards would assume the worst. So Canary pretended to faint or have a stroke or something and blocked the door shut while so the guards couldn’t get by.”

“I get it now – miners used to take canaries into the tunnels for protection. If air got thin the bird would always collapse first. Hear tell the astronauts might take them into space too.”

“But who is this coat guy then? Doesn’t act like a guy what’s been inside long.”

“A couple of years back Canary was in St. Louis – just doing his thing – picking up every little pebble and twig he found in the park – making things neat for other people. Never bothered nobody but was classified as a vagrant by the authorities. Seems a man can’t just decide to live alone and poor in this free country. Well, one day he just collapsed by the fish pond and no one stopped to help. A policeman assumed he was drunk and started kicking him around. Hear tell a stranger stopped him and fetched a bunch of trouble, but other people rallied around in time. This guy said he had heard Canary whistling a tune and knew he was OK, but to take off his backpack. Now this thing musta weighed 200 lbs – all those pebbles and sticks in there had simply driven Canary to his knees. With it empty Canary had no trouble getting up and ambling away – whistling and picking up things.”

“That’s plumb crazy! Prison musta done him in.”

“No, not crazy,” I called from the edge of the crowd. Our little friend believes that the problems of the world are cause by people tossing their worries and woes away with no concern about how they affect others. As he picks up grains of sand and withered leaves he also picks up those discarded miseries as well – just to keep others from tripping over them. Kind of a pay-back, you see.” Nobody said nuthin’, but there was a lot of foot shuffling.

“He paid his debt.”

“This man is the gentlest spirit I have ever met. Yet he was driven to anger and it cost another man his life. Canary will never judge others, squeal on another, speak unkindly of another because he has never forgiven himself. By choice he will carry the burden of strangers and whistle a happy tune – and foolishly fill his sack with worthless rocks – just so that you and I don’t have to.”

“What’s it to you anyway – you the man in the park?”

“Yes, but my help was not an accident. I was looking for him. To tell him something. His wife had been pregnant when she died, but they were able to save the child when the other burglar called an ambulance. He could feel the tiny heartbeat through her cloths as he tried CPR – didn’t have time to tell Canary before he rushed off. – and no one ever did. Crazy, huh?”

“He musta found out in prison though – enough to drive any man loco — another ‘good thief, huh?”

“That’s when he started picking up other people’s problems – committing himself to make the world a better place. Don’t try and stop him – just wave when you see him – and help empty that stupid bag of rocks.”

“Thanks for the coats mister. I’m sure Canary likes his!”

I wandered off so they could not hear. “Least a son can do.”

Egg-zactly When?

When I escaped from the Mines
it was the day before I entered –
or so it seems as I search for the Egg.
What I found was this poem,
that I am sure I posted somewhere once –
on a different journey perhaps –
well, rebirth is like that I suppose.

papa
………………………………………

Source and Life

Mystics seek it in a drafty cave,
wizards within an awesome tower,
and scholars in dusty scrolls and books –
but to find the answer
or perhaps the question,
you need only ask the mists of dawn.

Why am I here — what does it mean,
is there a heaven – why must I care,
religion a must or fearful trust?
So ease your questing mind
and give your soul blessed rest,
and ask a dew drop where it goes at noon.

You know within of the basic truth,
that you are one with Source and Light,
and that all paths lead home by right.
Don’t look within the stars,
mumbled spells or prayers.
Just ask the clouds what they see from there.

Abandon fear — walk with knowledge tall;
open heart and hand to one and all,
and live as if you bear a message.
Love is null by itself,
but one and one makes three.
Just ask laughing raindrops dancing free.

Where am I to — how stony the road,
when will I return — how heavy the load,
who should attend me – give me sure advice?
Of these you will learn
if your heart is prepared,
to trace the river down to the shore.

The braid is eternal — bound by Light,
each teardrop proof of recycled birth,
and trust and faith and timeless joy.
Find a perfect crystal
holding a speck of dust,
and know of creation’s gift of life.

Burrow On

Were I not in compressing darkness, I might describe a house of glass, for I sense endless reflections of my being – and fragile for all of that. Perhaps an image of a crystal seen from the inside will better convey the spirit tone and echo. I do know that the facets number seventy-two, a count rather special to me as both ‘Trebusca in Thrine’, and ‘Three filled folded thrice less three in square’ as from an ancient spell. So I do not understand if this number guides me or if, by projection, the universe bends to my intent.

The glow that I perceived before is formed in flux by myriad points of light, grouped within the facets in a chaotic way – that is, not discernable by wits alone. Fine! I reach out towards a random wall which shrinks away in balance with a surging of memories in my raging mind. I am not supposed to be here! I settle to the floor – breathless.

I drift, and sort out the thoughts like plucking leaves from my sleeve – some to fall to my feet and others to drift in a caressing breeze. Behind and around, other sparks of interest ebb or grow in sympathy, with attendant song and color-shift that I can only embrace as ‘propensity’.

I am now where ‘what was’ and ‘what will be’ are the same! I have always thought that ‘who I am right now’ is an amalgam of all I have been and experienced – and that my future options will be guided in part by my self imposed limits of perception. Not so! These dancing twinkles are my actualization of threads of creative energy that pass through me – endless when and forever more. As I find balance in past choices I also engender what I may be. There is no right or wrong in this, nor future penned by another’s hand. Source has granted me this gift in return for suffering this physical Attention. I can change the importance of any past event, and thereby nudge butterflies and kindle nubile stars. I need not see into the future – for tomorrow is but an extension of me; and the only choices of importance is how I interacted with others and the songs of strangers never met.

‘tis said all paths cross in the forest. In truth, all paths cross through me – me, but one of a jillion quivering souls. And they also pass through you, sister – as all crystals of Light touch in this Goddess dance.

……..

I open my eyes and am again in the main passage, feeling faint – in need of air. Guess I must have passed out. But I recall dreaming too. Now if I can only remember … hush! Do you hear it?

Nihush, nihush, ne zaman – Nihush ni…

faucon

Burrow

I am by nature, disposition or distraction a prospector rather than a miner – content to unearth a nugget or vein and turn it over to others for development. My faith and perversity cause me to venture where others fear to tread, but I am easily bored with less than a creative flux. Yet, by commitment here I am called to grovel and burrow within the bowels of Mother Earth in search of internal spiritual revelations. In the past I have discovered nuggets within the tailings of my own detritus, and therefore do not mind delving the tunnels of other’s efforts to see what may have been ignored or passed over in frenetic digging. In this manner I found the crevice – and heard the whispers.

It was nothing more than an angular crack in the bedrock filled with softer dirt and pebbles. This I shoveled out to form a channel barely wide enough for my pear shaped form to squirm through. I tunneled quite deeply, pushing the excavated waste behind me – effectively sealing myself in a moving tomb – yet reassured of safety by the gentle whispers. That I could breathe here was a mystery – until I came to understand that the fill was not natural, but a blockage placed within the defile to deter others, or attract the likes of me, one. The assemblage of gravel allowed for air flow – and for hearing the whispers. I chanted a most ancient invocation:

“Nihush, nihush ne zaman” — ‘heed the whisper ner the sign’

At length I broke through and tumbled most unceremoniously onto the floor of an immense chamber. Empty! My helmet had fallen off and the affixed lamp shattered – yet I could see enough for that. The walls glowed. Besides, surely I could sense without vision the presence of one powerful enough to whisper through walls of stone. Thus it was that I was once again alone, sightless, witless – in answer to a call. I could but reach out with untrained third eye. Now I must tell of what I see.

faucon

Rebirth Sea

Still rush the waters of the moon,
Down to the waiting rebirth sea;
To meet the flound’ring ship of dreams,
Drug down by banacles of never be.

Thus spirit joins with troubled mind
On the rocky shore of the soul;
And both will smooth the sands of time,
Polishing gems of thoughts and all.

In the gristing of Goddess tears
And crusted fears and dwindling hopes,
Will rise a mist of most simple faith
That seeds the rain and launches ships.

faucon

Just Grand

I was explaining to Emmie about this Mining adventure,
and she asked if I had written ‘Just Grand’ for this project.
“No,” says I, “I wrote that in response to Lorijayne’s
story about divination at the Gypsy Camp.”

“Seems more suitable for a quest than a campfire!”

So I post it here also.

papa
…………………………………………………………..

‘twas a bit of climb up ta ridge to Grandie’s place, but he managed at nigh on a hun’ert, so I recon I wouldn’t be breathless long. Seeing as he was s’post to have ‘The Sight’ I didn’t send a message ahead, but brought a sack of goodies fer hospitality. Didn’t take any magickal divination to bring chocolate chip cookies and smoked oysters and sweet pickles. I threw in one of those new fangled combo pliers ‘n foldin’ tool gismos just in case. Them what have the ‘gift’ never charge but shore be likin’ gifts and carin’ – or so I’s been told.

Thar was a body scarce when I ‘rived the shack, but smoke still curled from the fire pit and his jug was by the porch rocker tellin’ he was near by. There was an axe honed mean stuck in the choppin’ round, with half a pile of kindli’ on one side, and a pile of chucks ‘tuther. I set my sack in the spring-house an’ savored a dipper of cool delight on my neck and sippin’ swaller. ‘twasn’t work, really. I get’s simple pleasure from choppin’ wood – an easy flow of muscles and getting’ done – the finished pile rightfully larger than the startin’. When I got done and looked up ole Grandie was a smokin’ in his chair, like he been there all ‘long and I just didn’t see.

“Glad I could do that fer ya,” he smiled. That puzzled me a tad as I’d been thinkin’ I was doin’ it fer him. Then I realized that while I was a choppin’ my thoughts had kinda come together ‘n I was more prepared to ask ‘n listen. “Yer pa’s leg still painin’ him?” Grandie asked. This was done jest ta rattle me, I’m sure – seein’ as I had never met Grandie and my pa was settled eighty miles ta north.

“Thanks ya sir fer askin’,” says myself. “He’s off dem crutchers now but complainin’ jest ta get attention. I be thinkin’ he’s anxious ta get back ta his place at the mill – kinda worried ‘bout the young sawyers without his beady eye a trainin’.” I set on the top step ag’in the shaved post so to look up at him – seemed proper. “Been visitin’ my Aunt Mod down Pine Hollow way ‘n thought I’d come by to ask the truth of it – ‘bout this divination stuff ‘n magick ‘n all. Mod t’was sayin’ I’s got a bit a healin’ gift ‘n ought to be learnin’ more. Don’t rightly know.” Then I just sits ‘n listen to the jay birds.

He took a sip ta jug, but di’n’t offer none. I took out them pliers thing and worried a nail out of my boot. Then I opened a blade after searchin’ through a dozen wrong ones and started inta whit’lin’ this branch. Tired of that quick though and stuck that tool in the plank ‘tween us with a couple of foldin’ things stickin’ out like points of a midnight star. Then I drifted to the spring ta bring back lunch and ignore the tool was gone. He had laid out some jerkey ‘n pan bread ‘n apples – ‘nuff fer blenin’ into a fine spread with my bringings tumbled out. A canvas- wrapped stone bottle of cider was drip coolin’ from a peg, while he stuck to his jug o’ sweezings. Still say nuthin’ though, but din’t send me away, which was enough.

Bye ‘n bye he starts in askin’ questions. “Yer leanin’ agin a roof post – tell me ‘bout it – what makes it special?” “On the path up ya heard the tinklin’ song of a waterfall – what did it say to ya?” “In a bit of a glade behind the house some of my kin are buried – how many, ‘n how as they died?” and more … Some answers came easy as I was mountain born and kin ta the forest – leastwise always thought so. Never bathed ‘cept in a stream ‘re rain barrel. Always et some gift of the meadow every day: berries, wild onions, nettle root, ‘re cress – just like mom dun tol’ me. Never kilt nuthin’ I didn’t plan ta eat and could tickle trout …

Tellin’ of things I’d never seen was different, but I spoke right out. On my first try I was jest faerie guessin’ and Grandie called me up right quick. “Be startin’ with what ya know fer sure. Then ‘low yerself to be in my shoes and look fer the balance of things – knowin’ what be right fer peace and utility.” He never told me if’n I be right or no, but I began to sense a kinda glow ‘bout him when I ventured some ‘extension’ – leastwise that’s what Grandie called em. As I be readin’ these as indicators of true er close guessin’, I began to describe things small first ‘stead o’ tryin’ to grasp the whole imagine. When I sensed the glow – better with my eyes closed – I built on that. When his “truth reflectin’” sang low ‘re quiet, I tried agin with no fear atall. Thirsty work, though – cider mostly gone. Grandie’s jug was down ta dribble too.

“I talk better walkin’,” he mumbled while creakin’ outa that rockin’ chair. We drifted gentle through the woods, pacin’ some old trails and discoverin’ new – passed a mossy busted still and ‘nother cabin burnt down. He told me stories ‘bout these ‘n other glimpses of past folk gone long. Some were not fer believin’ but fer makin’ a point. Others seemed to have no meanin’ atall but ta be anchors like fer other mem’ries and musin’. All the while he was a movin’ his hands and shiftin’ his feet peculiar like ‘til I caught on. His body kinda moved ahead of what he was sayin’, pointin’ where his thoughts were goin’, and whether he was plannin’ to feed me some dream tea. Then we came upon this broken bridge never fixed, as a log fall now served fer one ‘n carts never came by no mo’. Ole Grandie wandered around a bit, but din’t say nuthin’. My turn.

I started in tellin’ a story ‘bou why the bridge had been built, and by what folk, and how it came to be broke up, ‘n the tragedy of the place and what lessons were to be learned. I took clues from where he had stood, ‘n how his hands twitched while a ‘memberin’ how it had been. When I didn’t get any glow clues I talked about little things I saw – knew to be true like a patch of wild flowers ‘re the way a tree had been chopped – ‘til I found a bit of truth to grow on – then I storied what I thought up seemed ta fit the flow o’ things. He didn’t say nuthin’ durin’ the tellin’, nor move from the stump ‘cept fer puffin’ on his pipe. Finally, I just kinda ran out a thinks ta tell.

“No body coulda saved her, you know. Twasn’t yer fault none.” You’d a thought me the old man and him but fourteen from the tellin’ it so. We chatted some there by the tumbly rocks with both of us aged somewhere in between – jest friend ta friend, ya know. I won’t tell ya where he picked up a new jug, or how I knew who had left it fer him. Ya already be quessin’ that this twisty walkin’ stick I use now be the one he gifted me that day, ‘re that it took him twenty years to carve it. ‘re that it was meant fer his son. It isn’t magickal to know such things.

All it takes is bein’ alive – and knowin’ that ya are,

and learnin’ to listen to heart ‘n hands –

and a watchin’ fer the soul glow.

Going up??

I was surprised at the number of open chambers and meeting rooms way down ‘neath the surface — and I haven’t even reached a digging point yet. I was even more surprised to stumble across a class for ascention want-a-be’s, though ascending is the only way to return home — forget any transcendental stuff. I evesdropped a bit — attracted by the sign identifying the moderator as one

“Swami Inflictus of the Ascension Oracles School of Bio-Sophistry.”

He was fielding questions from the class …

QUESTION: Do I have to verify having had a precious life before I can get on with another, future one?

There is nothing like the present, my child, from which to launch your Ascension. After all, what you remember of tomorrow can hardly be worse that what you forget of yesterday.

QUESTION: I tend to be crabby and mean spirited in my dealings with others. When I have Ascended will that change automatically, or is there some ritual to go through?

What you describe is not a state of being, but of choices that you make. Ascension is all about choices too. When you choose to be nice to others and kind by nature you may discover that you have already ascended. If you enjoy inflicting misery on others why are you looking to change anyway?

QUESTION: Several friends who are very into Ascension talk about quickening vibrations and reaching new heights of transcendence. Is your school a sex clinic?

It might be said that intense communication from a position of love is sexual, but Ascension isn’t about “getting it up”, though some protection may be required for those will poor spiritual hygiene.

QUESTION: Is the Ascension process anything like a Twelve Step Program?

Well, they both require a lot of faith, and one deals with coming to grips with what you were and the other being comfortable with what you can be — you choose which.

QUESTION: I can’t channel with any former lives. So if I Ascend and can’t remember this life now, how will I gauge if I am better off?

You chose this Agreement, and are now trying to get out of it. Don’t try asking for a refund too. Caveat emptor always applies, especially if you are expecting a prize in the box.

QUESTION: I was going to buy a book on Ascension but one review said something about “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” Do you know what that means?

If he was speaking about religious beliefs I would say Ascension is “clothing optional” — other than that nothing is apparent.

QUESTION: Some thoughts I’ve read on Ascension seem “half-baked”, while others are very over-done. I can’t even figure out if the process is an hors oeuvres or a desert.

It is more of a main-course, and plan on pot-luck instead of a banquet, with you bringing more that you expect to receive. A well stirred life-stew might work if seasoned with enough compassion.

QUESTION: Can I do this ascension thing part-time? I am an attorney and have trouble thinking of spirituality when working with crooks and perverts all day. Maybe Monday night after football I can set aside a couple of hours.

I am at a loss for words — one essential criterion for starting ascension is to be human first.

QUESTION: Is achieving Ascension an either-or proposition, or can we rely on probabilities? Out of a dozen want-a-be’s, how many are likely to find a new spiritual level without dying first? Does trying here help your chances later on?

For any sizeable population, the chance of achieving Ascension is directly proportional to your congruency coefficient of ‘doing the work’, and inversely proportional to the time you have spent in any organized religion, with a credibility level of your age minus years in government service. Of course this assumes a bell curve distribution of reciprocal charity — also known as the ‘ding-dong’ effect.

……………………………………………

I figured it was time to move on

faucon