A Work of Art

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In life, a Soul must choose a disguise: city dweller, farmer, soldier, artist, and so on. The costumes we wear have been lived and exchanged over the course of millennia and are so ingrained that a fleeting identity is usually mistaken for the soul that personifies it. Indeed, thought has power and can create a sense of permanence where only flux exists, and yet this is the way we learn and thereby choose who we are and what we wish to become. Over time, each point of light may discover how to release itself from pain and enter into love, and then, leaving behind the weight of injustice and self-pity, venture into fresher fields and finer awareness.

This thing that we seek to master and mature in ourselves—the clay of conscience—is it not character? And what is the great possibility held in deciding the color and contour of that character? Is it not to develop and refine what we are through the disciplines of sincere living? How many of us recognize that by evolving the personality we begin to control the levels of ourselves, the energies of what we are, and therein is the reason for choosing carefully. Each life may choose to become one with the crowd, with the forest, with our memories, or even with kindness itself. At any time, you and I can withdraw and exist elsewhere, just as an actor might decide to enter or exit a scene.

Just think, when we do something as simple as opening a door for a stranger or offering a gentle word to a friend, we express within that politeness a kindness in body, emotion and thought that lifts the elements of both Souls. By developing our character, we align ourselves with the idea we have adopted as truth, evolving it until we open to the greater Truth. Perhaps then, having come to the end of all philosophy, we will stop measuring life, and in that moment, finally understand.

Let us then grasp the longer view, that we are the eternal artists of ourselves, displaying in the mirror of the world what wisdom we have gathered through the tone and beauty of our actions. Truly, the greatest work of art in this world is that of an unfolding human character: a sculpture of intent and imagination held in an ever-increasing love. This great work of art is perfected in the kiln of worldly experience, in the heartache and joy of life’s expression. This being so, surely all life will eventually choose to live as an expression of what is constant, of what rings true, and use its wisdom as a key to the door of perennial love. Perhaps that is why the masters explain that the password to eternal life is spoken with tenderness.

A Prayer For The Wounded

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This is a prayer for the wounded, for the lonely, for the abandoned and frail, for the muted hearts that float with the burden of aloneness upon their shoulder. May they open to Light.

This is a prayer for the forsaken, for the abused, for the stranded and bereft, for the quarantined hearts of this world, and the next. May they allow the great note of Love to heal all they have endured.

This is a prayer for the weary, for the uncertain, for the meek and humbled hearts that have understood what beauty a simple kindness can bring. May they raise the world in a demonstration of the knowledge they have toiled so hard to gain.

This is a prayer for the forlorn, for the rejected and mistreated, for the timorous souls who tread quietly among us. May they reveal the pure life of love they have imagined in the darkness, the great jewel of Light’s permanent treasure.

May all suffering hearts be offered the glint of what possibility awaits; that they will become the strong, the wise and the just, the teachers of perennial kindness and its vehement joy.

If Love demands that its true value be learnt by being hidden, by being veiled by life’s trials and separations, may all wounded hearts be guided to a point of humility and calm, to thereby be healed and made whole by Love’s return.

Amen.

Advice from a Tree

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Live your life grounded in the Earth, but always stretching toward the light. When all is calm, rest quietly and learn: the soil will give you strength, the breeze will bring you language, the Sun will send you flowers.

When a storm is nigh, bend with the wind as best you can. If calamity should strike, you will grow again, however impossible it may seem. The great life has given you that power to do so.

Give shelter and food to those in need, taking care to offer a gentle word. Yet know that sure enough, they will fly away. Each has its own riddle to solve.

As to a tree in a richer clime, well, it is there and I am here. I will make the best of things for now. I will tend to this garden with all of my capacity. And when you create a thing of beauty, do not cling and spoil the fruit of your heart. Give freely to the world. Not every seed will sprout but when one does, how the birds do sing!

Behind Every Door

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Behind every door
Awaits the possibility of light;
Through every doorway
Travels the hope of completeness,
Of calm.
Yet, like a day,
A door has two sides,
A dawn and a dusk,
And in making our approach
We must be one or the other.
There is the choice, stark and bold:
We may choose to be
The sun behind the door
The kind light beyond the chamber
Or the shadow that
Wrestles with the earth.
In strength, bound by pure purpose,
We may remove all other possibility
And simply be the love we seek.

Bridge of Light

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Do you remember crossing the Bridge Of Light, when you connected to something beyond yourself?

That moment when you read someone’s mind. The nagging premonition. The time you knew who was calling before the telephone rang. Once, you finished another person’s thought. You felt that chill up the spine. The tingling around your head – the path to forever once crossed. You felt the magnetic pull of a person, or place. When art elevated you into a secret joy; when time itself slowed to a single grand breath. The sorrowful ring of wrong. The gentle voice that carried a deep peace. The flash of knowing. The dream that was so real. That sense of foreboding (let us leave this place). A love so powerful, you wept. You were beside yourself, detached from the world. That was no coincidence; you followed the voice. Being wrapped in the warm glow of love. The music; the book that found you at the right moment. That timeless calm when you knew a spiritual presence sat at your side, when you decided that there was no need to explain it to anyone. Spirit does not reside in the abstract. The Bridge Of Light is always with us.

The Leap

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Imagine this: When in moments of Love when we are able to lift out of ourselves, think of how one day the body will fall away, just as the chrysalis or the seashell releases its hold on the life placed within it. We have become so used to the idea of our human self, so used to its body, appearance, language, and expectation that we have placed our entirety into it. But one day, we will know these things are not truly ours; that they must be returned to the sole sovereignty of Earth.

Could it be that all things in nature have an interior presence, returning to this life and that in order to animate a form and thereby learn of Love? Does not each of us know secretly within that deep Love and its awareness cannot die, but only adapt and turn along a spiral of longing?

What a relief it must be to breathe in the perfumed rays of light after the heaviness of Earth. There! What an extraordinary thought, that we, you and I, infinitesimal persons in the vastness of space, have a life beyond, one that is before and after this worldly place.

Let us take a leap of mind and know that we are but visitors here, like divers who put on a suit to walk upon the bed of the ocean, to rise to the surface when the work is complete and the lesson learned. It is not outside that we will discover from where we have come and where we are going, but from behind closed eyes and within an open heart.

Let us understand then that all we take with us when we leave this place is whatever depth of Love we have claimed as our own. Everything else passes away, and how real can something be if it does not last?

The Narrowed Way

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When gleamed line and luster pulls at the edge of our sense, its feigned glow bathes our belief in security: we look for safety in its idea. Nothing exists without thought, no bridge, no smile, not even a star, and once an event has been born into life, the human mind thinks it a mirror, placing itself within a promise, as easily as a gleeful child sees a toy etched upon the surface of a cloud. But I must lift my projections from the forms before me. My task is to see all things clearly, to see myself and step along the narrowed way. Just as the wind whistling in the ear is dispelled by the slightest turn of the head, so too, does the careful mind remember the soul. Living in truth means living a life on the note of extreme internal honesty. I must keep asking what is real, and if I feel that something is missing, I will go into nothingness, and wait.