She was sitting on an airplane as she slipped into the half sleep space when the subject for a writing came into preview. Perhaps being in California where everything looked bright and beautiful—reminiscent of California dreaming from days long past. Then followed a night of feeling all the chaos beneath the surface, perceived as a swirling mass of darkness, tones of fear, and loathing took form. As she often writes about beauty and joy, it was uncomfortable to spend several hours in this space—seeing how so much is based on the lies people tell themselves.
We will see where this muse goes…
Most people fear the future while loathing the present moment—more often than not without really knowing they are feeling these things. So much remains hidden in the realm of the subconscious mind programs, those that people are indoctrinated with from birth to death. Few escape this, for they remain unaware of who they are and have lost contact with the Sacred of the Divine Creator. How many question if this was done by design or is something random—accepting that’s just how life is? This question is easy to answer for those of us who are awake to the predatory and parasitic nature of the “rulers” though this answer doesn’t go far enough in rooting out the tentacles of the dark ones. I realize that loathing is a word heavily laden with dread, using it in the title was at the insistence of my inner voice.
My good fortune is that I have contact with lots of people who like to explore the nature of this reality so slowly an answer comes into clear view. I’ve also developed my intuitive nature, the still quiet voice within that is a steady confidant and guide. If the mind is full of concerns for the future or locked into the “good old days” and always reminiscing, it is missing this voice that is always present. So let’s take a deep breath together and allow something new to be born.
My learning is that each of us is a unique song of Creation—song for me is my definition of the quiet voice, for it doesn’t shout or even talk; it sings in a vibration that only knows peace and serenity as an underlying resonance—it never lies nor coerces. How many people can quiet their minds long enough to know that they have a song? For years I have been writing about this still, quiet place within, though I also recognize that very few have ever experienced the essence of their own being. Perhaps my words may inspire someone. Or perhaps, my words become imbued with the essence of my song, for it is still relatively rare to find anyone who recognizes their song with the Great Song of the Creator.
We, as a people in general, have become so lost in the mind’s dialectic and in many the mind’s diatribe against the other outside the self, who is readily blamed for the conundrum we find ourselves in. It should be obvious with even one iota of critical analysis, that this will never lead one to liberation from the bars people have built for themselves. We either seek Truth first and dare to rise above the cacophony of voices that demand our attention or we will forever remain caught in the snare of the materialization impulse. Again, allow that I restate that I speak from more than collected knowledge, my voice carries with it experience. When I set out to seek Truth, I did not know where it would lead me nor the challenges I would endure and overcome. Ultimately, after having been broken many times, I found the blessed Grace of Love—though it wasn’t until I looked inside this vessel that I found the key to Freedom. The eternal light is found by going into the darkness; it is not for the weak of heart.
Another well wrought trap is belief in the new ageism of ascension; this is a superficial spirituality and avoids at all costs the dark descent. I carefully write my words, for I know many who are living this out. I get it for I was once there too, so my words are not meant as condemnation, they are for those who are ready for the next leg of the journey.
Like many who have a fine-tuned intellect, I realize that I have to maintain a constant inner vigilance to not build castles-in-the-sand of what my mind constructs; it is easy to become enamored of one’s mental prowess. Lately I have heard more folks giving voice to song being the foundation of Creation. When this song reverberates within the being it becomes the ultimate letting go, whether by faith or gnosis one allows themself to be guided unerringly toward freedom. As more people loosen the tentacles of self deceit, we become the principle that is dissolving a paradigm built on lies.
We are going to hit some very rough seas in the coming years, I have been saying this for a long time, so often in fact that I wonder why I keep saying it. To be honest, it is because like anyone who is aware, the narrative spin masters aren’t going to stop and most people will keep in lock-step with this increasingly pixilated circus show. They simply can’t imagine there are other choices; they can’t hear dissenting voices even if founded upon real facts, so they keep sleep-walking toward the abyss. Perhaps there will be angels present to catch them.
I will close with two separate pieces of writing, the first on the futility of words alone. I comprehend why we write, as it is the process of getting to know thyself, it is a valiant attempt to put words to the Ineffable. If coupled with inner contemplation and followed in earnest, it will light the path back home.
This second writing was recently recited to me by my dear brother. It so struck a resonant chord in me that I want to share it with everyone. We think we are so wise, we believe ourselves to be self sufficient, we do everything we can to avoid the inevitable until one day we are touched by Grace. Amen.
The Hound Of Heaven
— Francis Thompson (1859–1907)
I FLED Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
Up vistaed hopes I sped;
And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
But with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
They beat—and a Voice beat
More instant than the Feet—
‘All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.’
I pleaded, outlaw-wise,
By many a hearted casement, curtained red,
Trellised with intertwining charities;
(For, though I knew His love Who followèd,
Yet was I sore adread
Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside).
But, if one little casement parted wide,
The gust of His approach would clash it to.
Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue.
Across the margent of the world I fled,
And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,
Smiting for shelter on their clangèd bars;
Fretted to dulcet jars
And silvern chatter the pale ports o’ the moon.
I said to Dawn: Be sudden—to Eve: Be soon;
With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over
From this tremendous Lover—
Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!
I tempted all His servitors, but to find
My own betrayal in their constancy,
In faith to Him their fickleness to me,
Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.
To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;
Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.
But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,
The long savannahs of the blue;
Or whether, Thunder-driven,
They clanged his chariot ’thwart a heaven,
Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o’ their feet:—
Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.
Still with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
Came on the following Feet,
And a Voice above their beat—
‘Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me.’
Now of that long pursuit
Comes on at hand the bruit;
That Voice is round me like a bursting sea:
‘And is thy earth so marred,
Shattered in shard on shard?
Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!
Strange, piteous, futile thing!
Wherefore should any set thee love apart?
Seeing none but I makes much of naught’ (He said),
‘And human love needs human meriting:
How hast thou merited—
Of all man’s clotted clay the dingiest clot?
Alack, thou knowest not
How little worthy of any love thou art!
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,
Save Me, save only Me?
All which I took from thee I did but take,
Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might’st seek it in My arms.
All which thy child’s mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:
Rise, clasp My hand, and come!’
Halts by me that footfall:
Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?
‘Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom thou seekest!
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.’