Always a New Day

It's a new day, it's always a new day. Whatsoever shall I do today. Love, laugh, live, lounge, labor, let it be, lust, look, lie, lose, laud, lift,

Might There Be Too Much Christ in Christianity?

Whatever Happened to Grover

There is love; there is life. That's what there is. I don't know if there really is anything else. All we see and perceive comes from our past. It comes from the preconceptions we have established as we grow up. If I go for a walk, I see a stream. That stream is bubbling blue froth at the seams. It seems as if it is double toil and trouble, seething and frothing and waiting to gain strength to rear up. It seems a frightful thing, but it seems as if the frothiness could be the blue fur of Cookie Monster. I don't think it's Grover. I can see what is black and white as if waiting to be formed into big bulging eyes, but I see no red anywhere about to roll up into a little round nose. It could be as frightening as the Stuff Puff Marshmallow man. To much of anything good thing can never be good. But, what about too much of nothing. Nothing is everything and everything is nothing. Oh, my I'm forcing things too much. I should just keep talking and sighing and writing whatever comes into my mind. Just close my eyes and let it drift, drift on down to the sea shore, drift on down to the snake pit, drift an down and ease on down, ease on down the road. It's such a pretty place the road in autumn, in autumn, in autumn, autumn, autumn. The time of year I most wanted to get to after the long, lonely summer. I was still lonely in the stands with the band all around me. But, at least I was a part of something. A place where I knew that people knew I was there and that I was a part of what was happening. Even though I was separated by my own shyness and fears from others, I had a shallow fulfillment in knowing that those around me were participating in something that included me, that I was a part of that something, that that something was what it was because I was part of it, that what they accepted and that their awareness of that something was something that included me. I don't recall really feeling camaraderie, just that I was part of what made that something something that they were a part of too and that their knowledge of that something was that the something included me. So, round and round I go not really getting there, always circling around the truth that I can't seem to pick out of the air. The reality of everything is just like the air. It's there; you can't see it. It can't move you unless it moves very hard. Sometimes you have controll, sometimes you don't. But, where was I. Was I really anywhere. I see a locomotive coming down the tracks right at me. But, it's a locomotive of the past and seems as unreal as a painted picture on the walls of the Woolaroc museum. I have no fear. It will not harm me. It is only a facsimile of nothing that can harm me. Nothing can harm me, whatever that real me is. My body may perish; my mind may go. But, the real me is forever once it had a beginning. From the moment of conception I began to change the world, the universe, the holy hand grenade? Maybe you could even say that my existence really began with the conception of the thought of me being, the thought of my parents having a child. Of course, that can only be a case by case basis sort of thing because there are many people born without ever having been thought of before they were physically conceived. I think maybe the end of my story is coming 'round as my mind begins to fog, my eyes begin to grow heavier and heavier until the break of dawn. My mind now feels like a lead brick. Just dense and hard without much going in or going out, just suspended waiting to be filled again. Maybe with the actual break of down, it will warm up, ready to begin anew the cycle of life, a life of hopefully bringing peace to all and to all a good night.

Amen.

I Just Don't Know

I really don't know what's going on. If I really understood, then I wouldn't have moments of doubt, times when I'm down and uncertain and feel that I don't have control over my situation in life. I am a fool to ever believe that I understand myself. I believe I understand the universe and what my path through the universe is. I just don't know...

Who Am I

Who am I, or better yet, what am I? I am a spirit of God, no, actually, I am merely a reflection of the spirit of God. I cannot say what that spirit is or what it is made of, what physical properties it has. But, I don't think it has any physical properties or manifestation. It transcends the physical universe. Alas, since my perceptions are all of this physical universe, I cannot perceive or describe with words what the spirit of God is. I can describe the sensations I have when I am aware of that spirit, describe the emotions I experience. There is great peace, great sense of belonging. But, that is even inadequate. The sense is really of being a manifestation of the spirit of God, that God is all things and that that thing or essence that is me is more than just a reflection of all that God is, but it is a manifestation of all that God is. I am all things, I am all people, I am all, I am. That is what I am.

Coming My Way

Once upon a time I wound up in a windmill. It was a tall wind mill that whooshed every time a blade went by as I peered out the window, out the window taking in the deep golden aura of the sun as it set off in the distance sinking into a golden ocean of shimmering water teeming with thousands and thousands of tiny fish swimming around for their lives as schools of giant predator fish swam up from the depths to forage for their nightly meal in the hopes of satiating their hunger. It was hunger that they could not control, barely even knew it was there, just driven by a non-feeling compulsion to swim for the surface for no conscious reason, just swim with gaping open mouths to take in whatever might come their way. Some times life seems like I'm just going along with whatever comes may way.

FB

Facebook is starting to seem pointless and banal to me. What people post are starting to seem irrelevant to me and I hardly see that what I have to say would be relevant to anyone else. I think I've shared all I feel like sharing or have time to share. Maybe there was a friend that I valued sharing with, but that opportunity was exhausted as well. It could be useful to share with someone with whom I have a real relationship on the outside. c'est la vie.

But a Child

I am but a child

A child with much too learn.
A child that refuses to learn.

A child that knows the answers.
A child that doesn't understand.

A child that is nothing without God.
A child that is everything with God.

A child forever more and again.
A child just wanting to be a child.

A child forever in need of mercy.
A child in longing for forgiveness.

A child in peace at home with God,
safe within the love of God.

I am but a child.

Our Sums

There was a boy. Hmmm, I seem to always have that in my brain when I decide to come here and write. There was always a boy, in my head, in the air, everywhere and no where, never ever anywhere. In the nothingness that lies between the particles that make us up is where we really reside, that is where we really exist. All we really are is the sum of the impressions and impacts we have on the things we perceive.

Starfish and Peace

What is the dancing in my head. It makes me recall the Dancing Wu Li Masters, a book by Gary Zukov that makes an association between Eastern mystic ideas and observations from modern 20th century physics. "Wu li" can be translated as "patterns of organic energy." It is the Chinese phrase of "physics."

I was just imagining walking along the beach and that always reminds me of a story about a girl once on a beach. She was a sweet, little girl, may be five years old. I don't remember where I heard the story, maybe at a homily one Sunday mass, and I don't know where that storyteller heard it. The beach was completely covered as far as one could see with bright red starfish, thousands and thousands of them, maybe even millions, that had all washed up on to the shore. The sun was hot and baking down on the starfish and they would soon die from the heat and from drying out. The girl ran down and started picking them up one by one and throwing them out back into the sea as fast as she could, getting as many as she possibly could. There was a nun walking along the shore that came up on this girl trying to save these sea creatures. The nun said that it was a futile effort to try and save these starfish; there are so many she could never hope to save them and what difference could she possible make, just one little girl and so many starfish. The girl responded, holding up one in her hand, and said "It makes a difference to this one."

In our lives, there a thousands of people all around us, and billions in all the world. For most of us, as individuals, we could never hope to aspire to bring about world peace, or in even peace within own community. But, if we live with the aim of being peaceful all the time with everyone, then it WILL make a difference to each person we encounter. And, unless we strive to be peaceful with everyone, then our peace with those we do choose will be compromised.

Just my 2¢ on this day of memory.

Daze

There was a boy, a very pretty boy who saw nothing but that was in his head. It danced; it played; it never went around so much as in a daze. The daze was high; the daze was low. It went 'round and 'round about so much it spun around his head. It was such a pretty sight, that very pretty little boy. The daze was him, and they were one. The daze is all and all are one. We're such a very pretty thing, all of us in all our heads. We're never alone; we always have the one's we love. They're in our heads; we keep them there. They guide our thoughts along our paths. The paths we chose are never bound by those we love. They guide us in our thoughts but we can chose to go our way. The way is ours to guide and turn; it's there for us to find our daze, the daze that's all we have our own. The daze is who we are, it's what are for all in all.

Humans

In the beginning there was man. Some might say that, no, that's not right because in the beginning there was God. But, that is decidedly not right. A beginning implies a boundary in time; God has no boundaries; a beginning cannot be applied to God. For us, humankind, there is no universe before our existence. So, the beginning for us is us. So, in that beginning, there was a creature that may resemble us today, but lived in a very different way. There was a pond by the cave fed by springs that bubbled up from beneath the rocky floor which was the extent of their existence. The floor was surrounded by a circular ridge out of which caves had been hewn before memory for their shelter. No one as could be recollected had ever ventured outside of the refuge and safety of their encircled domain. There was fish in the pond and fruit in the trees that provided all they needed.

Fear

Tonight there's a rain storm outside Well, not really, I just sort of wish there was. The sound of the falling rain is soothing. The thunder and lightening, especially when it crashes loud and sudden, in a weird sort of way, makes me feel more secure inside. When there isn't a storm going on, then being inside is no big deal; it's the same as being outside. But, when it's raging on all around outside, then I feel snug and secure inside. I've never lived through a tornado, so my sense of security inside is complete when the wind is howling, the hail is pounding and the rain is flooding. But, that leads to an aspect of my life that I've never really suffered, never really been traumatized. Life has been gentle to me. I imagine I'm walking down a street on a bright summer day. A car pulls of with a beautiful woman and I decide to go for a ride for her. I know where this is leading and it doesn't bother me at all. The time is some where far away like in a Twilight Zone episode. Everything I'm connected to now doesn't exist or is so unimportant it doesn't bother me to ignore anything that is significant in my life. It's like I'm under spell. Though I'm making a conscious, willing choice, it's as if I have no choice about the choice. Like Captain Kirk and the green Orion slave girl who put a spell on him. So, I'm going with this blonde. It's a like red convertable, Dodge Charger. We're off. I don't where I'm going, but excited at the thought of going some where for a tryst of forbidden sex that I cannot control. But, she turns into a monster. It could only be so. The alure was just a lure. I am blown away from the car far behind and fall on the pavement as the fiend drives away. I am battered and bruised and hurt like hell. But, no worse for the wear. It was all just a joke. Just a play on my senses. Lure with no control of my own to resist, then throw me back as in punishment for unfaithful thought. Not unfaithful to others perse, but unfaithful to my own sense of what is right for myself. Is this just a lesson, a moral play, to teach myself to always be true to myself. But, no, that can't be it because I had no control. Is it to be more steadfast in what I believe so I can have more control when encountering great temptation. Why is there fear? Where is the fear?

"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain."
--- Frank Herbert, Dune - Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear

Maybe the story was because I was titilated by fear. Or am I just rationalizing. There was definitely fear. Fear of being caught in something I wasn't supposed to be doing. Maybe I shouldn't have been afraid even though I was doing something I wasn't supposed to doing. Always be confident about what I believe even if it is wrong. I know what it is. Don't be afraid to do what I think is the thing I should be doing at any given moment. But, to be able to attain that confidence I must know myself well so I can trust myself. I must come to know myself so that I will not be afraid to trust myself.

The Boy and the Volcano

There was a boy looking up at a cone shaped mountain. It was an old volcano and I don't know if he knew what that was or what it meant. The room was dark as he looked out through the high up dirty window, looking dark more so because of the bright sunny day outside. He wanted to climb up to see what was on top. But, he was supposed to stay in his room. All that was inside was his toy soldiers. He'd long grown tired of them because in the real world they could only portend death and destruction, ruined and bloodied lives for ever shattered and never to be put back the same again. He missed his mother, but he didn't know why. All he knew is that he was empty inside. The men had come and taken her away screaming and kicking. He couldn't understand why she was so frantic. He was numb at the time and didn't understand what was happening, that more than anything she could not stand the pain inside her caused by the prospect of being separated and unable to protect him. Still, that volcano loomed outside. It hadn't erupted in decades, maybe even centuries; no one could remember anymore. No one even ever imagined that it would ever erupt. It's stoic appearance never changing; it would not be right for it to erupt. But, erupt it did. With such a vengeance just like the vengeance of war. It was indignant at being forgotten, at never being feared again. It wanted, no deserved, to have the respect of the town people. It had looked over them for centuries, never allowing any bad fate to become of them. Yet, they had no thanks, no appreciation for its stewardship. The boy never saw it coming just like he never saw the men coming to take his mother away. It was all a dream from which he would never awake. It was as if he was never born. Except his mother, still alive in a far away land would never know the emptiness inside her could never be made whole again because her baby could never come home to her. She never lost hope until that fateful night when she screamed "Bloody Murder!" at the top of her lungs and her heart burst from the agonizing pain of her separation from her only son, her only child begotten by a man she had despised all her life. She was so tormented by the deep love she had for her son in conflict knowing he was the prodigy of everything she saw as evil in her universe. She so longed for escape and it had not come through all the years until the pain was so intense it ripped her heart to shreds. She left in such an agonized and unbearable fit that any memory of her would evoke such pain as to bring deep, deep melancholy. So, this is the story of the boy looking up at the volcano. If there is a moral here, I don't know what it is. If there is any insight or enlightenment to be had, it can only come from your heart for the heart which wrote this story may have insight and enlightenment for its bearer, but only your heart contains what is meant for you.