Friday, March 26, 2010

Your Story is Important, Learning to Write It

Life is like onions, one layer after another. And learning to realize that everything adds flavor to life so savor it all. And do not be afraid. There is only one you and we each our living only our story.

My birthday is fast approaching. And this year it falls on Easter Sunday, and I was born on Good Friday. The old children's rhyme comes to mind

Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace,
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go,
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child works hard for a living,
But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

My gift to myself for this birthday is to be brave enough to follow one of my dreams. The dream of sharing stories and the wonder of them all.

So I will begin, with a lesson on writing

All creative processes, be they in literature, engineering, computing – and even in love – always respect the same rules: the cycle of nature. Here is a list of the stages along this process:

a] ploughing the field: the moment the soil is turned, oxygen penetrates places it was unable to previously. The field gets a fresh look, the earth which was on top is now below, and that which was underneath has come to the surface. This process of interior revolution is very important – because, just as the field’s new look will see sunlight for the first time, and be dazzled by it, a new assessment of our values will allow us to see life innocently, without ingenuity. Thus we will be prepared for the miracle of inspiration. A good creator must know how to continually turn over his values, and never be content with that which he believes he understands.

b] sowing: all work is the fruit of contact with life. A creative man cannot lock himself in an ivory tower; he must be in contact with his fellow men, and share his human condition. He never knows, at the outset, which things will be important to him in the future, so the more intense his life is, the more possibilities he will create for an original language. Le Corbusier said that: as long as man tried to fly by imitating birds, he couldn’t succeed. The same applies to the artist: although he translates emotions, the language he is translating is not fully understood by him, and if he tries to imitate or control his inspiration, he will never obtain that which he desires. He must allow his life to sow the fertile soil of his unconscious.

c] growth: there is a time in which the work writes itself, freely, at the bottom of the author’s soul – before it dares show itself. In the case of literature, for example, the book influences the writer, and vice versa. It is this moment which the Brazilian poet Carlos Drummond de Andrade refers to, when he states that we should never try to recover lost verses, for they never deserved to see the light of day. I know people who, during a growth period, spend their whole time furiously taking notes on everything which comes into their head, without respecting that which is being written in the unconscious. The result is that the notes, which are the fruit of memory, end up disturbing the fruit of inspiration. The creator must respect the time of gestation, although he knows – just like the farmer – that he is only partially in control of his field; it is subject to drought and floods. But if he knows how to wait, the stronger plants, which can resist bad weather, will come to light with great force.

d] the harvest: the moment when man manifests on a conscious plane that which he sowed and allowed to grow. If he harvests early, the fruit is green, if he harvests late, the fruit is rotten. Every artist recognizes the arrival of this moment; although some aspects may not have matured fully, some ideas not be crystal clear, they reorganize themselves as the work is produced. Without fear and with great discipline, he understands that he must work from dawn to dusk, until the work is finished.

And what to do with the results of the harvest? Again, we look to Mother Nature: she shares everything with everyone. An artist who wishes to keep his work to himself, is not being fair with that which he received from the present moment, nor with the inheritance and teachings of his forefathers. If we leave the grain stored in the granary, it will go bad, even though it was harvested at the right time. When the harvest is over, the time comes to share, without fear or shame, your own soul.

That is the artist’s mission, however painful or glorious.
By Paulo Coelho  The Creative Process

And the Easter Egg that led me to these thoughts was remembering the story of Harry Potter and it's author JK Rowling. Some stories have the power of alchemy. The great secret of life. To make gold out of lead.

It is because of Love that Snape went from a man who was bent down, spying at
doorways, to a man who could make his own plan and literally fly on his own.

Let's see...Lily rejected her friend Severus, The Prince, for James, the Potter...Years later, Her son Harry loved the Prince's book so much he desperately hoped the Prince might be his Dad...isn't that a delicious bit of irony?

But Harry is still the magic mushroom for me. Think of all who were transformed by Harry, as agent-of-change. Dumbledore, Dudley, Dobby, Fred and George, Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, Sirius, Lupin, and probably others.

While I haven't undergone a personal spiritual transformation, reading 'Harry Potter' and puzzling out the ideas and discussing them over the years have brought about a shift in attitudes and perceptions. If it happened to me, then it's possible that Ms Rowling planted the seed in everyone who read the story. Millions were given a potential for change. So I return again to what I've said so often, though not so recently, that the alchemist is Ms Rowling, the Stone is Harry, and the process -Harry's story -

transforms us the readers.

Monday, March 22, 2010

The Doors - The Crystal Ship (classic version by George Winston)

Funny little things that happen in your life. I became friends with a young couple from California who ran away to Arkansas because the girl was pregnant and they were in love. Turns out they were involved with Jim Morrison and in some kind of big trouble over drugs. Jim and Julie. Funny the people that come in and out of your life. I wonder if you will meet them again and find out why.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

They only come out at night


The mind tends to ponder, reflect & decide,
on what happens in limbo at the end of this ride.
The subject is beyond what the senses detect,
who makes the crop circles and who can connect?

Those beyond this illusion are still here to provide,
signals and messages ...from the far other side.
It comes through those sensitive to the edge of the void,
crossing over to spirit ~ not a realm to avoid.

That place we must visit ...can't be just left to fear,
it's a look at your destiny when your mind becomes clear.
Those who have touched this and report back the facts,
are like guardian angels for the aware to contact.

What you've done with this life is all up to you...
see through illusion and toward a new view.
And when you are ready to gain the insight,
the 'secrets of all things' is revealed in clear light!

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Learning to trust who I am

I started this blog with the intention of posting my deepest thoughts and sharing those with others, who may or may not be interested and reverberate to the words that I type down on this page. Along the way I lost my way and became convinced that anything I had to say was cheap and not worth posting them. I was an uneducated know nothing who could not possibly say anything that anyone else would ever listen to. A girl who loved to get her feet dirty.

I forgot the most important thing that a journal or a blog is all about. Learning to listen to yourself and learning about who you are inside. Taking all those thoughts swimming around in the endless stream of you and placing them here to look at. I was housecleaning my computer and came across several journal posts that never made it to this blog. But starting today they will and who cares if I can't put commas in the right spot or maybe use too many predicates, whatever the hell those are, I am writing to myself about myself to learn that inside me is someone I really love. And I should trust who I am and what I have to say.

It ever was, and is, and shall be,
Ever-living Fire, in measures being
Kindled and in measures going out.


Been hunkered down here in the cold, frozen artic tundra of Chicago. Thinking and thinking some more.

Days of cold and special sadness. December 6th was the 3 year anniversary of Meagan’s death. And I sat in my gloominess when I should have called and extended my heart to my brother. I didn’t and I missed an opportunity to do some good.

Today, of course is Pearl Harbor Day. Bob and I stood on the USS Arizona. Stood crowded shoulder to shoulder next to many Japanese. It felt eerie, but calming. All those dead men under our feet and here we were now standing together, sharing the pain and utter uselessness of killing each other. I made eye contact with an older Japanese gentleman and he sent me a look of warmth and a questing look of brotherhood.

Tomorrow is the 25th anniversary of the murder of John Lennon. I find it incredibly hard to believe that it has been 25 years. Seems like only yesterday.

I have retreated to my books. Ran across my old dog-eared copy of the works of Annie Dillard. Sinking in to her writing is like sinking in to a warm bath. I return to her words constantly and find myself, my thoughts mirrored with hers. She simply writes in a daily journal style and her thoughts on this fire – this “life”.

“ I used to have a cat, an old fighting tom, who would jump through the open window by my bed in the middle of the night and land on my chest. I’d half-awaken. He’d stick his skull under my nose and purr, stinking of urine and blood. Some nights he kneaded my bare chest with his front paws, powerfully, arching his back, as if sharpening his claws, or pummeling a mother for her milk. And some mornings I’d wake in daylight to find my body covered with paw prints in blood; I looked as though I’d been painted with roses.

It was hot, so hot the mirror felt warm. I washed before the mirror in a daze, my twisted summer sleep still hung about me like sea kelp. What blood was this, and what roses? It could have been the rose of union, the blood of murder, or the rose of beauty bare and the blood of some unspeakable sacrifice or birth. The sign on my body could have been an emblem or a stain, the keys to the kingdom or the mark of Cain. I never knew as I washed, and the blood streaked, faded, and finally disappeared, whether I’d purified myself or ruined the blood sign of the Passover. We wake, if we ever wake at all, to mystery, rumors of death, beauty, violence…….”Seems like we’re just set down here,” said a woman to me recently, “and don’t nobody know why.”

The secret answer to it all is hidden in those few words. Life is thought. Life is all about how we perceive it. The simple secret answer is to be quiet and still and let the beauty come to you. You don’t need a preacher or a church, you only need yourself.

On my trips outside the past few days with the dogs, the hawk has been in one of the many trees in our yard. My eyes always find him. He is magnificent.

At night as I look up at the moon each night, it has been perfectly positioned on the top of our house with the two trees in the backyard silhouetting it. Off to the right is a big, buttery yellow star, that I think is Orion. To me it seems that it could be the Star of Bethelem. It twinkles and glows warmly at me. The moonshine shimmers over the snow, twinkling like a million other stars.

As Annie Dillard watched a mockingbird free fall thirty two stories to land with exact deliberate care and float onto the ground spreading his elegant wings with broad bands of white; the old philosophical conundrum about the tree that falls in the forest – and her thoughts which so mirror mine –

“The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.”

The internet must have 2 billion conspiracy web sites. I bet that I have visited everyone of them. Thought is a precious thing, a miracle. Why waste it and live in the reality of despair and hatred that is found there.

Just be happy –

For John –

“I still belive in love, peace .. I still believe in positive thinking. While there’s life there’s hope. I always considered my work one piece, and I consider that my work won’t be finished until I’m dead and buried, and I hope that’s a long, long time”
John Lennon 1980

We all Shine On

SCIENTIFIC PANTHEISM is the belief that the universe and nature are divine. It fuses religion and science, and concern for humans with concern for nature. It provides the most realistic concept of life after death, and the most solid basis for environmental ethics. It is a religion that requires no faith other than common sense, no revelation other than open eyes and a mind open to evidence, no guru other than your own self.

Sunday, March 07, 2010

The Rosslyn Stave Angel - Music Cipher

I love this message that was left at the youtube site:

The secret isn't in the sound itself, or the "geo"metric shapes it produces. The symbols themselves hint at the true construction of this planet, and the sound represents the planet being "Spoken" meaning vibrational sound, into its present hidden form.

Ahh, what the scientists don't tell you makes a "world" of difference...............