Wednesday, September 22, 2010
What if, Connie , loneliness was simply a feeling of impatience, telepathically sent to you by friends you've yet to meet, urging you to go out more, do more, and get involved, so that life's serendipities could bring you together... Would you still feel alone?
What if illness was just the signal a healthy body sent to urge clarification of your thoughts, feelings, and dreams... Would you still, at times, think of yours as diseased?
What if feelings of uncertainty and confusion were only reminders that you have options, that there's no hurry, and that everything is as it should be... Would you still feel disadvantaged?
What if mistakes and failures only ever happened when your life was about to get better than it's ever been before... Would you still call them mistakes and failures?
And what if poverty and lack were simply demonstrations of your manifesting prowess, as "difficult" to acquire as wealth and abundance... Would they still cause you to feel powerless?
Well, whatever you feel, Connie , I still consider you my only begotten, my champion, and my equal.
Are we close, or what?
Friday, September 03, 2010
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - The Village Blacksmith
Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor. He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his haul, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.
Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing onward through life we go, each burning deed and thought creating ourselves and our world in which if we are lucky one day we wipe the fog from our eyes and begin to see the divine in all.
Nurturance of Life
Life, in this definition, is an individual's sovereign reality. It is subjective and impressionable. Life is the wholeness of experience flowing past the individual's field of perception in the present moment. Nurturance of life is the principle whereby an individual is in alignment with the natural expansion of intelligence inherent within all life. This alignment enhances the life energy that flows past the individual with the clear intent of gentle support. It is the action of opening to the highest motive in all people and in all life and supporting the flow of this highest intention towards its ultimate expression. In so doing, the action is performed without judgment, analysis, or attachment to outcome. It involves simply nurturing the highest energy that flows from all people and thus supporting the fullest expression of their deepest essence.