Morning Trip (273)

“We find ourselves torn by confusion, by conflict, by affirmation and denial, by emotion congested by fear, congealed by pride. We are afraid of the Universe in which we live, suspicious of people around us, uncertain of the salvation of our own souls. All these things negatively react and cause physical disorders.

Nature seems to await our comprehension of her and, since she is governed by immutable laws–the ignorance of which excuses no man from their effects–the bondage of humanity must be a result of our ignorance of the true nature of Reality. The storehouse of Nature may be filed with good, but this good is locked to the ignorant. The key to this door is held in the mind of Intelligence, working in accordance with Universal Law. Through experience, man learns what is really good and satisfying, what is truly worthwhile. As his intelligence increases, and his capacity to understand the subtle laws of Nature grows, he will gradually be set free. As he learns the Truth, the Truth will automatically free him.

When we learn to trust the Universe, we shall be happy,prosperous, and well. We must learn to come under that Divine Government, and accept the fact that Nature’s table is ever filled. Never was there a Cosmic famine. ‘The finite alone has wrought and suffered, the Infinite lies stretched in smiling repose.’ God is always God. No matter what our emotional storm, or what our objective situation, may be, there is always a something hidden in the inner being that has never been violated. We may stumble, but always there is that Eternal Voice, forever whispering within our ear, that thing which causes the eternal quest, that thing which forever sings and sings.”
–Ernest Holmes, The Science of Mind

Doors and The Things That Matter

“A writer’s inner life matters: it is hard to imagine that anything matters more. Nor is this inner life something that anyone else is privy to, unless and until the writer wants to share it. It is a private, secret hotbed of activity, an unruly, unquiet, unholy cauldron bubbling with the best and the worst thoughts a person can think.”
– Eric Maisel

What if it’s worn on a sleeve, pushing right through the front door, mask-less, the manner in which is said to be ideal? What if the owner of the door is blind to all things that do not fulfill expectations and visions of front door behaviors. Is taking what comes then, being naive? is it only understanding and taking in energy on the expected level? If all that comes with me that I express, shows each facet as I turn in the Sun a succession, an ever changing view as I breathe in and out, as I adapt to circumstance receiving, interpreting, and feeding back messages of word and of energy, appears to change because your view says stagnant, fixed, and boxed. Does that make me any less honest or even more funny–any less me?

Does our writer friend up there express facets of self in pure fiction to escape himself/herself? Does the friend attempt to determine what would be most of marketable interest to a particular target audience? Does the friend just talk to himself/herself and not care at all of these return impressions? When one limits the approach of a human by using words like ‘use the front door’, do they provide their own rules and expectations as such so that one may choose to provide or to refuse? or are they simply afraid to state their needs and tell you they are sizing you up with prejudice or fears?

Does this idea all go back to honesty? trust? valuation? weights and measures? Or, is it something else? I’m enjoying the ride and am glad for continuing to grow and to share my view. It is your choice to meet me or not.


Morning Trip (31)

I’VE watched you now a full half-hour;
Self-poised upon that yellow flower
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!–not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard-ground is ours;                                                              10
My trees they are, my Sister’s flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We’ll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.                                                                                 1801.”
–William Wordsworth