Roots of Heaven reside within all life should it pray for realization day & night. Not by ritual or rote but by ordinary life itself. And those we call family is all life.
“You are a little soul carrying around a corpse.“ - Epictetus
I scarcely know myself as I was or will become. Never totally a lump but nearly more so than ever before. Since the peace I know is certain and eternal--extending before and after this corpse I inhabit.
Sensing now the way between Heaven and Earth is fraught with what we must do for ourselves leaving the Author of Life to other greater matters.
For myself I wonder wandering through the many suggestions of M. Actually few in number but having great impact. First was hospice service and when retired from that she suggests now that I write a ‘book.’ But my sense is that in my wildest daydreams I do imagine something fictional, a sugar coated pill as anodyne, take one and call me if the distress continues, an aspirin for our life's and times. Episodic seems more representative of my way; the journey that brings me to today: eternal in a moment continuity. Poetry seems better for those moments of ecstasy; few since The Massacre at Newtown.
To speak of the art or craft: writing now seems not the effort to record so much as the effort to see what is, as it is, and not as I would wish to see it. Else the ideal would fall flat as some sort of conceit and aggregation of ambition. Factually I am happy with these maundering I do from day to the day as enough. Save in the sense I continue to grieve for the parents and those who like me, as I was, still wander blindly through life. Living not but merely subsistence existence.
Oddly?! My eye wandering across the multitasked window before me fell upon: “God has many names, though He is only one Being.” - Aristotle . . . and I would speak of that: the many names and ways we are inspired to live, long or short, in these closing times of love as we knew it. . . .in ecstasy or agony I would know and celebrate it all now.
Neither noun, love nor God, but verbs as living and giving never epitaph or graven. As nature ever renewing evolving into what is to become. Never remedial. . . .what do I inflict or infer? The children murdered are fine but their parents and the society which allowed the crime is challenged. I seek the motive not the method seeing prayerfully those who forgave their assassins in the act not by ritual but reality. In some sense, deeply, we’ve slain the earth.
“Acceptance of what has happened is the first step to overcoming the consequences of any misfortune.” - William James
. . . I integrate what I find: an interplay between what I write and discover . . . coincident? No. Serendipity or Synchronicity. I’ve yet to discover a single ark, covanential or floating zoo, within which to place exclusively/discretely all my trust. No single religion or governance worthy exclusively for all my thoughts. All institutions, like myself, have a lifespan; a beginning, middle and end.
I once feared being apostate to myself; failing all ideals briefly or however long held. But now I have no concerns for myself since I sense this biodegradable self-motivated and educated thing rides upon the winds before and after all that is. No one special or unique since what I advocate is within all life and best defined by one word: love. Add kindness and life as love is possible.
130207 05:39 roots of heaven
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