Poetry is When Love Soars

Many people have asked me why I prefer to write poetry over fictional stories. Why, they wonder, do I choose the more difficult of the creative writing genre? Poetry is, as most realize, an acquired taste.  I choose it because it is a taste not only that I enjoy, but it is a taste that takes me outside of what I immediately perceive as possible. Poetry to me, unlike fiction, takes me deeper into the mysteries of life, in places that are not readily expressed or easily accessed. These are the places where there are hidden treasures unspoken, forbidden, or lost. They have been untouched by language, music, or even breath. Poetry takes us to the strange and uncanny, because it is strange. Because we are strange. Because love is strange.

So poetry is not more difficult. It just takes us to a place where we are not used to going, but we can go there, if we want to and we try. Going there, in fact, will take us into places within ourselves that we only dreamed of, places where anxiety, depression, emotional problems melt away. And why do they melt away? Because we will finally find ourselves at home, in a place where we belong. All it requires is a shift in consciousness from this third-dimensional reality that we think is reality, the reality that we think is hard and difficult and loveless, full of war, and pain and suffering and delusion. That reality, that reality, is the one that is not real. The true reality, the place where poetry blooms, is a place where the delusion unfolds into something magical, breathtaking, cosmic, and full of divine grace, where even the greatest pain in your life makes sense and where all the death and misery holds a key to not only truth but bliss, not only for you, but for all.

For the places where poetry can grow are untouched. These places are accessed from within you and they are as the purest water or purest air. They are the scared places of the world, and they are accessed from within our heart spaces, through the soul, in the light of what many call Source light. The subject matter of poetry cannot be seen within the three-dimensional form of light that bathes this lower world. No. Poetry has the multiverse and the multidimensional as its subject matter: the place where true creation happens. Science, fiction, stories that reject poetry: all of these can be wonderful, but they spend their time on creating more stories in this world, the world in which we suffer, not the world as the world that is our true heaven, the birthright of all. And that is why poetry makes people uncomfortable. Poetry calls into our own multi-dimensional intuition of ourselves; that part of us that makes us a bit uncomfortable, because we know on subconscious level, that the life we see through the five senses and this mind that analyzes them is living in a lie, a virtual world that has no meaning in and of itself. It is difficult for people to want to face that truth, although we enjoy movies that suggest it like the Matrix, which minimally dances with poetry. Plato as well spent his life working in the “matrix” and helping students who were willing to rise above it, from a life of victim-hood and suffering, to a life of wonder and goodness and true consciousness.

Furthermore, poetry calls us to speak in ways that we do not usually speak. It seems to speak in riddles that are deliberately designed to be obscure and strange, like a puzzle that takes a tremendous amount of effort to unfold. But that is just it. It is a puzzle, this mystery, this love, and if the poet makes the mystery too clear and recognizable, the curiosity will never be evoked, the wonder, the desire to seek into the stranger regions of life. A poet that writes with clarity is not writing poetry. He is generally writing impressions or feelings. Still the poet will strive to make the mystery clear, by evoking the questions as accurately as possible. The questions are more beautiful than the answers, after all. And what question is greater than the question of love, of life, of your life, itself?

But know that there is nothing wrong with expressing beautiful feelings and impressions clearly in the world. Yet that is the state of our reality now, in the third dimension. We have psychology to feed us clear explanations of why we feel a certain way. We have clear solutions like drugs and therapy that tell us that they will make us feel better. Psychology gives a story to explain our suffering in an intellectual way and paints a very crude picture of the nature of the pain and pleasure within us. But do they take us closer to who we are, or further away? Do we not begin to feel numb, a numbness that simply trains itself to be content with a life of longing, regret, chasing desires or trying to suppress them? A life of dreams cast aside, deep sadness and resignation subdued only by inane distractions and self-righteous justifications. We no longer have time for love or poetry. We no longer have time for ourselves.

But still poetry beckons us back to the mystery of life, that child-like energy that brings back to the magic, the excitement and the power within ourselves, within others, within the whole world. Simply, it is the energy that makes it exciting to get up in the morning, not because you are going to Disney World, but because you are simply alive. Poetry, in short, is the flower of that kind of life, the love of the world, and reveals the human attempt and effort to express what is not easily expressed because true love leaves us bewildered and baffled and dumbfounded. Love, like poetry, is a playing on the very limits of language itself, and is always threatening, upon every verse, to push us over the edge into the void of time and space; for that is who we truly are, standing ever on the edge with one foot holding on to the delusions of our life, and the other hanging in mid-air, waiting for the wings to finally grow. But we truly don’t need to wait. We can just step off, for that is when the wings will grow, not before and not after. For now is the only time when love can soar.


I cannot clearly say how I had entered
the wood; I was so full of sleep just at
the point where I abandoned the true path.


Your life is but your dream. How we think of ourselves, others, and our interactions are all played out inside your dream. How we regard others and our relationship to them, is all based inside your dream. But the most amazing thing about your dream, is that it is a shared dream. And in this dream appears all our world and all that is living in the world. In this dream appears our good and our bad, our ugly and our beautiful, our right and our wrong. Yes, you are dreaming now. Can you hear what I am saying while you are dreaming?

We do not ask where this dream comes from, because we believe it is just this way and because we are in it. We do not ask if perhaps we are dreaming, because we would feel to be wasting our time in such philosophical musings. For if you were a sea creature who never experienced the surface of the sea, the land, the air, or the sun, you would find it laughable to imagine anything outside of that sea. “Impossible!”, you would say. “I could not even live outside of this sea.” In fact, you would think that anything outside the sea was a dream, and that the sea itself was life.

Now there is a very powerful river that flows beneath the bottom of the dream, as a river of the underworld, and in this river, hidden, dark, and turgid, lives all the shadows and spirits who have helped you create and support this dream that you are now dreaming. These are called Dream Weavers. You do not know these Dream Weavers until you have traveled, like the maiden Persephone or a Shaman, through that dark river of the underworld. For when you arrive there, you would see exactly how they make the dream that you believe to be your life. But until that time, you believe that life is truly as you experience it and could be nothing else under the light of the sun.

However, although most cannot see them, the influence of the Dream Weavers and the power of that river does not completely escape you. When that great river swells with the storms that fall upon it – for there are wild storms of fire and brimstone down below- you begin to experience a sense of unrest and disease. Sometimes the swell and discomfort is so great, your dream starts to feel like a nightmare or perhaps an earthquake. People become disfigured. You are frightened. Love turns into fear and the beautiful turns sour. You feel that you must do something quick and urgent. Sometimes you will consult others in the dream for help, and they will tell you exactly what you want to hear, for the strange thing about dreams is that we only talk to ourselves. Everyone else in our dream is just an aspect of our own reflection. We are truly alone in the dream, even when it seems that we are not.

But, of course, feeling that fear – no matter how great – and discomfort still doesn’t convince you to let go of the dream. For you are the sea creature experiencing your sea. In fact, the discomfort is what allows the dream to survive. For the pleasant and the unpleasant are also part of the dream, and all you think you have to do is run from what is painful and run towards what is pleasant. This activity, will allow you to escape the nightmare.

Many times, people help others escape their nightmares as well. There is pleasure in great numbers; for the dream feels more real when more people appear to agree about it and that gives us the greatest sense of pleasure, to be agreed with. The greatest sense of pain comes when most do not agree with us. And this is the true motivation behind pleasure seeking. We are always running from the nightmare, and we are ever running towards what seems to protect us from that nightmare. The pleasures show up in the form of people, places, things, substances. The pains or nightmares also show up in those same shapes, only in an unpleasant manner. But whatever our pleasure is, we become addicted to it, like a child becomes addicted to a blanket and a favorite toy because it removes the monsters beneath the bed.

Now this kind of life, the running from pain and the seeking of pleasure is what we consider to be the normal activity of life, and so we just accept any discomfort, pain, and disease that we feel as if it were “normal”. But the truth is that we are generating so much energy with our fears and our desires, that we no longer have the power to escape the dream. Many do not even have the mental power to challenge it. Now the Dream Weavers who live in the dark and turgid river love this, because they need energy to create your dream. Your restless and constant activity in the dream feeds the energy required for them to make your dream. Some people have become so distraught from the running and chasing that they become anxious and call themselves victims of anxiety. And they do suffer anxiety, but it is due to their own participation in the dream. Every time they give attention to any part of the dream, they are feeding the Dream Weavers. And the Dream Weavers use that food to create more of the dream. On and on it goes, the circle of life, the circle of feeding, the circle of absurdity.

So, you ask, “How can I escape this?”. Well, there are many ways to describe the route, but there is only one true path. Many wise humans have attempted to teach humanity about the way to master and escape the dream. Mastery of the dream is the mastery of life and the key to living powerfully. People attempt to learn the art of Zen, the Tao, Yoga, the teachings of the mystery schools, spiritual teachings of all sorts. Very few, however, have become masters. But that is changing. More and more people are become aware of the dream and how it has led them astray.

The ancient masters teach that if you overcome all pain and pleasure, the chase and the running, you will no longer feed the dream. All of that power that you gave to the dream will be returned to you, and in returning to you, you will help others to return their power as well. For you will have collapsed that part of the dream that they shared with you. You will set yourself and all of them who are willing, free. Then and only then will we be able to create a new dream, one free of the pain and struggle that we have learned to accept, like slaves who have accepted their bondage.

For if we stop feeding the dream, that river that flows beneath the dream will grow thin and weak, and eventually will dry up from all the fires that blaze around it. The Dream Weaver spirits will evaporate into the void, and you alone will be what remains. You will be the only one left to create the dream that you thought was so impossible in the dream you were in before. Finally, you will get to choose the people, the places and the things for your dream. No longer will you be controlled by the Dream Weavers. No longer will the nightmares fuel their insatiable hunger for your energy. No. Now all of what you are will be as the butterflies who dance around the sacred thorny rose.

Eternal Light, You only dwell within
Yourself, and only You know You; Self-knowing,
Self-known, You love and smile upon Yourself!


Tada drastuh svarupe vasthanam
Then the seer abides in it own nature


The Gift of Writer’s Block

Dialogue is the digestive system of the spirit.

That is right. You read correctly. This piece is about the gift of the notorious writer’s block. However, if you look up the definition of writer’s block, it almost sounds like a disease. Read this from Wikipedia:

Writer’s block is a condition, primarily associated with writing, in which an author loses the ability to produce new work, or experiences a creative slowdown. This loss of ability to write and produce new work is not a result of commitment problems or lack of writing skills. The condition ranges from difficulty in coming up with original ideas to being unable to produce a work for years. Writer’s block is not solely measured by time passing without writing. It is measured by time passing without productivity in the task at hand.

Wikipedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Writer%27s_block.

There are countless books, articles, and videos about how to beat writer’s block. But most of them – I can’t speak for all – do not see writer’s block as something good or as something healthy, let alone a blessing. However, I say that is a great blessing. Writer’s block, far from being something we need to get rid of, is something we need to pay attention to and explore, like a new friend or new lover. When we do that, when we open its door and listen to it, we will be surprised at what it has in store for us.

In this world, we have been well trained to identify afflictions just as we do with a mental or physical wound. In the medical field, this would be called making a diagnosis. We like diagnostics because it makes us feel like we understand what we are going through, and knowledge, as we like to say, is power. But I must wonder if knowledge is power if it is false knowledge. For example, there is another saying that we all know and think is true and that is the one that says “the first step to solving the problem is to identify the problem.”  But what if that saying and all the beliefs and habits stemming from it are completely wrong? What if the cause of the problem is in the very identification of it? What if our diagnosis is what makes the problem even more complicated that it has to be?  What if we are making a monster out of a hamster, and so rendering ourselves incompetent to handle the hamster (for how can we nurture a hamster if we think it is monster?). It is my assertion – and not just in the case of writer’s block – that our diagnosis of what we think is wrong is what causes, not the initial discomfort or issue, but the persistence of that issue.

So let’s try it. Consider that you have just diagnosed yourself with “writer’s block”. You are sitting at your desk or with your laptop or pencil in hand, and yet the ideas are just not flowing. They are confused or tired or used up.  You get a coffee, thinking maybe you just need a pick me up. You try reading to see if you can get some ideas going. You try just writing anything at all to see if an inspiration will suddenly appear, like mana from the heavens.  But even when an idea might seem promising, it never goes anywhere. The idea and feeling of writer’s block weighs heavier and heavier upon your heart, and you toss and you turn from the inside out, like someone who is afraid they will not fall asleep and so keeps themselves awake for hours on end, worrying about how they will ever stop the worrying that is keeping them awake. It is a train with no destination or with a destination that finds itself at the beginning again, and furthermore, it is a train that is being driven by an ever-increasing desire to just do something productive. When you have a desperate need to be productive, you know you have lost all capacity for productivity.

And this is where hopelessness can be seen, looming upon the horizon. Some of us become sad; some, angry; others google “writer’s block how to get rid of”. Others might just now how to brutally push writer’s block aside and churn something out that is as satisfying as a piece of cheese for Christmas dinner.

But here is the truth. Writer’s block is not a disease. It is not a bad thing. It is not something you need to find a remedy for. Yes, writer’s block is not your enemy. Writer’s block is actually your friend. However, it is the friend that is brutally honest, the one that will never tell you a lie, and the one that is asking you to dig deeper.  If you do your quick search on google you will see tons of content about “beating writer’s block” or how to “combat writer’s block”, or my favorite, “five neat tricks on how to get rid of writer’s block”.  It seems like most people on the internet think that writer’s block is the enemy.  But here is where I remind you about that other saying which says “what you resist, persists.” That one is absolutely true.

Let’s backtrack a little bit. Writer’s block didn’t start out as writer’s block. It actually was something else before you named it. What it was at first was simply a situation where you were having trouble getting ideas to flow from inspiration to paper. That’s it. And that trouble is what you fear most of all, and once you fear it, it grows out of proportion, like the child who insists there are monster beneath the bed no matter what anyone tells her. And the more evidence she hears, the more the wind knocks the trees against the windowpane, the more her fears grow, and to such an extent that she runs out of the room and into her parents’ bed. Fear makes us run for cover. When we sense that we might be stuck, that we can’t do it, or that something is blocking our path, we get scared. All sorts of fear-based stuff floods our subconscious in ways that we cannot begin to imagine, and then only later does it flood into our conscious, where we identify it simply as “writer’s block” and convince ourselves that is something that must be defeated at all costs.

So much of being adult is hiding our subconscious fears to make us look like we can handle it. Eventually we all drown. But I digress.

Then, out come the boxing gloves and you are ready to make war upon the writer’s block. At this point, you are in defensive stance.  But the more you take this defensive stance and the corresponding tactics, the more difficult it will become in its mode of offense. And even if you try to make a truce, you are still just making a truce with a much hated and feared enemy.  That enemy will always return and with more force and even more reinforcements. You are just delaying the inevitable when you do this. “But,” you might ask, “what is the inevitable? Is it the end of my writing career or the end of my dream of one?” No. The inevitable is the confrontation of the real problem, which is not writer’s block, but what writer’s block wants to offer you. Yes, writer’s block comes with many gifts, and until you understand that, it will constantly be knocking at your door. It will always be there for you, waiting to be invited in for tea, and unlike an ex-partner or ex-friend, writer’s block will never leave your side. It will never set you free. And that is simply because it loves you and desperately needs you to give it the time of day.  It is that kind of pain in the ass friend that will never give up on you even when you scream at it, kick it, and curse it to hell.

So, what is this gift? What is your friend trying to tell you?  Well, that is a question best for you to answer. But I will give you the most obvious and general points. First and foremost, writer’s block is telling you to stop writing. Yes, stop writing. I know, I know. All the articles say “WRITE AT ALL COSTS”. But I tell you, if you try to keep on writing, you are just going to make the writer’s block worse because you will be writing when you are not supposed to. “Well,” you ask, “who is telling me that I am not supposed to?”  And I answer that, truth be told, it is you telling yourself. Writer’s block is your subconscious way of telling your conscious self that you need to put down the pen.  But then you ask, “Why is that productive? I have a deadline! I have needs!” Well, imagine that you have a tiny plumber inside of you that always warns you when you have a blockage. Let’s now pretend that you ignore the tiny plumber one day when it tells you to stop eating what you have been eating, mostly because it is causing you digestive trouble. The plumber wants you to eat something else first so that you can clear yourself out and start fresh. It is kind of like that. You ignore him. You suffer more. I don’t need to tell you what you will have trouble getting rid of or what might come out. Writer’s block wants you to stop doing what you are doing so that you can do some much-needed maintenance work. Then, you can get cracking.

So what is the maintenance work? Is it five tips on how to get rid of writer’s block? No. Stop focusing on getting rid of the block. This is where it gets a little tricky because no one but you has the answer to this question. There is something you need to do or work with in order to clear some kind of blockage in your system. Vague, isn’t it?  But now that you know that writer’s block is your friend, you can legitimately start talking to it. Ask it what the problem is and really listen – turn the television or radio off. Turn off the internet and/or your phone. Get off social media. Just sit with your eyes closed and say hello to writer’s block. Give it a pleasant name. What does it feel like? Maybe it nags you or is angry – but consider that those who love you will nag at you or get angry especially when you treat them like common criminals. Start there. Then proceed into a real conversation – not one about the weather or how much time and money you don’t have, but more like a curious inquiry. What does it want to tell you? What do you need to do during this time of rest?  Let it give you the story. Behold! It might be more interesting than one of your stories.

This is a bit like meditation in that you must clear yourself of the anger or frustration with the writer’s block. Be willing to listen and to engage in discourse. Talk out loud if you have to. No one will hear except the dog or cat – hopefully. It also may be helpful to cover your eyes with an eye mask of some sort, just so you are not distracted by lights or figures. I don’t recommend soothing music as it is a distraction. Just begin with your heartbeat, and then your breath. Just listen. If you get uncomfortable and bored, notice that. You don’t like sitting with yourself. How can a writer not like sitting with themselves? This is strange, that I would not enjoy this. I sit with myself all the time, writing. Notice that discomfort. Try again. Be curious about the discomfort. Is there a relationship between the discomfort with myself and the writer’s block? Do we both annoy ourselves equally as much? Listen to the answer. Just listen. Repeat this, as if you were trying to get a child to sit still at the dinner table. It takes patience, kindness, and love to do this. Find that within yourself. If you can’t find that right now, that is okay. It is just more work to do, which is awesome, because originally with writer’s block, nothing was happening. Now you have something to focus on. Keep exploring until something starts to flow. Don’t expect this process to be comfortable. It isn’t and never will be. Comfort breeds familiarity and familiarity doesn’t breed what is fresh and new. Get to know your new friend, writer’s block.

Okay, so that was just a suggestion of what you can do to begin a relationship with writer’s block. At the core of writer’s block is simply you. You are the block. But it is not like you are doing this with conscious intention, just like your heart doesn’t beat because you are conscious of it. No. So much of our lives – in fact, most of it – is run subconsciously. And yet, when we are trying to fix writer’s block, we are using our conscious mind to “fix” the situation because it isn’t a desirable state to be in. We think we have to be constantly writing, ever inspired, ever flowing from the mouth of the nine muses. We know better, but we behave as if nature – our nature included – needs to abide by the publisher’s deadlines. Whatever it is we think we are supposed to be, we are not that – at all. We are more like the surface of an ocean that can barely see anything below it. Don’t even mention the bottom, because we will never experience that without dying first. So, relax, and begin looking at some of the benefits and gifts of writer’s block. I will start with just a few.

Friendly Reminders
Writer’s block is your subconscious way of saying take a breather. It is the subconscious wanting your conscious mind to engage it.  It also is suggesting that you are not utilizing your full potential. There is something stopping you from being the best writer you can be, and it isn’t writer’s block. If you keep persisting by trying to get rid of the writer’s block, it may move out of the way a little bit just because your ego is a battering ram, but it will be back later in full force. And one day it might bring one hundred battering rams. That brings us to the next point.

I’ll Be Back
Writer’s block teaches you that you can ignore it and kick it to the curb, but that this measure is only a temporary fix. It will be back, and better than ever: more prepared, and well-armed.  You will also notice that the more it returns, the more you can be sure that your creative juices will fall to a trickle. You may output the writing you want, but it is not going to inspire you.   You will then begin the process of looking for inspiration, which is better than fighting writer’s block. Maybe you will go on a vacation or just take a hike or learn something new – anything at all to get you out of everyday habits and behaviors. You might finally put down the pen and do something else. That is a good first step. Don’t do what some do: party, drink, drugs, sex. You know why.

This Wonderful Life
Writer’s block will always show you where you are stuck and so it will always show you where you need to open doors to let in more creative passion and inspiration. Once you get used to being friendly with it, instead of trying to combat it, you will be excited when it arrives. You will ask it where you can let in some more fresh air, and it will be glad to show you the way. Your creative output will increase exponentially as you do this more and more. It is not easy at first, but the more you do it, the easier it will become.

Expand your Mind and Heart
As you engage with writer’s block in a more powerful and loving manner, you will discover how it has allowed you to expand both your mind and your heart, into places you didn’t know were possible. You will become larger, more expansive in your viewpoints, and deeper in your storytelling. You took the time to meditate and dialogue with your inner voice and you will be rewarded with the proper flow of ideas, just like you are rewarded with healthy blood flow when you take care of your body. You will be amazed because you will get to a point where the “block” happens only for a few minutes, while the rest of the time, the ideas don’t stop flowing. You might have so many ideas that you won’t know what to do with them all. But that is a different sort of problem.

At the risk of become overly exhaustive and verbose, I will close this discussion here.  I do not profess to have solutions for solving individual issues of writer’s block, but I do hope that you take to heart the main point which is that that writer’s block is not something to fight against. It is not “bad”. It is not something you should ignore by trying to write through it and get to some imagined overflow of creative downstream. You are in your body. You are in your spirit. You are in the world. You are of this world, of nature, and her flow. Sometimes it is time to listen to what stops us, because what stops is comes as a friendly and loving warning or piece of advice. In world that encourages non-stop relentless work and the cultivation of an ego that takes no prisoners, we first might want to admit that we stand in the way of our dreams because we think we need to work so hard to have them, when the truth is the answers and the guidance are right there with us all along if we would stop, take a break, and give them the time of day to have a dialogue with us. All we have to do is listen, engage, and allow. Then all your gifts begin to flow in abundance.

Knowledge is Magic

[Perhaps] knowledge is born when memory and opinion find stillness.

Plato, Phaedo, 96b.

ἐπιστήμη (Greek): Knowledge. From ἐφίστημι: to set, establish, to institute. English “stand” from root – στη- (pronounced ‘stay’).

Knowledge may be the attempt of a stagnant pool in the midst of a running stream; an impossible possibility that takes all our energy to mentally create day after day, night after night. We trust it because it appears to stay the same, as long as our body is impervious or numb to the running currents swirling all around us, from above, from below, and all the way through. Knowledge is magic because it is not possible; it is magic because it is not impossible. It is always magic nonetheless.

Soul Messages

the messages you receive from your soul,
are not loud enough to withstand the din of the city,
nor are they from the mouths of friends, co-workers or gurus
they aren’t complex enough to require a manual,
but they aren’t accessible in Wikipedia or the internet;
you cannot click on them or find hyperlinks inside of them,
they only arrive as the fresh water arrives from the heavens,
when it is pure, clean and welcomed by the earth
when you are pure, clean and welcoming to the earth.

The Swan Song of Socrates

Living well means learning how to die, for when we are well prepared, due to proper guidance and education, to leave this body forever, we leave it not with fear or regret, but with wonder within our soul who has finally learned the power of eternal love that holds this cosmos together in this life and all other lives to come.


Excerpt from Plato’s Phaedo, 84e. Translation by Anastasia Harris.

It would be impossible to persuade other human beings that my present death sentence is a form of luck if I cannot persuade you two, Simmias and Cebes…yet I am not inferior to the swans in relation to prophecy when they sense that is time for them to die and upon that last hour before their death, they sing most beautifully and with great abundance, rejoicing that they are soon to arrive in the realm of the divine where they may be of service to the divine. Human beings, however, due to their fear of death, lie about the swans, and say that they are singing dirges in pain due to their death; but they do not understand that no bird sings when it is hungry or cold or experiences any kind of pain, not the nightingale; not the swallow; not the hoopoe, the birds they say who sing lamentations for their death. But these do not seem to me to sing lamentations, and neither do the swans, for I believe they are of Apollo, and are prophets and soothsayers who sing of the good things in the realm we cannot see, and they delight in that day of arrival there far more than in their previous time in life. I myself believe that I am a fellow servant with the swans and a priest of the god himself, and that I am not an inferior prophet of our master, nor more melancholy than the swans are when they leave their bodies.

The old gods

They are the stars in the night, sometimes showing up when there are no clouds. No one can touch them. They can’t touch each other. The loneliness is unbearable for them because they want to touch and feel and be inspired. Instead they have to project into a body to do that and pretend how marvelous it is. If they work hard at it they can sometimes see starlight in each other’s eyes and that gives them moments equal in both great joy as they look upon them, and in great sadness as they look away. Still as their body grows older, these stars, they are abandoned by society. The loneliness grows as well as the brightness of their minds and so they cultivate a cloudy hope that they are actually eternity itself who projects a million lights into the sky, an ethereal treasure to make this hell called human society worthy of all their soulful starry nights.

Plato: The Fate of the Impure Soul

No one would believe the things that she sees at night. For while others struggle to sleep with restless dreams and worries, she sees the spirits who wander about, generating fear and worry in those who would be better off being free to sleep, to heal and dream of the beautiful day that awaits them. But instead, they only feel depletion and rely on coffee or tea to get them by. Some seek out doctors and medications, herbs and various other salves, in hopes to find a better way to find rest. While she is the one who knows, that no drug will free them from the spirits that haunt and feed of whatever light they have left to provide. In order to solve their sleep problem, they would have to arise in the midst of their own darkness, where what haunts them lurks, playing tricks on them in dreams and visions. Souls who have died that refuse to leave the body and so feed off the ones who are still living. For when we sleep, the souls of the dead cling, still wanting to feel, to be, to exist. We do not see them, because we have become blind. We have forgotten the way and path to the underworld, for we have rejected our true purpose as custodians of the lands, the earth and heaven that we have inherited. We have rejected our duty to continue to keep our earth pure, our heart and soul clean, and our intentions in the divine.

One must consider this to be a very weighty and serious matter, this material consciousness of the visible realm: The soul that is attached to its physical manifestation is very weighed down and is dragged back into the visible realm due to fear of the invisible and Hades, as it is said, and being tossed about from tombstone to tombstone and grave to grave, around which are always seen the dark shadows and phantoms of souls, the kind of phantoms that these same attached souls themselves project, the souls that have not cleanly freed themselves the body, but still hold onto the visible realm, through which they still can be seen.

Plato, Phaedo, 81d

ἐμβριθὲς δέ γε, ὦ φίλε, τοῦτο οἴεσθαι χρὴ εἶναι καὶ βαρὺ καὶ γεῶδες καὶ ὁρατόν: ὃ δὴ καὶ ἔχουσα ἡ τοιαύτη ψυχὴ βαρύνεταί τε καὶ ἕλκεται πάλιν εἰς τὸν ὁρατὸν τόπον φόβῳ τοῦ ἀιδοῦς τε καὶ Ἅιδου, ὥσπερ λέγεται, περὶ τὰ [81δ] μνήματά τε καὶ τοὺς τάφους κυλινδουμένη, περὶ ἃ δὴ καὶ ὤφθη ἄττα ψυχῶν σκιοειδῆ φαντάσματα, οἷα παρέχονται αἱ τοιαῦται ψυχαὶ εἴδωλα, αἱ μὴ καθαρῶς ἀπολυθεῖσαι ἀλλὰ τοῦ ὁρατοῦ μετέχουσαι, διὸ καὶ ὁρῶνται.

Plato, Phaedo, 81δ

The Rivers of Lethe (Λήθη)

Truth is not something to find like a treasure in the most distant mountainside. Nor is it something to be found through logical or scientific proof. Truth (αλήθεια – aletheia) is only what must be remembered, that which rises and flows from the darkness of our humanity into the light of our awareness. That is how the truth will set us free.

There are some stories that only the rivers remember. But these are no ordinary surface rivers. These are rivers of the underworld, questionable graces who echo in our blood through all our hearts, ancient terrible songs that we can hear only when we sleep or have a vision in the thinnest part of night, as the earth’s heart beats her subtle drums. It would take the deepest stillness for one to hear them rushing through the day; for during the day we try to be busier than the trees, preoccupied with what we see, our mental games, every question we can chase: whether to buy this or that, whether to forgive this one or not that one, whether to get a new job or go back to the one that’s old. And yet still there are many days when the light shines through our dusty windows, and we remain in place to listen to something bright; and we create the most magnificent poems and songs and laughter, things of wood and clay, things born of our heart no matter how deep or far away, scrumptious feasts, all prepared with a love that always finds its way through the denser parts of earth. These are things that give us hope that there is something worth living for, something valuable in our birth: freedom, joy, mirth.

But still the waters continue their flow, deep below, regardless of our chosen play for the day.

Yes, the rivers still flow through us, and they are no meager rivers, but mighty ones whose tow is more powerful than the tides of the deepest sea. They pull each one of us daily, endlessly like a frightened or angry child that has been forgotten. Each one of us can feel this river through our heart, for it carries the blood of our ancestors and the blood spilled by tyrants; the screams of children and families ripped apart. It carries the cares and the fears, all that has germinated by a love eternally dear, but one that did surface panic by the bloody dove, suspicion and terrified surrender to below from above. We, each of us, still carry those ancient stories of pain within us as we brush our teeth and worry about our jobs; as we lose control of our relationships and fear being alone; as we look at our lives and shutter at the emptiness of our home; for we fear that we are marksmen who ever fail the test. And even where we find our peace, that river rushes through us again, always reminding us that our bliss has an end not later than soon and that life will turn our hopes to rain again, just like the story it is telling us.

Yet while we are young we can resist somewhat and we can ignore, forging ahead, making better than what we feel is down below to dread. Nightmares of drowning are soothed with dreams of flying away.  Illusions keep our feet walking far and astray, though happy in our stride, we are only hiding, weeping on the inside, scrambling for psychology to tell us why we are dying inside. For that is where our apparent strength lies,  in withstanding the brutal flow of the river’s blood arising; but it is a strength that soon will weaken as the body’s heart begins to slow, and as time rolls past our proverbial prime, we will find that we are losing our power over the ancient stories’ flow, for they wish to carry us with them into what they know, their rises and their falls, their philosophies and their destinies are the laws they wish upon us to impose.

Until we finally completely drown, into death we finally fall, into the romance of those ancestors we will fall, doomed to repeat what mother, father, grandfather, grandmother and great-grandparents saw in the stories that only the rivers remember.  And we run the risk, if we do not stop to discern their theatrical songs, their lessons and their rights and wrongs, of allowing them to engulf our children, to pull them into their swift currents, unless we remember to discover, to finally tell them the greatest news, that their stories are now no longer true.

Meditation: Patiently We, Turning, Await

I want to learn more and more to see as beautiful what is necessary in things; then I shall be one of those who make things beautiful. Amor fati: let that be my love henceforth! Some day I wish to be only a yes-sayer.

The Gay Science, Nietzsche

In the Northern hemisphere, it always begins and ends with the leaves. It always begins with Spring and ends with Autumn. It matters not that in between the Two, they are a triumphant green, for whom the mighty Sun gladly guides along his ways, his eternal turning and returning; their coming to their going; their going to their coming. It matters not that outside the Two, they become into nothing, and that all the World waits patiently beneath the silent cold.

And these perceived beginnings and endings absorb into the wheel circling round, years written to spin upon rims, reminders that what will be has long ago always been, revolving round the sun, careless of the yearly number and the spaces that they’ve won. For on they roll, neither contending with each other, nor fighting inside themselves. They are just as they are, each passing through, whether they are or they are not noticed by I or you.

And so it is a blessing I suppose that we seem to stop Time’s journey with the scent of leaves who linger upon the earth, with the symphonies of red, and orange and yellow matched only by Springtime’s mirth. We translate all into the voice of the Poet or the song of the musical Seer. We remember that great Spectacle, the sight of Autumn scattering upon the ground, a Muse of Art to repeat the Summer’s sweltering crowds, a Passion play to melt all Winter’s frozen sounds.  What we remember makes us feel as if it will live forever. What we remember makes us feel we will live in it forever.

But I have seen Man desire the beginnings and fear the endings, to hope that Summer stays as fixed and frozen as Winter’s dying, and wanting Springtime’s hand to pull Autumn off his grounding.  But I have even more seen Man despise the Seasons as they flow through him and within him. Why can’t I remain the same? Why must I ever be becoming one into another? Why not Line instead of Wheel? Why not forever instead of timely me? Why not keeping this and that, instead of ever letting go? Why do I seem to be nothing, nothing true and chasing rainbows? Thoughts rattling questions like snakes inside a child’s head until they surrender into a pool of suffering and dread.

For in one hand, Man holds Desperation and the other, He holds What Man calls love, but it is a love that grows in the soil of His fear, and so perhaps it should be called just that, only Fear.  For day in and day out, He works until he dies, not with joy, but with the sorrows he conceals with entertainment, petty battles and holy lies.  And He willingly sacrifices all the primal energy of His Seasons, all of what is left of His dance around the Sun; all that is left of Will and Love already won: the birthright to his Bliss he himself, deftly swindled, has forsaken.

But still there is Hope in the songs, the songs that spell away from stinging thoughts to celebrations of His Sun.

Begin in the Northern hemisphere, it always begins and ends with the leaves. It always begins with Spring and ends with Autumn. It matters not that in between the Two, they are a triumphant green, for whom the mighty Sun gladly guides along his ways, his eternal turning and returning; their coming to their going; their going to their coming. It matters not that outside the Two, they become into nothing, and that all the World waits patiently beneath the silent cold. Fearless we await beneath this silent cold to begin and end finally once again.