I was asked just now...
posted by Rachelle Webb
posted by Rachelle Webb
posted by Rachelle Webb
the strive to recalculate, re-instate, learn to appreciate our untold story is a journey unbound by the mind...
in the wee hours of winter we await the erratic, tempestuous springtime to prove her legacy inaccurate with days drenched in warmth, an instant redemption from february's frozn promise.
the quickening takes hold of those on the path, arresting awareness unabashedly, without reprieve, delivering curated truths to re-align us with ourselves.
the answer to the question is the question itself. or rather lack of need for any questioning...
the masses who lay asleep in their manufactured prisons,
do they not deserve to be awoken lest they miss the opportunity to transcend?
once i believed that my dharma was to be a catalyst for all whom cross my path,
in vain- i struggled for victory in the canvass for their souls, knowing not i had no power beyond the intangible breath of inspired action,
departed now from the tethering of attachment to the strive to evolve all else,
with a wisdom awoken within i have no compulsion to fret with the dis-informed troops of a failing system. still i love them all the same.
within the great sacred geometrical vortex of our bodies,
answers unfold like a golden spiral- awaiting the nod to begin its growth,
for every quarter turn we make,
we re-confirm our interconnection,
with a divine system of perfection,
and in line with natural order there is no strife henceforth to contend.
posted by Rachelle Webb
Although often uneven, belief measured against practicality,
posted by Rachelle Webb
In Sufism it is said that sincerity is the most necessary quality for the seeker. It is a precious gift of the heart that allows you to seek only the truth, to cut through story, drama, fears. It is sincerity, not cleverness, that will ultimately bring us to our most yearned-for destinations.
posted by Rachelle Webb
i know where i am,
where are you?
scattered ashes from the remnants of my suffering, the piece of soul i gave to you scabbed over long ago.
i found a salve in the form of digressive numbness that deters me from picking at it,
a lapse in my ever-revolving door of selfdestruction.
the limitless wake of what might have been is a shadow that defies circumstance
shrouds over me when i recall
the scentedmemory of soundtrackednights under milkywayskies,
hammocksleeps and unprecedentedlove, haunts, but never flaunts heartbreak now that i'vehealedme.
when i returnto the land of the sun, the edge of the world that beckons,
i will be alone, standing, amnesiacal to any destruction,
a barely escaped fallen utopia.
transformed by my own transformation.
and you are out there somewhere, echoing regret, with no opportunity to mend a burned bridge.
suppose that's the sacrifice made from fear.
Hypergraphia, the cure for writer's block + the balance between compulsion and intention, primal urge + cerebral impulse: an active-experiment in understanding.
posted by Rachelle Webb
this goes out to the scribes and the smiths, and those with epilisotory hearts and minds full of verse, with stomachs full of synonyms and mouths full of hmmmmmm and mmmmm,
I've just discovered the most fascinating of 'disorders'- (although I struggle fundamentally with the term disorder itself due to the subjective basis for determination)
...According to wiki:
'Not to be confused with Hypergraphy.'
"Hypergraphia is an overwhelming urge to write. It is not itself a disorder, but can be associated with temporal lobe changes in epilepsy, and hypomania and mania in the context of bipolar disorder."
Interestingly enough, presumably for scribes this asymptomatic non-disorder disorder, actually manifests as an uncontrollable compulsion to write. Presumably on paper, napkins, whiteboards, post-its, keyboards, bathroom stalls or teeny iPod touches ( such as I come to you now from- with a little of that hypergraphic itch myself.)
Oddly enough in all my years dealing with deep compulsion to revel in the catharsis of verbosity- of all of the nights i spent acting vessel for the vowels to pour out of my hands-in a furious spasm of script, of all the times I have felt that slow burn build to an uncontrollable chronic need to come to the edge of elucidation with my words welling up like pressurized steam in a kettle, of all the many instances I could barely contain the vowels and alliterations arise from within, like a tide that came crashing upon the shores of any willing page, screen, or otherwise useful end point, in all my years of agonizing adventures searching endlessly, madly for the perfect pilot pen, possessed until i found release; the sweet stream of consciousness cessation, narration like an orgasm. And of the oh so many moments that I found answers, wrote revelations and found my own revolutions because of that intrinsic, incessant, OCD-esque, overdrive need to spill letters and spell healings, committing murderous redemptions with my muse...a scribe's need to write is not a choice but a deep and resonating impulse that indeed rises up like a flame ignited.
of all of those many supposed 'symptomatic' synergies, I find it indeed most fascinating after 20 years in tandem with the supposed tendency- I have never heard uttered the term, 'hypergraphia'
"hypergraphia—the unstoppable drive to put words on paper "
seems it is a far less common affliction than writer's block, which for centuries has baffled, imprisoned and tortured its sufferers...
According to Psychology today: " In the 1970s, neurologists discovered that hypergraphia was often triggered by temporal lobe epilepsy." Some call them 'religious seizures'
( Unfortunately, Scientists later threw it in the same pile with Bipolar disorder which in itself is borderline tragic) More modern evidence though, now shows an abnormal interaction between the temporal and frontal lobes of the brain in those whom supposedly have Hypergraphia.
According to studies, activity in the temporal lobe is reduced, spurring activity in the frontal. ( the area that potentiates more complex behaviour like speech.) ( 1)
Recently explanations around hypergraphia have been drawing more attention
( possibly due to a Hollywood film coming in 2014 about the life of Arthur Inman-
( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KXLeYlC6768 ) the world's "original blogger" arthur inman,
whom in a pre-kerouac-esquse kerouac-ian streamofconsciousnessstyle, became the world's first 'blogger; before his suicide in 1963- he completed one of the "fullest diaries ever kept by any American." Convinced that his bid for immortality required complete candor, he held nothing back. The published abridgment of the original 155 volumes is at once autobiography, social chronicle, and an apologia addressed to unborn readers. )
Further studies uncover findings that may reveal that within both the chemical and structural functioning of the brain, answers to the mystery of 'writer's block' may lay; and in this wonderfully paradoxical finding- they are intimately connected to this mysterious hypergraphic affliction.
Subjective and Theoretically and Speculatively speaking: If indeed there is correlation between these two, to me it all seems to all come down then- to flow. The ability to reside in it. To abide by it. To find our way into alignment with it. To harness it, to surf and to rise with it, like that of the ever-swelling tide. If indeed these fits of language are indeed a result of some form of epistolary epileptic episode in the brain, then is its opposite, writers block- some form of energetic unchecked emotional dam?
Anyone who has suffered from writer's block, might look at these scientific findings of similarity as strange given one leads to blank pages- the other to effusive, endless discourse.
However as with all things creative, with all things that require a balance in order to thrive - and that balance is found in finding one's flow.
Both hypergraphic and writer's block tendencies arise from connection and change within specific areas of the brain, connected to your muse you are inspired, empowered, effusive with your art - disconnected with your muse, you become pent up, constipated and alienated from idea.
The drive to write, is controlled by the limbic system, that rin-like cluster of cells deep within the brain, which governs emotion, affiliated instincts and inspiration and is said to regulate the human being's need for communication. Words and ideas are cognized and understood by the temporal lobes behind the ears, ( and these temporal lobes are connected to the limbic system.) Ideas are organized and edited in the frontal lobe of the brain. (2 )
So then, in 'blocked-writers' if inspired action is all about giving that limbic-push of emotion required to hit the ignition switch and rouse the muse. Then stress, disharmony or emotional 'obstacles' of any measure would of course would attest for anyone's blockage in creating.
It's interesting as one who never seems to be blocked as a so-called writer, but has experienced the utter feeling of revolt from my words when seeking to lay them down on the page, as if somehow making the determination consciously, to write, was somehow lesser than feeling that uncontrolled and hypergraphic urge that i had often felt prior to any knowledge it had been 'labelled' as a so-called affliction, and the underlying feeling, that it was in fact a spark divine. Always with this spark, where i became the vessel for a great orgasmic catharsis of unplanned prose - there would come with it this sense, of amnesia.
I'd pick up the page days later- with no recollection of writing any of it.
As if my utter absence was needed to somehow create anything revelatory or transformational.
And perhaps all of that is true.
There have been times ( like now as i move into a more conscious and analytical state of mind ) when i have sought out with deliberate intention, to rouse the hypergraphic urge, consciously feeling as if i had some entitlement to the title of 'writer- had never been my perspective. In my mind, in every sense i was just born with the words. As if some are just born with great surrealistic masterpieces in them, waiting to be unlocked by booze and war and cocaine and promiscuity in a late 50's post-war era.
But the point is: having said that, The most disgusting and shameful egotistical feeling would come to me when i considered the idea that i really was some kind of 'author' by nature. I never sought to label my drive to create.
Seeking out to write or to document anything without a sense of urgency or compulsion- never, ever felt as fluid or natural; it aroused in me- some sense of self-absorbedness, some sense of shame that i could be so egotistical to think my words were anything to be beheld with any wonder or worthiness. In fact is roused in me- the very opposite: a blockage.
( I realize now post-writing this paragraph, that obviously this whole emotional sensation may be based upon some post-traumatic childhood situation in which i was belittled and/or devalued for being the person i was- and instead instilled with the belief that instead - i ought to strive for bespoke beauty and achieve the end point of being desirous for my physical appearance. This would of course lead to a very long journey into self-deprication, though silent, where my compartmentalized suffering gave way to versions of self that were based upon masochistic, compulsive, behaviour, which at times was to the extreme - cutting to release endorphins - secret sexual escapades, climbing out teenage bedroom windows and being objectified to satiate the noise in my head, all in a guilt-ridden state of helplessness and a host of other pre-ado-and post-ado confusion and blind groping for the answer to the question that really burned on the edge of my tongue- where am i, who am i? The question became the answer when mindfulness gave rise in me. )
The entirety of this verbal digression was an experimental excerpt to see if i could finally blur the lines between writing out of compulsion and simply, consciously, sitting down with no words - but the intention to write- and witness that happen, without any similar to early-sexual experience post-coital feelings of awkward egotism. It worked. So i have somehow proved something to myself in that- the natural compulsion as an artist needs only alignment with flow to unleash the muse. This can happen either intentionally- ie: i am deciding to write something, or unintentionally via an uncontrollable and often primal urge- so called- hypergraphically )
Back to the science in this subject-
" Hypergraphia is understood to be triggered by changes in brainwave activity in the temporal lobe.
Activity in the temporal lobe is reduced, spurring activity in the frontal, the area that potentiates complex behavior like speech. A writer's inner critic goes quiet, and the ideas flow. "( 3)
In writer's block- the critic rages, stands tall atop an inner mountain and screams obscenities and insults @ you in utter, mute silence.
Under stress, a human brain will "shift control from the cerebral cortex ( memory, attention, perceptual awareness, thought, language, and consciousness.) to the limbic system ( emotion )
In the case of writer's block this shift would have robbed the writer of supposed drive to write by removing one's ability to access memory, focus, consciously string together thoughts... a logical explanation for an outsider seeking objective hypothesis around the connection between blockage and serious, unstoppable flow.
The temporal lobe area of the brain ( which is hypothesized to be less-active in hypergraphia and in temporal lobe epilepsy- there are flash fits in this area... ) contains several important areas including the hippocampus which to my utter fascination having mentioned my own experience in compulsion to write- can produce amnesia- both anterograde and retrograde. However it does not affect other aspects of memory such as sematic information ie: the ability to store and draw on facts and information about meaning. it's also been said that the hippocampus plays an important role in storing information about the spatial ( environmental ) context of events that have happened in the past. Damage to this region is associated with difficulties in navigating through familiar places. Taking that into consideration, knowing that this area of the brain in epileptic patients can become damaged- and considering that temporal lobe epilepsy supposedly triggers hypergraphia - it might surmise to say that in an hypergraphic episode one's hippocampus might also temporarily function erractically- thus confirming 2 things:
1- indeed the consciousness does in a way go quiet- during these episodes causing latent amnesia. as previously described. ( in my case i have always considered myself a vessel for higher power to speak- as arrogant and awful as that sounds because i previously had no scientific explanation (label) to describe or define my experience - now that i can put the hypergraphic label on it, i suppose my conscious mind knows how to characterize it, and if i abide by the belief that hypergraphia is a result of mania or bipoloar disorder, all that serves to do is further devalue my worth and my words and thereby - in this instance i stand by the words that sound arrogant, knowing in intention, i am striving for higher love by revelatory writing - further evidence to my own experience lays in the research around religious experience and its correlation to temporal lobe epilepsy- hence 'hypergraphia' being referred to previously as religious fits. The work around religious experience and temporal lobe epilepsy actually connects the two- stating that the areas of the brain activated during each are incredibly similar... think people who have been put into states @ church mass where they are speaking tongues and later have no recollection... an interesting study of brain activity and religious experience can be found here )
2- most interestingly- perhaps hypergraphia and writer's block are counter-points to one another, co-existing in the same creative.
Perhaps when the temporal lobe fits that occur, inspiring those times when the individual is free=flow- stream of consciousness writing their prose or discourse, damage is being done or blockage is being created in this hippocampus - the area that causes difficulty in 'navigating through familiar places' thus fast-forwarding to a time in which one is experiencing 'writer's block' then meeting this blockage or inability to navigate this place of free-flow writing, that they have so masterfully done previously. One begets the other, begets the other.
It also has the task of identifying the emotional significance of an event and making the event better remembered. So therein lays my strange but sematically sound, interconnected analysis of the scientific correlation between hypergraphia and writer's block.
were i any manner of mathmetician i might formulate an anatomical-based-on-brain-areas equation to illustrate the understanding of a happy middleground marriage ( and subsequent birth of lucid and literary brilliance ) between blockage and hypergraphia -
it might look like this:
(behind the ear areas) < = handles word, comprehension and birth idea.
+ in happy connection with
the frontal lobe ( behind your forehead) = the editor, the organizer and the critic.
= discerning creative.
divided ( or Malfunctioning communicationbetween these areas) = blockage.
If rousing the muse is merely a matter of making the right brain connections,
Hypergraphic behaviour it would seem - similar to writer's block does not leave room for a happy collaboration of aforementioned connections, instead simply shuts one connection ( brain area ) off to full immerse the basic desire to get the words out or in the case of blockage- confisedly shut down.
very much like people whom dissociate during sex, having been in this place many times in each any every one of my sexual relationships where i would be fucked to the point of utter boredom, dissociate like a manufactured 'alter' and switch on the programming that allowed me to mimic pornography in order to elicit the quickened climax of my sexual partner- and thus end the experience sooner. I never really shut the door to believing sex could be better than that and when i met a tantric spanish yogi- my entire concept of the sexual experience was transformed into what i always imagined was possible. All of this is really to say- that previously having done much practice in transmuting sexual energy as a means to re-distribute energies elsewhere i believe that the tie between the sexual urge and this hypergraphic proclivity indeed do initiate from the same area of the brain- and interestingly enough- as scientists are relating hypergraphia to this 'temporal lobe epilepsy' - thus for the purposes of this observation- they are one in the same: there was a study done in 36 patients suffering from temporal lobe epilespy- and the findings were that majority percentage of that focus group also suffered from some form of hyposexuality- or sexual dysfunction- leaving space now for the conclusion that the compulsion does in fact arise from the same igntion switch, the primal pushbutton that controls sexual desire. The epileptic patients studied in this - exhibited not only an attitude of frigidity but in some cases a complete lack of sexual curiosity and desire.
Fascinatingly( or perhaps unsurprisingly) - There has been little research done as to whether the affliction itself, actually results in productivity- ( that's another mess of interconnection and speculative reasoning altogether ) ...for regardless of whether one might have a burning compulsion to do something, that doesn't neccessarily mean that the end result yields any worthy harvest. Any more than an individual with OCD- gets more done by doing it 108 times, or a person with tourette's says more simply by speaking more... does a hypergraphic write more simply because they are fiercely compelled to?
Or is for some such as myself, the need. while it feels compulsive indeed, conjured from the instinct to seek answers, to implore inner landscapes for great mountainous movement. To channel that 'hypergraphic' energy, to seek wisdom... and succeed no matter how disorderly, desirous or demanding.
If so, is the answer then to somehow access the affliction to ease the affliction?
Is it to find balance somehow - for the cure just may lay waiting quietly upon the next blank page.
So whether you are seeking a solution to writer's block or whether you are simply, like me, fascinated that yet again some dude in a lab somewhere has been paid to research the behaviour of others and find yet another label to put upon it.
Writer's block, while I have never experienced it in a traditional way ( only when engaging in the act that caused the aforementioned repulsion from consciously and intentionally meeting myself at a blank page and sitting down to write ) I have to belief that the case i argued for blockage and obstacle is the answer - and the middle ground is the marriage between the extremes- hypergraphia and writers block. The balance is focused creation. Those who are hypergraphic also must sometimes suffer from its counterpoint writer's block and in fact, the two co-exist and are ever-present in those with the creative urge. To use a disgusting metaphor that just eeked its way into my awareness, consider writer's block like latent herpes, a disease that can be absent for months, years... only to breakout once in a while- causing all manner of ick upon the face and genitals of the sufferer. The pustules and cold sores- perhaps represent the remnants of a hypergraphic state- previously experienced, though the conscious mind with writer's block may have no recollection of this happening. Similar then, to my own experience of amnesia in re-reading things i have written.
Somehow i understand this condition despite my never having experienced what its like to be on a deadline and meeting only blank page or uttering useless shit babbled and scribbled for hours on end- when trying to complete a piece of work. Perhaps because i have experienced its compulsive now revealed-counter-point for so many years.
( a brief interjected disclaimer: Any arrogance here, is purely inadvertent and accidental and perhaps occupational hazard would argue the case that as soon as you label yourself something- you run the risk of being asphyxiated by its preconception, definition and expectation. )
If i were to give any advice to anyone, anywhere on overcoming any syndrome be it hypergraphic, writers blockage, or fucken tendonitis- i would say toss your labels in the trash, the condition without definition produces less of the expected sideeffects. aka: attention is intention and the mind controls the movements and the manifestations of reality. Then your symptoms are free to become acts of healing, their effects become a measure and a matter of neither expected nor previously documented- and you are free to innovate.
In abstract flow the description of things always leaves me wondering whether as a writer my words ever seem contrived or whether people can see through me; recognizing my nature or see a condition- trying to label my afflictions- which in this case would be hypergraphic... Those who find themselves similarly 'afflicted' my greatest reflection upon completion of this topical digital catharsis- is perhaps that one can learn to channel the hypergraphic nature into something that has potential to impact the world in a positive way.
I would love to collect data from those who have experienced writer's block- perhaps in endeavor to understand how the creative process stalls, how its flow becomes blocked, as to understand the nature of it - i believe is to find the answers to unblocking barriers in life itself. When abstracted to the point of seeing only the abject symbolism.
Perhaps hypergraphia has remained in the shadows less spoken of - as those of us who are compelled regardless of the nature of compulsion, to commit word to eternity, all feel to some degree or another - that same fierce need.; yet recognize it as a blessing and not a curse that needs neither labelled order or disorder affixed to its existence. Regardless i believe it holds both fascination and answers both for the blocked and the bold, the baggage-laden seekers on the path to freedom.
How anyone can call the fierce compulsion to be artistic, a disorder. The answer may blur once again those lines between genius and madness... and come back to humanity's fundamental need to change something, to box something, to put labels on something and morph and mold its being until it resembles a form they can understand, or resonates with something pre-existing, or previously expeienced- so they can suffice away the curiousity of newness. The sympotomatic labelling of a impulse in this case, becomes a disorder- who's counterpoint can potentially cure a culture afflicted by blockage.
Whether art heals or compels it will always be fundamentally curative. It's nature is to heal and to reveal and in the act of creation you are always dancing with the answers.
But like Arthur Inman we must act with the belief that our "bid for eternity requires complete candor."
Interested in digging into the world of hypergraphia? Either pick up a pen or click to discover how
Neurologists, psychoanalysts, and writers alike are addressing the question, of how advances in our comprehension of the role played by the temporal lobe and the limbic system impact our psychodynamic understanding and of the ironic hypergraphia and writer's block.
the end of this experiment in simultaneous analysis between the interconnection of hypergraphia and wrtier's block and the potential to find happy middle ground, and at once endeavouring to unleash my own hypergraphic impulse, this time consciously and without a desperate urge and subsequent amnesia- proved that hypergraphia is perhaps innate in some artists- as innate as the will to breathe and its functionality can be applied to unlock what's blocked - flip the script and find the balance between what's being thought of as a result of manic episode or epileptic seizure - and its opposite, a confused and blankened state of nothingness that is 'wrtier's block' the balance is in mindful action i believe, and upon finishing this piece- after months of having it sit untouched in a draft state- i found myself coming back to it once more, and obsessively researching details around the brain functions of each supposed affliction- to find an equation that would ascertain the nonduality and equal duality of each of the proposed 'syndromes' - what i find now, in reflection is the switch can be flipped, the muse can be sought and the state of writer's block can be overcome by exploring its perceived opposite. when the flow isnt flowing, veer off course to find the alignment and in that alignment the flow will return. Labelling anything will immediately limit its potential and thereby block all possibility for unprecedented greatness.
posted by Rachelle Webb
1- In the morning, eyes tired still puffy from glorious rest, I want the dreams still fluttering about my eyes, settled into a strange crust in the Corner, ever so gently wiped away with an adoring smile- careful hands brushing away the remnants of dreams that are about to transcend into waking life.
2- I want a smile so childlike upon recognition of my presence, I cannot bare the brightness of it and lean up to kiss each corner of it, with subtlety and gentle appreciation for your beauty.
3- I want the dawn to greet the room as if it is shining for the very first time upon two humans... This is the birth of humanity here in this room. This moment crystallized as I look into your eyes and I instantly know, no doubt will ever cloud this certainty.
4- I want to reach over with my tiny hand, lay it across your chest and feel the pumping of blood through your heart, a heart so big it's a mystery how any human chest contains it.
5- I want to move then in time with the rhythm of that heartbeat, rising up, fusing into, breathing in sync to the endless moments of joy that start now with a tantric embrace.
6- I want to feed you Cherries I have picked from a tree , two doors down in a neighbours beach front orchard - how they grow fruit in this climate is a wonderful conundrum that matters not now, as the juice stains your lips and I kiss it away- rendering my own the colour of Tulum sunrise.
7- I want to hear the story behind why you have come here - why you left wherever you grew up, what drove you to dream bigger than that four walls of family home front.
8- The trials and the struggles to escape a limited path, I want to absorb them as if they were my own, then cleansing and purifying all the heartache, revitalizing your mind with ethereal detox... and redefining your definition of love.
9- I want to feed the birds by the water, gluten free organic toast scraps, leftover from breakfast in bed.
That French toast that was made with real maple syrup, tapped from the trees of your great grandfathers acreage.
Powdered sugar was everywhere, hand printed across asses and cheeks filling the kitchen with the sweet mess of morning bliss.
10- I want to have layed across the counter and have you fed oranges to me as we laughed, because who makes breakfast naked- life is sticky and sweet and I want this to be known without saying.
11- I want to lay for hours in a hammock swing while you read - Tom Robbins novels and Leonard Cohen Poems and the language of literary greats...and Comedic missives from authors names we can't recall because all that endures in the memory is word.
Hammock naps amidst breezes and brief intervals where we cannot stop kissing for fear we might perish.
12- I want to be worshipped not for ego- but as the warrior princess I am - i want to hear stories of victories of the selfless battles I fought - as told through the eyes of the author who's name is the same as your own.
Your poetry lives in your virtue and in the way that you see all the world ...humbled by great shining pages, written in Spanish and verse.
12- I want you to be all the things that I strive for in my own highest version of self. Clean living devoted and without crutches in life and delivering effortless wisdom simply through being as you are. The kind of person people respect but the kind of respect that's unwavering and simply a given. And never questioned due to your sex or your age or how you look. The kind of gentle soul who soothes the spirits of others simply by being present and smiling. A disarmer by default- able and influential enough to break down any wall or front.
13- I want to get into secret and forbidden places with you, or past VIP ropes (if either of us cared of such things) or into top secret lairs with ease. You make a gatekeeper laugh and we are free to wander into special places - frolicking about, splashing in secret pools and lounging in lush gardens - bubbles blown through the air creating an atmosphere that is redolent of Ridley Scott's legend land, so ethereal the faeries can be seen with eyes closed- heard giggling.
14- I want to run through fields with you.
Barely able to control our knees from laughter, the air is thick with the
Whisps of wishes blown from a million dandelions. Where we are going is irrelevant nor certain but the journey is the only part that matters.
When we discover grassy hills you most certainly suggest we roll down them gleefully and in a partial race to the bottom we will stop to roll over one another with the mirth that is so full it spills out of our eyes and ears and when our lips meet, the world drops away. Oblivion personified.
15- As we make the magic forest our part time home you build me a swing, maybe a tire swing but maybe something more traditional, even though I rebuke most tradition.
"Swings are a favourite of faeries"
you mention as you confess- you're sure I've been reborn one in this lifetime, with powers of goddess and fae.
The wisdom I whisper to you is every thing you already know because you have dreamed it, recurringly your entire life. And of my face. Which to me is crooked, to you- you say the most immaculate gem of poetic proportions.
16- I want to feed you grapes that we have picked on a wild afternoon- meeting winery owners who quickly develop a love and adoration for us and invite us to work on their land in amidst the sun drenched fields, and abundance of fruit.
17- I want to lay down in the dirt with you- after you take off your shirt an offer it as a barrier between myself and the ground - I will refuse.
in commune with Gaia the energy is rich and potent- and we will stare up at the clouds as they roll by in shapes that tell ancient ancesteral stories of great majestic love. The love that moved mountains the love that created these valleys for abundance to grow ... Love like ours.
Later we return to the winery - sip Cabernets with fascination for love heightens every sense you have.
18- I want to wake up naked alongside you- on the sand that's so white it is easily mistaken for snow- tired from the love made under the moon we will rise with the sun and race to the sea to find renewal in its great aqua arms.
19- I want to hear you speak, of purification from all that's ever ailed me... And how later in the day you will bring the Mayan shaman to heal me- and how he will spread noni leaves and belladonna blossoms across my body.
The ancient energies at work they remind me that nothing's permanent - all things change like the great carribean tide and when you settle into its flow and track its patterns quite accurately - is when it changes drastically, shifts from calm to wild and unpredictable. That's how you are like the sea" you'll say to me, and we will dance with mantras in our hearts and minds all full of emptiness....
20- I want to live in a cabin with you - but not a forest cabin, more like a palm palapa by the Oceanside- a cabana that gives just the right amount if shelter for a human or two. The right size to make sunset storytelling a vivid reality and sunrise excitement full of promise.
21- Since we do not know one another, yet I am sure you exist; I want to meet you somewhere during autumn in Ontario. When the seasonal shift is settling down in your bones and the warmth of indian summer still remains, when leaves become crunchy and the frolick from our childhood is reborn in the afternoons of jumping in leaf piles and gazing at the big orange harvest moons... dreaming, visioning, praying for neverending moments like this.
September 30th, 2013 10:23pm
to be continued.
posted by Rachelle Webb
The only way out leads through your own self
And it's a constant path of harsh belief,
Traveling along without meaning, is no one's lonely battle to achieve.
I called you late one evenin'-
Called you out of all your grief,
Striving to stand beside you,
I bent down on one knee,
No forgiveness is required,
I'm alone at the edge of sovereignty,
Livin for the endless moment
Capturing the axis of my peace.
It's all a long and weary crossroad,
If you choose to lay down in defeat.
I'm already long forgotten,
And reborn from what's left of me.
Always creating to destroy it,
building it up high to tear it down.
No longer are you standing at the corner,
Of joy and endless agony,
I walk forth knowing you are risen,
Somewhere far off beyond the sun.
Never to battle with your pain and,
with the never quitting ache of destiny - that was drawn out and divided by your heart and,
a mind that struggled with Livin well for your own good;
never thriving first in your line of priority.
My heart well it always wins my battles,
Regardless of a mind that breeds tragedy.
A spirit that believes in reincarnation,
Will rouse itself to rise up & on out of poverty... No longer sellin your soul for a quick fix,
Buyin and selling all your happiness.
My soul it will lay down not for no one-
To be fed and to be drowned by too much false belief.
I live outside of your reason,
Not fallen or tripped up by your
Whored out faith in thee.
There's a garden beyond all the stars
And it waits for you to accept your fate and Be.
No you ain't gonna get there,
By stealing or borrowing integrity.
It's easy without too much complication
Made hard by too much theft of dignity
- a long road though you cannot see it,
A lit path leads you quietly,
Keep your mouth closed and your eyes on the road,
Your eyes wide and your hands on the wheel-
steering gets rough when shit gets real, but you ain't alone.
It's all the same,
You are we,
I am she,
We are thee
Every, any all and none
The time has come,
To be freed.
Step forward and collect your key-
It's waiting at the corner of silence and peace.
lyrics for V.
story of we.
posted by Rachelle Webb
The answer is not clear, and a decisive
"Yeah" .. Is easiest to reply.
Ok is a nice abstract and non descript way to define the present I suppose.
Death can do that, obliterate what you thought you knew,
what you held in importance,
how you carried yourself through your days...
and through the grief and mourning of all that follows a passing,
strength comes from strange places, deep places,
places you forgot existed for it is so very rare you must call upon the highest level of courage and fortitude to help carry the burden of sorrow for many, as well as yourself.
death is a mirror to your own soul.
it exposes all our weaknesses and exemplifies the nature of existence,
sometimes harshly, abruptly, dramatically and unforgivingly.
and we look into that mirror to see all of what we have, all the gifts and the love and the gratitude that flows from reflection= is vast.
Death came weeks ago, and I've come out of the last two +weeks feeling changed.
Perspectives erased and expanded
Patterns repeated and proven the same but different
Opened a new way of seeing myself
And my purpose in this short stint in this time and place.
Elongated certain beliefs about humanity and its over abundance of selfishness , of generosity..of love.
Countered my own reach with withdrawal...
Tested former fallacy and forgotten reason, to find the answer remains the same.
It's only the soundtrack that changes..
If we move in the world the same way continuously - or continuously represent a never changing view- adaptation is a never ceasing challenge.
The challenge is perpetual reinvention,
Spiritual and emotional innovation with an intellectual wingman...leads the way to mindful moment to moment evolution of character -
Not changing who I am,
But aligning with the flow of often erratic emotion,
Rolling with the unpredictable hours...
To live with no fear is to give fearlessly.
Come tragedy or triumph - shining relentless affirmations.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
posted by Rachelle Webb
I allow myself to be vulnerable. Just as the fear always rises; I harness its energy as a warrior, my victories are fuelled by fear, just as my failures are recognized as beauty.
I recognize my failures and celebrate them with equal measure to my successes. I find clarity in the knowing that while I may not always succeed, every effort is a win in the battle for conscious courage.
I am brave in the moments that matter most, a difficult decision that effects my sense of self. The trying moments in which I am tested by temptation, clear in the notion that the difference between action and failure to launch, is simple decisiveness. My decisions define my character and I make them wholeheartedly with my greatest good in mind.
I live on the goodness that surrounds me, seeing beauty in all things that are. Knowing that even in heartbreak, even in pain and in loss - there is purity and light in that darkness, that with awareness is transformed from pain.
I am light.
I trust all the pain that I'm given, through agony and tragedy -I maintain
A full- hearted notion of freedom and the faith that it takes to face pain.
I am invincible when I am mindful, let each incident be not just a drain, on my will or my want to continue - and when i must rise up and accept my banes, I am fearless and faithful, and loving- transformed by each wonderful gain.
I am freedom. Free like the wind and boundless as the sea. Liberated by my fusion with nature, I breathe into the flow of the wind and it moves through me, each part of me hoisted up and carried along by our union.
I am vulnerable - strongwilled and with a heart forged from delicate openness.
Courageous and fearless i allow myself to be open, My vulnerability is a superpower.
posted by Rachelle Webb
The vision shared by those who stand beside one another, when is it the same?
What fosters alignment?
Is there opportunity to be separate in values and unified in nature?
For years I carried the understanding that despite the differences in perspective and perhaps even priorities, fundamental - two could stand alongside in the world- empowering each to each - disallowing the differences to become a barrier to synergy.
I believed that opportunity layed waiting in opposites.
Or perhaps it was a fool's delusion, the notion of neither being needing to compromise individual ideals...
The instances in which I have been
Shown the clearest reality, have always been those by which I have put aside my fear and stepped forward in the dark- poised for disappointment yet with a nimble hopefulness that my own
Adaptability could bridge the gaps caused by irreconcilable difference.
It became though, the long way to learning, the forfeit of freedom of being at ease with who I am.
Adaptability is a beautiful ability,
But must be cared for with delicate discerning, lest it becomes a liability.
Personal growth is a great and worthy mission, undertaken consciously and nourished by mastery of understanding that alone we are our most statically beautiful rendition of self,-
- coupled, we become (without caution) distorted beauty.
Allowances for ourselves must be made at any onset of a new journey- to create space for the individual flourish, without such stipulated standards it becomes simple to give up our dreams.
I've only ever experienced relationships that have impeded my personal growth - stifled my capacities to rise, to colourfully fulfill my evolution.
Always my healing is sidelined by issues and emotional bait, cast out by those who ought have loved me and accepted my uniqueness bar none.
The reality of human connection is muddied by the ego's great need, to be at the centre of worship and receive its unvenerable stroke.
A long winded explanation perhaps for something that's simple indeed, the notion of shared hearted values-
and the profound inexcusable deeds of a heart that's been broken and battered and in spite...it rises up tall from its knees -
( which habitually have preferred the grounding of being martyr and victim to please.)
The lesson it comes now with the short road and with listening for the whisper of instinct.
I know all the terms of endearment and decipher the code of what's real - and when it comes to the language of intimacy it's as if you must by default feel - as if your own values come second and compromised versions of virtue are acceptable expressions of devotion - when down in the core of your being you're seeking a partner that's real; and understands the best dynamic, is one that's a mutually kept promise to nurture your blossoming and foster your dreams and grow separately alongside your own evolution -complementing each others skill for respecting personal freedom;
And without that, knowing union is an impossibility.
So I've been guilty of disregarding my inner knowing and misrepresenting my level of need. And playing down feelings of pain - but the righteous get second chances when the righteousness comes not of ego.
I still believe just the same as always, in what love is, and in how it can show you the way...without becoming a way to escape.
to be a torch and not an ephemeral flicker- to endure, to be, not in the shadow of a partner.
to challenge the patriarchal, the matriarchal, the societal, the traditional and the typical - i love indeed. but ultimately my love is for me, and i must cease seeking external outlets to fill.
i well deserve my own full heart.
so the answer then, after all the questioning ( not that it ever ceases ) is that in the greatest of romantic ideals, we are one but not merged. the same but not identical, shared but not without unique perspective. yes, you can grow together without fusion.
if we look in the same direction and dream together of a better world, for each other and the collective all, we shall thrive.
posted by Rachelle Webb
The sacredness of our own singular bodies, is a lesser understood dynamic than that of
Intimacy between two.
...the dance of harmony, grace, memory,
Openness, like a witness beckoning permission to engage -
... I lay down for you,
Without expectation of inevitable occurrence - and you come: like a fierce tide, crashing against the walls of my space - sanctuary besieged.
My presence is a simple silhouette, as I strive to breathe into a rhythm that will ensue only by shared understanding...
- but will miss a beat without mutual pitch.
The soundtrack plays an immediate switch...
Starts soft and modest, acoustic, melodic,
I accept your touch,
Circling around my lotus,
Beckoning it to blossom,
Welcome you into its wild, and ecstatic wisdom.
If I allow a union, will it be as such ?
Or instead an individualized experience- disassociated from oneness, moreover a solo-act; exploiting my temple as but an object to fulfill a selfish and primal agenda.
The sacredness of my space holds no externalized motive,
it beckons only to be honoured.
The motive of my heart, is to preserve its sanctity.
The sanctity of my body, is a well learned lesson.
Hard earned blessing from past betrayal.
Two years is a vast lifetime, by the measure of the heart.
...The healing brings down walls,
Yet the community remains gated.
grace is a quality, in intimacy, underrated.
Still the soundtrack becomes jazz - unpredictable and without a constant flow, no fusion to lend to your ears the intrinsic healing quality of sound.
My thoughts resonate : If your words mirrored your truth, your actions would align.
Possibility, persuasion and an unanswered promise-
though I said I knew your motives, my perspective was entwined;
by too much loneliness,
not enough emptiness...
& Maybe I was wrong,
Yet Still you were blessed,
In the pivotal moment -I looked up, my eyes told the story,
though you then moved away - the passion did not sway.
despite my lack of surprise,
It is quite doubtful you realized,
The opportunity was arise-
To integrate vs. consummate
Elevate vs. extricate, all the visceral products of your lust.
The moment; well, it could have been ascension.
instead the moment for me, another lesson, the moment for me, it was a weapon-
A warrior's chance to flip scripts.
A manifested vision to shift, all the patterns and habits and roles that saw my former self's virtue unfold-
Unto an absent will. The gift of me given unto to a spirit, ill.
It was Empowering to allow your touch but remain contained and sustained, be not an instant instrument for pleasure,
not a casualty for what could be,
nor product of my lust.
Restraint is a practice of the bodhisattva,
Its yield is the reward of self respect.
I'm alive without validation from the hand of another.
I survive, through the knowing that my will sustains its steadfast aim,
and though I slip sometimes in private,
an instance in the presence of another:
Reveals the keynote.
In the aftermath of a trial tryst,
I stand unwavering,
I am no one's object,
Not an ideal,
Not a mystery to be solved,
Or a one-off conquest,
Or a dime a dozen climax on any random night.
I am pure and Uncharted terrain;
...only to be blazed by the warrior whose spirit defines, all the beauty i strive to be in finest moments.
(But mostly, for me.)
sunday, august 4th, 2013. 1:22am
posted by Rachelle Webb
blessed are we who rise to the occasion, as the pheonix or as the new spring garden spout...
pulled upward by momentum of solarempowerment
living in these times brings great joy, joy and oppurtunity to unleash the sufferances put upon ourselves and as such afflicted onto the earth.. onto all.. for our wounds they transcend flesh and permeate all life...
i ponder as i look upon so many scars, mapping my journey through this world.. inflicted- by such a denial of what's real. such a supression of feeling. carved art across the canvas of my body, faded and aged and bordering on vintage..
they have their stories, each a unique one- stories of pain and betrayal and stories of lonelydesperation... but those are just tales told in lieu of the truth. which was fear, fear to accept who i was, what i was, what i was coming to know, all of it was so profoundly frightening this awakening... caused such great agony.. before i understood its beauty and imperfection and that its perfection is suffering..
alas the lessons unravel as they are meant to and for 15years past i have carried a visualmap to my becoming.
they no longer draw interest or stares as they did, but they live there upon me, reminding me of my own evolution, my own need to nourish, though earned and burned they're as a martyr to turn, what was painful confusion into a conscious respect for my temple.
posted by Rachelle Webb
how long before you begin? before it starts... before the light catches a glint in the corner of your eye coersing your vision to a new direction... or a forgotten one?
catching the wave... surfing the sand... the days fall away so quickly as you remain paused, poised reaching for the answers that lay buried under the massive strife you have created to house them.
extrication surely belongs to your own soul.
and you pass the signs on the side of the road that led you astray the first 50times you disregarded them to go your own way
its time to choose.
what is it you love? what shouts freedom to you under blue skies, what creates undying fire within you... what drives you to create, what allows you to fail only so that you will learn again the lessons your heart sought out to teach in simplicity, before you complicated them.?
i ask myself as i lay here, my temple betrayed, sold out by my own mind. in absence of heart... what is it that i want? what is it that drives me to move forward, where does my passion lay, under surrealistic skies at the edge of the world, under whitestuccoed ceilings at the bridge of your dawn,
what is it that brings unprecedented joy
allocate space for growth, as the roots reinforce, learn to unleash as you unleash so many.
& then reclaim freedom.
posted by Rachelle Webb
make me a temple of light
a haven in the dark corridors of outlandish perception,
deliver me from the insulated chambers of familiarity to an unknown triumph of lasting love.
peace be with my heart as i move forward past the dawns that hold so much mystery they nearly bust at their seems, ignite my will to press forth in the emptiness, i am without and within and forgiven for my sin. none are cardinal.
posted by Rachelle Webb
challenge me as i lay across the night- wielding nothing but my truths to bare witness.
come down from atop your fence,
pop that solvent bubble,
unleash that brace that chokes you- and destroys your free will, yet builds your ego up tall.
ego provides stilts for the atrocities that you commit while struggling to feed it.
for it is always starving, and yet never nourished,
always lacking no matter how full.
i challenge you to rise to the moment and be quick with your wit, for in quickness and instinctual discourse there is little room for fabrication, but still that teeny space for an ego to flourish in.
light in a darkened corner can sustain anyone's hopes for years-
- when solitary confinement wont cut it.
cut it loose.
posted by Rachelle Webb
What comes naturally,
Exists us without too much strategy,
Becomes that which we must strive to embody consistently;
It's not so much of a mystery,
The reality of harmony
is living aligned with grace, In the dance that is our lives.
If it is difficult
Is it not worth doing?
Nothing worth doing comes easy.
Yet when considering the notion of living in line with natural talent-
It's effortless execution that weaves wonder -around the struggles that seem to give value and meaning to so many worthy challenges.
If I exercised the option,
Of doing nothing but what came simply-
What required no plotting,
No measure of conflict,
No pleasure in victoriously overcoming an odd,
Would it devalue the notion
Of working hard against the grain ?
demystify the riddle of the reality of strain?
I find somewhere in the balance
That reality reveals itself.
In a true measure of wordless wisdom,
i've no need to claim capture on unseen duels between chaos and bliss.
The intention is all that matters in anything that is done
Forgo detail, stipulation, clause or consideration - the only virtue in dis-empowered action is the ease of its remiss.
Indeed, What comes without struggle
Without a battle to exist,
Wields the most powerful potential
For freedom - for it is closest to bliss.
So I forgive the countless complications,
The unrequited commiserations,
The lackluster abbreviations,
The shortcuts to solving situations,
That in their purest form of being,
We're never complex to begin with;
In their real est state of intrigue,
Were all but fabricated by my ego.
To draw conquest to conclusion
With measurable victory,
And unseverable unity,
The truth is:
It is easy to be a winner when there is no competition to engage in.
So, does the small insight to motivation-
Reveal much to apply?
Do tiny unearthed truths define the measure by which to strive?
Or is all of it a crafted example
With which to prove what lays
At the root of all curiosity- in the context of the brave -
a neverending need for cultivated chaos,
or the mission to summon courage
to intrinsically survive
When living's Easy-
aligned with innate knowing,
Flow with that which provides no opposition but instead inspires you to thrive.
posted by Rachelle Webb
I am no ones daughter
But a child of the stars
Wandering in emptiness
Through listlessness and casual arrest of vapid hope to save the world.
A self installed dimmer switch controls my degree of lightness
but i've learned to see in the dark.
Allowing sensory guidance to move me forth without necessary leakage of grace.
I recall dawns ignited with promise,
With the seldomly longer seen tenacity of a soldier -
I've tucked away the
Yet Amassed an arsenal of altruistic alchemies.
posted by Rachelle Webb
it's of primary importance, reaching balance of (in)ordinance.
collapsing barriers, that promote single-minded defeat in a many-faceted battle.
silence, i know your name.
your familiar resonance calculates predictable action,
for an un-charted frequency you have betrayed.
i understand your unwillingness to waver,
yet will not forgive an un-lived attempt at a life without control.
touch base with what you see as the reason for your disallowed dreams.
a thriving measure of willingness creeps in when you least expect it- next door to silence is birthed the opportunity to become unchained.
adjacent to understanding is bred the solution to all riddles.
there are no answers- no sage advice to follow in the ongoing battle of the self.
you must craft your own therapeutics,
write your own self help book.
paint your own success story,
it's the secret that no one tells you, for they are blind to understanding anything beyond themselves.
what works as a uniform for me, surely will not fit as a ball gown on you.
what makes sense in my unravelling, will only bind you further-
for it is the guru in yourself that you must seek.
do not invest in what another promises as the answer to unbound living,
their answer is your riddle, and your process is most certainly my habit-
the one which i seek to break on my journey to wellness.
on the path to my wholeness, breathe your own brilliant mantras.
swallow none of the potions i'm drinking,
i'll follow none of the leaders you are seeking,
be your own light in the blackout.
if i ever imagined a world where all was possible,
it might be a skeptics fairytale.
i've never gathered any truth to share with masses- nor followed any road that led to the crafting of multi-dimensional understanding by the measure of what you might know as real.
it is a solitary journey, and you are the lone traveler.
connected by the notion that i am you, and you are me- and all is we,
but in the singular sense it's only your perception that leads the way to the collective truth of oneness.
the horizons that breed entry,
cannot be shared.
the answers that lead to understanding,
they are not me X you = truthsquared.
it is tempting to seek your way- if you seem happy
it is endless though to follow a path you did not blaze.
posted by Rachelle Webb
in the heart of hearts we learn to listen.
head down, in slight bow- asking that which is inherently within us, only so rarely is it accessed,
for answers as to how we are to begin, proceed, progress,
commencement comes with the ever so slight adjustment to our perspectives of what is right,
we are unpredicated
emancipated in the hours of after, in the instances prior...
learning to take advice from the roadsigns on your own consistently accurate inward journey, is the route to righteousness.
i love not to be loved, and accept only that which frees, that which sees to prospering.
posted by Rachelle Webb
un-televised incentive to rise, in the eyes of un-uniform demise it's no surprise
your integrity becomes a compromise.
but i refuse to degradate, underappreciate, elongate the weight, of the suffering upon my shoulders.
unburden your arms, unattach your hinderances, play no part in the solemn debate of ego's rapping at your door. for it is but an undermining method to leverage nothingness.
though often in the midst of seeking aliveness i rediscover the art of numb:
only to realize its cool fictitious breeze, is but a passing whim upon a storm.
posted by Rachelle Webb
one of the precious moments in which i could barely get to the keys fast enough to allow the words to willing spill from my inner landscapes,
the vast lands of my unconscious, creative, heart-fire imploring me for opportunity to unleash, to ignite, to set free whatever revelation, however slender,
in its finest degree of art.
in these moments, i have little control.. there is no filter, no process, just mass burning exodus of reason, dis-reason illogical firey creative flow, liberating my mind from the brink, dissolving the barriers which bind me to moments in which i miss,
from lack of being mindful or honoring to my soul,
happens more often than i might wish to admit- it's a cyclical process making my way back here,
to this moment traveling so long, so far,
through halls of memory, rekindling their emotive sentiency for a moment,
recalling just enough data to render the lesson relevant and rationalize it to a place in which its understood. it makes sense. its no longer a threat of becoming regret.
a full cycle comes to a close with the early hours of autumn,
12 months in which i left behind a trail-unblazed but for partial effort to commit.
often when we revisit those points upon our journey in which we seem to attach to unfortunate incident or suffersome circumstance
and wish that we had done things differently, even marginally, for the sake of a potentially better today.
but, would the ability to forsee the future, cause you to change your mind about the moment?
would it beckon you to rethink your logic for decisiveness and action?
dis-empower your bravery, then?
my senses say no, as i sail through the notions, allotting space for them to breathe, unwinding them from my chest-
cutting the last strings on the ancient blanket that has been wrapped around my injured parts, of both soul and incarnation, perceived-ly creating some manner of shield.
though not comfortable, not protective, not warming nor anything meant to soothe- after too long attached to the remnants of the past - it becomes wound wool wear, wrapped wanly around my wounds.
unbandage the limbs, and you shall find them healed- near instantly... oxygen has that miraculous effect... ability to weave vitality into all that it encounters.
breathe into the instant and see again, perhaps the clearest you ever have- that every reason, every justification, every willful, purposeful, meaningful, mindful choice you have ever made- has been brilliant. utterly enlightened- in hindsight, in foresight, in your heart's light, become sure.
sure that you have taught yourself honor, come closer to your truest truth...
unwittingly saved lives,
supersonically allowed for growth,
silently made amends,
furiously been reborn, through seeming protracted paths, that in reality were simply from here to there- yet sans-full understanding of the shortcuts.
the long way always paints a more colourful perspective, later looked upon.
indeed, lessons come harvest- bring redemption.
fertile seeds of suffering that have spawn a long-growth garden, a seasonal shifting, fundamental.
written in time, it has been seen.
here's a worthy ally
posted by Rachelle Webb
reverse the magic of your voodoo charms, turn inward the fire that ignites the intrigue,
allay the cool breeze that's blown across my centre for too long.
lift me up out of an arid complacency that threatens with vacany.
you are the charismatic clouds that herald fevered storm.
posted by Rachelle Webb
i have nothing to say to you, one way or the other.
posted by Rachelle Webb
a meditation for the moment in which you presently find yourself. or more so, i suppose its me who finds themself, without rest, dreams so vivid they rival the conscious-mind's creations in their expressions.
... do i dream, it's often as if i were dreaming now, some schools of thought would say i am simply a projection of my ego- others might think that in dreams, the ego does not exist.
the only safe haven is the present moment.
the only true reality. and the only place ego can never seek you out- ego and now can not co-exist for one is false, and the other- the only truth.
opening the chalice, i envision an abundance of energy pouring into my open heart, the cornucopia of all the cosmos exists within me.
in this realization all becomes possible.
posted by Rachelle Webb
the burn begins as a slow hot spread from the centre point out.
like emptiness, ignited.
or a tide coming in...
a flicker needs nourishment to become a spark that clarifies,
& once flourished into focus...
we are driving the eye of our own storm,
...fearless despite the mirroring of pain, everywhere.
suffering and lack are curable diseases, if the oxygen could only flow into them... healing the roots of memory tied to their blossoming.
can something not considered particularly beautiful, such as fear or agony, be referred to in the context of 'blossoming,' since the root of 'blossoming' itself, is flowery & vital ?
all things are inherently good. programmed that way energetically. the signature of life is a cyclical optimism.
creation, destruction, light, dark, ying, yang, happiness, sadness... sadness especially is wonderfully flowery. someone once told me tears, were so beautiful...
and to embrace the pain i felt as if it were my closest ally. the notion in that moment seemed so reckless, so unattached, so idealistically implausible, yet how i remember his voice in that moment, catalytic...some of the most sound advice i have ever inadvertently received, offered to the wind... offered to the sea... so many prayers of rising, falling and rising again... the great ashed-winged warrior..
pheonix rising...uncomfortable former encasing- scorched away.
rebirth in another context, purer, more serene, more dedicated.
the three best forms of emotional therapy:
pick a favourite and commit your all to finding a way to flawlessly execute it.
really just give it in that moment.
through it, begin igniting the process to exiling your own predisposed holdings...
the fire starts slow... in the centrepoint of being... all lessons come through the heart.
its very existence a great filter to understanding the wisdom of being alive in these times, when the moment has come - come yet always been here... so perhaps it is you that's arriving.
turning to look at yourself, turning to see yourself, looking at you, in a mirror that has your reflection in it. (i am that i am.)
once you focus on the image - assign it a venue- laughter, screaming or crying- whichever one feels right: channel it.