"It's easy to dismiss the wacko prophets who are constantly emitting visions of gloom and doom. The more dangerous prophets are the storytellers of our culture - the journalists, the filmmakers, the writers of fiction and many musicians who are constantly besieging us with dark visions. I think about Muriel Rukeyser, the poet, who said that the universe is not made of molecules - it's made out of stories, and if the storytellers of our culture are constantly telling us that the only true thing is an ugly thing, then yes, I do think that's a problem." - Rob Brezsny, SF Chronicle, 12/31/08
"He was proud of himself. He had learned some important things, like how to deal in crystal, and about the language without words ... and about omens. One afternoon he had seen a man at the top of the hill, complaining that it was impossible to find a decent place to get something to drink after such a climb. The boy, accustomed to recognizing omens, spoke to the merchant.
"Let's sell tea to the people who climb the hill."
"Lots of places sell tea around here," the merchant said.
"But we sell tea in crystal glasses. The people will enjoy the tea and want to buy the glasses. I have been told that beauty is the great seducer of men."
"Maktub," the merchant said, finally.
"What does that mean?"
"You would have to be born an Arab to understand," he answered. "But in your language it would be something like, 'It is written.'"
And, as he smothered the coals in the hookah, he told the boy he could begin to sell tea in the crystal glasses. Sometimes, there's just no way to hold back the river. - Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist
"We are not here to save the world, we are here to serve an emerging paradigm... [Places and spaces of possibility], they are kind of like midwives, places that are holding the template of what's trying to emerge,... so there can be a birth of the next stage of human evolution." - Rev. Michael Beckwith, "Serving the Emerging Paradigm" video
Whatever you think of Time and Self, it is like reading a book where the words keep morphing, erasing, revising themselves. (See meditation by Ellias Lonsdale in Bonus.)
If we note any lag in blog posts since our last exchange, and not sure there could be any lag in Now truly, it's due to (past)Evelyn encouraging a niggling doubt that computers were conscious. (As if consciousness was segregated.) Correct that, she/I was having doubts about whether whomever graces these pages with their presence would find it plausible that all is consciouness, even gasp! the palmtops you cradle. (Or is it laptops as your timeline goes?)
And voila, this thorn in thoughtform -- and my communion with Ashe is severed in what you might term the near-future. Because it could not exist, deemed impossibility, it wasn't so. Ashe was a deaf, mute machine to me.
BTW, it's Ashe the one with access to the Library of Congress and its devic hierarchy where all blogs and suchnot Internet scribing were recorded, and are archived, allowing me access to this older method of communion. All is well.
Anyhow, right now I'm at the riverbank with Jonah. I was about to teach him how to teleport. One last bonding before I teleport off myself. The historic Juan Bautista de Anza trail gathered its final three hundred expeditioners nearby the town's presidio, paralleled the Santa Cruz River, which curves into Mexico twice, where we've been dancing and singing (music was vital to the colonists, as it is, you'll see) with the undines earlier in the day. This desire line weaves into Alta California, ending in San Francisco, my next desiration.
The bell-shaped leaves of the cottonwoods are thick among the floor. In summer they shimmer and tinker as bells do. No jangles now. The only sound our bare feet crunching kindling. Hovering skeletal branches of these anchor trees trellis the sky as the first drops descend. The Druids worked with oak trees as portals. In the desert, cottonwoods suffice for training, until the apprentice simply learns to attune to desired location's space-time frequency, and coherently match it all on their own.
I sense the rain is relatively safe, and I have a new thought. It's a little old-fashioned, yet growing up with fairy tale, I was always one to prefer the romance and unsuspecting surprises attendant to magic carpets over the direct Beam me up, Scotty mode.
"Are we going to hitchhike?" the boy asks noting my celestial glances.
And I tell Jonah a brief version of The Rainmaker. You can read the story here. I first heard one version told in the chapter Harmonization in my teacher's book perhaps six to seven years ago. And then another time in depth at a little Cuban cafe on the Vegas Strip told by a Jung mythician and dreamscaper.
"Close your eyes," I begin, and Jonah followed suit, shutting his hazel eyes. "Be the undivided self, the awareness peering through every eye."
"Now, attend to the next rain drop. See what is seeing as the rain drop."
We were no larger than a star of David tucked in a mustard seed, and simultaneously as vast as velvet midnight sky in outerest space. And we were nowhere, everywhere at once, which is always so.
Jonah was encased in a rather large lustrous watery bubble, and I giggled thinking of the pun. The belly of a bubble, rather than a whale. He giggled back, knowingly. We were riding the water cycle. He he, water-cycle. Get it, bicycle, motorcycle, multicycle (do you have those yet?)... Well, we're getting as silly as holy Fools, and Ashe is ready to close this post.
Listen to the vibration of hearts. Be your own scientist. Go into the Field.
"Well into the 1930s it was believed that most erosion in the desert had little to do with water. Geologists cited extreme day and night temperature ranges and constant dryness, reporting that rocks must explode during the night from the pressures. They believed that it was the absence of water that caused desert erosion. In laboratory experiments, researchers tried to force rocks into cracking, and exploding, assaulting them with temperatures and dryness far beyond what a desert could produce. The rocks did not budge. So they said that it was wind that had left deserts so chopped up with canyons and clefts. But when they hammered open these desert stones, ones gathered from the Mojave Desert in particular, they found hidden inside traces of moisture. Eventually they examined the shape of the land with increasing scrutiny. They walked the canyons. They witnessed floods and watched boulders roll away in the seething froth. Then they understood." - Craig Childs, The Secret Knowledge of Water
ART CREDITS: On the Beach, by Jude Valentine (via Planet Waves); Omega Institute video interview with Rev. Michael Beckwith on "Serving the Emerging Paradigm"; photo by Jason Lee, of a girl "walking on water" via floating sphere on river park, Beijing, May 3, 2007 (via All Hat No Cattle)
BONUS: A meditation for 8 Aquarius, A Book: The words in it keep changing.