One for the Sages

Today I was thinking that all writers are bodhisattvas. Holding the pieces of fragmented memories for you, transcribing so you know they are recorded, they are safe, you can move on without worry of your trials and tests, accomplishments, victories and so on getting ignored by this vast sea of moving consciousness. And then I realized, all readers are bodhisattvas, holding tenderly, if only for a brief moment the morsel of life the words represent. And then I realized all trees are bodhisattvas because they are the recorders and upholders of our life, the other half of our lungs. And then I realized all beings are bodhisattvas because it is all together that we exist, from the tiniest amoeba to the grandest of cosmos. And then I realized, if that is true…


A few years ago I started writing a novel, oh geez, musta been 2013, perhaps earlier. It was a good one too, wish I hadn’t lost all the pieces. The characters still play in my mind from time to time but seeing as how I started living most of what was written, more or less, I don’t think I’ll be going to the trouble of writing it all down in quite as fancy a way. Last year I started writing another novel. This is one my Divine countenance requested. A tell-all if you will, a deep thinking what if … I haven’t gotten very far into it and I hesitate now because some of it was very dystopian and we don’t need to be living any of that out anymore. Not now. We’ve breached the threshold as it were and I’ll not see any of my stories that aren’t in the uppermost quadrant of awesomeness, brought to life. There may be room for a short story out of it, skip the trip and stick to the good stuff. We’ll see.

You know what I think happened? I think we fell into the drink. We fell into a black hole kind of thing. Got swallowed up by the sea, the black expanse of space. The sunken city of Atlantis except it was really the whole she-bang that went under. And now we’re rising, been rising, up out of the abyss. And that ark they speak of, it held all those genetic materials from old. Held safely, returned as promised. All things made new. The stories we fly by, the lines of energetic imprints, too fast to make sense of unless you were following the trail of bread crumbs from start to finish.

Maybe I should write that story. I guess I already am. Maybe I leave too much out? Maybe I don’t leave enough out. If I tell a good story, will you go back to sleep or will you wake? That is the question. And when I ask it, when I peer out, the reply bounces back, we are awake. I hope so. I miss you when you’re sleeping. The sparkle in your eye, the only reason the sun exists. Ah….. I hope you see that.

I took my dog for a walk and on our way in, a dragonfly zoomed over and said “we made it!!!” Awakened. Reunited with the whole she-bang. My friends, my dear friends, thank you, for waking.

I’ll not write the story of the queen in fine clothing, I’ll write the story of the queen that keeps you going. Until we all laugh with fountains of joy when we look into each other’s eyes. Because home is where we always are.

Many Blessings ❤




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