Catch Ten Thousand

The world is like some critical disease convincing one the only cure is in the world. 

And so we get our jobs to get our health insurance to preserve ourselves from all the stresses and derangements of the job. There's no way out it would appear. 

It's the perfect catch; the world’s duality will always lead to twenty-two. And greater too. 

There's more than seven billion pieces one can analyze. There's more than seven billion separations needing mending. There's only one analysis achievable. The world is wholly broken. 

To fix, there's no practice needed, no pursuit is necessary, and no teacher is required but that affectionate intent one follows all the time already. 

Worldly cures are only ways to stay within that unwell world. One is attempting to escape when no escape is needed. 

The world is broken; one is not.

The Intentional Flash

Before the big bang of thunder is

the intentional flash of the absolute.

That flash is colored with the velvet of

deep sleep and totally makes your day.

Every individual experience is your creation

far beyond the day of memory

but as nearest as the night of our intention.

The Myth of Material

It's not material.

But imagine consciousness the son of god while dreaming. You think your dreams are lifelike! 

Dreams of gods are day and night. The sun and moon are just some characters on stage chiseled from the stuff of nothing.

As we have sculpted our own personalities from thought, universal consciousness has shaped the universe within and of itself.

Yet we have bought the story like some superstitious peasant that this consciousness arises from the chemistry of brain. 

That lie is driving one insane!

Accepting February

The words aren't here today. The trees are bare and snow is blanketing the ground with blankness so conclusive that I’m drawing blanks instead of letters. 

Soon the jet stream will be introducing yet another arctic blast. So if the snow isn’t smothering this breath within my heart, the cold will simply kill it. Will it?

Is the heart subjective to objective stimulation or the lack of it, or is this mutable material within the one embrace of universal heart?

I guess acceptance of the month of February is the point of any Valentine. 

The shortest month may feel as if it's longest with its cold that ruthlessly continues and its snow that blinds the eye from seeing any sign of spring.

But loving it is seeing that the winter is the shadow of the summer and I'm neither yin nor yang but each has sprang from my intent that’s always calling all—

to which all again must fall.

The Word of Light

In the matter of a lamp, does potentiality of power identify with something other than itself? Is it the physical construction of the lantern? Is it the light it generates?

The teacher says you’re not the body-mind; you’re not this being either. You’re that unknown ground of pure awareness—self-aware within the being of this body.

All of this is manifested by intent of self-awareness.

I tell myself: don’t lose yourself within the physical construction of intent; don’t vanish in the heat of being generated for this self-awareness.

I'm not the lamp. I’m not the light; that I exist—unknowable although nothing other than myself exists for knowing—is what my light is saying. See?

Snow Mind

The universe is in and of this consciousness. There’s nothing you can say or do that isn’t.

Despite appearances, the world does not go on without you. Each view is similar in its conditioning but different in its apprehension.

What is snow to me is not to you.

Within the deepest realm of sleep, this universe does not exist, and on awakening its memory loads. Again, this presence walks within the past.

The deeper science delves into the subatomic world the less subjective it appears. There's a certain feedback that results when one dissects oneself.

Affectionate Intent

Forgive them for we know not what we do;

conditioned first by parents who were first conditioned by their parents in a line of long conditioning that leads to some original conditioning so long ago,

we are like a stone enshrouded in the moss of thought and tangle of belief which set in motion rolls upon its unintended way collecting other thought and rough belief,

and like a pinball vector in some other automatic and involuntary way until we stumble on the way of great intent itself,

which strips us from each thought and disentangles all belief until now naked, empty and unborn, it moves us—

as love always is.

A Joke Wrapped in a Parody Inside Make-Believe

One is either on or off but never two or nothing. 

A fact like this is self-evident when clearly seeing as oneself. If not, one is divided by belief and feel a separation is existing where there’s none. 

Thus the universe is not a universe and cause is not effect and action is a work of doing by a separate will that’s free of all holistic intent. 

In such a world there’s war between the one and suffering for this which isn't and a slow and painful death for that never born.

It's like the joke about the nonexistent chicken and the one who needs the eggs. Wake up if you've heard this one before.

Unbelievably Unborn and Deathless

The dream of leaves is waiting in this morning's snow. Although the spring’s potentiality appears to be a frozen void and blank impossibility or any metaphor for signifying nothing.

But from that ground in March, the buds of life will suddenly appear and blossom, growing into worlds fantastic. Such am I. From out of nowhere, I arrived.

And then the world conditioned this mere presence to construct a fabrication full of thought and raw emotion. There I lived forgetting what I am, like a wild and anxious being in a jungle of abandon and destruction.

But wisdom is always in the wind. Return to being and appreciate its simple unbelievability and more. Or less. For what we see as nothing comes to claim itself again. There never is this something else—

being has never been.

Uncertain and Unknown

No one knows which way the wind will blow. 

The butterfly effect is certainly as subtle as a flower. 

The birds are being and the bees are buzzing and 

the buzz is on the street; the news is never something old. 

The past is but the fiction that we build around ourselves 

in order to traverse an ever-changing landscape 

of a universe intent on knowing the unknown. 

The path begins among a green explosion we call trees. 

In fact there's no beginning, not to mention any object 

like our image of a tree. Thus, whether one believes or not 

is neither here nor there. Uncertainty is just this godchild 

of that great unknown and loving it is clearly godsend.