Soul Management: not priests or nuns!

Your Lands, Stories and Songs

We don’t need to become robed priests

or wimpled nuns to feel our true nature

and the sacred! We do not need to take vows,

to strap ourselves up with symbols,

and live in a cloister accountable to our superiors.

Our humanity is our creed and

our faith combined. Each breath is an

opportunity to experience it.

Humanity is our robes and regalia,

our bible and vajra.

Our church is ‘understanding’ and listening

to others with full sincerity. It has no walls

or boundaries, and there are no rewards for

good works at any time, except one –

the sheer joy of being fully alive and

awake each moment!

We need no mediators, no clerics or shamans,

to communicate with our own true nature,

and that is the way, that is the divine.

We are the dynamic pulsing way of pure love

and compassion! Religion is…

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The role of the past!


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The past is so forceful. It pulls us away from reality like the strongest of magnets. But it is dead; a dead weight; a burden. The past belongs in works of art so that it can be re-evaluated, re-visited. So that we can cease to identify with it as a part of our ‘self.’

It liberates us and makes more space for the present, for the ‘now-and-here!’ Tibetan Sand mandalas are painstakingly created with an inner bow for each grain and then abandoned to the master artist, the weather. This creation is witnessed by the universe, the visible and the invisible.

When we create art we can be assured that we have contributed a little of our unique minds and our spirits, a little of what we consider we ‘know,’ to the universe which we can never ‘know,’ without expecting rewards or benefits. This is real freedom.

 

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After all, we cannot desire the unknown, so we can give freely to it without any attachments, any strings. Desires – the future – are repetitious and delusional; and the past has been repeated so many times that it is easy, habitual, representing no challenge whatsoever.

All the challenges lie in the present as we navigate our lives as tenants through breaths which we borrow. Our spirits are the only authentic art – formless, divine, and indestructible.

 

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Two Angels

 

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Dawn is an eminently suitable time for angels to leave the down of quilt and pillow, to slip away from the smooth cotton snug, to move further than just turning over.  A loving observer said that your dark red eyelids showed thousands of glow-worm lights as they flickered.  Your luminous clavicle bones trembled, widening, and your swan neck grew long.

The pale sheet bandaged around your breasts slipped allowing dark, mystic nipples oratory and your spine became a shifting spire making scarecrows beneath the sheet.  Several kisses were captive on your argent forehead, but your eyelids could not be caught.

Your keeper told you that you had had a fit, convulsion, apoplexy, petit mal, grande mal.  Gave you the precise time and duration, the clinical description, of your episode.  Stopwatch.  Jotting down notes.  A part-time biologist. You told me, toying with a description like un-relished oysters or snails, and I knew.

“I move in and out of consciousness.  It is timeless.  I am ashamed.”

As a dark-haired angel child you were never alone for the legion Sistine blue butterflies which lived in the orbs of your huge blue eyes may carry you off somewhere at any moment.  Your father held on hard to you when you blinked and walked with you into sleep until the butterfly wings were paired and still beneath the surface of your eye-lid lakes of heliotrope. Then, pale with watching, he would imagine your sleep, never knowing that your head was filled with moon-crazed creatures.

When you heard him pad away with worried steps, you would get up to let them out of the skylight in the hallway, listening for the moon.  As they dotted up into the stars, you compared the constellation in your head with that beyond the glass.

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Your life was filled with trees which you collected behind your eyes.  Eventually you had enough to plant out the pattern of stars in your head.  This tree chart which you often looked at was designed to be a forest of sound.  The breeze would rustle through many different species of leaves, and the wind would resound around the carefully positioned trunks, the excited air silvering through uncountable spruce needles, cymbaling birch leaves, tinkling the berries of rowan and holly. 

You would stare up from the ground looking through thin clouds and tree vapour, your eyes dangling azure fruit on very long stems, or sometimes a pair of errant bluebells in late summer.

Later, you would plant out your own tree garden to make a map of the world.  Moscow. Budapest. Delhi, all with the appropriate tree.  You were not daring enough to use the constellations of your childhood, but there is still time for that.

The huge shiny Bechstein piano took charge of most of your young years.  It was very difficult to get you away from its big body; your dextrous fingers constantly summoning sounds from the slim, smooth keys.  They were your white friends who carried around younger black siblings which you tolerated.

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Your intent eyes stained the manuscript with their blueness because you read on and on, hour after hour. And when your eyes began to flicker, your fingers learned to stay still while your mind extemporized blissful forays into your sound garden.  Then your fingers would go on as if nothing had happened.

Sometimes you would sit under the piano and flicker the pink and blue, and your mind would fly up into the dark vault of strings.  You would lie with your disheveled head on the sustaining pedal so that the inter-stellar hum would go on forever, or until some meddler came and insisted that you climb up on the huge leather stool with its buttoned hills and valleys to play something soothing. 

As soon as you were alone again you would climb down and yelp up into the strings, hungry for harmonics, marveling at the coarse copper of the bass notes, the triplets of wire for the treble.

You.  A listening creature.  A honeycomb of receptive cavities.  A gentle twinkle of star.  Breathing. Flickering the minute muscle screws of the membrane in your ear, tightening or loosening the skins as you pleased. Later, they wanted you to read and write about sound.  Paragraphs.  Letters.  Ruled pages.  Wanted you to turn sounds into history, morality, even to make politics out of it. 

You left the university in haste, going alone, unsafe, to flicker in the bottom of the domes of Florence.  Frescos were your cushions and clouds into which you bedded.  Your eyes always played the part of angels, sexless, weightless, circling close around the Madonnas, your fingers deftly activating spheres of coloured sound.

You left your first love behind.  A Rasputin who draped his gigantic beard across your white belly and shared his opium pipe with you.  He had travelled a little way into your world by this means but he hadn’t learned listening and how talk was only the voice playing with shadows.

You have learned to flicker at your will now, standing in the well of the Duomo, flying up into your dreams, or diving into memories if you desired. But always preferring the dark softness of Now, your senses working at full pelt.

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Then one day you thought that the coloured patterns and pitch of your messages were received. 

Far across the great dark dome in which you had been always alone, aware only of your trees and of walking again and again through huge mirrors, suddenly you saw other flickering, glistening eyes.  They were blue but darker.  Beneath the eyes, long dark fingers were operating vessels of sound, only some of which you recognized.  Above, a head was slightly bowed, intent, listening unmistaken and beautifully.

There were wisps and sibilances of a struggle for breath as the two beings realized they were no longer alone.  Their throats became blocked, crammed with sapphire spangles of tears of joy.  Only a thin trickle of air passed through which prompted strange intermittent sounds.  Breath-speech.

There were many diversions through mirrors before the two beings approached each other.  In time they held each other’s faces in long lit fingers.  Their neat hair became disheveled, blurred, and their commingled sounds were sustained into eternity.  They spluttered out colours from the octaves of their spines through the tiny trap-doors in their porcelain throats.

Dawn was an eminently suitable time for the commingling of two angels.

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images courtesy of Megapixyl.com and Mariko Kinoshita

A world truly made of Words

Valid Literature

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The dancers move.

Their bodies are words;

“stretch,” “soften,” “open.”

Arms move in phrases

the intonation of which they follow

with their eyes.

Legs move in sentences

the logic of which they feel

with their minds.

Arms and legs,

the syntax and semantics

which hook into the spine,

are constantly available to them.

A swirl of alphabet from which to make “me.”

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images courtesy of Megapixyl: clthorp59@outlook.com

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Soul Management: the 3 minds

Your Lands, Stories and Songs

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The sooner you can become a peak in your own right,

the better. The valleys you create can then echo with

your true nature and resonate in response to other

peaks. It is easy to abdicate to others,

to just give up at the goading of the intellectual mind (1)

which simply compares and competes, and so divides;

which asserts with either

‘for’ or ‘against.’

Then the emotional mind (2) feels overwhelmed by

the achievements and ‘talents’ of others and withdraws.

It is self-cherishing and attention-seeking,

given to envy and self-doubt.

But if you close your worldly eyes and listen closely

to the universal mind (3), you are listening to the totality,

to the whole, to the transcendence, to the beyond.

The ‘that’ has no single urge to fight or react or assert

or doubt. It only responds like a valley echo,

and here there are no choices.

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The world of words

Nirvana Linden

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The world of words demands that we churn out concepts and assertions mindlessly. Each word creates an image in our visual libraries and memory banks. The bridge of the mind leading out to the vast field of consciousness is so cluttered with verbiage and images that we are stranded there. We are blocked in.

But unblocking is not just a matter of clearing out, discarding our highly documented lives out onto the scrap heap. No matter how badly they make us suffer by living always indirectly, marooning us in our own minds, we must accept that we have actually created them in our unique way. They are what we amount to so far: they are our materials. But even cutting-edge science tells us that materials are not permanent.

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So, first, we must acknowledge them, accept them as our way up to this point. Then we can

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Soul Management: dissolving

Your Lands, Stories and Songs

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The more we dissolve into the unknown, into the invisible,

into the divine, the more unique we become.

Most of us fear oblivion, being tossed aside, overlooked.

But this is only the discontent ego craving and craving,

clawing attention in the visible world.

And ego is the most ordinary thing in the world

because everyone around us is an egoist

and so human societies are mostly dysfunctional.

We can only look to the great spiritual leaders

to see egoless-ness in action: Buddha, Jesus,

Mahavir, Allah – they had dissolved completely and

so were able to epitomize love and compassion.

We may aspire to becoming ’empty,’ ‘nothing,’

like a ‘valley,’ but this only means that we get rid

of the spoiled child of the ego. In this condition,

we are, we purely are,

no longer influenced or contaminated by the transient ego.

So, dissolve into the great still…

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