Time

Time is a poem without a line.

Time is a river of the seasons, marking beginnings and endings.

Time is the place where dams have held up life making a lake

A beautiful lake, a place to stop, slow down, look below the surface and dive deep.

 

Dive down to that cave at the bottom of the lake into the rich darkness

Follow your soul’s desire for the incredible longing.

For mother.

The source.

 

Dive deep past the fear. 

Life is the light in the deepness

Swim towards that light

Find the place where everything is vibrant with life.

Pure, clean, primal.

Go there and then further

Move past the light

Move until movement is no more

Feel the expansion.

No thought no language

Light , life

Time is the journey, the poem, the ancient endless map.

The treasure.

Jesse

To the Farm

When I was a little girl, my parents drove us to Grandma and Grandpa’s house a lot, sometimes two or three week ends a month. I was the oldest of four, my sister is two years younger than me, and my brothers arrived two and four years later respectively.

I loved every moment spent at the farm but the trip from Kansas City to Union Star was another story. When we traveled on vacation, our parents always encouraged us to set up and watch the country going by. We played all the typical car games but we also searched the landscape for white horses ~ the first one to yell out “Zip” won a point ~ this was our own personal family game. As we drove the same route to the farm so many times, we kids came up with a different strategy; we made a game of who-can-fall-asleep-first. Now that I think about it, I bet my Dad came up with this idea, but we realized that it made the tedious two hour trip seem so much shorter if we could sleep through most of it.

With four of us in the back seat, staking out a territory to call your own was always an issue. Often my brothers would curl up on either side of the floorboard, possibly sharing this space with our little dog Frisky. But the most coveted spot was the back deck ~ that carpeted space above and behind the back seat where the rear window curves down to meet the trunk of the car. Either curled into a ball or folded nearly in half, there was enough room for a skinny kid to ride up there in our blue Chevy Impala. The only down side of this location was that you may arrive at your destination grumpy from the heat and resembling a baked meatloaf. However, for the duration of the trip you had traveled above the reach of thirty annoying prodding fingers, and that was a good thing.

As we neared the farm over the last final hills whoever was awake would strain to catch sight of the familiar white buildings and then begin the singsong chant, “I see Grandpa’s house. I see Grandpa’s house.” As each napping child came to, they would sleepily take up the tune, even though their eyes were still closed. By the time we rolled into the driveway of our farm we were wide awake and ready for our next adventure.

* annette

Listening

A lingering memory is sitting in the kitchen of my second cousin, Maureen, in a suburb of Dublin. It's late and she, her sister and I have just returned from a dinner with my two sisters who have stayed in the city.  We have all just met for the first time this evening and now find ourselves discussing experiences with souls that have crossed over. 

I'm listening as Eileen tells of an encounter her daughter, who's grandfather had just died, had in the recent past. She was driving home through a rural area, at two in the morning,  knowing she couldn't make it home because she was about to run out of gas. She was extremely mad at herself for putting herself in this position. She was in an unfamiliar area but knew everything was closed in the small towns she passed. 

She begins to panic knowing it would not be good to be stranded in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere. She decides to pray for help. Just then she hears her grandfathers voice and turns to see him sitting in the seat next to her.  It strikes her as odd that he has his seat belt on.  He calmly instructs her to take the next turn, proceeds to give very clear directions and though she can see no sign of a town coming she listens.  Sure enough after a few minutes they arrive at a gas station.  As she pulls up to the pump a man pulls up behind her in a fire truck.  He gets out and comes up to her car to ask if he can help.  She is relieved beyond measure as she tells him her situation.  

As he is filling up the the car he tells her he has no idea what woke him up in the middle of the night but that it felt like someone was rocking him.  There was an insistent feeling that he come down to the station to put gas in the truck right away. He felt he had no choice but to listen. 

Mary

Poem - Our Day of Hope 2008

This is the day we have all been waiting for.
This is the day our dreams begin to expand.
This is the day the hard-crusted minds of the old begin to crumble.
This is the day our consciousness unfolds to heights, as a culture, we’ve
never known.
This is the day the “old tyrants” say “What?”.
The “What” that has kept us in a stranglehold.
The “What” that’s been filled with oppression.
This is the day we replace the “What” with the “One”.
The “One” that means wholeness.
The “One” that brings us together as “One Big Heart”.
The “One Big Heart” holds everyone equally.
Patricia

Musing- Home is Where the Heart Is

Home is where the Heart is - our generation learned that from the Wizard of Oz. It seems so intuitively true. I feel at home when I am in my heart, living from my heart. This usually means that I’m not feeling threatened. I am safe. My needs are provided for. I feel loved and respected for who I am.

As I have learned to connect more with my heart I’ve noticed that I can be at home in a wide variety of situations and relationships. The phrase we repeat at Unity Church seems possible- “Wherever I am, God is, and all is well.”

Then I run up against Homeland Security and the possibilities of torture. Could I still see Divinity while in the hands of expert torturers? Could all be well if my friends and family – or anyone- is threatened with this?

This dilemma is one which twists and turns my heartstrings. I firmly believe and experience Divinity in myself and others. Yet how does it work in the face of those who deny it so totally that they seek power and riches through degrading and stealing from other people and Mother Earth Herself?

Is even personally experienced spirituality the opiate of the people?

What of the story of a Tibetan Buddhist nun my friend met in India, who had been humiliated and raped by Chinese invaders yet maintained loving kindness. Could I do that? I don’t want to be tested in that way – and yet my own story of childhood sexual abuse was similar. My healing unraveled more slowly over time, allowing me to come to a place where I can feel my heart. I can have a home again in this world and feel safe enough to know that Home is where the Heart is.

--by Terra Rafael

Memoirs: Passing Through

I am very interested in out of body experiences and, one night, ask “to know”. I find myself outside of my body looking down at it. My husband’s arm is over me and he is asleep. I think, “If he were to wake up now, he would think I am dead. But I’m not dead because I am here. Well, if I’m here, then where am I?”

I turn around and find that I am in a tunnel. Rings of bright lights are moving past me rapidly, but I am still. I have the sensation of speeding down the tunnel towards a bright light. It is 1970 and I have never heard of the Tunnel. I have a choice to go through the Light and I experience a moment of hesitation. Then the choice is made and I am through on the other side. There is no transition. I am in a place of light, color, beauty, and Peace. The colors are muted pastels, softly blending into each other. They feel unusual to me, not as vibrant as I would have thought. A huge Being of Light approaches me. He is all light except for his face and his hand, which he holds out to me. Telepathically he says, “I am going to take you to God”. There is a knowing in me that, if I went, I would not be able to come back. I think of Hugh and know that I have something to do with him here that is important. I say, “No, not yet”.

Instantly, I am back in my body. I wake Hugh up to tell him what had happened, but he does not remember it.

This experience was a deciding catalyst to bring me to the commitment of a spiritual path. Time and events started speeding up, miracles abounded, and within a few months, Hugh and I left the United States on a journey of four and a half years that took us around the world and back again.

Prema Rose

Prose: I am the matriarch of my family.

I am the matriarch of my family.

Years ago I would have laughed at this notion. I would have pointed to other people who were ahead of me in the family line, then, who I thought would still be here even now. Yet that is not the case. There is no one ahead of me and hasn’t been for the past seventeen years.

I remember when my mother died from a septic infection as I was coming out of surgery. I realized I was next. I was now, not only her oldest daughter, I was the oldest in the surviving family line. On some level, it sobered me. It gave me a moment of pause, a moment to understand my place in the bloodline and my responsibility to everyone behind me.

As my grandchildren were born, a bunch of years later, someone said to me, ”So, you are the matriarch, aren’t you?”

I had never seen myself this way. I realized what she said was true. And it became truer still when I discovered a granddaughter and her daughter who I had never met.

With a younger sister, sons, a daughter, and now a few more generations of young women, I am just that…the matriarch of my family.
Jyoti