Consider a small donation….

Dear Readers,

If you can make a small Christmas donation to the website, I would greatly appreciate it. This goes towards its maintenance and any additional costs that might be incurred, such as updating it from time to time. There is a PayPal button on the site, which makes it easy. Thank you so much.


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Waking Up

“He is your friend who pushes you nearer to God.”
― Abraham Kuyper

We live in a society of automatons, programmed to live within our own capsule. Here we think only of ourselves. However, when we see another automaton approaching, we are programmed to act as if we cared. In fact, the approach of another human being makes the muscles clench in fear. Just for automatons to sit next to each other is quite stressful.

If we are lucky, or graced, we may sense the truth of the above paragraph. We know that something is missing in the machinery. It just doesn’t feel right. Automatically we conceal this knowledge—first from ourselves, then from others. The Robot Race is a canny one.

I had the good fortune of finding a teacher that told the truth. He pointed outside the window of the classroom, saying, “See those people? They are dead.” This is the beginning of the end of the robotic reactionary way of life. This is esoteric Christianity.

The next step is that you discover that knowing you are a robot doesn’t make you real. You find yourself reenacting the same old battles with other robots, in spite of your best intentions to be conscious. One must pay a price to be conscious. Otherwise, we would be in a world of robots pretending to be real, which is a state worse than the first.

What we have to do is endure unto the end. We have to become witnesses to our daily failings. 
Go through your day experiencing every useless thought and emotion is the way that Mr. Howard put it. It isn’t easy, but now you have had a glimpse of truth.

What does this have to do with the holidays? Everything and nothing. The Christ Consciousness came down from the level of the sun to bring light to this dark planet. If we want it, we must pay with our lives. We must begin to see clearly and that alone is enough to change us over the course of a lifetime.

I write about things I do not yet fully understand. But even that is better than a total lie. This is not a feel-good essay but a clarion call to scrounge around for a bit of grace in your life. If you find it, just say hallelujah or thank you and pass it along. You never know when the next robot is about to choose to wake up.

Vicki Woodyard

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A Book For Your Christmas Stocking

“Joy is the infallible sign of the presence of God.”
― Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

Put a little book in your stocking. It’s called Bigger Than The Sky. I was making a list of what brought me joy and I found myself putting down “selling my books.” It takes lots of work to get a book out, believe me. And this one is a jewel because of its subject matter. It is about a man that knew how to live when the chips were down. Many of you have already read it, but if you haven’t experienced Peter’s version of heaven, it is contained in the book.

He loved to juggle cats, he told me in an email once. He always had from one to three cats in his near vicinity. Alex, his favorite, was a black and white one that perched on his chest. Being ill, Peter could not ramble very far without falling down. And every time he fell, he enjoyed the scenery while he was in a horizontal position. What a guy. What an enlightened being in a wreck of a body. And as he said he was “a handsome man, a manly man.”

Oh, how I loved him. Sprawling on the lawn watching the robins run, he had no need of further spiritual instruction. His cats wrote the book for him. And it more than likely only said “purr.” As someone said about Peter, “He spends a lot of time sitting outside near some tall trees. When we ask him what he is doing, he just says ‘nothing’ and smiles.”

Like the little bird in the photo, Peter sang a brave song, one filled with abandon and acceptance. His was a wild ride among the stars and the tall grasses. I would love to know what he is doing in heaven now.

His teachings are hidden in the book, as I have said before. They are too simple for most people to be interested in. One has to be dying to truly learn how to live. This dying is not necessarily of the body, either. Peter had died to his idea of what heaven was like; therefore he experienced the rapture of not knowing. His wisdom is hidden in plain sight, as I said. Let me know if you feel it as you read his timeless words. Here is the link to order it.

This is the Kindle version if you want to get it ASAP.


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Love is circular….

Amor Fati – “Love Your Fate”, which is in fact your life.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche

Love is circular.
So is hate.
Karma arrives
and never too late.

Right on time
the ridiculous sublime.
God on point, on mark, on cue.
Masquerading as them and you.

What will you do when
there’s nothing to do?
What will you be when
it’s all there to see?

Love is the answer.
Love is the dance.
Don’t hate the music.
Give it a chance.

Vicki Woodyard

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All along….

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“The caterpillar does all the work, but the butterfly gets all the publicity.”
― George Carlin

Inside the cocoon is peace.
Silky darkness spun in silence.
The stone has not been rolled away.
This is not the day but the night.
And all is calm and all is bright.

Outside the world is waiting
with its neon and its come on.
The new-born love sent from
above is hesitant to appear.
And all is calm and all is bright.

The time is right and day takes
night away and love has come
to stay among the shattered bits
of hate that linger.
The moon now pointing to the finger.

Oh, love, sweet love, thou bid me go
in this cold world that doesn’t know.
My beauty bare, my carol spare
and I am here and I am there.

The rags and tatters of my bright wing
give me great cause to do my thing.
I love myself in all my grace while
shining in this dreadful place.
I love myself and right the wrong
of not loving myself all along.

Vicki Woodyard

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Incognito God

“Our play is not something separate from our spirituality; it is itself a sign of the presence of God in the world.”
― Ken Shigematsu

Dear God,

You are so incognito as to be an eternal mystery. None of us gets the joke, although we sense it at times. For me, you are the carrot on the end of the stick I am chasing. For you, I am your container. One among billions. Kudos to your wardrobe director. And yet, I am wearing a fuzzy old robe with a leopard collar. I think you could do better.

I have managed to keep this robe out of the eyes of the general public, which happen to be you. If you are laughing at me, you manage to misdirect my attention while you do so. I might hear the mighty rumble of your humor, but I am too busy looking at a cookie to notice. You, sir, are a hoot and a half.

I don’t like what you do to my backyard in the winter. I look out and see scrawny little trees with persistent vines choking out their life. I see you. Yet when I look out of the kitchen window, I see green grass and the dry leaves clinging to the Japanese Maple and I get a different sense entirely. You can be in two places at once beautifully.

What’s up with Facebook, Lord? You have so many personas that my mind is blown. Tell me the truth. Would you have Unfriended Judas or was he a key player in the destiny of your life? I just can’t tell the bad guys from the good guys anymore. Everyone (meaning you) throws out these gorgeous images and hilarious jokes. They come at me too fast. I am blown away. Perhaps that is the point.

Your ability to disguise yourself is often a mark against you, though. You are so good at it that I overlook your presence in what are probably wonderful people. I am quick to judge. And you are so willing to keep forgiving me.

Sometimes at the grocery story I see you everywhere. You smile as you scan my items. You carry my bags and put them in the trunk of my car. Your eyes are looking at me from so many different people. And I am one of them.

Your fan,
Vicki Woodyard

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Love is severe.

“The last thing one discovers in composing a work is what to put first.”
― Blaise Pascal, Pensées

It comes to this.
The final kiss.
The bargain sealed.
The life revealed.

The silence rings
so loud you wince
and it is always
“ever since.”

What now, what now?
the ego cries,
now that I’m gone,
who will ask why?

You’re not really gone.
You never were here.
Nothing is infinite,
Love is severe.

Vicki Woodyard

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Wisdom Waits

“I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books; I have begun to listen to the teaching my blood whispers to me.”
― Hermann Hesse, Demian: Die Geschichte von Emil Sinclairs Jugend

Not long after my husband’s cancer diagnosis, an urge came upon me to pare down, to ready myself for the siege. His prognosis: Less than 3 years. I didn’t have any spare time.

I went through my book shelves, throwing hundreds of spiritual books into boxes. Once that was done, Bob and I went to a bookstore called The Owl. It gave people fair deals on used books. The place used to be a Steak and Ale restaurant. It had a faux facade that was supposed to make you think of merry olde England. But that did not happen.

I still remember the place. I had come across some juicy titles here, some not readily available books, some autobiographies that were especially good. But now I had no time for that.

And there was something else. The store leased out its rooms to psychics, astrologers and others of that New Age persuasion. This is what online nonduality has become. A faux gathering place for people to pretend to be teachers. But it is for profit. Never forget that.

I was to learn that if I wanted God, I was out of luck. God was unavailable, especially in one of these rent-a-room buildings where He was said to be. Oh, don’t give me that “God is everywhere” mumbo jumbo. That’s called spinning. He is everywhere but He doesn’t read your palm. He made it, for God’s sake.

But back to the essay. I pared down and that proved to be a smart move for me. I found my writing voice. It is short and sweet. I instinctively shied away from buzz words like “pointers, enlightenment and awakening.” Instead I wrote the raw and gritty facts that I was experiencing.

Bob’s cancer took me to the front lines once again. I had been there before with our daughter. I knew that we were in this together but that I would end up alone. And so it is with the spiritual path. At some point it becomes a journey of “the alone to the Alone.” The path steepens and everyone falls away. You are indeed alone.

During Bob’s ordeal I met my friend Peter. He reinforced the truth. When the suffering becomes intolerable, you simply let go. It would have been laughable for him to enter one of those rooms.

This is a stripped down version of what happened to Peter. He became bigger than the sky. And the sky needs no human teacher doling out the knowledge in bits and pieces. It has become what it was all along.

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The Wintry Scent of Solitude

“Therefore, dear Sir, love your solitude and try to sing out with the pain it causes you. For those who are near you are far away… and this shows that the space around you is beginning to grow vast…. be happy about your growth, in which of course you can’t take anyone with you, and be gentle with those who stay behind; be confident and calm in front of them and don’t torment them with your doubts and don’t frighten them with your faith or joy, which they wouldn’t be able to comprehend. Seek out some simple and true feeling of what you have in common with them, which doesn’t necessarily have to alter when you yourself change again and again; when you see them, love life in a form that is not your own and be indulgent toward those who are growing old, who are afraid of the aloneness that you trust…. and don’t expect any understanding; but believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance, and have faith that in this love there is a strength and a blessing so large that you can travel as far as you wish without having to step outside it.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

December begins innocently enough. The weather not yet a problem but an expectation. The recipes still in the box, the butter frozen, the chocolate chips in their bags. But at some point, all hell breaks loose. A bitter chill, a baking catastrophe, a sudden emotional bomb thrown. And we are off to the holiday races.

Everyone of you knows what I am talking about. Things are different at my house but I am not immune from the season’s overkill. I gave up on decorating when I realized I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to do in regard to Christmas.

Sometimes I put out a few token decorations. An old wreath is hung on the door. It is made of straw and has deer in it. A baby deer had come unglued so he had to be glued back on before the wreath got hung. The front porch never got washed since our painter disconnected his land line and disappeared.

I just don’t understand the concept of revelry and merriment. Rob and I did go to the Cancer Community Dinner and it was nice. Absolutely no pressure there. Just people piling their plates with Maggiano’s Lasagna and then pigging out on every kind of dessert in the world.

We had good Christmases when I was a child but my father always chose holidays to blow up and scare us kids to death. Maybe my aversion to holidays stems from that. And with my Virgo ascendant and moon in Taurus, I am almost too settled for my own good. I love the times AFTER the good times the best.

Writing is my therapy and pleasure. I totally love to trim the essay and hang the baubles on its branches. This is me at my optimum frequency. It is here I turn when I get bored or antsy. I just let the words unfold as they will.

This evening will be full of silence for me. And to untrim the tree and lay bare its branches allows me to inhale the wintry scent of solitude.

Peace be with you.


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Woman in the Mirror

“The most powerful relationship you will ever have is the relationship with yourself.”
― Steve Maraboli, Life, the Truth, and Being Free

I wish I had been kinder to you.
Loading you down with duty
that cut into your shoulders,
the bag of letters meaningless.

I wish I had been more soft-spoken.
Given you fewer critiques and
more hurrahs.
Those harangues about
keeping the house clean
should never have been spoken.
You were already broken.

I know I was cruel to you
many times over.
Watching you so you could
not let down your guard.
I made life hard.

I speak to you, that woman
in the mirror who grows
dearer as the clock winds down.
I see you now more clearly
as the girl I used to push around.

I try to be kinder to you these days.
Now adorned with ease and sorrow.
Your beauty now is faint of brow.
And yet I love you fully now.

Vicki Woodyard

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