Early morning words, fresh from the subconsciousness, thrown on the dewy grass of my mind. Words that jar the reader into awakening. Smell the coffee. Smell the roses. Shit is coming down the pike. Never mind the telegenic young teachers who are selling their fresh faces and outlooks to you. Down below the demons are growling at you.
Demons that want you dead. Christ knew all about them. He spoke openly of the devil. The devil is the unconscious, the cellar of our being where they roam. Last night I had nightmares and began to pray for the safety of the light. Went back to sleep and reentered the nightmare. The only saving grace was that I saw an apparition of my grandmother and hugged her, weeping. “I am so glad to see you,” I said twice.
If I write to you only of self-realization nothing changes, not you or me or the world, for everything is within. The opposites never quit; they are always churning out worst-case scenarios for us to fight. Love seems to be the apparition in a world gone mad.
Sometimes I hesitate to post what I write; it is then that people say they like it. Such a funny situation for a writer. I want you to see the strength I got from my teacher. It is downright scary, isn’t it. I had a dream once where he called me on the phone and we put our hands palm to palm and he read me a sacred charge and I agreed to it. Days later I told a friend who is a mystic about it. She said this, “I wanted to throw the phone across the room.” When I asked her why, she said, “I got dizzy and nauseous; I couldn’t take the power coming through the phone as you told me the dream.” And that is what my words are all about, ultimately. There is a lineage that will not be denied. It keeps me private and on point, ever doing my inner work of being still.