Page After Page

Page after page after page. Essay upon essay. What else is there to do? Sometimes I forget that I have little or no free will. What happens in one’s Self stays in one’s Self. The joke is that everyone is the Self. There is only His Endlessness, as Gurdjieff put it.

I have long since learned the intellectual truth. A few grains of it have actually sunk into my heart. There is no loss without gain. There is no gain without loss. Make of that what you will. It gives me an eye on the prize, a simple movement into letting go. And the holding on will come right along with it. You gotta laugh at the paradisical perfection of the paradox. We are “screwed, blued and tattoed.” I don’t remember who said that, but the cosmic joke keeps being told.

I don’t know you but I know myself. I don’t know myself but I know you. We are mirrors for each other, like it or not. That is why I am buying stock in Windex. (Actually I buy generic.)

I am writing this while a load of laundry is being noisy. The fall sun is soft on the poplars outside my window. I am loathe to face the rest of the day. I am scooping up sorrow by the armloads and throwing it into the atmosphere. I know that it will be converted back into joy somewhere, somehow.

Sometimes miracles happen, don’t they? The latest one is my friend Patrice’s transition to the other side. I barely knew her socially; our link was deeper than that. I sat with her book on my lap last night, leafing through the pages and meditating on what she titled her book, Back To The Garden. And she comes through to a friend of mine, who says that I can find her among the flowers there.” And I weep. You see, Patrice was a mighty wind blowing through many lives. She will continue to send us messages; that I know.

Maybe my words are breaths of fresh air to some of you who recognize that you, too, are in thought-prison and that the gate is open wide. The gateless gate. Gate, gate, paragate. And we sit within our prisons waiting for a pardon that has already been given.

I am tired. I had to write this. The warden says he will deliver it to the right people. All I can do is sit at the still point.


  1. Welcome to Hotel California. “We are prisoners of our own device.” For you and me, writing is the device, We chipped away and let the light in…but in our compassion we turn to those in dark to share pain and give hope at the same time; thereby delaying our full escape in some way. Yet, we have escaped fully – a pair a’docs.


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