As I settle myself, in the early morning, on a beach I've never visited before, the sun appears and clears the morning mist.
As the day brightens and the sun strengthens, dog begin to appear on the beach in the hands of their owners. Every third person entering this sandy shore seems to have a doggy at hand. The prevalence is unusual, as our canine friends are usually forbidden on sunny California beaches.
Soon more and more dogs appear, with waging tails looking forward to a day of play in the sand and surf. I have avoided this beach as I had heard it was a "party beach" and I prefer a more restful environment, but it turns out this is indeed a place of celebration of a doggy-day.
Large dogs dig holes in the sand, for coolness, and the small ones, including teacups, settle under umbrellas close to their owners. All is at play, as the dogs greet and meet one another and shake water from their surf-furnishes fur. They touch noses, sniff the sand, and play in the water and this becomes a paradise for our canine friends. They are welcomed by the lifeguards, enjoyed by their owners, and relished by onlookers, like me. Here I discovered the full meaning of "a dog-day afternoon."
The pelican is just resting upon the soft sands of the shore, with its elongated beak, almost touching the ground, nestled before him—tucked close to his form.
His white gleaming breast is revealed with his slight turn of movement, as the sun's light reflects off his smoothed feathers.
His eye gently observes the activity around him, ensuring there remains a wide circle of his personal space. He seems unperturbed by the busyness of people on this sun-drenched beach.
His majestic presence is announced simply by his royal beauty and stillness.
It is honored; he is honored. And yet it seems that his deepest knowing tells him that he is surrounded by a love, a presence, that will protect him, and this seems to also be acknowledged in the hearts of onlookers, who admire him from a distance.
Perhaps they know that his kind has been here long before we all came to inhabit this planet.
A great white doorway marks the entranceway to the inner kingdom of my imagination. As I step through this portal, it is as if a great guardian, dressed in white light, bids me entry, while also marking the boundary of my sacred space where no other may enter. Here he stands, this illuminated and formidable presence, with sword in hand—held in defense and guardianship never in attack.
His presence contrasts with this soft welcoming room, with white pillows resting upon a luscious carpet of green. Milky white curtains billow like clouds in the sky, stirred by the breeze from an open window.
My desk invites me with clean sheets of paper that call me to the creation of ideas and words that might dance upon their surface. As I sit awaiting the voice within to emerge, I am caught by the sweet succulent scent of lilacs and jasmine, that entice my senses from the garden beyond my windowsill, and from their sweet nectar the humming bird drinks. These scents awaken me to the memory of the first flowers of spring, that stir us from winter’s deep slumber, and my mind begins to open, receptive to inspiration.
Inspiration arrives in the form of a ladybug visitor who crawls across the blank pages, upon which my pen is poised. Rather than words engaging this cumbersome metal object, it instead becomes a source of play for this delicate creature—an obstacle course for miss ladybug’s spindly legs. I observe the contrast of these two worlds that my pen and this creature represent, one being the creation of man, from the realm of thought and ideas that are executed with an exactness and control that is at times stifling, the other being the natural world of miss ladybug, where everything flows in curves of momentary experiences that are caught by a sudden breeze—that casts the seeds of the old oak tree to fertile ground.
Miss ladybug takes her leave, knowing that the objects so alien to her world might be fun to explore for a little while, but they pale in comparison to the adventures she might find outside the open window. I ponder the strange and beautiful worlds that her instincts may carry her to, free as she is to go where her heart may lead; I also ponder the adventures of my soul, that has danced upon rainbows, followed shooting stars, and journey to places that are beyond my physical reach, as I sit here in the imaginative realm of my writing room.
With the flutter of inspiration that visitor, to my room, bestowed, my soul is set free, with wings that carry me to a distant realm that takes shape in a mind, that has been ignited by nature’s beauty. I soar over ancient ruins and distant landscapes, to then settle by a cooling sea. Like glass, its surface of blue green shimmers in the morning sun, with gentle waves that do little to disturb the peaceful surface. I settle in this natural harbor, that is sheltered from the world by great mountains that seem as old as the world. All is quiet, serene, and beautiful; it is an idyllic place, truly a Garden of Eden.
Nestled in a valley just beyond the ocean’s reach, on firm ground and fertile soil, lies a gathering of dome-like structures, that exude whispers of smoke exhaled from a fireplace within—busy in its purpose of warming the broth that breaks the fast of the inhabitants.
A crooked figure, leading a mule carrying baskets heavily laden from the harvest fields, labors home to the valley, perhaps to provide the grain for the later day’s meal. Not close enough to see his face, he appears merely a silhouette in the morning sun, and yet he seems to turn, to pause, and to embrace the view of the ocean’s quiet, before returning to his task of the day.
I again turn to the cool surf before me, and become quiet, reflective, and peaceful, enjoying the paradise of this place. It needs nothing more; it's complete within its own being and beauty. I decide to rest within this scene, for a while….
The increasing warmth of the sun now stirs me from slumber and tells me to find shelter from its power, as it climbs towards its highest point in the sky.
On a nearby hillside, overlooking the ocean’s vast plane, stands a small house. It seems familiar, reminiscent of another existence, another life. My curiosity drives me to my feet, so that I might explore the spiraling pathway that is interwoven with the tapestry of that hillside. My eventual climb, to this curious destination, soon brings me to its garden gate and then on to an open doorway. The house seems to be calling me to enter, as if I have a right to be there and am known in this place.
As I enter its corridor of white billowing curtains and soft green pile, I realize now why that sense of the familiar overwhelmed me, as I find myself invited again into my writing room where I nestle at my desk. The view of flower buds and oak trees have been replaced by the blue green ocean, and the salted air disturbs the pages on my desk; such pages have danced within the realms of my imagining and are now filled with the inscription of a journey from which my soul can now rest.
Heaven is an opening within your heart to receive love; it is noticing the pattern in the clouds even as they begin to dissolving with the warming sun.
Heaven is a smile upon a stranger's face or a sudden suprise of an unexpected experience of joy.
Heaven can be found in taking a moment to play, that brings forth such a well of happiness that you naturally wish to extend it to others. Heaven can be found by making the choice to see yourself and this world in a new way: to look for the best that has always been apparent, but may have been obscured by the clouds of one's mind.
In choosing to smile at life, heaven can be created as a way of being that opens the door of hopefulness to all that may be possible. Heaven can be noticing what's there, rather what is absent. Heaven can be a kiss of sunshine on the face of the day, that you thought only held rain.
Transformation of life can occur in a moment when we set aside our problems, embrace what is new, and taste the warm waters upon which life rests. Heaven may exist on our doorstep and in our hearts, or in a change in our experience that flows from the synchronicities that are noticed, when we allow our life to sing with heaven's blessings.
Those meanderings of heart and soul, that have you play with the ideas of the perimeter, are just you experimenting, feeling it out for what it is. Like the fish caught in my bucket, you decide which to keep and which ones to throw back into the pond of old ideas.
And even those still writhing in the bucket of your wondering, you observe, watch them move about, and know that ultimately they will move back into the terrain of "what has been" so that your bucket can be filled with something else.
None of this needs to be taken seriously. It is just your playground of momentary ideas, that you can laugh about at some future point—with love.
The Rainbow Spirit has movement through the realms of color, of vibration and consciousness, and orange and yellow emerge as silken threads interwoven through the fabric of experience—of emotion that feels the shifting sands of inspiration, of beauty, as well as the dark seeds that have grown upward to find the light.
The breath of Spirit fills our wings, carrying us higher to reach the purple and violet layers of divine whispering. But, first, one enters through the portal of heart, of the soft greens of balance between mind and heartfelt feelings—that allow the luminous glow of pinks to filters through, as the touch of acceptance is given for all that such a heart has held.
As the upper levels are reached, the platform of violets lift us to the heightened peak of soft white and crimson snow, that brings what is below to above and vice versa. And here we sit upon this peak of majesty and behold what has been and what we have become, through the journey of traversing the layers of our existence—if only to find that God exists within them all.
And with hands clasped around the thrown of our heart, such love is given, such love is received; and the crimson sky changes its colors, depicting the vibrations of rainbow's song.
Then, finally, the rose pink of the Divine Mother's heart appears before us and tells us to drink from the softness within, from all the love that is given. May its softness mark every step on the road, because no matter the terrain we have walked and even further pathways that we may follow, all is marked by the love that is given; and to find this IS the point of our experience.
Illuminated in the mist, the Spirit opens her wings to take flight. She moves with silent grace into the hearts of man. She awakens our lips that they may know and speak the truth of our heart. She surrenders the mind, that it may know its higher embodiment and reach to that ascent.
She, the Spirit, flurries her wings in each waking moment, that we may taste the nectar that such a moment brings.
Mostly, her Spirit, the holiness of Spirit within, shines with her startling brightness, her purest form of love, that transforms everything that it touches. It melts the snowcap of the mountain, turning it to the golden peak of the realized sun, so that its rivers may run and flow with this pure gold of man's realized Self. This Spirit touches the soul and heart with love—that cascades to run as a thousand rivers outstretched to reach even the emptiest places.
All of this occurs so that the earth—of man's demise—may be renewed, and it may receive the Spirit, the truth, that each man and woman were born to come to know and fully embrace.
(Dove photo from istockphotos)
In the soft green light, mixed with the golden shafts of the sun, I walk within the forest on the well-formed pathway before me. It seems composed of soft leaves and cherry blossoms, laid down by the breeze, and it marks my way into the forest's depths.
Soon the air around me seems to change, its energy imbued with the mystical. The forest becomes magical, and the natural forms of this landscape begin to shape-shift. The pathway can no longer be seen, and although I may not find my way without it, I feel no fear, at all.
I feel the safety of the trees who stand before me, and who seem like guardians—like my grandfather's presence in my earlier life. They seem to come alive, as tall beings, mystical and wise, benevolent and loving.
Then, before me stands one such being, taking on a form of humanness. He bows slightly towards me, and offers to me a seat upon the soft mossy earth, before a tickling stream. He tells me to drink my fill from the magic of the waters of this forest, to feed myself from its deep well of beauty—that I may see the stars and realms that exist before me, and dream one of the thousand dreams awaiting my embrace.
Moving slowly, deliberately, or not moving at all could be seen as a way to shift and to dance with time. It could be seen as an opportunity to enter an alternate reality where the space, allowed through that rest, is filled with creatorship. This can be likened to the space that existed before the big bang—where all things occurred and were brought into being.
Sloth, the slowness, the beingness to do nothing. But is it nothing? Is it not, could it not be, the time to taste the nectar of the heavens? Could it be a time to allow all outer things to fall away, and to let the moss gather on the external for a while? It is a time to be called within to the deepness that is waiting, the stillness that is present all the time.
It is the moment where boredom, doing less, or nothing at all allows the veil to be lifted. It can be a moment when we shift and merge into the heart of the Source light, and experience this deep energy within, that is transforming us. Through connecting to the stillness of our inner being, thereby allowing such receiving, everything is transformed. Through slowness and our stillness of doing no-thing, our cup—of our being—is filled with light. It infiltrates our consciousness and transforms our cellular structure, and our neural memory and pathways. All that we have to do is to receive and take in this light, the eternal light of creation that exists beyond, and yet within, all forms and movement.
In this state, of what I would call our spiritual sloth, we become new beings, and through this slowness the particles of light begin to shine. Our outer casing then shatters its illusion of form, and eventually the wall of this outer shell begins to break apart and then fall away.
All of this occurs by sitting in the stillness and returning to the power within, the greatest power of All—of the great All that is the light. It has the power to shape the mountain, to create from the seed the beautiful flower, and within us it has the power to create all things anew. All this is given as we return and embrace our spiritual sloth.