Waking Early

Waking early: 

waking early to appreciate the silence, the world is hushed in slow activity of easing towards the day, and it seems that whatever sounds occur are quickly reclaimed by the morning's quiet hold. It's a sacred time, mystics commune with God at this hour, praying silent tones, listening to a voice residing in the depths of all things, a vibrations really, heard through their entire being, resonance. This is my time too, being a mystic at heart and a poet too, my prayer is to always go deep within the silence and emerge with a sense of beauty to convey, qualities that can never be truly translated into words, yet perhaps I'll be able to capture just a bit of their essence. 

but if not...it's enough to be part of this holy conversation.

in these hours I believe in angels, in faeries and elemental's, nature spirits with an urge to communicate their secrets to me. Everything is possible in the hours before dawn, and waking early is my promise to believe in the improbable, suspending doubt of a rational, solid world as my only reality, and lending myself to the pure vibrational means of exploring other worlds. This is the realm of imagination, not imaginary, as it's too real to be called anything other than an aspect of reality that's only known in certain hours - this is where stories emerge from, poets receive their best words from here, mystics and shamans are given holy visions, and musicians hear the inspiration for their songs. 

magic happens here.

and waking early makes us most available to know this realm. 

of course I might deny this later in the day, in more rational hours - but it's still early now, not quiet dawn as I write these words. Magic still lingers, my sense of everyday reality hasn't fully settled in my mind, and the realm of imagination remains near, almost reachable, but not quite, as the hours have progressed in distance towards the belief in a material world. 

tomorrow, waking early...

I'll dream once more. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Of Six Elements

Of six elements: 

we consist mainly of six elements, oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, carbon, calcium, and phosphorus - that's 99% of the human body, with five more elements rounding out the last 0.85%. These are also the common ingredients of the universe as well, of which 70% remains hydrogen left over from the Big Bang. Our bodies were forged from the dawn of creation, beyond ancient, as we existed with the birth of time itself, and space soon followed for our expansion. The universe is our story, from singularity to the agitation of energy that gave cause for a sudden burst of creation, space and time coming to creation, every star, planet, endless galaxies, all formed from the material of this event. 

of six elements we are arranged in such a way as to be unique in what we are, not just life, but a somehow aware human life, conscious of our own existence, able to ask important questions that lead to an understanding of how we came to be. We've done remarkably well with this, both science and philosophy offering explanations that continue to grow with further knowledge, building on its advancements and achievements, deepening with ever keener insights. 

yet we're never close to knowing why?

of six elements, perhaps randomly arranged, and now the universe is conscious of itself. 

why? 

and of course all we have is speculation, philosophies and stories told of our cosmology, all brilliant in their way, but always stories, fiction at their very best. No need for me to add to this, although I believe that poetry has a hint in explanation, an intuitive sense that the universe wants to hear its story poetically told, its origins beautifully recreated through the means of every art's display. That's just my best and latest guess, nothing more than further speculation, based only imagination. 

and yet? 

somehow imagination arises from the arrangement of six elements, and with this I'm able to offer poems and stories, to imagine great designs, drawing, painting, sculpturing things of beauty. I can't help but believe, if only through imagination, that this is exactly why...

of six elements,

an entire universe made,

and all for the sake of love and beauty. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Common Ancestry

Common ancestry: 

there's a common ancestry to the world, to the universe, everything, all being born from the creative burst of a singularity of existence, every element and particle of matter was created in just that moment. It's when we really came to be, our true birth from nothingness to here, an entire universe as our beginning. That how vast we are, how ancient, and more so, how connected - it all stems from that one creative moment, a fluctuation of energy giving cause for a great expansion. 

a desire to be more.

and so the universe came to be. 

that's our common ancestry, our shared origin story - we are literally the universe in continued expansion, a point of self-awareness within an ever greater mind. We consist of atoms existing since the dawn of time, our true bodies being 13.7 billion years old, beyond ancient, we are actually the birth of time itself, and even space came forth as our existence, the universe expanding through its own creative awareness and design. Our common ancestry is of this beginning and continues even now, each moment is created for the gain of self-awareness, furthering the expansion of the cosmos, the universe being delighted by its own sense of curiosity and awe. 

we are the universe in continuous self-discovery.

and so it seems we share a common ancestry, but really, we are simply a temporary arrangement of universal structure and design, our true self is so much larger than an individual life alone, we are the cosmos in expansion, existing as the very cause for space and time. 

we are the universe itself, creative by our nature...

delighted by our own sense of curiosity and awe. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Intimate Feel

Intimate feel: 

there's an intimate feel to holding a pen, writing - at one time, perhaps twenty years or so ago, everything I wrote was handwritten, usually on a yellow legal pad, and almost always illegible to anyone aside from myself, although often even I couldn't later decipher what was written. I never bothered practicing typing past my basic grade school lesson and long believed that as an instrument used for producing art that it lacked an intimate feel, an object that caused a true sense of separation between myself and what I felt was the holiness of words and the act of writing prose and poetry. A pen was hand held, deeply recognized by my body as an extension of the source of words and inspiration, an instrument delivered by the muse for sacred use alone. Writing felt comfortable, personal, an act of actual communication with something larger, greater, than myself. 

and now I use a keyboard, typing everything in almost continuous contact with the board, my fingers in a light caress of inspiration, motion, and then a pause for words to gather, fingers still held against the keys, patient, yet eager for the caress to carry on. It's just as intimate as before, maybe more so, kinetic, a swift connection of words and fingers with an easy grace between them. 

there's an intimate feel to typing, writing, my fingers are familiar with the keyboards now, I enjoy the feel of the keys raised against them, individual in their connection. Everything about writing is holy, it's a sacred art, an act of listening to the most subtle voice within us, receiving words, and then almost instantly sharing what was heard. There's an intimate feel to this communication, of reading what was given from the subtlest of voices, a whisper really, and now shared between us. 

it doesn't matter what instrument is used, it's only a sense of familiarity, what our fingers have grown used to in the ease of their expression. A pen feels almost foreign to me now, meant for notes and not for longer prose, it's as if I've lost my connection to its hold, no longer having the endurance of writing in this fashion. And now it's the keyboards that are familiar, my hands accustomed to their feel and energy, eager to give themselves to the motion of this writing. It's a different endurance. Yet writing itself is unchanged, still holy, always so, and any instrument used would eventually have an intimate feel, becoming sacred by its use, blessed by muse and inspiration. 

it's the act of commitment that produces such an intimate feel. 

~

Peace, Eric 

Quiet World

Quiet world: 

I write often of meditation, noting it's value and importance to me, how through the years it has become center to my creative life and what might be called my spiritual practice. Yet really, I should probably mention how little investment it truly is, a simple technique of mantra and listening, easy focus, and the more subtle nature of the mind just unfolds as my reality. Twice a day, I sit, think the mantra, and find myself in an evermore quiet world, nothing really mystical here, only my own silent nature now shown prominent, and this is all that happens...

just a quiet world.

and so much comes from this, I find myself more centered in a true creative process, seamlessly being part of a greater expression than my own smaller talent, writing is a joy, with words easily flowing from those silent moments found through meditation. I am less reactive now to things that once disturbed, being responsive, more thoughtful and intuitive to my approach with others, with life. More so, my self-compassion has grown, finding a real love existing as my core, readily expressed to my own sorrow and times of deep depression. This is now what I'm able to offer the world, what I give to others in the best of my relations. My true self is all the more accessible, readily shown now. I'm more at ease within the world, relaxed, at peace with every aspect of myself. 

yet even if none of this were so, or perhaps not found stemming from my meditation practice, it really wouldn't make a difference, not the slightest, as my only true point of sitting are those silent moment, that quiet world that's always so inviting. That would be enough, simply sitting, allowing life to happen without my thought-filled interference...simply, only, sitting...

just a quiet world.

~

Peace, Eric 

Conscious Expression

Conscious expression: 

the question really isn't one of consciousness, of asking if it's a function of biology or built into the very fabric of the universe itself - it would seem the answer is both, that we are a biologically conscious expression of the universe. Perhaps the question better asked is how deeply are we aware of this connection? 

everything is the stuff of the universe, our biology functions and consists from remnants of the Big Bang, elements from the very first moment of creation. That we are conscious is a reflection of this creation, again it's the fabric of the universe, at no point is there any cause for separation. 

it's all just the universe, one thing, a conscious expression...because we are.

we are the thinking universe, not simply an aspect of it, not individual parts that serve in some small and insignificant way - no, what we are is the entirety of it all, the whole cloth, we are the universe by design and function, serving in its continuous evolution. 

it's simply what we do.

in this light it's seen that we are not some small idea, we're not accidental in our occurrence, that we somehow simply appeared within the world without cause or reason - it's all far too inspired for this to be so, we are too grand of an idea by our own design. It's not really even a question, we know that we are conscious and that we are made of universal material, substance of the very same stuff as stars and planets, of space itself. We are the source of consciousness through every measure of our biology, by the physics of our existence, and with even the first hint of our potentiality.  We are a conscious expression of the universe - in no way removed from the entirety of what we are. 

 ~

Peace, Eric 

Allowing Mind

Allowing mind: 

my practice is important to me, a sacred time really, and not because of what it promises nor any state it might brings me to - no, meditation is just a few moments of the early morning, and again later in the day, completely dedicated to an allowing mind, or perhaps said, to simply noticing this always present allowing mind. It's my time to sit, unconcerned by what I'm thinking, my mantra leading me to more subtle layers of conscious recognition, everything familiar here, and yet fresh and unexplored as well, as if it's new ground I've somehow covered once before, a paradox of remembering an ever changing place of home. To sit, gentle with the mantra, soft, and everything's allowed, whatever thoughts appear, an outside sound, nothing is a true disturbance now...

everything belongs. 

and this is just my time to notice, relaxed. and not push anything away that makes itself known. There's always the return to my mantra, but it's an easy approach, not used as a weapon against intruding thoughts or sounds - as nothing is really seen as an intrusion anymore. The mind allows, that's its deepest nature, a quite and allowing place that's simply unconcerned as to all that passes on the surface. An ocean's depth is often a metaphor that's used, the undisturbed stillness of it's floor, without care to any waves above that crest and fall, untouched by their motion. 

it's an apt description. 

so my practice is just a point of dedication, it's here that I sit and listen to a seamless world, with my thoughts no different than any other sound - I'm listening to it all, and deeper still the mantra takes me, an ocean's depth, a stillness so intimately known that it actually aches to return here, so familiar, and yet often lost, forgotten for the length of time between my sitting. What I find is that I remember this more frequently now, or really, that it's not lost at all and only dims in the course of a regular day, being less drawn to waves of my daily routine, an ocean's floor still even as the day hurriedly unfolds. 

that's my practice, it's not meant for anyone's approval, not even my own, it's simply what I'm drawn to, happily so, a sacred time, quietly sitting, allowing...home. 

~

Peace, Eric