Sunday, August 29, 2004
The Beckoning
My bridegroom beckoned,
He has informed me of what to wear.
Feathers and beads like veils within my hair.
“Prepare a cape of woolen brown,” says he.
“Warm suede boots to touch the ground.
Have a ritual with Storm.
Your bridegroom awaits you.”
And he spoke of where he would find me.
Beside crystal flowing streams.
Where stone and water meet.
And little fish dance,
Upon our feet.
“Travel by mule over rocky glen, said he,
To find the way within.
Ride with wolf, hawk and bear.
Polar Bear White, she is the mother,
In the cold dark night.
Hawk, he is the one who sees far.
Wolf why, he is your brother.
Prepare three weeks, cleanse with fruit and labor.
The time will come to go,
Three days on sturdy mules, beside moss, riding with kin.
Pausing near flowing sparkling water,
In person,
Crystal aspersion
With no stains.
It is there we will meet again.
Feathers will drift in, from near and far.
They will speak of who you really are.
Gold, bronze, black, brown,
And white.
Look for them, you will see them.
They each hold a piece of the vision.
Wear your hair like in a crown,
The music of the earth will guide you,
The air of the portals sustain you
The path will be laid out, prepare and follow.”
And then he whisperd back to me before he temporarily parted.
“Whatever you do, don’t start Thinking,
That you are dreaming.
Thinking isn’t Real.
Feeling is.
I will wait for you there.”
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
Thursday, August 26, 2004
Perspectives on Forgiveness
by White Feather
Copyright © 2003-2004, by White Feather. All Rights Reserved. Books by White Feather
(0) comments
I can understand why so many people don't care to learn about their other focuses (other lives). A lot of painful things can be brought up and it's not always easy to process. You can imagine how difficult it was for me to learn about and connect with my other focus as a Lakota warrior. That Lakota warrior is a killing machine. He killed a lot of people--and I don't mean dozens of people, but rather HUNDREDS of people! In connecting with him, I felt that killing, and let me tell you, it is a heinous feeling. It is gut-wrenchingly heinous. It is the ultimate deplorable act. To feel the accumulated energy of HUNDREDS of those acts is about the toughest thing I've had to do in this life.
It's no wonder I'm such a super-ultra-pacifist in this life. I've never struck another human. Even as a little kid I was extreme. I didn't even kill bugs. I've always strived to not kill anything. Not even black widow spiders. I won't even swat flies.
So am I reacting to an interdimensional impingement? Am I balancing out that fella's killing with my ultra-pacifism? Are he and I just playing different roles?
Remember I said that we all take turns playing all the roles. We all have other focuses that have killed or been a persecutor or a victim. It's part of experiencing this reality in its entirety (so that we can move on). But since we judge those actions as wrong and bad, they get locked up in a little room in our brains with all the other things we've labeled wrong and bad. With those things locked in that room, we don't have to think about it or face it. That's one reason it's so hard to connect to other focuses; because the actions of those focuses--which is a way to connect to them--has been judged and labeled and locked away.
The key to it all is forgiveness. Forgiveness is the dropping away of judgments. Judgments are like sticky gooey tar. Whenever one judges something this sticky gooey tar is secreted and sticks to that which we judge. This sticky gooey tar connects us to that which we judge. It will continue to glue us to that which we judge until we forgive; releasing those judgments.
Now let's talk about guilt for a minute. Guilt is utterly dependent on judgment. You can't feel guilty about something unless you have judged that something to be wrong and bad. Once again, it is forgiveness that overcomes guilt. The dropping away of judgments. Living in guilt can be seen as a condition of living in excessive sticky gooey tar; the result of being excessively judgmental.
Our other focuses have committed all the atrocities; murder, rape, persecution, torture, theft, abuse....everything. And we are stuck in stick gooey tar from the collective guilt from all those atrocities. The only way out of the sticky gooey tar is to forgive all those other focuses. (That's a big part of what other-life regression is all about.) We have to drop our judgments. We cannot forgive our selves until we can forgive our other focuses. And we cannot forgive others until we have forgiven our selves. See how important it is to forgive our selves? It's the only way out of the sticky gooey tar that is keeping us from evolving into a new paradigm of consciousness.
I know it is difficult to face the atrocities of our other lives. Believe me, I know. But I've learned that we will eventually face them because we're stuck to them with sticky gooey tar. Everything that we judge will eventually come back to us because of the sticky gooey tar that results from judgment. It will be stuck to us until we release the judgment (Forgiveness). In the past I have fought it and denied it, but I have eventually come to learn that forgiveness is the only way.
It's no wonder I'm such a super-ultra-pacifist in this life. I've never struck another human. Even as a little kid I was extreme. I didn't even kill bugs. I've always strived to not kill anything. Not even black widow spiders. I won't even swat flies.
So am I reacting to an interdimensional impingement? Am I balancing out that fella's killing with my ultra-pacifism? Are he and I just playing different roles?
Remember I said that we all take turns playing all the roles. We all have other focuses that have killed or been a persecutor or a victim. It's part of experiencing this reality in its entirety (so that we can move on). But since we judge those actions as wrong and bad, they get locked up in a little room in our brains with all the other things we've labeled wrong and bad. With those things locked in that room, we don't have to think about it or face it. That's one reason it's so hard to connect to other focuses; because the actions of those focuses--which is a way to connect to them--has been judged and labeled and locked away.
The key to it all is forgiveness. Forgiveness is the dropping away of judgments. Judgments are like sticky gooey tar. Whenever one judges something this sticky gooey tar is secreted and sticks to that which we judge. This sticky gooey tar connects us to that which we judge. It will continue to glue us to that which we judge until we forgive; releasing those judgments.
Now let's talk about guilt for a minute. Guilt is utterly dependent on judgment. You can't feel guilty about something unless you have judged that something to be wrong and bad. Once again, it is forgiveness that overcomes guilt. The dropping away of judgments. Living in guilt can be seen as a condition of living in excessive sticky gooey tar; the result of being excessively judgmental.
Our other focuses have committed all the atrocities; murder, rape, persecution, torture, theft, abuse....everything. And we are stuck in stick gooey tar from the collective guilt from all those atrocities. The only way out of the sticky gooey tar is to forgive all those other focuses. (That's a big part of what other-life regression is all about.) We have to drop our judgments. We cannot forgive our selves until we can forgive our other focuses. And we cannot forgive others until we have forgiven our selves. See how important it is to forgive our selves? It's the only way out of the sticky gooey tar that is keeping us from evolving into a new paradigm of consciousness.
I know it is difficult to face the atrocities of our other lives. Believe me, I know. But I've learned that we will eventually face them because we're stuck to them with sticky gooey tar. Everything that we judge will eventually come back to us because of the sticky gooey tar that results from judgment. It will be stuck to us until we release the judgment (Forgiveness). In the past I have fought it and denied it, but I have eventually come to learn that forgiveness is the only way.
Copyright © 2003-2004, by White Feather. All Rights Reserved. Books by White Feather
Sunday, August 22, 2004
A Whole New World
by Trendle Ellwood
I was washing up honey jars in the kitchen sink when I got to thinking about what the now retired bee-keeper Mr. Burgeaff said to me one day while we were talking with him. My husband was buying some of his old bee equipment when Mr. Burgeaff, with his kind gentlemanly smile, looked right at me, a new bee-keepers wife, and he gave me this prediction “You are about to enter a whole new world.” How intriguing, I thought at the time.
My husband interrupted my thoughts as he came through the kitchen to grab some pails to take down the road to the bramble patch. I finished up the jars and went out the kitchen door to take some scraps to the chickens. It was then that I heard the hum. The unmistakable roar of a swarm of bees. I looked up to see a large loose mass of them swirling above the apiary. I could tell that they had not been away from their mother hive for long as they were still in the wide-open scattered stage. Some of them were flying out and then back again to the nucleus of the swarm. The way the whole group of bees appears to roll always reminds me of a hurricane.
As I watched this honeybee hurricane I let the wonder of it wash over me, soaked it in for a moment there in our back yard; the thrill of the honeybee in swarm. I never cease to be awed by the fellowship of a swarm. The power of all of those bees of one mind intrigues me. They are going free, anxious to be independent of the mother hive. It gives me a feeling of new inspiration; watching those offshoots, making their multiplying flight. I knew that my husband would want to know about our bee hurricane and that if he could get to them in time he might be able to retrieve these run-away honey bees. Our daughter came around the smoke house corner exclaiming, “Mom! A swarm!”
If you want things to get exciting around our house, you detect a swarm. Mercy! Then things will start happening! I took off down towards the black raspberry patch, after my husband. His berry picking was quickly dropped when we brought him the news.
The bees were looking for an acceptable place to temporarily land. A staging spot from where they could scout for their new home. Those who have researched honeybees say that they communicate through dancing. When a bee has found a good place, she tells the other bees all about it by prancing in front of them excitingly. The other bees can tell how good of a place this bee thinks she has found by the intensity of her dance.
The bees must have found a spot that they liked ok because they began to congregate. When they get together they come to a tight little group, which the beekeepers call a cluster. This time the cluster was on the over hanging branch of the white pine which stands shading our apiary from the hot afternoon sun. As a cluster, they looked like a dark vortex hanging in the shape of an old fashioned ice cream cone. It looked as if the pine tree had grown a huge pinecone. By this time my husband had gotten his ladder and he asked me hold it as he shinnied up the arbor. He placed his swarm bucket, which he carried with him, as close as he could to the swarm of bees.
I was just hoping the whole time that the trellis was good and sturdy and that he would not come crashing through it. I was reassuring myself in a conversation in my head, thinking, “Yes he made the arbor for the Wisteria, after all, and Wisteria can pull down houses which I know he knows and so I am sure that he made it strong!”
In the next second, any concerns that I had for my spouse as he tight-roped across the Wisteria arbor were put on the back burner. Because in my ear was the unmistakable song of a frantic trapped bee. I had one caught in my hair! I could hear the little bee’s song rising in intensity and frustration as she became more and more imbedded within my curly brown hair. I imagined what it was going to feel like being stung in the brain. I told my husband of my predicament hoping that he might have some good suggestions, but all he said was, “I hate it when they do that, darn!” and, “they like fuzzy stuff.”
I abandoned my ladder holding occupation and went towards the house. I tried flipping my hair over and upside down hoping to shake the trapped insect out of my web of hair. I found our daughter and begged her to help me get this bee out of my hair! She kept saying, “Where Mom? Where?” as I pointed towards the spot where the bee seemed to be inching closer and closer, by the second, towards my scalp. Finally she spotted the bee and I swear she has been hanging around that beekeeping Father of hers too much, because while I had a bee about ready to sting my brain, she paused! She paused to wonder if she should kill the bee! The words that passed through her lips were, “Well Mom I hate to kill the poor little thing.”
HONEY, I exclaimed to her with my head of hair upside down bobbling in front of her. WILL YOU JUST KILL THE BEE! It is then that she sees my frantic state and she puts two books together and claps them on the section of my hair that is vibrating with buzz. “Well you are going to have bee parts all in your hair,” she tells me.
I am wondering if she thinks having bee parts in my hair is ANYTHING compared to having a mad bee in your hair. I could not wait to get to that part of my life where I might be worrying about bee parts in my hair! Oh and how wonderful if there were not an ice pack over a bee sting in the same picture with the bee parts. I sighed with relief when after another clang of the books the buzzing near my brain was stilled. I felt bad too, thinking if I had not been so scared maybe we could have helped the little bee weave out of the web that I had set for her. All I knew for sure was that I planned to know where a bee hat and veil were the next time I helped with a swarm!
With a grabbed blanket over my head I went out to check on Husband. He had completed his task and I held the ladder for him as he came down. Ah! We were both Ok. Actually he was radiant from having been a part of the bee convention. I think a touch of their vitality invigorates his soul. He excitedly told me that he had been able to shake the branch and had captured the queen in his bait hive. The joy in him brought a big smile to my face. Yes, Mr. Burgeaff, I thought as my husband told me of his adventure, you were right, I entered into a whole new world when my spouse became a bee keeper. I entered into a world full of risks, surprises, lessons and most of all, a world full of many wonders.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
(0) comments
I was washing up honey jars in the kitchen sink when I got to thinking about what the now retired bee-keeper Mr. Burgeaff said to me one day while we were talking with him. My husband was buying some of his old bee equipment when Mr. Burgeaff, with his kind gentlemanly smile, looked right at me, a new bee-keepers wife, and he gave me this prediction “You are about to enter a whole new world.” How intriguing, I thought at the time.
My husband interrupted my thoughts as he came through the kitchen to grab some pails to take down the road to the bramble patch. I finished up the jars and went out the kitchen door to take some scraps to the chickens. It was then that I heard the hum. The unmistakable roar of a swarm of bees. I looked up to see a large loose mass of them swirling above the apiary. I could tell that they had not been away from their mother hive for long as they were still in the wide-open scattered stage. Some of them were flying out and then back again to the nucleus of the swarm. The way the whole group of bees appears to roll always reminds me of a hurricane.
As I watched this honeybee hurricane I let the wonder of it wash over me, soaked it in for a moment there in our back yard; the thrill of the honeybee in swarm. I never cease to be awed by the fellowship of a swarm. The power of all of those bees of one mind intrigues me. They are going free, anxious to be independent of the mother hive. It gives me a feeling of new inspiration; watching those offshoots, making their multiplying flight. I knew that my husband would want to know about our bee hurricane and that if he could get to them in time he might be able to retrieve these run-away honey bees. Our daughter came around the smoke house corner exclaiming, “Mom! A swarm!”
If you want things to get exciting around our house, you detect a swarm. Mercy! Then things will start happening! I took off down towards the black raspberry patch, after my husband. His berry picking was quickly dropped when we brought him the news.
The bees were looking for an acceptable place to temporarily land. A staging spot from where they could scout for their new home. Those who have researched honeybees say that they communicate through dancing. When a bee has found a good place, she tells the other bees all about it by prancing in front of them excitingly. The other bees can tell how good of a place this bee thinks she has found by the intensity of her dance.
The bees must have found a spot that they liked ok because they began to congregate. When they get together they come to a tight little group, which the beekeepers call a cluster. This time the cluster was on the over hanging branch of the white pine which stands shading our apiary from the hot afternoon sun. As a cluster, they looked like a dark vortex hanging in the shape of an old fashioned ice cream cone. It looked as if the pine tree had grown a huge pinecone. By this time my husband had gotten his ladder and he asked me hold it as he shinnied up the arbor. He placed his swarm bucket, which he carried with him, as close as he could to the swarm of bees.
I was just hoping the whole time that the trellis was good and sturdy and that he would not come crashing through it. I was reassuring myself in a conversation in my head, thinking, “Yes he made the arbor for the Wisteria, after all, and Wisteria can pull down houses which I know he knows and so I am sure that he made it strong!”
In the next second, any concerns that I had for my spouse as he tight-roped across the Wisteria arbor were put on the back burner. Because in my ear was the unmistakable song of a frantic trapped bee. I had one caught in my hair! I could hear the little bee’s song rising in intensity and frustration as she became more and more imbedded within my curly brown hair. I imagined what it was going to feel like being stung in the brain. I told my husband of my predicament hoping that he might have some good suggestions, but all he said was, “I hate it when they do that, darn!” and, “they like fuzzy stuff.”
I abandoned my ladder holding occupation and went towards the house. I tried flipping my hair over and upside down hoping to shake the trapped insect out of my web of hair. I found our daughter and begged her to help me get this bee out of my hair! She kept saying, “Where Mom? Where?” as I pointed towards the spot where the bee seemed to be inching closer and closer, by the second, towards my scalp. Finally she spotted the bee and I swear she has been hanging around that beekeeping Father of hers too much, because while I had a bee about ready to sting my brain, she paused! She paused to wonder if she should kill the bee! The words that passed through her lips were, “Well Mom I hate to kill the poor little thing.”
HONEY, I exclaimed to her with my head of hair upside down bobbling in front of her. WILL YOU JUST KILL THE BEE! It is then that she sees my frantic state and she puts two books together and claps them on the section of my hair that is vibrating with buzz. “Well you are going to have bee parts all in your hair,” she tells me.
I am wondering if she thinks having bee parts in my hair is ANYTHING compared to having a mad bee in your hair. I could not wait to get to that part of my life where I might be worrying about bee parts in my hair! Oh and how wonderful if there were not an ice pack over a bee sting in the same picture with the bee parts. I sighed with relief when after another clang of the books the buzzing near my brain was stilled. I felt bad too, thinking if I had not been so scared maybe we could have helped the little bee weave out of the web that I had set for her. All I knew for sure was that I planned to know where a bee hat and veil were the next time I helped with a swarm!
With a grabbed blanket over my head I went out to check on Husband. He had completed his task and I held the ladder for him as he came down. Ah! We were both Ok. Actually he was radiant from having been a part of the bee convention. I think a touch of their vitality invigorates his soul. He excitedly told me that he had been able to shake the branch and had captured the queen in his bait hive. The joy in him brought a big smile to my face. Yes, Mr. Burgeaff, I thought as my husband told me of his adventure, you were right, I entered into a whole new world when my spouse became a bee keeper. I entered into a world full of risks, surprises, lessons and most of all, a world full of many wonders.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
Sunday, August 15, 2004
Autumn on the Way
by Trendle Ellwood
There is a great resistance in me to admitting that summer has passed her prime. But even through my own lips the word autumn often slips these days. For it is the autumn gold and red raspberries, which are bearing fruit now, beyond our pines. And it is the autumn peach, which softens on the tree. The sumac leaves alongside the country roads are turning red and the goldenrod is budding out. Six weeks till frost after the golden rod blooms is what my Grandma always says. The purple ironweed and the mauve colored joe pye are blooming beside the yellow tall coneflower in unmown fields. These are the blooms, which forecast autumn on these hills of mine.
I picked my last wild edible berry of the season last week in the blackberry brambles. A part of me was glad to not have to fight the nettle, the thorn and the thistle any longer but another part of me was sad. It seemed that I should perform some last rite, some ritual of departure. I wondered what part of me the brambles would most miss until I would be back next picking season. And I remembered that it was my hair that the bramble thorns were always grabbing and so I reached up to my head and plucked a single strand and ceremonially hung it upon a bramble cane. There brambles, I proclaimed, this one is free. And it was not even a grey hair that I willingly left blowing there upon the bramble cane but a bronzed brown one.
Although autumn is stepping in the harvest is still being collected. The bees have not disappointed us, they have been very busy and we are having a wonderful honey harvest. Hubby is filling up jars with this golden elixir and cutting the honeycomb into what I have renamed
Honey Cakes.
Indeed the threat of the end of summer intensifies my enthusiasm to get more jars of preserves sealed and upon the shelves. The apple tree down in the valley begs me to pluck her fruit and preserve it into applesauce with lots of cinnamon, which I am going to do today. The elderberries have turned the color of purple-black and I have been squeezing them and boiling them into purple-red jelly.
The tomatoes and peppers are ready to be made into salsa and that autumn peach longs to be made into jam. I have much to do for autumn is peeking in my window and I must put summer away.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
(0) comments
There is a great resistance in me to admitting that summer has passed her prime. But even through my own lips the word autumn often slips these days. For it is the autumn gold and red raspberries, which are bearing fruit now, beyond our pines. And it is the autumn peach, which softens on the tree. The sumac leaves alongside the country roads are turning red and the goldenrod is budding out. Six weeks till frost after the golden rod blooms is what my Grandma always says. The purple ironweed and the mauve colored joe pye are blooming beside the yellow tall coneflower in unmown fields. These are the blooms, which forecast autumn on these hills of mine.
I picked my last wild edible berry of the season last week in the blackberry brambles. A part of me was glad to not have to fight the nettle, the thorn and the thistle any longer but another part of me was sad. It seemed that I should perform some last rite, some ritual of departure. I wondered what part of me the brambles would most miss until I would be back next picking season. And I remembered that it was my hair that the bramble thorns were always grabbing and so I reached up to my head and plucked a single strand and ceremonially hung it upon a bramble cane. There brambles, I proclaimed, this one is free. And it was not even a grey hair that I willingly left blowing there upon the bramble cane but a bronzed brown one.
Although autumn is stepping in the harvest is still being collected. The bees have not disappointed us, they have been very busy and we are having a wonderful honey harvest. Hubby is filling up jars with this golden elixir and cutting the honeycomb into what I have renamed
Honey Cakes.
Indeed the threat of the end of summer intensifies my enthusiasm to get more jars of preserves sealed and upon the shelves. The apple tree down in the valley begs me to pluck her fruit and preserve it into applesauce with lots of cinnamon, which I am going to do today. The elderberries have turned the color of purple-black and I have been squeezing them and boiling them into purple-red jelly.
The tomatoes and peppers are ready to be made into salsa and that autumn peach longs to be made into jam. I have much to do for autumn is peeking in my window and I must put summer away.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Forgotten Selves
by White Feather
Copyright © 2004, by White Feather. All Rights Reserved. Books by White Feather
(0) comments
What if every single person you meet in your life you've met before in other lives? Imagine that for a moment. No one is a stranger. Everyone is a soul-mate acting out every conceivable sort of relationship.
It is like taking two actors and putting them on a stage then giving them a few hundred different plays to act out together. In one play, actor A is a father and actor B is a daughter. In another play, actor A is a soldier and actor B is also a soldier who happens to kill actor A. In another play, actors A and B fall in love and have seven kids. In another play, actors A and B never meet until right before they die. In yet another play, actor A is a wife who is beaten by her husband--who happens to be actor B. In another play, actor B is a wealthy entertainer who gets killed by a crazed bum on the street who happens to be actor A. In still another life actors A and B end up being a songwriting team, as well as gay lovers, who write several hit Broadway musicals. Then there's the life A and B lived together in the jungles of Sumatra. It was primitive times and A and B were hunting. A slipped on a steep ledge on the side of a mountain and breaks his leg. B is afraid to climb down and try to save A, and he leaves A to die.
As you can see, the possibilities are endless for plays for the two actors to play out together. We have soul-mates because monologues get boring. We want a play with more than one actor so that we can see and experience the drama of interaction. Our soul-mates are those fellow actors in the same acting company that we signed up for. We've contracted to create as many dramas as we can so we can experience interaction from as many different perspectives as possible so that a wholeness of experience can be achieved.
So if there is someone in our lives who appears to be an enemy, they may have been our lover in another play (life). And our lover may have been our slave master or murderer in another life. If someone trusts us completely they may have betrayed us in another life and those who betray us may very well have been betrayed by us before.
Actors are a tight bunch. When they're not on stage they have their own community and they are themselves within that community. But once on stage they assume the role they agreed to play. That role may be to fight another actor, or it may be a love scene with another actor, or whatever; but the good actor knows it's just a role and doesn't let the drama affect their relationship off stage. They know the difference between drama and just being themselves.
Can you see what would happen if the actors got the drama and their "real relationships" mixed up? One actor could really get upset with another actor who is playing their part, not remembering that it's just a part.
So after those original two actors take a break after say fifty plays and they get off-stage their "normal off-stage relationship" suddenly becomes clouded with all the drama from those fifty plays. Memories of betrayal and murder and victimhood and lust and companionship still linger and subtly influence their off-stage relationship.
After doing several hundred plays together, the two actors find it even more difficult to return to their normal off-stage selves. There have been so many roles that they've played that they meld with the off-stage self and a new self is created that is an amalgamation of the original off-stage self and all the many roles played. Eventually this amalgamation becomes what is considered the real self and the original real off-stage self is forgotten. Self-realization can be seen as seeing through the amalgamation and finding that forgotten self. Finding our own forgotten self allows us to see through the amalgamation of others and express love to their forgotten selves. Once we have remembered our original off-stage forgotten selves then we can see and better appreciate all those many plays we've done together and this opens up the potential for a whole new spectrum of plays to do.
It is like taking two actors and putting them on a stage then giving them a few hundred different plays to act out together. In one play, actor A is a father and actor B is a daughter. In another play, actor A is a soldier and actor B is also a soldier who happens to kill actor A. In another play, actors A and B fall in love and have seven kids. In another play, actors A and B never meet until right before they die. In yet another play, actor A is a wife who is beaten by her husband--who happens to be actor B. In another play, actor B is a wealthy entertainer who gets killed by a crazed bum on the street who happens to be actor A. In still another life actors A and B end up being a songwriting team, as well as gay lovers, who write several hit Broadway musicals. Then there's the life A and B lived together in the jungles of Sumatra. It was primitive times and A and B were hunting. A slipped on a steep ledge on the side of a mountain and breaks his leg. B is afraid to climb down and try to save A, and he leaves A to die.
As you can see, the possibilities are endless for plays for the two actors to play out together. We have soul-mates because monologues get boring. We want a play with more than one actor so that we can see and experience the drama of interaction. Our soul-mates are those fellow actors in the same acting company that we signed up for. We've contracted to create as many dramas as we can so we can experience interaction from as many different perspectives as possible so that a wholeness of experience can be achieved.
So if there is someone in our lives who appears to be an enemy, they may have been our lover in another play (life). And our lover may have been our slave master or murderer in another life. If someone trusts us completely they may have betrayed us in another life and those who betray us may very well have been betrayed by us before.
Actors are a tight bunch. When they're not on stage they have their own community and they are themselves within that community. But once on stage they assume the role they agreed to play. That role may be to fight another actor, or it may be a love scene with another actor, or whatever; but the good actor knows it's just a role and doesn't let the drama affect their relationship off stage. They know the difference between drama and just being themselves.
Can you see what would happen if the actors got the drama and their "real relationships" mixed up? One actor could really get upset with another actor who is playing their part, not remembering that it's just a part.
So after those original two actors take a break after say fifty plays and they get off-stage their "normal off-stage relationship" suddenly becomes clouded with all the drama from those fifty plays. Memories of betrayal and murder and victimhood and lust and companionship still linger and subtly influence their off-stage relationship.
After doing several hundred plays together, the two actors find it even more difficult to return to their normal off-stage selves. There have been so many roles that they've played that they meld with the off-stage self and a new self is created that is an amalgamation of the original off-stage self and all the many roles played. Eventually this amalgamation becomes what is considered the real self and the original real off-stage self is forgotten. Self-realization can be seen as seeing through the amalgamation and finding that forgotten self. Finding our own forgotten self allows us to see through the amalgamation of others and express love to their forgotten selves. Once we have remembered our original off-stage forgotten selves then we can see and better appreciate all those many plays we've done together and this opens up the potential for a whole new spectrum of plays to do.
Copyright © 2004, by White Feather. All Rights Reserved. Books by White Feather
Sunday, August 08, 2004
Angels Come By
by Trendle Ellwood
It's not always easy, loading the cab of the pickup truck with the tables, the awning, the chairs and the harvest. Then we set it all up at market only to turn around in a few hours and take it all back down and bring it home again. The folks who come by our stand are not always kind, and it is easy to dwell on the pricks to our hearts and settle there. And so there are times when we wonder if it is all worth it. Our hearts and bodies get tired, our spirits sore. That was the way we felt Saturday morning when we set out later then usual, due to last minute distractions, towards town.
When we got there a newcomer had taken the spot beside us and we were frustrated that the managers had not seen to it that we get the extra space that we had been asking for. But instead, they had let the newcomer have two spots which made us have to squeeze up into one. Although I am a lover of the outdoors I find myself dreaming of a market spot where we can leave our tables, displays and signs up permanently. A spot that doesn't change in size, and is not susceptible to storms, cold and severe heat. And so we were grumbly at seven in the morning as we squeezed into our spot and put our harvest and wares upon our tables. The tape player wouldn't work so we didn't have the music that I thought would cheer us and some of the tools that we use to set up seemed to be hiding.
And so we stumbled our way through the morning as the sun climbed into the sky. My heart went out to Hubby who was tired, overworked and wondering if we should continue setting up at market as he peeled his garlic and placed it in the baskets. Little One found one of the needed tools for me and I exclaimed with passion, " Thank God for Small Favors!" a gentleman walking by overheard me and laughed and gave me a friendly, " Amen!" and I was blessed by his understanding heart. It was not long after that when the tape player all on it's own decided to start playing and our soothing music surrounded us, drowning out somewhat the bustle of the nearby highway. The newcomer beside us was a likeable fellow and I found out that we didn't have to be squeezed up after all and that I had fretted for nothing as we ended up having plenty of space to our other side. We couldn't have ordered better weather for market day. There was no sign of rain and it was sunny without the bothersome winds which sometimes will blow over signs and displays. The day was the perfect temperature.
It ended up being a day of many profitable exchanges, not only in sales but in heart connections. After a slow start Hubby sold a good amount of honey. The highlight of my day was reached when this delightful lady who is a regular at the farm market came by our stand. She has white hair and a beautiful face, which always bears a smile. There is such a glow about her that my heart is always happy to see her. She carries a basket on her arm to put her farm market purchases in. I have noticed that often this basket is over flowing. She is a fan of my mothers slate paintings which she occasionally buys.
At one time she asked me if I also painted and I told her I was really into writing. She seemed excited to hear this and she told me that she writes, and as she left that day her advice to me was to keep a journal and to write down each day the good things that happen. I laughed with her as I asked, " Only the good?"
"Yes," she said as she went on, "It is the good that we want to remember."
And so Saturday when she came by our stand I was glad to see her again. This time she surprised me when she reached into her basket and drew a book from it saying that she had something for me. It was Advice to Writers by Jon Winokur. How blessed I felt that she was giving this to me. I kept that book next to me all day. I even took it to the cafe later when we ate lunch with some fellow marketers. And in one quiet moment as the others were at the buffet I opened up the book to steal a browse through it's pages. My eyes fell upon these words.
"Write from the soul, not from some notion about what you think the marketplace wants. The market is fickle; the soul is eternal." Jeffrey A. Carvor
What a beautiful message to me about writing. I think I have always written from my soul. What wonderful confirmation this is to keep on doing that. And said in such an uplifting way. The soul is eternal!
How fitting that in the whole big book I should open to a page and read words that I could use two ways. If I changed just one word I could make the message say, Market from the soul, not from some notion about what you think the marketplace wants. The market is fickle, the soul is eternal. Yes the farm market is fickle and yes sometimes we have tried to figure out what the market people want and have gone out of our way to supply this, only to have them want something else the next week. And so I am reminded to bring to the market what comes from my soul also.
Yes the market people and the weather can be fickle for sure. But I am glad that we have hung in there. You just never know when you will have a day of perfect weather, and you never know when angels will come by.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
After I wrote this piece I went to have a little read with my new book presented to me by this wonderful lady when I picked up a book mark that she had placed in it. On one side was the Serenity Prayer which has always been special to me and on the other side of the bookmark were these words by St. Francis de Sales,
" Make yourself familiar with the angels, and behold them frequently in spirit; for without being seen, they are present with you."
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It's not always easy, loading the cab of the pickup truck with the tables, the awning, the chairs and the harvest. Then we set it all up at market only to turn around in a few hours and take it all back down and bring it home again. The folks who come by our stand are not always kind, and it is easy to dwell on the pricks to our hearts and settle there. And so there are times when we wonder if it is all worth it. Our hearts and bodies get tired, our spirits sore. That was the way we felt Saturday morning when we set out later then usual, due to last minute distractions, towards town.
When we got there a newcomer had taken the spot beside us and we were frustrated that the managers had not seen to it that we get the extra space that we had been asking for. But instead, they had let the newcomer have two spots which made us have to squeeze up into one. Although I am a lover of the outdoors I find myself dreaming of a market spot where we can leave our tables, displays and signs up permanently. A spot that doesn't change in size, and is not susceptible to storms, cold and severe heat. And so we were grumbly at seven in the morning as we squeezed into our spot and put our harvest and wares upon our tables. The tape player wouldn't work so we didn't have the music that I thought would cheer us and some of the tools that we use to set up seemed to be hiding.
And so we stumbled our way through the morning as the sun climbed into the sky. My heart went out to Hubby who was tired, overworked and wondering if we should continue setting up at market as he peeled his garlic and placed it in the baskets. Little One found one of the needed tools for me and I exclaimed with passion, " Thank God for Small Favors!" a gentleman walking by overheard me and laughed and gave me a friendly, " Amen!" and I was blessed by his understanding heart. It was not long after that when the tape player all on it's own decided to start playing and our soothing music surrounded us, drowning out somewhat the bustle of the nearby highway. The newcomer beside us was a likeable fellow and I found out that we didn't have to be squeezed up after all and that I had fretted for nothing as we ended up having plenty of space to our other side. We couldn't have ordered better weather for market day. There was no sign of rain and it was sunny without the bothersome winds which sometimes will blow over signs and displays. The day was the perfect temperature.
It ended up being a day of many profitable exchanges, not only in sales but in heart connections. After a slow start Hubby sold a good amount of honey. The highlight of my day was reached when this delightful lady who is a regular at the farm market came by our stand. She has white hair and a beautiful face, which always bears a smile. There is such a glow about her that my heart is always happy to see her. She carries a basket on her arm to put her farm market purchases in. I have noticed that often this basket is over flowing. She is a fan of my mothers slate paintings which she occasionally buys.
At one time she asked me if I also painted and I told her I was really into writing. She seemed excited to hear this and she told me that she writes, and as she left that day her advice to me was to keep a journal and to write down each day the good things that happen. I laughed with her as I asked, " Only the good?"
"Yes," she said as she went on, "It is the good that we want to remember."
And so Saturday when she came by our stand I was glad to see her again. This time she surprised me when she reached into her basket and drew a book from it saying that she had something for me. It was Advice to Writers by Jon Winokur. How blessed I felt that she was giving this to me. I kept that book next to me all day. I even took it to the cafe later when we ate lunch with some fellow marketers. And in one quiet moment as the others were at the buffet I opened up the book to steal a browse through it's pages. My eyes fell upon these words.
"Write from the soul, not from some notion about what you think the marketplace wants. The market is fickle; the soul is eternal." Jeffrey A. Carvor
What a beautiful message to me about writing. I think I have always written from my soul. What wonderful confirmation this is to keep on doing that. And said in such an uplifting way. The soul is eternal!
How fitting that in the whole big book I should open to a page and read words that I could use two ways. If I changed just one word I could make the message say, Market from the soul, not from some notion about what you think the marketplace wants. The market is fickle, the soul is eternal. Yes the farm market is fickle and yes sometimes we have tried to figure out what the market people want and have gone out of our way to supply this, only to have them want something else the next week. And so I am reminded to bring to the market what comes from my soul also.
Yes the market people and the weather can be fickle for sure. But I am glad that we have hung in there. You just never know when you will have a day of perfect weather, and you never know when angels will come by.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
After I wrote this piece I went to have a little read with my new book presented to me by this wonderful lady when I picked up a book mark that she had placed in it. On one side was the Serenity Prayer which has always been special to me and on the other side of the bookmark were these words by St. Francis de Sales,
" Make yourself familiar with the angels, and behold them frequently in spirit; for without being seen, they are present with you."
Thursday, August 05, 2004
Judging Ourselves
by White Feather
Copyright © 2004, by White Feather. All Rights Reserved. White Feather's Books
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We are all divine beings. We are Creators. We can create anything we desire. We do so through the use of feelings. When we utilize feelings, our creations come quickly. When we use emotions, we create more emotions, and what we desire remains beyond our reach. When we are in judgment/emotions, we create by default, magnetically attracting to us circuitry and events that fit our judgments/emotions. When we slip out of judgment/emotion, and live our lives in feeling, then everything we create will be an expression of love, joy, and beauty.
How many times a day do you judge your body? What judgments do you make when you look in the mirror? How do judge that gray hair? Those wrinkles? That beer belly, or those extra pounds? How many times a day do you make a disparaging remark about that bum knee? Or those painful feet? Or those incompetent fingers? How many times do you judge your body as incompetent? As unsexy? As fat? As tired? As sick? As anything less than god-like?
If we are creating by default through our emotions, then every judgment we make gets energized, and that means that every judgment we make about our body will be energized and will become part of our creation. And not just our judgments, but all the judgments others make on our bodies as well, whether that is friends judging your waistline or doctors judging us as cancerous. Every time we judge our bodies and every time we accept a judgment placed on our bodies, our bodies respond in kind, manifesting those judgments.
Of course we make a gazillion judgments a day, so our bodies are in a state of confusion as to which judgments to manifest, so the body creates an amalgam of all those judgments. The judgments made most get the most input into the creation. So if we make 100 judgments a day about how fat we are, and we make 0 judgments a day about how beautiful we are, then, in all likelihood we will manifest the reality of obesity in whatever way we perceive it. How many judgments a day do you make about how beautiful you are, or how healthy you are?
Of course, if you're judging how beautiful you are, you are still in judgment/emotion. When you can truly feel how beautiful and wondrous you are, it will become automatic, and that beauty and joy will shine. You don't have to worry about balancing judgments. Just drop the judgments, and feel. In this state of pure feeling, healing appears miraculous, but that is how it should be normally. A dis-eased organ can tell us a lot about where our judgments/emotions lie. It can be healed by removing those judgments/emotions, and letting in pure unconditional non-judgmental feelings.
How many times a day do you judge your body? What judgments do you make when you look in the mirror? How do judge that gray hair? Those wrinkles? That beer belly, or those extra pounds? How many times a day do you make a disparaging remark about that bum knee? Or those painful feet? Or those incompetent fingers? How many times do you judge your body as incompetent? As unsexy? As fat? As tired? As sick? As anything less than god-like?
If we are creating by default through our emotions, then every judgment we make gets energized, and that means that every judgment we make about our body will be energized and will become part of our creation. And not just our judgments, but all the judgments others make on our bodies as well, whether that is friends judging your waistline or doctors judging us as cancerous. Every time we judge our bodies and every time we accept a judgment placed on our bodies, our bodies respond in kind, manifesting those judgments.
Of course we make a gazillion judgments a day, so our bodies are in a state of confusion as to which judgments to manifest, so the body creates an amalgam of all those judgments. The judgments made most get the most input into the creation. So if we make 100 judgments a day about how fat we are, and we make 0 judgments a day about how beautiful we are, then, in all likelihood we will manifest the reality of obesity in whatever way we perceive it. How many judgments a day do you make about how beautiful you are, or how healthy you are?
Of course, if you're judging how beautiful you are, you are still in judgment/emotion. When you can truly feel how beautiful and wondrous you are, it will become automatic, and that beauty and joy will shine. You don't have to worry about balancing judgments. Just drop the judgments, and feel. In this state of pure feeling, healing appears miraculous, but that is how it should be normally. A dis-eased organ can tell us a lot about where our judgments/emotions lie. It can be healed by removing those judgments/emotions, and letting in pure unconditional non-judgmental feelings.
Copyright © 2004, by White Feather. All Rights Reserved. White Feather's Books
Sunday, August 01, 2004
Mystery In Motion
by Trendle Ellwood
There will be a mystery. And the mystery will be, how to rise up from the mud that you were cast from. There will be others who will try to pull you back into this mud, they will tell you that it is where you belong, but your eyes will be on the sky, and you will know in your heart that it is where you are bound to go. They will tell you that the sky is a delusion, a trick, even a deceiver. They will tell you that the light that you see is the devil out to get you. They will think that you are lost when you are finding your way. The mystery will be how you will rise from such. You will reach for the sky and you will grasp it, and maybe just maybe there will be a day when they will also wipe the mud from their eyes and you will be able to reach them with your hands and help pull them up to the sky with you, those ones who told you that it was not possible to arise from the mud that you were cast from. At times it is very very tempting to just fall back down into the mud, after all it is soft, it is warm, it is comfortable, but in your heart you know that if you lay back down into the mud that you will simply die in your sleep there. And to the ones still within the mud you will become the mystery. You are the mystery in motion.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
(0) comments
There will be a mystery. And the mystery will be, how to rise up from the mud that you were cast from. There will be others who will try to pull you back into this mud, they will tell you that it is where you belong, but your eyes will be on the sky, and you will know in your heart that it is where you are bound to go. They will tell you that the sky is a delusion, a trick, even a deceiver. They will tell you that the light that you see is the devil out to get you. They will think that you are lost when you are finding your way. The mystery will be how you will rise from such. You will reach for the sky and you will grasp it, and maybe just maybe there will be a day when they will also wipe the mud from their eyes and you will be able to reach them with your hands and help pull them up to the sky with you, those ones who told you that it was not possible to arise from the mud that you were cast from. At times it is very very tempting to just fall back down into the mud, after all it is soft, it is warm, it is comfortable, but in your heart you know that if you lay back down into the mud that you will simply die in your sleep there. And to the ones still within the mud you will become the mystery. You are the mystery in motion.
Copyright © 2004, by Trendle Ellwood. All Rights Reserved.
