The grace of receiving the blubb

W-pI.181.5.  7 We enter in the time of practicing with one intent; to look upon the sinlessness within.

LESSON 181.

I trust my brothers, who are one with me.

W-pI.181.8.  2 For what we seek to look upon is really there. 3 And as our focus goes beyond mistakes, we will behold a wholly sinless world. 4 When seeing this is all we want to see, when this is all we seek for in the name of true perception, are the eyes of Christ inevitably ours. 5 And the Love He feels for us becomes our own as well. 6 This will become the only thing we see reflected in the world and in ourselves.

I started my practice today with this lesson: training the mind to look for Self and essence in my daughter and ONLY that. I noticed that the blubb placed itself between us again and again – and for the first time I was revealed to me that seeing the blubb as a portal to truth was salvation.

Holy Spirit has completely turned my perception around: what before was seen as something demonic and very threatening is now seen as an opportunity to embrace deeply exiled stuff from my mind: invited back into my heart, it is felt with great gratitude and release, and my daughter’s Self is shining right through it.

I remember this quote from Jack Kornfield, that I wrote in Introduction to my book:

“Finally, as our wisdom deepens, we understand that our very problems and poisons are our best teachers. It is said that the wisest beings will come looking for this poisonous tree to use its fruit as medicine to transform the suffering of the world.”

From After the Ecstasy, the Laundry by Jack Kornfeld. [1]


[1]   Jack Kornfield: After the ecstasy, the laundry. Bantam (October 2, 2001)

And now to something completely different

The blubb

After my husband died and I was alone with my daughter, I often noticed a strange phenomenon:  suddenly there was  a distinct disturbance between us – like a big amorphous blubb (its not in the dictionary). We saw each other through this blubb-veil – and the perception was so altered that I pretty soon detected something fishy. Thanks to the very radiation from this blubb, there was no doubt that this was an energy-gestalt – or thought-form – that warped whatever we looked at through it.

As soon as I realized this I pointed it out to my child – she was about 13 when I first noticed it – and then, when we both dis-identified from it and sent light through it, it was gone in a second.

My daughter was the recipient of strong projections all through her childhood until I started to remember and could take responsibility for dealing with the atrocious pain in my mind. Since I was grossly abused from I was born, all the baby-feelings and fear that were split off now had a baby to attach to.

And all of this disowned energy- constantly denied and disowned  -(she of course denied it too: it was nobody in her family who at that time was healthy enough to deal with it  in a loving way ) bundled into a big blubb – and whenever we failed to see each other freely with love, the blubb was there between us.

When I saw it with clear seeing the first time, it has grown big and obnoxious from being constantly demonized.

Sending light into it had the effect of dispersing it – it showed that both she and I wanted to see each other with love and not hate. This intention melted it.

Looking at the blubb now, I feel gratitude. This “something” that was created etherically through my intense denial as child saved me from realizing the level of insanity in the family – I could grow up and place all the terror in this dissociated blubb – and then, when I had grown up and had gained  the adequate maturity, I could use what was in my mind to see through the archetypes of fear, learn to recognize them, and use this knowledge to help my patients see through their immense pain and find That inside Which embraces it all.

The book is now available in Kindle-e-book – and I am awaiting the first printed proof in 3 days or so.

Nothing is wasted

Ever

The tempting turd

I recently had a dear friend visiting for a weekend and we decided to play. We did a structure which goes like this:

A plays music, B walks around. When A abruptly stops the music, B is to look for an inner image or a thought that presents itself. This is repeated 5 times.

The A walks and B does the playing and stopping for about 5 minutes.

Now we have five images each. The structure is to allow a story to come forth in 15 minutes. First we take turns asking questions to the other’s story – innocent questions, like a child would: ” is x dangerous? what is the favorite food of the monster?”

My story turned out like this – the words in bold are my images:

The tempting turd and the heart of the mountain

The  round turd-ball is located on the mountain plateau in front of her. It wishes to be seen and taken up, but the 8-year-old girl in blue pants with shoulder straps and a willow flute in yellow cord around the neck will not touch it. She looks up at the 3 white pointy mountains in front of her and thinks it’s strange that there is a turd up here in this  snow landscape where all is white and  quiet. There aren’t any tracks around the turd either. And it is too big to have come from a bird.

Scary.

“Take me up!” she hears a nasty voice offer, but hell she won’t, “No I won’t !”she says out loud and feels brave.

There she sees a skier — a stalwart young fellow he is, with yellow hair and a beard and mustache, hair blowing in the breeze where he stands on his “old-fashioned” wooden skis. She is so happy and relieved, he resembles exactly  the Birkenbeiners from King Sverre ‘s men. HI and HO,  she rushes over to him-he  surely can take away the nasty turd!

But what is this?  The Skier is made  of cardboard! Who put him here? And why?

Then she sees a door in one of the pointed mountains open-and* there is a wise and beautiful woman sitting on a sky chair! She has blue robe and a candle in her hand and a Crown of Light, she smiles and says:

«I am so proud of you that you’re did not pick up that turd. That one we  leave,you know, that one we smile at, that one we pass by. God has not created it, it’s just a contrivance. “

The girl with the overall is so happy, and the blue dressed wise-woman takes her by the hand and they go into the mountain which is illuminated by good lights. They round a turn, and there lies a still lake with a shiny white swan.

The woman says: “This is the heart of the mountain.” The girl squats. The Swan swims over to her. It looks at her. 

She accepts. She is seen.

*(At this point, I got an impulse to tell Rebecca that we should write each other into the story.)

– – –

When we share the stories, we share the places in the stories that touch us emotionally, where we get associations and ideas and impulses. I talked about the turd: it is Mephistofeles’ turd:  Mephistofeles has been here  in the disguise as  a poodle.

Of course he wants the  girl -me to take it up and be interested in it. And the girl refuses, but right afterwards she feels anxious and spots somebody who looks so valiant and brave and can do it FOR her…and discovers that he is made of cardboard.

This male hero is a fake. She has to decide for herself: the power is hers to choose.

As she sees this, the cold and uninviting pointed mountain opens to reveal Mother Mary, who praises her for not picking up the tempting turd: ” THAT one we smile at – God has not created it, it is just a contrivance.”

The girl, having chosen truth is now open to meet the Heart and be recognized.

*

As I, Leelah, see those eyes, I am showered in Light.

Afterwards, I notice how special that willow flute feels – and Rebecca reminds me of Aslan in the C.S Lewis’ stories about Narnia: “He sung the world into existence….This girl can sing the world into existence playing her magic flute.”

*

The day after this, I am meeting my daughter in town. It does not take much time before we seem to be caught in a vicious pattern of anger and blame. I am aware of it, trying to hang in there, my daughter’s button are pushed big time. When I come home, part of me realize that she is a messenger, and that the message is this vicious pattern of blame and self righteousness in my mind – the need to be right or implode. A deep depression takes me over, and the rest of the evening and night something in me plays out all the scenarios where I tell my daughter off in righteous wrath.

This continues the rest of the day – I feel like in a spell – until I read this story again  – and realize that all the ways I use my daughter to attack and project guilt into, I am taking up Mephisto’s tempting turd and making it real.

And now what was a horrible temptation to blame and project, turns into a great method for being aware and awake: each time I feel the temptation to take up the turd, I instead breathe and willingly welcome the energy from the emotional imprint from childhood.

The inner sense of compulsion

There is such a beautiful flow in the energysystem today. It started with a single thought wanting me to do something  – telling me I HAD TO. In this second, something inside said “njaeh. I don’t bother.”

Some seconds later I noticed a flow of relaxation that was so powerful that I had to pay attention. I saw the connection with deciding not going into a “HAVE TO” pattern. The whole muscle-system was suffused with grace, I felt waves of nausea moving through and leaving.

I then noticed all the subconscious impulses I have to “correct”placement of  things in order to feel safe:

that pen must not lie in that position – that picture is hanging askew – ordnung muss sein – balance,please!

It was sheer delight to notice each of these impulses to correct things AT ONCE – and just lean back and allow the energy of that compulsion. Could I allow it be just as it is just for now? YES! It brought deep peace within the muscular system. Heart racing for some seconds  – oh, control gone, what is happening – and then instant release.

What a great way for ego to stay in command, this personality disorder.

This is quoted from Wikipedia:

Obsessive–compulsive personality disorder (OCPD) is a personality disorder characterized by a pervasive pattern of preoccupation with orderliness, perfectionism, mental and interpersonal control at the expense of flexibility, openness, and efficiency. In contrast to people with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), behaviors are rational and desirable to people with OCPD.

My ego is now very offended and hurt and tells me that I am not THAT bad or sick. That is true – this Leelah is able to live in considerable chaos around her,especially when she is  arting – but she has also this life chosen to work with exploring archetypes, and illnesses have their own imprint or theme. I am very grateful for the inner artist who in fact enjoys exploring these inner concerts of energy.

And as I rose from the sofa after being renewed, I turned on the radio. It played this – and my body flew into ecstatic dance

Astor Piazolla – Las Cuatro Estaciones Portenas / Primavera

Reblogged : The Night I Died

I am reblogging this beautiful article with permission from Tracy Cochran and Parabola Magazine
Again the column of Light is mentioned – and also what the Course teaches: that nothing is as it looks – included violence and “evil.”
How wonderful to read such a description as Stacy’s – and what a beautiful rich language.
Parabola Magazine

HH-Cochran03-3The Night I Died
Tracy Cochran

Head down, hugging a grocery bag, I hurried past gutted buildings and empty lots, back to my ex-boyfriend’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. It seemed like a good idea at some point, having dinner together as friends. But the little Spanish market on the corner of Ninth Avenue and West 35th Street was the only pocket of light and warmth for blocks. Ahead there was nothing but deserted streets and a cold wind blasting in from the dark Hudson River.

I wondered what I was doing in this godforsaken place, when exactly I had become so insubstantial, agreeing to go out to the store alone at ten, agreeing to do all kinds of things I didn’t really want to do. I shivered a little with self-pity.

Manhattan in the 1980s was a gritty place. I used to think of it as having a dark glamour but no more. A few years before, I had come to Manhattan like someone drawing close to a fire. I wanted to be warmed, enlightened. But nothing turned out the way I hoped, not love, not work, not life. I pictured myself a waif huddling along in a bleak neighborhood, bringing her own pasta to dinner. The image was so pathetic that I savored it, a fragment of a modern Dickens tale.

HH-Cochran03-2I was passing an empty parking lot on West 35th Street near Tenth Avenue when three men rushed out at me from the shadows of a gutted tenement across the street. I heard them before I saw them, pounding toward me, whipping past me, stopping and wheeling around, taking up stations around me, as purposeful and practiced as football players,
or predators.

For a few moments, we stood and stared at each other. Incredibly, I was gripped by an impulse to smile and make eye contact, to diffuse the situation by establishing that we were all fellow human beings, even potentially friends. They were not interested in making friends.

They were pumped up, panting, panicking. Two looked like lanky teenagers, wraith-like in dark hooded sweatshirts, eyes glazed with fear. The third was older and much bigger. A faded green sweatshirt stretched taut across his chest. His wrists dangled out of the sleeves, as if he was wearing someone else’s clothes, and maybe he was because the next day there were reports in the papers of escaped convicts in the area. His broad face was grim.

Darting behind me, he jerked his arm tight across my throat. I felt his chest heave and heard the rasping of his breath. Staring up at the side of his face, I saw a long shiny scar. It was strange to be pulled so close to someone intent on harming me, but even stranger was the sudden pang of compassion I felt for him, for the wounding that had made the scar, for the suffering he must feel to be doing this.

It was the strangest thing. Brain studies show that the readiness of the body to move precedes our awareness
of being willing and intending to move, that everything that happens is dependent on thousands—millions—of conditions and turnings of little wheels that take place below our ordinary limited level of consciousness. But the burst of compassion I felt didn’t feel like an unconsciously conditioned response, like the impulse to smile at my muggers—like almost everything I found myself doing. It was as if another, higher consciousness was descending into my consciousness.

HH-Cochran03-4I read a story about how no animals were found among the dead after a tsunami; sensing the infinitesimal vibration of what was coming, they headed for higher ground. Even before I could grasp what was happening, it was as if the animal of my body and my physical brain was heading for higher ground, opening to receive help from above. Even before I glimpsed the light, my heart was opening to a kind of feeling that cannot be created or destroyed by anyone, only received.

“Money!” His voice was a rasp. His massive arm was pressing down on nerves that made it impossible for me to move my arm to reach the money in my front pocket, and I couldn’t talk to tell him this. “Money now!” He pulled his grip tighter. My vision started going black around the edges. I remember thinking the situation was absurd. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t tell him that I needed to be released to reach my money.

But I also glimpsed the larger absurdity of the larger situation: I was
a young woman alone at night on a deserted side street in Hell’s Kitchen, drifting along thinking about what she liked and didn’t like about her life, what she judged to be good and bad, dreaming that she was in control of what happened, all the while oblivious to reality. “When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully,” wrote Samuel Johnson. Mind suddenly terribly concentrated, I saw I was in real trouble.

My brain started working faster than it had ever worked, calculating the size and strength of my attacker, the agility of two young men guarding me, my own capacities and the probability of this or that happening if I did this
or that. My brain calculated and recalculated every aspect of the situation I was in until it concluded there could be no escape, no movie-like scene of flipping my attacker with deadly martial arts skills, throwing him into his assistants and running away. The reality I confronted was inconceivable, unworkable. My brain crashed, the screen went white. I surrendered.

HH-Cochran03-1It was then that I saw the light, just a glow at first but growing brighter until it became dazzling, welling up in the darkness to fill my whole body and mind. As it grew, this light gained a force and direction—an authority unknown to me. I remember marveling at the building intensity and intention, wondering where it had come from, not just low down in my body but from unseen depths—and then it became a column of brilliant white light that shot out of the top of my head, arcing high into the night sky.

A Tibetan Buddhist I met who read an earlier account of what happened to me that night told me it reminded her of a Vajrayana Buddhist practice called phowa. I also learned that Vajrayana means “diamond” or “thunderbolt” vehicle, which I understood personally because everything about the experience dazzled, was charged with force. Phowa is described as a practice of conscious dying, or transference of consciousness at the time of death, or even a flash of enlightenment without meditation. Tibetan lamas imprisoned by the Chinese were said to be able to leave their bodies this way.

But this—happening to someone who could barely sit still for a twenty minute meditation—didn’t amaze me
as much as what unfolded next. The column of light joined a much greater light that descended to meet it. Behind the abandoned tenements, behind my attackers, behind all the appearances in this world, there was a gorgeous luminosity. It was clear to me that this light was the force that holds up the world, into which all separation dissolves.

I realized that I could see myself and my attacker from behind and above. I watched myself gasping, watched my knees buckling, watched myself sink, watched myself looking up at the light. And then I was embraced by the light.

Science argues that while near-death experiences feel real they are simply fantasies or hallucinations caused by a brain under severe stress, and certainly my brain was under stress that night. A choke hold can kill in twenty to thirty seconds. Someone skilled in martial arts can knock someone out within eight seconds using such a hold, and brain damage can happen after about fifteen seconds because stopping blood flow to and from the brain can lead to brain hemorrhage, and the pressure on the heart can cause it to stop.

But science can’t account for the intimacy—for the extraordinary presence—of the experience. I didn’t just see the light, I was seen by it, and not in part but in whole. I knelt on the sidewalk, looking up at a light that was not separate from wisdom and love, a light that descended to meet me.

Afterwards, I heard the phrases “communion of saints” and “heavenly host” and “vault of heaven” and felt a thrill of recognition—my mind grasped at religious metaphors to describe what I had seen. The light was vast, vaulted, and all around. I sensed the presence of beings, ranks of beings, an ascending multitude, turning, moving, altogether forming a great witnessing conscious­ness, in every detail and part infinitely finer and higher than my own. There are no words for the majesty and radiance of what I glimpsed and how it made me feel, lifted, seen, accepted into a vast whole.

A particular being drew very close, looking down at me from above with love that had a gravity and grace unlike anything I known. It proceeded to search me, brushing aside everything I thought I knew about myself—my name, my education, all my labels—as if it was not just unimportant but unreal. I once came up with an awkward personal metaphor for the urgency of this part of my experience: fire fighters searching a burning building, shining a light through smoke, looking for signs of life while there was still time. Strangely, I sensed that the urgency and concern weren’t for my physical life.

Finally, the searching stopped. The light came to rest at a particular spot in the center of my chest. It poured through me. I was very still, in thrall, humbled, aware that what was dear and good to this light was not any quality that I knew, but something deep and mute in my being. How long was I held in the grave and loving gaze of this higher being, this angel of awareness? Moments probably, but time meant nothing. I had the sensation that my whole life, lived and as yet unlived, was spread out for examination, that my life was being read like a book, weighed like a stone in the palm of a hand.

I saw that everything counted—or, everything real, every tear, all our suffering. That I didn’t “believe” in
any of this—that I was too cool, too skeptical, too educated to be dazzled by experiences that were clearly, had to be, subjective, that I would never resort to hackneyed religious metaphors, and images like weighing and reading—that also didn’t count. My opinions about what I believed or didn’t believe, what I was capable of or not capable of, were just smoke to be brushed away.

I was lifted up into a field of light and love, flooded with a feeling of liberation, of rejoicing. It was like flying, rising above the clouds into bright sunlight, except that it was more radiant. It was exalted, sublime yet welcoming. Everything I knew fell away, yet I felt completely accepted and acceptable, completely known, completely loved, completely free. There were no words, just experience. Yet ever since, I have wondered if this is what salvation is like, to be lifted
up out of the fog of separation, of sin, of forever missing the mark, and delivered into the whole, into the reality behind the appearances of
the world.

It was clear that this radiant light, this loving consciousness, held everything that is. It was the alpha and omega, the particle and wave, the unifying force of the universe, suffusing us, carrying us when we leave this body, accompanying us always and everywhere, appearing in us when we are open to receive.

I knew I wouldn’t stay long in this radiance, in this sublime love and freedom. I was still sinking to my knees on a dirty sidewalk in Hell’s Kitchen, still struggling to breathe. Yet, as strange as it sounds, I wasn’t struggling inside. I was still. It felt as if I was falling to my knees in prayer—surrendering, not to this attack but to something that was infinitely higher. I understood that a life could have a different sense and meaning, that it could be spent seeking, purifying, practicing—I couldn’t find a word that conveyed the glimpse I had better than the words of the prayer, “Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven.”

The being who searched me—who saw me inside and outside, past, present, and future, told me without words to relax, the struggle would soon pass, I would not be harmed. I would return.
I would go on. The light withdrew.

My attacker loosened his grip just enough to allow me to reach a ten dollar bill in the front pocket of my jeans. I threw the bill on the ground. My attacker jerked his arm off my throat, scooped up the bill, and ran off with the others. I stood up. I had my life back. I stared up at
the night sky, then down at the ripped grocery bag, wondering why the muggers hadn’t taken the cigarettes
and the six-pack of beer.

“Of all the pitfalls in our paths and the tremendous delays and wanderings off the track I want to say that they are not what they seem to be,” writes the artist Agnes Martin. “I want to say that all that seems like fantastic mistakes are not mistakes, all that seems like error
is not error; and it all has to be done. That which seems like a false step is
the next step.”

I walked back to my ex-boy friend’s apartment, shaking with sobs. I wasn’t harmed. Settled at the long dining room table in his book-lined loft, tears streaming down, I choked out the story, insisting that I wasn’t harmed. Never mind the weeping, I told him. I was fine, really, perfectly calm at center of the storm, you see. My ex-boyfriend looked miserable. The crying went on and on. He pushed a twenty dollar bill across the table towards me, repaying me for the groceries. I brushed it away and he pushed it back. Just take it.

We aren’t in control in the way we think we are, I told him. Things happen, even terrible things, but they are not what they seem to be. And we aren’t alone. There is a light, a luminosity behind the appearances of this world. There is a luminous, loving intelligence above us, watching over us, caring for us. I knew how this sounded. Religious, mystical, unbelievable. Do you believe me, not about the mugging but about the light? He shook his head no, scowling softly, sorry for me. He just could not.

In the weeks and years that followed, I learned this is how it goes with personal revelation. I was an unreliable narrator, no more so than any other ordinary human, but still very limited, subject to dreams, to the wheels and levers of conditioning. But the experience never grew dim. I told it to people I trusted, or the dying. I told it to my father in his last days, and to another dear old friend near his end. I sure hope you’re right, he said.

What we really have to share is not any spiritual treasure we imagine we have stored up, but our poverty, our common human situation, our inability to know.

Many years after that night in Hell’s Kitchen, I still drift through the world lost in thought, captivated by stories and images. But I know a greater reality and a greater awareness exists. I know there is a truth that cannot be thought, only received.

Great music

Yesterday the process of toggling two self-publish processes became a bit overwhelming, and darkness crashed on me. I got a Skype session with Stacy Sully and she took me again and again into an alignment-process with Christ in what she called the central chord. The process took me again and again into the one choice there really is: accepting and allowing the truth and Light to heal me, to turn me back into my true Essence.

Just this morning I realized that the central Chord is just another name for the Sushumna – and with this realization there was a gentle breakthrough. It is a wonder to me that there is a sweet connection to yogic traditions in my soul – like my name is a Sanskrit one. Leelah means divine play – and Saachi means Grace and also Truth.

While I was allowing the word Sushumna to reverberate through my mind, some words came up: “The west-eastern Divan.”

Taken from the website:

“In 1999, Daniel Barenboim, together with the late Palestinian literary scholar Edward Said and by invitation of the Kunstfest Weimar, created a workshop for young musicians from Israel, Palestine and various Arab countries of the Middle East seeking to enable intercultural dialogue and to promote the experience of collaborating on a matter of common interest. Daniel Barenboim and Edward Said named the Orchestra and workshop after Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s collection of poems entitled “West-Eastern Divan”, a central work for the evolution of the concept of world culture. “

I listened to a soundtrack on the site, and felt vividly what was written on the site, about the philosophy of the musicians:

“Great music is the result of deep listening

Every player listening intently to the voice of the composer and to each other. Harmony in personal or international relations can also only exist by listening. Each party opening their ears to the other’s narrative or point of view.”

This paragraph connects me to the Sushumna-work – aligning myself with the central Light, my Source, resting in it, I listen deeply to the voices from the little tortured girl – allowing them all to be here. Writing this here now, I see that I can listen to those voices as parts of a choir, or orchestra, and the result is great music.

My new baby

I have written four manuscripts – I describe them on the website linked below:

http://leelahsaachi.wordpress.com/2013/06/19/first-of-my-four-books-published-today/

S  M  I  L  E  S

God is playing

and It uses cats to demonstrate it

Seeing through illusion

Lying in bed just some minutes ago, sensing all the usual blocks and pains, and giving them all to Holy Spirit – and feeling absolutely no relief. Let’s say this is the most common of all of Leelah’s complaints – “This is no good, I am not heard. Therefore this is a PROOF that there is something in my mind resisting God that I have placed there subconsciously. (Of course – that is true.)”And since I feel no relief now, that is a P R O O F that this is stronger than God” Having heard this thought, the mind goes on, in its square logic: “And therefore this is hopeless. I am lost. Ego is stronger that God in me. Nothing I do helps. Oh vey is mir.” (I am not Jewish, but my mind finds those words so very expressive of lament.)

Then the thoughts start coming. They come in a rush, and I find myself noticing after each one: This is a thought from truth and God. The thoughts are loving, sparkling with humor and joy. Their truth is evident. After some minutes of this, I realize: “Hm – these thoughts from God come to me even though there is a part in my mind that is stronger than God – hm that simply does not compute – well then – I simply MUST be wrong that there is something that can block out God in my mind.

And now the relief that I wanted as proof is HERE 🙂

Tears are cascading, but no crying

Just a tremendous joy and relief of seeing through it:

I have not felt a connection to God many times because I believed in this thought:

“This physical pain/ this depression/ this sickness /fill in the blanks/ is proof that my ego is stronger than God. That hostile forces are stronger than God. That “evil” is stronger than God. And since other people can be free and happy, and I am not, there is something wrong with ME, special ME!”

And God – having created us as Himself, has given us this power: that what we believe in and say is true, becomes our reality.

Giving my God-given power to the thought “There is something that is stronger than God” makes it so for me.

Believing in the thought of separation makes this illusionary world.

Oh! The beauty of seeing the power that God has given me! And He has certainly not given it to a Leelah: it belongs to me as Self, The Son of God.

Oh what a chaos it would be if He gave it to humans. And – laughing out loud – the world we think we see is made by our delusional thoughts that we ARE humans- separate – and that it is possible to create outside God.

That insane thought, believed in, has seemingly made this insane world

Thank God it is not real

Thank God it is just a dream

And the joy of realizing: as convincingly terrible and serious and painful the illusion – our world – looks – only our belief in it as “real” upholds this image.

We all as one uphold this image of the world each and every second when we look at “sin, guilt and fear” and believe that what we see can be real and true.

From this moment I can with a full heart mean it when I forgive: all I forgive is illusions that never happened in reality – just in my dream that separation CAN be real

*

oh beauty

*

I may forget this too

and then I can take this paper that I wrote this down on and remind myself and giggle

I am going to copy it and put it in lots of pockets and purses

And I don’t mind that I will forget it- that is the very nature of the human

For the first time can I fully appreciate what Barbara has told me a thousand times – Pain is not real. Sickness is not real. ANYTHING that God did not create is not real – so just let it be, don’t take it seriously.

Now that thought is experienced as just a thought –  and seen through.

Oh the beauty and joy of seeing through illusions.

And because I have seen through its unreality, the release I always have searched for and not found, is here now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Please note that nothing written here is intended as medical advice. Readers who think that they need help with a physical or psychological condition are advised to seek a qualified opinion.

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