Excerpt for Song Of The Cedars by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

Song of the Cedars

What the Trees Taught Me 4 0f 4

Writings by Sha’Ra On WindWalker

(in collaboration with Sha'Tara EarthStar)

Copyright (©) 2017 Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing

Published by: Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing

Chilliwack, B.C. Canada

Cover picture of Forest, by: Andreas Krappweis

All pictures found on

Space Picture: ESA/Hubble

Next Series: Voice in the Mist

I hope you enjoy these writings. Feedback is welcome.



A Look Into The Past

A Solution? Sure

A Twig

Before All Ends

Some Observations On Walking The Golden Path

Bringer Of The Dawn

Death Of A Spirit


The Sea

River Flossophy


What's Your Story?

G a i a


Life: Do You Want Pain Or Pleasure With That?

No Two The Same

Goddess In Love And Laughter

Loneliness, Solitude And Freedom

Song Of The Cedars

Taking Responsibility

The Logger's Bible

The Rock On The Road

The Sword Of Altarïe

The Unfolding

The Universal Language

Too Early Spring

The Gift

On The Golden Path - Contemplation

A Look Into The Present


These books represent a varied collection of remarkable "outside the box" thinking (and subsequently, writing).

If you are one of those trammeled and importuned by strong beliefs that won't let go, this could be your chance to break free. I'm not asking you to believe what is written therein—I can't say I believe all of it myself—but it makes for an interesting "other than" perspective. Reading these books can be compared to painting by numbers. You have this standard picture outline and between lines are colour numbers. You match the numbers to the colours and eventually you have a painting. It's not great art, of course, and everybody knows that but it gives you the impression that you did it yourself. We all know that is how the System operates. It gives us a number of colours and our life is laid out and numbered, from cradle to the grave. There isn't much we can do about it, it seems. It's the System.

Ah, but there is something we can do about it. We can ignore the numbers. Use random colours and mix them. If "3" is green, we do pink on one of the "3" sections and arbitrarily use orange on the next, and so on. Pretty soon the System doesn't know us anymore and guess what? We discover what real freedom can be. It begins by breaking the rules; by daring to violate those imposed beliefs. Here's one for you: Did man ever land on the moon? Of course they did, you will say. You saw it on TV, or you saw the videos and read the reports and documentaries, right? Ok, fine. But that is not the point since landing on the moon or not did nothing to change the way people interact with each other. So the point? The point is to paint a different colour on the "moon landing" section of your life's canvas. A "fake moon landing" colour. Now really go into this idea. Break the template here, convince yourself it was all faked in some studio, for whatever political reason. Then proceed to prove to yourself that it was so. Study this bit of history; look at the clues. What happens in the end? In the end you realize it doesn't matter at all whether they landed on the moon or not. What matters is, you dared question it.

The material in here questions "taken for granted" ideas, sometimes seriously, sometimes with humour.

You know, it's hard to think these days, when everything is handed to us via TV and the Internet. Everything tells us how to think, and does so in the blink of an eye. We don't have to wait for the President's state of the union speech, or the preacher's rant on a given Sunday. We Google!

Can a mind atrophy? You bet. Look into these booklets and think about thinking.

A Look Into The Past

Cold icy blue eyes staring

from the far side of the bed:

how many times have you told me now

you don't love me -and asked:

"Why don't you just leave?"

I can't answer you...

I don't know if I love you -

did I ever?

But there's the kids: the family,

the loans, the job, the normal,

the expected and unexpected:

a chance to help and serve maybe?

I've held on this long for values

I once believed to be inviolable;

necessary as food on the table...

But when you took in a lover

I suddenly understood:

even a very short life

can contain great cycles of surprise;

incredibly fathomless pain.

I hope you never have to understand

what I'm saying ten years later:

I've travelled so many deserts

crossed so many seas

tasted the fruit of many a lifetime

of an ordinary man: you set me free

to learn about life on other planes

-I thank you, really -

but I've done enough of that

for the four of us to carry on.

A Solution? Sure

Don't just talk about the problems;

don't tell us about energy shortages:

show us a solution instead.

So people say to me.

Very well, a solution I will give

but who will listen

who can't even see?

For wherever I go, I walk -

I don't use a car or even a bike -

and everyone takes it for granted

I do this

because I can't do better.

But I'm not the one

complaining about the cost of gas;

I'm not the one

complaining about stolen bikes:

I'm the one who's there

when you need someone to talk to;

I'm the one with a “poem”

to share with you if you wish;

I'm not chasing any tick tock

around the clock;

I'm not the one who worries

about the weather come Sunday,

and why should I care

if stock market price fixing

puts another five thousand dollars

on next year's car lot denizen?

I won't be the one

yelling at the salesman.

A solution to pollution

need not be complex or stressful:

common sense

though much overlooked these days

can still be of some use

if this world is to survive

man's incredible success.

(Sarcasm is the language of the Devil)

A Twig

A twig grew straight and slim

by a gurgling mountain brook

dreaming of the day he knew must come

when he'd be the tallest tree on the hill.

But erosion brings down an old tree

which falls dead centre on the twig,

bending it to ninety degrees, perhaps more:

but does it stop growing?

Does it wait for someone, some god,

to come along and move the offending tree?

It keeps growing, though bent and odd ;

nor does it care, for its search

is ever to the light in each new day..

An old fallen tree; a belief system:

one and the same, and many are those

who cannot go beyond this boundary.

They stop; they think that's all there is;

the last question, the last answer.

Look to that twig! How does it know

to hunger for light in the darkness?

Life does have its strange burdens

but it graces us with some amazing gifts:

the power to change; to adapt:

to forgive all and to move on.

Before All Ends

I see those who rape the earth,

and rob the sea of its life;

who hunger to condemn the innocent

and lust to enslave the weak,

unmindful even of the dying.

While the over-abused world

hovers on the brink of death,

but before all ends in darkness

I stand at the edge of the sea

and beseech Gaia, the Earth Mother

to remember the day in eons past

she brought life to the planet.

To Gaia, goddess of earth

giver of life.

Some Observations On Walking The Golden Path

Walking the Golden Path is to choose an alternative way of looking at, and interacting with, the world. You ask the questions that are seldom asked and you give yourself to the extraction of answers, wherever these lead.

You make yourself vulnerable yet lose none of your power. You give, yet are never impoverished. You feel compassion for all life yet never find your involvement overwhelming. You cry over the distress in so many human lives, yet never experience depression. You walk alone amidst the ever-growing noise of the ever-expanding crowd yet never feel loneliness.

Once in a while my "teachers" give me a quiz test so I can see where I am going, if I'm going anywhere at all!

A few days (nights?) ago I had a guided dream, taken back through time to meet hundreds of individuals I have interacted with during this short life. Though none of them expressed resentment or surprise, I found myself repeating this: "I know now I could have done more for you. I could have helped more. I could have been more understanding."

It wasn't a guilt trip, just a realization that we are indeed "infinite" beings trapped you might say, in a very limited concept of life. In our interactions with others we withhold from them because we fear that they will suck us dry. We do not realize that we cannot be sucked dry - that our well of compassion is bottomless; that we have access to unlimited resources. We truly have a difficult time understanding that when we withhold, or when we expect others to "trade" for goods, services or time, that we are limiting ourselves.

Also recently I took another "guided tour", this time among those I had actually done something for simply because I could and they needed it. And on this one I was overwhelmed at people's gratefulness and at the many creative ways they used to communicate their appreciation to me. And that left me with a very big lump in my throat - I never knew that the sharing of simple gifts of time and skills could mean so much to others.

How can we hide these truths from ourselves and serve the crummy systems dumped on us by organized religions, governments and of course "money" instead of life? There is not one person on this world who does not have a gift intended to be given to another. Life it would seem, from those who have evolved spiritually, is all about giving.

Bringer Of The Dawn

When I come to you,

I do not bear crystals

for I am the living crystal,

from Prime Creator sent

that you may be enlightened;

nor do I bear sacred herbs

burning in abalone shells

to purify your environment

for I am pure air, pure Spirit:

my breath, of pure light emanation

cleanses the confines of your space

that you may breathe deeply.

nor do I verbalize ancient lore

from old writings decoded

for I am all knowledge,

my mind embodies all pasts, present

and all futures,

that you may understand;

nor do I bring you a way of life

excluding all others

for I am all ways

flowing perpetually from Goddess/God

that you may walk your path of power;

nor do I direct you

to a temple of worship

however ornate or simple

for I am the temple

where God energy dreams creation

and Goddess power conceives, births

and nurtures the flowing river of love

that you may evolve in abundance!

When I come to you

child of the living light,

I bring you to the dawn of eternity:

I bring you to yourself!

Death Of A Spirit

There's a lot taken for granted, I think

in discussing consciousness, soul and spirit:

that part of beingness conceived as indestructible.

What do we really know, of life, of death,

of that which ceases to function as such in form

assumed to never change?

There is no such thing as 'nothing can'

anything is possible, even the death

of one's own spirit, or life's not choice!

Even God must have such choice,

to be, or not to be, the question must remain!

What of this beautiful earth,

all the life she brings forth and nurtures?

Could she not also decide

to cease her labors, to end it all?

Who's to stop her? The hunter? The fisherman?

The miner? The logger? The Wall Street broker?

The president or general in fake fatigues?

Who else would feel the need?


Birds frolic

in the cold air currents,

and I to want to fly like them:,

for a moment I close my eyes;

feel myself riding the wind.

I realise from this experience,

we can become anything we choose

in dreams. And I wonder:

Is this world, it's people

the wild life, nature,

the experiences we gather

but a part of a dream

in someone's mind

perhaps in some other reality?

Whose creations are we?

Ours? Or someone else's?

and I think...

Someone who is often

under the influence

of some quite powerful drug.

Duhhh... I dunno:

pass me another beer Sam!

The Sea

The wild easterly sweeps from the open sea;

gray ocean waves batter a gravelly shore,

their white-crested manes tossed

like some watery hell stallions galloping,

neighing their freedom; thundering madly

over a heaving, frothy wintery moor.

Whipped snow and sand hiss among brown grasses

mixing brown sugar puddings, drifting, filling,

mercilessly driving shorebirds from shelters.

Plaintively peeping to one another

these seek new refuge among standing rocks.

White gulls glide on motionless pinions,

skirting lashing waves, crying;

black cormorants in rapid wingbeats

skim the green tempest purposefully

diving out of sight in rolling trenches.

Scavenging along the thunderous beach

turnstones and black oystercatchers

seek their allotment of daily sustenance

among tortured seaweed and rolling gravel

occasionally bashing to its death

a small crab flung high upon the shore.

From a distant rock hidden by driven clouds

a mournful horn blares its warning:


warning passing trawlers and freighters to

!stay away!!stay away!!stay away!!

The storm rages unabated

its perceived violence proving once more

that in contest between man and sea

primordial force will always possess

the last word upon this magical world.

River Flossophy

"And they shall be endowed with great intelligence

And turn it ever to evil deeds even to turning light to darkness.

And they shall be given a home but will not understand

And so shall they destroy the gentle fabric of it.

And they shall be clothed and fed but turn on their benefactor

And so shall they tear her apart.

And they shall have children born of Earth matter;

of wind and rain; of earth and fire,

And shall make them children of the damned.

So it was prophesied long ago to the Spirit of Gaia

before she set out to give life

And in tears she wandered in the darkness,

afraid to face the light,

afraid of the life she carried.

Yet it came to pass that she found a place in the sun,

And gave birth in pain and sorrow

To a life that would proliferate wildly

To turn on itself and eat itself unto death.

[Chronicles of the WindWalkers - Sha'Tara]

I went out on the River yesterday looking for "a better answer" and as always, I was not disappointed.

The River is at her best right now. The waters are low enough to provide beautiful and warm spaces of sand dunes, gravel bars and stretches of hard dried mud to run on. The smell of post-diluvian life rises from emerging banks and wildly flourishing plant life. There is a kind of ecstatic, exotic madness to the dance of life presented to the sense. But to understand, to truly feel this, one has to really be there - not physically, but in the spirit of the dance itself. Certainly much of what I "sense" out there is beyond the words of the best writer and beyond the ability of the best artist to capture on canvas, film or digital media. Hence why I don't rely on the camera anymore: the results are too disappointing. You have to BE THERE!

Long ago it had been my dream to interact so closely with that wonder world that the "wild" animals would not run away from me. Yesterday a doe and fawn did just that. I stood on a sand bar as she quietly munched on grasses some few feet away. The fawn ate, gamboled and sometimes stared at me and flicked its tail. I walked around, sometimes away from them, then turning slowly and walking back towards them. They stood and watched, but there was no fear, no panic. Eventually we went our separate ways and that was that.

I found myself looking at my feet as I walked on that sacred ground. I was shocked to realize how many "things" I walked on unawares. "Is this right?" I asked myself. And the answer is still the same: in a sense, yes. In another, no. As this world is currently "wired" it is impossible not to destroy some aspects of life as we walk through. But I also know without a doubt that this "wiring" was not in the original blueprint and can be changed.

There are some in this day looking at ways to change this wiring. But there are, of course, nowhere near enough individuals taking this seriously. And it's a lot like the mice meeting to discuss the process of putting the bell on the cat. There is likely a heavy price to pay for anyone with enough temerity to attempt re-wiring what the System has wrought over the millennia it has done its evil on this world. So much is now corrupt and utterly screwed up that for most, it's become normal. The justifications for doing conscious or unconscious "evil" on this world are endless, and growing in leaps and bounds.

There are those who point out that my "musings" are full of darkness, of "negativity" -- and I concur. I don't wear rose-colored glasses, they just keep falling off every time the System slaps me in the face. But can you admit that I have also presented "you" with alternatives? That what I speak of is basically true, but not *yet* beyond retrieval? Oh, and a reminder: there's plenty of room on the magic coach leading to the room of changes. Whether Earth survives the onslaught of "man" gone crazy won't matter to those who saw the danger and through compassion, "saved" themselves from their corrupt System and ungrateful peers.

So, where to from here, O River?


Walk beneath the tall trees Tara,

and listen quietly to the wind;

hear song birds call and squirrels chatter,

echoing their love of life

among dappled foliage and darkened branches.

Watch the shadows creep upon the forest floor

and step lightly in soft bare feet among the ferns...

Look: I've put a stop to time, my love,

for we're in a sacred place together.

Here nature freely pours her bounty

upon hillsides and deep into shaded valleys...

Yes, take a drink from a gurgling stream -

let the cool clear water slip between your fingers -

and pause along the shore of a glacial lake;

let the haunting call of a loon

enter your softly beating heart.

Put your hands through small wavelets

lapping upon slabs of broken shale

and turn your beautiful face to the sky:

see the endless shapes of endless dreams

within fluffy white clouds passing by.

Reflect under the power of the afternoon sun

and let its rays cleanse your smooth brown skin

of the cancerous impact of the city:

Thank you for sharing with me this day

so freely given from a beautiful Earth, Tara

What's Your Story?

I think we should observe one-another more; and without judgment. Not much of a starting line to a story, but where to start anyway? With the obvious, I suppose.

I normally work around the town of Abbotsford. It's there that I noticed him last year. At first I paid no heed, but as he kept appearing along the streets I normally drive, I began to wonder about him. He was in his early forties I'd say, of normal height, that is, about my size; dressed clean, not expensive. Jeans, sweat shirt, jacket, on if it was cool or off on warmer days and slipped in the lower straps of the pack he carried. He was usually clean shaven, but sometimes he's sport a short beard and mustache. He had reddish hair, curly and cut fairly short, complemented by that cheap Irish skin, you know the kind that loves to turn bright red and peel at the mention of sunshine. He always wore a bone-head hat and I figured it was so the extended visor would keep the sun off his nose. He wore glasses, carried a faded dark blue back-pack and unless it was raining, he had a spiral bound notebook and a pen in his hands. And that completes my description of his general mien.

I'd see him at the intersection of Gladwin and South Fraser Way, then down by the Real Canadian Super Store or further down, past the Shell Station at the George Ferguson Way and Gladwin crossroads. Sometimes he'd show up further east, by the Chevron and McDonalds at Bourquin Crescent and South Fraser Way.

It wasn't that he was usually at the crosswalks that intrigued me, but that he'd walk up to people, it didn't seem to matter what age or gender, or whether there was but one person or several, and he'd say something, holding out his spiral-bound notebook and pen. The response was always the same: some kind of gesture, or words I couldn't make out and he'd move on to someone else.

One day, I think it was a Wednesday if I remember correctly, as I waited for the lights to change on South Fraser Way I saw him approach an elderly man by the Toronto Dominion bank. I quickly rolled down the window of my service van hoping to hear what he was saying to these people. What I heard was unforgettable.

In a voice that carried well he asked: "What's your story, sir? Would you tell me your story?" The elderly gentleman turns out not to be so gentlemanly after all. "Fuck off jerk or I'll call the cops." And to emphasize the point, he pulls a cell phone from his pocket. The spiral notebook guy backs off, turns away slowly, notices the lights have changed and proceeds across Gladwin to talk to a couple of young mothers with baby carriages. Again the gestures and the angry looks. Next he approaches three Middle School age young girls. They laugh in his face, say something and scamper across Gladwin as the walk light comes on.

I watch him put his notebook away and walk towards the next intersection. I remember it started to rain then and the wind was picking up. By the time I'd turned down Trethewey for the Husky station I'd forgotten about him. Slush machine issues require "Geek" level concentration and that particular Husky gas bar has three of them.

A few days later I remembered him again. I remembered suddenly that after months of his presence on the periphery of my life I had not seen him since the Friday of the week before. Well, you know what that's like. You get used to something or someone just being there and take it for granted until suddenly they are not there and an empty feeling forms in your heart. I wondered what had happened to him. I knew he was well known in the neighbourhood so I asked the manager at the computer shop in the corner strip mall if he knew anything about him.

"Oh yeah, that idiot. The cops finally picked him up last Saturday. I guess someone had had enough of him going to people and asking for their story. Certifiable, if you ask me. You'd think they'd have places for people like that. Who needs that kind of crap around town?" Ok, so not the most compassionate person in the world here, but I'm trying to remain neutral. This is not my town, I just work here. I mostly just drive by on the streets so I don't know what I'd done if the Note Book Man had come up to me and asked for "my" story.

I wonder. Do I have a story to tell that would be worth someone else's time to write down? Would I ever get that chance? I did. My Note Book friend came back a month later. At first I wasn't sure it was him. He was sitting on a bus bench, his back-pack lying next to him. On top was the spiral-bound note book. He was not accosting people, but holding his head in his hands, looking at the sidewalk. I had an idea. It was close enough to lunch time so I turned into West Oaks mall and parked by the Tim Horton's in the corner there. I took my wallet, locked up, alarmed the vehicle and quickly strode to the sidewalk. I'd have to cross two lights to get to the Note Book Man. A bus came by and my heart sunk, but he did not get on. I made the lights and came to the bus stop.

"Hi!" I said. Not very original but one must start somewhere neutral with people. "Hi!" is usually safe. There was no response. I sad down beside the back-pack and looked at the note book. "Mind if I look at your notes?" I asked. He moved his head towards me, looking at my leg, I guess, then pointed to the notebook. I picked it up and opened it. I read the contents.

"What's Your Story?" - an interview by Eugene Proulx.

I thumbed through the rest of the pages. They were all blank, except for those nice straight blue lines, like artificial veins under too thin and too white a skin. There was no story. There were no stories. No one had ever taken the time to give him one... or no one had thought that maybe they had one to give.

I felt a terrible surge of compassion for this man.

"I'll tell you my story, if you want to write down some notes." I said to him.

He looked up, not to my face, but as high as my shirt pockets this time. Then he took the note book, closed it softly, put it in his back-pack and closed that, slipping one strap over a slumping shoulder. I reached to him and put my hand lightly on his arm.

"I meant it." I said.

This time he looked right into my eyes. Tears were welling up and rolling from his eyes. He stood up, turned and walked away.


Gently you come by day or night

to fill the best of dreams;

lovely as rain on the river,

warm as a Summer day:

good, pure, perfect,

you lift my soul to heaven,

you make me want to live, to love,

to understand and share.

Your feet touching the earth

bring forth new life as you step;

small and light, you dance

like a week-old fawn

over swaying marsh grass.

You laugh like a mountain stream;

your passage is the will o' the wisp

over the sands and the waters:

like the killdeer, the loon

in the mystery of a moonlit night

you sing and call me to follow.

Awake or asleep, in or out of dreams,

I follow: a moth, a butterfly,

running, dancing, laughing with you;

I learn of life in paradise

of love, of joy, of fullness untold.

When I lie breathless at your feet

and you smile at me: I learn to die

and in my death, perfected in you

I find new life, again!

O, Love, so long hidden,

mother, daughter, lover,

child of the living womb -

prisoner of rusty superstition,

the very memory of your tender love

chained in dank dungeons

of religious ignorance and fear.

O, Lady of sweetness and joy,

Giver of life, of truth,

how long must you remain

enslaved to these dark, dying times,

your own world denied your love?

How long must man oppress you

and kill your children,

their innocent, sacrificial blood

dripping from your bruised feet?

From you, Lady, I learned of life

its intricacies and mysteries;

from you I learned to love

to gently touch, healing and giving,

never to take, for all I need

you provide with a smile

a soft, beckoning gesture

from outstretched, open hands

full of springing love, full

of ageless mystery and eternal hope!


One sunny day Dad said "Lets go hiking."

I made 'the' face:

"Don't you like hiking son?"

frowned his authority my way.

"Oh yes" I replied quickly,

(my dad was a military man!)

but aside I thought:

"Hiking's just fine

it's all that damn walking

that spoils it all!

So if you can find a way

we can get to the top

without all the trouble

of the in-between walk,

to eat a bit of dried up bread,

and drink a cup of warm water,

I'll go hiking with you

and make you proud!"

I never said it aloud;

I walked the 16 miles;

didn't complain about the blisters

the mosquitoes or the flies!

Don't ask me if it was worth it!

Twenty years later though we don't walk,

dear dad and I still talk.

Life: Do You Want Pain Or Pleasure With That?

“Hey Greg, with all the pain this causes me, why do we do it?” … “Art causes more pain than pleasure for the artist”… (The Sun and the Moon and the Stars – Steven Brust)

How about substituting “life” for ‘art’ and “living” for ‘artist’?

I read somewhere that beauty could never be found without ugly—and I suppose, vice versa. That’s the thing about life, isn’t it; the gnawing reality of dualism we somehow want to get around, or out of, by any means. We cannot. Always, if you want a thing really bad, you have to nurture yourself and mature yourself in the art of relating to its opposite. If you want to walk with God you will have to carry the Devil on your back. If you want to experience a truly beautiful sunset, somewhen you will have experienced that sunrise when the sun and clouds formed a rosy shroud over your dying child’s bed and you will remember that lump in your throat you wished had choked you then. For those who are observant, this ‘balancing’ is quite evident. Perhaps life is an equation and mathematics is, as claimed, the universal language: I don’t buy that because if it is, then math becomes another religion as portrayed in the movie, "Contact" for example.

Using the ‘artist’ imagery, to be a compassionate being is being an artist—living each moment in excruciating awareness of surroundings and feelings; feeling passionately with mind, heart and body, these being the brushes, palette and paints, the music notes and the words ; the one half burning in pain as in a fire, the other half rising from the embers laughing in the waves of the naked ocean, neither ever complete, neither ever done. The fire evaporates the waters, these hiding in clouds; and the waters quenching the flames but the fire lives on in the embers.

That said about the necessity of duality, then what is this ‘One’ or Single Source people insist on, parroted in writing and in speeches? Fine, maybe there is a ‘One’ some-before-where and some-before-when, but who’s to really know? No one can, and that’s the joke on us by the ‘wool over the eyes’ pullers. Even a god (they at least do exist, they can be interacted with) would have no way of knowing this ‘One’ because in awareness we (god or human) are already far from Source (outsourced!) and if ‘One’ is as claimed, there is no returning to such an absolute. Returning translates into one word: obliteration.

That’s easy to figure out. What I am, all that I am, does not, cannot, exist at location: Source One. That’s the point of setting off life as a wildfire. “Go forth, be fruitful and multiply; subdue, i.e., change yourself and change everything in the process—no holds barred, into forever infinity. Don’t come crying back to Source—your pitiful human cries cannot be heard. Whatever has ‘become’ through duality—differentiated as life—is in itself meaningless and poisonous at location: Source One. I can put it one better: none of it actually originated at Source One, only energy, pure, raw, primordial. Source One therefore is not the source of life, we are. We invented the knots that tie energetic strands together, creating nodes of information defining the indefinable: creation from ‘nothing.’

Was it not said, ‘He who puts his hand to the plow then looks back is not fit for service in the kingdom of God.’? There is no looking back for answers or solutions. We ‘sent’ ourselves as sheep among wolves, as solutions to problems, never really sure when we are creating the problems, or when solving them. It’s rather obvious, isn’t it, that some ‘send’ themselves as wolves among sheep, so let’s not get too cocky about which is which as such roles are so easily exchanged. As an actor changes character by changing his costume, how quickly we exchange roles with a change of mind. Today the beautiful, tomorrow the ugly.

If we took our place, our role, seriously, we would all know we are artists in a cosmic studio without walls, floors or ceilings. We would realize there is no heaven, no nirvana, no permanent ‘safe house’ to hole up into when the storms of life get rough. We would create temporary abodes where we, or the desperate we find ourselves shepherding, would find refuge for a time. But we would never lose track of the obvious: that we are on an infinite path without footprints and as we go we create our temporary heavens and hells, havens which we must eventually leave to carry on. Perhaps the only ‘mystery’ worth pondering is the changing endlessness of what was, is, and will be. We are forever walking on water, or could be. It’s not good enough just to master the art of floating in the water with our noses sticking out so we can breathe.

So, let’s see: life is art. We create or we die—yet can’t die: an oxymoron? Well I could say that those who do not consciously create are really the living dead, letting whatever powers that be do the creating for them and using them on the stage as extras. And why won’t they create their own works? Because of the pain. They don’t want to deal with that because they are programmed to believe that if it hurts, it’s bad, it’s evil. In today’s world the ‘feel good’ rules, hence why this society is not only morally bankrupt, but its insistence on the ‘feel good’ has even destroyed its vaunted fiscal responsibility, putting it on the fast track to oblivion.

To understand however, we must realize that pain, as we must experience it, is not our ‘lot’ as it was once taught. As we learn about giving and grow into self-empowerment we gain the power to transmute pain into sorrow. Sorrow, unlike pain, is the compassionate nature bending over a troubled and suffering world and offering healing.

Thus sorrow attracts its ‘opposite’ which is really its mate: joy. But true joy will never be found where sorrow does not walk. Hence why people cannot find joy in their lives and substitute pleasure and fun, cheap, tawdry imitations of the real thing, popular because they are a drug… and can be sold and bought in the marketplace with huge profits.

“Life is not a thing, it is a way. It is a series of happenings, it is the evolution of patterns which carry information, it is growth and decay and re-growth. Wherever the possibility of this exists, life will be.” (The Avatar—Poul Anderson)

“Nothing is absolute, and you have to go with the odds. The only thing that’s absolute is death, and not even that if you believe the revs.” (The Parafaith War – L. E. Modesitt, Jr.)

No Two The Same

No two snow flakes

no two rain drops

no two grains of sand

no two thoughts, even!

no two ever the same

in the Universal expanse

perhaps even beyond

no two anything the same!

The forces of creation

do not clone life

but are ever moved

to create the original.

Do not be surprised

do not be shocked

at surrounding disparity:

it is nature's way!

Goddess In Love And Laughter

I meet her upon giant sandy dunes

above the ever-restless green sea.

As the sun rises, as the sun sets,

so does the love we share upon

the turbulent shores of earth.

We could move mountains

just with our laughter under the moon:

we know a love so deep.

But few, alas, can understand

and categorized as such a great sinner,

how can she touch the tears of earth?

But I know what I feel,

and how can something that feels so good,

be so wrong? - the old question!

I feel even God must have known hunger

within the flow of her passion;

had to experience, to bear,

temptation - even from her shadow.

And we spend the sultry Summer,

running, laughing, swimming, loving

while the sea tosses as wild as our hearts!

And I know what we share is real

as surely as I know it is not yet to be found

in man's world and thoughts about love:

for where limits are set upon one's love,

there, the Goddess energy will not move.

But even if we made our time stand still,

other forces keep the tick-tock going:

the breeze will turn cold,

the leaves change colour,

and the great flocks, crying, pass over;

and she too will leave for another place then,

for these winters are still too cold

and this man's world has yet to prepare

a hearth of love she could call home.

Loneliness, Solitude And Freedom

What is loneliness? Unwanted solitude. How does that come about? One, if one happens to be lost, either on the tundra, in a desert or on an ocean for example, in some large expanse where there is no one else to commune with. How about in space, alone in a small ship that maintains a life-support system but has lost self-mobility and communications and directional-finding computers have fried their stored information.

There are other ways to experience unwanted solitude. It can happen in dreams of course and if one isn't trained on how to wake up from such, that can be frightening, for who knows where dreams can take us, and how long one can remain "lost" within that place or non-place? For the mind cannot differentiate between what the senses consider "real" and "unreal." To the mind, everything is real. But the greatest, the deepest and saddest loneliness is when one is surrounded by people but the level of heart-felt (empathic) communication no longer exists. You hear the words, the thoughts expressed, but the mind deflects them as a broad-brimmed hat deflects sunlight or the rain. You hear, you even understand if you make the effort to bring your "receptor" in tune with those others, but most of the time your mind says, "I've heard this all before and there is nothing there, nothing at all. I'm not going to learn anything from this interaction so I'm going to pretend to listen and interact but I'm basically shutting this frequency down and going out looking for something meaningful to explore."

I experienced much basic solitude where I was raised. The north country was huge and although signs of man's passage there were always visible, "man" wasn't there most of the time. Some places, particularly valleys and muskeg-type swamps had never experienced man's depredations and remained pristine. When you wandered through those places you could really feel as if you were the only person on the planet. There was an aloneness so deep the mind, through the brain/body, perceived itself as in a different environment. In those times it perceived itself alone in all of space and to compensate the brain/body mechanism would begin to assess its survival possibilities. It would judge the season and the conditions. Check for available potable water, material to build a suitable shelter, food, fuel. It was a natural process and so engrossing that "loneliness" never crept in. I never actually experienced loneliness in the great northern solitudes.

I have however known and experienced much loneliness since then, having tasted life in the city. I used to wonder why that was. How can one be lonely surrounded by people and all the clap-trap of Earthian society? How can one be lonely in a classroom, in a church, a sporting event, at a movie, in a milling crowd in a park or on the street? The answer is simple: loneliness doesn't come from solitude but from inability to commune with others, whatever those "others" may be.

I've spent a lifetime "exploring" the worlds of the mind and of the Matrix. I discovered that true sapient sentience is mind, not physical. The physical is but the mechanism the mind uses to probe and experience its current involvement in life, nothing more. Sapient sentience adapts itself readily to any type of physical machinery. It doesn't have to be biological. It can be mechanical, it can be electrical or a combination of all three. Likely it can manifest in other forms as well, perhaps simply as thought, or space occupancy. Anything is possible since "mind" is how life expresses and how it evolves.

If there is no awareness or understanding of this simple fact then there is a great danger that the "mechanism" intended to probe and experience a particular manifestation can become the main focus of one's life. The physical overrides the mind, traps the mind and dictates to the mind. That of course can only lead to death because nothing physical, especially nothing complex, can live very long. There are too many factors involved and if the mind is basically trapped and dormant, what guides, directs, analyzes, adapts or repairs the physical entity? Nothing, so it becomes dependent on external input for its own survival. Ridiculously it becomes dependent on other mind-dead physical entities similar to itself to explain things and to fix it. This is like expecting a passing car, say a BMW, to stop and re-start or repair a broken down Hundai on the freeway. According to Matrix programming the BMW, being a "superior" vehicle, can indeed fix the Hundai. That's the God-believer relationship, or doctor-patient, or lawyer-client, or politician-voter. The "smarter" fixes or makes life possible for the "dummer" - for a price. Pure Matrix system make-believe.

I know that I in understanding I have only touched on the surface of the whole Earthian short-life problem, its general unhealthiness of body and rapid deterioration or aging process past a certain point, but I do understand some of it. It goes back to the Matrix, the slave-owners, the controllers. They know that mind-entities cannot be enslaved and cannot be sucked from for their energy: mind is too evanescent, too volatile. They can't keep track of free minds but they certainly can "farm" bodies or matter aspects. It is the Matrix in its varied controlling aspects, particularly its massive brain-washing apparatus, that traps evolving minds into physical envelopes and incapacitates the mind-being. Simple and oh, so obvious. But how does one get to that place where such an understanding can be of some use?

In the worlds of the Time Lords; of the Matrix and all of their lesser servant systems, breaking free is certainly not an easy thing to accomplish. In my case, I had to be born with an open mind, with a certain awareness that kept a pin-point of light always on the workings of the Matrix. I sensed the wrongness of the system and my studies and quests were all directed at discovering the puppet masters. I found them, much like many are also finding them today - in politics, in religion, in business, in education, in entertainment, in short in everything that the Earthian indulges in or cannot avoid functioning within. The System, that "evil trinity" of money, politics and religion, is what the people of earth live in, and for. There are simplistic "rules" backed by ridiculous beliefs that keep the Matrix in control at all times. Mind-dormant Earthians believe and continue to believe; act and continue to act; even when they can see that what they believe is pointless and repetitive; that what they do is generally detrimental to themselves as individuals and certainly their environment. But nothing they can do about it because they must believe that things are the way they are because without those controlling things, well, everything would fall apart. That's the simplistic religion of the Matrix and it only works when the mind is dormant.

How does the Matrix keep the Earthian from awakening its mind? It uses the basic fear of being ostracized from society in general. Of never being able to fit in. The fear of loneliness. That is the greatest fear of all and it is very effective. There are people who want to see change happening; who can see the world moving ever-closer to some catastrophic results for earth due to man's slavish obedience to his masters. Such people remain ineffective simply because they do not realize that change comes from the self, not from groups. History shows over and over that no matter how well-intended, all revolutionary groups revert back to serving the Matrix. Oh yes, Mao's red book may replace the Bible, or some dissidents may create successful communes here and there and internally live by their own rules but as for the effect over society in general, or any kind of power emanating from such "changes" creating meaningful change: forget it, it never happened and can never happen. All things must go back to the "god" who gives them; all communal resistance only feeds the masters who always return to their conquered place of rulership in one way or another.

The one who would break out of this mindless servitude has to choose to become an individual. Only the one with an awakening mind can accomplish this. On this world, being an awakened mind automatically means entering a unique solitude. The awakened mind, whether operating in a highly intelligent or educated physical entity, or of low IQ, or in poor physical health - crossing the whole gamut here - must of necessity become self-empowered and develop its own sense of place apart from all others. It cannot continue to engage the common Matrix beliefs or interactions or it will be re-mastered by the Matrix and re-absorbed. It must accept the ever-widening field or rift that separates it from the believing throng. It must accept its loneliness and learn to reach out to other places, other spheres, other concepts for communing and dialogue.

When I was young nature provided me with the means to realize that solitude and loneliness are not at all the same thing. If one accepts the solitude that accompanies expanding awareness as it accompanies wide open spaces, then loneliness becomes less a matter of concern. It becomes possible to play a game here: to "pretend" at being a part of Earthian interaction, engaging Earthian events to satisfy the needs of the brain/body entity but without believing and without joining in. It becomes possible, even enjoyable, to pass through, to flutter from earth-man concern to event to situation as a butterfly flutters from flower to flower. It becomes possible to drop the level of judgment, to realize that pollen from a dandelion will "taste" different from that of an orchid but it's still just pollen.

Point: the mind is so designed as to be in a constant state of awakening. When it isn't awakening or evolving, that means it is trapped in the loop of the Matrix. A mind so trapped is not really alive but in stasis. The brain/body entity left to its own devices has no choice but to serve the Matrix in some aspect or other. It must believe and it must obey. To do otherwise is to die. A church or a speedway; a war or a wedding: those are events orchestrated by the Matrix to ensure the mind never awakens. There is no difference between any of them in the final analysis. That is the pain/pleasure principle. To counter-act it one always begins with "satyagraha" - non-violent, non-cooperation. Every individual act of non-cooperation with any of the systems of the Matrix weakens the system and breaks another chain, another lock, on the entrapped mind box. Every such act done consciously and volitionally also brings an individual to that place of solitude from which loneliness is banished. That is ultimate freedom.

Words cannot convey truth. Only what lies behind the words can convey truth: knowledge, experience and awareness.

Song Of The Cedars

Above a quiet mountain lake

deep in the Summer of my visions,

I saw a man dive off a cliff,

to the blue waters far below,

yet before he hit the waters,

I saw him turn into a majestic eagle,

and as he spread his wings

transform himself into a Goddess

of golden hue...

I watched as she floated to the sand,

and stretched her arms to the sun:

Then I recognized her

as her hair came tumbling

and she danced along the shore.

singing her song from the clouds:

It was Tara,

calling to me again!

and I went to her

soaring upon the mountain breeze,

bringing her the song of the cedars;

and there within her gold,

on white sands, under blue skies

shimmering in the Summer's heat

the Goddess and I

touched heaven.

Taking Responsibility

I hear it all the time:

take responsibility

for the things that happen -

and the sins of the world

are all our fault

for we are indeed, evil creatures.

That is what religions teach

to any still with an ear

able to take this great lie

for their gods, they say

demand perfection

and people must be made accountable

for all their evil done against “god”.

There's a grain of truth in it

but what should strike any honest person

is the double standard implied.

For if "god" created the world

and man in his image to boot

then the one ultimately responsible

for all the resultant mess

can be none other but that "creator"

which many still insist

on calling a god.

Can we honestly give credence

to the claims of religion world-wide -

when it is so obvious

that it is "god"

who will not - or cannot -

take responsibility for his own mess


then abandoned?

The Logger's Bible

(Excerpt from "The Loggers' Bible" taken from a floppy disk found by a Sawmill Worker who salvaged it from an Old Growth Log that was being cut into 2x6's at the Lumber Mill where he labored hard and long. The name of the Worker was not placed in the records.)

Genesis (or "In The Beginning of It All")

In the beginning, on the Very First Day, the mighty rain forest stood alone under the sun, covering the land from the Sea, across the River and up into the Mountain. Beneath the canopy of trees, all was darkness. Fungi, lichens and molds grew in the dank atmosphere.

And the Spirit of the Lord moved over the forest and pondered the darkness below. The Lord took counsel with Himself and said: It is not good that the land remain in permanent darkness. Let there be light! And the Lord created the Logger. And it was evening of the First Day.

On the Second Day, the Lord instructed the Logger in this fashion: Forth shall thou go into the dark forest and thou shalt cut down many trees so the light of the sun may reach the ground where now it does not. And I shall forever bless thee, and the works of thine hands if thou obeyest me in all things. But when I call for you to stop cutting the trees, thou must desist at once. And if thou obeyest me, I shall find for you other employment.

And on that day, the Logger moved away from the Lord's face and walked silently into the darkness of the forest. And it was evening of the Second Day.

On the Third Day, the Lord came forth to see the works of the Logger. He descended beneath the canopy of the Great Forest but saw no sign of falling or cutting of trees. He walked through the gloom in the middle of the day until he encountered the Logger. The Lord spake unto him: "What hast thou done? No tree has been fallen or cut. Why dost thou disobey me?"

And the Logger cried unto the Lord and said: "Lord, fully aware am I of thy command. But Lord, thou sendest me forth without tools to fall these mighty trees. I have fashioned stone axes but they are too dull and they break against the hard wood. I cannot comply with thy commandments." And the Logger bowed his head and cried at the foot of a giant Redwood.

The Lord was grieved that He had sent the Logger away without equipment. He withdrew His Spirit from the Forest and took counsel with Himself. He said, it is not good that the logger should be alone in the Forest. I shall make for him a Helper. And Lo, the Lord called forth His Design Engineers and they created the Chain Saw. From a land far, far away; from deep within the caverns of the earth, the Great Husquavarna was wrought in secret fires and blossoming orange, was brought before the Lord. He pulled the cord and the machine started at once. Delighted, he brought the Husquavarna to the Logger and suddenly there was happiness in the Logger's eyes. And it was evening of the Third Day.

Now the Enemy resided in the Darkness of the Great Forest. When He heard the roar of the Great Husquavarna, He gnashed His teeth against the Lord. So He too called forth his Design Engineers and they made copies of the Great Husquy. The complicated Stihl came forth from their hands, and discarded models such as the smoky Pioneer and the noisy, sloppy McCulloch also came forth. These He offered to some of the Lesser Loggers and greedily didst they accept the gifts of the Dark One.

Then came the morning of the Fourth Day. Piles of logs lay where the Great Forest once stood blocking the light. Already, grasses, vines and trailing blackberries appeared among the fallen timber. But great confusion and conflict reigned among the Loggers. There was no agreement over which Chain Saw was best to use. A group calling itself Loggers for God chose the Great Husquy as the Official Instrument of the Lord OIL and began to persecute those who used other brands. Stihls, McCulloughs and Pioneers and other generic types were branded Instruments of the Devil and their users and owners driven far from the fat of the Great Forest. And for a time, peace reigned once more, while the noises and fumes of the Chain Saw ever expanded in the clear cuts.

Then one day, a Mighty Faller whose legs were as tree trunks and arms as gnarled branches, strode among the workers. His name was Cattermole and He came down from Cattermole Heights, full of the strength of his Mighty Arms. In his hands he held the mightiest Chain Saw ever seen by the Logger. And much trembling began at the sight of this Giant. So frightened and cowed were they that no one dared mention the Fact that the Chain Saw was not a Husquavarna, but of a Generic Brand.

But the Giant spake calmly unto the Loggers as they fearfully assembled for lunch: Loggers, He proclaimed: Thou have conquered the Great Forest. Thou have brought light where there was Darkness. Thou have driven the Devil into the high mountains, along with his followers, False Loggers be they all. But now there are all these logs and nothing to do with them. So I propose that together we make a name for ourselves this Day. Let us take these logs to the top of Cattermole Heights, and there build a tower that rises to Heaven. Thus will we Loggers be forever remembered and renowned.

So it came about that the Faithful Loggers followed the proud Cattermole, drawing forth upon Cattermole Heights with all their logs. And once all assembled there, they proceeded to build the Tower of Log, so great that after a time its very top disappeared in the clouds of Heaven. And it was evening of the Fourth Day.

The Lord heard of these doings and came down to see the works of the Loggers on the Fifth Day. He saw how His Followers had gone after Cattermole, using their Divine Gift the Great Husquavarna to cut logs and erect a tower who's top disappeared into the clouds. The Lord was much displeased at what He saw the Loggers doing for never had such a thing entered His mind, and no such command had He ever given to the Loggers.

Also, He saw that those who had been deluded by the Devil had been driven into the barest parts of the mountains where there was little timber to fall and cut. He saw they were cold, hungry and sad and He felt sore at the hard heartedness of His Followers. In His wrath, He called down fire from Heaven and burned the Tower of Cattermole to the very ground and turned the high place to ashes. Many Loggers perished in the fire, and the Lord caused a mark to be placed on the foreheads of those who survived, as a warning to others. And the Loggers scattered throughout the remaining Great Forest on that day, fleeing and hiding from the wrath of the Lord.

But now the Loggers turned their Gift to total decimation of the Great Forest. The Lord knew He could not entirely blame the Loggers for this, as He had created them to be Loggers. Nor had He yet decided what else He should have them do. Nor did He find it in His Heart to remove his Gift, the Great Husquavarna, from the Logger's hands for He knew that to do so would be to break the Logger's heart. So He took counsel with Himself and thought: Perhaps if I create a creature totally dependent on the Great Forest to survive, the Logger will find it in his heart to cease the destruction and take care of the remnants.

And So the Lord created the Spotted Owl.

And the little Owl was happy in his new home. He made nests in the cavities of old trees and raised happy families of little owls. At first, the Logger marveled at the little creature and watched him come and go, not realizing the symbiotic relationship between the Owl, the Forest and Himself. But one day, the Logger spotted the Spotted Owl enter a hole in a very large tree at the edge of a cutting. The Logger knew then that the Tree was Owl's Home.

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