Excerpt for Gathered Knowledge From Scattered Treasures by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

Gathered Knowledge From Scattered Treasures

Voice in the Mist 3 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 by: Ahmed Hany

All pictures found on

Space Picture: ESA/Hubble

Next Series: What the Sea Taught Me

I hope you enjoy these writings. Feedback is welcome.




A Place Of Beauty

And The Trees

Another Mystical Experience

Before I Go

Better Answers From Better Questions

Death - Abstraction Or Reality?

Dream Child

Earth Song


Gathered Knowledge From Scattered Treasures

Giving Your Life




My Kind Of God!

River Flow

Shore Of Mystery

Should I Be Pleasing The Dead?

Small Stuff


The Chinook

The Future, Undefined, Not Uncertain

The Prophet's Lament

Understanding Comes From Knowing Purpose

Why I Read Science Fiction

You Took My Money, Where's My Cure, Doc?


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.


Before the incident I am about to relate, I had one remaining obsession: to find a blue-green translucent tetrahedron stone or crystal--out there, somewhere, on the banks of the Fraser. This stone represents a memory deep within, something from another past; something I have searched for, lifetime after lifetime along the shores of this planet: along atolls, tidal flats, beaches and rocky ledges of lakes, oceans, rivers and seas. In the process, I found untold treasures, but always this one eluded me. Would it do so again today?

My search had started just after sunrise of a clear, warm early Summer day. Paddling leisurely along narrow stretches of gravel, I scanned the stones for any clue to my treasure. My gaze would also scan the banks, the clumps of grasses moving in the breeze, the willows, red osier dogwood and other shrubs from which came the trills and warbles of life...

It was on the edge of such a bank I saw her. The high waters had left a large log, and on this hard grey bed lay the most beautiful creature a man could ever hope to see. She seemed asleep, her sleek, lightly tanned body stretched out comfortably on the rough wood, long reddish hair flowing down like a rich waterfall blending with the grass. Beaching the kayak, I stepped out to get a closer look at this Edenic vision. I noticed her breasts moving softly with her gentle breathing and admired the perfection in every curve of her body. Despite my understandable excitement and uncertainty, I experienced a latent sensation of familiarity.

As I came near, she appeared to wake up. She looked me over as she sat up on her log, stretching sensuously. I noticed the bits of grass in her hair and the marks on her skin from lying on the rough surface of the log vanished as she moved. Ah! The perfect being!

Never had I seen eyes like hers! Unusually large, blue-green, with a translucent quality, they reminded me of my stone. She stood up. She was my height, perfectly proportioned, except perhaps her legs were a bit long, and quite muscular. Her reddish orange hair, falling in waves, cascaded down her back to well below her waist, curling sensuously around her breasts, not hiding any of the most tantalizing parts of her anatomy. My heart pounding from this unusual encounter, I smiled uncertainly at her. She smiled also, addressing me in a strange singsong tone which seemed to lift several pounds from my body. I sensed, rather than heard, the sounds she made.

“Hello, Bear Heart. It has been a very long time since we knew each other!”

“Undoubtedly” I managed to say, not certain how one should address her... “though I'm not sure I remember...”

“Oh, yes you remember, only not the way you see me here. I am the living being you have been obsessed about, that priceless treasure, that living, translucent crystal. Look again into my eyes, and remember!”

Visions, like a fast forwarding movie, passed before my eyes. Visions of beauty and horror, of joy and pain, of contentment and terror, of life and death: yes, I saw and remembered. In these visions, she was always there, the faithful companion. Suddenly, I knew why she seemed so familiar: my heart recognized her energies, though my senses were deceived by the appearance of this embodied perfection...

“You are Ylea!” I exclaimed, and she laughed. She had the laughter of a child riding a unicorn, of a stream breaking free of ice in the high mountains, of innocence, of pure love.

“Who else could I be? Have you known so many loves in so many lives and not realized every one of them was me?” Her eyes twinkled as she said this, as if it was a little secret between us, the revelation of an ancient wager... that I would forget her, even as I made love to her, time and again, she being the master shape-shifter always making sure I didn't know, so my illusion of loss would remain intact... so my quest would continue... until this day!

“Well, Bear Heart... Om Nagi rrhah! Deena lomi sasdim tho-lo!” The words flowed from her lips... and my tongue could never do justice to the music of her voice.

I bowed to her. “'One we are again!'” I replied, '”You have become that which you desired!'... Did I translate that properly?”

“Well done, for not having tasted the Voice for so long. I congratulate you, my friend.” Again she laughed, raising her arms and awaking a breeze which lifted her hair. Her laughter echoed across the river and came back from the tall cottonwoods which grew on the far side of the stream, mixing happily with the rustling leaves behind her and the chatter of chickadees in the willows. There was so much joy in that voice, so much love. In that moment, the world I knew disappeared in a point of light which opened to reveal a slowly revolving double tetrahedron: the Merkaba!

“Look out, Bear Heart, you are connecting with our higher dimension. Are you ready to leave?”

Her warning entered my dream state. I shook myself as she helped free my mind from the revolving light. Remembering whom I still was within time, I saw my task wasn't finished. I would have to let her go alone once more.

“No, I am not leaving yet, Ylea, but let us be One before you go, so I may remember.”

“Yes!” she exclaimed, and took my hands in hers. Instantly, the space where we stood shimmered in revolving rainbows. Multicoloured points of light glowed among the trees, formed a dome over us and covered a part of the river. All stood still. I felt the throbbing in the activation of the Merkaba. We both glowed as polished statues of rich bronze, pulsating faster and faster until space and time had folded upon themselves, with neither beginning nor end. When our bodies became pure light, we touched the One and I remembered that unequalled state of euphoria! Having reached the limits of the experience in earthean bodies, we gently disconnected from each other and she faded within the shrubs and grass. Only a familiar smell like burning incense remained in a dwindling field of static sparks.

Lighter than I had ever felt, my heart leaping, my mind conjuring endless possibilities, I ran to my kayak, took a deep drink of water from the bottle and settled in for the long paddle upstream. Another quest was fulfilled, and I knew, in my joy, that I would be seeing Ylea again. As I paddled, I sang a song which welled up from the recesses of my cosmic memory:

“Om, nola deena Om, solinega danoley!”

which, loosely translated, says:

“One, we are always One, O beautiful lover!”

A Place Of Beauty

Create an island

a place of joy,




or a place of power




In the darkness

of a deep sleep






Let them be!

Pay attention!

Recreate the moment

that passed by;

that was lost


From your dream,

find new focus,

discover a passion

and dare create

a new reality

for tomorrow.

Apply this discovery

to the tick-tock of

a "normal" day.

And The Trees

i heard the wind blow

up on the hillside

and the trees,

their branches bent and twisted

under the alien snow

began their age-old song

of freedom...

some snow fell

cascading heavily

to lower branches, shrubs

and on the ground.

up, then down

came the wind,

blowing stronger now,

no longer hesitant:

i felt its force and warmth

on my face;

i heard the singing

clear and beautiful

as more snow fell,

lying cold, inert, white

over rocks and mosses:

the trees,

gaunt, dark, but free

swayed and sang

to the miracle breeze,

their branches raised once more

in thanksgiving and hope,

waiting for spring.

Another Mystical Experience

I spoke before of a mystical experience on the River.  I touched on the time lesson.  But there was one other thing - a teaching gift from El Issa.

If we made the effort to understand, to "feel" our interconnectedness, there is one aspect of our life that would certainly take a different turn: suffering.  When we are separated, we suffer alone.  No one can really understand what it is we are going through.  Some empathic or sympathetic individuals may touch it, but we are still left with our "individual" pain.

El Issa is a mystic.  She blends into the all; knows it because she flows through ecstatic joy.  She taught me about forgiveness.  She explained (and took me through experiences to demonstrate the truth of it) that life is giving - not taking, not even receiving - just pure giving.  Life is a gift and whatever comes into life as an entity becomes a gift in turn.  To be alive is to be a gift.  A gift gives itself, not just "of" itself.  We are life and life holds nothing back from anyone or anything - unless that thing, or that one, is stuck in a limiting belief system or view point.

What I experienced today is the gift of suffering.  Suffering is a part of us. Because we are a gift to life, we can "gift" our suffering - no, we MUST - give our suffering to the world.  On the surface that would mean adding more pain to the world.  But when we gift it, we do the opposite.  We pay into a general debt and bring back balance.  If I give my pain it means I am not hanging on to it.  I'm still carrying it, but for the balance now, not for myself. More importantly it also means someone else will have to carry less of it.  Furthermore, to "gift" it is to make it very potent.  A small gift could take the place of the helpless sufferings of thousands.  Quality, not quantity.

When we suffer "with" others we are not so stressed about it.  It is easier to accept, lighter to bear and certainly if any solution offers itself we will be in a much better place to grasp it.  Then it will be for all, not just for the self.  That is another key to healing.  It works.

Before I Go

Before I go

before I leave

I wish to thank all the friends

I made

exploring the river.

First the river

for carrying me

wherever I wanted to go;

then all that lives by it

without and within:

the fish and seals

for their frolicking,

-pure enjoyment of life -

the birds on shore and water:

how many kinds?

Vultures, eagles and hawks;

ducks, loons and grebes;

herons, kingfishers and jays;

crows, ravens, gulls;

finches and happy chickadees;

sparrows, wrens and warblers:

migrants of early fall.

then, yes,

even motorized fishermen

whose ways I do not share

who responded warmly

when extended the hand

of unfeigned friendship:

I thank them all and then

the sun and wind

the clouds and rain

and passing thunderstorms

the foamy waves:

the kaleidoscope of life,

and thanking them all

I wish them well

hoping I left no trace

of my passing there

save love

from Spirit who holds it all.

Better Answers From Better Questions

Compassion demands we look at our surroundings with clear vision; that we give up living in denial, or as if all that really mattered in the end is how I survive, or make the most of these times.  The world with its teeming billions swarming dangerously close to death in megalopolises across the planet demands we entertain a broader vision of social and environmental responsibility than Earthian humans have ever used before.

We are living in abnormal conditions in that such numbers mixed with a terribly volatile technology have never happened to us before.  This is new and truthfully, it isn't pretty.  Yes we survived the Cold War and proliferation of weapons of mass destruction have not led to Armageddon - but that doesn't mean it won't.  The pressure of population expansion coupled to demand for a larger share of available global resources continues its inexorable exponential climb.

Some major factors that have come to my attention recently: the hole in the ozone layer in the southern regions is the largest ever recorded.  A credible scientist declares the oceans fisheries will be depleted by 2048.  Meanwhile it has become obvious that "global warming" though used by unscrupulous politicians and banksters is indeed for real, if not in the way presented by the global media.

What then would be a better question that would yield a better answer?

Something that has been troubling my thoughts recently, and that is, how legitimate is it to seek one's personal happiness in a world that has so much trouble, despair and woe?  Seems to me that the industrial/commercial/military complex has taken over the lion's share of this world's economy and resources and in doing so has demonstrated a complete lack of responsibility towards the life within and upon, this world.  By and large Earthians, for reasons of survival, greed or complacency have gone along with this new nepotism as if there were no alternatives available; as if any meaningful opposition to this cancerous evil is not in existence.

But there is.  There always was.  To every evil manifestation of power there is a counter-balancing force available.  That is so everywhere.  Were it not so, the entire manifested order – life – could not be.

A good question: what is that force that can stand against the greatest manifestations of power?  Self-empowerment, of course.  Only the self-empowered can walk through this maze of deceit, conceit and conflict unscathed for only the self-empowered are utterly detached from expectations and the sucking quest for self-fulfillment.

Now one could say, "You mean to say the self-empowered are apathetic!" and how much the Powers that be would have all believe that!

But there is nothing apathetic about serving others on one's own terms.

Nothing apathetic about boycotting consumerism at every opportunity.

Nothing apathetic about maintaining one's integrity in a world of lies.

Nothing apathetic about choosing to live in detachment that there be no favorites in one's heart.

Nothing apathetic about doing a good job, not because of the pay, be it low or high, nor for praise or other expectation but because it demonstrates a higher level of understanding.

Nothing apathetic about engaging the suffering of others deliberately when other paths remain open.

Nothing apathetic about choosing sorrow over happiness when conditions call for such a response.

Nothing apathetic about being empathic on such a world as Earth.

Joining movements or groups, whether old or new, in attempts to bring about change is useless, for every grouping must operate under the aegis of the Powers.  We all know how little so-called charitable organizations ultimately contribute to alleviating hunger and suffering.  It is indeed because they are ineffective, riddled with inconsistent rules, bureaucratic mismanagement and greed that they are allowed to function.  For the Powers receive their due in quantities of suffering - be it from humans, animals or other life forms.  They create the conditions whereby Earthians can exploit and literally "eat" one-another.

Let it never be forgotten that not so long ago the original Powers, the gods - all of them - demanded human and animal sacrifices on their altars and promised great blessings to those who offered such.  That is the history we do not like to walk through anymore.  But these Powers have not changed their natures.  They've just changed the nature of their altars and the uniforms of their priest-executioners.  All wars - and injustice is always the most terrible of wars - are sacrificial offerings to the Powers.  They don't care which side you are on, or support - it's all the same to them: sweet food in the form of planetary suffering.

But the day this suffering no longer contains fear for one's survival, or fear of pain, that is the day the food becomes unpalatable to the Powers.  So the "avatar" knows to offer to take on this suffering precisely because s/he does not have to.  This is the ultimate challenge to the Powers, one for which they have no come-back.

Here's the full text of the Bene Gesserit litany against fear (from Dune, by Frank Herbert).

"I must not fear.  Fear is the mind-killer.  Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.  I will face my fear.  I will permit it to pass over me and through me.  And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.  Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.  Only I will remain."

Ultimately it is fear the Powers use against us.  We can turn this mind-weapon against them.  We can detach, even to detaching from our own physical life.  The more we become empathic; the more we share the pain of others through legitimate sorrow, the less fear we will entertain in our mind-hearts and the more effective we will be, as individuals, against the lies of the Powers, be they of flesh or spirit.

That is the Golden Path, the Path of the warrior-avatar.

Death - Abstraction Or Reality?

There is an observable dichotomy on this world on the subject of death.  Death is both painful, and a painful subject for those who have ‘lost’ loved ones and friends to this implacable foe.  Yet death is forever being toyed with, whether by those who practice the black arts of war, those who call it ‘sport’ and those who profit from it and consider it a normal part of life.  Now there’s a contradiction!

Death is both a terrible thing, especially when it comes around through perpetrated violence, and a means to profit and pleasure.  Consider, not just sports ‘fishermen’ or ‘hunters’ or so-called ‘soldiers’ who kill at the bidding of banksters and warlords, but a system that condemns some 40,000 innocents to die of preventable causes – daily – because it happens to be more profitable to kill them than it would be to save them. Oh yes, the rich profit from the death of the poor and dispossessed.

Things are so, not because it is inevitable, but simply because of ignorance, apathy and sociopathy.  An Earthian will choose his own life, profit and pleasure over any other life form, including that of members of his own species.  That, of course, is the hallmark of a mentally deranged individual.  But the individual in this case does not really exist.  It is basically a mindless creature that functions within the Earthian hive-mind, a collective that uses his defective reasoning to goad him into mountains of crime that can never be pardoned, expiated and justified in any way.  No amount of ‘karma’ could ever wipe out or wash away the crimes committed by Earthians on this world since, well, since the species was ‘created’.

The Earthian is immune to pain and suffering to all but his own person and his close coterie of family and friends.  That he still manages to feel, but his reaction is not to seek ways to eliminate the pain-causing source but to get even; to avenge himself on those he believes are the cause of his suffering.  His defective reasoning continues to blind him to the simple fact that ‘revenge’ only creates more of the same.

His world is plunging into massive catastrophe.  He does not understand that, of course, but he senses it.  Enough that he is able to believe his leaders when they say it’s the fault of his nation’s, or religion’s, enemies.  Once that dead-beat reasoning is in place there is nothing for it but to ‘send the troops’ to crush these enemies.  Wars are ever justified with a few stock ‘historical’ reasons: to protect one’s frontier; to punish a perpetrator of aggression; to help a struggling revolution overthrow its dictator and free the oppressed; to evangelize pagans; to establish democratic regimes; to introduce a better way of life with advanced technology for resource extraction, the slogan being that everyone benefits from this.  There are other mission statements that are useful as well. No wars are ever announced as necessary to satisfy crass greed or bloody lust, though everyone knows this to be the truth of it.

By substituting lofty ideals and goals for greed, what is killing a few million people and the destruction of a nation or two?  A mere trifle.  As long as ‘we’ can’t feel the pain and suffering ‘we’ are inflicting on others, then it’s all good.  The ones who remain alive after ‘our’ war of conquest will be thankful when they receive ‘our’ largesse in refugee camps, or trudge to ‘our’ factories to work fourteen hour days, seven days a week for a couple of dollars a day.  They will be jubilant at their wonderful turn of fortune.

Whereas before all they had was basic food, shelter and clothing, and they lived in small family groups on traditional tribal holdings, now they have real money instead.  If they aren’t thankful for this improvement in their standard of living, then they must be Communists or members of some inimical religious sect. They don’t deserve to live.

Westerners wonder at the spread of Islam in the world.  With all the negative publicity against that ‘Jihadist’ movement, how can anyone be attracted to it?  There are two reasons.

The first is the same hope that attracted the world to global communism around the turn of the last century.   Communism opposed capitalism and promised to free the workers of the world from the highhanded and deadly domination of banking houses and landlords.  In a similar vein, Islamic Jihadists have become associated with freedom fighters in the countries that have traditionally been abused, conquered, raped and robbed by Western powers.

The second reason is that Islam still possesses ‘faith fire’ within itself and it provides a much needed aspect of discipline and self-sacrifice now totally lacking in all remaining religions, this lack especially evident within Christianity. Islamic ‘faith fire’ still burns whatever it touches.  It can still call people to accept martyrdom for its causes.  Enough rank and file Moslems still believe in the purity of their religion, still worship their god Allah in such a way that they are willing to die for Him.

Of course, like all religions, Islam is a violent expression of worship.  It may well conquer the world with its blend of religious ‘fanaticism’ and strident political goals though I don’t see that happening.  But what does that matter?  It all spells more bloodshed.  More massacres of innocents.  The suffering endured is the same, whether it is meted out by anarchists, freedom fighters, ruthless dictators, religious fanatics or greedy multinational corporations.  What does it matter in whose name, or under what banner, the enslaving and the killing is done?

It is an endless cycle of death.  For as long a death is sensed as abstraction and accepted as reality; as long as people remain inured to the suffering of others; as long as they refuse to consider how their own ways contribute to that suffering, how can anything change?


Is death, of violence or so-called natural causes, a necessity, an inevitability?

If the answer is ‘yes’ then fine.  All crimes committed against life are de facto justifiable.

If the answer is ‘no’ then how is it circumvented, prevented, abolished?

There is a gentle voice in my mind whispering the answer.  But that’s my voice.  You need to hear your own small whisper hinting at change.

Dream Child

Sleep, sleep, my child:

your slumber rests your little body

but your mind will wander.

Where will you go tonight?

What world will welcome

your lovely eyes filled with awe?

We are but the dream child,

always ready to dream

new worlds, new possibilities.

While the Earth body rests

we run from star to galaxy,

a never ending race...

a human race...

Earth Song

When I was young - seems so long ago;

I sang the old earth song along with many:

We were young hearts filled with hope

and buoyed by faith in endless things:

things needing no explanation

for we were sure they would ever work.

Mother earth we called this place, we called you;

in our meetings and sit-ins and groups

where we called for peace; for understanding

and made ourselves aware as best we could

of the sad state of your environment--

and so easily failed to make the connections.

And the train, if there ever was one,

left without us -- we married and got jobs --

just like the ones before us whose ways

we thought we so despised. Oh what fools

these mortals be -- and they were us.

Oh yes, how easily we were fooled.

But times have changed, as times must --

I have grown old, and so everyone else

and in your own way, so have you, earth.

And our old song now echoes off key

like an old Fifties tune on a scratched LP:

discordant, out of place, meaningless.

I've observed another Christmas go by --

watched the hype and even was recipient

of some unexpected special wishes...

but you, earth, had your own way of celebrating:

140,000 plus humans and countless other life

wiped out overnight in a tsunami... Not bad.

Mother earth? I asked myself in the night,

trying to put faces and names to these I shared life with!

My, haven't you grown into the great bitch!

You let countless rich bastards rape you to death

and turn your anger on the poorest of the poor --

Have you lost all sense of decency --

or have you always been a prostitute for the System?

Ask the right question, get the right answer

so I've been told, time and again:

Ah, the sly way you turn tricks for the rich,

opening up your remaining stores of riches:

resources galore for wars and Wal-Marts!

But the poor die without water or food,

bombed and poisoned, slaughtered without mercy,

pushed out into your empty deserts --

crushed underground, drowned under the sea;

and predators fly, walk, creep and swim unhindered

making life hell for their victims --

and no one can see; no one can reason... or so you think!

I've become observant: years can do that to some --

and I had warned you I would not remain docile

if you tried to play me for a fool like the rest:

I'm free to speak out -- I'm not your child, earth.

And how do you like my new song now?

You should have let me go when I gave you the chance:

now it's too late, I've written the report.


As shadows lengthen

upon the ground,

and distant suns

begin to sparkle,

I feel at peace

letting the day

fade out to memories

not regretting

a single piece

of daytime spent.

Gathered Knowledge From Scattered Treasures

When everything fails - as it must, as it all changes, one thing shall remainthat can never fail: I.

The point is not that things fail to themselves, but to me.  When something I rely on fails -- changes - - then it becomes lost to me and I feel such loss deeply.

But when self-empowered; when detached, observing how all things change is what gives me the greatest joy.  When I give things their freedom to change, to become other than expectations dictate, then do I find my own freedom.

Otherwise stated: what I desire for myself, I must first give to all others until none of it remains for me.  Whatever gift I may possess from birth; whatever treasure I may have unearthed with my hands or my mind, these I must give away completely.  Perhaps they will be returned in some way; perhaps they will be replaced, but in any case they can never be mine until I no longer hold onto them.

Such is the "mystery" of expanded life.  That which is full cannot be filled.  Those who are full can never experience "being filled";  can never know transcendence.

When my cup overflows, let me walk out into the desert and hand it to one who is thirsty.  As I walk back with my empty cup, let me feel the blistering heat of the sun on my parched lips and throat.  Let me become thirstier than ever before.  Then shall the first drop of water I taste be as a gift from heaven.  Then shall I understand the meaning of thankfulness.  Yes, even should my body fall in the desert, I shall still know it was the emptying that brought me to the edge of infinity; to know joy.

Life has taught me this:

In emptiness I know myself; in aloneness I re-discover the sacred.

Where crowds gather madness increases.

Where there is much -- fear, confusion and turmoil prevail.

The hand extended in giving brings forth peace;

the hand that takes foments oppression and war.

In this life I have desired many beautiful things this world has yet to make allowance for.

But of all those, there is one I have experienced and wish to leave as a gift: health of body and mind.  I leave them as seeds in the ground.  Perhaps when they sprout they will not be thought of as weeds and be allowed to mature.  All things are possible.

Giving Your Life

I walk the streets, with tears in my eyes

on this grey and cold October morning.

So much error and terror

on this piece of rock

and here I am thinking

there must be a better way

to interact with one-another.

I think about the concept

of giving your life to save another's.

Were we all willing to do that

(just because it's the nobler thing to do

than to take a life to save one's own)

I think in a very short time

there would be no more killing

because there'd be no need to kill -

no reason to fear the other.

But here's the real question:

Is such a thing possible

given the current mindset?

Given the fear, the paranoia,

the anger and the hate that move so many?

And the rain begins to fall

and I wonder

what good are tears in the rain?


I don't write for money

for notoriety

or whatever else there

might be

to write for.

But it seems I need to say

what is on my mind

compelled to speak

and I know from experience

that few care to hear

those things

which weigh on my mind:

they don't fit the pattern

designed for things

to be properly said:

they don't fit the mold

crafted from ages past

by wizards

who rule the world,

design the things that are:

they are an interference,

an annoyance

ruining many a good time

with thoughts

so carefully excised

from the ordinary mind.

but believe me

I'm not out to confuse

or cause you pain:

heaven knows: there is

enough pain

in this world already

our collective confusion

beyond measure:

But the world is dying.

no longer can it hold

our offset mass

of beggarly idiocy.

Please listen,

just for a moment --

but listen carefully:

Hold the words you hear

weigh them

test them

put them through the fire

of simple reason

then decide -- don't

simply kill the messenger.


I heard you playing last night;

the notes cascading softly

through the wall

and settling gently in my heart.

They came as waves

drifting upon a shallow sandy shore

on a quiet moonlit evening,

I could feel your caress

on the polished wood

and every brush of fingertip

on vibrating strings

pulled strange feelings

from deep within my soul,

stirring up some un-named passion.

Your guitar gently sang,

expressing a new meaning for life,

an essence of happiness.

I felt as if I had found the freedom

to cast my unbound love

throughout a world

burdened with sadness;

as if I had the power

to change that old melody.

I hope you'll play again this evening -

I'll be listening.


In a rush of compressed time

created to fit within this eager moment

as the moon slowly wanes

disappearing behind haloed clouds

I find myself standing

upon a much younger earth

and with young eyes I scan

mountains I will climb and cross

in another time.

My fiery young heart

beats fiercely within

with a forever springing hope

that she will be waiting there

when I come down the other side

of the mountain.

And I still believe as I did then

that beyond this towering granite wall

lies the land of rainbow-colored dreams

“and they lived happily ever after”

is written on the sign at the border.

In the same compressed moment of time

I also pause to remove

my tear-soaked glasses from my eyes

to stare at the waning moon again

in the stillness of the night:

I try to remember that my youthful dream

was fully realized

and my life's drama did unfold as foretold

each in it's own precious time and space

to bring me here once more

older, wiser, and still full of hope

having seen both sides of the mountain

in the moonlight.

My Kind Of God!

People speak volubly of God:

many claim to 'know' God;

some are authorities on God,

and some accept their God

as the final authority on everything.

Well, makes me wonder:

Would I want a God who knows everything?

Would I want to be utterly dependent

on such a being?

No. If I needed a God

I'd want one who can learn from me

even as I learn from her.

A humble God; a partner God;

a God who knows me as I know him;

a God who speaks personally to me,

not in symbols, not through institutions,

but in simple words:

words even I cannot mis-interpret.

I'd want a God who asks questions;

who listens quietly while I explain

why I think the way I do;

what motivates me - what frightens me

and what I deeply hope for -

what I am passionate about.

A God who would sit beside me on a stone

and contemplate a fast moving river

while thinking her own thoughts;

willing to share them with me;

willing to take a chance on being

totally misunderstood in turn.

I'd want a God much like me,

no better, no worse, but understanding.

Such a God, I in turn

could attempt to understand...

and forgive for past mistakes.

River Flow



to receive the flow

in the Spring

of my passion

for I AM

the valley receiving.



the wild tumble;

bend to the call

of the water

for I AM

the river flowing.


we give life,

maintain balance

create harmony,

in times

calm or turbulent.

Thus love,

as wild irises


forever marking

the path

of our joining

in the endless


Shore Of Mystery

Your wraithlike dance

on the ocean's stormy shore;

your graceful steps along the surf;

your long hair blowing in the wind;

your swaying body

shrouded in time's mystery;

reveal the coming, the strength,

the growing passion of my love.

The ocean's ageless song

uncovers love's desire

as dwarfed by restless waves

I watch your image dimmed

by the mist in my eyes.

Should I Be Pleasing The Dead?

If it must end, how so? Does it end at physical death,

When the body stops?

Does it end only when creation falls in its inevitable black hole?

In its own grave?  And then

Who fills in the gaping hole?  Who?

After you chose to die I saw you buried.

I did not shed any tears then -- what for?

And after?  I did not bring flowers to the grave.

I never went to clean the weeds -- never even,

Never went to read your epitaph

After they put up the stone (I was told you got one).

Oh well, they say I'm cold.  There's a truism!

But don't we both know this is too often a harsh world;

A cold world

And those who stay in the cold are better preserved.

Would you disagree?  Though "preserved"

Is a harsh concept to accept.  Try.

It's not that I did not like you, you know.

(Of course you know, you just pretend not to)

But I saw no point in stirring up old feelings

Or tearing up old wounds

With shards of guilt.  I did what I could

While I could.  I could say, you know,

You never gave me enough time to get it right;

But who has the power to give another time?

And how would I know to get it right

If I did not know to get it wrong?

Certainly (I now realize) I did wrong by you

But in the end, did I not do right by wrong?

By not understanding; by not being there (for you)

I forced you to choose your own path.

It led to an early grave (they claim) but now

What do you say?

I have this one thing to give you:

A toast to freedom...

Small Stuff

A flat tire on a deserted road, no spare;

one's child getting killed by a drunk driver;

losing one's job to down sizing;

stricken by Alzheimer's or Hodgkin's disease

in the prime of life:

modern day prophets glibly claim it's all small stuff.

Don't sweat the small stuff, they say,

and quickly pocket their money

from sales of copy-cat best sellers,

for many wish to believe this “small stuff” stuff

and between tears, buy the placebos

and swallow the bromide.

Were it truly all “small stuff” -

what need of compassion would there be?

Who would care? It's nothing. It's “small stuff” -

the pain, the sorrow, the losses...

no need to get involved: let them work it out -

It's all small stuff, after all.

So: are you in pain? Lost? Sorrowing?

Sing with me:

“It's just small stuff after all,

It's just small stuff after all...

It's all just small stuff.”

Don't you feel better now?

Will you buy my book?

I've got a new and improved title

just for you, because I care:

it's called: AIt's even smaller stuff”


Suddenly suspended,

frozen in time and space,

in the wink of an eye

I am blown far back

into yesterday's shadows.

When I finally pause

to gaze at my life

I find that yesterday

is still behind me;

today is where I lie;

tomorrow hides somewhere

in the midnight air.

The question is:

should I care?

"Have you ever asked:

Where do I belong?"

The Chinook

Here they call it the "Pineapple Express".  But in the North, when he came howling from the west, from the Pacific ocean, pushing clouds through the great mountain passes, and for a moment breaking up the bitter contest between the harsh North wind and the bitter South wind, we called him the Chinook.  The wind that for a brief moment in time, changed the face of our world.  The warm wind that came at Christmas more than at any other time.

From temperatures as low as minus 30 and 40 (I'm using the Fahrenheit scale - can't get used to that unnatural base ten one called Celsius) the winds would race in, usually during the night and we would wake up to a world of water in temperatures around +50, sometimes even higher.  We would see expanses of shallow waters, shining even in the grey skies, shivering under the relentless winds.  The snows that had piled up to maybe 3 or 4 feet would be gone, except in protected gullies, or in great drifts.  These would just become covered with a glaze of ice up to one inch thick.

Evergreens would bow and sway and the music of the wind through aspen, willow, cottonwood and birch - well, I have no words to describe the beauty of it.  Roofs dripped steadily and icicles dropped from every exposed edge.  You could hear the water trickling around, looking for tiny cracks in the frozen ground.  Most of the melt would remain above, creating miles of natural ice rinks in yards and fields, in ditches and even on the less traveled "gumbo" side roads.  (Graveled roads were crowned so the water would run off - and besides even the odd rock is not good for skate blades!)

I experienced many such passages while growing up in the Peace River.  And yes, I must admit these do enter my small list of "good things" that happened there.  Certainly, the Peace River country would have been better left to the bears, moose, deer and caribou, and the wandering tribes of indigenous peoples.  White man technology only made the land harsher and meaner.  What has become of it now, I don't know and do not wish to know.

The Chinook - he shows up here too, lasts longer and is often warmer than in the Peace.  A kind of Spirit of Christmas - of ancient days when man accepted his relationship with nature, and kept a respectful pace with it.  A reminder, in these short, sunless days that earth is willing to bring forth new life through a renewal of things.

And so it is today, here in Chilliwack some 60 miles from the gulf island passages and approximately some 100 miles from the open Pacific ocean.  It rained heavily all night and this morning the West wind was howling through the evergreens and the great cottonwoods in the park behind our house.  The temperature is up there - not sure how high, but unseasonably high.  I know that the rain has swollen the Hope river and I can feel the beckoning to take out the kayak.  I shall wait though, get myself attuned to the music first.  A day, maybe two, and I'll head out to the River to see what's to see.  If the winds hold or return, I'll encounter the great waves and go dancing among them.  Ice or waves, what does it matter in laughter?

The Chinook is a gift of nature to those who live in the Pacific Northwest and on the western edge of the Great Plains.  Like the passing star that announced the birth of potentially great change, he calls us to stop our technologically driven madness and recall the days when as a people we sought, not so much to understand, but to "fit in" with the ways of this world.

But the star kept on going, after a brief stop over an unknown location in space/time.  It had pointed the way and had to move on to other places.  The people of earth, for the most part, saw little and heard nothing.  Within a few years, it was business as usual.  Or almost.  As the Chinook leaves ice upon the frozen ground, the star left a gift charged with potential.  The gift grew, touched many lives, expressed difficult, dangerous and hope-filled thoughts.  As children don skates and come out upon the great expanses of ice, some to travel, some to play, so did the child-like follow this gift and try to hear what was being expounded with little stories called parables, and periodic demonstrations of power based in a love they had not seen before.

But those who rely on roads to move goods for stores, feed for cattle, or logs for mills, hate the Chinook.  He makes surfaces treacherous to commercial traffic.  While children fly over the ice, laughing, those who rely on commerce sit in their offices, shops and garages, and curse the weather.  Eventually of course, they win.  The ice gets broken and covered with sand or gravel, or it melts on the high surfaces, allowing traffic to move again.  The children put away their skates.

Those who have never learned to laugh will always miss the gift.  Oh yes, they will give each other gifts, colorfully wrapped and for brief glimpses may even provide a selfless instant of happiness in another.  And that's the problem with everything, isn't it.  The Chinook comes, then he is gone.  Time is measured, not in long spans, but in moments.  Few there are who learn the fine art of stringing those moments tirelessly into a string of pearls, unbroken, into infinity.

Hold on to the moments you have shared with others today.  Hold on to them, not to the things in your hands that came out of the wrapping.  For if life is not entirely made of such moments, that which is not is truly a waste.  Who would parade around in a string of pearls with many large gaps of missing pearls along the string?  Yet how many strut about in such, unknowing?  And how many admire them, unseeing?

The Future, Undefined, Not Uncertain

It is customary to think of the future as uncertain.  That's a funny thought.  The future is absolutely certain.  But it is seldom defined and therein lies the problem.  People, generally speaking, believe they have no say in what the future "brings" to them.  But that's erroneous thinking carefully nurtured by the controllers.  The define the future, I have to know myself and I have to know my passion and my dreams.  I have to be, not only a change agent, but a visionary.  I have to take full responsibility for today, tomorrow and every other "day" into infinity.

The golden path.

Most walk through life backward.  They feel they cannot know the future so continually stare into the past.  They gorge themselves on memories and when those memories create a sense of loss or emptiness, they run off to the global marketplace to uncomfortably rub shoulders with strangers; to shop; to be entertained; to be lied to and conned.  They are afraid of their own feelings and rely on the System to create more pleasant ones for them.  For such, there is no golden path, not yet, perhaps never.

I must define the future -- even if that means upsetting the status quo.  In fact, its a guarantee that anyone who defines her or his own future will upset everything.  As the energies flow in and I change their pattern, the System will feel robbed, weakened, even at times, confused.  It will seek out the source of this interference.  Quite legitimately (for itself) it will feel legally robbed of its energy and it will seek to destroy or at least cancel out whatever is messing with its food supply.

Not only do Earthians believe they have no say in defining their future, they fear doing so.  They know from painful experience that to meddle in the greater forces that mold their System means to suffer.  In today's great death by hedonism, in the "Dollar Store" mentality, there aren't very many who even think about defining the future.  They may think statistically - based on what will likely be the result of living under the dictatorship of the marketplace - but few will think they can meaningfully influence the future.  They do not believe they have that kind of power except through collective expression.  But today's entertained society has no meaningful collective expression beyond the offerings of the information media.  Today's society is living the last gasps of the great party.  Fish flopping on the deck of the trawler before they are shoveled into the hold. Staring at the beginning of its great death.

To engage the future; to define it, means to realize each one of us has a golden path we can choose to take.  A dangerous path.  Information is no help here: it has not been mapped; it has no pattern.  None of the great belief systems hold sway here.  No old philosophy lights this path.

Here I re-create myself to become what I choose.  All I have to work with is what my mind "remembers" as experientially true and what my passion for life demands -- of me, for me.  At the onset of entering the golden path, I am alone.  No one else has been here and no one else can accompany me.

Playing with fire.

I had two dreams back to back last night.  Walking with a friend in a field of dry stubble near sun-weathered, unpainted wooden buildings at the edge of a small village.  I mention the danger of a fire starting in the stubble and my friend lights a match and throws it down.  The fire flares up and I barely manage to stomp it out.(The message: don't give ideas to fools)

I am slinging rigging (logging term) on a hillside in the local mountains.  Again, it is hot and dry.  We are pulling fallen timber (logs) from a hillside above the "landing and yarder" (more logging terms: a landing is a widened place along a logging road where logs are sorted and loaded on trucks; a yarder is the heavy diesel engine that pulls the logs from the hillside to the landing with cables.)

Men and equipment are located as near to the log supply as possible to maximize time and profits.  I point out to the contractors that they have located too close to the logs piled above the landing, but they see profits, not common sense or safety.  We begin logging and on the second "turn" a log jams under a pile and the whole thing begins to shift.  I send the warning to the yarder and the crew of 3 men jumps off yarder, shovel and truck and runs up the road.  The logs begin to roll, and soon an avalanche descends on the landing.  The yarder is pushed off the edge and rolls over, spilling gallons of diesel in the air.  Fortunately the "engineer" had shut the motors off and nothing ignites.  It still is a terrible loss of machinery and time.

In the first dream, the "friend" is a typical fool.  No responsibility.  Unable to "define" the future, he plays with fire relying on someone else to put it out.

In the second dream, you have the mentality of greed expressing, and what can only derive from it.

In both cases I can "define" the future clearly.  Because of that, I was able to stop the fire in the first and I was able to save the lives of 3 men in the second.  But despite the obvious I also knew that the minds of these "others" had not changed.  The first would say someone else will take responsibility, and the others would just curse their "luck" and be none the wiser.  Hedonism and greed.  The undefined future of collective "Earthianity".

The golden path gives visions beyond existing paradigms.  It defines the future.  Entered into with compassion through empathy it reveals new sources of energy and makes the old, well, simply old!

"When none of it matters, it will all be yours" [YLea] -- and I add now: "... and that "all" seems more and more as old toys in an abandoned playpen."

The Prophet's Lament [2000 Years After]

They were to welcome me as the "Friend of God" --

and that is why I came.

I came back to them to remind them

to turn from their endless wars;

from their senseless destruction.

I came to stop them from feeding their children

into the insatiable maws of death

decorated in holiday fashion

as fireworks, candies, roasted turkeys, fat Elves in red suits

leaving piles of useless "gifts" under dead trees;

or as colorful pills and shiny handguns.

But those who sent me were blind old fools;

the Old Guard caught in endless deliberations

of mindless politics, waiting too long to intervene

and when I awakened upon Earth

I found the poison of time had spread as a cancer

filling every thought in every mind

as sand fills every hole in every dune

in the great deserts of the outer worlds.

They remember nothing! Absolutely nothing!

God -- they have turned into myriad lies;

into idols fashioned by minds inflamed with lusts.

Their religions are but tattered rags flapping in the winds

as do the tongues of their preachers for hire;

their teachings as bleached bones

left by beached whales dead long, long ago.

I walked the land in silent shock,

seeing no hope anywhere, sensing no future.

All I encountered were the rapacious claws of greed

tearing the soft blush of youth

into bloody rivers upon a scarred and battered land

as smoke billowed from factories

where they ground and burned the bodies of the poor.

Yes, they still speak of God,

perhaps more than ever before

but their prayers invoke only cold ritual and dead magic -

creating more smoke in the parching winds.

Now the prophet speaks:

No longer will I be called the "Friend of God"

among the people of Earth.

I will not allow this blasphemy to spread;

this travesty to continue.

For the sake of the Great Balance

I turn my back upon my Ancient Friend.

I return my soul into his hands

and refuse to look in his tear-stained face.

Hard of heart I must be now;

as harsh and cold as the people of Earth

are to one-another.

Now we must go on our separate ways

until the people turn from their addictions


until Earth is no more.

The Prophet will not return

until the land has been cleansed of pollution;

until every heart is filled with compassion;

until innocent blood is no longer shed;

until every desire of every mind can only be quenched

through the imparting of wisdom.

These Words are true.

Understanding Comes From Knowing Purpose

It is meaningless to speak of understanding without some idea of purpose.  Stated otherwise, you cannot understand something if you do not know its purpose.  I like to illustrate concepts in parables or short stories.  Here's something on understanding, or lack thereof.

An Earthian space traveler comes upon an alien world.  She recognizes no "life" as she knows it but can see the path of intelligence there: a structure rising impossibly high into a white sky washed by two suns.  Not a building as she knows it, just cross sections of long, thin tubes fabricated out of an aluminum type of metal and attached together by some cohesive force she has no knowledge of.  She climbs the structure and finds it amazingly solid.  She tires herself climbing it even in that world's 0.9 gravity and gives up, the top of the construct still lost up in the white light of the sky.

Back in her dropship she communicates her findings to her starship in orbit above the planet.  What findings?  What does she know of those who, or that which, erected the structures, and to what end?  She has no answers to the questions coming to her from the starship.

Her crewmate enters the dropship and gives his view on the structure.  A born-again "Christer" with a solid Earth biblical background, he has no trouble explaining the structure.  It's obviously a tower of Babel, he tells her.  She rejects the explanation outright as unworthy of a space-faring people but has nothing to posit in its place so the Christer's explanation, somewhat following Occam's razor, enters the ship's log.

So even in the future, on a world twenty-three light years away from Earth, an ancient and mostly redundant religious belief "infects" a newly-discovered and barely explored world.  Thus the hunger to put understanding in the place of mystery is sated by the expedient of substituting fact with easy believism; by an idea that costs nothing and broaches no empirical proof.

Continue reading this ebook at Smashwords.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-57 show above.)