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Shift, shift, shift into your higher light, and begin to write, write, create, or ‘channel’ through. Truth of experience of words or of feeling. Trust in the dynamic expression, and embrace where you’re at. Trust in how the petals fall, as the rose blossoms and blooms, then slowly goes back to ash, to the earth. One. All one. All one.

It feels like a cults chant to say.

“All on! All one! All one!” No separation of self from other, it made me feel on the outside, as if maybe I didn’t know the secrets or the inner workings of the truth. I, an outsider, I someone walking the line around the building. Taking the next bus stop, to the next town. The feelings still carry through, the thoughts, the emotions, the experiences transport with me, because it’s an energetic makeup of my soul, my exact blueprint of my being. It’s things I cannot run from or hide or change. They are with me when I go to sleep and wake up. Waking up with a more full battery yet still with all the stuff I carried with me from the previous day, and the one before that and the one before that, all piled up. Ready to be sorted through or released. It feels quite dense and heavy to carry, to carry the opinions of others, the ideas of how I should be, the confounding, constricting nightmare cages of expectation. Wanting my words and my creations to be something that others will enjoy the taste of.

My fingernails grow long and black and are full of dirt and I feel sinister and dirty and evil. I feel like someone may look to me and feel a fear, or a disgust, or turn away and run for the hills, because the look is unappealing. Because there’s grime around the edges. It’s not pristine, it’s not sparkly, it’s not bright like how they said it would be. I relate to the ones I once loved. To the ones I chose as my own. My kin, my family. Closer to them then I was to myself.

I feel like I must acknowledge that though there is the dirt around, and the hatred for such, inside I feel the golden great warmth of my inner being, and this is how I know that I am pure. The golden love that pours forth from me, yet. The external expression may be different, unsightly, triggering a round of repulsion and disgust. It’s not the real innards of who I am.

And to that, I offer a challenge: why is the ‘ugly’ so bad if what fuels it is love? How is this any different from a pig in a pen, playing in the mud? (How I always loved to do as a child). Why distaste the dirt that once brought you so much freedom and laughter and play and giggles? Why shun the one you once loved with your whole being because their fingernails were too long and their fingers looked like had no bones?

Why hate the player that is also you. All a reflection. All a reflection. All one, all one.

All a fricking cult if you ask me.

Can’t we have individuality, “don’t you see, you’re not getting it!”

Keep writing. Keep feeling. Keep seeing. Keep affirming that you are clear and bright and you are.

But the dirt, the dirt. One can still see clearly while they have dirt on their skin, your eyes remain clear, for they have not been touched by the grime. They remain bright and clear and open.

Baby eyes,

I wonder if I’m crazy, and I affirm to myself that I am not, though I hear the voices of others speak to me. Not as clear as I once was, when I was entirely alone. When I removed myself, completely from the extral world. “Trust what comes through. Keep going!” It feels like carrying sandbags across the ground. Trying to bring them all with me.

Why? What do they have for me that I may want, what is it? Am I going to build something with this sand or am I going to just carry it around in these sacks. If I build a house, a castle, won’t the next wave come and sweep it back to sea? Or if I put it higher up on the beach, I won’t have the water necessarily to get it to stick, and the wind will blow it all away. Or, I could carry buckets of water, bring it up the beach, away from the waves, and build a castle with more effort, that will stay longer, but will eventually crumble back down and disappear into the earth. Or maybe an earthquake will shake it loose or a tsunami wave or am extra strong tide will come. All things go back to the one. It’s all out of my hands.

So why am I even carrying the bags of sand, and why even build the castle.

For self expression? To get my unique essence and beauty out into the world for a time? To share and show “look what I can do, look what I’ve created!” For the people on the beach or the seagulls or the water to clap me on the back and say “well done! How beautiful! It looks superb!”

Yes, maybe for that, and then my chest may puff up and I may feel good about myself for some time. “Yes, I did that! Good for me!” And it does feel good. But then the people keep walking along the beach. Going about their lives. And I go back to mine. And that feeling of pride fades back, like the sand into the sea.

Why build the sand castle in the first place, for the expression? For the experience?

I guess I could just sit on the beach and stare at the waves too. Understand the impermanence of it all, and accept the fate and the fact that we really truly have no control over any if it. We can build the sandcastles, but we must accept that the sea will sweep them back in one swift reach, on a will beyond our own.

To that, I extend beyond and out: what if we could control the water, bend it to move around the sandcastles, so waves may continue to come but they do not affect the works of art, of creation we have constructed. And to that point, what is the point of even saving it, why construct it, why build it up, to be the one to also have to monitor and to control the tides, to keep it safe. Is it just for looking at? Does it bring us joy? For surely, if we decided to take all measures into our hands, to control and to ensure that the sandcastle stays in tact, it stays safe and structurally sound, maybe even by building it from stone, or moving to solid ground, the earth, or God still has a plan of their own. They could shift the tectonic plates beneath our feet and entirely decimate the one thing we just built, that we believed to feel so sturdy.

So why, why do we keep building? What more is it for? For love, yes, but how do we ensure that what we build will not be taken down and why are we similarly so connected to the idea of it staying upright and in tact. Why must it stay around. Isn’t what the earth creates and destroys similarly as beautiful, though it may take a different shape, jagged and rough or smooth and flat? Maybe when what the earth destroys is not what we have created. That’s the ticket. When our own creations are not the ones being affected or taken away.

When and why have we become to attached to what we have built, that when the earth takes it away we view it as a tragedy. When have we become so disconnected from what the earth builds that we loose connection to how intrinsically connected all is to what we are, to what we have also created.

For clarity, I ask why is our creation more important than the earths destruction? Because we have feelings and hopes and dreams? Of building more, of creating something with what we have already created? So too does She. She is alive and breathing as much as you and I and we are, her hopes and dreams are directly connected to the health and wellbeing of All, beyond our smaller individual desires. Beyond the passing validation of someone walking by in the beach, giving us the boost in our chests from the compliments on our sandcastle. Important, yes, but it blows away, it washes away with the next coming wave.

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Accept the game, and love your player. All else falls into place with ease. I promise you that.

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I wonder if when people die, does all the creativity they used and worked with and discovered and cultivated go back to the rest of us, does it get distributed evenly to all of us, like little drops of gold, for each being. Entirely infinite in the single drop, yet only visible and able to be used if you take that drop that has been gifted and consciously use it to expand. The geniuses of the time, giving back their genius to all the people through their creations, and then even more so when they pass on and through because their influence is broadcast out even farther through the world. Reminding us to awaken and to remember the magic and the influence and the creative genius inside each of us. Gifted, packaged, and received in a unique way from each soul that shares it, for them and their vessel is entirely unique.

I become one with the waves and the sand.