Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Respect Yourself

"How we feel about ourselves crucially affects virtually every aspect of our experience...from the way we function at work, in love, in sex, to the way we operate as parents, to how high in life we are likely to rise. The dramas of our lives are the reflections of our most private visions of ourselves!"

Love To All...

Friday, January 26, 2007

Rules For Being Human

1. You Will Receive A Body
You may like it or hate it, but it will be yours for the entire period this time around.

2. You Will Learn Lessons
You are enrolled in a full-time informal school called Life. Each day in this school, you will have the opportunity to learn lessons - you may like the lesson or think them irrelevant and stupid.

3. There Are No Mistakes, Only Lessons
There is a process of trial and error; experimentation. The 'failed' experiments are as much a part of the process as the experiment that ultimately 'works'.

4. A Lesson Is Repeated Until It Is Learned
A lesson will be presented to you in various forms until you have learned it. When you have learned it, you can go on to the next lesson.

5. Learning Lessons Does Not End.
There is no part of Life that does not contain its lessons. If you are alive, there are lessons to be learned.

6. 'There' Is No Better Than 'here'.
When your 'there' has become a 'here', you will simply obtain another 'there' that will again look better than 'here'.

7. Others Are Merely Mirrors Of You.
You cannot love or hate something about another person unless it reflects something you love or hate about yourself.

8. What You Make Of Your Life Is Up To You.
You have all the tools and resources you need. What you do with them is up to you. The choice is yours.

9. Your Answers Lie Inside You.
The answers to Life's questions lie inside you. All you need do is look, listen and trust.

10. You Will Forget All This.

You Can Remember It Whenever You Want

Angel Feathers Tickle Me

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

The Bottle

Once upon a time there was a bottle. It wasn't much to look at - just an ordinary glass bottle - plump waisted, green tinged, with a sour old cork blocking its mouth. You couldn't tell that it was a special bottle, though it was, of course. A special, magic bottle. What made it so special was that inside it was the most exquisite emptiness that anyone had ever seen. An emptiness made out of sunbeams and glimpses from the corners of lonely eyes, handcrafted and shrunk to miniature. A vision of emptiness, preserved perfectly under glass.

No one was sure how the emptiness had got in there in the first place. It was clearly too big to have fit through the bottle's narrow mouth. Some people claimed it was a trick - that there was this thing you could do with vinegar and a match that would make the mouth expand. Others said the bottle had been built around the emptiness, just wide enough to hold it. Still others said that there was no emptiness, that it was all an illusion, that someone had just painted the image of the emptiness on the inside of the glass (though that of course led to the question of how one could paint inside a bottle). At any rate, there the emptiness was, and everyone who saw it either admired it or felt sorry for it, depending on whether they imagined themselves outside the bottle or inside.

They had a name for the emptiness. They called it Thirst.

One day a young man was wandering through the bazaar in a little Eastern town, when he came upon the bottle. There were many other things at the stall, amulets of emerald and tiger-blood, quills of ostrich feather and unicorn bone, a pair of dice made from the Prophet's teeth, but it was the bottle that the young man fell in love with, buying it from the stall-keeper without even bargaining for it, carrying it home wrapped in a towel he borrowed from his hotel, convincing the security guard at the airport that it didn't matter, that it wasn't dangerous at all, because it was empty.

Once home, he would spend hours staring at the bottle. He would hold it up in front of his eyes and turn it very slowly, watching the light reflect off its surface. He would leave the bottle on the window-sill, watch as it changed with the changing light of the day. He dreamt of opening the bottle someday, of pressing that precious emptiness to his mouth, tasting the bitterness of it on his lips. Meanwhile he spent more and more time with the bottle, even leaving his school work (he was a student at the University) so as to be with it.

One day the student finally plucked up his courage and uncorked the bottle. With trembling hands, he tilted the neck of it earthward, watching the emptiness pour out of it, gathering around his shoes at first, then starting to flow towards the door. It seemed to fill everything. His bedroom, the apartment, the building, the city. Everywhere he looked people were wading through it, trying not to let it soak into their clothes. And yet the amazing thing was that when he stopped pouring from the bottle and put the cork back in, there it was again, the emptiness, as delicate and beautiful as it had always been. He had drowned the world with it, but the bottle was still full! The thought of the power the bottle contained staggered him, and he hid it away at the bottom of his cupboard, vowing never to open it again.

In a few days the emptiness evaporated, though, taking his fear with it. What remained was the flood mark of his curiosity that left its stain on everything. How could so much oblivion fit within a single object, he wondered. And it began to occur to him that his bottle was not alone in this. Every door had an infinity of absences locked behind it, every clock was a trapped eternity. Every bottle of ink contained a sea of ideas. He experienced this realization as a kind of vertigo and it made him understand how destructive and melancholy a weapon he had in the bottle, and yet the temptation to uncork it again grew stronger and stronger, until despairing and tormented he pulled it out from its hiding place, admired its smooth symmetry for one last time, and then, closing his eyes to keep the splinters of glass from blinding him, smashed his magic bottle against the wall.

Afterwards he never found an emptiness so complete, so absolute, again. Though sometimes, standing on the beach and staring out to the horizon he would imagine that he saw it vanishing in the distance, like a great ship sailing just out of his reach. He donated the shards of the bottle to the local museum, which confused them with the Pharaoh's jewels and put them on display in the Egyptian section. For a while he went around putting notices all over his neighborhood, asking if anyone had seen Nothing, but if someone had they never came forth. Eventually, the memory of those brilliant days spent staring at the bottle buried themselves away in his heart, like pieces of brilliant glass under the sand of a tide-washed shore.

Angel Feathers Tickle Me

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

The Legend Of The Dragonfly

Hard times had fallen on an indian village. Two children awoke to find that they have accidentally been left behind when their parents and the other villagers abandoned their homes to find food. To pass the time the boy makes a toy insect out of corn and grasses and gives it to his little sister to comfort her.
The children are amazed one morning to find that the toy has come to life and is dancing, hovering, and gliding through the air. They delight in its shimmering beauty and are happily distracted. But at each end of the day, as the night falls, they become sad and lonely and wish for the return of their parents and neighbors.
The live toy is sad for the boy and girl and flies to the land of the Gods. It relays the children's fears and wishes. The Gods, in return, send messages back with the delicate insect offering comfort to the children and instruction for survival. This beautiful messenger to and from the God's was given the name Dragonfly.

Angel Feathers Tickle Me

Sunday, January 21, 2007

I Am The River Of Time

Rain is beautiful after dust and heat. I watch it trickle down the narrow lane and listen to the clatters along the rooftops. I watch from inside as it trickles across my window pain. It gushes and struggles from the throat of the overflowing spout. It pours and pours; like a river down the gutter roars the rain. Swift and wide with a muddy tide. I welcome the rain.

The sick man from his chamber looks at the twisted brooks; he too can feel the cool breath of each little pool. The beauty of the rain is the fact that you can actually feel the earth growing calm again. We breathe blessing on the rain.

Down the road the neighboring school lets out. Here come the boys with more than their unwanted noise. Now commotion comes down the wet streets. They pretend to sail their mimic fleets, till the pool engulfs them in its whirling, pattering turbulent ocean of raindrops.

Imagine that on every side, where far and wide, like a leopards tawny and spotted hide. Stretches the plain, to the dry grass and the drier grain. How they all must welcome the rain.

In the furrowed land the patient toilsome oxen stand; lifting the yoke encumbered head, with dilated nostrils spread, they silently inhale the sweet clover scented gale. The vapors arise from the now well watered and smoking soil. For now there is gentle rest. Their large and lustrous eyes seem to thank the Lord more than the man's spoken word.

Near at hand, from under the sheltering trees, the farmer sees. His pastures, and his fields of grain, as the bend their tops to the numberless beating drops of the incessant rain. The farmer he counts it as no sin that he sees therein only his own thrift and gain.

These, and far more than these, the poet sees! He can behold aquarius of old,walking the fenceless fields of air; and from each ample fold of the clouds about him rolled scattering everywhere the showering blessing of the rain. But the farmer he just sows his grain.

But I can behold things magnificent and bold that have not yet been told to man. The secret has never been sung or said. My thoughts follow the water-drops down to the graves of the dead. Down through chasms and gulfs profound, to the dreary fountain-head. Lakes and rivers under ground I see them when the rain is done, on the bridge of colors climbing up once more to heaven, the raindrops ascend once more.

I am the Seer, with visions clear. I see forms appear and disappear in the perpetual realm. Mysterys and secrets I keep. Be they from birth to death, from death to birth, from earth to heaven, from heaven to earth. Of all things, unseen before, unto these wondering eyes reveal the universe as an immeasurable wheel turning forever more.

I Am The River Of Time

Saturday, January 20, 2007


Candlelight spills into my room.
It falls across your face and even mine
It falls across your body,
It discovers you, your perfections, your imperfections,
your hopes and aspirations.
The candlelight is soft and so forgiving.
The candlelight is warm and inviting.
When the morning comes and the candle simply is
Through it will have already discovered you.
Now it is gone the warmth is lost.
You are left in the twilight of early dawn.
You have been stripped bare as sleep rushes in.
Now sleep my darling, for I am here
I am still the candle that burns within.
Your Heart

Friday, January 19, 2007


Once the package of friendship
has been opened,
it can never be closed.
It is a constant book always written...
waiting to be read...
and enjoyed.

We may have our disagreements...
we may argue...
we may concern one another...
friendship is a unique bond...
that lasts through it all...

A part of me is put into my friends...
some it is my humor...
some it is my listening ear...
some it is real life experiences...
some it is my romanticism...
but with all, it is friendship.

Friendships forged are a construct,
stronger than steel built as a foundation...
necessary for life...
and necessary for love.

Friends, you and me...
you brought another friend...
and then there were 3...
We started our group...
Our circle of friends...
and like that circle...
there is no beginning or end....

Love To All

Angel Feathers Tickle Me

Friday, January 12, 2007

Jagged Stone

You will find me near the shores of dreaming. I stand here watching over the cliffs of humanity. The view here is forever perfectly clear, I see nothing but confusion and chaos looking down from this column of jagged stone. This is where our hearts are forged, souls are cast and made. This is where you will return, though in life you have never seen this place, for you have stood upon this mighty stone and stared...

Dream of Gods, dream of memories gone by, inhale the scent of love and heartache. You know this place exists. Feel it in the pit of your being. You know the lonely feeling found atop the stone and the frustration of never seeing enough.

We have all leaned forward that one hair too far as if to dare the tempt of fate, as we were grabbed by the sea beneath us where we get tossed and turned, just another lost soul trying to swim desperately for shore. Fore it is here on the shores of dreaming that battered souls finally gain wisdom. Here we see the miracle in just being alive.

We will dance skipping down the beach of dreaming singing a song, flinging the notes in the air. Maybe we will laugh at teardrops or cry in the wind, but at least we are free from that jagged stone until we come searching again for something more...

Sunday, January 07, 2007

I Wander In My Tears

These eyes they grieve in pity for my heart. I have known the suffering of every tear utterly undone they fall. Will they remember the words I spoke? My gentle heart goes willingly with her, but I must remain here. Weeping, I then will speak of her again, and again, who to her heaven came so suddenly, leaving Love grieving here on earth with me...

To the high heaven she has gone, up to the realm where Angels dwell in peace, she lives with them now. To this world she bade farewell. Tis no degree of cold on her has won, nor of such heat as makes all others cease: it only was her goodness, great appeal. So did her shining humbleness excel, it passed the heavens with such wondrous worth, it moved to marvel the eternal Sire, so that a sweet desire pricked Him to call such worthiness from earth, and made her to himself go from down here: for when He saw this life of suffering had not been made for such a gentle thing...

Her gentle spirit, full of gentle grace, at last departed from her beauteous frame, and chose in glory its most worthy home. He who weeps not, {Mark David Breakiron} when talking of her trace, harbors a heart of wickedness and shame, to which no kindly spirits ever shall come.

No mind, if heart is wicked, may so roam as to imagine in the least her lot: therefore no grief or weeping will transpire. But sadness and desire of tears and sighs and death, and every thought that fails to comfort for a loss of immense, conquer those souls that even once recall the thing she was, now taken from us all...

Ahhhhhhhhh so much anguish nearly halts my breath when the least thought to this comes in my grievous mind brings back the one who split my heart in me; and oftentimes, when thinking of her death the color from my face fades utterly. And when the imagining is sharp in me, from everywhere I'm struck by such dismay that at the ache I feel right then I start to cry, and so distraught it grows. Fore it is then that I am alone in every crowd.

I wander in my tears....

For a face that looks like mine.

Angel Feathers Tickle Me

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

Whisper Of Hope

Soft is the Angel's voice, breathing a lesson unheard. She is hope with a gentle persuasion whispering her comforting words. Wait till the darkness is over, wait till the tempest is done, hope for the sunshine tomorrow, after the shower is gone.

In the dark of the twilight, dim by the region afar. Will not the deepening darkness brighten the glimmering star? Then when the night is upon us, why should the heart sink away? When the dark midnight is over may you watch for the breaking of day.

I am a Whisper of Hope.

Angel Feathers Tickle Me