Fwd: [NDhighlights] #4645 - Thursday, July 5, 2012 - Editor: Gloria Lee: cry "I am Source." Deborah Westmoreland: Rich Murray 2012.07.05

[Rich Murray-2]

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Gloria Lee <[hidden email]>
Date: Thu, Jul 5, 2012 at 8:58 PM
Subject: [NDhighlights] #4645 - Thursday, July 5, 2012 - Editor: Gloria Lee
To: NDH <[hidden email]>, NDS <[hidden email]>

#4645 - Thursday, July 5, 2012 - Editor: Gloria Lee

The Nonduality Highlights http://groups.yahoo.com/group/NDhighlights/

  

 

If we surrendered to earth's intelligence we could rise up rooted, like trees.

 

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

 

photo by Alan Larus

 

 

 

Pollen of Forget Me Not

 

When curtain falls and light does fade
each part is to perfection played
The actor has no choice but say:
Now please, conclude the silent way

 

To never ever ask for more
One boat, one oar, oh little flame
Consumed upon the other shore

 

From promise of forget-me-not -
one hour on that sand

 

 

 

I praise this land,
the winding road we came,
the open door

 

The precious few
The passing hand to hand

 

~ Alan Larus

 

---

 

Hacking Back to the Wild: A Testimonial by Deborah Westmoreland

 

Chapter One- The Underbrush

 

What does one make of a casual day starting in a casual way when somehow
between the coffee and the sky hands go absent into a sea of fur and trees and
cardinals, finches, wind rushes, and rosa banks so green in the everlasting that no
moment is another. Then walking into a room where kismet speaks straight out of
Rumi something like the moment I heard my first love story, I started looking for
you, and didn’t know what to do but sit there in awe, not knowing how blind that
was, face all fallen into the palms of my hands when something asked me to look up
and I knew what was never right was about to be the rightest damn thing ever, so I
looked up and took the blessing smack in the middle of my face, lovers don't finally
meet somewhere, they're in each other all along, so paralyzed from that moment on
that you went on to have your way with me and had me speaking all my secrets
around some fire with strangers who had been my brothers and sisters for all this
time anyway. I wondered where my own backyard was after all, and you couldn’t
help but laugh at me as you picked me up out of the wonderment you stunned me
with. I think I drove home that night or maybe you drove home for me. I don’t
know. I remember it was the first time I didn’t know what time it was or where I
was suppose to be or how many days until I needed to pay some bill. I thought
about packing my favorite sweater, a couple pair of shoes, and a good coat and
getting way out of town while the getting was good. I remember there was a lot of
joy. So much joy I wondered if someone had finally filled me up with a good dose of
smack and how the buzz ran right up through every vertebrae til it blew the top of
my head off just like Emily Dickinson said it would because poetry–the poetry that

forms around every moment never to appear again–wasn't going to leave me like I
was. And I begged to be taken down; flattened under foot; to see the back of my
eyes but that was gone, too. Everything was gone. Long gone with all the tidy little
questions, all the vain perplexing hopes and twisted wants, and pent-up opinions,
and circumstantial evidence. Being so much more than the henpecked way of the
mind taking me down like a visitor about to spar with the strongest townie in that
dark bar–but oh so grateful to take the beating, to stop the ever-revolving
mundane questions posed as important visions to living the good life of pride and
protocol. All punched up and awake, I made some half-stalled attempt at driving
100 miles out of town then turned around to find some new place that was the old
place. There was only a blanket, a rug, two dogs, and your divine voice saying,
“Here you are.”

 

And now I want to give you more than just a preemptive strike at living. Now I
shift from the unbalanced foot of fear to the handstand of irreversible love, all
the while walking upside-down towards that barely-there plank of sometimes
always, to see the abyss as my final bed; your heartbeat–the volcano and the fury
and the splendor of the freefall.

 

Chapter Two- Night Sky

 

Whirling in this current of abyss. In the river, I swim directionless, omni-present
and never-present, in a world where computer screens seem as heads and heads
seem as outputs and indicators of me, everything reflecting back to me. I move and
the world moves, along this horizon, this aureole, my halo, undifferentiated, radiant.
Beautiful. More and more beautiful. Alone and unconcerned, without a thought of
my own, I watch. Nothing disturbs. Forgetting language and incapable of
recognizing words, I find walks and laughter my glad friends, my doppelgangers;
everything rambling with me as apparition, counterpart, twin, double, twofold of no
fold. Replicate, repeat, divide, then disintegrate.

 

But other images arise—bright faces and tender words, smiles, and the gestures of
hands and lips, arms embracing me. The hellos and the how are yous and the sit with
mes.

 

Mute, as tongueless as time, I ask questions to the Divine. High Indifference is not
all there is to know. I grow anxious about attachments to others or, rather, no
apparent attachment to those I love. I grow close without the strings of feelings.
Consciousness brings intimacy as a wave I am to experience in all its intricate and
remarkable ways. Yet where is my heart? Fear of never acting takes hold. I ask,
'What of this?' and wait. There is nothing but Consciousness and Empty-ness...still
I wait on its ways.

 

Night comes and so does the vast and starry sky. The rosette nebula opens from
inside of me. Before me and within me, the gases of the galaxies sing a refrain of
origin from where I am—brilliant hues of heavens and lights, ephemeral clouds in
colors as soft as eyelids and lilies, as dark as fire and longing. I weep because This
is wide and unfathomable. Because This is my heart. In this void I am finally
introduced to God and Love, to the wonder of Other. I succumb to Nothingness, to
the Divine. I lose dimension and the lens grows large, distorted like a fisheye with
infinitely more to reveal. I've always been in heaven. To deny anything as mere
perfection is the sin and the sorrow.

 

Chapter Three- Through the Thickets, Shangri-La

 

There is the loss of self, there is the knowing God and loving God, and then there is
that immutable Light—the clear penetration, drilling down until the floodsprings
burst, undammed. Uncoiled, uprooted, unfettered, loosened, freed.

 

In a fateful second, unrecognizable that I was about to be weighted by the secret
of life, desiring of nothing, content to be without self and to know Love, I placed
my face on a cold metal fence and peered into the woods.

 

Thick and heavy with old barks and pine needles, swelling buds of deciduous trees,
and birdsong swirling all around, a dogwood flowered before me in the midst of
such tender grooved leaves. Four white-cupped petals, tipped by a faint crimson,
fully-bloomed announced, in unison, the verdant floret crown centered in the
bracts beauty. A flowering so revered since childhood, never did I pull one from
its branches. A symbol of the way. Crucifixion. Death. Resurrection. Life.

 

In that moment which is this moment, my heart spoke to everything, this loud outcry
to creation, ‘I am Source.’ Never moved. Never moving. Never to move. Without
dimension, the tracing finger of All— infinitesimal in its workings. Stateless.
Formless. Explosive. This point, this stillness. Home.

 

http://tatfoundation.org/forum2012-07.htm#3

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