Just By Talking To Myself

I think I see crayon marks on the top of the table. Crayon marks come to mind because I spend my mornings drawing lines in little sketchbooks, filling them with unexpected swirls that I don’t force but follow, I am allowing them to speak to me. I do not understand what they are saying, yet I love the result. That result is a graceful pattern of lines on a passive page that suddenly becomes lively. I see movement. I see balance and order, too, a harmony that just comes all by itself, as if there is an intelligence at work that does not need me to tell it what to do. I love that this living thing can come through me, show itself to me, transform my outer world from some mysterious inner cause I am not aware of. It’s quite magical, don’t you think?

That’s exactly what it is. I am here seemingly not thinking of anything specific and when I type, or when I take pen to paper, something appears. Appears as if out of nothing, from nowhere. It is as if there is an invisible life here all around, waiting to be seen, to be set free. Is that all there is to it, to be the human conduit for something unseen but always present, always ready to appear? That is not so difficult a thing, is it, to happily know that something waits for me to draw forth its apparition? To welcome it, express it, let it become. And, more than anything, to trust its worth just as it plainly appears to be: a thing from within me just as I am, just as who I am, just as what I am. Yes, I possess a sweet invisibleness and I sense that it is treasure.

So why do I go about feeling empty, waiting for the external to feed me, show me, entertain me? It is what comes from within me that is my aliveness. It is what comes from within me that I am to experience. Life on earth is not a tourist attraction for me, instead there is something unknown in me that is so full of life and possibilities that it perpetually knocks on my door to let me know it is present, that it wants to give me itself that I may be myself. I am created to know, to value, to love, to give birth to this thing I am.

The joy, the receiving of this birth has nothing to do with the world. Nothing to do with how the world will receive it, or not receive it. I did not come to enlighten a world of people. They are not the reason for my treasures, the reason for my expression. I am an invisible being, silent in my ways, but my nature is such that it externalizes itself to become worlds. It creates the earth for itself. I need not concern myself with how things are perceived here, how things work, or what the world thinks are needed to make things work. The work is done invisibly so that is not my responsibility. I realize, I ask, I shine the light from my invisibility into form. I make a rich display of it, never requiring permission, never needing a door in the world to open for me. Whatever I bring is whole, complete. My invisibility opens all the doors I need opened for fulfillment. My invisibility is the full blooming of life abundant, it is the release of my breath into the divine meadow to sway its grasses into whispers that soothe a heavy heart. My human heart. I can be glad for my invisibleness. It can never be known here on earth but my breath will mystically touch and bless many human hearts. And theirs mine. What more do we need?.

I am invisibleness from within an infinite invisible source meant to remain invisible in this world. I need not feel inconsequential or make myself visible, life is infilling me eternally. I have the body I need for this temporal journey and the things of its sustenance. All I need is awareness of the invisible me through the ongoing dialogue with it. Only that. Everything else has already been done. For me. For everyone.

My Best Friend

I am glad I am a writer.

Dear One, my writing says to me, the words you write want to come to you. In them I am your own life flowing up and outward to bring you awareness of the joy you possess. I come from you. I do not come to be misunderstood by a closed mind, I am a simple act, a humble gesture, the loving breath of aliveness. I come to you in a gentle way. I can be received by you only in your own gentle way.

I speak to no one but you. I am not anyone else’s language. I am your personal presence of eternity on earth.The only gift you and I make is the gift of peace that words without strife offer. A tightness can be released.

Only one thing is true. Only one: simplicity flowers a garden. I bring you deep truth in simple words that you allow. That you welcome. I am proud to be your language and to bring the feelings that you receive with such an open heart. Ours is a precious friendship. And a necessary one, for meaning is everything.

Center Stage

I am a soft, warm, mostly sparkling Goodness. I wear a costume and play a role in order to be seen. What cannot be seen of me is known by others who also know they are not costume and role. They cross my path infrequently but that disturbs me only when I am busy acting my role and filling my costume. Only then really.

Away From Home

I write in the morning, you know. Longhand. Certain things are said then. It is now afternoon and I’m on Tapintoo’s keys, things are being said now, too. Is there something waiting for my attention? What is contained in that invisible just beyond the visible, the external of me? What is contained in me? I am alone, and yet I sense championship.

A part of me waits for my full attention, staying poised to tell me what I will be glad to know. Life supports no emptiness; it is a dialogue with meaning—to me. I’m the one who turns away for I’ve learned to obey a dialogue with less meaning. To my heart, this is a troubling journey. The dialogue with less meaning does not interest me, but I pretend it does. Pretending is a heavy thing.

And so, I write. In the morning and in the afternoon. Things are said. Things with meaning—for me. A small door opens, I feel its warmth and recognize its reassuring light. I brighten all over, inside and out, and then when I rejoin the less meaningful dialogue, I attempt to sprinkle it with hints of what I found when I paid attention elsewhere in the here and now. Today, as I finish this afternoon’s writing, I notice what the flame from my candle is really bringing to my room.

It brings me the bookmark of a Dialogue.

Only Keys?

I can trace the Invisible by becoming still and letting my fingers touch keys. In this way I “use” technology to open the higher dialogue I have with my human who uses words. She needs to be reminded what stands within her wanting to be known, shown, and moved into form. She needs to meet the presence that fills the space she embodies in Time and Space.

Yes, little keys. Profound, because they know why they were really invented. And I know, too.