Cruising the Stratosphere

It's the easiest thing to be the caricature of yourself. The cartoon version. The one that's only partially in touch with that which is real.
It's much harder to be honest. To see one's self for who one really is.
It's moments of reality that point out this hard truth. That one has been floating on the surface. Separated from the true fear. Living the fiction of one's own story. Confronted with the real, how are the knees? Are they solid or do they tremble with the wieght of that which one has been ignorant of?
Upon this moment there is a catching of the breath. One realizes that one has not really seen, not really been in touch with the real--with the elements of one's own fear.

How is one to be in touch with that and yet not be negative, not be summoning it forth, creating it with one's own thoughtforms? To be in touch with the bed of it, yet not to create it or invoke it by that very awareness?

Perhaps these would be moments of Illumination and to ask to reside in them only would be perhaps like asking there to be no night in life, but only and always just to live by the light of the Sun? Or to ask perhaps that all shade be banished?
Aahh, and that would make no sense would it?
Don't you just love it when you accidentally answer your own question?

Writing is for the writer.
The Art is for the Artist.
The Release is in the Act.
The process is the doing.
The doing is the healing.
What more do you want?
Greed corrupts. Leave it alone.
Let beauty and love be the simplicity they are.
Isn't that enough?
If you Love what you do, you do it anyway: applause or not, attention or not, approval or not, agreement or not, people or not, money or not.
If there is Love in your Art,
Then you can safely pay no mind to the temporal, whether coming or going. It all has a flow and a movement like the cycle of the tides.
Even if you do not see it, what does it matter?
Do what you Love to do.

Today's calamity is minimized by the accidental good fortune of getting up on the good side of the bed.
How did I do that?
I don't know, but perhaps it is repeatable.
My life, not being my own, feel akin to a piece of rentable equipment from your local home depot.
Not really, but sort of.
It's not bad.
The sphere I live within is huge with many working parts.
I just try to stay out of the way so as not to get pinched, and thereby to keep smiling remaining fluid within the works.
And if I look up, I see the stars.

The secular sits next to the sacred.
The hats change as the wind blows. The cards are shuffled.
Peace is a choice despite the movements of change. The tap root is deep and in the same place, yet not; however the coordinates are always made manifest for those of willing heart and mind in their time. It is there for the nourishing, should you wish it. Always there. It has no judgement, no recompense should you wait 'till later, but you must dig; this is no softdrink vending machine.
Temporal nature and man's search for meaning: There are days where this seems like someone's idea of a cruel joke, but it isn't. I still find myself laughing though at the inside out nature of it, at times. Humor always returns, but there are those days where the heart is hit hard and the freshness of the pain rises to the surface to be skimmed and cleaned off as the slow cathartic healing of the wounds of the deep undergo their steady, warm, mending transformations that are atomically changing and altering bit by bit by precious bit the Love of One, as the tick-tock of human evolution moves it's way through the Heart of a life.
The secular sits next to the sacred.
The hats change as the wind blows.
The cards are shuffled and re-shuffled and
Peace and Love are choices we can make despite the movements of change.