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The Spirit of the Lord is Upon me.

This is a piece I wrote several years ago during a time of my Soul’s ferment.  It is not a religious statement by any means.  It is quite the opposite.  While I was indeed raised in a religious culture and have degrees in theology, and philosophy, and depth psychology, etc., blah, blah, blah. (Not a big deal at all.  I just wrote a bunch of papers to get another piece of paper to hang on the wall.)  This was a search for Truth.

This is also an experiment with a new pulgin to automatically posts WP offerings to the blockchain of Steemit.  I found it at scottyeager on Steemit.  Click on scotty’s name and find the article.  Now let’s see if it works. 🙂

The Spirit of the lord is upon me.
Because He anointed me to preach the Good News to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim release to the Captives,
And Recovery of sight to the blind,
To set free those who are oppressed,
To proclaim the favorable year of the Lord.
(Luke 4:18-19)

I believe in and receive the anointing to bring the Good News to the poor. But what message shall I bring? I have little use for a message worn and tattered by time and culture’s change in context. The Message, the Truth is eternal but the voices carrying it fade in the breeze. They lack relevance to my habitation and pattern. They lack a quickening resonance which sets the heart aflame.

The messengers are full of answers to questions I have not asked. They are either unaware of, or avoid that which lies dormant, a weight carried in the bowels of my being. But I am poor. How long since the yearnings of my heart have motivated me to action, either right or wrong? For the most part I remain stoic as the poor, smiling through teeth clenched in resignation. Resigned to the idea that dreams may indeed be just fantasy, That the “glorious” yearnings of my heart were merely the function of biology.

There are as many ways to be captive as there are to be poor. My poverty and captivity is that of the heart and mind. The stagnation that manifests on the material plane is neither hopelessness, laziness, nor fear. There is no dream to motivate and inspire belief and creativity. It has all been done before.

I am imprisoned within the trite, opaque walls of a stereotype. To succumb, to ride cynicism as a lover is the way many go. She is a loyal bitch, yet bitch she is. Or I could write out the story as a morality tale. Do this. Don’t do that. Perhaps the Law could help me regain my honor. Then I could write books and give speeches to the unwashed. I could become a hollow Wizard and refuse to face the Witch.

But, one is as much a prison as the other. Morality as rules, is a tyrannical pimp. To exchange one captivity for the other is vanity. To give one’s soul for the illusory comfort of the current zeitgeist is profane. Is there no other path? I would that I might find it and show it to my children. O’ that they might dwell in creativity, well outside the walls of stereotype.

But today my eyes are shut and the pathway eludes me. I am blind as well as captive. I see yet I do not trust my sight. Past visions once sharply defined on my horizon, shimmering in the heat of my want, were false. Some are easy to dismiss. Some were truly immoral. Some caused pain and loss. Others were “right” and “good” yet I found myself lacking in the midst of their abundance.

Surely it was I who lacked. Surely I am the mirage. The eyes through which I’ve seen have failed me. O’ for the eyes to see and the ears to hear!

But how am I oppressed? Do I not possess food, shelter, friends, and opportunity denied others? If I am oppressed it is the oppression of the mundane, the stereotype, and the false. It can take many forms. Religion, morality, achievement, addiction, and rebellion all can deaden the soul’s cry for life. They can oppress, smother, and wear down the captive’s capacity to live as if freedom were possible. It is the living “as if” that allows eternity to break into time and create an alternate plane of existence here. He said “the Kingdom is among you. Can you not see it?”

The captive moves between the polarities of good and bad, opposite sides of the same coin, the medium of exchange in the economy of the soul. But good and bad are deceptive propositions. The game of good vs. bad is a distraction. For there is none “good” but the Maker. The soul is neither good nor bad. It is either living or dying. It is either moving toward viability and life, or moving toward the impossible and ruin. The soul is addicted, bound to ritual, a particular morality, or it is free.

The Law is oppression and death. Creativity, Being, and Life are the Soul’s true habitation.

Just when is the favorable year? On whose calendar is it marked? Do the poor get a copy? Are the captives kept in the loop? Is there a braille edition for the blind? Do the oppressed have access?

Should then the stories prove true, time is an illusion and there is no favorable year or month or week or day. The Creator is either on our side or He is not. Perhaps the measurement has to do with our perception that time is made of the same stuff as eternity, that somehow eternity is endless time. Perhaps it is that we need some sense of perspective that measuring the stuff gives. But in the end all of eternity is for us and not against us. It must be. So that every year is the favorable year and every month is the favorable month and every week is the favorable week and every day is The Favorable Day of the Lord.

It is surely true that our poverty, captivity, blindness, and oppression are all of our own making. It can be, but it is not necessarily acts of volition, but rather our ignorance and immaturity in tension with the innocent and fierce Soul’s longings for Life.

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Guilt – The Human Stain (Audio)

I have been going back through some of the writing I have done over the last several years.  I guess I am attempting to make some sense of what it has been about.  Methinks it can be understood, at least in part, as an example of an awakening process of this particular soul.  Perhaps it is the fleshing out of the spiritual paradox of dying in order to live.  There is a great deal of talk about some awakening that is taking place in our world.  Perhaps it is.  All I know is that I am different than I was.  My values, beliefs, and attention have been shaken.  Attachment to my older ego identity is much loosened as well as my tendency to measure meaning and purpose against the values of culture and other people.  This older program is full of formulas whose equations required an outward focus in order to balance them.  I have come to understand that I had been programmed in a way which directed my energy away from the source of my disquiet.  As if I could find, go, fix, figure out, accomplish, and/or become, enough of something that finally I could rest.  But at the end of all things external was emptiness.  Ego’s domination was tyrannical and it only released control bit by excruciating bit. Perhaps a wiser person might accomplish this in an easier, less troublesome manner.  But it seems I required the harder way.  Solitude and death I think, preceded the birth of an awareness that I am much more than my ego and linear history here in time.  I am some distance now from much of the darker aspects of this process and can testify that all pain and grief is not evil.  And perhaps it is our avoidance of the darker aspects of ourselves that is evil and is the source of individual and societal lostness.

I have been talking to the wind

She is some comfort in that there is no judgement

I cannot bear that

Not that I do not deserve it but

Judgement has been rendered since the foundations

It permeates my being

Flows in my blood

I am guilty

But guilty does not clarify

One would think that the verdict would

Prod me in one direction or the other

But it only sits on me

Like wet burlap filled with shit

So I talk to the wind

She listens – No response

She touches me – Never wavers

She is always there

I feel her but there is no response

No positive – No negative

She is herself and moves where she wills

But I can

Say anything

Feel anything

Think anything

Want anything

It matters not to her, She is the wind

She is elemental, from the foundations

She was before me and will be after I am gone

She has seen my little story played out a thousand times

She is not troubled by my talk

She has heard it all before

I know that she knows

Yet I talk to Her and the moon and the stars and the sky

No response

I used to talk to God

It was similar

No response

But, I can feel the wind

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A Father’s Province – Audio

They have eyes of blue and hearts of gold.

Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.
They are of me, yet profoundly Other than me.

Their dependence decreases, moment by moment, choice by choice, as personality and character coalesces. Soul becomes known.  Small round bodies, unsure, become angular, strong and elegant.

Hints of the ancestors glimpsed, reflected in appearance,
posture, and mannerism.
Shadows of their mother and I emerge as different facets turn,
reflected in the light of their living.

See the man arise beneath the surface of the boy.
Hints of the woman foreshadowed in the girl.
Each unique and other worldly as a snowflake,
yet familiar as my own breath.

I am startled to recognize their autonomy –
their separateness from me.
And in that sacred space between the roles we play out in Time, flashes of their glory leave me awed.

They are my equal yet better than I.

Recognition of their immortality, the deity inherent in their volition saddens, yet brings strange comfort.  I grieve the blow to my ego.

I have much less dominion over them than I imagine,
yet I am greatly more important to them than I know.

They are neither damned by my weakness
nor necessarily elevated by my substance.

They are free and I am humbled.

I am Daddy to these three souls, at least for now.

And within the bandage of Time they are to me what they can be to no other and I am to them what no other can be.

While inhabiting the boundaries of this dressing we play out appointed roles.
Yet in Eternity we will have had and shall ever be One.

They have eyes of blue and hearts of gold.

Those have been and will ever be constant through the metamorphosis of flesh, circumstance, and experience.

Those same eyes which gazed up to me at the dawn of their journey will look down upon me at the ending of mine.

And yet our hope holds fast that when Time is finally swallowed by Eternity we will then know as we have been known.

We will recognize and finally comprehend the glory
of the everlasting souls with which we have journeyed.

Hearts pure, refined, and utterly alive.

Then together we can all play once more in the presence of the One who has watched over us all.

Your Daddy loves you very much.

But, I love you more.

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The Offering – Audio

child's hands

I re-submit this to go along with my recent thoughts on Christmas, Grace, and how one might be led down a blind ally seeking God or truth in doing.

With up-lifted hands I hold my best.
I offer it to you.
With trembling I await your acceptance of my gift
With trembling I dread your rejection.

I am in need. I am broken and out of my brokenness
I have fashioned my offering.
I have pieced it together with much pain and trembling
hoping to please you.

Now it is all that I have.
Every good thing in me has been
made manifest and resides in my gift.
I await your judgment.

As you approach I am borne aloft in anticipation
of your response.
My hopes walk the razors edge between your
delight and your disappointment.

I am reeling! You walked past my gift as if
it were not there.
I was prostrate offering my sacred gift, that which
I had made for you.

I am punctured, humiliated before you.
I shrink, collapsing, naked and ashamed.
Ashes are all.
Ashes, decay, and dry barren dust.

You move into the wasteland of my soul.
Slowly and with great care you search.
Blowing away the ashes while your dirty hands
seek something in the wreck that I am.

My humiliation evaporates as I see that
you heed my filth less than you did my gift.
You find and hold a tiny ember still glowing
somehow beneath the rubble.

I rest like a child in your hands and
again offer my gift to you.
You smile, kiss my foolish head, and with
a magnet attach my gift to your refrigerator.

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The Search for You (Part 2)- Audio

I searched for you again today.
I strained to find you amidst the chaos of a world seething with disappointment, battered dreams, and fragile hopes.
Millions of souls crying out for the answer to their hearts’ deepest longings.

I looked down the well-worn paths, the familiar places where I’ve sought you before.

Nature’s beauty was dulled.
The crisp cool air on my face did not quicken my senses as before.
It was only cold.
The golden red light of the sunset did not dazzle me with its splendor.
The orb hung in only two dimensions, flat against the dull sky.
It only moved me to squint the brazen light from my eyes.

The sounds and rhythms of life around me seemed out of tune and dissonant with my pattern.
I felt a stranger to the world.
Out of place.
Out of joint.

The faces, the touch, the voices of friends and loved ones did not reach me.
They seemed only to intrude upon my search.
Words of love, comfort, even humor, irritated and sparked anger hidden beneath my smile.

Exhausted, hope failing, desperate for you.
Weeping from the anguish of my bitter longing.
Prostrate, face to the earth, search ended – unfulfilled.

At the end of my search, at the end of one last bitter breath, after one final look outward,

I paused –


My eyes sought a new path.
I slowly shifted my gaze.
As my eyes turned inward I was startled to discover your presence.
You were there where you have always been.
The wellspring of my heart was flooded with joy as I was filled with awareness of you.
You are a part of me, and I you.
I knew that which I have always known.
Nothing, no obstacle, no circumstance can separate me from you and you from me.
We exist together out of time.
We are eternal.
You and I will be always, even to the ends of the earth.

I found you today.

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