As I am a woman of the red moon cycle, these days before the full moon, I am entering a place that has for my entire adult life been one of isolation, loneliness, and despair. I now understand that I can purge this darkness through writing. I have been shown and told that the most beneficial action I can take for all beings, including this illusion of self, is to understand self, to go within, and to bring out the light. I have been told my path is not to reach enlightenment but to enlighten others. Though to even utter such a statement of this seems righteously bold and unworldly; yet, I mention that which I feel is necessity and nothing more.
There is so much inside of me that beckons to get out. And still there are these rooms that call out to me in illusion and tell me I am wrong; I am selfish; I am pride-filled; I am wanting only to be something I am not. I know these illusions for what they are. I recognize them as falsehoods; yet, in the time of the red moon cycle, I know they come out from their casings and haunt me.
I have been shown that both my shield and sword are my words; both the words given to me from what feels like above poured within, and from my faith. I have been shown that I no longer need fear what is neither here nor there: for fear is illusion dressed in the garbs of recognition, and nothing more. It is here only to serve as reminder and motivator, until no more is needed to serve. I understand this. And I undergo sufferings by choice to bring up what is within.
This seems to me surreal and nonexistence, as if I exist in a time of no time and no being. And in moments this seems ridiculous and contrary to whom I once was. But still there is a knocking in my soul that brings a force forward which I can only guess is meant to come forward.
I write within a state of wanting nothing, and needing nothing. The thought of recognition, hurting. There is a piece of self somewhere, though entirely displaced at this instant, who wants to be back somewhere else, anywhere but here. It is not fear; it is unfamiliarity. It is also familiar though, in a way that has the capacity to soothe the soul like heaven’s birthed salve. I am neither left hopeful nor wanting; I am neither determined nor distraught. I am in an in between place of eternity. I am in no room except the room of self, and here there is a gentle solitude, an outpouring of such sweetness.
I no longer think to impress; I no longer think to create; I just am. There isn’t the existence of outcome, for all is circular; and there isn’t the existence of pain, as I am lifted beyond the place of being. Here is where I am. I offer to you, or to us, what I see. Not because I long to take you there. Not because I want to be there, but because I am inside the house of windows peering out, and unless I break the glass, unless I pour out all that is overflowing and escape, I shall suffocate in my own space of being. And so I open the windows, one by one, the glass shattered less for self, but more so for the unbinding of selfhood.
Earthly knowledge reaches a point where it poisons the mind more than assists. That tipping point, leaves one overly burdened, weighed down and heavy in spirit. I am aware that many souls are unbalanced with an increased uneasiness. I see too, many veils have been lifted, in that more and more beings are beginning to realize that to escape the entanglement of our vastly expansive mind, we have no choice but to go into the vastness, for to remain separate is to remain alien in our own illusioned world. I think the pain of various given names is quite possibly the pain of breaking free from a structure that is recognized by the masses as truth, but recognized by self as false.
This is at least true for me; and in so being in itself enough to speak of. I cannot begin to explain the dynamic shift that has taken place. My mind now has the capacity to exist in a state of no fear. When I try to reattach to the concept of my “diagnosis” or other “labels,” I cannot think of such. In so much I cannot think of much more than the now. When I am pulled out of the now, I begin to feel an agonizing crushing pain at all levels that does not feel real any longer, but long ago illusion, feather-dusted away with the wind of my spirit. In having walked in the guidance of my angels and embraced them fully, I hear my own voice less, and hear the voice of spirit more.
For in all ways, I have now, in replace of this voice I would best describe as dictator, a gentle soothing league of guides, who slip in and out of my being, leaving within only more of my own fullness. In them I see nothing taken and nothing placed, only the returning from inside, as if brought from the core outward of what was there all along. There is no divine intervention in the slightest, and they would be the first to claim so; for in so remarking that I, of the light, am somehow marked for intervention while others are not, goes against the very light that pulls me forward.
If anything I am the unworthy one, choosing the option of creation for others over the option of gentle silent one. For I honor above all else the humble and the meek, the lost and the forsaken, the ones carved so deeply that their sorrow drips from their very flesh as blood from the cloth of a child birthed. For here they are laboring in their suffering to teach us of the greatness of faith and humility; and I, here in the spotlight suffer the sufferings of wanting to be nothing but the silenced meek. For in their nothingness they are the worthiest of all. It is thusly so, that in choosing to pick up my inner lantern and walk this path, I am choosing the path of the less wise and less loved, the one destined for persecution and false-discoveries; for how can one as me, unequipped to swim in uncharted waters bring up anything of value?
I fear, if fear were to be represented by the tug of my embracing heart, that to be me, in this way, is to most fervently be against everything I aim most apt to be. In being, at this moment, a tear could not express the mourning of self I am undergoing, and less than tear could do more greater. In being that I am who I am made to be, I am breaking who I want to be. And in this way spread out in pieces unaware of both the breaker and the fallings, scatterings of a replica of some self unknown and unfamiliar. Dare I say unwanted, if not forbade to do so.
There is no point to me, and yet I am thusly called to draw a point from here to there, with the markings of someone less filled with ink than filled with spirit. And so I ask for His guidance in all I do, and to bear witness to His hand alone; for fear I may cut off my own if so swayed by the dark voices that come. To be me, is to suffer immeasurably in a silence unspeakable in a world so deafened. And though I stand steadily and committed, I shake at the thoughts that will be created to protest me. And still I ask for this suffering to prove I am this nothing, though meek I not be. For how can I be that hand to the wicked and righteous, when my own hands bleed mirrored recognition. I beg you not to see me further, and to bid me farewell, so I may not grow less worthy or increased champion in your sight. As I know the creation you make of me shall be my idled death. I am but this one humble servant, on the bending of both knees, waiting for the pain to subside, and knowing more is to come. And still I wish it so. I see now the way through, and in this way, I am free.
Here is my offering; this is not me; and it is me; it is where I can choose to stand when I wish to stand or choose to fall when I wish to fall. There isn’t any I am pointing, and there isn’t any truth, only the gatherings of the crumbs from someone who is again, neither here nor there, but somewhere in between. Judge her as you will, if this so be your intention, but in your graciousness forgive me still. For if you are to be judger may I instill upon you the opportunity for remittance through the offering of forgiveness. For in this way you leave me kindly pardoned. I feel I have no place to even say this much, as to beckon you forward, in my state of grace, is enough, in supposing.
When one “falls,” he or she might find themselves in a variety of states. Here I will attempt to explain, some, yet only a small portion of my experiences. It is vital to understand that none of this is right or wrong, correct or even established, and merely what I have seen through my own limiting viewing.
Nothing is created with exactness and no truth is the right truth. All truths that lead to the light require no restrictions, no tests, no guidelines, and no answers to be given; all that lead to the light is already the light; and all who walk toward the light, are already in the light.
They are only blinded by illusion, and even the prospect of illusion itself. As anything that is naught, is unexplainable, and anything unexplainable counters the safe-haven of mind. Yet, in stepping back, in tipping the scale if you will, and uncovering the layer of sediment into the window of self, one can peer, if only for an instant into the light and see eternity.
This takes much guidance from self and self alone. No one is made better guide than the own being that occupies the very house one shall enter, for he is both the welcoming greeter and the visitor all in one; whom better accustomed to show the way to eternity than the familiar hand of recognition.
Some wanting structure of sorts, will pull in all types of substitutions to literally lend a hand, but in so doing, the houses entered will be merely remnants of self and recollection; nothing entirely filling, all that leave the sleeping party thirsty. There is only one way in, and it is right before you, inside and out, standing so firmly grounded and in clear site that your eyes are blinded by the absolute glory. To extinguish the flame, distinguish self, and bring self out into the open to see what exists: for where you hide is both unbearable and unkind. A place between here and there that you think breathes, but only suffocates you with intoxicating illusion. Whether this be of grandeur or grotesqueness, makes no difference, as both are equally false. For to think you stand erect a perfect being or kneeled and flawed , in both states you are equally in denial, trapped in the paintings of one who painted self invisible to self.
To see your endless beauty you only need pull yourself out into the darkness, into the greatest fears, into the happenings that you think are demons and dark, and expose the invisible self to the masses. In this way your fear will be daunted in forgiveness of self and your house will be lit in a light that you can see as pure reflection. Look not now into the glasses of your own being, until you have witnessed the shadows of the darker self that hides. Here, only here, is your answer; in the release of every secret that binds you. Here in the unveiling of fear, love shall greet you and recognize you as kindred one, and sweep you into the bounty that is undoubtedly you. For this is clearly where you are meant to be, no less dusted off than risen from the grounds of where you labored in illusion.
In sharing where I have traveled I present variable places, not as actual vehicles of transportation, but as remote viewings of possibilities, that may or may not lead you out of the labyrinth of self. Here is where the self has stepped out of hiding, where the shedding has become, and where the light is embracing; here is one of the limitless processes of experiences; and anyone who claims his way the right way, is falsely trapped in illusion.
You will know the shepherd by the sheep from where he leads. For the sheep will lead one blindly into the thickness of illusion, causing more confusion than clarity, and the shepherd shall lead astray onto his own forged path. For you are the only one carrying the staff and the way; the only one with the ability to lead self to self. In this way be weary of the traveler who sets you down with answers, for here you will remember the burden of mortal truth.
In taking in these words, and all words, rely on the intention and hear of the deliverer and the receiver, more than the unnecessary words scattered in sequence, for nothing lives within this illusion of scripture; nothing but the souls of the inhibitors’ who enter. Take thee caution then, not in the waning of the meaning, but in the comfort of thy own being. If this is necessary, you will know; and if it is equally undesirable, you shall also know. But remember what you hold in thought becomes thought, and what you create this to be becomes to be. In this way, you can cherish all or none. As always, the choice is yours.
And here we enter together the travelings of one; one set out not to discover or enlighten, but to only show what is drowning within her own being. These are the waters of her truth, and her truth alone. Nothing unbearable, but nothing rendering deep relief either. For she is still a bearer of humanity; still more broken than you can even imagine; for it is in her breaking, and willingness to break; that the true humility is formed, and the judge in your rendered asleep, for the ache it takes, to carry you asunder from this world to the next.
Here in my renderings, I offer you naught what you seek; but what is sewn through the very edges of my spirit; the golden thread that releases me from the sufferings of abundance, and bleeds me dry into full awareness. I bid you farewell, as we enter now, for I shall be lost, as the prisoner discovered, trapped in the place of capture and wanting nothing more than to escape.
These are the places I have seen, and I have witnessed; you will note a shifting of energy, as I cannot walk fully in this place of nonexistence.
The Forest: Here I have followed through the dense and dark terrain of trees harboring vines that wind in endless circles of eternity; I am not quite floating, as I am not quite there. And I worry where the obsoleteness of being leads. I search through shadows and empty abandoned cloaks, all black, and all bleak, wanting to garb myself in something sufficient, when sufficiency does not exist. Here is too, the forest of rules, the measures and reasons, man has invented to live by. There are so many that the forest rains down letters of destruction, pounding on my head and forcing me to hide in the caves that too float and carry me above, beyond and within the very forest. All spins with the coming of storms, and all cleanses with the coming of water. I am left sometimes in dynamic juxtapositions: ought I venture forward or just remain in the cave hidden and unseen, covered in a variety of garments and cloaks; undiscovered by the masses, but discovered onto self. This is one of the loneliest place to dwell, within the dark of self, with in the dark of wanting to be naked, by feeling the need to cover up. In the place where I have discovered who I am not, but still do not know who I am. An avenue in which I am afraid to take on any role, any rules, or any way, because I fear I will get lost in the forest and never come out. This is the easiest way back to burden of the world, and surely the quickest. As the heart is trialed, the soul, the memories flung back as if all of life were pure illusion. The past, and future, and present merge, like the clouds gathering for presentation before the thunder. There is this calmness that indicates approaching danger. And then this danger that indicates approaching calmness. All is twisted, and brought up into a whirlwind of nothingness. I become out of spirit breath, unable to decipher how I came into the forest and how to get out, as there is no looking forward or back. Here is where I weep, in mourning for the life I thought I had, for the person I thought I was, for the pains I held onto for what seemed like time, but wasn’t time. It is here, inside the state of eternity, I am shown the heavens and stars, and also the darkest of things. I am shown the individualized hearts divided and fed to the many, I am shown the many fed to the individualized hearts. All duality is birthed here, inside this forest that seems to be only a representation of past self, as no future self will ever exist here. This is an impossibility, as the future self will know the ways of the forest, and may choose to visit, but only to hold the hand of the past visitor. Here concepts of the illusion of time are lost. It is hinting of hell, but not hell, hinting of heaven, but not heaven. There is this blissful-suffering that transpires. A connection so close to future self, or future purpose, that the entity I be, whomever I be, floating through this time, begs for more suffering. There is nothing to describe this in terms anyone can understand, and each will experience this differently. But for me, and me alone, this is the forest of recognition; it is the coming out of self to face the self that was. A rebirthing and a reconnecting to the light within and above and everywhere, that is so entirely painful and magnificent all at once, that I crave the coming of suffering over and over again. In this way I am fed, through the ecstasy of pain. It is not martyrdom, nothing close to this; it is the sensation of being alive, of being pieced together bit by bit by the maker. It is excruciating, but brilliant and magnificent. Here in the floating forest, I delve into the deepest agony and come up with the diamonds of self. Nothing is more endearing and more engulfing. There is a richness that permeates the soul of souls. And an agonizing scream that cries out from the inner depths that breathes: Feed me, crush me, make me. And then here is no self here. Only this pounding and recreation, until here is the end of the dark forest; here is the beginning of light.
The Valley: This is a deep, cavernous valley where the peaks of mountain tops beckon but are unreachable in my current state of withered. I am stuck in a quick-sand of self, unable to pull myself up and out of whom I used to be. This is worse than living with the burdens of being, because before I rode through life in what can best be described as blissful-ignorance-cankered-and-encaged-in-fear—like a state of unhappiness, earmarked and masked by brief moments of false-joy. Knowing where I am now, and where I once was, is equivalent to awakening from a dream of a prior existence. In looking back I remember the dream but I don’t want to live in a dream any longer. But at the same time I want to go back and erase my current memory, despite the risks of returning to false-joy; only so I don’t have to know what I know. This knowing is the valley. It is the beginning of awakening onto self. It is excruciatingly painful. And much of life and my way of life is reviewed and dissected. I can be asleep in the valley, I can be awake; sometimes I rest here for what seems to be eternity, and perhaps is. Inside the valley as I sleep I see myself as I was, and wish to be trapped in the dream again. I understand I am no longer that person, but I don’t want to wake up.
The Desert: This is where I enter when I need humility. I haven’t figured out how to not do this, and don’t know if I ever will. When the slightest sting of what I call “dark virtues” enters my mind, I feel the immediate need to not so much punish myself, but to self-correct the self that doesn’t exist. I feel a sensation of a giant energetic barrier. I am not hurting, but perhaps wrapped up in an umbilical cord of remembrance, the light of knowledge shot through me to remind me that I am enough and that all is well; a flash and another flash of where I have been and that all is as is. In some ways, this is and is not, like falling into a pool of water and am drowning in my own thoughts of self, sinking lower and lower as I try to rely on me to get back up and breathe; but then while fighting and hurting, I remember the path, and I just let go, and I shoot back up to the light, and all is well; this is an excruciating process, akin to entering the darkest aspects of self, revisiting again and again, and then wiping out self entirely. I go through this several times a day, whenever a thought crosses my mind that pulls me to pain and energetic blockage. I can’t do or think now about anything without this happening. I am kind of like my own automatic, plugged-in, fish tank filter, I suppose, continually being recycled from the murky to the clean. But then I release out a thought, and have to filter aspects of self back through the system. I know I have used multiple images and metaphors, as there is no way to accurately describe this. It is not just what I have labeled the “dark virtues,” that bring me here, but also any form of attachment that leads to me suffering. And I hesitate to even call it suffering, as I am acutely aware of what is happening, how it is happening, and why it is happening. The pull to enter in this space when I travel to far away from the light and focus back on self; it is like my safety net, reminding me to remain constant in my endeavors to release desire; for I know enough now, that to return to where I once was would be the death of me: In that in finding self again, I would ultimately lose self. For me, at this moment, attachment indicates attachment to all things and people: Attachment to the future, to the past, to emotions (high or low), to outcomes, to the dark virtues, to wanting, to needing, to self-serving causes. And especially attachment to other people’s actions; I think perhaps it is called the desert because I often feel isolated in my being, separate from the others, and much as an observer of life staring at an oasis of illusion. If ever there were mirages present, it is here, as all that seems real that isn’t real, all related to attachment and “the dark virtues,” are first seen as real from the distance, and then on closer examination become the very demons that enter the formless self and cleanse the inhabitants within. Anything and everything that does not keep me in what feels to be a balanced state of grace, generally comes crawling out of the Desert.
The Desolate Corner: This is the place of no nature. Nothing nurturing. Nothing real. But everything seems real. It is entrapment in totality. A place where thoughts slither in and out like snakes and thick-skinned hatchlings. Nothing is recognizable and never will be. It is foreign land, not created by the light. If darkness exists, it exists here. It is illusion in true form, and all the bleakness and blank-offerings of illusion gathered. Here there is no hope, no answers, no recourse. Here is the house of chambers of no self and no non-self. Here I exist but I don’t, for it is a funhouse of illusion, no less a structure than the old self I was. It seems real, but I know it is not; like awakening in the middle of the dream with a knowingness that all was a nightmare but then slipping back to sleep. I still sweat. I still sting. I still search for the way out, but I know I was just awake and all will return. When I was younger I was out of my body when this happened and could not return. I was horrified and separate and terrified. I wanted home and knew I was not home but transported to a place of nonexistence. It feels like limbo but less than limbo. It feels like a type of torturous hell, only without the bliss of the forest. There is no pleasantry, no benefit, no refinement capable of happening. It is stagnant and even beyond stagnant; as stagnant would serve purpose. This is the corner of no purpose. Nothing can be gained here now or evermore. Perhaps it was a place of enticement and trickery once, or of temptation and need, but now it is nothing. I can feel this and know this, but still it exists. Each time I visit the walls fall down further and further, and I see the illusion for what it is. Here is where I sit for only fleeting moments, if that at all. It is when this haunting voice comes trying to pull me in beyond fear. For fear in and of itself is not dangerous, not destructive, it is pure illusion, overcome by the opening to love. No this is beyond fear, like the spawner of fear, the false-creator himself, coming inside without welcome, and calling me forward. Here I can stand for only a brief amount, as I recognize his self-created hatred quickly. Each moment I am alive, I recognize him faster and faster, and there seems to be a time I sense in which I will not recognize him, as I will have pushed him out of my realm of existence. This is his deepest fear: to not exist. In this way he seems liken to the ego, and all the “evil” ego creates in the world. And he whispers what seems to be falsehoods, such as: If it were not for me, then how would light exist? If I was not here, then how would you be? If I disappear, then who shall be your teacher? But I recognize these as lies now, because all things from love and light fill me with an inner recognition of beauty reflected out to the world and from the world back into me. All things from the light leave me with an inner peace and bear good fruit. Here in this twisted illusion, I am left penetrated by toxin and doubt; I am thrown off my path; I am fooled. Always, the falsehood is uncovered and the direction the DARK points to is the wrong way. Always. There is never any help to be found, as much he claims there is. It is the opposite with the light, with my angels, with spirit; here, within the light, always what they speak is a truism. Whatever is shown occurs. Whatever is spoken nurtures. Whatever is taught is without judgment or pain or fear. Whatever is given is found to in the gifts of Holy words in other manifestations. Here, in this place of illusion-dark the soul is tricked into thinking he is being tested, when he is not; he is merely being formed into something he is not: that of the dark. Here is where one might be trapped, unless he believes in his light and the light of others. Because I have a faith so abounding and see the light clearly, I cannot be bothered here much. I recognize this instantly, this coming of insanity turned retched. I feed off of the light now, and when darkness intervenes the taste is of bitter-emptiness. Inside this place now I do battle. I invite the dark to tempt me, to test me, to hurt me, and I win each time. If I am hated, I love the person who hates. If I am criticized, I love the person who criticizes. If I am told I am wrong, I turn to my Holy books and Holy saints. If I am told I am not humble, I go to the desert and cleanse myself. If I am told I am imagining the light, I embrace love more fully, and do acts of sweet goodness. Soon, this place will be gone, for tempting me is only inspiring more good works. Soon I will enter another corridor of awakening; and with the dark no longer at my side, I shall hear more clearly the angels.
The Room of Light: This is a room that I currently stand in a lot. It is a room of white, not suffocating in its smallness, but not quaint in its vastness. I am in the center, and all the walls are millions of words scribed in black, in all different forms and languages; some ancient, some modern, and some unrecognizable, more liken to symbols from another time. I stand here in the center and take in what I see. Here there is a sense I am being taught but also being untaught. I am shown that there is truth in accepting there is no truth. I am shown that what I take in matters and doesn’t matter. Here is a room of opposites and opposing forces, but none against the other. In some ways, many of the words can blend together to bring new truths that have been there all along, just seemingly hidden. I stand here not in awe or in recognition, but simply as the observer, more liken to an empty vessel lacking all judgment, interpretation and emotion; yet, able to comprehend, decipher, and be filled. This is interesting to approach this room and be in this room. There is no choice. But there is also choice. I can choose but I cannot. There is a restriction of regular understandings, the mind lifted onto itself; so anything from the walls can be poured in. But the words, from the white, and from the light are purity and purified, and never harm the vessel I seem to be. This is The Room of Light.
The Room of Illusion: This is a room of everything I have ever gathered, scattered and painted across the floors in unruly fashion. The room hurts my ears and eyes; the knowledge screaming out at me. It seems to be the place all the heaviness from before went to. Only now it does not burden me; it only reminds me of the pain of clinging. When I try to breathe in this room I feel stifled. In reading of certain spiritual practices or religions, I begin to suffocate at a certain point. It as if I am climbing this ladder up and up, learning and learning, understanding and understanding, and then the ladder doesn’t end, but here is a giant wall. It hurts; not like I need to be filtered in the desert. Not like the suffering of the forest, but like I am entering something that does not resonate with my being. Usually this seems to be dogma, a strict rule, an exact way of being. I am taught in this room, through the energetic pain of blockage, that a certain way of abiding to a spiritual practice or religion is attachment. I am shown that I cannot climb the ladder without attaching. And so I descend, bringing with me the fruit of what I have learned, and leaving behind all that seems to be invented by man, and not by the light. The markers seem very clear and relevant to me, as if the ones of light shine and bring me higher upon the ladder, and the ones of man push me down. I do not mind the pushing; I do not feel the need to get beyond the barrier, and continue upward. I have been shown my path clearly. There are no ladders and there is no up. This is all symbolic energy teaching me through the illusion of self. I recognize this fully. In being outside of self I am able to travel inside of self, into the rooms I am creating to understand the wisdom of light I am receiving. All is in pictures, and I think in pictures, so I can process my understandings. I see this; there is no fear in this room, but there is a discomfort of knowing these words (rules, structures, illusions, ways) once trapped me and kept me grounded to the earth. They are now neither friend nor foe, as nothing appears friend or foe in my world any longer. All are equal. And all are light. The only distaste is found in the one place of dark illusion; one in which I no longer address as even real. Here in this room sometimes I become stuck, as the literature, the scrolls, the books, the tablets, or what have you, whatever has collected and formed appears contradictory in terms and sometimes full of judgment. When walking in the light any form of judgment hurts: judgment of self, of another, or of anything. So to stand in this room hurts, as I am judging what is before me. I stand in this room often. I am judging why and how and when and where these rules were established and who had the right to give them and scribe them. I am working inside my mind so many contradictions of teachings that my head hurts. Here at this moment is best to pray or ask my angels for guidance. For they always have the answer. I am then unraveled from the bondage of man-made words, and set free. The room vanishes, and the rules and ways pounding in my heart dissipate. Again I can breathe freely, walk freely, and give freely. Here is where I enter to refine myself by choice. To revisit aspects of my travels that were neither necessary nor unnecessary, but if I so choose can serve as refinement. Often, when I am in this room, I am directed to an exact quote, passage, or spiritually nurturing soul which gives me the answers that release me from judgment of self. For when I judge myself based on teachings that do not resonate with the whole of who I am, I become weak, uninspired, siphoned-free of passion and desire. I become a shell of the “person” I was meant to be and how I was meant to walk in this world. In so doing I let go of the hand of my calling, and become lost into self, susceptible to the illusion of torture.
For this reason alone, it is important that I recognize that no word spoken or written by man is in true form and in true truth; everything has been filtered through the mortal mouth and mortal hands. The only truth comes from the seeker within, the light within, when he narrowly walks the path that has no ending and no beginning, a parallel path divided by a distinct golden-sprinkled line, with one foot in eternity and one foot grounded to earth.