441: Light Worker

sun trail

This just came to me….

Light Worker

1. You have had an undeniable desire since childhood to serve and give back to the world. No matter the avenue you partake, you find yourself once again in service to others.

2. You give your all in hopes of being seen. You long for connection, for understanding, to be removed from an overbearing since of isolation. Recognizing you are part of a greater whole, you wish to contribute your part to make sense of the world and your surroundings. You are haunted by a recognizable desire to make the world better, and yet accept, to a greater degree, that all is as is meant to be. As you are part of a delicate union, you recognize yourself in others. In longing to be seen, you are in actuality longing to unravel the world around you, to pour your understanding of self into the understanding of another.

3. You give and give and give, and know that you are giving without expectation or anything in return. You do not long for fame and attention or monetary compensation, and find the ways of the material world somewhat off-putting. You recognize yourself in others, in their temptations to dive into the illusion of want and the collection of trophies. Yet, you desire not these things at the deepest level of self. You know your good works benefit the whole when they are released from attachment, need and craving.

4. You substantiate your surroundings, continually making sense of your world and your place in the world, diving within to bring up the parts of you that are evidence of truth, justice, and love. You reflect upon your goodness and the goodness of the world, and shed the parts of you that are no longer needed. You do not punish yourself or corner yourself, but discern with self-acceptance and understanding what you have collected that is ready for release.

5. You wear your heart on your sleeve. Your soul on your sleeve. Your essence on your sleeve. You are authentic and true to your core. You become confused when others seem to be waiting for you to shed the layers of pretense and expose hidden motives. There are no motives beyond wanting to contribute and connect, to serve, and to alleviate the suffering that comes when the whole is not living as one.

6. You desire to be heard. You desire to be held, embraced, loved, and taken in by a source unknown to you. You want to return to a home somewhere that you cannot find but search for each moment of your life.

7. You are awaken to the ways of the world and to the world beyond what is here. You understand the complexities of the spiritual texts and the complexities of the spiritual condition. You embrace all beings, all sects, all religions, all people. There is nothing that causes you anger, except your own emotion of fear. You readily recognize fear inside of you and fear inside of others.

8. You are greatly affected by the soul of someone who is suffering. You can feel their pain and long to help. You can often see ways in which the person would benefit, but know enough of what not to do and say. You wait. You are patient with the world, but at times, many times become forlorn, confused, and torn open—exposed. You are greatly confused when people accuse you of being disloyal, dishonest, false, or unkind. You pride yourself in kindness, and the very pride eats at you, for pride is a discomfort to your soul.

9. You wonder if beneath everything there is this person who is unkind and not nice, even though she hasn’t shown herself to you. You sense there is a darker side, but you know that you are good, you are pure, you are meant to do good in the world. You worry when another points the finger at you in analysis and cold-hearted criticism, because you feel the penetrating anger of the onlooker. You feel their distrust and hatred. The feelings of intense vengeance pierce you and you wonder how people could exist who have such harshness inside. You wonder if you are the harshness as well, and try to wash away this part of you.

10. You are the light, and you know others are the light. You sense this in everything that is you and everything that is another. You know there is a dark as well, and you sense this, too. The dark comes when you are close to breakthrough or reaching a new plateau of service. The dark comes through the shadow of others’ actions and the shadow of circumstances. Yet, you continue to fight through the pain.

11. With every trial you come out stronger and wiser and brighter, even though you thought for certain the last event would surely be the end of your journey. Your suffering is non-ending, yet, you endure and endure. You know no other way to be except as your true self, your loving self, and your giving self. Nothing of this world makes sense to you that does not equate to love, honor, respect and union. You are mystified and unnerved by violence and injustice. You feel misplaced. You feel lost. But above all, through everything, you feel hope.

440: Angel Tears

There is an invisibleness that comes with being me. It is unfamiliar and familiar at the same time, each time rising in me somewhat reformed, yet, still the same.

I am that I am, and then I am not. I am this woman, and I am this man-woman combined beneath. I am the sun and the land, the air that I take in, and the waste I eliminate, through various means: my breath, my being, the cocoon I will once be.

As in time rewinding and returning me to the state of unreason, where logic is dismissed and gently slides out the regions of the dissipating mind. And here I shall be the cocoon erased, the beginning point and the end, as one, withered-not in my shell of fragility exposed, but open to the region beyond the space that once played host to the shadowed cage of self.

I see this. I know this. I see that there is not time, there is not space, there is nothing but what the imaginary state of being creates. And in this I wobble some, in this reckoning of something I cannot feasibly grasp, but that still continues to trickle through my outstretched fingers—as water to the thirsty—absorbed, understood, drifting and disappearing again.

I am what I am, and yet I am not. And for any man to see this, to really see this, is to feel lost and isolated at the start, and still very much alive in a world of spinning chaos. To see this, is to behold all the answers and construct all the abstract causeways, and in the same seeing to know that all paths lead to none other than the original place of standing.

I am this grand inventor seeping of potentiality and ideas, with no place to release, less I return to the place of exact thought again—the chasing of tail, spinner of tales, in one. I am circular in my meanderings, forced by my uninterrupted inhibition to want to glide out of this discomfort onto the ice of discovery, only to discover the waters have broken open, and I am once more drowning in a place of illusion, unfounded in appearance and ruptured of all substantial reality.

It is eruption, in the sense I can detect the elements of my own self fading into obliviousness of juxtaposed thoughts. How I be such an explosive touch of truth, and still bathe in denial of the actualities.

I am. I am. I am. I try to decipher these words, and they feel like nuggets, gold nuggets, in my mouth. I chew and they are pebbles. I cough and they spurt out into the world in which I know nothing of. I am here and I am not, and from where I be, I watch as the doorman and the moving pictures transport within and without, following the opening and closing of the door. No leader, only the revolving avenue exposed, erased, exposed, erased…stepping through a labyrinth of uncertainty, and certain dismissal of what is.

How to live in such a constant state of recognition, and to believe in anything as subtle as hope, eludes the part that hides. And, still, she waits, this fire-driven wand of desire, pleading and placating to the eternity to expand, as the womb rewound, to suck her in, some warship turned peaceful, the latches speared open forever, her essence returned to the source that dropped her so sparingly to the tumbling tremors of disemboweled earth.

I crumble here in my universe forgotten, in a land that is not mine, is not home, is not where I am meant to be. How I sink in the soils of stench, forging through the forest of the misshapen shadows in search of familiar. My wings, soiled, by the ash of my own tears, drowning in the grey-stone of my weary heart. I am not made for this land of make-believe, where the games rip apart at the tender souls. I am not made for this game at all. And still I am here, in this broken place, searching for the answers, through the kaleidoscope of illusion torn through.