Magic All Around

"There is magic all around; the language of the world, the language of the soul.  I have felt its caress.  I have danced in it and felt its breath on my cheek.  It is energy and it dances.
I cannot hold it, nor bottle it, nor label it, nor give it a name but it is real and everywhere, like the air we breathe, the water we swim in.  It does not stand still, it will not be owned but it is there, always.
You could call it "the stream".  Have you been touched by its magic? Do you feel it calling to you? Can you follow its dance, hear its music, hear its words of wisdom, and let them flow through you and open your heart?
Dance in the stream, come dance in the stream..."

Journey to Herself

Where am I?  Who am I?  Why am I here?  I can feel something calling to me.  A longing.  It's called to me all my life.  In every moment.  From the moment I wake until the moment I rest my head at night.  What is it?
It's why I'm never here; because I know I should be 'there'.  It calls to me to come.  But I don't know where 'there' is - I keep looking.  I keep searching.  It keeps calling to me.  It never leaves me alone.
"You are the truth you seek."
A voice of wisdom spoke to her, from where she did not know.  Not even a voice, but a knowing, a thought, a feeling that entered her consciousness.
"Deep within you is your truth.  The truth you seek.  You will not find it outside.  All those voices, those distractions - clamouring for attention.  They make demands, they tell you what to do, who to be - don't listen.  Quieten them, quieten them all and make room for silence for then you will hear your voice.  Your voice is your guide, listen - it is the only one that knows who you truly are."
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Everytime she dared to dream, dared to hope, something came along and blocked her.  They were not imaginary situations.  They were real life, in your face, pressing situations that demanded that she dropped all her dreams and do what needed to be done.  She was a kind soul, she cared about others and she was willing to put them before herself.
She still had her dreams.  They nagged at her from the corners of her mind but life seemed to have other plans.  She watched on as her friends flew in the sky and she wished she could join them but life had chained her feet to the ground.
She gave up looking at the sky.  It only taunted her.  Her head dropped and her eyes settled on the chains around her feet.  What good were dreams to her now?  What good was it to be reminded of the life she felt sure she was meant to live?  These chains bound her and restricted her.
Inside, she felt so alive.  Her spirit free and soaring.  So much love in her heart and enthusiasm for life.  For the details of life.  She saw love in the most unexpected of places.  Her spirit so huge, she could feel herself expanding into all that life really was.  Yet the clouds that hung around her turned everything grey.  The sunshine was hers.  She knew it.  If she could only shake off these shackles.  Blow away the clouds.  The sunshine would come back to her.  But the more she struggled to break free, the more the chains gripped around her legs.  She gave up and sunk to the ground.  Her heart so heavy.  Not even any tears left to cry.  Just empty and drained.
She wanted to escape.  She wanted to be free.  She thought about dying but she knew she would never do that - giving in was unacceptable.  She just needed to find hope again.  To find the strength within herself to push away the obstacles, to rip apart the chains and walk the path she knew she was always meant to walk.  For it always called to her, even in her darkest days, it never left her side.  Always whispering, always there, always encouraging her to set herself free and live the life she was given.  And be the person that she was.

Deep Deep Deep

Deep deep deep in the forest of who I think I am.  Twisted branches, links and paths and memories of who I thought I was and the sunshine shines down through and lights up the floor and I know nothing, absolutely nothing anymore except that I am alive.  The things in my head, the memories, the thoughts and stories all stop when I smell the trees and the dampness of the ground.  This is life.  This.  This which I am breathing in.  All else is somewhere else imagined.  Somehow I know now that I am a soul, a spirit, an essence and the rest is just some kind of game.

Day Dreaming by the Lake

"You know what Becky, your mind is a computer."
"Huh?  What are you talking about now, Ben?"
"Well all these things you worry about.  You could just forget about them you know.  And start using the full power of your mind."
"Huh?  What are you on about?  How can I forget about them?"
"Because they only exist in there."  He pointed his finger to her head and then pressed his finger to the middle of her forehead.
She brushed his finger away, annoyed at the way he always seemed to make her problems seem so small.
"No, I'm serious Becks.  It's all in there.  That's where your power lies if only you could see it."
He leaned over and picked at a few strands of grass.  Gazing out over the  lake, he watched as the birds landed on the water's surface, sending ripples across the sheen.
"Oh Ben, you always say these grand ideas.  As if life is that simple.  There's a whole world out there you know - and people.  What power have I got?  All these things you say are just in my head, well, they're real.  They are real.  It's not just my imagination."
He smiled at the frustrated confused look she wore on her face.  They were almost the same age but he often felt so much older than her.  He wanted to protect her and teach her about the secrets he knew but she was so stubborn sometimes.
"Let me show you," he said as he wiped a lock of hair away from her eyes.
"Show me what?" she was getting annoyed.
"Just lie down, Becks.  Trust me," he laughed, "Just for five minutes, trust me."
She flopped herself down on the blanket and crossed her arms.
"No, not like that," he laughed, "Relax.  Put your arms down by your side and close your eyes."
She followed his orders although he could see her reluctance.
"Now tell me one of your biggest fears.  Something that worries you a lot."
She lay there silent for a while, thinking.  More birds landed on the lake, his eyes followed as fresh ripples spread out in waves.  The sun beating down on his face.
"I'm scared of not being loved."
He nodded, although she could not see him.  She was being honest with him.  This was good.
"Okay Becks.  Let me take you on a journey in your mind.  Think of it like a day dream or a story.  Only, you are the central character and what happens is real.  Whatever you feel in there stays with you and you let it in.  Okay?"
"Okay," she shifted her body and he could see she was becoming more relaxed.
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For twenty minutes he lay by her side, taking her on a guided journey to a world where she felt loved.  She never said a word for the entire time.  She let his words wash over her and was transported to the world he had conjured for her in his mind.  She felt so safe and peaceful there.  Her cares melted away in the sun.  And then gently, he guided her back to the day and the grass and the sunshine around them.
"Becks?"
"Yes?" she said dreamily.
"You are loved."
She opened her eyes and looked at him.  He was leaning over her face, screening out the sun.  He looked so radiant, her heart felt so full of love for him.  He had just given her a gift she would treasure forever.  A world she could return to, time and time again, whenever she needed to replenish.

House of the Heart

This house was her past.  She didn't want to come  back to it but she was determined to set things straight.
She walked up the driveway, keys in her hands, a different woman to the one that had once  lived there.  She held her head high.

The door opened to a strange sort of serenity.  No-one here but her.  She shut the door behind her and stood for a moment facing the dusty hall.  Sunlight streamed in from the small stained glass window at the back of the house.  She loved that window.  So full of colour.  Yellows and poppy reds, lit up the hall.

She leaned back against the front door for a moment.  Propping herself up as she prepared mentally for what she needed to do.  It was probably going to take her all day.

She decided to tackle it room by room.  To her right, led the staircase to the rooms upstairs.  To her left, lay the living room and further on, the kitchen.  The garden lay at the back, but she didn't need to do anything there.

She walked to the kitchen and put down her bag and draped her coat on the chair.  She placed the keys on the table and stood, hands on hips, hesitating.
"Come on Mary, room by room, you can do this," she urged herself as she let out a big sigh.

The stairs creaked as she made her way upstairs.  She wondered why she was trying to be so quiet.  No-one was here.  Was she scared of waking up ghosts?

The first room flooded her with memories.  As if a movie had suddenly switched itself to play in her mind.  Some were good and others painful.  She let them play themselves out until they stopped and then she sat on the bed, immersed in the peace that now filled the room - so different to all those years ago.  And then she spoke out loud, with no-one but the room to hear her, saying all the things she'd wished she'd said, saying all the things that needed to be said, until at last she felt at peace.

The words were between her and the room, for the memories they shared, for their ears only; this room was her past.  She got up and left the room, took one last look and then closed the door behind her, locking it with the key.

Outside the house, the world was now waking up and starting to go about the day.  Children left for school.  Cars left the driveways.  Old people tended their plants.  She could hear the gentle drone of life outside.

Inside, Mary continued to visit every room and perform the same ritual.  Closing each door firmly behind her when peace was made.

She felt emotionally tired after visiting all the rooms on the top floor and went back down to the kitchen.  Pulling out sandwiches she had in her bag, she replenished her energy and laughed to herself.  A laugh she hadn't laughed in years and not about anything in particular, just an outburst of relief.  She felt so much lighter and carefree, she almost wanted to do a little jig, right there in the middle of the kitchen.

She looked round the room and felt love for this old house that had housed so many of her memories.  She did love it but she had to leave it behind today.  She knew that and was glad.  The memories it held had weighed her down for so long and now she was finally getting free.

She smiled as she gazed out over the top of her coffee cup.  It was right, the time was right for her now to leave it all behind.  And make a new start.

She resumed her mission and entered the living room.  She sat on the couch and waited as all the old movies flooded her mind.  So many wonderful memories!  And then the sad ones came, and she sat with them too and let them play out - as the tears poured down her face she let them.  Every kind of emotion she felt, she allowed to wash through her like water through a pipe.  Until the time when the tears stopped flowing and then, just as before, she spoke to the room and said everything she needed to say to make peace with her past.  And then walked out and closed the door behind her.  Until the time when the last door had been closed.

And now it was time for her to leave.  Her heart felt heavy and light at the same time.  She stood in the hall once more and looked for the last time at the stained glass window, burning the image in her mind.
"Good bye dear house," she whispered and turned to open the front door. 

Tears filled her eyes as she caught the last glimpses of sunlight for the day.  She locked the door and walked firmly away, up the driveway to her car.  "Thank you," she whispered to the house and looked straight ahead of her, never looking back.

As her car drove away a cat sauntered across the gravel, stopping briefly to sniff at the pile of chains that lay in the middle of the driveway.  It sat down and watched the lady drive off and then began to clean itself.  All was well.

Superbeing

Everything she felt and thought and knew intuitively was right. But she had been taught that everything she was inside was wrong. She had been conditioned to not trust herself. As surely as a knife cuts through string, she had been disconnected from herself.

She was magnificently powerfully, deeply loving yet she did not know who she was. She did not know her true nature. Her whole life she had been deceived and deliberately misled. How can you use a power if you do not know you have it? And those who knew did everything they could to keep her from the truth.
She had landed on the prison planet. Born to slaves who were also supremely powerful but also equally blind to their true nature. This planet had been conquered long ago in the times when history was erased. Those that knew the true story of the planet leaked out confusing accounts, semi-truths to keep all in the dark.
It did not serve them to reveal the truth. Why would it? For these beings were useful as slaves. They worked hard and were very productive. If they knew their true nature they would mutiny in an instant.
Her conditioning had begun early in life. She was sent to school to learn obedience. The teachers recited 'facts' and Emily soaked them up like a sponge. She learnt to use her logical brain and learnt to ignore her creative intuitive brain. She was left-handed but they made her use her right hand, because right handed people were working from their left brain and that is the side that belongs to world of limitation. The right brain is expansive, creative, intuitive and connected to all that is. They didn't want that.
She learnt to disregard her inner feelings and take on those of the world as authority. She learnt only to trust 'facts' and laughed at intuition. Yet intuition was where her power lay, if only she but knew.
She had the power to heal her body, the power to move mountains, the power to create new realities but she did not know. She was like a racehorse who thought she was a mouse. She didn't know her power, she didn't know her strength.
And once she left school, and joined the world of slavery she was kept busy at all times. Always things to do. Always obligations. Running round, day in and day out, she was a good girl. She was obedient. She played by the rules. But despite doing all of the things that her masters required of her, something was always missing inside. Something she sensed but could not see or touch or label. It was always there and when she had time she began to search. Something was calling to her but she did not know what or whom.
But there was so little time. Every day was busy. Work work work. Day in, day out. Just enough time to eat and sleep and maybe enjoy a little escapism on the brain-a-vision. Barely enough to think. She did not even know herself, she was just doing what she was told, going round in endless circles. And that was how they planned it; the controllers. "We do not want a nation of thinkers, we want a nation of workers!" was a popular slogan of theirs but the slaves were kept too busy to hear.
And yet every day she knew there was more.  More to this existence.  Her heart called to her.  And now she must start listening.

The Bags We Carry

A woman walks along a country path.  She is weary and burdened by the bags on her back.  Why does she carry them, they are so many?  What is in the bags?

Stories.  The stories of her life.  Stories reaching back to her childhood.  They weigh her down.  If she could only put the bags down, she could enjoy the day.  Live in this wonderful moment.

But she does not want to put them down.  They are the stories of her sadness.  Of the times when she was hurt and she clings to them.  She believes they protect her from ever being hurt again.

But they do not protect her.  How can bags filled with sad stories protect her?  They just burden her.  Make the walk slower and more painful.  Yet she will not let them go.
 
She stops for a rest and some food.  Placing her bags on the floor around her, she reaches in and takes out one of the books.  Its' covers are worn.  She has read it many times.

As she bites on her sandwich, she opens the book and begins to read.  Emotions swirl round her as the story takes her back to her past.  The sadness in her heart, the pain in her stomach, once more awakened and brought back to life.  And she remembers why she hates them, as if it had just happened yesterday.

The date on the book reads 1971.  The year now is 2010.  It is almost forty years old.  Forty years old!  Has she been reading the same story for so long?  The realisation shocks her.  Surely not forty years.  She lifts her head out of the book and looks at the world around her.

So much had changed in all those years.  Her looks have faded.  The world has become computerised.  This book, the one she held in her hand, had been hand-written.  Her newest stories were all in clean clear type.  So much had changed.  Except for her stories.

She looked in the bag again.  There were stories that were even older - some even sixty years old.  Some were of happy days, but she had not read them in so long.  It was the sad stories that she had read the most.  It was the sad stories that had their covers bent and were soft at the edges.

For so long, these stories had been part of her.  Part of who she was and yet now, looking down at them, she could see they were just old stories.  Little books.  Little chapters of her life.  She only remembered them because she'd read them so often.  What would happen if she threw them away?

A vision popped into her mind: she could see herself walking freely along the path, almost as if she were a young girl again.  Though the same age as she was now, she looked younger - maybe even twenty years younger.  The weight, from the bags full of stories had gone.  She could see herself and she looked happy, almost bouncing as she walked.  Free of cares and worries.  Younger and more alive somehow.
"Tonight, I shall throw them away," she vowed.

And that night she did.  She emptied out the books, all of them, onto the living room floor and began to sort them - placing the sad stories on one side, the happy stories on the other.
And that night, she picked up the sad stories and took them outside to the garden.  And lit a bonfire.  And burned them all.
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A few nights later, her husband came home from a business trip.  As he opened the door, he could hear his wife laughing.  He was pleased.

"What are you so happy about?" he said, poking his head round the door, and seeing his wife sitting on the sofa, glee in her eyes, holding open an immaculate book.

"It's these stories," she giggled, "They're hilarious.  I haven't read them in years."  She placed the book down and went to greet her husband, kissed him on the cheek, and then said, "I love you," before going into the kitchen.

Her husband stood bemused.  Not quite sure what to make of her sudden outbreak of affection.  It wasn't like her at all.

"Er..." he stuttered, not entirely sure what to say.  "I love you too," he mumbled and walked over to the computer table, his usual spot for the evening.

And from that day on, there was a change in her for the better and he never really understood why.  But she knew; she was free now - free from the stories, from the ghosts in the stories.  Free to live her life, now, not in the past.