Excerpt

The Limbo Of Letting Go

I am up in the middle of the night, urged out of bed by a phrase that popped into my head- the limbo of letting go- and now this phrase has me wide awake. I can see an old broom in my mind and can see myself going lower and lower as I struggle to get underneath the broom. Is this not what our journey through life is about?

Society tells us that we must leap over the worldly hurdles of life, vaulting our way to success, but I have found the opposite to be true. God has seen to it that I have learned more by going lower than I ever have by going higher. The ego is hell-bent on leaping higher, but what does it know?

Of course the word limbo also means being in a state of uncertainty, which is where faith is born. One needs no faith in the sun when it is out; only in the darkness do we need faith in the light. Letting go of certainty is a wisdom we are loathe to practice.

If I told you that losing a child to cancer brought me so low that I found God, you would have no trouble believing me. If I told you that it made me no happier, would you believe that, too? God is not about making you happy. He is about making you whole. That He would do whatever it takes for this to happen is the cosmic joke and the final truth.

Wholeness ultimately is the happiest place to be, but we struggle with this for years and years. At least I did. You see, wholeness means that you must reconcile your abject cowardice with your most magnificent courage. You must balance your weak points with your God-given talents, limboing under the broom of the opposites.

When I see someone doing the limbo in my mind’s eye, there is usually a crowd of onlookers clapping and cheering as you see how low can you go. Does this not parallel humility in the face of our daily challenges? Water seeks the lowest spot and we are the ocean.

Cancer has been a dominant theme in my life. Not mine, but my daughter’s, who got it at the age of three and now my husband’s. I have seen God holding out the broom and telling me to go lower on many different occasions. There was no clapping crowd, just me and an old broom of crisis. Can you go under chemo, surgery and radiation? How about death, grief and living in the absence of a beloved child? Go lower. Let go. Limbo lower now.

Letting go is easy when you realize that God is holding the broom, when you see that the God within is up to the challenge that letting go requires. For limbo is not forever, although it may seem that way.

I think that letting go requires only one thing, wholeness. And I am going to tell you how to get there immediately. Choose it. Choose heart over head, humility over height, and you will be healed by a higher power than the mind.

Hannah Hurnard wrote a spiritual classic called Hinds’ Feet On High Places. It is about the journey of a character called Little Much Afraid. She sets out on the journey to the high places, called by The Good Shepherd. Only He doesn’t seem so good to her when He asks that she learn to give love instead of seek it from others. He seems willing to sacrifice her very life for Him. But she begins her journey. He tells her to hold the hands of Sorrow and Suffering, two mysterious women who will help her on the journey.

When Little Much Afraid gets to the High Places, she has been promised a new name and that spurs her on. Ultimately after many challenges she reaches them, only to find that she must cast herself down from the very heights that she has taken such trouble to ascend. She must limbo lower now, as the musical phrase commands.

Of course, she finds that in going lower, she fulfills the purpose of her life- to serve instead of seek the high places. It is a journey of paradox and purpose. It is our journey. When will we go lower by own choice and not have it forced from us?

I am not talking about humiliation; I am talking about humility. Isn’t letting go a form of humility? And yes, we will be forced to do what we do not choose consciously. That is how the game of life is played.

Maurice Nicoll, author of Psychological Commentaries On The Teaching of Gurdjieff and Ouspensky, was a great believer in willingness. He said if you go to something willingly, you win. Choose to go lower, instead of higher. The mysterious limbo broom can heal you of unseen arrogance and many other negativities.

Often God only talks to us when He gets us so low that we are willing to listen. Cancer often brings us to this point, as do many other life-threatening situations. Will we have the faith to live in limbo, letting go and going lower? Because God never breaks a promise to His children. “Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.” (Job 13:15).

Victory is assured when we choose humility over the ego’s height. You can’t think your way into wholeness; you will be broken in the attempt. Schizophrenic thinking was never meant to heal a broken heart.

These days my heart is being challenged by cancer for the second time in my life. I am honoring the old broom of limbo. Will the battle against cancer be won or lost? That is a wrong question and I am going to suggest a right one. Will the limbo take me lower than I want to go? Of course, it always does, but I know Who is holding the broom.

Read more about LIFE WITH A HOLE IN IT: That’s How The Light Gets In and Vicki Woodyard HERE.

Copyright 2010 Vicki Woodyard. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

It was getting late, and Lyndsey and Emily wanted to go back into the water.  I told them it was fine and I made my way to the edge of the water to watch. They had their boogie boards and they began to ride the waves. I noticed they were getting a little far out, and I told them to come back closer to me.

As I watched them make their way back, I heard someone yelling. I looked around, and saw two women leaning over the edge of the pier, waving their hands and shouting.

It became obvious they were directing their words and motions at me. With the pounding waves, their words were muffled, but the parts I heard sent chills down my back. In broken up pieces, I heard the words, “…girls….out….water…Sharks.”

I began to holler and wave my hands at the girls. I could not see the danger they were in, but someone looking down from above could clearly see two sharks swimming in the vicinity of the girls.

Lyndsey caught my eye and I began to scream, “Get out of the water!” She did not know what was wrong, but I am sure she saw the terror in my eyes. She grabbed Emily and they made their way to the beach.

The women gave me a thumbs up and I nodded and tried to yell, “Thank you.” But all I wanted to do was hold my girls and not let them go. I was shaking as I imagined what could have happened.

We found out later the sharks were pretty bad all week, especially around the pier. The sharks were feeding off the cut fish the fishermen on the pier were throwing back into the water. How ironic. We thought we had found sanctuary in the shade of the pier, but ultimately found danger.

I know God had guardian angels watching over Lyndsey and Emily that day. I am reminded once more how much He cares for His own. No matter what danger or compromising situation we put ourselves in or find ourselves in, He is there watching over us. He is our Protector and Defender.

Read more about Buckets Full of Treasure and Michelle Sink HERE.

Copyright 2010 Michelle Sink. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Once in a while you happen upon a place where out of the blue you feel a peculiar sense of belonging.  It’s a place that somehow mystifies you, a place that keeps calling you back.  My friend Rich says you know when you’ve found such a place because your feet will stop itching.  Rich was right, The 270-mile Long Trail in Vermont became one of these places in my life. At home, after an initial scattering of hikes on the Long Trail, my feet indeed began to “itch.” I was caught unawares. While I ironed clothes, I found myself walking amidst the velvety balsams on Glastenbury Mountain. A tall, cold glass of water became the trickle that clenched my thirst at a spring run-off. The stars seen from my bedroom window in the dead of a black night were the stars I saw from my tiny tent nestled deep in the woods. To my astonishment, this trail did more than call me back-”it grabbed me by the throat and wouldn’t let go.

In the beginning I fell in love with the idea of hiking the Long Trail, never having actually been on it. The closest I probably came was cruising over it in Jonesville on Interstate 89 on the way to Burlington from my home in New Hampshire. My first real glimpse of the trail was on a Vermont state map that I had picked up at a highway rest stop. I noticed a central, red-dotted line running vertically along the entire length of the map and was greatly intrigued. Later I acquired the Green Mountain Club’s Long Trail Guide and, upon seeing the detailed topographic maps, quickly became obsessed with this intriguing, continuous footpath that spanned from one end of Vermont to the other.

I had always been a woodswalker, but it wasn’t until I was in my 30′s that I started getting into backpacking-”meaning lugging some degree of home sweet home on one’s back for days or weeks at a stretch. During that time I was absorbed in a fledging homestead venture and still tangled up in parenthood, so my hiking pursuits had primarily been in the area of New Hampshire’s Cardigan Mountain which sweeps up directly behind my cabin. Being just a “country mile” from the Connecticut River-”our threshold to Vermont-” I figured the Long Trail could expand my tramping horizons nicely.

One morning in early spring after the root crops were planted, I bushwhacked from my cabin up to Mount Cardigan, followed by my four-year-old boy and his dog Sparky. Atop the granite summit of Old Baldy (as she is fondly known), I combed out the mountains to the northwest with a pair of binoculars. On this clear, cold morning I located Camel’s Hump, its discernable summit peeking out amidst the many mountain ranges that lay between us.

“That there is Camel’s Hump,” I said to my son, who was swinging himself around one of the metal legs of the fire tower that is perched on Cardigan.

The youngster, now interrupted from the dream state of his whimsical whirling, stopped himself. “What’s over there, Mom?”

I poured a cup of coffee from my Thermos. “The Long Trail,” I replied. The steam from the piping hot coffee spiraled into the air and momentarily clouded my face as I took a sip. “We’re going to hike the Long Trail.”

“OK, Mom,” the youngster replied, having no idea what I was talking about, and then went back to swinging himself in circles.

Since that chilly morning atop Mount Cardigan, I have put over a thousand Green Mountain miles under my belt, or should I say, under the soles of several pairs of worn-out hiking boots. In 1991 I began an end-to-end hike of the Long Trail with the four-year-old and his dog; sporadically bouncing all over the map with whatever scarce and precious time afforded us. I was promptly stunned by the austerity and isolation of parts of the trail and how the weather in the Green Mountains could quickly become unforgiving. To me, a footpath had been defined as a manicured walkway. There were sections of the Long Trail that cured me of that perception damn fast. But despite the blood, sweat, and tears that were sometimes required by the trail, I could not stay away. I had caught a permanent case of “white blaze fever,” a term coined for those souls who become possessed by following the 2 x 6-inch paint splotches that embellish the trails and keep you on track. There is no cure for the fever.

My son and I hiked under the trail names of Woodswoman and Gnatcatcher. Once home from these early, brief expeditions, I recorded every step in my journal and anxiously planned the next escapement. Even though sometimes it felt like more driving than hiking, I was hooked. For years it seemed my existence was a balancing act between backpacking and homesteading. Both drew me like a magnet and the priorities of each collided constantly. Because we did quite a few overlaps due to travel time constraints, the first, official completion of the Long Trail would span seven years.

Five years into the boy’s and my venture, I had a brainstorm that involved the better portion of my siblings: five sisters committing to a few days each year to hike the entirety of the Long Trail beginning at the southern terminus. To my delight, my four younger sisters took to the white blazes like flies to a cold hamburger. They adopted the trail names of (youngest to oldest) Boonie, Two-Cuppa, Buffie, and Trailblazer. The two end-to-end hikes overlapped for a couple of years, thus the boy and I would revel in the gusty winds atop Jay Peak as we got closer to Canada, and a few weeks later I would be soaking in the views with the sisters atop the Glastenbury fire tower.

Shortly after the millennium’s passing, I had my own, personal Y2K event. It started with a newly-published book titled Forest Under My Fingernails. The author, Walter McLaughlin, had written a comprehensive and wonderfully woodsy account of his thru-hike of the Long Trail. Wow, a thru-hike! Jeesh, would I love to… No, impossible. The gardens, the fruit tree schedules, the appointments, the bills- On top of all that, what kid is going to want to spend a month in the woods with his mother? No, the complete one-month abandonment of farm and family would be impossible.

But the obsession to walk the entire length of the Green Mountain State in one shot wouldn’t lose its grip. After watching Lynne Wheldon’s video, 27 Days, about a Long Trail thru-hike undertaken by four senior backpackers, I was completely seized. During the height of a very productive garden and orchard season, I abandoned it all, threw three packs together, and hit the Long Trail for a solid month with a budding teenager and his dog. (Yep, if the mutt was going to bark the bark, he was going to walk the walk with packs also.) This month-long journey through the woods with my son was a phenomenal experience.

Four years after the 2000 thru-hike, parenting had loosened its grip. I had steadily regained a good degree of my independence, and this recaptured freedom was a delight. No empty nest syndrome here. I had turned 50 and my priorities were shifting fast. It was time to welcome what the last 800 or so miles in the Vermont woods had physically and mentally prepared me for: a solo hike of the Long Trail.

This book is the culmination of all those separate walks. I had a choice of sequencing it chronologically or starting at the southern terminus and following the trail successively to the Canadian border. I decided that as a sketch of the Long Trail, it made the most sense to adopt the latter approach. Each chapter is written from the point of view of when that particular hike was taken. Each chapter is therefore not only a description of that segment of the Long Trail, but is also a snapshot in time of my fruition as a hiker and a person. Throughout the narrative of this incredible “footpath in the wilderness,” the reader can chuckle at my naive beginnings and possibly appreciate not so much how much wisdom I gained by the end, but how hard earned whatever I gained was.

At home, collecting books is my mania and reading them is my entertainment. When I wasn’t actually on the trail, I found that I got a tremendous amount of enjoyment collecting and reading books about the Long Trail and the history of the Green Mountains. As I began writing my account of the Long Trail, I couldn’t resist throwing in snippets from my reading. I hope you will enjoy this sprinkling of lore and the accounts of trail blazers and woods trampers from days long past.

Thanks for sharing my journey.

Read more about Scraped Knees and Mac N’ Cheese, One Woman’s Journey of a Thousand Miles on the Vermont Long Trail and Sandi Pierson HERE.

Copyright 2010 Sandi Pierson. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

from Chapter One – Ghostland

None of the ghosts are visible from the air.

You bump into them later, well after the approach by air to the greenest island in the North Atlantic, its fields bordered by trees and hedgerows and the occasional herd of cows or sheep.

Then you see the coastline, with jagged edges and sudden drops even more dramatic than England’s, as rugged as Scotland’s, and you begin to understand. You won’t be claiming any land here, Traveler. With a primal power, the land will be claiming you.

You touch down, but even before the brilliantly fresh Northern air reaches you, Northern voices do, ringing with tones influenced by centuries of Scots immigrating to the Northern counties of Ireland.

By the time I first arrived in Northern Ireland in September 2000, the Troubles had officially ended. The Good Friday Agreement had been signed two and a half years earlier in April 1998. The IRA was holding its ceasefire for the most part. A power-sharing coalition government had been installed in the Belfast Parliament building at Stormont, and was up and functioning.

All (mostly) quiet on the western front, except that peace being so new, it was still a bit hard to believe, to first-time travelers and Northerners alike.

A buzzer rang out loudly in the airport as my fellow passengers and I waited for our luggage to appear on the carousel, and I wasn’t the only one who froze and glanced nervously at the security guards.

Now that I was actually in Northern Ireland, I feared bombs, and bullets. Seven years in Los Angeles had taught me some familiarity with gangs, street violence and police helicopters hovering overhead. But at least the Northern Irish admitted to having a problem. Peacefulness was not what I’d been expecting: the way everyone had frozen at the loud buzzer, more like.

That had turned out to only be the signal that the luggage was about to be sent round on the carousel, which is why the security men didn’t even blink at it, though they were plainly in sight, watchful and aware.

It’s peaceful here now, I reminded myself. Perfectly fine, no reason to worry. Looks quite pleasant.

The politicians, the peacemakers, had finally worked it out so those Northerners who called themselves British and those who called themselves Irish could co-exist in peace, without people being shot or blown up to prove who really owned the land. Of course, no one thought about where to store the ghosts, but that bit comes in later. The day I arrived, the Northern sun was hiding behind dark clouds, creating a diffused light that left a strange glow around people and objects. Behind the clouds the sky was a strange, smoky blue I’d never seen before. Inside the once great linenmaking, shipbuilding city of Belfast, I watched the grand Victorian colleges, pubs and banks, interspersed with Euro-modern buildings, fl y past the cab window. Quiet and normalcy everywhere I looked.

So what was all the armed fuss about? I thought easily.

Then a small but definite click sounded from somewhere inside the cab, and the driver started nervously.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I dunno,” I shrugged, hoping my American accent would reassure him. The fact that Yanks are universally considered to be clueless can come in handy at times. And we are all Yanks to Europeans, regardless of what region of America we hail from. The cabby commented on a car going past whose driver was leaning on its horn.

“Oh, they do that in L.A. too,” I said cheerfully, “only they do it a lot more often.”

He chuckled and seemed to relax. I knew from my news reading prior to the trip that for years, cabbies were routinely shot in sectarian attacks. Most taxi firms hired either exclusively Protestant or Catholic drivers, so that the shooter was assured the right hit, usually made in retaliation for a killing by the other side.

We drove to the friend of a friend’s house where I’d be staying, in a leafy suburb south of the city. My plane had been hours late, and Anne came out of the house to greet me as soon as she saw me getting out of the cab, hugging me with relief and joking that she’d been hoping I hadn’t accidentally flown to Belfast, Maine. Jetlagged, my system was also in shock from taking in the bright clean County Antrim air after years of Los Angeles soot. I was also dazed by the grassy beauty of the surrounding hills.

Decades of bad press, unreal natural beauty, locals who actually like Americans.

What sort of a country is this? I wondered.

Before I drifted off to sleep that first night under a large down quilt, part of the comfort of Anne’s tastefully decorated new home, I remembered the first time I’d flown on my own. I was twenty-one and headed for London, from where I took the train to Oxford to live with an English family and study at a nearby college for a term. I felt the same sort of idealism upon arriving in Northern Ireland as I had years before in England, when I’d closed my eyes that first night in England, and the image of bright white clouds against brilliant blue outside the airplane window had come up again, vivid and reassuring, as if to tell me that I was more coming toward home than away from it.

A quiet September breeze rustled a few leaves outside the window, mixing with my mind’s recording of Northern voices. Then I remembered the cabby, and tears came up suddenly. I recognized his skittish reaction as something I understood. Here was someone who’d grown up afraid.

By morning the sunlight was pouring in the large windows, and my Yankee Writer Abroad adventure had officially begun. I began looking in the local paper for a place to live, at the moment losing all interest in feeling sad for the Northern Irish, who lived in this stunning green place and grew up sounding so brilliantly musical while we Yanks only whined and droned in comparison. I took a bus into the city centre, where even more surprises lay in store.

For one, whenever I rang a place to ask about accommodation, I was told I would have to move quickly. “The students are returning soon now, so they are.” By the fifth time of hearing this I wanted to reply, “Yes, yes, students! Lots of them!” I hadn’t realized Belfast was so full of college kids, though a friend in L.A., the playwright and screenwriter Patricia Mahon, had told me before I’d left that she’d liked Belfast, and that it was a college town. “I remember a stop in Belfast on the way up to Coleraine and Portrush from Trinity College back in the 1980s,” she told me once.

Trish had been surprised to find Belfast clean and modern. “It had a youthful energy about it that was far different from the poverty and the protests being reported back in New York. When we crossed the border, the roads suddenly got better and the shops were brighter. Things seemed calm, aside from the infectious energy of the place. Regardless of what was afflicting Belfast, she didn’t show it. Life moved on and did so quite beautifully.”

I had to agree that the town felt full of youthful optimism. The most prominent college was Queen’s University, whose neo-Gothic structures sat among spacious lawns and gardens facing the University Road. On seeing its stately beauty, I was relieved that it had survived the thirty-year firestorm well intact.

Within a few days, I’d rented a room at the top of a renovated, four-story Victorian row house in a south Belfast neighborhood near Queen’s University. I was sent off to see the property simply with directions and a key from the landlord – not a good sign, I knew, but I was too charmed by this new country to care. I walked through the city centre under the light blue skies, through the main shopping center full of kids, mums and office workers, the large proud face of City Hall rising straight ahead as soon as I turned up Royal Avenue.

The landmark building fills the center of Donegal Square, predominating the city centre. It is close in architectural style to an American capital building, but pledges itself to Britain via the Union Jack flying high above it, and a large stone figure of Queen Victoria standing squarely before it. Not that any of the teenagers lounging and chatting on the lawns around her ever give her much notice. I carried on through the Square and further out, onto the Dublin Road, past pubs and restaurants, neon-signed pizza places and a multiplex cinema, then further south to Botanic Avenue near Queen’s University, lined with Euro-mod cafés and shops, then east to the Ormeau Road and into south Belfast. I found the house on a quiet tree-lined street off the Ormeau Road and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a young man in his early twenties, the only lodger living there so far. He had the common Northern combination of blue eyes under straight dark brows, fine features and dark hair. Even more distractingly, he seemed familiar, in that strange way that you recognize a stranger though you can’t place where from. A sort of reverse ghost, I thought later.

The room was on the fourth floor, medium-sized with a bed, bureau dresser and small sink, wide-planked wooden floors and a low rent of £140 ($200) a month. But it was the skylight on the slanted ceiling that won me over.

The next day I dragged my large suitcase up to my fourth floor room and settled in, still feeling a bit strange and unsure about this new place, but liking it. I spent the next few weeks wandering the town in search of art galleries, bookshops, writers’ groups, interesting pubs, asking small questions of the citizens and delighting in the fact that bizarrely, nobody minded my Americanness.

The reaction to my accent was invariably a smile, and if they had time to ask, “Where ’bouts yew frum in the Stee-ayts?” as if I was a long lost cousin who’d finally decided to visit after all. In the weeks before I needed to find a part-time job – as no one was financing this little venture but me – I took time to explore the town, to pretend to paint with watercolors, and to write, the last proving harder than it sounds due to the noise in the house.

Within a few weeks I found I was living with six joyfully loud, messy university students – three women and one “fella,” as the Irish say – who took me under their wings, foreign and old (over thirty) that I was. Their noisiness alone could have sunk the Titanic. But their friendships became irreplaceable. Though I could never keep up with their drinking and late nights, I was consistently impressed with their clever humor, their fashion sense, their intelligence, their knowledge of every new technological gadget under the sun, and their willingness to share their culture and ideas with anyone wanting to hear.

My new friends’ dialects eluded me at first, but they were patient with my attempts at learning the language. Proper names also took some practice: my housemates Caoimhe [pron. KEEV-ah], Tara, Alannah, and Aidan would mention names that had me stumped when I saw them spelled out: the town of Craigavon [pron. Craig-AH-von] for one, or girls’ names such as Niamh [pron. NEE-iv] or Roisin [pron. Roh-SHEEN].

I soon learned that Northern speech has been heavily politicized over the centuries. In writing the Good Friday peace agreement, the pro-British unionist parties required that the Ulster Scots dialect be designated an official language in Northern Ireland alongside English and the language of the South of Ireland – and of the Irish republican movement – Irish Gaelic.

Of course none of this helps the newcomer decipher what the hell these people are saying. Some local phrases are easy: “Oh that’s clahss, that is!” is a compliment. “Goin’ fer a jar,” is going out for a drink. Others I had to learn in context. “Great craic,” an Irish word [pron. like "crack"], is “great fun.” “He’s only jest ah-fter” doing something is “He’s just now come back” from doing it. “Yer mahn” didn’t signify ownership of a particular man, but simply “that guy over there.” Another ubiquitous phrase is “so it is” or “so I did,” tacked on to the end of a sentence to reaffirm whatever the speaker’s just stated. Occasionally I noticed, when I didn’t end a sentence with “so it is,” the other person would add it for me.

It had been seven years since I’d last lived in London, and I was out of practice with even basic UK slang at first. When I mentioned to Aidan and his friend Joe one day, “We need to get a scrubber for the kitchen,” they smiled happily.

“Could we get one for my room, too?” Joe asked, “scrubber” being slang for “prostitute.” (The confusion doesn’t finish itself in a few months’ time, either. One day – after I’d lived in Belfast no less than three times – I only just stopped myself from innocently asking a male friend “So how’s your little man?” meaning his young son.

Though that is not unheard of, I’m positive that he’d have had a plenty good laugh on me for that, taking it that I’d just inquired after the health of his “whatsit” as the English used to say.)

Not to be attempted till you get a feel for the place, Traveler, but when yer ready like, if there’s one thing you want the upper hand on in Belfast, it’s the “slaggin’,” the contest of making fun of the other fella before his or her wit can sting you. The women may show some mercy here, the men never do.

So quick a job it is too, that you may not even know you’ve been stung at first, till you realize a new King Wit sits at the head of the table, smiling down upon ye. So keep your wit rapier sharp and at the ready when out for the evening, at least till everyone’s reflexes are dulled by drink. And don’t be handing anybody any free gifts like “little man.”

My confusion only got worse before it got better. Squinting with befuddlement, I would ask people to repeat themselves, to which they would only say the same thing more loudly. Then I began to hear something not at all foreign, mirrored back to me from across the centuries, some of it almost Shakespearean.

As it was settled by Scottish-Irish frontier folk, the Appalachian mountain region is full of much the same dialect as found in the North, preserved from the eighteenth century, recognizable even to Americans who have never traveled to Tennessee or Kentucky. In the North, as in parts of America, “your” is “yer,” “can” is “kin,” “hair” is “harr,” “poor” is “per,” “day” is “deeay” and “yes” is “Oh, aye!”

And never mind our straight down-to-business U.S. modernisms; the American “OK – I’m headin’ out now,” would in Belfast be, “Ahll the bay-est, people!” or “I’m awaey hoome now, so I ahm.” I checked my watch. Yes, still the twenty-first century. But somehow, amid all the noise, pollution and gadgetry of modern life, the Northern Irish had saved the poetry in their speech.

Northern names brought even more confusion. Catholic names, as they’re called in the North, are often traditional Irish (Gaelic) ones, many of which were foreign to me. But spoken in the local accent, even the Anglo-Protestant names eluded me. So at first I mistook Jane for Jean, Aislinn [pron. Ash-LEEN] for Ashley, Cormac [pron. CORR-mack] as Cormick mispronounced, Padraig [pron. PARR-ick] as Patrick spelled oddly, and so on.

My own name was rebirthed as CARR-Line. Hearing this for the first time had a strange effect on me. I felt as if I’d been let in through a low wooden door in a high stone wall, into an enclosed garden, out of the shallow tentativeness of modern travel and into some elusive Narnian country I had only read or dreamt about. From this sacred place I had many questions to ask.

I wanted to stop every other person on the street and ask, How did you make it through the Troubles? Tell me what happened to you. In fact I never raised the issue even with the people I lived with, out of fear someone might look at me as if I were the most intrusively ignorant Yank they’d ever met – quite a distinction considering the American reputation. But if some comment about the Troubles surfaced in conversation, I listened eagerly. I noticed that this information was almost always volunteered by a man, while one of the women invariably asked tensely, “Can we talk about something else?”

In time I would have questions about things that last far longer than war – Northern Irish myth, legend, music, poetry, community and family. Including how the Irish/Ulster Scots had preserved some of their ancient and medieval traditions as effortlessly as any people I’d ever seen who’d managed not to be wiped out or rewritten by a colonizing force. But for now, I was too distracted by the thought of the recently ended Troubles, the larger themes of which played quietly in the background.

Copyright 2010 Caroline Oceana Ryan. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

“I found it exciting to see how bluntly you took the Magic Mushrooms.” Vidar throws a kitchen towel over his shoulder, walks towards me and places his hands on the back of his chair.

“Exciting? What do you mean exciting?” Am I mistaken or is he giving me hungry looks.

The other day when we were talking on the phone I had no reserves when I told him I wanted to continue the training, but now I begin to doubt. Vidar returns to the kitchen counter, takes the mugs of red hot chai tea, places one on the table in front of me and sits down.

“You might also call it courageous.”

“What do you need courage for?” I ask him annoyed, “it’s part of the training, isn’t it? Tell me, what do you mean?” I hardly find myself courageous, rather impulsive, but never without feeling right about something.

“Matee  taught you during the first encounter the art of the warrior. And the warrior has the attitude of courage and deals with everything as though it’s the most ordinary thing, but you are of a higher level,” he says presumptuous, “to be exact you are one step higher, because you have the courage of a person of knowledge and you only reach that through spiritual bravery.” Vidar goes over it again: “You are passed the level of warriors and are still in the stage of early infancy as far as woman of knowledge is concerned.”

The only courage I can think of is admitting to him earlier on the phone that I have feelings for him, more than I can bear. I had finally put my fear of rejection aside. I was whining on the phone, telling him that I found all these feelings extremely confusing, but that I was proud of myself that I finally dared to admit it. I can still hear myself say with a trembling, peeping voice: “I have such strong feelings for you!” It was really terrible to have to do, but there was no way around it. After the last session I felt an overwhelming love, my love no longer felt scattered, but glued together like a firm whole, as though at that moment I knew how love truly feels. Yes, in the end I had faith he would react in a positive way, what would it matter anyway. In the worst case he would reassure me by saying that it was all part of the whole process and that things would blow over spontaneously. At best he would say he shared my feelings.

I felt greatly relieved to hear Vidar requite my feelings. I was in heaven. “Of course,” he said “we are united on a spiritual level and are part of the same spiritual family.” But for the time being I had to put my feelings aside, because he was going to visit family at the Southeast Coast of the States for a month. Of course, this trial left every room for doubt. Impatiently I kick the table-leg with my foot.

Vidar sits down and watches me radiantly. A warm wave runs through my heart and I abandon my built up reserves. “Are you familiar with the expression “she runs with wolves” he asks.

“It sounds familiar.”

“It’s important to show your true feelings, like a wolf breaking free from the pack, running across the tundra. The wolves play together, our feelings do the same. ‘She runs with wolves’ is one of the biggest compliments one can get, we need it to get to the second reality. We travel to the second reality through the lines of intent stretching out in front of us. Or it’s actually different,” he corrects himself, “you will see that the second reality comes to you instead of you going there.”

Without any reserve he says: “It’s important your true feelings are free and are no obstruction.”

I understand our love is definitely no coincidence. I suddenly remember I dreamed about a wolf the other night. From a safe distance a hunched wolf watches me in a dacor of  clouded skies and green hills. I don’t move, because with every step he will be scared off, I am sure of that. After I have waited patiently and won his trust, he dares me to follow him. He awaits me further down, in a farmyard, underneath the roof of a shed. Very carefully I come closer until he is ready for me to stroke him and he starts to roll over in the dry grass. Only then I see it is a male.

Read more about The Sorcerer’s Dream and Alysa Braceau, Dreamshield HERE.

Copyright 2010 Alysa Braceau, Dreamshield. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

RuPaul and The Mannequin
April 13, 2005

Afternoon
“You sure you wouldn’t like some wine, Derek?”

“No, thanks.”

My client is enjoying herself. She’s invited three of her friends for an afternoon of
psychic readings at her clothing boutique in Honolulu. Dresses, purses, jewelry, and
shoes are all tastefully displayed. A little cheese tray has been laid out, along with some
nuts and olives. It’s a quiet Saturday and, though the store is open, no customers have
come in. I have the sense she owns the business to outfit her friends more than anyone
else.

For the last two hours, the women have listened in on each other’s readings. I’ve kept
the psychic insights light and fun. These women keep no secrets from one another;
they’ve had fun watching me pick up on each other’s personality traits and little secrets.

After the last reading, one of the women asked, “Derek, how do you get your
information?”

“I interpret information from my imagination. I let myself play, and go wherever my
intuition guides me. Sometimes answers come from the walls or the things in the room.
I’ll allow the ‘real’ physical world around me to morph into an imaginary dreamscape. A
kind of waking dream emerges, an alternate reality that I give the same credence as the
conscious reality you and I know.

“For example, you see that gecko brooch there?” All eyes move to a colorful brooch
made with rubies and other gemstones. “Gecko’s have a definitive stare. When they look
at you, they draw you into trance with one eye. Have you noticed how they do that? The
next time a gecko stares at you, try mentally entering the eye to see what it is saying.
This one says to me, ‘I have a dream for you! I will share some of my talent with you!’
I’m not quite sure what this means. Well, actually, maybe I do know. Lizards are the
keepers of dreams. I think he’s saying I will have a psychic dream. Maybe that he will
come to me in a dream. Or that a dream of mine will have some correspondence in
reality.”

The ladies all stare at me blankly. Derek, your example is too abstract. Not everyone
understands your psychic language.

“You have to think like a child to capture psychic insight. When you were all kids, you
no doubt played with dolls. You briefly lived in an alternate reality. It was real to you.
Well, if you were to ask a doll for psychic information, then carry on a conversation with
that doll in your imagination, the doll would probably give you psychic information.”

The ladies still gaze at me blankly.

I continue, “See this white mannequin over here with the oriental dress? In my
imagination, she’s raising her finger to me. She says, ‘I have something to say!’ Her voice
is quite firm in my mind. She reminds me of that drag performing artist, Rupaul. Do you
know her?” They all burst out laughing. They do know her. Rupaul is an actor, model,
and songwriter, an iconic gender-bender, and race-bender. He’s black, but performs as
more of a blond white woman.

“It’s funny,” I say.”I know it makes no sense, and is strange, but you have to accept it
regardless, and assume there’s something psychic about it. She wants to say something
to you, Arlette.”

“Me?”

“I’ll interpret what I see her saying and doing. She’s flashing wide, white eyes. She is
presenting herself to me as a black woman, but made up blonde, like she’s trying to be
white. She’s standing on the coffee table, really confidently. She’s wagging her finger at
you, saying, “Girlfriend! Why are you letting your so called boyfriend run the show? If
he’s so bad, as you like to say, why don’t you leave him?”

The women all laugh. One says, “She has you pegged, Arlette.”

“The psychic dreamscape is fun to explore. The characters we meet there are clever.
Let’s break the symbols down a bit. This model, or mannequin, appears African
American to me. Why? To me, a black woman, as an archetype, represents strength and
the quest for equality. That’s why she’s speaking to you about owning your power. Drag
queens are another archetype. They live their lives on their own terms, nobody else’s.
They don’t care what people think and often make decisions that defy social norms or
conventions.” I say this to Arlette as if it might apply to her.

She smiles knowingly back at me and says,”It’s so amazing, how that message applies
to me.” The two other women exchange looks of disbelief. “I’ll say,” the owner of the
store says, but apparently for a different reason. “This is so freaky, Derek.”

“Why?” I ask.

“The other day, we painted that mannequin white. I didn’t think that outfit looked right
on her with her natural dark coloring. Underneath, she’s really a black mannequin.”

Read more about Can You Turn It Off? and Derek Calibre HERE.

Copyright 2010 Derek Calibre. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Barriers to Communication

By Neil Fiore, PhD

Excerpt from Coping with the Emotional Impact of Cancer

The inability to talk about your problems and feelings is a most serious obstacle to having a good relationship. Every relationship has its problems, but if you can talk about them you have a better chance of living through them, together. It makes sense, especially during times of serious illness, to be aware of barriers to open communications. In my work with cancer-stricken families I have seen two major barriers to communication: a conspiracy of silence and premature mourning.

A Conspiracy of Silence

With any serious illness and emotional topic, there is the danger of avoiding mentioning it for fear of saying the wrong thing and evoking strong feelings. This can lead to a conspiracy of silence in which the patient and the family avoid the topic in an attempt to protect each other, all the while creating feelings of alienation, misunderstanding, and barriers to direct and open communication.

Out of a sense of duty and a desire to protect a loved one, a vicious cycle of silence, misinterpretation, guesswork, and isolation gets started. Phrases like, “I don’t want to say anything because I’m afraid she’ll get upset,” or “They haven’t brought it up so I assume they just donâ’t want to talk about it,” are signs that a conspiracy of silence is taking place.

While you want to respect another’s timing, this doesn’t mean that you must sit silently with your own feelings and try to interpret clues as to when it’s okay to speak. You can still invite a conversation with phrases such as, “I don’t know what to say but I want you to know that I’d be glad to talk whenever you wish,” or “Please let me know when you’d like to talk about what you’ve been through.”

We cannot protect others from reality; they usually have some idea of what’s going on and often are imagining the worst. Even though our intentions are good, the desire to protect someone from hurt usually comes with an attempt to protect ourselves from our own upset. It generally makes sense to say something about what is troubling you, even if you choose to keep the details vague. For example, “I’ve been avoiding talking to you because I’ve been afraid I’d break down and cry. If you don’t mind me crying, I’d be glad to talk with you.” Let them know that you can handle your own emotions and that you don’t need protection from their feelings. If the two of you are going to cry, at least you can cry together.

Premature Mourning

Learning that a loved one has cancer often causes family members to start a painful premature mourning process and to be less available to support the patient’s ongoing treatments. Anticipating that you’ll have to repeat the mourning process in the future can lead to avoidance of the patient, thereby depriving the patient of real, human contact. Patients and their families and friends have different timetables for grieving and adapting to how cancer has affected them.

Even when we know that many forms of cancer are curable, there remains the fear that a cancer diagnosis is a death sentence. This fear can lead us to mourn the loss of a loved one even though he or she may recover from cancer, may live with it for years, or may want to enhance the quality of the last months of life with frequent visits and support from family and friends.

Of course, the patient can be the one who’s doing the premature mourning, isolating himself from the family and depriving them of an opportunity to share feelings and to express their concern and desire to help.

Please remember that being diagnosed with cancer, having cancer, and dying of cancer are separate and different states, each requiring its own emotions and adjustments, each in its own time. Eventually, the premature mourner must cope with the present moment rather than the imagined future. The patient may want to tell the premature mourner what I told a friend:

Stop avoiding me and treating me as if I’m already dead. I’m still here. I’m still alive! I need you to be with me, now. Help me to make the most of whatever time is left. There’ll be plenty of time for grieving after I’m gone. But don’t be so sure I’m going that fast. In fact, I may hang around so long that you may be saying, “How can I miss you if you won’t go away?”

You most likely will find that, as you become more comfortable with these difficult feelings, you’ll worry less and will enjoy more fully the valuable time that you still have with each other.

Copyright 2010 Neil Fiore. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

MC: If I gave you God’s phone number, what would you do with it?

JT: Well, I’d have to call. Partly it would be curiosity. But another part would be the idea of hooking up to some natural voice speaking in English for the God Energy. There is this thing about God Energy. We’re swimming in it. It’s swimming in us. I’d have to see if I could really talk with this.

MC: What do you think you would say?

JT: Hmm… [pause] …That would depend on when you asked me. If you asked me today “this may be too mundane” but I would want to ask God why so much of our lives, my life, are ruled by money. I do five different things for a living, and the ones that I do the very best are the ones I don’t get to do often enough and don’t get to make enough money doing. I’ve been asking this God Energy this question a lot of times. The last couple of days I’ve been painting the roof of a barn. I make my own hours and all that, but it’s not what I do. It’s not who I am. I want an answer to that question.

MC: If this God Energy gave you an answer, what do you think that answer might be?

You know…I guess the answer’s pretty obvious. It would be: “Hey, I didn’t design it that way. Other people did that, and I may be able to tell you how it’s going to turn out, but this is your trip. You’ve got to do this. You’ve got to figure it out.”

I guess that’s always true. But it’s strange to me that there are so many great poets walking around on the Earth, and only some are making a living. There are so many that are struggling so hard. Yet the number-one-grossing business in this country is weaponry. There’s something there that’s really out of whack.

MC: Would you want to ask God about this?

JT: I wouldn’t ask God why it is that weapons are such a popular business. I know that that’s not God’s doing. I think I know the answer, it is that profit is more important to this culture than God.

A whole culture can be based on profit because people are unhappy. Somehow they think that attaining more will change that and make them happier. Maybe I would ask God what could I do about it. But I don’t know. [Deep sigh]

I could do what the Berrigans did and go into weapons plants and destroy those guns and get thrown into jail. I don’t know if that would answer anything. I really honor them for having done that, but I don’t know if that changes things.

I can try to find time and space to make more art. I do think that a person making a poem, speaking it out loud, even if it’s in their bedroom and nobody else is around, is a very healing thing. I think it’s a very mystical thing.

There is an energy to speaking our poetry, really Speaking with a capital S. I think we have to ask ourselves what is this stuff, this energy, and also really revel in the mystery of what that is.

MC: Is this what you call the God Energy, this stuff that you are talking about?

JT: I think it is. This spirit is in everything. It’s in you. It’s in the bricks. It’s in the trees. And it’s so much more that that. And yet, I really get tongue-tied at this point because it’s…[pause] …this Being, the Big Being is all around, and we’re in it.
When we get caught up in the daily struggle of paying bills, it’s real easy to lose track of that. To not recognize that you’re eating miracles all the time.

So I have a mixed feeling about someone’s saying, “Here’s God’s number, you can just call up.” On one hand I feel like I’m already right there in the middle of it. I should be able to get all the answers. They are internalized. They’re here.

And then again, there’s a part of me that says, “Yeah, I want to not only get the phone number, I want the address, fax number…email. I want to look into this face and see the face that’s behind the face.”

So many times in my life I’ve wanted to see that face in a really joyful way. I’m doing some great dance, and I really want to be grateful about it. Then there’re times when “I’ve been there a bit lately” I want to see this face because I just want to say, “Come on, you know, what is this? Give me a break and make it clear!”

MC: You’re talking about being in the throes of the trials and tribulations of our human existence…I really wonder if having such a number would make our trials any easier. I don’t know.

JT: Well, I think the big mistake that’s been made about God in so many church philosophies is that they think they understand God. They think they know what and who God is and what God looks like. And I think that’s a big mistake right there.
We’re not supposed to get this. It’s supposed to be a mystery. And the fact is that it’s the mystery that I really love. I really love the fact that we can spend all of our lifetimes trying to figure this out and put a name on it. And it can’t be done. At some point, when we see the real vision, there’s just no way it could be explained in human terms. No name would make it. No words could describe it.

It might actually be that if we dialed the phone number, the top of our heads would completely explode!

Copyright 2010 Mare Cromwell. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

PREFACE
The book you are about to read is God revealed and will change your life forever. Inspiration Divine foretells a journey you and mankind will take together. Unlike other books that seek to enlighten you with a new perspective, Inspiration Divine seeks to guide you down the path of your own enlightenment so that you may unlock the keys to your full human potential. In short, this book will reveal your purpose and through this purpose, you will find enlightenment.
A lot of people talk about enlightenment as if it were a state of mind that only a privileged few are capable of attaining. Similarly other people play down enlightenment as if it were nothing more than a heightened state of awareness. Neither statement is true, nor would anyone who is truly enlightened describe enlightenment in these ways. For enlightenment is a connection to God that reveals not only a complete understanding of everything you desire to know, but also provides a path to understanding everything you don’t desire to know. That’s a whole lot of information to know and thus enlightenment isn’t as much about knowing as it is about knowing how to understand. And this ability to understand is available to each and every one of us including you.
Similarly, enlightenment doesn’t have anything to do with religion. This isn’t to say that the understanding one can attain through enlightenment will be in conflict with one’s religion, but so too, it doesn’t mean that it won’t be in conflict either. In spirit and intent, enlightenment is above religion as it embodies a direct and communal relationship with God directly rather than through what others have written about God (no matter how divinely inspired their message was or not).
Simply put, enlightenment is a connection to truth. No matter what we believe about the Universe, God or Humanity, the truth is the truth. Our opinions about what is true or what is not true is irrelevant and we have a better than average chance that our current set of beliefs aren’t entirely true. One thing is for certain: enlightenment will be a humbling experience.
When we embrace the grace of the divine and the truth as being beyond reproach, we open up our hearts and minds beyond our current mode of operating in the world. And this is great news, for both the faithful and the atheist desire the truth. They may have contradictory points of view on what they believe the truth to be, but they both truly seek the truth. And in enlightenment they will both find the truth (one of them is going to be greatly disappointed).
Even staunch atheists like Christopher Hitchens, author of God is Not Great, are calling for a new revelation of the truth:
Above all, we are in need of a renewed Enlightenment, which will base itself on the proposition that the proper study of mankind is man, and woman. This Enlightenment will not need to depend, like its predecessors, on the heroic breakthroughs of a few gifted and exceptionally courageous people. It is within the compass of the average person. (Hitchens 2007)
What Hitchens is alluding to is the capability of enlightenment to be possible in every human being rather than a handful of prophets. And while it would be an odd world where God selectively picked who should be enlightened, our religious history certainly depicts Divine communication being highly selective. And with enlightenment not being a regularly occurring experience in our lives and the ancient texts demonstrating it only being blessed upon a select few, we’ve wrongly assumed that enlightenment isn’t possible for us. And so we don’t even consider it something worth pursuing.
Consider for a moment, if enlightenment was possible for you and the rest of mankind. What if we’ve been missing the messages from God that are all around us? What if our enlightenment was not only possible, but also part of our human evolution?  Consider the possibility that the keys to enlightenment are in our hands and we only need to learn how to insert the key and turn the lock.
Spiritual Evolution
The message documented in Inspiration Divine is not a self-help prescription nor does it contain mystical secrets that have eluded mankind. The lessons that you will learn by reading these pages are drawn from the messages that have been broadcast to mankind since the dawn of time. Only now are we awakening to these lessons and tuning in to listen like never before. These messages have existed since the beginning and are actually interwoven into our cultures, religions and fundamental assumptions. Beyond the wisdom conveyed by those that have previously discovered these lessons, you too will find that you have heard these messages deep within the essence of your soul. However, there is much more available to you.
Inherent in life are the keys to understanding everything. However, through the ages we have lost the ability to listen and thus we seek that which is actually already within our possession. From the very beginning, mankind has wrestled with elementary questions that we still desire to be answered:
Why am I here?
What is my purpose?
Who is God?
From there, our questions branch into many directions, but the underlying answers continue to elude mankind. Trying to make sense of it all seems to be impossible and thus most of Humanity leaves this task to those that study philosophy, psychology and theology. But even though we tell ourselves that the answers are beyond our grasp, we still desire to understand the Universe, God and Humanity.
The path to this understanding is inherently part of living and surprisingly simple. In fact, the path is so elemental that your Mind may reject it for not being complex enough. Our Minds are advanced thinking machines that crave complexity despite our attempt to simplify our lives. So too, we have established a partial understanding of life through our cultures, religions and personal experiences. In combination, our Minds tell us that the truth must be complex and in line with what we already believe to be true. And so we continue through life with the answers to these questions all around us, without an awareness of how close we are to the truth.
The world in which we live is advancing to an inflection point of enlightenment as is evident by the exponential change that is occurring around the world. Each and every day we create more information, knowledge and wisdom than we did the previous day. In Karl Fisch’s Did You Know presentation (Fisch 2007), he chronicled many of the amazing statistics that describe the exponential times we’re living in:
* The first commercial text message was sent in December 2002; the number of text messages sent today exceeds the population of the planet.
* There are more than 8 billion searches performed on Internet Search Engines every month (4.1 billion on Google alone).
* There are more than 540,000 words in the English language; about 5 times as many as during Shakespeare’s time.
* The amount of technical information being produced is doubling every two years and is estimated to soon double every day.
As we expand this collective knowledge, we gain insight, perspective and a bit more of the truth. Whereas previous generations could passively pursue the truth, our generation is called to an active participation in living the truth. In short, we are being called to understand.
Inspiration Divine foretells the evolution of mankind from a physical existence to a Spiritual existence. When most of us think of evolution, we envision Charles Darwin shocking the world with his evolutionary description of our lineage to our primate cousins. And while Darwin’s focus was largely biological, even he was aware of the future that awaits Humanity:
As man advances in civilization and small tribes are united into larger communities, the simplest reason would tell each individual that he ought to extend his social instincts and sympathies to all the members of the same nation though personally unknown to him. This point being once reached, there is only an artificial barrier to prevent his sympathies extending to the men of all nations and races. If indeed such men are separated from him by great differences in appearance or habits, experience unfortunately shows us how long it is before we look at them as our fellow creatures. (Darwin 1871)
As Darwin warned, the solidarity of mankind is a future state that we have yet to reach. The physical lives we live today fail to provide us with a path to solidarity or any glimpse that this path is in our near future. Clearly our physical evolution has brought us quite far, but the rest of the journey will require us moving to the next phase in our evolution: a Spiritual existence.
As you have gone through life, you have no doubt experienced amazing coincidences, ironic threads between two or more people in your life and chance encounters that could not be logically explained. We have all had “ah-ha” moments in which an idea leaps into our head or the answer to a seemingly unsolvable problem suddenly reveals itself to us. Moreover, even if these moments are rare, they provide us with a glimpse into the potential of a Spiritual existence. Inspiration Divine reveals how these connections operate in the Universe and how we can tap into God’s wisdom in order to achieve our hopes and dreams.
Understanding Inspiration Divine
Inspiration generally refers to an unconscious burst of creativity, but in the context of divine inspiration we’re invoking its original Roman relation to the term afflatus:
Cicero, in the oration for Archias, speaks of the poet as one who was breathed upon or into by some divine spirit, – poetam quasi divino spiritu inflari. Plato held the same view with regard to poetry. He believed that the poet was often so inspired that he said things that he did not himself fully understand.
“Himself From God he could not free;
He builded better than he know.”
Josephus, who was a cotemporary of Paul, in his first book against Apion, speaks of the twenty-two sacred books of the Jews as having been written by an inspiration which came from God, or according to a breathing upon them of God. (Evans 2004)
Similarly the term Divine, which has many meanings, refers to the concept that human beings are “God revealed” — living representations of God on Earth as they live in accordance with God’s intent. In combination, Inspiration Divine is about expanding our consciousness to tap into personal prophecy (the disclosing of information that is not known to the prophet by any ordinary means). (Davison 2005) Rabbinic scholar Maimonides, suggested that “prophecy is, in truth and reality, an emanation sent forth by the Divine Being through the medium of the Active Intellect, in the first instance to man’s rational faculty, and then to his imaginative faculty.” (Sunwall 1996)
Thus the title Inspiration Divine describes Humanity’s path to enlightenment as conveyed by the Divine Being (God). Most readers will immediately become skeptical of any proclamation of Divine communication, as our society has given up on direct communication with God. In our modern understanding of life, we’ve come up with lots of reasons why God doesn’t talk to us anymore, but for some reason, most of these theories leave out the simple fact that we’re not listening.
We assume that because God can communicate with us via any method of His1 choosing, that He will appear to us in a form that we will understand. We picture ourselves as Charlton Heston climbing to the summit of Mount Sinai in pursuit of the burning bush and hearing the voice of God. With a deep, raspy voice God will call our name and command us to listen.
And if God called out to us in this way, why wouldn’t we listen? This isn’t to say that God wouldn’t call to us in this manner. However, this sensational version of Divine communication is more appropriate for a single conversation rather than one with all of Humanity. Possibly God reserves the attention grabbing, burning bush communication styles for one on one conversations.
Inspiration Divine documents God’s message of love, acceptance and understanding for all of mankind. The message that is being broadcast is intended for everyone, rather than a chosen few. We are all called to listen and Inspiration Divine contains lessons on how to listen, how to communicate with God and, most importantly, how to evolve into a Spiritual existence that embodies the beauty of sustained enlightenment.
Whereas other books extol the benefits of enlightenment, Inspiration Divine brings enlightenment into your daily life with practical and accessible methods for achieving harmony with the Universe, connecting with your Spirit and maintaining balance in your life. However, beyond what Inspiration Divine can do for you, the lessons contained in this book are for Humanity as a whole and your role in bringing about the Spiritual enlightenment of Humanity is embedded in the message itself. In short, you have an unshakable responsibility to personally bring forth the next phase in the evolution of mankind.
In attempting to understand Inspiration Divine, you have already begun to experience the logical battle that will take place within your Mind. As human beings, we interpret and understand the world around us through our sensations, emotions and thoughts. When things make sense we accept them and when they don’t make sense we tend to refute them. There is no other way for human beings, for everything must ultimately be interpreted, analyzed and accepted by our Minds. However, in putting the essence of understanding entirely within the domain of the Mind, we also ignore both the Body and the Spirit.
In modern metaphysical circles there is quite a bit of discussion about the Body, Spirit and Mind. Our society readily accepts these three ways of describing being human but we rarely stop to understand the deep, meaningful consciousness that is present in these simple distinctions. They are so elemental a part of being human that we tend to accept them without fully considering the insightful role they play in our lives. But as soon as we start to encounter concepts that don’t make sense, we instantly become aware of just how entirely caught up in our Minds we really are.
By ignoring the Spirit and the Body in figuring out what is true, we ignore God and make our way through life embracing most situations based entirely on logical thinking. The problem with this approach is that with a mental existence we risk missing out on any relationship with God that doesn’t fall into the logical patterns that our Minds demand. Surely the burning bush and booming voice from the Heavens didn’t make sense to Moses either, but in trusting his Spiritual side, he was able to accept, understand and believe in the voice of God.
In bringing you Inspiration Divine, I’m not asking you to accept these words as the voice of God. I believe Inspiration Divine to be a message from God, for all of Humanity, which is intended to teach mankind how to attain enlightenment, how to serve God and how to be in communication with God. To your Mind, these words will represent a paradigm shift that will cause you to rethink your current understanding of the Universe, God and Humanity.
What I would ask you to do is consider the message contained in Inspiration Divine with more than the logical analysis of your Mind. As you read each chapter, your Mind may refute concepts that are presented and I encourage you to not fight or judge your Mind for being so quick to separate truths from un-truths. Instead let your Mind’s thoughts be nothing more than thoughts and instead let your Spirit engage in the conversation. In collaboration, the Body, Spirit and Mind will guide you down the path of determining what is right for you. By engaging all three in the conversation, you will find more wisdom and insight than could ever be provided to you by another.
Your Path
It is no accident that you are reading this book at this time in your life. No matter if you are reading this in a library or someone gifted this book to you, the motion of the Universe is unmistakable and there is a reason you were brought to these words. No two people have the same role to play, despite us all sharing a common purpose in life. And with this comes your awakening to a purpose that can only be revealed by a connection to your own Spirit. The words contained in this book will not dictate your purpose, for that message can only come from your Spirit. However, this book will show you how to connect to your Spirit and keep that relationship strong for eternity. In this, your path to enlightenment will be revealed through your discovery of purpose.
The final note I will add to this introduction speaks to the energy contained in this book. Your bookshelf is full of books that you find amusing, insightful, and inspiring. I truly hope that you find this book to be worthy of your bookshelf but ask that you do not park it there. Instead, learn what you can from this book and gift it to another. Take the teachings of this book and then give this book to someone else. If you cannot think of whom to give it to then pick someone at random, but make sure that it gets into the hands of someone that can benefit from its message of love, harmony and universal possibilities.
If you are one of the people that was handed this book, count yourself as both deserving and the most valuable person in the world. You have provided someone else the opportunity to practice sharing, to try giving and to experience what it feels like to take a chance on someone else. By receiving this book, you know that there is beauty in the Universe and that you are part of the evolution of Humanity towards a new, Spiritual existence. For you, the path is similarly simple: learn the lessons contained herein and gift this book to another. One by one, the human race will move forward to truly understand a new relationship with the Universe, God, and Humanity.
As we investigate the countless models seeking to explain the Universe, God and Humanity we should be inherently skeptical of complexity. A simple and rich river runs through us despite our propensity to focus on the wider ocean. When we find an understanding of the ocean that also explains the river, we will have found the truth.   In short, any explanation of life that is complex may be interesting, but it certainly isn’t enlightening.
Without a grasp of the path to enlightenment, our Minds are helplessly drawn to complexity. Followers of that path will certainly obtain knowledge, but they will be no closer to a union with the Divine than before they began.
In walking the path we seek the truth. Be the truth beautiful or be it ugly, we seek the truth in its purest form. We care not for what is appealing to our senses nor what calms the masses, but instead desire to know what we are, why we’re here and what is our purpose.
Already God is near, the Truth is close,
Walkers of the Path
Inspiration Divine is a handbook for Humanity designed to bring about enlightenment one person at a time. You are but one person in this chain, but the chain reaction cannot continue without you. For this reason, the journey you are about to take is both a personal one and an enabling key to another’s journey. Upon reading these pages, you will understand the beauty, peace and love contained in the message. Sharing this message with others will not only bring about the Spiritual evolution of mankind, but will also propel you on this path. Record your name below before beginning this journey. In time, you will know who should appear next on this list. Your time is now and by inking your name below you begin your journey:
1. ______________________________
2. ______________________________
3. ______________________________
4. ______________________________
5. ______________________________
6. ______________________________
7. ______________________________
8. ______________________________
9. ______________________________
10. ______________________________
11. ______________________________

The ordinary life is that of the average human consciousness separated from its own true self and from the Divine and led by the common habits of the mind, life and body which are the laws of the Ignorance…
The spiritual life, on the contrary, proceeds directly by a change of consciousness, a change from the ordinary consciousness, ignorant and separated from its true self and from God, to a greater consciousness in which one finds one’s true being and comes first into direct and living contact and then into union with the Divine.
For the spiritual seeker this change of consciousness is the one thing he seeks and nothing else matters.(Aurobindo, Letters on Yoga 1970)

Copyright 2009 Darwin Stephenson. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

From Week 1

Choosing the Creative Life

How our personal creativity manifests itself depends on how you choose to engage life. For example, my ability to express ideas will be manifested one way when I’m writing a book, yet quite another way when I’m working with a client to obtain a better, more satisfying business or to take that business to new heights.

Before taking the first step, I suggest you spend time examining how and where your life is blocked. Find where your natural inclinations have taken you in the past. What sort of activities feel easiest for you?

There is a perverse idea in our society that if something comes easily for us, it’s not important. Hogwash! What comes easily for us is precisely what we’re best equipped to develop! Focus on those talents, skills, and insights, and you’ll create a life that’s great to the last second.

Never discount that which comes easiest to you.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t work on your weaknesses. Develop your strengths. Maximize what you’re best at, and the creative life will unfold as if it were your true destiny.

Because it IS your destiny.

Copyright 2008 Michael Knowles. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.