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Every Day Acts of Peace

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Saturday, November 20, 2010

Los Angeles 2001: Who I Was, Who I Am, Who I Am Yet To Be

The rooms in some people’s houses contain cocoons.
The custom of some Mesoamerican people is to raise silkworms at home.
The worms take almost one year to raise.
In the month of March the butterflies lay their eggs on mats.
At five months the little worms come out of their eggs,
and are fed Mora leaves by their family of humans.
The smaller worms are sorted from the larger ones,
so the big do not eat the little, prey harm on them.

Maybe we are as unique as we think,
and maybe we are part of a picture larger than ourselves.
We are coming out of the dark, ages it seems, 
that we have been passing through the evolutionary seasons of our souls.
Humanity naturally mirrors our painful glories and joyful triumphs -
we all created the stage that we perform our parts on.
I wonder if anything I have said or done during my life has contributed to hatred.

It is not easy to raise silkworms in your home; they must be well cared for.
Three months after the worms open their eggs they begin to drool,
and secrete silk deposits that require immediate cleaning.
Silkworms must be well nourished, or they do not give enough -
or what they give is lacking quality, not functional for viable social use.

We are buds cast out of branches; 
grow to be leaves cast off the trees to fly scattered on the wind.
We land in time for rebirth, during the harshness of winter, 
and then we are recycled back up the tree to become life again 
springing forth the new season’s blooms.

I feel planted to the same spot, looking at the same view-
no matter how much I have traveled I am in front of my mirror, me.
I see only what appears to me, appears to be me – 
my restructured harmony -
past-societies of aging former-Selves, 
images all remembered within my bodied-structure -
all my internal-civilization updating to reflect my potential, 
my blended-harmonious whole.

My past no longer exists, 
my present is now, 
my future is not yet created.
More and more, time as I have known it
has ceased to exist -
my experience of my Self has become pure existence.

The world mirror echoes back to me 
my world of Self-image 
That, I ask, That, I am ready, to see.
My mirror image is only part illusion, 
my right side is reflected as my left, and what is left is right -
when I view my Self-centered at my core I am symmetry balanced.

I command my house to shatter -
implode my ceiling, my floor, my walls, 
all doors open none closed, 
my mirror shape shifts my illumination clear -
all thresholds show me the images of my Self - 
who I always was, 
who I always am, 
who I always am and was always destined to be -
who I was, who I am, who I am yet to be.

~~ Other People's Fingerprints ~~
Sometime after 1207 Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi wrote;
“One went to the door of the beloved and knocked.
A voice asked, “Who is there?”
He answered, “It is I.”
The voice said, “There is no room for Me and Thee.”
The door was shut.
After a year of solitude and deprivation he returned and knocked.
A voice from within asked, “Who is there?”
The man said, “It is Thee.”
The door was opened for him.”

Image Credit: Karin Lisa Atkinson 
Self Reflection, "Self Seen In The Forest And In Each Tree"