image from amazon.com
“Raise your words, not your voice, It is rain that
grows flowers, not thunder”--Rumi.
Rumi and Cayce tell us
we are not a body
who has a soul, rather
we are a soul
who has a body.
I try to believe
that a true healer
allows their higher self
to communicate directly
with your higher self,
asking permission for the healing.
I have had to accept
that my higher self answers with
a resounding NO--the meat known
as Glenn has more to learn,
the Bardo plan for me clearly
has had me fighting and dealing
with a mysterious series of
serious autoimmune processes
for thirty years and counting.
It has led me mercilessly
deeper and deeper into
the terrible darkness and icy depths
of damnable Disability.
I endeavor with every breath
to own and to thank
the metaphysical outline
that I, essentially, designed for my self;
even though I admit to often railing against it
as I drop a crystal bowl
or take an eventful fall,
or swallowing chronic meds,
or giving up driving and hiking.
My gracious, mostly clear mind allows me
to continue to write poetry,
to cheer on my wife to pursue world travel,
to vigorously speak truth to power,
to host my own photography site,
to keep the synapses snapping sans Sodoku,
to keep the cognitive cobwebs to a minimum,
so that when I am not shaking my raging fists,
gritting my angry teeth,
or screaming at the Universe,
I am able to dispense and receive
from my family
and several international communities
of bone fide cyber-friends.
The old boar does not
eat the cubs as before; now
loves and plays with them.
Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub