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I have known about The All almost all my life.
There was me… and there was all that was not me.
There was all I could see… and all I could not see.
There was all I could be… and all I could not be.
There was all I could understand… and all I could never understand.
There was all I could ever imagine… and all I could never imagine.
But that was still not All …
Many have said God is All… and each describes their All to me.
I know each All of theirs might be… but none of their Alls agree…
And none The All that occurs to me.
Describing is defining limits…
The All has no limits… thus cannot be defined.
All is all you know all to be… and all that you do not.
All includes all that’s pleasant and beautiful… and all that’s not…
All includes all that’s desirable and enjoyable… and all that’s not…
And that’s not All …
I discovered it is not just what I can be…
I discovered there is nothing that is not me or thee…
I am not All but All is all of we.
By: GreySprit
The battlefield lay behind me. I rested against the high rock wall and watched the melee of rage and fear that boiled across the meadows.
I heard a sweet sound… and through a small gap in the wall, I saw a beautiful orchard. The trees were fruited and songbirds warbled through the wood.
A rifleball ricocheted off the wall and struck my armor. It had lost it’s energy and merely cause the steel to clang and vibrate. An explosion nearby toppled me and shrapnel struck hard enough to dent my visor and gauntlets. Again, my armor had protected me.
The gap in the wall was inviting… and I scrambled frantically toward it. My armor stuck in the crack and I was unable to move forward. I wiggled backward enough to doff my helmet and drink in the smell of life on the far side of the wall. I shuddered to recall the smell on the battlefield.
I rolled back and leaned against the rocks. The hole was too small for a warrior in full armor. The battle had dissolved into small groups that would fight until nothing lived within the walls of the field. There would be no victory for either side today.
There was a rhythm to the war that bode certain death… and life was through the hole too small for my armor.
Could I be brave enough to remove my armor in the midst of the battle… or would I hide inside it until the end ?
By Grey Spirit
The rickety steps trembled as I swung open the back door of the dilapidated farmhouse.
There was no warning! The chunk of two-by-four appeared out of nowhere and split my chin. It was not the first time the old farmhouse had attacked me.
Once a proud weekend retreat for the family, the house and owners had fallen on unfortunate times… and some parts had fallen farther than the rest. I watched the front porch mysteriously collapse one day. When I came to, I was part of the rubble.
I had been trying to remove the deteriorated parts to see how much structure, if any, could be saved. The house seemed to resent my interest in it.
It had long ago been the home of Aunt Belle, an old wise woman reputed to have a fortune buried on her property. Someone had suggested Aunt Belle thought I was demolishing her home… and she had hit me with a board a couple times to make me stop.
They suggested I should have a conversation with Aunt Belle to make my intentions clear. I might possibly even enlist her help in saving the old edifice.
The moon was full the night I crept into the spooky farmhouse in the middle of the night to beseech Aunt Belle. I told her that if she would guide me to some of her buried treasure… I would either restore her home or make sure she always had a home, even if I had to let her share mine.
The next day I was impelled, for no particular reason, to dig in a spot I had not dug before. I had begun to wonder if it was Aunt Belle guiding me when my shovel touched something solid in the soft earth.
In an obscure corner of my home, there is an antique bottle with some of the original earth from the farm still inside. It occasionally also houses feathers from some special birds.
I couldn’t save Aunt Belle’s home… but the bottle reminds me she lives with me forever.
I haven’t had the bottle appraised. It doesn’t matter if it is a valuable antique… the memory it contains now is already priceless.
If it is worthless, so will be my story… so I don’t want to know!
I am an artist.
My art manifests in many ways… indeed, in everything I do… but it is Performing Arts that earn my living. I bring a character to life and get rewarded for it.
Earlier I learned some of the things I did were endearing… and several folks would buy my dinner for entertaining them by pretending I was some other character. I was fortunate to now have a patron who had been providing for my needs for some time.
I was entertaining my liege one day when a stranger interrupted. He spoke of a gift but I could tell he had come to receive something instead. I spoke to him harshly and revealed what I had surmised.
My patron could not smell a “rat” as well as I… but I was pleased he deferred to my judgment and asked the stranger to leave.
His trust obliged me to accept, perfect and perform a new role. Now I must pretend I am Chief of Security. I am not the subject of laughter much anymore… but I do see contented smiles. It must be that I am convincing in my portrayal of a competent protector.
My role is relatively routine with rare bursts of creativity when a stranger appears. I walk the grounds at dusk and check the livestock. The outbuildings are inspected and the estate is secure when I retire.
Once I am satisfied my patron is resting normally, I take up my position between the house and the outside world.
Everything is usually routine… including my habit of scratching a shallow depression in the cool earth… and turning around several times before I curl up with my tail over my eyes…
But not my ears!
Greyspirit
