channeled message received from The Author on 9/17/20 at 6:13 a.m. PT US.
Just down and to the left of the three star cluster of Orion’s Belt (at least as it presents in this part of the world), Sirius was calling me out from my housed casing and into the expansive isness of nature. Once outside I felt warm tears of joy slowly slip down my cheeks, gloriously happy in the reunion.
This site of my cosmic friend glistening in the darkened skies reminded me of a mechanism in a larger machine – a sort of cog churning in endless motion, driving forward the eternal, etherial energy of existence. That brought me to the idea of thought and its intangible flow of pulsing charges able to create and to clog one’s own forward momentum. It is one thing to sing with the music of wonder, of idea, and it is quite the opposite to scribe endless compositions that sit in the drawers of the mind until webs of dust and mental debris embalm the notes.
I have a clever friend who has made a fortune processing. Admirable, even enviable as some may see it, this individual worked hard, built a successful business, and to the outside world a happy home. Yet, this person has a secret… a deep knowing that “processing” can be a sword with double edge. As outwardly abundant a life as he has created, he, too, is like Sirius; a twinkling cog in a cosmic mind machined with excessive thought.
Since I prefer to speak freely, without judgement, let’s call my friend Scribe; a master writer of copy into and outside of self. Let’s also use the generic “He” to refer to gender without need for identification. I adore Scribe and his talents. He is a professional, a business owner, a family man, an artist of sorts in the genre of production. Words matter, and Scribe has made (and lost) a fortune utilizing this gift. The thing is, if you looked at the stream of thoughts generated by this active mind you’d find the weight balanced equally between what is used to create in the external world and that remaining within rings of infinite, internal thought. Those which drive Scribe’s success in the space of that external are rife with respectable witness in the generation. The rivers of pure notion that ripple in and through the caverns of Scribe’s mind, however, seem to wake nothing but pain, strife and those emotions similar in lineage from a living will weak to let go contemplation of same, or take action thereupon, as if purposed with resplendent resolution. Emotions are not always resplendent or resolute. Deeming perfection of thought as to the right and wrong of them is a fool’s game, and, in part, explains the fruitless assembly of circular processing. Like the energetic packets of zeros and ones eager to speed across the internet that are blocked by a disconnected IP, Scribe withholds that which seems yet perfect in construction from transmission. Processing. Processing. Processing.
I adore Scribe. He’s been a source of entertainment, curiosity and methodologies of balance in Americanized success for a number of years. Yet, as I unravel the Scribe that remains unseen, that exists in secret spiral, knowing I am helpless to offer a hand Scribe would accept in camaraderie or soulful understanding I wonder what more I can do other than step back and, myself, let go.
I have evolved to a place where I am comfortable in a space of thought and the spaciousness of no thought. I create through thought-form that waves the web of the consciousness and actions out into my reality in various experiences and expressions. I am aware of my thoughts and their import. I am also one who feels their way into and out from thoughts that serve and those that don’t. That makes it easy to empathize with Scribe as he appears to most to be liquid and even of mind and soul, successful and content in action and deed while hiding this willful withholding of confusion and illusion born of processing unabridged.
How grateful am I in the divine site of choice abilitied within me to think, to feel, and to allow the limitation of that limitless. How thankful am I for the grace to be aware of my thoughts without letting them control or overwhelm me. Scribe would call me scattered, bound by emotions that are better left unexpressed, and his perspective has merit. Hosting acquaintance with Scribe has taught me to feel without always needing to say it to others. That was a blessing and one of the best pieces of advice taken, the benefit of which has been instrumental IN my evolution into allowing and letting go. If only Scribe could toss this perspective around in his/her cycle of linear thought long enough to realize I may be one who “feels” outwardly, but that is my way TO release and move on; a shift that would serve Scribe in matching his outward success with an inward peace before his “cycle” comes to a human end.
Am I too wordy? Probably. Am I too forward in expression? Sometimes. Yet, I am something Scribe is not; free of the endless churning of uncertainty, of worry, of perpetual secret suffering that blades on in endless fan. I am myself. Perfect in my imperfection. Evolving in the allowance.
Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock…
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