10
" Om-nipotent, Om-nipresent, Om-niscient, Om
all is wholly undivided, instructed the physicist, David Bohm
the enfolded and unfolded, that of formlessness and form
from the implicate unmanifest to the explicate manifest born
originating from an underlying nonphysical order
emerges physical reality with its illusory borders
the whole of existence exists in every wee part
all is here now—the cosmos' stern, bow, starboard and port
the invisible portion of existence is pure potentiality
awareness itself as a field of infinite possibility
physical reality a holographic illusion
science says so—that's its conclusion
the new science is within and is up to you
a simple experiment with loving prayer will do
following science honestly, one is led inward too
with zero biases, mind and reality are seen as not-two
who cares what proofs others are uttering
live it yourself or you know nothing
make a cloud square shape in a oneness experiment
repeat “thank you square cloud” with joyous, grateful intent
the results of this being easily duplicatable
shows that a unitive conscious universe is no fable
Native Americans have their time-tested rain dance
a prayer to the Great Spirit resulting in watered plants "
― Jarett Sabirsh , Love All-Knowing: An Epic Spiritual Poem
12
" In the blackness of the midnight sleep world, immunized from the harsh glare of daytime reality, the active imagination of the soul dances in the mind of a dream weaver. Safely shrouded in the all-encompassing blanket of darkness supplied by nighttime sleep, our secret wishes speak to us by channeling the collective mythology of the primordial mind. During the wee hours of night, right before first light, we summon our personal muse to tell us in operatic fashion what it means to be human. If we listen carefully, our muse’s heart songs shares with us what it means to experience both the tragedy and comedy of life, and encourages us to unreservedly embrace in a moral manner the banality, brutality, beauty, and splendor of nature that occurs eternally in the cosmic world that swaddles us. "
― , Dead Toad Scrolls
13
" What did we talk about?I don't remember. We talked so hard and sat so still that I got cramps in my knee. We had too many cups of tea and then didn't want to leave the table to go to the bathroom because we didn't want to stop talking. You will think we talked of revolution but we didn't. Nor did we talk of our own souls. Nor of sewing. Nor of babies. Nor of departmental intrigue. It was political if by politics you mean the laboratory talk that characters in bad movies are perpetually trying to convey (unsuccessfully) when they Wrinkle Their Wee Brows and say (valiantly--dutifully--after all, they didn't write it) " But, Doctor, doesn't that violate Finagle's Constant?" I staggered to the bathroom, released floods of tea, and returned to the kitchen to talk. It was professional talk. It left my grey-faced and with such concentration that I began to develop a headache. We talked about Mary Ann Evans' loss of faith, about Emily Brontë's isolation, about Charlotte Brontë's blinding cloud, about the split in Virginia Woolf's head and the split in her economic condition. We talked about Lady Murasaki, who wrote in a form that no respectable man would touch, Hroswit, a little name whose plays " may perhaps amuse myself," Miss Austen, who had no more expression in society than a firescreen or a poker. They did not all write letters, write memoirs, or go on the stage. Sappho--only an ambiguous, somewhat disagreeable name. Corinna? The teacher of Pindar. Olive Schriener, growing up on the veldt, wrote on book, married happily, and ever wrote another. Kate Chopin wrote a scandalous book and never wrote another. (Jean has written nothing.). There was M-ry Sh-ll-y who wrote you know what and Ch-rl-tt- P-rk-ns G-lm-an, who wrote one superb horror study and lots of sludge (was it sludge?) and Ph-ll-s Wh--tl-y who was black and wrote eighteenth century odes (but it was the eighteenth century) and Mrs. -nn R-dcl-ff- S-thw-rth and Mrs. G--rg- Sh-ld-n and (Miss?) G--rg-tt- H-y-r and B-rb-r- C-rtl-nd and the legion of those, who writing, write not, like the dead Miss B--l-y of the poem who was seduced into bad practices (fudging her endings) and hanged herself in her garter. The sun was going down. I was blind and stiff. It's at this point that the computer (which has run amok and eaten Los Angeles) is defeated by some scientifically transcendent version of pulling the plug; the furniture stood around unknowing (though we had just pulled out the plug) and Lady, who got restless when people talked at suck length because she couldn't understand it, stuck her head out from under the couch, looking for things to herd. We had talked for six hours, from one in the afternoon until seven; I had at that moment an impression of our act of creation so strong, so sharp, so extraordinarily vivid, that I could not believe all our talking hadn't led to something more tangible--mightn't you expect at least a little blue pyramid sitting in the middle of the floor? "
18
" If you have no arms
To hold your crying child but your own arms
And no legs but your own to run the stairs one more time
To fetch what was forgotten
I bow to you
If you have no vehicle
To tote your wee one but the wheels that you drive
And no one else to worry, “Is my baby okay?”
When you have to say goodbye on the doorsteps of daycare
or on that cursed first day of school
I bow to you
If you have no skill but your own skill
To replenish an ever-emptying bank account
And no answers but your own to
Satisfy the endless whys, hows, and whens your child asks and asks again
I bow to you
If you have no tongue to tell the truth
To keep your beloved on the path without a precipice
And no wisdom to impart
Except the wisdom that you’ve acquired
I bow to you
If the second chair is empty
Across the desk from a scornful, judging authority waiting
For your child’s father to appear
And you straighten your spine where you sit
And manage to smile and say, “No one else is coming—I’m it.”
Oh, I bow to you
If your head aches when the spotlight finally shines
on your child because your hands are the only hands there to applaud
I bow to you
If your heart aches because you’ve given until everything in you is gone
And your kid declares, “It’s not enough.”
And you feel the crack of your own soul as you whisper,
“I know, baby. But it’s all mama’s got.”
Oh, how I bow to you
If they are your life while you are their nurse, tutor, maid
Bread winner and bread baker,
Coach, cheerleader and teammate…
If you bleed when your child falls down
I bow, I bow, I bow
If you’re both punisher and hugger
And your own tears are drowned out by the running of the bathroom faucet
because children can’t know that mamas hurt too
Oh, mother of mothers, I bow to you.
—Toni Sorenson "
― Toni Sorenson
