Letter From Christmas Isle

I am granting you my newest wish, because wishes are the most wondrous of human attributes.

Take my pinky, and we’ll walk as we read, sauntering a path of words set in this year 2012…

Beware the haunts. Beware of what finds your inner harbor. Allowing selective haunting gathers selective baggage. I sidestep the news, avoid rumors, and discern which pain I’ll entertain. It’s not my responsibility to process pain, only to mend and sweep as I am able. I have no control over what is willed, or natural, and bide my time resting — until I am led to confront pain in person, again. It could be a little thing, innocuous by some standards, or a deed grand for my list of accounts.

Aah, the veil rises, the fog turns to dew, and now we arrive at the day. In the same manner you and I awake. We know the steps that led here, what turns we rounded — look back at all the footsteps in the salt. Be ever wary of fear and anger — these pitfalls weaken me and show in my struggle, but I have no control. I wouldn’t want control and it’s not my job. Without control, fear and anger flee. Without control I will arrive, slightly damaged, but free.

Yeah! We’re here, in the bog, the mire, waist deep in the percolation of life and death — we are standing firm on the living side, thick in the froth and listen– all the birthing and dieing– just hold your palms up to the energy conversion, like a sunny day, isn’t it? Let our path avoid destruction, maybe walk around those underfoot, and run on the surface of a turning rock soaked in life. Explore and enjoy.

Hey, I’m artistic — you are? We can see and feel on a whim, us artistic types. We absorb. I can imagine. You can imagine. Good things, euphoria, we can see it. Then, in dire days, angry, fearful days, our brightness tears under the strain of our dispositions. Our imaginings become heavy and on we plod in robes of holes and tatters, wandering headlong.

I need to see through a dog’s eyes again, to remember my aura. I can just imagine my rags — do take care what you absorb and what you stitch into your fabric. And plan for the strength you’ll need when you are fighting for another, giving your all. Understand when you’re called in deed (though we often don’t recognize when these occasions arise). Gather your strength when you can, and be careful of what woes you carry. Just know that pain is the adversary. It’s the pain that taxes our belief in life and our reverence for living. Maybe it’s pain that’s accumulated for a long time, a grinding ache that makes us question life itself. Sneaky pain, too. Pain that comes through the front door, through the window, the thief of happenstance and traveling on seas of human speculation and confusion. Solemn miseries reverberate. The rumors spread and the corruption serves to weaken and exhaust our mettle, and then, when our own personal battle approaches, we rise against pain or we succumb. It’s your challenge to evict pain on your day.

So a wish, yes, there’s an invitation and it’s ever been, whittled on a broken shard and jammed in your self, mine too. I pass along the text of that… be a warrior of life, a combatant of pain and arrive as you are led, recognizing it is <i>your</i> self who is called, not a perception, or a deception, it is you, unique as a fingerprint and so delivered, arriving to the task on the occasion that is required. Many are called and few are chosen.

What proof? What data can confirm these wishful claims? The events will always lead to joy and life. Your acts, our successes, we win and are inspired to rid pain and mend the living self. There’s no uniform, no group, no meetings, and I have no idea who’s volunteering and who’s on shift work—what territory we cover, or who planted the flag. I know that if you strive against pain and against what kills the living self or gnaws the spirit of our existence, if you rally to preserve virtue, and health, and innocence, then together we are in arms. We wield comfort, life, peace, intuition and humility on behalf of an old creed.

How will we know each other? As we always have known in exultation, among dear friends, and alone, when we are led by the will of life. You know and I can only remind you, as you would remind me. It vibrates inside.

I’ll leave you here, in the meadow, with a little account…

One glorious day I watched a wagon filled with people pulled by a pony. I asked, “What would you have me know?”

“The blinders come off slowly, in case you run amok and upset the cart.”

2012 is a dream, but not for us. We’re pulling the dream, cavorting and prancing, sharing experiences, building our memories, and carting our heavy loads. We are all <i>understood</i> in a frozen world. What is happening? As it ever will be — the one who was sleeping begins to awake in us.

your gaboo


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