I’m not sure what heaven looks like. What I know is that we are students and life on earth is like a sacred school. Some souls are closer to graduating, others might return to learn more lessons. I have had overwhelming experiences of deja vu and strong feelings of being here before. Perhaps heaven is where we go when we graduate. Maybe it is omnipresence and understanding. A place we exist with all that we love? But there must be so many places in-between that we cannot imagine. I know there is a tunnel/wormhole that the soul travels through. I have seen it and connected with it in meditation. I think we can access this gateway now – this is how we manifest and where we pull our intuitive intelligences. Heaven is surely filled with color!
My daughter once told me that she used to be my mother, I believe her – maybe this is why she is always bossing me around. I once read a story in a christian magazine where a mother overheard her 5 yr old daughter on the baby monitor – asking her newborn sibling about God, because she was starting to forget him. Children know, and then they become adults, some of us find our way back before death. I know the end is also the beginning, like birth.
When I was young I astral projected all the time. The most memorable time I was flying through space without a body – as pure consciousness. I remember this overwhelming sense of joy and contentment. I was flying over the world at the speed of light? Landscapes, oceans, and cities beneath me – continents glowing vibrant colors in the unending blackness, as I zoomed by. I was filled with freedom. The feeling of a child.
Why do we grow old? I think so we can move past our bodies and go. So maybe heaven is where we dwell when we aren’t working and eventually we retire. The place where castles are built from diamonds. Perhaps we can stay there if we want to. I knew God before I was introduced to Jesus – nobody had to tell me about him/her. I also know I was born a poet and have always been one. I don’t believe in the fire and brimstone hell. I think hell is what we create in our own lives here on earth. Karmic hell. What do you think heaven looks like?
This morning I woke up as bright as a newly screwed light-bulb.
Life is tough—I am clinging to the center –
today I am winning.
I am a child.
We are all children in God’s family—stubbing our toes and scuffing our knees along the way. We wipe our snot-drenched faces with cotton sleeves – because we can’t stop crying.
Some people don’t appreciate anything.
I didn’t appreciate the catfish breath of the yoga instructor when she whined into my face under a meddlesome moon. ‘Catfish?’ ‘What does that smell like?’ Well I’m not exactly sure, but I presume it would smell fishy with a scented hint of kitty litter. I get it that everyone suffers from the occasional white coated tongue – an overabundance of yeast in the diet, but I’m telling you her chakras were clogged. Maybe mine are too but that’s why I went there – my pineal gland is in dire need of decalcification.
She was so rude, she blamed her attitude on the elements.
In her class we use bolsters, we straddle them like lovers. These bolsters are sluts. I wonder how many other sweaty bums they’ve seen. She instructs us to rest our cheeks on the bolsters – not those cheeks, the ones on our face. I meditate on an Epsom salt bath after class. Why am I writing this? Because sometimes I need to vent, sometimes laughter is better than crying. So hahaha in everybody’s face. Have a great day!
She is a false prophet.
Her moral compass has no bearings on my soul.
And the child had known His Majesty before any recollected thought. But the woman did not know Him, and her house was filled with red voodoo dolls and possessed ouija boards – bought from thrift stores. And the old-house was haunted, their were spirits in its walls, and they would come and torment the child. And they would come every Christmas Eve – their fevered calls drifted from the parlor room. So the child would rest her head on a pillow – with a clutched knife in her hand. She could not sleep in that house where the spirits roamed, so she left that house, but the house remained inside her soul.
One day the old-woman came back with a bible in her hand, believing she had all the answers. So she preached to the child, who was now grown, with children of her own. And she pointed her finger to the hall, and told her to follow. But the hall’s walls were filled with spirits, and she did not want to go. So the child who was now grown, prayed to His Majesty, sending prayers on the wings of His angels – and the old-woman said it was wrong.
The child ran toward the woods that were filled with magic. And the old-woman’s voice grew faint and disappeared from where it came. Inside the magical woods there were angels, and the light that shun was a majestic sun. His Majesty sat in the heart of that sun – arms outstretched, for the child to enter.
She was safe.
She was loved.
I am to remain silent, “It is none of your business,” my husband said. As I sit in my bedroom, staring out the window at the bleak disc of moon, I find myself thinking about Jezebel—the other woman. What does she look like? How does she flirt? What homewrecking slut-spiked stilettos did she wear that first night between the sheets with someone else’s husband? Not my husband, my cousin Tara’s. Tearful Tara—I might even feel sorry for her; who knew thirty years of marriage could end this way, who knew four kids couldn’t make him stay – she only wanted two. “I’d have a whole football team, if she’d let me,” Alexander used to say.
I feel the betrayal— even though Tara was a spiteful shrew, who ignored ten years of birthdays. Even though she cooked her husband eggs for dinner, after he worked sixteen hour shifts, so she could live on Wolseley Road – a neighborhood filled with grand houses and second wives. Even though she would stare at my anxiety scrubbed hands, until I hid their shedding skins away inside my pockets. No more summer Christmases in the pool.
The moon mourns, shrouding its body in a veil of clouds. Tara sits beneath the same moon, her children no longer twinkling. They diminish like falling stars— I catch their ashes in my palm.
Scandal has rocked this house. It slithered inside on babbling tongues, pasted thick with deceit, might be cum. Our shoulders cowering like bent knees. “When you push a man too far, he cracks,” my husband warns. Is Alexander a rake? Is his mistress a moll? One thing is certain, Tara is not a martyr.The high-pitched beep of the smoke alarm snaps me out of my thought filled trance. My eggs are burning—I smash them into my husband’s face for dinner.
I would categorize this book as a historical fiction novel, containing supernatural happenings. Dick Young, the protagonist – has a close friendship with the scientist Professor Magnus Lane. Dick’s life is put in danger when he decides to partake in an experiment that induces time travel by ingestion of a liquid drug (concocted by Professor Lane). It is only the mind that travels; the body remains in the present time (which is sometime in the 1960’s). Dick Young journeys back to 14th century Cornwall each time he takes the drug, and becomes emerged in the life of the Carminowe family.
Whenever Dick takes a trip – which is how it is described when he consumes a dosage, he is guided by a man named Roger: a horseman/steward who works for the Carminowe family. Where Roger goes, Dick is pulled with him. Dick’s mind follows Roger, but his physical body remains stationed in the present. This proves dangerous because Dick’s mind is sightless and unaware in the present time —when under the influence of the drug. He has no ability to interfere in the past world; just an observer drifting through their world like a phantom – unnoticed. Magnus instructs Dick to never touch a person in the past world; if this happens detrimental circumstances occur.The drug begins to have side-effects, and he becomes addicted. Similarities could be drawn between alcoholism and drug addiction. There is an underlying homosexual quality in the relationship between Mr. Young and Professor Magnus. Dick’s wife and two stepsons begin to notice changes in his appearance and behavior, which he tries to hide. The tension in the family manifests an interesting dynamic.
Du Maurier overwhelms the reader with descriptions, and honors the vernacular of the 14th century used in that area. The author’s writing can demonstrate complexity, so it is important to pay attention while reading, or you might find yourself drifting – there is a lot of information. Some might find this tiresome, but I chose to treat it like an educational experience. That being said, don’t give up because past midway through the book I became engrossed in the story – finishing the remainder of the novel quickly. When I completed the book I had a desire for more unveiling – several missing pieces, too much ambiguity. I would have preferred to know how the Young family was affected long-term. There were many unanswered questions in regards to the heroine Isolda: the woman existing in 14th century Cornwall, that Mr. Young had become obsessed with. However, I still liked it – and appreciate the element of musicality in Mauriers writing style, which resembles the rhythm of a galloping horse. I would definitely recommend this book.