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Secrets and the First Prayer

You don’t believe in secrets anymore, do you? I mean… I suspect you once believed in Santa Claus, too. But eventually, the evidence either piled up too high for the foundation of childhood wish to support and it fell, or a single event alone razed that belief. A mischievous older sibling. A stash of toys reveled in a seldom-used closet in late November. And the wrecking ball exploded an aspect of hope that has never returned. Secrets, for someone like you, must have fallen into that same category by now. You’ve come to believe, after all, that all is energy. Therefore, all is alive. The ways the energy organizes itself doesn’t look like you or me, usually, but there’s life there. You’ve come

Aye. Eye. I. The Story of All of Us.

This is our story. Aye. Eye…no… I… Yes, that’s it. I. All is dark, but I am. Warm. I. Held. Whole. Light…in the darkness…separation. Light…and darkness…me. Me. Arrive. I emerge. Ever so slightly…compassionately. I emerge. I blink now. I see above me a sheet of blue. All is blue. Warmth made me. No, it brought me here. Without warmth I could not have been. I might have been in some way, but I might have remained “Aye,” and never come to “I.” Warmth…where does it come from? Oh! And what makes me sway? Wait… Others. Others. Others like me. Are here. This is called a “field.” This is a field of cotton. I laugh. I am cotton! I have come here, and I am fruit! I am the fruit of a cotton plant, in a

A Morning Chat

I imagine myself lying next to you when you awaken. Nothing weird or sexual about it; I’m just here when you wake up. (OK, that might be kind of strange, but stay with me.) I’ve simply been watching you sleep, wondering at you. And you are so beautiful, such a miracle… and when you awaken, you smile at me in recognition as if you expected me to be there, and I say… Hi! Can we chat for a second? I can’t see your beautiful eyes as I write this, not physically, but can you please look into mine while I tell you my thoughts? You’re just awakening, still half asleep. Don’t you hate it when your dreams close their storybooks for the morning? Do you find yourself, sometimes, holding to every last d

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