If Logic Was Anything, All Men Would

In Mythos And Fairy Tales, Deities And Other Great Spirits Test The Hearts Of Humans By Showing Up In Various Forms That Disguise Their Divinity. They Show Up In Robes, Rags, Silver Sashes, Or With Muddy Feet. They Show Up With Skin Dark As Old Wood, Or In Scales Made Of Rose Petal, As A Frail Child, As A Lime-yellow Old Woman, As A Man Who Cannot Speak, Or As An Animal Who Can. The Great Powers Are Testing To See If Humans Have Yet Learned To Recognize The Greatness Of Soul In All Its Varying Forms.

Be Wild; That Is How To Clear The River. The River Does Not Flow In Polluted, We Manage That. The River Does Not Dry Up, We Block It. If We Want To Allow It Its Freedom, We Have To Allow Our Ideational Lives To Be Let Loose, To Stream, Letting Anything Come, Initially Censoring Nothing. That Is Creative Life. It Is Made Up Of Divine Paradox. To Create One Must Be Willing To Be Stone Stupid, To Sit Upon A Throne On Top Of A Jackass And Spill Rubies From One’s Mouth. Then The River Will Flow, Then We Can Stand In The Stream Of It Raining Down.

Sometimes The One Who Is Running From The Life/death/life Nature Insists On Thinking Of Love As A Boon Only. Yet Love In Its Fullest Form Is A Series Of Deaths And Rebirths. We Let Go Of One Phase, One Aspect Of Love, And Enter Another. Passion Dies And Is Brought Back. Pain Is Chased Away And Surfaces Another Time. To Love Means To Embrace And At The Same Time To Withstand Many Endings, And Many Many Beginnings- All In The Same Relationship.

When A Women Speaks Her Truth, Fires Up Her Intention And Feeling, Stays Tight With The Instinctive Nature, She Is Singing, She Is Living In The Wild Breath-stream Of The Soul.

To Love Pleasure Takes Little. To Love Truly Takes A Hero Who Can Manage His Own Fear.