Finding Your Self

Dear Beloved,

Relish not those who ‘have found themselves,’

For they are shod in iron shoes
Walking over the bog of time.

They find themselves in their jobs,
As doctors, lawyers, and teachers
Nurses, writers and artists,
Accountants, politicians and beggars.

They find themselves in their roles
As husbands and wives,
Lovers and ex’s,
Friends and foes,
Sons and daughters,
Mothers and fathers.

They find themselves in their beliefs,
As Buddhists and Hindus,
Christians and Muslims,
New Agers and Jews,
Pagans and Bohemians,
Philosophers and Scientists.

They find themselves in the land of their births:
New Yorkers and Chicagoans,
Texans and Californians,
Americans and Russians,
Earthlings and Aliens.

They find themselves in what they do for fun,
In what they hate,
In what they possess and do not own.

In fact, they find themselves
In every minute of every day.
And sink deeper moment by moment.

Only until you can smell the stench of the mud
And taste the sickness
Will you stop and say:

‘I do not know who the hell I am.’

When that moment comes
The iron shoes will slip off
And you will slowly begin to rise.

When you begin to see
That all such notions,
All such identities
Are nothing but lies.

Then beloved,
Over this world you will skip
Asking the question:

Who am I?’

Beware, dear friend, for the world is slick
with many alluring going on's,
And lush places
Will continue to grab at you
And suck you down in motion by saying:
'Now you know.’

Janaka skipped.
Skipped for a long while
Across the world with mouth gaping;
And in between soft breasts with mouth wet,
Doing this and doing that,
Trying to find out who the hell he was.

And just for a moment or two
Even his skipping stopped.
Not because of any person
Or thing,
Or event.
Not even for an idea.

He just stopped
And he knew.

Now, when some beautiful eyes flutter,
Or when someone dear disappears,
And he forgets to stop
And sinks up to his big mouth--
A mouth that shouts to the world:
‘I know what this is all about!’

Even the mud tastes sweet.

Silent Ripples

My first book when I was studying _A Course in Miracles. Stories that uplift. If you enjoyed The Prophet you should enjoy these parables.

"It is but your choice. You can tarry here under this cloud of despair, holding onto this work of yours you hold so dear, adding onto it as you do, collecting more and more as time goes by. But there will come a time when you will have had enough of carrying around your burden, when more light will penetrate the cloud and reach into your mind, a gift from others who have made the climb.



"And the path will always be here, as long as there is a valley to fly from, where I will await patiently.

Excerpt from "The Valley"

The Rider in the Sky

O God, I saw in the sky the other day
Wisps of cloud in the shape of a horseman,
Scattering the other clouds with his cry.

The walls of city towers shook,
And the birds in the sky flew silent;
Yet no one in the city did hear;
No one in the city did see.

Who was this rider across the sky?
Was it truly one of the four the preachers and priests
Have thumped over their congregations’ heads
With the threat of the wrath of You?

I cannot but laugh at the thought of You filled with wrath.
It is like the sky filled with fish.

I know this horseman,
Whose name is Death,
Has been sent not from You,
But from human minds.

How is it that the Eternal
Can know this specter called Death?
Can water know this thing called dryness?

Only those who continue to believe
They are nothing but a bag of flesh and bones,
Who know not the Self,
Will meet this lord of death,
Who rides howling across the sky.

Yet the very ones who created such a god,
Stare straight ahead as they speed down the road,
To lock themselves in little cubicles
And to turn on the magic box.

Lest they see that ride,
Lest they hear that cry.

O silly ones, who close your eyes and ears,
This rider comes not to destroy.
He comes to be released from time’s unending task.
He cries to quit, to walk away from his job.

But no one hears him.
No one sees.
So he must rip apart bodies and draw away breaths,
To knock down the towers and tear away the cubicles,
Until his creators have cried out:

“Enough!”

Until they have looked inside and found the Eternal Self,
Where Death is dissolved like a spider’s web
Licked by a dancing flame.

O seeker of God,
Know that this rider of the winds
Is the greatest of friends.

He will only touch you
If you see me and you,
And you chase after this and that,
And think your happiness is but outside.

While, at the same time,
you build security boxes
To keep that same outside from coming in.

Janaka has heard this cry
And has seen this ride,
And has laughed with his pants around his ankles,

As the rider galloped to run him down.

--"Footprints Along the Shores of Time," Janaka Stagnaro