Mystery | To Create...

There was a time of triangulation
Master of keeping lines from meeting
no melding of ideas
Just pulling lines into one point
Never through three

What I didn’t know about Prosperity –
once tunnel vision of wealth
money and status –
Now
freedom
eternity expanding and folding
renewing
being

The question of Legacy
Not a concern of an only child
always solitary
quantum-ly unaware
But being
Ripples moving into new creation
every moment
passing through

The Mystery
To sit inside
Be still
Be present
Listen and ask to see
Release outcome
Put away guilt
Be grateful
Simple in dance
Beautiful
Seeing beauty in the hard spaces
Love myself
Folding into all

Triangulation
Prosperity. Legacy, Mystery
Within and without
I move in simplicity,
wonder, and awe

Author’s Note:

Today’s lesson in quantum physics and intentional creativity and a little Cosmic Cowgirl thrown in to fold into a triangulation.

Maybe “folding” is getting a bit old, too used. Even this early in time of prismic study. Maybe I don’t understand.

Maybe it doesn’t matter as creation always is and continues as long as I ask to see.

Another triangulation happened yesterday and today. Three separate events and actions. I ask to see where these connect to me. I need that time of silence and stillness, listening and not reacting – being.

Much love and gratitude to this community of the Red Thread who move through Intentional Creativity, PRISM, Red Thread Guide, Cosmic Cowgirls. Here is the community I longed to know – especially in the quantum field.

In quiet of morning pause,
growling its mission,
the recycling truck moves
steadily toward our house.
Benny snoozes secure
somehow knowing
there is no worry.

I went one day to the edge
of big water flowing in from
the sea, like sky turned
upside down, I couldn’t
tell if I stood on land
or in clouds.

It is all perspective,
a matter of turning in
to realize the angel-winged shell
or five-ordinaled star,
the bubbly huntsman
or petite pebble configure
myself into the Mystery.

Upside down or inside out,
not growling nor in slumber,
at edge of ocean
I am hushed as tides
brush my feet,
a gentle nudge to affirm
my Heartbeat sanctuary.

.
.
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Author’s Note:

I have a bowl of sand from my recent trip to the Seattle area. In it I keep the shell of the lightest purple. And a stone of black spiraled with white. I don’t know how it was formed, but am in awe of its simple beauty.

Puget Sound. I call it “big water.” It’s technically not the ocean, but it is. Just like I am not technically Spirit, yet I am. The Mystery.

e.e. cummings was one of my favorite poets when I was young, mostly because he went against convention. I guess I’ve always been a quiet, stubborn rebel. And he used whimsy. Most of which I really didn’t understand when I was young, but laughed anyway. I love to laugh.

That’s my delight in poetry by ghosts of the past. It takes time to mature and understand them. However, they are always there waiting for me to realize that whether I stand on ground or in clouds, they are there for me to see more deeply the more hush I allow.

Just like Spirit.

Aho,

Lexanne