For the kitty cat people of FedBook and beyond, do yourself a sugary favor and do not read-on. While your incessant posting of cuteness as furry creatures with claws, nails, and whiskers is beyond my birder focus, may you find ever more depth in your kiddie pool of awareness.
Yea, I can be pretty snotty at times. Domestic cats kill hundreds of millions of birds, every year. Kitty cats hunt not for food. Pet cats hunt for ‘play’. Do I harbor a major resentment? Naw. It would be inane of me to blame the kitty cat people of digitized Simpletonville. These teenie lights in mass makeup the roaring mouse’s share of the sheeple. Poor sheeple. Baa baa baa. Purr. Purr. Purr. Lick the feathers from my pity paws. Baa. Purr. Baa and purr as babies go to bed hungry, Earth is murdered for dirty oil, and the Bill of Rights are sand blasted away.
For us non-kitty cat humans here is what came into my mourning morning consciousness while watching butterflies pair dance around the garden.
Today, I was able to begin to follow Hoopoe, my mainline muse, in the noisy quietness of Finca Vigia. If only our limited human hearing was privy to flutterflies singing songs of love.
Paradigms are not extinct or dwindling. In Hoopoe’s literary endeavors, or my meager attempts to take the light from underneath the moldy basket and put it near the entrance to the oasis we never give up, we never give in. They (the paradigms) evolve rather than devolve. A desert dusty worn-heeled intent in response to a flip flopped beachy match of wit, concern, and aptitude is a treasure in the possible flesh, and within cyber hell a find.
Poetic rentals of the heart arrive first as a flickering and if true manifest as raging campfires for the dis-damned. Everyday some of us weave our stories together with new found wisdom or at least improved insight?
For those you have followed my puny writings you know I make up words. Yet, I cannot add my normal footnote to explain my new word = dis-damned. In this contained watched over discourse, I am flying without an ability to footnote. FedBook does not allow this standard researcher’s tool. No further explanation to build credibility and reliability in the quotient of aspiring dabbling in the art of words is allowed? The matrix prefers mimes and one liners rather than little literate teasers?
Possibly, if the Burka veil is not too clogged in religiosity and the tremor crust not freshly emotionally crispy you may discern my meaning as regards dis-damning by the end of this – my homely stab of sharing about the heart.
Imagine the heart as not a compartmentalized pulsating organ muscle of two lovers in a youlube music video – rather as an iconic mega-swirl not unlike viewing a distant galaxy like the one we inhabit. In this gyrating energy linkage life’s thoughts, feelings, purity, and unchecked love jump across multi-dimensional expanses of twirling points of light within and without an approachable cosmology. Clouds of star dirt and nano-dust spin and spread out from a center devoid of everything known yet constructed of everything perceived. Faith breathes at the core of the heart. Fear is airborne and finds no substance to cling to in an enamored heart spinning and spinning through panoramic open free thinking and being one space.
Okay, are you still with me or have you gone to chug a beer, slurp a homemade guava smoothie, or fire-up your bong? If you have taken a short break fellow FedBookers please come back and take it from the top, or the bottom, or from the insides. I maybe snotty by genetic nature but I am not driven by staying inside the lines. Use your crayons or pastels or keyboard way outside the perimeter and you will easily see me. I am the quasi-holy goof dressed in sol glistening hummingbird feathers sitting on the lit Nilo floor in a library larger than the Vatican’s fault, preening.
For those suspended in a 1950 time warp, with me, let us move on if you have successfully envisioned the universal heart.
What may you ask is the mission of the universal heart?
To gather us and re-orient our ailing species as one toward being cozy with ourselves and life, in general, and within positive power couplings, specifically. Inclusive peace is the over-riding wholistic goal. The overt dismantling of the war machine sited in avariceness and paranoia is the priority.
The heart yearns for connection. The heart screams for fair treatment. The hearts cries out in abandonment. The heart beats within every living entity in the whole friggin’ cosmos. The heart kindles joy at every opportunity, or not. The heart sustains kindness and remembers every good deed while feeding on truth. The heart generates ever more oodles and pangs of love and bliss. The heart is dis-damned. The heart is a poet more powerful than chemical etheric oceans on a trillion Jupiters. The heart flings out infinite kisses every moment in the here and now. The heart paints with water bubbles, hard-ons, surf froth, clouds, leaves, photo albums of memories, words tumbling down, over, and up escalators of awareness, pretty food stuffs, and any other benign brush imagined. The heart expands and never contracts. The heart is art of life. The heart is life of art. The heart is beauty transcended and yet comprehended in every visionary’s rabbit hole. The heart permeates everything, everywhere, all the time, in forever space.
Okay, so maybe now you are groovin’ the heart for me is God. I am secular in every aspect of my being and point of view or pitch for peace. Religion holds no juice in my global sandbox. God? I am unable to comprehend God. I believe I see God’s efforts in nature and those I am able to be one with but to say one thing or another, no matter how cosmic or all encompassing God remains a metaphysic manifestation. God is beyond my current status as Ms. Curiosity on the widow’s hill. I am still trying to side shift grief.
How do I know I am a crew member of the dis-damned and/or I exist within the greater heart? I don’t. I act as if.