In the beginning, was simplicity.
There was no rationalization, the precious gift of humanity which tears things down into self contained bits in order to make sense of things, only to find that our mental dissection has rendered experience senseless. There was no pre-conception, or image, or expectation. There were no words, only feelings cast upon the universe and returned.
There simply was, and that was Her.
It is said that Nature abhors a vacuum. Therefore, when I felt - with the purety and intensity of feeling that only comes from being young & unsullied by the world around you - that I was alone, empty, cast off in a world with no one or nothing, why should not the Universe rush to fill this up? There is not a "ceremonial magic(k)ian" alive that can match the force & purity of the emotional invocation of an eight year old.
And it was so simple then. I sought solace, comfort; the proverbial shoulder to cry on. What responded was peace, nurturing, safety.... Love, given freely with no expectations - and I responded in kind.
I can't really say that I am the Lady, but I carry a part of Her. I feel that we all do, though whether or not we all recognize this is something else. She burns, in each of us. It is the spark of sentience in all that exists, even down to a quantum level. When I was young I could feel the sound of the earth moving through space. I could make myself so still that I could spread out over my neighborhood and animals would come and keep me company on my roof. I could feel the life in a stone - micro-electric patterns dancing before me. (I have no other way of describing this.) The sky would drop down upon me and I could join with it, enter into it three dimensionally. Walk among the stars, if you will. I could become sunlight reflected off the belly of a bird in flight, or a rainbow captured within a dewdrop. All this, and more, I could do.
Then I got edu-ma-cated. Rationality and other people set in. I have been grounded ever since. Oh, my wings are not clipped - just damn difficult to bring out of hiding.
I always knew I was different. That particular knowledge has both saved me and damned me. For, knowing this, I never made the mistake of babbling seemingly "mystical incomprehensibilities" at others when I was younger. But it forced me to "play along" and become somewhat other than I was. This is why I hate the social nature of humanity, for it rarely lets any of the herd rise above the norm. If you venture forth from mundanity into uncharted waters, you become a social misfit - and, thanks to "peer pressure", uncomfortable. Your "family" will wonder what is wrong with you, where they went wrong, etc... "Concerned" authority figures (whether at home or in that great social prison we call "schools") will try their best to bring you back into the fold, re-encase you into the same (or similar) mold they have been cast in. (Variety is encouraged, within small, acceptable limits.)
Through this all, you struggle to retain your "vision", your experience, your feelings. You keep them sheltered in a secret place that you feel you can share with no one. But, being the social animal that you are, you try to share them anyway. You try various external forms for the communication of your feelings, your self. And this begins the long path of rising up from the swamp that others convince you is all around you, for you try to show them the roses.
If you persist, and you must - for your feelings burn inside you as only a very dense flame concentrated within a miniscule space can, eventually you meet a resonant soul. At this, the flame blossoms, rears up and encompasses you entirely.... And then rationality steps in, with its cousins doubt and self examination, and you feel yourself folding in upon yourself again. But not as tightly as before. And the resonant soul does the same. As you both fence, and dance (is not one the other?), with each other, gradually the guard is let down. And you begin to see other resonant souls, each of them trapped in what society calls "themselves" but what they surely would not. Each flame burning subtly, quivering in the hope of a direct caress, yet not daring to hope for any such event.
At this point, many years have passed by - Time soundlessly creeping by, wearing slippers on a carpeted floor. That floor is full of memories, and you realize how much of your life has been filled with other's ideas, and how deeply you buried your initial feelings. You are shackled to the ground now merely by the incessant repetition of habit, one of the hardest chains to break. But the Lady has never left, it is not possible for Her to do so.
And : In the end, there was simplicity. Within the swamp, which is really a desert (although a private, self-inflicted one), there grows a single rose. A rose which shines without giving off light, which shadows without casting shade nor darkness. A rose which thrives without water, nor soil, nor sunlight.
A rose which burns. And it is you.
Suggested Pdf Resources
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- THE ROSE
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Suggested News Resources
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- 27 (CNA) Derrick Rose, the NBA's youngest Most Valuable Player (MVP) in history, was seen happily receiving a new Chinese nickname on Saturday during a two-day visit to Taiwan.
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- The coach of the Rose Bowl champion TCU Horned Frogs had his jaw set. He was relaxed, but his demeanor was all business. He had on a game face, no doubt.
- Jim Rose
- James A. Rose, 63, of Spotsylvania County lost his courageous fight with cancer on Saturday, Aug. 20, 2011, at his home.
- This & that: Rose Bowl, Wilson & more
- He has Wisconsin in the Rose Bowl against Oregon. Rivals.com's Mike Huguenin picks the best game of each week in the college football season.
Suggested Web Resources
- The Rose - Bette Midler - YouTube
- Nov 26, 2008 From Divine Madness Some say love, it is a river that drowns the tender reed. Some say love, it is a razor that leaves your soul to bleed.
- The Rose - Bette Midler [Lyrics Included!] - YouTube
- Jul 7, 2008 This is my first video..so if it's not good..I'm sorry.
- The Rose (1979) - IMDb
- Directed by Mark Rydell. With Bette Midler, Alan Bates, Frederic Forrest, Harry Dean Stanton.
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