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Tuesday, 13 June 2017

ON INTIMACY - Bringing Back the Gods

Chapter 1: In the End is my Beginning 

Delving into personal intimacy
that weaves in and out of a poem
written in 250 BCE.

Before Knowing You
I yearn to write lines of love
of you adoring something
so simple
as how I clean my teeth:
beholding me through the mirror,
my back resting on your fortress chest
my spare hand stroking
the warm forest arm slanting up
through the valley
of my well explored breasts;
a funny smile,
obstructed by the drawbridge of my toothbrush,
becomes four
as we marvel at how
we both see reflected
in the other’s eyes
the flecks of life
glistening in our own.
Beautiful thoughts
bringing empty, stony echoes
into this chasm of lonely wilderness.

I walk through the valley of death, poetically, internally. You did it for real, in California, with your ceremony in the desert, allowing your beautiful high, your deep connection. Sunrise sees you drinking in the red of the sky after taking medicine. You. All alone. Beautiful you, young you, walking, lithe like, through the desert. Slithering snake. I bet you were naked. I imagine you in a space where god becomes like man for the sake of man and man becomes like god for the sake of god. In my mind you are a moving Greek myth bending to become a flower, to dance your minute delicacy around its giant stem as it grows dancing light into your heart.

And then eventually the come down, back to the tent, the winds picking up. Zipping up, coming in from all that expanse, faced with the confines of canvas, forced to go within in a different way, alone now, disconnected from that other world.

I remember being startled when Prof. Amador Vega said that the pain of being a god for a moment of eternity is in the return and realising we are not god: the pain of our humanity. I can see you, through time and space, sat back in your flayed human skin, raw rubbed by sand and sun, feeling denser now, separated from humanity. Feeling small now after the ever expansiveness of space, feeling the terrifying immensity of the skies suddenly so far away, sensing the beating heart of the world that had been so tangible before, now dimmed, hiding back behind the flowers. Brutally forced out of power, out of the expansion of being everything, to return to small.

I feel you aching for people not present. You are left only with You. Nothing but you and your beating heart, getting faster, and your drained energy seeping into a hard desert floor under a flimsy, dog-eared camping mattress, accompanied by nothing but your breath; wondering how long it will continue. When will it stop? How long is a night? Where will you go? The desolate desert winds mirroring your soul. Whirlwinds of thoughts bringing ramshackle fears into your dream world.

The void slowly opens her devouring orifice.

Under the twilight skies you desperately pack up, wind whirling sand into the crevasses of your skin, your gear, your soul, and you hike back to your little, fragile car. To drive. To calm the mind. Drive. Looking for friends. Drive. Looking for company, looking for anything but this emptiness. Drive. Hours of long straight highways, the dotted lines on the dusty road coming into the windscreen like stars in a space ship.







Hypnotising yourself out of that dark fear, running, running, running away. Wanting to know what it is all about, too afraid to find out.

You tell me years later, two decades later, mid forties, that you understood something more. Before going into the desert you’d asked to know direction, you’d asked to be shown what to do, who to be. You’d asked for guidance and it had been given to you, if only you could have heard it: allow yourself to be vulnerable, allow yourself to sit in nothingness, to be alone in meaninglessness. Be brave and walk through the valley of death, alone in the dark of the deepest night, without even the stars to guide your way; to have the courage to be alone within yourself, to sit in the confines of that tent, to sit in yourself, and face the screams, face the gargoyles of your fears and walk through them to the other side; to withstand aloneness and the fear of being alive, to know that you can, so as to never have to run away – ever again - so as to not base a lifetime on running from fears, running from the nothingness, from crazily grasping onto sands of meaning as they slip through your fingers and you scream for time to stop running through your being.

But you didn’t.

You tell me all this as I cry down the phone. I have been alone for so long; so long I have been forced to make company only with myself: years of meaninglessness, of non-producing, of waking day by day with nothing to do, with no reason, drowning in the fear of worthlessness. How many hour-long moments have I gazed through the glazed over glass of my windowed eyes, blank walls my mirror, the aspects of my mind my only companions, forced into conversations with the within?

I have developed relationships with trees, taking me to a place where seconds take years, yet I am invisible because I move a billion times too fast. I move at the speed of human, where I cannot see the immense beauty of their dance, for a step takes one of my lifetimes. I have been dragged down, kicking and screaming, into the beauty of presence, into my own beauty that comes up from the presence of the world.

In the Beginning of Beginnings was the Void of Void, the Nameless.1

I scream holding onto my name, which dislodges off its hook. I want it to fit; I want my name for myself. I scream, a child clinging to a broken toy. Irreparable, this distance cannot be returned. I have stepped too far and seen too much to claim ignorance. I must continue.
Into Nameless, without body, without form, into where this one Being gives all the power to exist. The flower is my cousin, the moon my mother, in this loneliness I become all of humanity, leaving behind all that I am not.

My presence becomes unwrapped from its covers of meaningless meaning; my presence is allowed to breathe.

I am in the first breath. Is this a second awakening?

A baby breathes her first breath and timed with the stars, with the moon’s gravitational pull, with the energy of the sun, becomes unique. When did I first breathe a second time? Who have I left to become who I always was?

Dionysus was born a second time out of a thigh.

Outside in the far distance I still have my body. I recognise the hand, but not the sensations. They are constantly birthing. Eternally anew. I think about all those times I do not recognise the details of my face in the bathroom mirror, new lines, my eyes constantly changing their vision. They staring into me, asking me to open as I cling still, afraid of presence. Why afraid?

I remember bliss. How many people have experienced it? Do the flowers live in it? Are we unaware of it like fish cannot see water? Would the flowers be shocked to feel what we humans want to feel, as we endlessly repeat fears, anger, jealousy in some vain attempt to control life and keep everything still. We seem to do anything but allow ourselves to see presence in the void of our hearts. Why do we struggle so hard to push away from all this meaninglessness and so blind ourselves to our true beauty, our own true selves? Why are we so unable to let go even as we are dragged through life backwards, clinging desperately onto the monstrous shapes of ignorant fears?

‘I should have stayed in the tent’, you say.

He who obeys Nature returns through Form and Formless to the Living,

And in the Living

Joins the unbegun Beginning.

I awaken to my presence, sat in this nothingness of a day, beside these white painted walls, behind the pane of glass, watching rain pour, watching trees dance; too still for any thoughts, emotionally exhausted, unable to feel, to think. I lie, my body a stone, as if on medicine. Movement zero.
I shudder. Is this death?

I shudder, panic, feel strangled by the close confines of the meaninglessness of my life. My mind screams suicidal thoughts in silence. I have no place to go. Birds soar; I feel my inescapable heaviness.

I can no more. I unzip this tent of self constriction. I leave my room and go walk in the rain.

The woods find me. Their boughs are the embrace that keeps me from madness. These are my family. I slink to their feet, feel wrapped in the curves of their trunk. In the out-breath I feel their green soothing. I slow down again, back into the rhythm of life.

I gaze.

This is beauty. Far away from an art gallery, I am surrounded by true art. I think of fairies. Moss green curves in the interplay of trunks and earth, the intricate work in the strokes of branches, interweaving patterns of delicate vision. My head is supported by a loving trunk, my body by sub-stance, by the mother of all. Matter matters. It is meaninglessness that is meaningless.

The joining is Sameness. The sameness is Void. The Void is infinitive.

The bird opens its beak and sings its note

And then the beat comes together again in Silence.

I hear my breath, a river of calm, caressing my body, allowing air that was not me, to come in, what was not mine, to be touched by me, to be changed, to be warmed by my presence, to become me. I cannot hold onto this gift, but return it, return myself, to the one breath that moves the patterns between the branches.

At the end of one breath, a slight pause: I hear silence.

The next is quieter. Each breath dying down into a deeper place, softer, harmonious.
Until it would seem my body is so relaxed it is not breathing. I hear it from a distance. A complete openness in my belly to all that is, digesting silently as my presence plays communion with Presence.

I realise I am:

My body is vibrating, the heavy solidity lifting away.

My breath circulating freely, silently, lovingly.

I am balancing on the edge, becoming fully alive. All that I was only moments ago is dead.

I tingle. I am Joy.

I feel the tree, breathing into me. It kisses me.

I would stay here forever.

Nature and the Living meet together in Void.

Like the closing of the bird’s beak

After its song.

Imagine if every human felt this…​how life would change…​I feel myself slinking down, opening.

I fall into a womb. Above I feel my body taking on all responsibility. I surrender. Once I get out of the way, my muscles unspring returning to their natural state. In this deeper relaxation, Peace flows.

It knows.
The psyche knows to heal itself.
When ‘I’ am not.

My lips smile

down here all makes sense.

A still sense of a soft diffused light called Love.

Why would I ever block this out?

Is this my presence? The presence nourishes me, gives me strength to show myself, to grow into my own, to shed my bark and become a supple nymph in the river of breath.

Peace seeps into my body, bones relax.

I sink further,
on the edge of being able to stay awake as I awaken to this:

I let myself become one with it.

All is foolishness, all is unknown, all is like

The lights of an idiot, all is without mind!

Fears push on my bladder. I know that old trick. It is not real.

To obey is to close the beak and fall into Unbeginning.

I fall into myself. Soft velvet.

Time dissolves, meaningless.

This is all there is, this is all I am.

As I become smaller, going further and further within to who I am, I expand out into all that Is.

Blissful nothingness.

Jaw softens

I feel myself as one

Swimming in the see-through-ness between inside and out, I remember myself.

I sink in my own simplicity.

How could I ever have forgotten?




Time slows into the Eternal.

I am filled.

Through the silences I hear car, wind, birds, the rustle of animals. There is another world.
I don’t want to return.

I feel the father, my thoughts, coming to pick me up from school…​coming to take me back to the land of the living dead, to the meaninglessness, to words and ideas and the projections of mind.

I feel the bark of the mother softly push me onwards, telling me that I am. I can deal with living in her, in her material, I can deal with the hard flakes of deathful unconsciousness gnawing on the edges of words, I can deal with demons that fling themselves at me, my own or others. I can deal with it all.

I can separate with my sword of discernment, I have the protection of the father now, of feeling my presence, of the Spirit. All I need do is return and allow myself to be met, allow myself to be seen, only my own dragons can be dominated by me, only my own world can be healed by me.

I cannot heal anywhere else but in myself.

Thoughts are coming in faster now. Are they insight or poison?

I think of the minute doses of poison that can heal. I think of my responsibility to experiment into the right dose that is healing for me, that will open me up within and without, and also know the dose that will bring me down, into a world of depression, of becoming closed down, lost in self-referencing mind-stuff, of being closed in the circle. In-firm.

I am coming out of this deep wellness of being, back up to the dreaded surface.
I open my eyes. Breathe out deeply. Am greeted by green beauty. A balm for this deep wound I have again come out of. Seeking the healing, far within.

I stand shakily. Head rush. Knees ache from inactivity, I take a tentative step and continue onwards.


there is a place
full of light.
It strokes me back
into comfort
heals me.
in trust
I float in hope.

Too soon the ephemeral eternity
turns to dust in my hands;
I am left only with me.

[i] Thomas Merton’s translation of Chuang Tzu’s poem, ‘In the End is My Beginning.’ 250 BCE.



By Way of Introduction

Chapter 1: In the End in my Beginning
Chapter 2: Time Travel
Chapter 3: Holograms and Pool Tables
Chapter 4: PMT and Ovulation


Chapter 5: The Boundaries

Chapter 6: To Love

Chapter 7: Maps

Chapter 8: Vague is Vague

Chapter 9: Defining The Prince Within
Chapter 10: In a Nutshell
Chapter 11: Cinderella and the Animus

Chapter 12: Awakening
Chapter 13: The Mystic and the Logic Experience
Chapter 14: Being Burnt by the Light of the Sun
Chapter 15: Hand in Glove
Chapter 16: Not Too Much

Chapter 17: Moving Points of Balance
A Crack Into: Raw Exposure
Chapter 18: A Dizzying Mix of Power and Impotence
Chapter 19: Freedom and Sex
Chapter 20: Walking the Knife Edge (Part one)
Chapter 21: Walking the Knife Edge (Part two)

Chapter 22: This is It
Not Quite a Chapter at All: ‘Who I Really Am’
Chapter 23: Real Intimacy
Chapter 24: Dropping the Potato

Chapter 25: Ego Death
Chapter 26: Meaninglessness
Chapter 27: The Eternal is Ephemeral

Chapter 28: Moonrise in the World of Slow
Chapter 29: Enthusiasm - the Rainbow between Heaven and Earth
Chapter 30: Cars and Seeds
Chapter 31: Will you Marry this Moment?

About the Author
List of Illustrations


About the Author   

Author photograph copyright. John D.C. Masters, all rights reserved, 2013

Julia Robinson has spent her life out of the box, hitchhiking around the world, floating down the Amazon in a self-made raft, selling roasted chickens in Argentina, working at an orphanage in Nepal, studying Jungian psychology in Catalonia, going to art school in Greece, writing and dancing in Colorado. Now back in her native England, she expresses the breadth of her experience in her poetry and writings. She has written this book around her poems to give them context and accessibility.

​She presently lives in Totnes, Devon and is gently, slowly, allowing a new adventure to enter into her heart.​ Who knows where it will lead…?

For further information or to buy the book please go to:


Thursday, 13 April 2017

Honeymoon: Ready for any Eventuality. 10 April 2017

´We are going to have such a good time!´ through the skype screen he brims over with joy. We are imagining how it is to actually be together, to be able to touch, to be able to not have to find wifi to be able to talk, to be able to eat together, sing together, and other things together. ´Wow...´
Meanwhile Fabian is in a moment of transition, like so many I have gone through, like so many he has gone through. We are veterans of moving lives, of sudden changes, of creating changing in the field of our own realities, riding waves of the everchanging. Which is why, suddenly, I feel enormously grateful to years of experience of travelling and being able to survive under often extreme conditions: the honeymoon.

After a little more than a week of fantastic shows, eating out and loving each other in Buenos Aires, the moment arrived for The Transition. Months before Fabian had decided to make the jump and move from the Capital to the countryside and begin a new life - closer to nature, living under the expansion of wider skies, connecting once again with the stars, tracking the phrases of the moon, feeling the warm, green blanket of being surrounded by trees, reconnecting – at last - with Essence. Which is exactly what has happened - but in a way so dramatic that neither of us really fully expected it.
One night the sunset was so bright we really thought there was a forest fire.

Welcome to the house in the countryside, just beside Mercedes town. It is a 20 minute car ride down a dirt high way...never before have I seen a dirt road so wide...it would be enough for four or five lanes of traffic. A car passes every half an hour, or less. The little neighbourhood road to the country home where we are living, is grass, like driving on a lawn. Quite beautiful.

There is a canvass swimming pool that we managed to get into on the first day, wonderful cold feeling of being alive in the middle of a hot sunny day and given our full motivation to enjoy ourselves I used a lot of self-control to ignore the hundred or so bees from the neighbour´s honey production outfit that were buzzing over the water. It was the next day I started to feel a little more reticient after a sting that took four days for my hand to return to normal dimensions. Of course, we both concluded laughing, making light of the situation, that it was actually a gift since the sting was actually activating a meridian line cleansing an energy line through my body. And maybe so. It was later - when we discovered that a neighbour had been rushed to hospital after a bee sting in his throat and would have died apparently if he had arrived five minutes later - that we stopped using the swimming pool.

We discovered within a week that the lawn B roads are much easier to drive on when the rains come, which they have. The main five-laner road becomes, under the effect of rain, a mudbath churned by the occasional passing tractor...I would estimate it in places to be 30 centimetres deep, and when a car gets stuck and revs its wheels into the ever deepening hole (as happened in the car we were in) estimations to the possible depth of mud exponentially increase. But being in love, we laughed in the rain, pushing the car out of the continually occurring predicaments while singing Waltzing Matilda. 

We managed to turn the car around, and our friends found a four by four to pull them back to safety to gratefully make their way home to Buenos Aires as we continued back to our love nest with our thumb with front and rear traction coming to us like an angel descending from the sky. Another sign that we are on the right path in our love story.

Road impossible to walk on and keep shoes to feet

I have to commend Fabian for maintaining a depth of character, of a consistent fibre of being able to look on the bright side of things, with only a slight wobble one lazy afternoon at the sudden impossibility unfolding as possible that we had ran out of yerba mate (it was quickly overcome, spare yerba (traditional Argentinian infusion drink) was found lurking in a rusted tin box). While Fabian quickly recovered from his fear of not being able to drink mate back into a world of pure honeymoon, things for me were beginning to tarnish around the edges.

Fabian kept up the illusion of the love nest for a heroic number of days, while I began to wonder if it were me being pathetic, unreasonable or just plain mad. The tension between imagined worlds collided about a week in, at 4 in the morning, where having been bitten by a league of mosquitos rioting on English flesh without yet the antibodies to avoid pyramid red lumps of agony, and sleeping in a bed that I didn´t feel one hundred percent comfortable, and having survived without a single word of complaint during the first days within our new home - I broke. ´What is the matter my amor?´ Fabian asks surprised, filled with innocence. I hold back from screaming.

´I am on the edge of my level of tolerance´ I say, as spiritually as possible.

Next day Fabian, a man able to rise to the challenge of finding solutions, manages to get to Mercedes and buy, not a mosquito net, but a whole reel of beautiful material from a fabric shop closing down. He comes back, triumphant, still holding onto the illusion of perfection, and begins to create with branches originally destined for our parilla (bar-b-que with wood) a resemblance of a four poster which seemed to stay up straight only due to the friction between us working together to create our own little haven. Heroically on both sides we manage to not have an out and out slanging match, and satisfy ourselves with only a small parlay of somewhat measured wording.

But once inside this four poster luxury, our joint imaginative creative minds become filled with images of five star hotels, of Venentian boats, 1001 Arabian Nights, in short: pure luxury...an oasis within disaster.

Disaster? You may ask, you´ve not talked about disaster? No...we hadn´t...at all.

We didn´t seem to have the energy do even do so as we both struggled under the stress of individual survival. In the safety of our classy material, sedated by the smooth fabric, I manage to admit that the conditions under which we are living has turned my state from one of falling in love to one of sheer survival and how to escape. He hears. He defends. I feel like the son in Benigni´s ´Life is Wonderful´, having to suckle on the idea that the world is all fine as it collapses around us. But I am not a child, I can see for myself and I cannot keep the cotton over my eyes any longer. I get tired listening to him being so positive, so loving, so adoring. Flying on the broken wings of such pathetic positivity, seeing him leap mindlessly over the face of the sheer facts of reality, is shaking me up, scaring me, making me wonder who this man is, what kind of life can he offer, it is all an illusion of his mind? I feel myself crashing against such outrageous pretense reinforced with the steel of not accepting what is actually going on.

I basically say that I want out.

He basically says he wants in.

We struggle out of bed, me wiping tear stains from my cheeks, and prepare breakfast in the dirty kitchen to take out to the ramshakle garage, where the rain leaks through the tin roof less than in the inside of the house. As we sit down heavily onto our newly dried plastic chairs, forks in hand, ready to eat our eggs, it is a relief to be out of the dark house. 

As we do we slump in synchronicity, feeling the upcoming delight of eating we look into each other’s eyes and a volcanic bubble of laughter explodes between us both. It is hilarious. Here we are huddled against the rain, besides a run-down house in the middle of nowhere, unable to get out as all the ´roads´ around us turn into progressively stickier vortexes of mud and dark matter, here we are sat under corrugated sheets of metal, listening to cacophonies of raindrops as if everything were in perfect order.

Eros comes back.

The rain ceases for the day, and we simply enjoy ourselves, laughing, talking, explaining where we are at, with honesty, taking ownership of our emotions, no blame, no guilt, just how we feel. We dig deep into who we are, find that so much is about what we are thinking and not actually perceiving. Deep sharing. Present versus fears. Expecting outcomes based on past experiences rather than just being where we are and accepting it, unable to enjoying where we are. Fabian shares a saying of his from Tagore, ´If the violation is inevitable, relax and enjoy it.´ Suddenly everything comes back to life.

Then a delicious roast lunch, wine, another bottle, relaxing, laughing until, ending up back in our love nest we can begin to accept where we are, both within our created reality of love that is oozing out from within the silky walls of our four poster - and what is happening outside where it is dark and grim and damp. The ashes of the deceased grandfather in the varnished wooden box placed by the plastic flowers and the Virgen of Lujan, look on, with an encouraging smile, maybe, or perhaps a rueful smile, patiently wanting us out.

In the comfort of our self made cube of alternate reality, we were suddenly able to be honest with each other, with ourselves.

For me it was the toilet that would not drain after having done a morning discharge that made me start to feel shitty in this place. The day the car got stuck in the mud the water table rose so far that after throwing the bucket of water down the toilet (please don´t be silly and imagine there was a flush system in operation), there was no place for the water in the cesspit to go. It was like that for a day. 

You may say that was an exaggerated response of mine, but it takes a while to get used to the idea that on the way to the toilet at night each night, I manage to kill one or two cockroaches - as if that were a normal nightly sport. Last night I trophied seven - the present record. Or that the moths that have colonised in the roof (the flapping of wings kept Fabian awake more than me) seemed to have kamikaze missions in the middle of the night, not to bring down the twin towers, but by aiming for our faces would bring down our psyches.

Previous reparations made cunnily to the bedroom roof (to keep out rain)

But then there is always the day time, easier no? Of course, and when it is not raining, the beauty of the eucalyptus trees and the lawns that are really roads and the setting sun, and the village dogs are sheer beauty: nourishment for the soul. But it doesn´t cover up that I have had to cover over two or three places where the village dogs did not recognise private property of our lawn and where Fabian wondering around the garden searching for traces of wifi was in danger of stepping into.

I mean you get used to being dirty, to having everything you touch be dusty, dirty, of the body cringing into a kitchen that looks more like an animal stall. I think I can cope thanks to the years of experience of travelling, in Nepal, in Blackpool, of remembering previous times in Argentina, of practicing with the power of Vipassana meditation practice how not to over exaggerate the cold of cold showers. I thank my creative powers of imagination as I find a new way to wee standing up over the toilet bowl so as to not have to sit on the seat.

Sometimes we forget to turn off the water pump. The first time it happened I heard a LOT of water on a tin roof. I look up and see the water tank on the roof copiously over flowing...so run into the house, to the switch, and hear on the way sounds of a room being flooded.

What more can go wrong as we adapt every other hour to resolve situations with the merest of resources, tools or knowledge? And yet somehow we do. Eating, making love, surviving, laughing, storytelling, killing cockroaches, building up antibodies to the complicated constellation patterns of mosquitos bites that swell less and less on my legs.

There´s no drinking water, Fabian goes without an utterance into the rain to fill up the plastic bottle from the hose (the only drinking water for some unexplained reason), in my heart I thank him, he forgets to turn off the pump, the room that we don´t use gets flooded again, I turn off the pump, he comes in from finding wifi and tells me that I have a new message, and we high five our teammanship. All is still well.

But it was in our love cube of a four poster in la suite presidencial, fully imbibing of our five star experience when we broke down, without falling apart, into the laughter of fully accepting our present physical, psychological and amorous situation, as Fabian described our luxury experience with the addition of cascades as a natural feature down the bedroom wall itself as we listened to the music created only for us of rain collecting in ever increasing drops into the battered pans we had left on the floor...

The amazing creation of a Love Cube by A. Fabian Marcovich 

There is something quite deep going on. What is it? We have created our own reality on top of reality within the five fabric sides of our cube of love, and as long as I don´t smell too hard the damp that smells like a dog in the rain, that arises in waves from the old mattress that we are lying on. With the correct concentration I can actually, really, FOR REAL, imagine that we are in a place of great comfort.

But what is more amazing, for him as much as for me, that within this tumble down house of horrors, where is it difficult to stay clean for more than fifteen minutes, where I have been reduced to enjoying the street dogs licking my bare skin (even permitting in one rare moment of pure acceptance, on my face??!!) where the full fear of the harshness of nature is ever present, we are able, honestly and truly, to enjoy ourselves, to feel as if we are actually privileged, feel ourselves being showered by blessings.

Just eating is amazing.
Just feeling comfortable for a while, is amazing.

Just being together and smiling into each other´s eyes, is a miracle.

The beautiful grass roads, Negrita the dog, holding hands walking into the sunset.

For suddenly all veils are stripped away. In the conditions in which we are living there is no other option but to admit: we are together because we want to be - because no one in their right mind would stay here for any other reason. There is no doubt that we are not attracted to the other for money (because there isn´t any) for a luxury of living (because frankly we have hit rock bottom) for contacts (we are completely alone) for opportunities (isolated without road access), for any reason at all that could radiate from our egos...our egos under any other circumstance would be screaming to get out, not to get in.

And in the middle of all this, like a lotus rising out of manure, we are both somehow, so far from the marketed civilised idea of a honeymoon, so far away from any illusion of photoshopped self images, so far from the matrixed world, as we live in the bare bones of a broken down reality, we are miraculously staying open, staying open to what is, staying open to each other, staying open to love.

And suddenly everything that is happening to us, inside and out, is a miracle of a gift. How else could we have got here, so deeply, so innocently, so full of love?