A JOURNAL
"Allow me to learn with you," as one of my teachers always begins his lectures.
And to quote my core belief:
"A sense of separation from God is the only lack you really need to correct." T.1.VI.2:1
Thunder and Lightening.
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Who knew? Someone actually took the time to make this.
https://pin.it/7z7kaoedz2kge7 I love Love. And Keats is so full of it. I wonder who he is now... The day begins with holding hands. My "monster" looking large hand is held by a tiny old, skin and bone tiny hand. It is such a tender thing. I can't help weeping. Why, I wonder, is it so hard for us to break free from our shells and love? Why does the Higher Self only slide up and out in our last days? How long are our last days? "I love you." That is our final sentence, if we are fortunate enough to be conscious. My grandmother could not speak. My Father could only say it with his eyes and my mother, bless her heart, said it often, not knowing who she said it to. But she said it. That is all that matters. Dearest Mommy, If you can hear me, I love you too. I will choose you again, and love you better next ...
Depression? Pah! Luxury! Let's talk about trauma. SOUTH AFRICA I am not a native to Africa. My ancestors come from Ireland and Scotland via Lesotho. Not everyone is a refugee, but everyone is dealing with everyone's refugees, and although I am more of a deposit left by ancestors who came to build and ... and died leaving the offspring here in South Africa, I feel like a bit of refugee in some senses, not right for here, but not right for anywhere else. What to do with the likes of me? I am certainly more African than I am European. South Africa struggles on with issues that are overwhelming for everyone and the privilege of voting serves little comfort when elected leaders act like looters, careless with the lives of citizens, regardless of colour or creed. Crime and corruption filter from the top, down, into every area of public life. There is the danger of having one's welfare affected by such corruption and crime,...
I can't resist the bookshop. It has taken the library's place. Three copies of Jordan Peterson's book lie on the shelf with a slight discount. I bought them all. Why not? Someone is going to need to read it before long. I am poised to go off into a spiritual retreat where I shall cleanse my soul, uplift my soul and come out rising on the wings of eagles, I think HaShem missed Job, so He created me. That's okay. I'm down with Job. I have the patience of Job and his bloody opponent, dogging my heels, but no matter. I cling to the Creator. For future reference, my eyes are bad and I sometimes plonk in a comma when I mean a period, and sometimes, for safe measure, I give you both. My dyslexia prevents me from picking it up when I write in the lamplight, which is not great, but my autism doesn't like bright lights. It is what it is. Giving everything over to HaShem is, or can be, difficult. I have good moments ...
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