Contemplative Remembrance

MY PERSONAL CREED

2011-01-12T09:01:00.010-07:00

As I'm moving, I'm noticing the strength and density of the resistance in my life. I am letting go and going along with the flow of the Source who is God. I am doing this by focusing on and aligning myself with God. I am following my bliss. Some of my desires are:

I am surrendering and letting go of my will—allowing God to express in and through me now. I am one with God. I am experiencing God. I am experiencing Him in the love in which I forgive. I am experiencing Her in the light by which I may see. I am experiencing Him in the truth through which I may know. As I am experiencing God, I am also experiencing the Christ within. Each day, I comforting and caring for myself by noticing and nurturing—with curiosity, gratitude, compassion, patience, and humor—both the external and internal guests that are visiting me. I am at peace. I am taking responsibility for my life and calling forth my ability to respond in a new way without guilt or judgment. I am being transformed now. I am forgiving myself and others who appear to have harmed me—releasing all blame and attachment to negative energies that are not for not for my highest and greatest good. I am free. I am shedding and releasing all limiting beliefs. I am clear.

I am joyfully and enthusiastically traveling and exploring around the world—around the universe—with my wife and friends. I am having a blast experiencing the different time periods of a variety of locations. With a sense of curiosity and wonder, I am meeting and making new friends and experiencing new things at all times and in all places. I am attending contemplative remembrance retreats each year. I am healthy and strong. My temporal body weighs 189 pounds.

I am happy and grateful. I am being blessed abundantly. I am blessed by gratefully accepting the talents of others and by humbling sharing my talents.

God is.1

Because God is, I am. God creates me in his image. (Genesis 1:27)2 God is spirit. (John 4:24a) God is love/loving. (1 John 4:8b) God is light/lighting. (1 John 1:5b) God is truth/truthing. (1 John 5:6b)3 Therefore, at my essential core, I too am spirit. I am love, light, and truth.

God gives me the gift of free will. Through it I accept God’s Love for me. “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.” (John 3:16) When I choose and act in love, I create as God creates. I am added unto. My unique isness, my beingness, my spiritual essence increases. I become more substantial—more real. To choose and act in love is to do things from the heart. It is awakened doing. “The three modalities of awakened doing are: acceptance, enjoyment, and enthusiasm. Each one represents a certain vibrational frequency of consciousness.” (A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle, p. 295)

“Consciousness is the one and only reality—in evolution, in expansion.” (The Unobstructed Universe) Consciousness operates in and through the three co-existent essences of: receptivity, or presence of love; frequency, or beingness of light; and conductivity, or potentiality of truth. These three co-existent essences are manifesting and experienced here on this obstructed earth as: time, motion, and space.

“These three are co-existents of consciousness, but only co-existents. . . Consciousness is the reality. . . It is. It is the power, the impetus, the thing that is, the Being. The co-existents of consciousness are what consciousness operates in. Consciousness is in motion; all the time. They—the trilogy—are not attributes, but various juxtapositions of them make various kinds of attributes.” (The Unobstructed Universe by Stewart Edward White, pp. 170-171)

God is Supreme All-Consciousness. (The Unobstructed Universe & Anchors to Windward by Stewart Edward White) I am experiencing God operating in and through the three co-existents aspects of the Trinity, i.e., God the Father, or presence of love; God the Son, or beingness of light; and God the Holy Spirit, or potentiality of truth. The Trinity is One Eternal God. As was said in ancient times, we too are bold to say: “Hear, O Israel: The LORD our God is one LORD.” (Deuteronomy 6:4) God, the Eternal One, operates in and through the three co-existent essences of love/loving, light/lighting, and truth/truthing.

God the Father, or presence of love, is the “unmanifest source,” or Presence, of limitless abundance. God is love/loving. (1 John 4:8b) God the Son, or beingness of light, is a “bodily manifestation”4 of God the Father in a specific form according to the form's individual frequency, or impetus of being. God is light/lighting and in him is no darkness/darkening at all. (1 John 1:5b) God the Holy Spirit, or potentiality of truth, is the “channel of conductivity” by and through which the “unmanifest” Father—or Source—is made manifest and by and through which the "manifest" Son returns glory to the Father.5 God is Spirit; (John 4:24a) God the Spirit is truth/truthing. (1 John 5:6b)

“[E]very experience which is a manner of action by free will, however slight, is drawn from that part of the cosmos which comprises the Not-done, and transferred into that part of the cosmos which comprises the Thing-done. The latter is, in the realest sense possible, a portion of the individual entity, and will forever remain so.” (With Folded Wings, p. 33) “[W]hatever is done, whether in the physical world, in human relations, in the substance of thought, or spiritual contact—whatever is done with love endures. All else is consumed in the eventual transformation. . . ‘[T]hings done heartily’—these alone have a complete and ultimate influence in the accretion and the fashioning of the spirit entity.” (With Folded Wings, p. 50) “The course of personal development, then, is a constant transferal from that which is outside in experience, permanently to that which is—not inside, but ourselves." (With Folded Wings, p. 33) In religious terms, this process of spiritual growth and development is called becoming a son of God. (John 1:12-13 KJV)6 In psychological terms, it is called individuation.

I am a unique individuating free will who is becoming a son of God. In the Christian tradition, God the Son is uniquely expressed and experienced in the person of Jesus of Nazareth. “For in [the Son of God] all the fulness of God [is] pleased to dwell.” (see: Colossians 1:19 RSV) “And from the [Son of God’s] fullness have we all received, grace upon grace.” (see: John 1:16 RSV) In and through the grace of God, we are all evolving. “[I]t does not yet appear what we shall be, but we know that when [the Son of God] appears we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is.” (1 John 3:26b RSV)

The “body of Christ”—of which I am a member in particular7—is “[f]or the perfecting of the saints, for the work of the ministry, for the edifying of the body of Christ: Till we all come in the unity of the faith, and the knowledge of the Son of God, unto a perfect man, unto the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ: That we henceforth be no more children, tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine, by the sleight of men, and cunning craftiness, whereby they lie in wait to deceive; But speaking the truth in love, may grow up into him in all things, which is the head, even Christ:” (Ephesians 4:12-15 KJV)

And thus secure in the experience of being loved, I, in turn, am learning to love as I am loved. (1 John 4:7-21)8 Through choosing to surrender my will9 and to accept God’s love10 as he wills it for me in this present moment11, I am being transformed and becoming Christ-like.

"I am [being] crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not ['I's" alone], but Christ liveth in me [as the head]: and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me." (Galatians 2:20 KJV)

In the name of the living and true God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—One God, our Mother—our Source. Amen.

Endnotes

●We say "God is," and then we cease to speak, for in that knowledge words are meaningless. There are no lips to speak them, and no part of mind sufficiently distinct to feel that it is now aware of something not itself. (ACIM: W-pI.169.5:1-5)

●“When we speak of God, we know we are wrong, but we must speak of God.” (Fr. Rae Wake, quoting Meister Eckhart)

●“In unknowing knowing we know God, . . . .” (Meister Eckhart)

●“So much depends on our idea of God! Yet no idea of Him, however pure and perfect, is adequate to express Him as He really is. Our idea of God tells us more about ourselves than about Him.” (New Seeds of Contemplation by Thomas Merton, p. 17)

●So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them. (Genesis 1:27)

●God is spirit, (John 4:24a)

●for God is love. (1 John 4:8b)

●God is light (1 John 1:5b)

●the Spirit is the truth. (1 John 5:6b)

4
●For in him dwelleth all the fullness of the Godhead bodily. (Colossians 2:9)

●And that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. (Philippians 2:11)

●But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name: Which were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God. (John 1:12-13)

7
●Now ye are the body of Christ, and members in particular. (1 Corinthians 12:27)

8
●Beloved, let us love one another; for love is of God, and he who loves is born of God and knows God. He who does not love does not know God; for God is love. In this the love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only Son into the world, so that we might live through him. In this is love, not that we loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the expiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. No man has ever seen God; if we love one another, God abides in us and his love is perfected in us. By this we know that we abide in him and he in us, because he has given us of his own Spirit. And we have seen and testify that the Father has sent his Son as the Savior of the world. Whoever confesses that Jesus is the Son of God, God abides in him, and he in God. So we know and believe the love God has for us. God is love, and he who abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him. In this is love perfected with us, that we may have confidence for the day of judgment, because as he is so are we in this world. There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and he who fears is not perfected in love. We love, because he first loved us. If any one says, "I love God," and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen, cannot love God whom he has not seen. And this commandment we have from him, that he who loves God should love his brother also. (1 John 4:7-21)

●I am going to preach a hard doctrine to you now. The submission of one's will is really the only uniquely personal thing we have to place on God's altar. It is a hard doctrine, but it is true. The many other things we give to God, however nice that may be of us, are actually things He has already given us, and He has loaned them to us. But when we begin to submit ourselves by letting our wills be swallowed up in God's will, then we are really giving something to Him. And that hard doctrine lies at the center of discipleship. There is a part of us that is ultimately sovereign, the mind and heart, where we really do decide which way to go and what to do. And when we submit to His will, then we've really given Him the one thing He asks of us. And the other things are not very, very important. It is the only possession we have that we can give, and there is no resulting shortage in our agency as a result. Instead, what we see is a flowering of our talents and more and more surges of joy. Submission to Him is the only form of submission that is completely safe.

(An excerpt from Neal A. Maxwell’s speech Sharing Insights from My Life given at Brigham Young University on January 12, 1999)

10
●The beginning of the fight against hatred, the basic Christian answer to hatred is not the commandment to love, but what must necessarily come before in order to make the commandment bearable and comprehensible. It is a prior commandment, to believe. The root of Christian love is not the will to love, but the faith that one is loved. The faith that one is loved by God. That faith that one is loved by God although unworthy—or, rather, irrespective of one's worth!

In the true Christian vision of God's love, the idea of worthiness loses its significance. Revelation of the mercy of God makes the whole problem of worthiness something almost laughable: the discovery that worthiness is of no special consequence (since no one could ever, by himself, be strictly worthy to be loved with such a love) is a true liberation of the spirit. And until this discovery is made, until this liberation has been brought about by the divine mercy, man is imprisoned in hate.

(New Seeds of Contemplation by Thomas Merton, pp. 76-77)

● THE LOVE OF GOD
By Thomas Merton (arranged in stanzas and poetry form by Keith Jensen)

For it is God’s love that warms me in the sun
And God’s love that sends the cold rain.
It is God’s love that feeds me in the bread I eat
And God that feeds me also by hunger and fasting.

It is the love of God that sends the winter days
When I am cold and sick,
And the hot summer when I labor
And my clothes are full of sweat:

But it is God Who breathes on me
With light winds off the river
And in the breezes out of the wood.

His love spreads the shade of the sycamore over my head
And sends the water-boy along the edge of the wheat field
With a bucket from the spring,
While the laborers are resting and the mules stand under the tree.

It is God’s love that speaks to me in the birds and streams;
But also behind the clamor of the city
God speaks to me in His judgments,
And all these things are seeds sent to me from His will.

If these seeds would take root in my liberty,
And if His will would grow from my freedom,
I would become the love that He is,
And my harvest would be His glory and my own joy.

And I would grow together
With thousands and millions of other freedoms
Into the gold of one huge field praising God,
Loaded with increase, loaded with wheat.

If in all things I consider only the heat and the cold,
The food or the hunger, the sickness or labor,
The beauty or pleasure, the success and failure
Or the material good or evil my works have won for my own will,

I will find only emptiness and not happiness.
I shall not be fed, I shall not be full.
For my food is the will of Him Who made me
And Who made all things in order to give Himself to me through them.

My chief care should not be to find pleasure or success,
Health or life or money or rest or even things like virtue and wisdom—
Still less their opposites, pain, failure, sickness, death.

But in all that happens, my one desire and my one joy should be to know:
“Here is the thing that God has willed for me.
In this His love is found,
And in accepting this I can give back His love to Him
And give myself with it to Him.

For in giving myself I shall find Him
And He is life everlasting.”
By consenting to His will with joy and doing it with gladness
I have His love in my heart,

Because my will is now the same as His love
And I am on the way to becoming what He is,
Who is love.

And by accepting all things from Him
I receive His joy into my soul,
Not because things are what they are
But because God is Who He is,
And His love has willed my joy in them all.

(New Seeds of Contemplation by Thomas Merton, pp. 16-18)

"THE STONE REJECTED"

2010-10-22T16:37:00.003-06:00

(By Keith L. Jensen, written on September 16, 2010)

And have ye not read this scripture; The stone which the builders rejected is become the head of the corner: This was the Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes? (Mark 12:10-11)

I was first introduced to the focusing process in the fall of 1997 when I was being trained by Dr. Deborah M. Khoshaba and Dr. Salvatore R. Maddi to become a certified hardiness trainer. Dr. Maddi had been a colleague of Dr. Eugene Gendlin, the founder of the focusing process, when they were both teaching at the University of Chicago. In hardiness training, focusing is one of three techniques—the other two are: “situational reconstruction” and “compensatory self-improvement”—taught to assist students in broadening their perspective and deepening their understanding of their stresses.

I first taught CLSS 1100 Stress Management: Hardiness at Utah Valley University (UVU) during the spring semester—January through April—1998. I have taught this course each fall and spring semesters since then. Learning and teaching hardiness training has been a huge positive experience in my life. It has given me resources and courage to make big changes in my life.

For the first nine years teaching hardiness training, I just didn’t get this focusing thing. I just couldn’t see much value in it when compared to the other techniques taught in this class. As far as I was concerned it was pretty much a waste of both my and my students’ time. Each semester, I would spend one class day teaching focusing by going over the examples in the workbook and explaining the focusing exercise that the students needed to do. I would read the focusing steps out loud to my students from the Hardiness workbook. I even went so far as to look up on the internet other teachers of focusing and to read through their suggested focusing steps also. I also purchased Eugene Gendlin’s book Focusing and read it. Still with all my “thinking” about the steps of focusing, researching about focusing on the web, and reading Dr. Gendlin’s book, it still just didn’t click with me.

That was pretty much the state of affairs between me and focusing until the fall of 2006. For some reason, I decided to take another look at focusing at that time. I just sensed that there might be something to this whole focusing thing that I might have missed. As has happened to me before, I once again personally experienced the truth of the saying:

“When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.”

This time focusing fell upon more fertile ground. I found Ann Weiser-Cornell’s website [ http://www.focusingresources.com/ ], and the articles I read there started to really speak to me and make sense. I purchased Dr. Weiser-Cornell’s book The Power of Focusing and read it. I also discovered The Focusing Institute’s website [ http://www.focusing.org/ ], and the information I found there resonated with me. While searching on The Focusing Institute’s website, I read about something called focusing partnership. I liked the idea of this and decided I’d like to do some focusing sessions with a certified focusing trainer so that I could someday have a focusing partnership with someone.

Looking through the list of certified focusing trainers on The Focusing Institute website, I found one that spoke to me. It was Kye Nelson. I read about her and her philosophy for focusing on her website at: http://www.antheosophia.org/ Shortly after the first of 2007, I contacted Kye to see if she would be able to do focusing with me. Over the next six months, Kye and I met two times a month over the telephone for me to be trained in the focusing process and to experience partnership focusing.

During this time, I also attended the 2nd annual Focusing Institute Summer School (FISS) at the Garrison Institute in New York. This was a weeklong training in focusing taught by the best focusing teachers from around the world. While at the FISS, I met Geof Oelsner and we became friends. Geof, M.S.W. and nine years my senior, and I have been doing partnership focusing once a month over the telephone for the past three years. This relationship continues to bless both of our lives.

Currently, I am reading books by and being drawn to the focusing philosophy of Edwin M. McMahon and Peter Campbell. Ed and Peter’s work is speaking to me at a deep and profound level. Being involved in focusing in the way they describe feels like the place where I want to put my time and energy—it speaks to me.

“Biographical Notes”

(Excerpts from the back cover of Rediscovering the Lost Body-Connection Within Christian Spirituality by Edwin M. McMahon & Peter A Campbell)

Edwin M. McMahon, Ph.D. and Peter A. Campbell, Ph.D. hold doctoral degrees in the psychological study of religion and spirituality form the University of Ottawa, Canada. This field of inquiry addresses the issue of what in religions and spiritual practices contributes to health and human wholeness—and what generally leads to pathology. Both men are native Californians, born in 1930 and 1935—teachers, authors, theologians, Catholic priests, ordained as Jesuits and members of that order for 25 years as well as confounders of The Institute for BioSpiritual Research, Inc. http://www.biospiritual.org/ . . .

During the last 20 years they have concentrated their attention on developing a more effective, inner body-learning process within which those who share a common Christian faith can best learn a new habit in their important feelings. The priority here is no longer simply one of acquiring more new information, but including as well how our body can know and expresses Christian faith. This practical, missing piece is crucial for all transformational religious maturation within the whole human organism. . . .

The Institute for BioSpiritual Research, Inc. is . . . a member supported, shared leadership community of “peace-makers from the inside” who have come to experience that this transformative, unifying and loving body-experience is grounded in the human organism’s awareness of being a living cell with a Larger Body—for Christians, the Body of the Whole Christ. More and more today, Christians want to be nurtured by a Christian spirituality that ties their own process of maturing wholeness (holiness) together with their body’s gift for recognizing the working of grace inside this same Loving Process, “. . . in whom we live and move and have our very existence.”

“CARING-FEELING-PRESENCE”

(Beyond the Myth of Dominance by Edwin W. McMahon, pp. 120-121)

Affection, which is literally at the heart of a caring-body-presence, postures us in a more open, unselfish, “for-the-other” stance. We are there more as gift to the other, rather than fixer or manipulator. We let ourselves feel value, respect, awe, tenderness, openness, uniqueness, beauty—whatever gets inside us—as we contemplate the other. This transforms the controlling behaviors, drawing them off center stage. We are much more inclined simply to let ourselves and the other just be. However, people often confuse affection with their feelings toward a child, spouse, friend, etc., when they need that person to fulfill unsatisfied goals and needs in themselves. Real affection does not control and manipulate for personal aggrandizement, and that is how you can tell the two apart. Real affection involves a letting go of manipulation, together with availability and vulnerability in our body to being changed by the other, as that other is right now. Thus, being in relationship with affection is always growth-producing, healing, expanding and supportive of wholeness (often for all involved) because it is our body’s way of inviting grace.

Having affection toward someone or something tones our way of being with the other. That is why nurturing and learning from our own capacity for affection is so vital in creating a caring-feeling-presence toward the feelings we hold at arm’s length. With affection, we are far more able simply to be quiet, just to be with the object of our affection, rather than needing to do something or move on. This is crucial when disposing ourselves for grace. The fixing mode is restless and itching to get on with it. Affection quiets us down and eases us into waiting and presence. In Focusing, this is essential for carrying the felt sense of something until it is ready to speak on its own schedule. The allowing for grace to happen is the critical factor whenever a step toward wholeness (holiness) is the issue. Thus, human/spiritual maturation really depends upon how we carry our body feelings.

Caring-feeling-presence is what allows us bodily to hold, without destructive tension, the issues still needing to tell their story. This is not to say that we will not feel pain during such holding. But it is not the kind of terror and exhausting, debilitating tension that we feel when all our fight-or-flight apparatus is revved up for battle or escape. This war syndrome is hazardous to our health in every way. The alternative, even though it includes unfinished pain, feels like we are on the path home. There is anticipation and excitement in being on the right track.

Caring-feeling-presence is an umbrella term I use to describe a wide range of body approaches which help us become reconciled with feelings that we have made into our enemy. It is the most effective approach of which I know to restore our sacred body covenant. This covenant with which human life blesses us has provided us with a body and its own language—our feelings. Honoring this covenant is the antithesis of those disowning habits which our addictive culture programs into us.

We have been taught in a thousand subtle ways that pain is the enemy, as is the healthy tension of any challenge to grow. By deadening this pain, we separate ourselves from the feel of our own unique spirit struggling to be born and express itself through our body. Separated from the body-feel of this life cycle of dying and being reborn, which is our own emerging spirit, we become hooked on the painkillers of canned entertainment, shopping, drugs, or other escapes. How easy it is then to be manipulated and lead from the outside rather than from the body-feel of our own spirit. It is the rare person today who even has any knowledge (in the Biblical sense of knowing by being “bodily in”) about living out of the truth of one’s own spirit means.

“FINAL REFLECTIONS”

(Beyond the Myth of Dominance by Edwin W. McMahon, pp. 132-135)

There is a strange paradox for most of us as we get used to creating a caring-feeling-presence around feelings that before we would have mustered all our forces to push away. We discover power in gentleness, but not in the manner or with the characteristics we generally associate with power. Here, there is no pressured, intrusive, forcing, manipulating, driving. This is not an approach that will break down blockages, pierce through the armor, powerful enough to muscle its way right in and fix all that needs fixing.

Instead, gradually what we find is that the gentleness of this presence is far more powerful than any driving attack we could ever put together. The power lies not in what we do, but in what we do not do; not in the more perfect person we try to create, but in a coming home to the person we really are; not in the fixing of our feelings, but in an open invitation which our body becomes when we let go of fixing ourselves; not in all the strategies of control that we assume will move us toward our goal, but in the vulnerability of letting go of such control. Then, the empowerment just happens. And it dawns on us eventually that indeed this gentle, caring way of treating the adversaries we create inside ourselves is the path home. To journey on that path is to hold with loving and open arms the truth of ourselves. Those open arms embrace not only what is real, but cry out as a prayer never left unanswered. Living that is power.

Millions hunger to live in that power, hoping for peace. There is a direct relationship between this power and the way we treat ourselves, each other and the environment. The worldwide cooperation needed to effectively address environmental issues will not happen without a global spirituality that teaches us, irrespective of religious traditions and cultures, how to take care of our own inner ecology. Effective “outside” environmental care flows out of effective “inner” environmental care. There is really no separation, but an interdependence and interrelatedness that demand we live a caring, inner ecology of growing wholeness within ourselves to nurture the wholeness of the planet. This is what caring-feeling-presence is ultimately all about.

“Inside” & “Outside”

(22) (1) Jesus saw infants being suckled. (2) He said to his disciples: "These little ones being suckled are like those who enter the kingdom." (3) They said to him: "Then will we enter the kingdom as little ones?" (4) Jesus said to them: "When you make the two into one, and when you make the inside like the outside and the outside like the inside and the above like the below - (5) that is, to make the male and the female into a single one, so that the male will not be male and the female will not be female - (6) and when you make eyes instead of an eye and a hand instead of a hand and a foot instead of a foot, an image instead of an image, (7) then you will enter [the kingdom]." (The Gospel of Thomas)

“The Kingdom of God”

20And when he was demanded of the Pharisees, when the kingdom of God should come, he answered them and said, The kingdom of God cometh not with observation: 21Neither shall they say, Lo here! or, lo there! for, behold, the kingdom of God is within you. (Luke 17:20-21)

People who remain at war with part of themselves will inevitably spread wars around them. War is not just bombs and guns. The most direct, practical way for human beings to assist the process of planetary wholeness is by learning how to be reconciled with the enemies they carry inside themselves. We, who are now the older generation, can develop through caring-feeling-presence in ourselves a spirituality of global care and reconciliation as our gift to the planet and to the generations that follow us. By living and modeling a nurturing body-spirituality ourselves, we will encourage younger people to discover an environmental spirituality that begins by honoring and respecting their own bodies as integral to the process of learning to respect the planet. Caring-feeling-presence gifts people with self-esteem and connects their hunger to experience the Sacred with the way they treat themselves. The effect of this on youngsters literally would be earthshaking, if we adults in the family, church and school would connect this process of discovering our own precious spirit with what we prize as spiritual and educational.

If children could experience that gently owning in their bodies whatever is real was honored and cherished by adults because this truthfulness and vulnerability connected us to each other and a Higher Power, then a caring, unifying, environmental spirituality could be born. When spiritual values are communicated in and through a process of human wholeness experienced within the common Body/body we all share, then cultural ethnic and religious diversity are no obstacle to the emergence of a nurturing global spirituality. When people with diverse backgrounds realize that such spirituality is environmentally healthy, they will simultaneously realize that it is in no way a betrayal of whatever is healthy in their own spiritual tradition.

I believe millions of people are ready for this. People raised and nurtured within the traditional framework of religion are hungry to enrich their spirituality with a broader vision of how to treat themselves, other people and the environment they live in so they do not destroy it and at the same time find the Sacred within it.

What distinguishes our approach from others articulating a global spirituality is that together our starting point is always in owning bodily whatever is real, then developing our cooperative projects and policies out of that body/Body experience. This simple, practical, teachable method, which we call “BioSpirituality through Focusing,” is a process easily adapted for children and for widely diverse cultures. Focusing provides us with the concrete steps and experience of change as the basis for healthier ways of relating to ourselves and our environment. Rather than just discussing ideas and theories about the need for change, Focusing helps people process the way they actually carry their fears, guilt, anger, loneliness or frustration in their bodies. Such feelings are the underlying engine of destructiveness that must first be addressed if any of us are to sense (not just think) alternatives to the way we now do things. Without an ability to own and be drawn inside the untold story within our potentially destructive feelings, then fear and our need for security will continue to dominate human life and relationships on this planet.

I believe growing numbers of people all over the globe are poised and ready to take a momentous step beyond what Marshall McLuhan counseled us to do in the 50s and 60s. Then he used to say that we must re-enter the tribal night, but this time with our eyes open, which, of course most people interpreted as open-mindedness or not being naïve. I think we now know how to enter that tribal night with our bodies open. This is a precision and an evolution of extraordinary significance.

Finally, if we choose, we can embrace a body-spirituality that opens our “inward eyes to be illumined, so that (we) may know (in our bodies) what is the hope to which (we are called) . . . and how vast the resources of power open to (those) who trust.

[18] having the eyes of your hearts enlightened, that you may know what is the hope to which he has called you, what are the riches of his glorious inheritance in the saints, [19] and what is the immeasurable greatness of his power in us who believe, according to the working of his great might (Ephesians 1:18-19 RSV)

Back to Keith: Besides reading hundreds of books on psychology, spirituality, human potential, etc., I have also been regularly recording my dreams for the last couple of years. I have recorded over 200 hundred personal dreams and have typed up over a thousand pages detailing these dreams and my reflections on them. One of the main books that inspired me to start recording my dreams was Dreams: God’s Forgotten Language by John A. Sanford, Jungian analyst and Episcopal priest.

“A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM”

(A dream of Keith L. Jensen recorded on Friday, October 16, 2009 from 0555 to 0643 AM)

The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them. (Isaiah 11:6)

Preface

(Written on Friday, October 22, 2010)

Over the last couple of days, I have been pondering this dream of a little over a year ago. I have realized additional insights that I did not notice previously. In interpreting my dreams, I mainly subscribe to Jungian dream interpretations methods. According to Carl Jung, the characters in our dreams often reflect aspects of ourselves. Jung called dream characters that have universal applicability archetypes. In the following dream, you will notice several of these archetypes. For example, the “I,” or self, in the dream is the Persona. The dream starts out with me floating in a large body of water. Floating in, or on, the water usually represents one’s journey into the collective unconscious. While floating on the water, I notice a young four-year-old girl who is struggling and starting to sink beneath the water. This child represents my true self in its purest form—the Divine Child. Before rescuing this child, I (Persona) first obtain permission to reach out and touch this child from an unseen motherly force. This unseen character in my dream is representative of the Great Mother. I find it interesting that in the second part of my dream, it is my rescued Divine Child who reaches out to the Shadow.

In the second part of my dream, I am back at a location I remember from my childhood. This is the Civic Center building in Great Falls, Montana. It is significant that the name Civic is closely related to the word civil. In this part of my dream, the archetypal aspect of me called the Wise Old Man/Woman counsels me to be civil by taking the higher path.

In the last part of my dream, I magically unlock and enter an abandoned and dusty magic shop. The words abandoned and dusty are accurate descriptions for those parts of me I have neglected and locked away. While in this building, I meet two additional archetypal characters: the Trickster and the Shadow. The way in which my Divine Child reaches out to the Shadow is a perfect example of how one might reach out to those hurting and scary places we each have inside in a focusing way.

Introduction

Keith’s Journal (Friday, October 16, 2009): I am currently on duty at Hill AFB where I serve part-time in the Air Force Reserve. I woke up after five this morning. It took me about 1.5 hours to remember and write this dream down. For the last 2.25 hours I’ve been typing it up here at Hill AFB. So from waking up to arriving at a typed and somewhat finished product, it has taken a total of 3.75 hours, or 3 hours 45 minutes. The fact is that this really takes up a lot of time. However, I think it is worth it.

Today is my last day of duty at Hill AFB. When I was waking up this morning, I could just barely remember that I had been dreaming. I had just a couple of very faint fragments of memories of my dreams. I’ve learned that if I try too hard to remember my dreams—to effort it—then, they will just float away. However, if I just lay there for a few minutes as I transition from sleep to wakefulness, I will often start remembering a bit more.

I woke up thinking that I could hardly remember a thing from my dreams. I reached over, turned on the lamp by my bed, grabbed my notebook and started jotting down the few memories I had. This method always seems to bring me to a point that, somehow, I just start recalling more and more details of my dreams until my pen has a hard time keeping up with the rate at which I’m recalling the details of my dreams.

I find dreams so fascinating. When I go to bed, I’m never sure what guests are going to show up and which experiences I’m going to have. It is seldom what I expected. My dreams early this morning were no exception.

A Dream

“We” are floating on Deer Creek Reservoir. I’m not exactly sure who all composes this “we.” “We” kind of has the feel of: Kim (my wife), Brandon (my son), Aveon (my daughter), and me.

The Persona is the image you present to the world in your waking life. It is your public mask. In the dream world, the persona is represented by the Self. You know that this "person" in your dream is you.

We’re sitting on or hanging from the sides of this inflatable raft/island. Brandon is wearing a pair of flippers. He has his head down in the water and is in the back of this raft propelling us through the water with his kicks. I’m surprised at how swiftly he’s propelling the four of us through the water. There are a lot of other people around us swimming, floating, and playing in the water.

Brandon paddles us through a group of people. I notice a little girl who looks to be about four year’s old paddling determinedly through the water. She has gotten into deeper water than she planned and is starting to have some trouble. The look on her face is one of fright and desperation.

Brandon just keeps his head down in the water and continues to churn away with his flippered feet. He doesn’t even notice the little girl or the other people in the water. People have to scatter out of our way so he doesn’t run into them.

We’re coming upon this frightened little girl who is about to slip under the water.

The Divine Child is your true self in its purest form. It not only symbolizes your innocence, your sense of vulnerability, and your helplessness, but it represents your aspirations and full potential. You are open to all possibilities. In the dreamscape, this figure is represented by a baby or young child.

I look around for her mother. I don’t want to reach out and touch this little girl without her mother’s permission. I don’t physically see the mother, but I receive a definite “okay” from her that I have her permission to reach out and touch her daughter and to get her out of her desperate situation.

The Great Mother is the nurturer. The Great Mother appears in your dreams as your own mother, grandmother, or other nurturing figure. She provides you with positive reassurance. Negatively, they may be depicted as a witch or old bag lady in which case they can be associated with seduction, dominance and death. This juxtaposition is rooted in the belief by some experts that the real mother who is the giver of life is also at the same time jealous of our growth away from her.

Having sensed the mother’s approval, I reach over and grab this sweet little girl and pull her over to the side of the raft. I put my arm around her so she doesn’t slip off.

Rescue To dream that you are being rescued or rescue others represents an aspect of yourself that has been neglected or ignored. You are trying to find a way to express this neglected part of yourself.

Some of the other people in the water are getting tired of treading water too. As Brandon paddles through the midst of them, I indicate that it’s fine if they also grab to the ropes on the sides of the raft and hitch a ride too. Soon the raft is covered with people who have climbed aboard or who are still in the water but holding onto the sides. With all this added weight, I don’t think Brandon alone will have the strength to keep this raft moving. At the very least, I think we’ll slow way down. The strange thing is that we don’t slow down at all.

I’m surprised at how swiftly Brandon keeps us all moving through the water. I’m concerned that he might overdue it and burn himself out. The last thing I remember of this dream is of us approaching the shallow and safe waters by the shore. Brandon has gotten us all safely out of the deep waters and back to shore.

A later dream: “We”—again, as close as I can sense this communal “we” has the feel of Kim, Brandon, Aveon, and me—are in Great Falls, Montana. We’re walking along the western end of Central Avenue. We’re heading south on the street that runs in front of the Civic Center.
There are a lot of other people walking along with us. “Someone” who seems to be in charge of this walking excursion asks my group to continue on the higher path.

You see, we’re not all walking down on the sidewalk. Some of us are walking in the air above the sidewalk. The group I’m leading is walking at the highest level up in the air. When this “someone” asks us to stay on the higher path to avoid congestion with the other groups walking below us, we must have been 80 to 100 feet in the air.

The Wise Old Man /Woman is the helper in your dreams. Represented by a teacher, father, doctor, priest or some other unknown authority figure, they serve to offer guidance and words of wisdom. They appear in your dream to steer and guide you into the right direction.

As we are walking along way up there in the air, I can see the tops of the roofs of the buildings below us. We continue south in front of the Civic Center until we reach the other side of the street. From here, we turn left and continue east along this side of Central Avenue. Like walking down a set of invisible stairs, we gradually come down from high in the air until we reach the sidewalk. There’s a store down here that I want to check out. It use to be a kind of new age shop like the “Crystal Ray” in Pleasant Grove near to where we live now.

As we approach the front entrance, I notice that it all seems to be shutdown and abandoned now. The heavy curtains are pulled shut and the front door is locked. I and some of the others with me—Aveon in particular—have some basic magical powers. Our powers aren’t that advanced or proficient yet. In magical ability, we are kind of like first-year students at Harry Potter’s Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft. Using our magical powers, we cause the door to unlock and then enter into this abandoned store.

Magic To perform or dream of magic suggests that you need to look at things from a different view or approach problems from a new angle in order to successfully move forward. Alternatively, magic symbolizes creativity and wonder. Perhaps someone or something has caused you to be in awe.

Once inside, we quickly discover that this shop is no longer what it used to be. Right off, we sense that it has been being used for other purposes and that these other uses haven’t been good. The lighting inside is very dim. The room has some dust covered old wooden tables, chairs, and other furniture around in it.

Dust To see dust in your dream suggest that aspects of yourself have been ignored or neglected.

In the dim light, we make out “something” white hanging from a rope attached to the ceiling. We sense that something evil has been going on here. We feel the hair standing on the back of our necks as we sense something approaching behind us. A dread comes over all of us. In unison, we turn around to see what it is. There standing is Lord Voldemort!

The Shadow is the rejected and repressed aspects of yourself. It is the part of yourself that you do not want the world to see because it is ugly or unappealing. It symbolizes weakness, fear, or anger. In dreams, this figure is represented by a stalker, murderer, a bully, or pursuer. It can be a frightening figure or even a close friend or relative. Their appearance often makes you angry or leaves you scared. They force you to confront things that you don't want to see or hear. You must learn to accept the shadow aspect of yourself for its messages are often for your own good, even though it may not be immediately apparent.

He smiles evilly knowing he’s captured us in his web and that we have no way to escape. Voldemort has just recently regained a body. It is still developing. The features of his face look snake-like. He points at the white “something” we noticed earlier hanging from the ceiling. He laughs evilly as he tells us that this is our mighty Dumbledore that he has captured and rendered harmless and ineffective.

The thing hanging from the ceiling doesn’t look like the Dumbledore we know. It’s hard to describe but somehow from looking noble and quietly powerful, Voldemort has changed him into a silly cartoonish looking character. Hanging from his feet upside down, he kind of looks likes a combination of Caspar the Friendly Ghost and the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

The Trickster, as the name implies, plays jokes to keep you from taking yourself too seriously. The trickster may appear in your dream when you have overreached or misjudged a situation. Or he could find himself in your dream when you are uncertain about a decision or about where you want to go in life. The trickster often makes you feel uncomfortable or embarrassed, sometimes mocking you or exposing you to your vulnerabilities. He may take on subtle forms, sometimes even changing its shape.

We all feel really badly for Dumbledore and want to help him get away. However, our magic feels pretty pathetic against the powers of the mighty Lord Voldemort.

Knowing that he has nothing to fear from us, Voldemort orders us to sit on this dusty old couch while he decides what to do with us.

“We”—now this “we” feels like Aveon, me, someone else, and a little girl of four—all sit on the couch as ordered. Voldemort pulls up one of the dusty wooden chairs and sits down facing us. He gloats as he tells us of his capture of the foolish Dumbledore. Aveon and I feel repulsed by his evil snake-like appearance. Surprisingly, the little four-year-old girl seems more curious than afraid.

From where she is sitting next to me on the couch, she gets up and climbs over me and towards Voldemort. Both Aveon and I are concerned as she approaches Voldemort. He seems confused by her approach. In the past, what he has always felt from people when they see him are feelings of repulsion and fear because of his looks and energy. He is really taken back when this little girl climbs up into his lap and gently begins petting his scaly snake-like face. He closes his eyes and begins to soak up the soothing caresses from this sweet innocent child. He’s feeling and experiencing something he’s never felt before. Or, if he ever did feel something like this before, it was in some distant and ancient past that he had completely forgotten about.

I wake up thinking that maybe with him distracted for a moment by this child that now is the chance for Aveon and me to use our combined spells and try to free Dumbledore.

"BIG MUSIC"

2010-10-10T13:30:00.001-06:00

The following short story was written by Margaret Prescott Montague (1878-1955). It is one of my favorite. I hope you enjoy it. --Keith Jensen :)

"Big Music"
By Margaret Prescott Montague

(Note #1. Last Sunday, October 23, 2005, I was given another gift of peace. I have been doing a lot of heavy reading. I decided to do some “light” reading to relax and unwind. I chose volume 8 “Myths and Legends” from my 16 volume set of “The Children’s Story Hour.” I was drawn to a story by Margaret Prescott Montague called “Big Music”. This simple American folktale spoke to my own experiences and to the longings of my heart in a powerful way. It was scripture to me. –Keith Jensen)

(Note #2. If you’re interested in reading more about the characters mentioned in this story, I suggest that you read the book Up Eel River by Margaret Prescott Montague.)

“All a feller had to do was jest to jump into a tune and let it carry him on away. For when the big music comes it ain’t like little musics, you don’t dance to it, it dances you . . . (p. 346) . . . It’s like I say, when the big music comes it dances you, you don’t dance to it, but every feller’s free to pick his own tune.” (p. 348)

DOGGONE it! I wished Tony Beaver would quit being so all-fired reckless! Why, I b’lieve some day that feller’ll turn the world right spang upside down jest for to see how would she look thataway! There was more times than one up Eel River when I was skeered right down to bedrock and would of laid back my years and shot for home if Tony hadn’t of named me the Truth-teller and laid a kind of sacred trust on me, so I knowed I had to stay with the job and hang onto the truth no matter where it might take me—and it sure tuck me into some strange places.

I’m mighty glad though, I happened to be in camp when the big music busted in, for that sure was a great time, and folks have tole so many lies about it that I’m glad to give you-all the straight truth in this here tale that’s been all tried out with that paper of Tony’s, and every lie sifted outer it.

Well, Tony sure was fooling with somepen powerful dangerous that time, and yit the whole thing commenced with nothing more’n a little drop of dew: jest pure common dew like what a person kin see any nice summer morning laying over the leaves and grass and swinging onto the spider webs. That’s what started the business, but mebbe even Tony wouldn’t of been so reckless if there hadn’t a-been so much spite work going on in camp. Aw, you know how it is, sometimes a camp’ll all go right sour with spite. Every feller’ll have a gredge erginst the next feller, and there’ll be more mean tales passing from mouth to mouth behind hands than you kin shake a stick at. Every feller’ll get so techy that if a person happens to say “Hand the biscuits” kinder short, ‘stead of “I’ll thank you for them sody biscuits, if you please,” there’ll be a fight and a sulk right that minute.

Well, that was what struck the Eel River camp whilst I was up yonder. Aw, I dunno how the thing come to pass: mebbe it was dog days, or mebbe they vittles had kinder turned erginst ‘em, anyhow every feller’s temper was on a hair trigger, couldn’t nobody open his mouth ‘cept for a mean word, all the good healthy cussing and fooling had done went in the ground, and every job was tied up, ‘cause there wa’n’t no good fellowship to grease the wheels of work.

“What’s the matter with this camp is that it’s done froze up. What you-all need is somepen that’ll get you above yerselves and thaw you out, so’s you’ll be running all loose and free eregin,” Tony says looking around at all them sour dough faces, with they under jaws set and they lips pouting out. “And I’ll jest have to figger out somepen that’ll do it,” he says.

With that he goes off into the woods all to hisself, for Tony kin allus figger better when he’s out in the deep woods all alone.

Well, the very next morning he was ‘way off on the top of a high ridge all to hisself jest at sunup, when he ketched a wink from a little dewdrop what was laying out there on a bunch of green moss. And seeing’s he was all alone, Tony he winked back at the critter, for you know, stranger—you fellers what’s reading this book—a person’ll do a heap of nice fool things when there ain’t any other feller round to laf.

Well, sirs! The minute he done that, it seemed like somepen inside him jumped up and hollered, “Dewdrop! Dewdrop! Look at it, you great big two-fisted Jim-bruiser, you ain’t never seen a dewdrop afore! Look at it!”

Tony he did. He jest looked and looked at that dew drop with all the looks he had. It was filled with frosty light. And yit it had a rainbow in it too, and furst the sun would twinkle it on one side, and then it would twinkle it on the tother. And all the time it kep’ setting there so round and pretty, like it was the whole of creation and knowed a heap more’n it was aiming to tell. That kinder made Tony mad.

“Hey! You doggoned sassy little cuss!” he bawls at it. “Don’t you know I could bust yer head off with one finger?”

But the little critter didn’t sass him back nor nothing. It jest kep’ right on twinkling along there to itself, and the more Tony looked at it, the more awestruck he got, for he seen he was looking right into the very heart of creation itself.

By now all the little birds had done chirped the sun up right high, and Tony tuck a great skeer that his little dewdrop would melt. So all in a hurry he commenced plucking up leaves and moss to kiver it over. He worked like he couldn’t work fast enough, and when he had it all safe, he was dripping wet, and panting like he’d run a mile—for you know a feller’s bound to sweat if he aims to beat the sun.

Then, having got sorter acquainted with one dewdrop, Tony commenced to see all of ‘em like it was for the furst time. ‘Peared like, everywhere he’d look the sun was winkling and twinkling dewdrops at him. Tony set there in a maze, jest fa’rly carried away with the sight, and seemed like he could hear every last one of them sparklers hollering out at him, “Brother! Brother!”

By now the sun commenced to lap them dewdrops up off’n the leaves and spider webs, and all of ‘em went like they was glad to go, hopping away in the sun like they was jumping into their daddy’s lap.

About then a right peculiar thing come to pass. There was a little feller in camp what all the hands called Fiddling Jimmy, ‘count of him allus playing tunes on his fiddle, and now as Tony set there kinder dazed, watching them dewdrops hop off into the sun all so round and pretty, it seemed like he heared that little fiddler playing a tune somewhere right close. The tune it come nigher and nigher, ‘til d’rectly Tony thought he was riding erway on it, like he was riding a saw-log downstream. But when the last little dewdrop had hopped away to—well to wherever it is they go—he found hisself still setting there with his mouth gapping open.

“Well, I will be dogged!” he says. “An’ that’s what happens every morning, and me never knowing it afore!”

Then he peeked down at the twinkle of dew he’d saved, and right that minute he knowed he’d ketched there a drop outer the heart of all the world, and that what was in it was the sap in him too, and in all the varmints and critters, and rocks and rivers, and green things in all creation.

When Tony bumped erginst that big thought he goose-fleshed up all over, for he seen he was thinking too wide, and in another pair of seconds he’d slip right out over the edge and be where—well it’s the truth, I don’t know where he would be! And Tony didn’t know neither, but he give a powerful jump back in his mind from all that wide kinder thinking, and it seemed like he couldn’t git back where other humans was fast enough. He stuffed his little dewdrop into the bosom of his shirt and lit out for camp so fast he fa’rly burnt the trail up behind him.

Well, when Tony hit camp and smelled sweat and sawdust, it eased up that cold feeling down the spine of his back, and he ketched his breath, looking around for a good place to hide his dewdrop.

He’d just got it all kivered up nice under the roots of a white pine when he turns about and seen that little hand by the name of Fiddling Jimmy leaning up erginst a sapling looking at him.

Now there was sompen right peculiar about that little feller. He was might clear and wide betwixt the eyes, and had a look like he knowed a heap more’n he could tell with his tongue, so he had to try to git it out by fiddling. Mebbe you remember me speaking of him when I furst hit camp.

Tony seen right off that the little feller sensed he’d been fooling with somepen powerful dangerous, so he lighted into him furst.

“Hey!” he bawls, “what in the thunder was you doing fiddling when every other hand was on the job?”

“Me?” says the tother looking s’prised.

“Yes, you! I heared you fiddling out in the woods this morning jest at sunup.”

“Jest at sunup!” Jimmy hollers, pricking up his years mighty quick and looking kinder awe-struck too. “Aw no, Tony, that wa’n’t me. You know what it was.”

“I’ll be dogged if I do!” Tony answers him back.

“It was the big music,” the tother says, letting the words slip right out soft and respectful like.

“THE BIG MUSIC!” Tony whispers, his mouth gapping open, and the goose flesh walking up the spine of his back ergin.

“Look a-here, Tony, you better tell me all erbout it,” the Fiddler says mighty earnest and solemn.

And looking at him Tony seen he’d better. So he hands it all out to him, how he got acquainted with his dewdrop, and how all at onced he seen dewdrops and everything else different from what he ever had seen ‘em afore, and then how the music come so close it seemed like he was riding erway on it.

“Tony, you’d better mind how you go looking and looking at dewdrops and hearing music jest at sunup,” the Fiddler warns him, “or the furst thing you know you’ll look a hole spang through to the tother side and then the big music’ll bust in on us sure ‘nough!”

“Well, I wouldn’t keer if the big music was to come!” Tony hollers out, looking powerful mad and dangerous. “Things has got mighty hidebound and mean-spirited round this here camp, and you know there’s a heap of spite going on. Mebbe if the big music busts in it’ll kinder sweep things cl’ar ergin. An’ anyhow,” he lets fly at the Fiddler, “it ain’t for you to talk! You been fiddling holes all round this camp ever since you struck it. Why look a-here!” he bawls, jabbing his finger into the air. “here’s a place right this minute, where you fiddled ‘My Old Kaintucky Home’ what’s so thin a person kin nigh run his whole hand through it. And what with you all the time playing ‘Dixie’ and ‘The West Virginia Hills,’ and all them other tunes, you got the whole place punched as full of holes as a porous plaster, and why we ain't had the big music in on us afore this is a wonder to me!”

“Well, if she comes, she comes! And I don’t keer!” the Fiddler says cutting a kind of pigeon-wing.

“I don’t keer neither!” Tony hollers out, all fired up. “It’s jest the very thing this camp needs. And by the breath of the gray rocks, I’ll turn that there dewdrop loose tomorrer jest at sunup!”

“Jest at sunup! Great Day in the Morning!” Jimmy busts out, his eyes dancing, and him dancing with ‘em.

Well, now you-all kin easy see what sorter dangerous doings Tony and the little feller was up to that time. They didn’t say nothing to nobody, not even to me, but the next morning jest at daybreak, Tony tuck that powerful big cow’s horn of hisn that’s a whole sight bigger’n any natcheral born cow ever did have, and standing out there on a gray rock, he blowed sech er blast it fetched every feller tumbling outer the bunkhouse on the jump.

“Fellers,” says Tony, looking mighty strange an’ tall in the gray light, “it’s glimmering for dawn, and I want you all to take a right good look at this little dewdrop and keep on looking at it when the sun hits it, for it’s my belief that not a one of you great big two-fisted Jim-bruisers ever really seen a dewdrop afore.” With that he showed ‘em the little critter still laying on its green moss, also round and pretty.

Well, that sure was mighty reckless talk, and right that minute old Preacher Moses Mutters, what’s allus sech a calamity hunter, tuck a powerful skeer.

“Oh, my lands, Tony!” he screeches out, “you’ll have us in every kinder trouble d’rectly! Do pray take keer!”

“Man!” says Tony, flashing a crisscross look at the ole feller that twisted him into a corkscrew, “who ever seen me take keer?”

And it’s the truth, not a hand there had ever seen Tony take it.

Well, all us hands done like Tony told us to and jest looked and looked at that little dewdrop. And the more we looked, the more still and awestruck we got.

Fiddling Jimmy had tuck a stand on a cliff er rock at the head er the holler, and he kep’ a-looking and a-looking off into the dawn, holding his fiddle, and kinder stretching up on tiptoe like he was listening for somepen. Right about then a yeller strand of sunlight come wavering down the mountain and hit that little dewdrop, and the little feller commenced to burn with a spark o’ fire, and while we was a-looking at it so awestruck like, it burned brighter and brighter, ‘til it burned itself right up into the sun and was gone. When that happened every feller there felt the stillness inside of him kinder bust wide open, and he knowed he was right on the edge of somepen powerful big.

Jest that minute Fiddling Jimmy, off on his rock, let loose with a powerful yell: “She’s busted! She’s busted!” he hollers. “Great Day in the Morning! The big music’s busted through!” And with that he commenced to dance and to fiddle fit to kill hisself.

“Oh, my lands! Somepen terrible is coming!” ole Brother Mutters screeches out, flinging both arms round a right stout pine tree to kinder anchor hisself to the ground.

By now all us fellers could hear the strangest kinder music coming from ’way off yonder somewheres, and it looked like Jimmy’s fiddling up there on his rock was kinder blazing a trail for that tother music to come in by.

Well, sirs! The next thing that come to pass was a whole panel of rail fencing floating over the ridge and down the holler like it was riding a river a person couldn’t see. And whoop-ee! In another pair of seconds that panel busted itself all to pieces, and every last one o’ them gray rails up-ended and commenced to dance, whirling around and bowing to one another, back and forth and hither and yon!

“O my lands! O my lands! Jest look at that now!” pore ole Brother Mutters bellers out, taking a strangle holt of his pine tree, with his hair all bristling up and his eyes hanging out of his head.

The next thing that come was a fat old lady of a haystack dancing over the ridge and down the holler, bowing and kicking up, and carrying on like she was a two-year-old. And you better b’lieve every hand there made tracks to git outer her way in a hurry! Next there come the prettiest little pair of young maple saplings, skipping and dancing with they branches on they hips, and cakewalking along together jest as sassy as you please.

That was jest the beginning! In another pair of seconds the full tide of the big music busted in on us, pouring down the holler in a kind of torrent, like a river in flood. Every king of a tune a person every did hear, and every kind of critter and varmint and growing thing dancing to the tunes, all of ‘em wove together in the wildest sort of a jamboree. There was ‘possums and rabbits and groundhogs, ‘til you couldn’t rest, and there was b’ars and wildcats in plenty too, and strange critters what never had been seen in these mountains afore. And there was trees and bushes and saw-logs and rocks, all jumbled and dancing together, and tunes—Whoop-ee! Every tune what ever was! A feller could see ‘em as well as hear ‘em, every color of the rainbow weaving in and out amongst all them dancing critters. Every varmint and critter there blowing along by them tunes was dancing and laffing fit to kill theyselves. A old she b’ar with her cubs come rolling and bounding in, doing a kind of a breakdown along a little pink strand of a tune, and laffing so hard she jest natcherly had to clap her paws to her sides to hold ‘em in place.

All a feller had to do was jest to jump into a tune and let it carry him on away. For when the big music comes it ain’t like little musics, you don’t dance to it, it dances you. And you’d better dance! For if you try to hold out erginst it, it sure will treat you mighty rough like it done pore old Brother Mutters.

Well, all us hands in the Eel River crew, we jest let ourselves go to it, and one tune after another picked us up and swirled us off. And all the time Fiddling Jimmy was up there on his rock dancing and fiddling and singing like he was plum destracted.

The fellers they all tuck partners if they could find ‘em, but if they couldn’t they jest flapped they arms and danced by theyselves. The Sullivan feller picked him out a right stout saw-log, and danced so hard with it that the chips flew outer the log like popcorn hopping outer a hot griddle. That little Eyetalian hand, he found a monkey along of all the stream of foreign critters the music fetched in. They two sure was glad to see one another and stepped off together to the strangest kind of a wild dance ever was seen up Eel River. I can’t reely tell you what-all I danced with I was so busy watching the tother fellers.

But whoop-ee! I wished you-all could of seen Big Henry, doing the polka with that old lady haystack what come over the ridge at the start! Big Henry was sorter bashful at the beginning, but onced they got acquainted, they cert’n’y was dancers from Dancerville! That haystack, for all she was right up in years, sure was a light stepper. And courtesy—Great Day! She’d draw off from Big Henry and bob right down to the ground and up ergin and never drap a straw! Big Henry cert’n’ was taken with her, and the last the fellers seen of the two together they was going down the stream of music with Big Henry’s arm around the lady’s waist—as fer that is as it would go—and him talking matrimony to her to the tune of “I seen my lover go round the bend.”

Tony Beaver jest danced with every last thing and critter that come by. Furst off he tuck up with a big gray rock what come footing it down the ridge early in the game. “Hey, brother! Fall to it!” Tony sings out, and they ketched aholt of one another some way, and had a high old time together. But it’s the truth, that rock was so all-fired heavy every step it tuck it went down waist deep in the music, and splashed the tunes and songs up all over everybody like they was showers of rain. And having the music splashed over ‘em like that jest sent every feller off dancing harder’n ever.

Well, Tony he danced with his rock a spell, and then he broke loose from it and tuck a whirl around with a whole string of little young squirrels, what come by all sorter strung together, frisking they tails and jumping and barking and cracking out jokes like they was cracked nuts. Then Tony he tuck up with a field mouse and a hoppy toad, what was riding around together on the tune of “A frog he would a-wooing go.” And then he danced a spell with a dogwood tree what had all busted out in full bloom ergin, though its right time of flowering was over and done with nigh a month back. It sure was a pretty sight to see that tree all kivered over with its white blooms, as graceful as a young bride, with its branches waving and twinkling to the tunes. Tony he had it for a partner for a right smart spell, and after that he danced with any and every thing that come by, and between whiles he’d kick up high and low and whirl round all to hisself.

But about then, that little boy what’s sech a great buddy of Tony’s got wind of the jamboree, and come a-running and a-limping into the camp as best he could on his crippled foot, holding out his hands and hollering, “Take me! Take me, Tony! I wan’a dance too!”

“Sure! Come on, buddy! You kin dance to the big music with the best of ‘em!” Tony hollers back, ketching aholt of him, and yonder the two of ‘em went off together, laffing and dancing, bounding, whirling around, and carrying on with every last tune in the bunch, and I’ll be dogged if that there little feller, for all his crippled foot, didn’t outdance the whole shooting match.

It sure was one of the biggest sights a feller ever did see, all them hands and critters dancing and laffing there together, with the pink tunes and blue ones and red and yeller, whirling ‘em all about; and Fiddling Jimmy up there on his rock, fiddling and singing, and jest carried away in a kind of a glorification.

It was a funny thing what kind of a tune the different critters would pick out to be danced by. It’s like I say, when the big music comes it dances you, you don’t dance to it, but every feller’s free to pick his own tune. Take that string of thorn bushes now, the pretty little round kind that a person kin see most any time growing in a old run-out field: they come dancing in to the tune of “Here we go ‘round the mulberry bush.” All they little leaves was winkling and twinkling and clapping theyselves together, and all of ‘em was giggling out the prettiest little green giggles a person ever did hear.

It was all right for them bushes to pick a baby song like that, but it sure was a funny thing to see them powerful big steers of Tony’s just natcherly carried away by the tune of “Bye Baby Bunting.” When it come by in all that tangle of music, them beasts they jest got right up on they behind legs, slung they tails over they arms, and let it walse ‘em away for mile upon mile. Them critters is so powerful and large that when they dances they tromples down trees and kicks great cliffs of rock outer the mountainside, and I bet “Bye Baby Bunting” never had no sech a swath cut to it afore. But pshaw! A person can’t never say what they’ll do when the big music busts in.

And it’s like I say, when it comes you better mind and dance, or you’re mighty apt to see the same rough time ole Brother Moses Mutters seen. That ole preacher, pore feller! He sure did set a great store by his soul, and he was allus powerful oneasy for fear it might git lost, and if it was lost what in the H_ _ _ Excuse me! What in the thunder would he have to travel on when he hit the next world?

So when he seen them rails dancing over the ridge, and heard the big music coming, he knowed they was in for somepen all outer plum with his kinder religion, and he ketched aholt of that pine tree like I said to sorter anchor hisself down, for he knowed dancing was a sin and powerful onhealthy for the soul. But pshaw! I tell you, you got to dance when the big music hits you! And try as he might that pore ole feller jest couldn’t keep both foots to the ground at onced. Furst one little tune and then another’d come tickling round, and h’ist his leg up in time to it, and ‘fore he could holler out, “Aw my soul!” and git that foot jammed down nice and pious to the ground ergin, here’d be the tother up in the air shaking a dance step to every jig that come by. It sure was a right pitiful sight to see that poor old feller hanging on tight to his pine tree, trying so hard to save his soul, while furst one leg and then the tother was danced out from under him, and waving up in the air like a cat shaking its foot when it steps in water. His ole buddy Ain’t-That-So had been swept off by the tunes long since, for he ain’t got the staying powers of the preacher.

But d’rectly his pine tree failed Brother Mutters too! Whoop-ee! When the full tide of that music come down the holler, that tree give a great heave and a bound, and busting its roots loose, it jumped up outer the ground, and commenced to toss its branches and to dance with the best of ‘em, swirling pore ole Brother Mutters round and round with it, high and low, up and down.

Well, sirs! That ole pine it muster lost its soul long since, for it sure did take to dancing natcheral! And you better b’lieve it was a strange sight to see that tree dancing for all it was wurth, with the pore ole preacher feller dangling on to its trunk, his coat tails spread out right straight behind him, and him groaning and moaning over his soul. He didn’t want to dance with the tree, but onced he’d got aholt of it , he was skeered to let loose. And looked like the tree didn’t want to dance with him nother, for it jest turned itself loose and did every kind of a scan’lous worldly step a person ever heard tell of, fox-trotting and cheek-dancing with the ole feller ‘til you couldn’t rest. And every now and ergin if the preacher wa’n’t might spry the tree’d tromp down right hard on his toes—and you all know a pine tree ain’t got no light tread.

But after a spell the tree, it got plum out-done with sech a flat-footed, mean-spirited partner, and it give a great bound and a kick and slung Brother Mutters up to a high ledge of rock ‘way above all that tide of music. After that the pine tree hucked branches with a red oak, and the two of ‘em went downstream together kicking out jigs and cutting pigeonwings and dancing so hard the sap sweated out in great beads all over ‘em.

Ole Brother Mutters, he lay up there on his ledge all tousled to pieces, yammering and moaning and panting out, “Oh my soul! It’s lost! It’s lost!” and peeking down over the edge at all that swirl of music and dancing down below, like he was looking to see where his soul had done went. The hands and critters what was dancing, they got pretty night tickled to death over the old feller and his soul, and ‘fore they hardly knowed it, they was all dancing out a game acting like they was hunting for the preacher’s soul. They made up a little song, “Has anybody seen Brother Mutters’s soul?” It went off real nice to the tune of “Has anybody here seen Kelly?” ‘Course Tony Beaver, he had to start the thing. Him and his little buddy walsed over to Big Henry and his haystack, splashing the music up every which away as they come, and bows and sings out, “Has anybody seen Brother Mutters’s soul?” Big Henry and his partner, they danced it on to that string of little young squirrels, Big Henry he bowed to the squirrels, and the hayrick she bobbed a courtesy to ‘em, and both together they sings, “Has anybody seen Brother Mutters’s soul?” The squirrels they jerked they tails and frisked and barked it out all up and down the line, ‘til d’rectly the whole shooting match, hands and critters, trees, rocks, and varmints, was all doing the ladies’ chain to the tune of “Has anybody seen Brother Mutters’s soul?” all of ‘em skipping and laffing fit to bust they heads off. It sure was scan’lous, but it’s the truth when the big music is dancing you around, the thing that’ll tickle you most is to have anybody think they kin lose they souls.

And all the time Fiddling Jimmy stood up there on his rock, with all that stream of music and dancing critters splashing and bobbing and whirling past him. One little tune after another’d come lapping up round his ankles, asking him to come on with it, but he jest kep’ on where he was, fiddling and dancing all to hisself, and waiting. And then, by and by, a wonderful big tune come rolling in that was bigger and grander than any of us rough hands up Eel River ever had heard afore. It was all blue in the middle where the soft notes was, and pink up high, and way down gray in the low notes. It come in to a long thundering march, mighty solemn and beautiful, like the skies had opened and stood back for to let it come through, and like it was rolling outer the heart of all creation. Fiddling Jimmy, he tuck one look at that big tune and hollers out, “Here I am!” mighty high and joyful, like they’d been a-looking for one another since the world commenced, and with that he jumped right out into the heart of it. The tune it never broke its stride, but it ketched the little fiddler up and went on rolling away all so grand and beautiful. And all them other little tunes, they drawed up on both sides and all the dancers with them, making a kinder rainbow lane of sound, as you might say, for that big tune and the fiddler to pass down. After that--? Well, that was all. The minute that big tune passed away, all the rest of the big music sorter gathered itself together and blowed off to—Well, to wherever it had come from. The sound and the sight of it all died away; the hole where it had busted through closed right up tight; all the critters and varmints scuttled away into the woods, the trees jumped back into the ground, and in the shake of a lam’s tail there wa’n’t nothing to show for it all but jest a few gray rocks laying around outer place, a little dogwood sapling in full bloom a month outer season, a parcel of husky hands all outer breath, and ole Brother Moses Mutters still lamenting up there on his ledge. Fiddling Jimmy we never did see no more, but we didn’t feel too bad about that ‘cause the feller looked so all-fired happy when him and that there big tune ketched hands and danced off together thataway.

But every hand there felt mighty limber and free. All the meanness and spite work was clean swep’ away, for we’d seen a dewdrop for the furst time, and we’d danced to the big music, and we was all kinder stretched up and above out common selves.

More’n that there was another grand big thing come outer it all. Whilst we was all laying round, sorter ketching our breaths, and feeling mighty friendly to each other ‘count of all the spite work having clean blowed away, all to onced that little buddy of Tony’s hollers out, “Aw, look! Look at me, Tony!”

And when we looks there was the little feller, running and jumping, and cutting up capers jest to beat the band, for I’ll be dogged if the big music hadn’t straightened his crippled foot all out, so’s it was jest as limber and free as the tother.

“Aw, look, Tony! Watch me—watch!” he kep’ a-hollering out, jumping and cutting up, and laffing all carried away with hisself.

Well, sirs! All us hands bust loose with a great shout at that, and Tony ketched his little buddy high up on his shoulder and went off into another wild dance, with the young-un setting up there, his arm hugged right tight round Tony’s neck, kicking his heels, and singing out a little song, “I kin walk! I kin walk! Tony, I kin walk!”

For you see, strangers, that little feller had danced to the big music jest right. He hadn’t helt back or been mean-spirited or skeered, he’d jumped right into the middle of it and let it dance him on away jest anywheres it pleased.

And that’s what you better mind and do too. If the big music comes, you mind and dance to it, for if you don’t you’re mighty apt to git treated like it done Preacher Moses Mutters. That ole brother, pore feller! His coat tails was all tore to strings, his whiskers was raveled out, and it’s the truth! He ain’t had a sprig of hair on his head from that day to this—no, sir! Not one sprig!

And if any of you readers don’t trust me and the lie-paper to hand you out the truth, all you have to do is to go up Eel River for yerself, and any hand there kin show you a kind of a crinkled place on the face of one of the highest cliffs up yonder, what marks the spot where the big music busted in—and then mebbe you’ll know the truth when you see it!

THE LOVE OF GOD

2010-10-10T08:07:00.002-06:00

By Thomas Merton (arranged in stanza and poetry form by Keith Jensen)

For it is God’s love that warms me in the sun

And God’s love that sends the cold rain.

It is God’s love that feeds me in the bread I eat

And God that feeds me also by hunger and fasting.

It is the love of God that sends the winter days

When I am cold and sick,

And the hot summer when I labor

And my clothes are full of sweat:

But it is God Who breathes on me

With light winds off the river

And in the breezes out of the wood.

His love spreads the shade of the sycamore over my head

And sends the water-boy along the edge of the wheat field

With a bucket from the spring,

While the laborers are resting and the mules stand under the tree.

It is God’s love that speaks to me in the birds and streams;

But also behind the clamor of the city

God speaks to me in His judgments,

And all these things are seeds sent to me from His will.

If these seeds would take root in my liberty,

And if His will would grow from my freedom,

I would become the love that He is,

And my harvest would be His glory and my own joy.

And I would grow together

With thousands and millions of other freedoms

Into the gold of one huge field praising God,

Loaded with increase, loaded with wheat.

If in all things I consider only the heat and the cold,

The food or the hunger, the sickness or labor,

The beauty of pleasure, the success and failure

Or the material good or evil my works have won for my own will,

I will find only emptiness and not happiness.

I shall not be fed, I shall not be full.

For my food is the will of Him Who made me

And Who made all things in order to give Himself to me through them.

My chief care should not be to find pleasure or success,

Health or life or money or rest or even things like virtue and wisdom—

Still less their opposites, pain, failure, sickness, death.

But in all that happens, my one desire and my one joy should be to know:

“Here is the thing that God has willed for me.

In this His love is found,

And in accepting this I can give back His love to Him

And give myself with it to Him

For in giving myself I shall find Him

And He is life everlasting.”

By consenting to His will with joy and doing it with gladness

I have His love in my heart,

Because my will is now the same as His love

And I am on the way to becoming what He is,

Who is love.

And by accepting all things from Him

I receive His joy into my soul,

Not because things are what they are

But because God is Who He is,

And His love has willed my joy in them all.

(New Seeds of Contemplation, pp. 16-18)

WHO AM I?

2010-08-25T12:12:00.002-06:00

“All things done in love become you.”

QUESTION: What does it mean to “do things in love?”

ANSWER: To choose and act in love is to do things from the heart. It is awakened doing. The three modes of awakened doing are: acceptance, enjoyment, and enthusiasm. Each one represents a certain vibrational frequency of consciousness. (A New Earth, p. 295)

“[W]hatever is done, whether in the physical world, in human relations, in the substance of thought, or spiritual contact—whatever is done with love endures. All else is consumed in the eventual transformation. . . ‘[T]hings done heartily’—these alone have a complete and ultimate influence in the accretion and the fashioning of the spirit entity.” (With Folded Wings, p. 50) The course of personal development, then, is a constant transferal from that which is outside in experience, permanently to that which is—not inside, but ourselves." (With Folded Wings, p. 33)

“For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”
(Matthew 6:21)

I Am
(Written by Keith L. Jensen on 1/26/2010)

I am loved
I am a unique individuating free will

I am the wind blowing across open prairies
I am the sun sparkling on new fallen snow
I am the laughter of a crystal clear mountain spring
I am long walks by myself . . . and with a friend or two

I am a son, a brother, a cousin, a nephew, a . . .
I am the partner of my beautiful wife
I am the father of two beautiful children

I am curiosity—the wanting to understand the “how’s,” “what’s,” and “why’s” of life

I am a lover of stories
I am a teller of stories

I am a loving presence, a loyal friend
I am courageous

I am laughter, music, dance . . .
I am the silence—the stillness—between each sound and motion

I am a unique combination of all things I love

I am becoming a son of God
I am a mystery . . .

THE FAITH THAT ONE IS LOVED

2010-08-24T16:31:00.001-06:00

The beginning of the fight against hatred, the basic Christian answer to hatred is not the commandment to love, but what must necessarily come before in order to make the commandment bearable and comprehensible. It is a prior commandment, to believe. The root of Christian love is not the will to love, but the faith that one is loved. The faith that one is loved by God. That faith that one is loved by God although unworthy—or, rather, irrespective of one's worth!

In the true Christian vision of God's love, the idea of worthiness loses its significance. Revelation of the mercy of God makes the whole problem of worthiness something almost laughable: the discovery that worthiness is of no special consequence (since no one could ever, by himself, be strictly worthy to be loved with such a love) is a true liberation of the spirit. And until this discovery is made, until this liberation has been brought about by the divine mercy, man is imprisoned in hate. (New Seeds of Contemplation by Thomas Merton, pp. 76-77)

We love him, because he first loved us. (1 John 4:19)

The Creed of Elbert Hubbard

2010-07-28T16:28:00.001-06:00

(Elbert Green Hubbard—June 19, 1856 to May 7, 1915—was an American writer publisher, artist, and philosopher.)

I KNOW: That I am here. In a world where nothing is permanent but change, And that in degree I, myself, can change the form of things, And influence a few people;

And that I am influenced by these and other people; That I am influenced by the example and by the work of men who are no longer alive, And that the work I now do will in degree influence people who may live after my life has changed into other forms;

That a certain attitude of mind and habit of action on my part will add to the peace, happiness and well-being of other people, And that a different thought and action on my part will bring pain and discord to others;

That if I would secure a reasonable happiness for myself, I must give out good-will to others; That to better my own condition I must practise mutuality; That bodily health is necessary to continued and effective work;

That I am ruled largely by habit; That habit is a form of exercise; That up to a certain point, exercise means increased strength or ease in effort; That all life is the expression of spirit; That my spirit influences my body, And my body influences my spirit;

That the universe to me is very beautiful, and everything and everybody in it good and beautiful when my body and my spirit are in harmonious mood; That my thoughts are hopeful and helpful unless I am filled with fear,

And that to eliminate fear my life must be dedicated to useful work—work in which I forget myself; That fresh air in abundance, and moderate, systematic exercise in the open air are the part of wisdom; That I can not afford, for my own sake, to be resentful nor quick to take offence;

That happiness is a great power for good, And that happiness in not possible without moderation and equanimity; And that the reward which life holds out for work is not idleness nor rest, nor immunity from work, but increased capacity, GREATER DIFFICULTIES, MORE WORK.

I BELIEVE in the Motherhood of God. I believe in the blessed Trinity of Father, Mother and Child.

I believe that God is here, and that we are as near Him now as ever we shall be. I do not believe He started this world a-going and went away and left it to run itself.

I believe in the sacredness of the human body, this transient dwelling-place of a living soul, and so I deem it the duty of every man and every woman to keep his or her body beautiful through right thinking and right living.

I believe that the love of man for woman, and the love of woman for man, is holy; and that this love in all its promptings is as much an emanation of the Divine Spirit as man’s love for God, or the most daring hazards of the human mind.

I believe in salvation through economic, social and spiritual freedom.

I believe John Ruskin, William Morris, Henry Thoreau, Walt Whitman and Leo Tolstoy to be Prophets of God, who should rank in mental reach and spiritual insight with Elijah, Hosea, Ezekiel and Isaiah.

I believe that men are inspired today as much as ever men were.

I believe we are now living in Eternity as much as ever we shall.

I believe that the best way to prepare for a Future Life is to be kind, live one day at a time, and do the work you can do the best, doing it as well as you can.

I believe we should remember the weekday to keep it holy.

I believe there is no devil but fear.

I believe that no one can harm you but yourself.

I believe in my own divinity—and yours.

I believe that we are all sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be.

I believe the only way we can reach the Kingdom of Heaven is to have the Kingdom of Heaven in our hearts.

I believe in every man minding his business.

I believe in freedom—social, economic, domestic, political, mental, spiritual.

I believe in sunshine, fresh air, friendship, calm sleep, beautiful thoughts.

I believe in the paradox of success through failure.

I believe in the purifying process of sorrow, and I believe that death is a manifestation of life.

I believe the Universe planned for good.

I believe it is possible that I shall make other creeds, and change this one, or add to it, from time to time as new light may come to me. (The Note Book of Elbert Hubbard, pp. 24-26)

The Parable of the Potluck

2010-01-02T12:02:00.003-07:00

(Keith L. Jensen, July 2008)

"That's why the Lord made such an everlasting variety of a world for, so every man could find his own kind of knowledge. There used to be a fellow down at Toll House, who had been reading these health magazines until he began to eat nuts and raisins and olive oil and pine sawdust — and not much else. Old Doc Harkness was talkin' to him once when I was there. 'But, Doc,' says he, 'this yere editor don't eat nothin' else, and he works fifteen hours a day, and keeps healthy on it.'

'Sure,' says Doc.

'And ain't they the healthiest sort of foods?'

'Sure,' says Doc again.

'Then why . . .'

'Do you like 'em ?' the Doc interrupted him.

'Not very well,' said this fellow at Toll House.

'Well, then they ain't healthy for you. That's why there's forty-eleven sorts of grub—so you can get what you like.'"

Chapter VII “ON THE CONDUCT OF LIFE” (as found in Stewart Edward White’s book The Cabin)

When I was a kid growing up in Sun River Valley, one of my most pleasant memories is of potluck dinners at the Sun River Valley LDS Church. On a summer evening on the 4th or 24th of July, we would all gather at the Sun River Valley LDS Church. Depending on the weather, tables would either be set up in the cultural hall or outside on the grass. Everyone would bring their favorite dishes to share.

Some were made from family recipes handed down for generations, and others were made from recipes newly discovered. My mom would make her rice pudding that her mother had taught her to make. Bernice Christensen would bring a green jello with pineapple and cottage cheese salad. Aunt Donna would bring her homemade chili, and Aunt Wanda would bring her homemade rolls.

And so it went on and on, everyone would bring the food item that they felt best about and would like to share. With joy, I’d get in line and wait my turn to select the foods of my choice. With plate in hand, I’d begin to make my food selections. My selections would be based on a number of factors. I’d listen to recommendations made by others.

“Oh, you just have to try Sister Feeler’s fried chicken. It’s to die for!”
or
“Son, you better not have any of Bishop Christensen’s baked beans. Those are only meant for the men here.”

Other selections were based upon memories of dishes from previous years. Sister Vergie Nielsen’s crumb crust deep dish apple pie was always a dish that would get my attention. And then, there were always the selections based upon the sights and smells of the day.

“MmmMmmMmm! What’s that that smells so good? I just have to have some of those scalloped potatoes.”
or
“That has to be one of the prettiest tossed salads I’ve ever seen. I think I’ll just try a bit of that.”

And so it went. Each person got to select the foods they’d like to eat. There was no one making an announcement that because of their position or calling that they knew what the best or “most right” foods that everyone ought to eat. In fact, the whole joy of the “potluck experience” was that I got to eat just what I wanted and in the portions I liked.

At a potluck dinner the very idea of someone getting up and saying—

“Through much prayer and fasting the brethren have received a revelation on what the proper and healthy potluck diet is. Each of you has been given a list of ‘appropriate foods.’ Please make your selections only from this list. And remember, ‘even though there is meat on this table, as God’s chosen people, you are to partake of none of this’”

—would seem ridiculous and absurd, and I hope few of us would put up with it. If we did, the whole experience of the potluck dinner would have lost much of its appeal as a fun and festive gathering.

And yet this is the very trap that we fall into when it comes to many aspects of our lives such as parenting, religion, and spiritual matters. We have bought into the delusion that someone has a special dispensation from God and that they know what’s best for us. We have lost touch with our own bodies and the messages that they first quietly speak to us and then more loudly and loudly they shout when we are no longer listening. Constantly, God is speaking to each of us, but we have fallen into a sleep of not hearing and not seeing. We have fallen into the trap of believing that there are others who can hear for us and see for us. It all reminds me of Jesus’ words in Matthew.

“Therefore speak I to them in parables: because they seeing see not; and hearing they hear not, neither do they understand. And in them is fulfilled the prophecy of Esaias, which saith, By hearing ye shall hear, and shall not understand; and seeing ye shall see, and shall not perceive: For this people's heart is waxed gross, and their ears are dull of hearing, and their eyes they have closed; lest at any time they should see with their eyes and hear with their ears, and should understand with their heart, and should be converted, and I should heal them. But blessed are your eyes, for they see: and your ears, for they hear.” (Matthew 13:13-16)

A Couple of Poems

2009-11-10T16:47:00.001-07:00

"A Poem"
(written by Keith Jensen on Sunday, June 12, 2005)

Sitting, pondering, once again emptying,
Striving to do that which I cannot do alone.
Smiling, remembering, writing, connecting,
Striving to increase in faith in God alone.

Letting the solitude and quietness wash over me,
Listening and hoping, trusting and letting go.
Believing God and starting to see,
Changing my life, so I can someday know.

Sometimes fearful, often joyful,
Sometimes forgetting and sliding back.
Centering on Christ and being hopeful,
Trusting in God's love where I lack.

Living, breathing, grateful to be alive,
With fondness, remembering the past,
With excitement, looking for the future to arrive,
Believing, hoping, trusting the good I cherish will last.

"A Poem"
(written by Keith Jensen on Tuesday, June 28, 2005)

The tick tock ticking of time passing quickly.
Seconds becoming minutes, becoming hours,
Becoming days that stack up into years,
Years of my life that seem to be a dream.

Who am I? Where am I going? What am I becoming?
I'm six years old and then I'm 47.
Sometimes time seems to rush along.
Other times it creeps along slowly.

Past, present, future all seem to merge into one.
I'm a babe, a boy, a man.
I'm old and feeble; I'm young and strong.
I'm everything and everyone.

I see myself reflected in everyone I meet.
I'm the young child who delights in rain.
I'm the young couple just starting out.
I'm the old man quietly looking ahead.

And sometimes behind all these reflections,
I catch a brief glimpse of me,
Peaking out from behind a corner,
Urging and beckoning me to meet myself.

To let go of all the false me's,
To reach out with a firm grasp,
And clasp hands firmly and familiarly,
And say, "I remember you!"

Some of Keith Jensen’s Thoughts on “God” & “Love”

2009-11-10T15:54:00.003-07:00

(Written and arranged on November 9, 2009)

I have been pondering the concept of “God” for the last several years. I once believed that my idea of God was the only valid one. However, I no longer believe that way.

Thomas Merton wrote:

So much depends on our idea of God! Yet no idea of Him, however pure and perfect, is adequate to express Him as He really is. Our idea of God tells us more about ourselves than about Him. (New Seeds of Contemplation, p. 17)

So if my “idea” of God tells me more about myself than it tells me about the nature of God, then I wonder what might be a more accurate and inclusive concept of God that I might consider.

In my opinion, the next two excerpts suggest an “idea” for the mystery of “God,” and which I believe are more inclusive and more accurately reflect the wide variety of human experiences.

Experience of “God”
These experiences, besides being ecstatic, were for me aha! moments. They gave me a new understanding of the meaning of the word God. I realized that God does not refer to a supernatural being “out there” (which is where I had put God ever since my childhood musings about God “up in heaven”). Rather, I began to see, the word God refers to the sacred at the center of existence, the holy mystery that is all around us and within us. God is the nonmaterial ground and source and presence in which, to cite words attributed to Paul by the author of Acts, “we live and move and have our being.”

Thus I began also to understand what it means to say that God is both everywhere present and “up in heaven”—both immanent and transcendent, as traditional Christian theology puts it. As immanent (the root means “to dwell within”), God is not somewhere else, but right here and everywhere. To speak of God as being “up in heaven”—that is, as transcendent—means that God is not to be identified with any particular thing, not even the sum total of things.

God is more than everything, and everything is in God. Being a thinking type, I began studying experiences of God in both mystical and nonmystical forms. I learned that even though these experiences are extraordinary, they are also quite common across cultures, throughout history, and into the present time. Gradually it became obvious to me that God—the sacred, the holy, the numinous—was “real.” God was no longer a concept or an article of belief, but had become an element of experience. (Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time, pp. 14-15)

Being / God
When you say Being, are you talking about God? If you are, then why don’t you say it?

The word God has become empty of meaning through thousands of years of misuse. I use it sometimes, but I do so sparingly. By misuse, I mean that people who have never even glimpsed the realm of the sacred, the infinite vastness behind that word, use it with great conviction, as if they knew what it is that they are talking about. Or they argue against it, as if they knew what it is that they are denying. This misuse gives rise to absurd beliefs, assertions, and egoic delusions, such as, “My or our God is the only true God and your God is false,” or Nietzsche’s famous statement “God is dead.”

The word God has become a closed concept. The moment the word is uttered, a mental image is created, no longer, perhaps, of an old man with a white beard, but still a mental representation of someone or something outside you, and, yes, almost inevitably a male someone or something.

Neither God nor Being nor any other word can define or explain the ineffable reality behind the word, so the only important question is whether the word is a help or a hindrance in enabling you to experience That toward which it points. Does it point beyond itself to that transcendental reality, or does it lend itself too easily to becoming no more than an idea in your head that you believe in, a mental idol?

The word Being explains nothing, but nor does God. Being, however, has the advantage that it is an open concept. It does not reduce the infinite invisible to a finite entity. It is impossible to form a mental image of it. Nobody can claim exclusive possession of Being. It is your very essence, and it is immediately accessible to you as the feeling of your own presence, the realization I am that is prior to I am this or I am that. So it is only a small step from the word Being to the experience of Being. (The Power of Now, p. 11)

Keith’s Thoughts: What if God is Reality? And what if in some mysterious way, we are “of God”—that we are God’s children? Then, I would suggest that the following statements are worth consideration.

“What you do—or don’t do—has absolutely no effect on God’s love. God doesn’t love you more because of your ‘righteous’ acts. And, He/She doesn’t love you less because of your ‘sinful’ acts. You are simply loved of God, and there is absolutely nothing you can do to either increase or decrease this infinite and pure love.”

Perhaps, what I’m trying to define is grace.

Thomas Merton wrote:

Grace
What is “grace”? It is God’s own life, shared by us. God’s life is Love. Deus caritas est. By grace we are able to share in the infinitely selfless love of Him Who is such pure actuality that He needs nothing and therefore cannot conceivably exploit anything for selfish ends. Indeed, outside of Him there is nothing, and whatever exists exists by His free gift of its being, so that one of the notions that is absolutely contradictory to the perfection of God is selfishness. It is metaphysically impossible for God to be selfish, because the existence of everything that is depends upon His gift, depends upon his unselfishness. (The Seven Storey Mountain, pp. 303-304)

Your are loved
The beginning of the fight against hatred, the basic Christian answer to hatred is not the commandment to love, but what must necessarily come before in order to make the commandment bearable and comprehensible. It is a prior commandment, to believe. The root of Christian love is not the will to love, but the faith that one is loved. The faith that one is loved by God. That faith that one is loved by God although unworthy—or, rather, irrespective of one’s worth!

In the true Christian vision of God’s love, the idea of worthiness loses its significance. Revelation of the mercy of God makes the whole problem of worthiness something almost laughable: the discovery that worthiness is of no special consequence (since no one could ever, by himself, be strictly worthy to be loved with such a love) is a true liberation of the spirit. And until this discovery is made, until this liberation has been brought about by the divine mercy, man is imprisoned in hate. (New Seeds of Contemplation, 76-77)

We love him, because he first loved us.
(1 John 4:19)

"GRACEFULLY"

2009-02-12T15:12:00.012-07:00

“Gracefully”
(Written by Keith L. Jensen on February 11, 2009)

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall

And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.

Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and

All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

(Four Quartets, Quartet No. 4: Little Gidding V by T. S. Eliot)

Dancing, swaying, moving freely back and forth. Freely entering within and freely letting go when the time is right. As children, this dance of life came so effortlessly, so freely. There is no living in regret of the past or fear of the future. There is always just the now—the ever present now. And moment to moment, life is a celebration, a dance of joy in celebration of every beautiful moment. The rain is falling: dance for joy. The family cat just had kittens: dance for joy. Daddy is arriving home from work: dance for joy. Mommy is baking homemade chocolate chip cookies: dance for joy. JOY, JOY, JOY! Seen through a child’s eyes, life is a joyful celebration. Ah, to live constantly like this! How would that be? Could it be possible? Oh, how I wish and hope it might be.

To a child, there are no limitations. The portals to life’s possibilities are entered through doors with well oiled hinges—doors that swing freely back and forth. As a child, you enter in and out of life’s possibilities effortlessly and gracefully. One day you’re going to be a fireman and the next you’re going to be an explorer. Anything and everything is possible. There are no limits. There’s no thinking and worrying about: Can I or can’t I? Should I or shouldn’t I? There’s only simply receiving grace and love like a flower receives sunshine and water.

But then, the hinges on the doors to life’s possibilities start to rust one little belief at a time. These beliefs creep in quietly one little thought at a time. They start out so small and seemingly harmless. One by one these beliefs are learned.

●You can't do it.
And a bit of rust forms on the hinges.

●You can't ask for help.
And again, yet another bit of rust starts to form.

●You need other's approval.
More rust forms. The doors still swings back and forth but not so easily and gracefully as they once did.

●You're not working hard enough.
And now the hinges of the doors of life’s possibilities are really getting rusted. They no longer swing easily back and forth. Just opening them to get a glimpse at the other side is taking more and more effort.

●You're not spending your time on the "right" things.
One after another and again and again, these types of limiting beliefs are heard and believed. After so many years, the hinges of the doors of life’s possibilities become rusted and frozen shut. And no effort on your part—no matter how hard you try—can force them loose and get them swinging back and forth—to and fro—as they once did.

For some reason, that’s hard for me to explain, I’ve always seen doors to old barns as a metaphor of portals to life’s possibilities. There is just something about old barns that holds such a world of possibilities. My growing up years were all spend in the rural community of Sun River Valley, Montana. This area consists of rolling hills of prairie grasslands and vistas of flat topped buttes. Giving life to and tying the small communities of the valley together is the meandering Sun River. In a belt along its shores are the “woods” consisting of cottonwoods, willows, chokecherry, and buffalo berry bushes. The Lewis & Clark expedition passed through the valley in the summer of 1805.

(A view of the Sun River Valley from the air)

There are a number of wonderful old barns I remember seeing as a kid growing up in Sun River Valley. As a child I was only able to explore a couple of these barns. However, they ALL called forth—and still call forth to this day—my spirit of exploration and curiosity. There’s just something about barns that calls forth my spirit of adventure.

(John Zeller’s barn: along highway 200 and three miles east of the town of Sun River)

(Christensen Brothers’ barn: along highway 200 and two miles east of the town of Sun River)

As a kid, the two barns I remember exploring were my cousins the Nielsen’s barn and that of my cousins the Warnick's barn. Wanda Nielsen, my aunt, is my dad’s younger sister. Donna Warnick, my other aunt, is my mom’s older sister. Both the Nielsen’s and the Warnick’s owned dairies when I was a boy growing up.

My younger brother Larry and our Nielsen and Warnick cousins use to play for hours in the lofts of both of these barns. Using our imaginations, we’d invent all kind of games. One day we’d be holding off attacking WW II German soldiers with our “pipe” machine guns mounted in the windows of the loft. The next day we’d be holding off attacking Crow and Blackfoot warriors with our trusty “Colt revolvers” and our “Winchester lever-action rifles.”

When we weren’t in life and death struggles with our wily enemies, we were exploring and inventing. We were always discovering and finding all kinds of amazing things in these barn lofts. As kids we were always baffled by how adults could put such amazing “stuff” in these lofts and just forget it.

And speaking of inventions, we came up with some doozies. One of my favorites was a zip line we invented at Nielsen’s. We hooked one end of a cable to the rafters next to the big loft window at the front of the barn. The other end of this 80 foot length of cable we hooked to the back bumper of Nielsen’s red 1948 Dodge Power Wagon. Putting the Dodge in “compound” gear, we slowly drove forward until the cable was taut. To this cable we attached an old horse drawn wagon or buggy single tree yoke we found among the treasures we’d discovered in the loft.

And then with a whoop and a holler, we’d take turns holding on and hanging from this single tree yoke as we leaped out of the loft window and zipped down to the ground. Talk about fun!

As a kid, we had so much fun playing in barns. It seemed as though there were a whole new world of magic and wonder just waiting for us within their walls. And the barn doors always swung outward easily, effortlessly, and welcomed us in.

Sometimes when I’m by myself driving through the country, I’ll still hear the faint call of an old barn I see along the road—a call to enter and to explore and play. But then I remember that playing is for kids and not for 50 year old men. And yet I still can imagine and hope and believe. Sometimes when I let go of limitations and close my eyes and imagine, the following story comes to me:

I’m 50 years old and a man, AND I’m 10 years old and a boy. I’m out exploring with my grandfather. We follow a winding path through a tangle of trees down along the river—the Sun River.

(Along the Sun River near the town of Sun River)

After a while we arrive at an abandoned old red barn—a barn that I’ve never seen before. The doors are hanging askew and the hinges have rusted shut—rusted shut just like our minds have done because of the many limiting beliefs that we have heard and bought into over the years.

Like no other barn that I’ve ever seen over the years, this one calls to me. I let go of my grandfather’s hand and run over to the doors. Gripping the edge of a door with both hands, I try to jerk it open. The rusted hinges creak and shriek in protest, but the doors remain closed to me. I get sweaty and hot tugging and pulling, but nothing I do seems to make any difference at all. No matter how hard I try and no matter what I do it seems as though this barn is going to stay closed to me. I fall to ground in despair and defeat. Tears of sorrow stream down my face.

And then I sense my grandfather’s presence. He smiles at me kindly and walks over to the doors. From deep within the pocket of his old jacket he pulls something out. His back is to me; so, I don’t see what he’s taken from his pocket. But, I hear this slow rhythmic click-thump . . . click-thump . . . click-thump . . . like the beating of a heart. I walk over and see that my grandfather has an old oil can in his hand. I can just barely make out the letters on its rusted and pitted surface. How strange! They read: grace.

With each beat, with each click-thump, from the spout of the oil can, there flows green living oil. Slowly it seeps into the rusted hinges. Excitedly, I grab hold of the door and begin to try to pull it outward. With a kind hand on my arm, grandfather stops me. He tells me to wait and be patient. He shows me how to start gently moving the door back and forth just a little at a time.

Slowly the rust starts to break away and the door begins to move more freely. With a smile on his face, grandfather says:

“This is a different kind of door. It doesn’t swing outward like most doors do. This door will only swing inward. And it will only do so when you’re ready to go. Are you ready, my son? Are you ready?”

I’m excited and kind of scared all at the same time. And yet this feels right . . . This feels like the thing to do. So with a smile on my face, I take a big breath and just let go. I stop trying. To my delight and with no efforting on my part, the doors open and swing inward, and I enter within. And the funny thing is: The world within is bigger and broader and deeper and more real and with more delights and wonders than anything I ever imagined while on the outside.

EAGLE FEATHERS

2009-02-02T15:34:00.001-07:00

Eagle Feathers
by
Keith L. Jensen (written in 1997)

Since having moved away from Montana, I’ve come to realize how similar my growing up was to the traditional view of the “Old West”. Not the traditional view of horses and six-shooters. Rather, the view of wide open spaces and neighbors who lived miles apart. In the evenings, I use to fall asleep to the lonely sound of coyotes yipping and howling at the moon. In the morning, it was not uncommon to see a herd of 30 to 40 antelope in the hills directly behind our house. If there ever was a state that was nicknamed appropriately, it has to be Montana, “the Big Sky Country”. As a kid, I remember a summer blue sky that reached from horizon to horizon. Talk about big! 60 miles to the east, I could see the gray-blue Little Belt Mountains; 50 miles to the west the beginnings of the Rockies were visible. I had in excess of 100 miles of blue sky over my head. It was like an immense blue canvas whose vastness was broken only by an occasional cloud—a canvas where you were free to paint with your thoughts and imaginations.

And, oh what imaginations we had! Unlike unfortunate kids who are surrounded by everything but have nothing to do, we were privileged to use our imaginations for our entertainment. Larry and I are just a little over two years apart in age. We were and are best friends. We slept in the same room and often the same bed together; we attended school together; we participated in sports together; and we always played together. A common game we played was to pretend we were a couple of cowboys riding the range. We always had to keep an eye out for wild Indians. In our early days, our guns were usually pretend ones made of perfectly shaped sticks and branches. Later, after we had passed Hunter Safety Course at 12 years of age, we usually carried our 22s or our shotguns on our outings together. Frequently, we went on walks together under the pretense of hunting for rabbits or pheasants, but we both knew deep down that we were still just a couple of old cowpokes—a couple of cowpokes who knew that if we wanted to keep our hair attached to our heads we had better always be on the lookout for Indians.

During the long lazy days of summer, it was not uncommon for Larry and I to go on long walks in the hills north of our place. I say hills, but it would probably be more appropriate to say rolling rangeland. This rolling carpet of brown range grass lead up to Crow and Ashuelot Benches. It was a dry grassland of buffalo bunch grass and occasional prickly pear cacti. There were no trees, only a few squaw bushes with their bitter berries in some of the draws. As far as water, there was one little stream that flowed off Crow Bench six miles to the north of our place. This stream was formed from runoff irrigation water that flowed off the bench. It flowed in a small meandering stream, seldom exceeding four feet in width. Prior to reaching our farm, this stream flowed into Christensens’ Pond–a three plus acre pond the Christensen brothers had built to store irrigation water and water for their stock. From Christensens’ Pond, the water could be diverted either to the east and Christensens’ land or to the west and ours and the Church’s land. From water stored in this pond, Dad irrigated about 14 acres of our farm and grew wonderful crops of hay on the rocky soil. Members of the Church also used the water to irrigate the Church’s five acres of lawns and grounds.

On a particular summer day when I was around 11 years old, and Larry was about 9 years old, we went on one of our adventure walks to the hills north of our place. I can’t remember now, but I imagine we were both carrying our stick guns at the time. From our house, we headed to the northeast corner of our farm and to Grandpa Jensen’s big, black, creosote soaked, telephone pole sized, corner post. As Randy mentions in another story in this book, it was an unspoken understanding that all legitimate adventures to the hinterlands north of our place had to start at Grandpa Jensen’s big black corner post. After paying homage to the northeast corner post, we headed north to the railroad tracks. The railroad tracks, which ran east and west, were only a couple of hundred yards north of the northern boundary of our farm. To get there you had to tip toe through a patch of prickly pear cactus and cross two barb wire fences. Along the way, you crossed the western flowing ditch of irrigation water that flowed from Christensens’ Pond to our farm. The banks of this ditch were overgrown with grass. Along its bank, you could smell the pungent aroma of spearmint plants. Larry and I walked over to them and tore off two or three leaves. Like true cowboys, we wadded them into balls and stuck our “mint” tobacco between our lower lip and gum. In no time at all, we were able to spit in wonderful green spurts.

From here we crossed the second fence and climbed up the bank to the railroad tracks. Along the railroad tracks we headed east towards Christensens’ Pond. Along the way, we’d usually scare up a jackrabbit or two. After recovering from a near heart attack caused by the jackrabbit jumping out of the grass right under our feet, we’d raise our pretend rifles, draw a bead on the rabbit, and then blast it. Many a night on the open range our hunger was satiated by jackrabbit slowly roasted over the red embers of our campfires.

Memories of imaginary jackrabbit meals on the open range left such favorable impressions on our minds that a couple of years later I actually shot a jackrabbit with my 410 shotgun one winter, skinned it, and roasted it in a fry pan on Mom’s kitchen stove. For those of you unfamiliar with jackrabbits, they are nothing like cottontails. Jackrabbits in Montana are between 18 and 24 inches long and weighs between four and six pounds. The particular jackrabbit I shot was so long that I was able to roast only part of it in the fry pan at a time.

You’re probably thinking, “Well, why didn’t the dumb kid just cut the rabbit in pieces and fry it all at once.”

Or, if you’re a sane person, you ought to be thinking, “Why in tarnation would anyone want to eat a disease invested, stringy, tough old jackrabbit.”

To your first thought, all I’ll say is that in all the western movies we’d ever seen the rabbit was always roasted whole on a skewer over an open fire. We didn’t have a skewer, and we didn’t have an open fire, but we would be darned if we weren’t going to have a whole roasted rabbit carcass.

To your second thought, all I can say is that you are indeed sane, and yes, we actually were a bit insane. However, kids have that right. Once we had thoroughly roasted—at least in our minds we had thoroughly roasted—each end of our jackrabbit in the fry pan for 20 minutes per end, we cleaned the fry pan and the stove. We knew that loving mother though she was, mom would not take kindly to our roasting of a wild jackrabbit carcass on top of her clean kitchen stove.

Fortunately, it was winter, and we had the perfect place to hide our jackrabbit feast from her—our top dresser drawer in our shared bedroom. We just moved some of the socks and underwear to the side and plunked the partially roasted carcass down and shut the drawer. In a normal house, this would never do, but in our house, where the inside temperature of the bedrooms seldom got above freezing during the winter months, it was the perfect cold storage hiding place.

We never ate all the rabbit, but we did gnaw on it for quite a while. Both Larry and I were quite admired by Kirk and Lee Nielsen, our cousins, when we invited them up to our place during church, pulled open our top dresser drawer, and tore off four strips of stringy, tough jackrabbit. We chewed and chewed and chewed on the nasty stuff, swallowed, and felt quite manly about the whole affair.

Anyway, back to summertime and the adventure at hand. Along the railroad tracks, we walked a couple of hundred yards to the east and crossed the fence to Christensens’ Pond. Around the pond, you’d usually see a number of killdeer, a type of plover. Their plaintive cries never sounded like “killdeer, killdeer” to me. Rather, they sounded more like “cry baby, cry baby”. If they had eggs or young ones near by, the mother would feign a broken wing in order to lead us from her young. Sometimes, if we were lucky, we would find two or three brown speckled eggs in the grass. Killdeers don’t make nests. They just lay their eggs in the grass on the ground.

At the pond, we’d stop for a while to chase frogs and water snakes along the water’s edge. We’d always stop to look for some flat stones to skip across the water. After playing around the pond for awhile, we headed north into the hills along a seldom used dirt road/cattle trail. It’s hard to estimate elevations, but I’d say from our house to the top of Crow Bench was a gradual rise in elevation of about 800 feet. We passed over the first set of hills. It was usually at this point that we’d turn around and head home.

On this particular day, we were feeling adventurous and continued to press on. After walking for another couple of miles we came to territory which to us was virgin. The day was hot and the ever constant dry Montana wind was blowing. Owing to the lonely sound of the wind and the absence of any other sounds, I remember having a lonely eerie feeling. We topped a small rise and came to a flat open area. There were some pieces of old broken down farm machinery and the tumble down remains of a badly rusted barb wire fence. Actually, all that remained of this fence were two leaning cedar fence posts and a single rusted barb wire strand strung loosely between them. Before our eyes, a tragic tail unfolded.

Months earlier, I’d say at least seven or eight months earlier, two golden eagles had gracefully been riding the thermals high in the sky. With their eagle eyes, they’d spotted a lone jackrabbit hundreds of feet below. With a wild cry, they tucked their seven foot wing spans into their bodies and began their explosive dive towards their helpless prey. Moments before being torn by their sharp talons, the jackrabbit must have sensed its eminent demise and tried to make a futile dash for freedom. With terror in its heart, it dashed under the single rusty strand of barb wire—a strand of barb wire that was totally out of place in the vast emptiness of the surrounding miles of rangeland. Unable to check their wild careen from the sky, both eagles followed the rabbit as it scurried under the single harmless looking strand of wire. Their dives were nearly a hundred miles an hour. And then suddenly it all ended with a sickening crunch into the wire. The rabbit heard the screeching sound of the eagles slamming into the wire, hopped a few feet further, and with a rapidly beating heart, turned around and saw the broken bodies of its two pursuers. And the wind blew on.

We found both broken eagle carcasses about 20 feet beyond the fence. Both were dry and pretty much rotted away. Most of what remained were their feathers. The whole place reminded me of what I envisioned an Indian burial ground to be. Reverently, and with few words, Larry removed his red sweat shirt. We tied the sleeves off in knots and tied off the neck hole. Then we gathered most of the long wing and tail feathers and placed them in our sweat shirt bag. In our minds, the only proper thing to do with the feathers was to give them to one of the neighboring Blackfeet chiefs so he could make them into a war bonnet.

Our walk back home was a somber one. The hot Montana sun continued to beat upon us, and the constantly blowing dry wind acted as a natural dehydrator. There was no blowing sand, but in our minds, there just as well might have been. We had passed through the sacred ritual of gathering eagle feathers and had hiked quite a number of miles. Nearing the end of our journey, we were as parched as any desert crossing cowboys we’d ever seen in old western movies. And, then suddenly, like an oasis in the desert, Christensens’ Pond appeared. With tired steps, we trudged to its shores. The water in the pond was a murky brown. However, where it flowed through the culvert and out the head gate on the southwest end of the pond, the water appeared crystal clear. Our house was less than 300 yards from this point, but in our feverish, sunstroke minds, we’d never make it. We did the only thing any true cowpokes would have done in our situation—we dumped our rotted, flea invested, eagle feathers on the ground and let the wind have her way with them. Then to be sure that the ditch water was filtered and made safe for human consumption, we scooped Larry’s red sweat shirt into the water, held it over our heads, and let the water drip into our parched throats. I guess Heavenly Father must watch over dumb farm kids because neither of us got sick from drinking the water. Either that or our ingenious filter had actually worked.

"Twenty Minutes of Reality"

2009-01-08T16:27:00.003-07:00

Ms. Montague's short story "Big Music" resonated with me so deeply that I decided to learn more about the author. I discovered the following booklet "Twenty Minutes of Reality." I hope you enjoy it. --Keith Jensen :)

"TWENTY MINUTES OF REALITY"
AN EXPERIENCE

With Some Illuminating Letters
Concerning It

BY
MARGARET PRESCOTT MONTAGUE
Author OF
"HOME TO HIM’S MUVVER,”
"OF WATER AND THE SPIRIT," ETC.

NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 681 FIFTH AVENUE
COPYRIGHT, 1917,
BY
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America

PUBLISHERS' NOTE
The interest aroused by the anonymous publication of Twenty Minutes of Reality in the columns of The Atlantic Monthly has made its re-publication in book form a duty as well as a pleasure. The courteous permission of the proprietors of The Atlantic Monthly to use not only Twenty Minutes of Reality but three of the letters contributed by its readers on the subject is gratefully acknowledged.

In giving the author's name for the first time, the publishers hope that the reader will remember that the letters were written while the article was still anonymous.

CONTENTS
Twenty Minutes of Reality
Some Illuminating Letters
I The Unremembered Vision
II Rock-ribs Of Truth
III The Permanent Ecstatic
IV Another Ecstatic
V From An Old Scrap-book
VI Knows What Would Have Been Seen
VII An Artist's Testimony
VIII From A Literary Man
IX Thinks It Was Cosmic Consciousness
X From A Musical Point Of View
XI From A Man Of Wide Reading and Much Deep Thinking
XII A New And Glorious World

“TWENTY MINUTES OF REALITY”

AS a child I was afraid of world without end, of life everlasting. The thought of it used to clutch me at times with a crushing sense of the inevitable, and make me long to run away. But where could one run? If never-ending life were true, then I was already caught fast in it, and it would never end. Perhaps it had never had a beginning. Life everlasting, eternity, forever and ever: these are tremendous words for even a grown person to face; and for a child—if he grasp their significance at all—they may be hardly short of appalling. The picture that Heaven presented to my mind was of myself, a desperate little atom, dancing in a streak of light around and around and around forever and ever. I do not know what could have suggested such an idea; I only know that I could not think of myself caught there in eternity like a chip in a whirlpool, or say "round again, and round again, and round again" for more than a minute, without hypnotizing myself into a state of sheer terror. Of course, as I grew older I threw off this truly awful conception; yet shorn of its crudeness and looked at with grown-up eyes, there were moments when, much as I believed in, and desired, eternal life, that old feeling of "round again, and round again, and round again" would swoop back upon me with all its unutterable weariness, and no state of bliss that I could imagine seemed to me proof forever against boredom. Nevertheless, I still had faith to believe that eternity and enjoyment of life could in some way be squared, though I did not see how it was to be done. I am glad that I had, for I came at last to a time when faith was justified by sight, and it is of that time that I wish to write here.

If this paper ever chances to be printed, it will be read, I think, by two sets of persons. There will be those who will wonder if I speak of something that is really there, or who will be quite sure that I do not—that I either imagined or made up the whole thing, or else that it was entirely due to the physical condition of convalescence. Others there will be who will believe that I am speaking of the truth that is there, because they, too, have seen it. These last will think that it was not because I was returning to health that I imagined all life as beautiful, but that with the cleared vision that sometimes attends convalescence I "saw into reality," and felt the ecstasy which is always there, but which we are enabled to perceive only on very rare and fleeting occasions.

It is these last for whom I wish to write. If this clearing of the vision is an occasional occurrence of convalescence, then what I saw is of far more value than it would be had my experience been unique.

I do not really know how long the insight lasted. I have said, at a rough guess, twenty minutes. It may have been a little shorter time, it may have been a little longer. But at best it was very transitory.

It happened to me about two years ago, on the day when my bed was first pushed out of doors to the open gallery of the hospital. I was recovering from a surgical operation. I had undergone a certain amount of physical pain, and had suffered for a short time the most acute mental depression which it has ever been my misfortune to encounter. I suppose that this depression was due to physical causes, but at the time it seemed to me that somewhere down there under the anesthetic, in the black abyss of unconsciousness, I had discovered a terrible secret, and the secret was that there was no God; or if there was one, He was indifferent to all human suffering.

Though I had hardly reestablished my normal state of faith, still the first acuteness of that depression had faded, and only a scar of fear was left when, several days later, my bed was first wheeled out to the porch. There other patients took their airing and received their visitors; busy internes and nurses came and went, and one could get a glimpse of the sky, with bare gray branches against it, and of the ground, with here and there a patch of melting snow.

It was an ordinary cloudy March day. I am glad to think that it was. I am glad to remember that there was nothing extraordinary about the weather, nor any unusualness of setting—no flush of spring or beauty of scenery—to induce what I saw. It was, on the contrary, almost a dingy day. The branches were bare and colorless, and the occasional half- melted piles of snow were a forlorn gray rather than white. Colorless little city sparrows flew and chirped in the trees, while human beings, in no way remarkable, passed along the porch.

There was, however, a wind blowing, and if any outside thing intensified the experience, it was the blowing of that wind. In every other respect it was an ordinary commonplace day. Yet here, in this everyday setting, and entirely unexpectedly (for I had never dreamed of such a thing), my eyes were opened, and for the first time in all my life I caught a glimpse of the ecstatic beauty of reality.

I cannot now recall whether the revelation came suddenly or gradually; I only remember finding myself in the very midst of those wonderful moments, beholding life for the first time in all its young intoxication of loveliness, in its unspeakable joy, beauty, and importance. I cannot say exactly what the mysterious change was. I saw no new thing, but I saw all the usual things in a miraculous new light—in what I believe is their true light. I saw for the first time how wildly beautiful and joyous, beyond any words of mine to describe, is the whole of life. Every human being moving across that porch, every sparrow that flew, every branch tossing in the wind, was caught in and was a part of the whole mad ecstasy of loveliness, of joy, of importance, of intoxication of life.

It was not that for a few keyed-up moments I imagined all existence as beautiful, but that my inner vision was cleared to the truth so that I saw the actual loveliness which is always there, but which we so rarely perceive; and I knew that every man, woman, bird, and tree, every living thing before me, was extravagantly beautiful, and extravagantly important. And, as I beheld, my heart melted out of me in a rapture of love and delight. A nurse was walking past; the wind caught a strand of her hair and blew it out in a momentary gleam of sunshine, and never in my life before had I seen how beautiful beyond all belief is a woman's hair. Nor had I ever guessed how marvelous it is for a human being to walk. As for the internes in their white suits, I had never realized before the whiteness of white linen; but much more than that, I had never so much as dreamed of the mad beauty of young manhood. A little sparrow chirped and flew to a nearby branch, and I honestly believe that only "the morning stars singing together, and the sons of God shouting for joy" can in the least express the ecstasy of a bird's flight. I cannot express it, but I have seen it.

Once out of all the gray days of my life I have looked into the heart of reality; I have witnessed the truth; I have seen life as it really is—ravishingly, ecstatically, madly beautiful, and filled to overflowing with a wild joy, and a value unspeakable. For those glorified moments I was in love with every living thing before me— the trees in the wind, the little birds flying, the nurses, the internes, the people who came and went. There was nothing that was alive that was not a miracle. Just to be alive was in itself a miracle. My very soul flowed out of me in a great joy.

No one can be as happy as I was and not have it show in some way. A stranger passing paused by my bed and said, "What are you lying here all alone looking so happy about?" I made some inadequate response as to the pleasure of being out-of-doors and of getting well. How could I explain all the beauty that I was seeing? How could I say that the gray curtain of unreality had swirled away and that I was seeing into the heart of life ? It was not an experience for words. It was an emotion, a rapture of the heart.

Besides all the joy and beauty and that curious sense of importance, there was a wonderful feeling of rhythm as well, only it was somehow just beyond the grasp of my mind. I heard no music, yet there was an exquisite sense of time, as though all life went by to a vast, unseen melody. Everything that moved wove out a little thread of rhythm in this tremendous whole. When a bird flew, it did so because somewhere a note had been struck for it to fly on; or else its flying struck the note; or else again the great Will that is Melody willed that it should fly. When people walked, somewhere they beat out a bit of rhythm that was in harmony with the whole great theme.

Then, the extraordinary importance of everything! Every living creature was intensely alive and intensely beautiful, but it was as well of a marvelous value. Whether this value was in itself or a part of the whole, I could not see; but it seemed as though before my very eyes I actually beheld the truth of Christ's saying that not even a sparrow falls to the ground without the knowledge of the Father in Heaven. Yet what the importance was, I did not grasp. If my heart could have seen just a little further I should have understood. Even now the tips of my thoughts are forever on the verge of grasping it, forever just missing it. I have a curious half-feeling that somewhere, deep inside of myself, I know very well what this importance is, and have always known; but I cannot get it from the depth of myself into my mind, and thence into words. But whatever it is, the importance seemed to be nearer to beauty and joy than to an anxious morality. I had a feeling that it was in some way different from the importance I had usually attached to life.

It was perhaps as though that great value in every living thing was not so much here and now in ourselves as somewhere else. There is a great significance in every created thing, but the significance is beyond our present grasp. I do not know what it is; I only know that it is there, and that all life is far more valuable than we ever dream of its being. Perhaps the following quotation from Milton may be what I was conscious of:—

What if earth
Be but the shadow of Heaven, and things therein
Each to each other like, more than on earth is thought.

What if here we are only symbols of ourselves, and our real being is somewhere else,—perhaps in the heart of God? Certainly that unspeakable importance had to do with our relationship to the great Whole; but what the relationship was, I could not tell. Was it a relationship of love toward us, or only the delight in creation? But it is hardly likely that a glimpse of a cold Creator could have filled me with such an extravagant joy, or so melted the heart within me. For those fleeting, lovely moments I did indeed, and in truth, love my neighbor as myself. Nay, more: of myself I was hardly conscious, while with my neighbor in every form, from wind-tossed branches and little sparrows flying, up to human beings, I was madly in love. Is it likely that I could have experienced such love if there were not some such emotion at the heart of Reality? If I did not actually see it, it was not that it was not there, but that I did not see quite far enough.

Perhaps this was because I was still somewhat in the grip of that black doubt which I had experienced, and of which I have spoken. I think it was owing to this doubt also that afterwards I had a certain feeling of distrust. I was afraid that all that beauty might be an uncaring joy. As if, though we were indeed intensely important in some unguessed way to the great Reality, our own small individual sorrows were perhaps not of much moment. I am not sure that I actually had this feeling, as it is very difficult, after the lapse of almost two years, to recapture in memory all the emotions of so fleeting and so unusual an experience. If I did, however, I comfort myself, as I have said, with the thought of the intense joy that I experienced. The vision of an uncaring Reality would hardly have melted me to such happiness. That the Creator is a loving Creator I believe with all my heart; but this is belief, not sight. What I saw that day was an unspeakable joy and loveliness, and a value to all life beyond anything that we have knowledge of; while in myself I knew a wilder happiness than I have ever before or since experienced.

Moreover, though there was nothing exactly religious in what I saw, the accounts given by people who have passed through religious conversion or illumination come nearer to describing my emotions than anything else that I have come across.

These testimonies I read almost a year after my hospital episode. I came upon them by chance, and was astonished to find that they were describing very much what I had passed through. I think if I had had nothing to match them in my own experience I should almost certainly have felt sure that these people, because of the emotional excitement within themselves, imagined all the beauties that they described. Now I believe that they are describing what is actually there. Nor are poets making up—as the average mind believes, and as I think I always believed—the extravagant beauty of which they sing. They are telling us of the truth that is there, and which they are occasionally enabled to see.

Here are some of the testimonies offered by people who have experienced illumination in one form or another.

"Natural objects were glorified," one person affirms. "My spiritual vision was so clarified that I saw beauty in every natural object in the universe." Another says, "When I went into the field to work, the glory of God appeared in all his visible creation. I well remember we reaped oats, and how every straw and beard of the oats seemed, as it were, arrayed in a kind of rainbow glory, or to glow, if I may so express it, in the glory of God." The father of Rabindranath Tagore thus describes his illumination: "I felt a serenity and joy which I had never experienced before . . . the joy I felt . . . that day overflowed my soul. ... I could not sleep that night. The reason of my sleeplessness was the ecstasy of soul; as if moonlight had spread itself over my mind for the whole of that night." And when Tagore speaks of his own illumination he says, "It was morning; I was watching the sunrise in Free School Street. A veil was suddenly drawn and everything I saw became luminous. The whole scene was one perfect music; one marvelous rhythm."
(Note his sense of rhythm, of which I was also conscious.) "The houses in the street, the children playing, all seemed part of one luminous whole— inexpressibly glorified." (Perhaps the significance of that tremendous importance which I felt, but failed to grasp, was that we are all parts of a wonderful whole.) "I was full of gladness, full of love for every tiniest thing."

And this was what—in a smaller degree—I, too, saw for those fleeting moments out there upon the hospital porch. Mine was, I think, a sort of accidental clearing of the vision by the rebirth of returning health. I believe that a good many people have experienced the same thing during convalescence. Perhaps this is the way in which we should all view life if we were born into it grown up. As it is, when we first arrive we are so engaged in the tremendous business of cutting teeth, saying words, and taking steps, that we have no time for, and little consciousness of, outside wonders; and by the time we have the leisure for admiration life has lost for us its first freshness. Convalescence is a sort of grown-up rebirth, enabling us to see life with a fresh eye.

Doubtless almost any intense emotion may open our "inward eye" to the beauty of reality. Falling in love appears to do it for some people. The beauties of nature or the exhilaration of artistic creation does it for others. Probably any high experience may momentarily stretch our souls up on tiptoe, so that we catch a glimpse of that marvelous beauty which is always there, but which we are not often tall enough to perceive.

Emerson says, "We are immersed in beauty, but our eyes have no clear vision." I believe that religious conversion more often clears the eyes to this beauty of truth than any other experience; and it is possible that had I not still been somewhat under that black cloud of doubt, I should have seen further than I did. Yet what I did see was very good indeed.

The following quotation from Canon Inge may not be entirely out of place in this connection: "Incidentally I may say that the peculiar happiness which accompanies every glimpse of insight into truth and reality, whether in the scientific, aesthetic, or emotional sphere, seems to me to have a greater apologetic value than has been generally recognized. It is the clearest possible indication that the truth is for us the good, and forms the ground of a reasonable faith that all things, if we could see them as they are, would be found to work together for good to those who love God."

In what I saw there was nothing seemingly of an ethical nature. There were no new rules of conduct revealed by those twenty minutes. Indeed, it seemed as though beauty and joy were more at the heart of Reality than an over-anxious morality. It was a little as though (to transpose the quotation),

I had slept and dreamed that life was duty,
But waked to find that life was beauty.

Perhaps at such times of illumination there is no need to worry over sin, for one is so transported by the beauty of humanity, and so poured out in love toward every human being, that sin becomes almost impossible.

Perhaps duty may merely point the way. When one arrives at one's destination it would be absurd to go back and reconsult the guide-post. Blindness of heart may be the real sin, and if we could only purify our hearts to behold the beauty that is all about us, sin would vanish away. When Christ says, "Seek ye the Kingdom of God; and all these things shall be added unto you," He may mean by "all these things" spiritual virtues even more than things temporal, such as what we shall eat, and wherewithal we shall be clothed. It may be that He stood forever conscious of a transcendent beauty, and joy, and love, and that what grieved Him most was mankind's inability to behold what was there before their very eyes.

Perhaps, too, this may be the great difference between the saints and the Puritans. Both are agreed that goodness is the means to the end, but the saints have passed on to the end and entered into the realization, and are happy. (One of the most endearing attributes of saints of a certain type was—or rather is, for one refuses to believe that saints are all of the past —their childlike gayety, which can proceed only from a happy and trustful heart.) The Puritan, on the other hand, has stuck fast in the means—is still worrying over the guide-posts, and is distrustful and over-anxious.

It is like walking and dancing. One could never dance unless he had first learned to walk, or continue to dance unless walking were always possible; yet if one is too intent upon the fact of walking, dancing becomes impossible. The Puritan walks in a worried morality; the saint dances in the vision of God's love; and doubtless both are right dear in the sight of the Lord, but the saint is the happiest.

Father Tyrrell says, "For Jesus the moral is not the highest life, but its condition."

Some may object that I preach a dangerous doctrine; others, that I am trying to whip a mad moment of Pagan beauty into line with Christian thought. Possibly I am; yet I am trying not to do the one or the other. I am merely wondering, and endeavoring to get at the truth of something that I saw.

And all the beauty is forever there before us, forever piping to us, and we are forever failing to dance. We could not help but dance if we could see things as they really are. Then we should kiss both hands to Fate and fling our bodies, hearts, minds, and souls into life with a glorious abandonment, an extravagant, delighted loyalty, knowing that our wildest enthusiasm cannot more than brush the hem of the real beauty and joy and wonder that is always there.

This is how, for me, all fear of eternity has been wiped away. I have had a little taste of bliss, and if Heaven can offer this, no eternity will be too long to enjoy the miracle of existence. But that was not the greatest thing that those twenty minutes revealed, and that did most to end all dread of life everlasting. The great thing was the realization that weariness, and boredom, and questions as to the use of it all, belong entirely to unreality. When once we wake to Reality—whether we do so here or have to wait for the next life for it,—we shall never be bored, for in Reality there is no such thing.

Chesterton has pointed out the power for endless enjoyment of the same thing which most children possess, and suggested that this is a Godlike capacity; that perhaps to God his creation always presents itself with a freshness of delight; that perhaps the rising of the sun this morning was for Him the same ecstatic event that it was upon the first day of its creation. I think it was the truth of this suggestion that I perceived in those twenty minutes of cleared vision, and realized that in the youth of eternity we shall recapture that God-like and child-like attribute which the old age and unreality of Time have temporarily snatched from us.

No; I shall have no more fear of eternity. And even if there were no other life, this life here and now, if we could but open our dull eyes to see it in its truth, is lovely enough to require no far-off Heaven for its justification. Heaven, in all its springtide of beauty, is here and now, before our very eyes, surging up to our very feet, lapping against our hearts; but we, alas, know not how to let it in!

Once again, when I was almost recovered, I had another fleeting visitation of this extreme beauty. A friend came into my room dressed for the opera. I had seen her thus a great number of times before, but for a moment I saw her clothed in all that wild beauty of Reality, and, as before, my heart melted with joy at the sight. But this second occasion was even more transitory than the first, and since then I have had no return. Tagore's illumination, he says, lasted for seven or eight days and Jacob Boehme knew a "Sabbath calm" of the soul that lasted for seven days, during which he was, as it were, inwardly surrounded by a divine light. "The triumph that was then in my soul," he says, "I can neither tell nor describe; I can only liken it to a resurrection from the dead."

And this miraculous time was with him for a whole week, while I have only tasted it for those few short minutes! But he was a saint, and had really ascended to the holy hill of the Lord through clean hands and a pure heart, while I was swept there momentarily, and, as it were, by accident, through the rebirth of returning health. But when the inspired ones testify to a great joy and a great beauty, I, too, can cry, "Yes, I have seen it also! Yes, O Beauty, O Reality, O Mad Joy! I, too, have seen you face to face!" And though I have never again touched the fullness of that ecstatic vision, I know all created things to be of a beauty and value unspeakable, and I shall not fail to pay homage to all the loveliness with which existence overflows. Nor shall I fear to accord to all of life's experiences, whether sad or gay, as high, as extravagant, and as undismayed a tribute of enthusiasm as I am capable of.

Perhaps some day I shall meet it face to face again. Again the gray veil of unreality will be swirled aside; once more I shall see into Reality. Sometimes still, when the wind is blowing through trees or flowers, I have an eerie sense that I am almost in touch with it. The veil was very thin in my garden one day last summer. The wind was blowing there, and I knew that all that beauty and wild young-ecstasy at the heart of life was rioting with it through the tossing larkspurs and rose-pink canterbury bells, and bowing with the foxgloves; only I just could not see it. But it is there—it is always there —and some day I shall meet it again. The vision will clear, the inner eye open, and again all that mad joy will be upon me. Some day—not yet perhaps—but some day!

SOME ILLUMINATING LETTERS CONCERNING "TWENTY MINUTES OF REALITY"

THE author of the foregoing paper is indebted to the editor of The Atlantic Monthly, and to others who wish to remain anonymous, for permission to reprint in the following pages extracts from a few of the many interesting letters which the article evoked at the time of its publication in The Atlantic.

The added testimony to, and various explanations of, the experience which these letters offer, seem to the author to be of very real value, not only as serving to affirm the frequency of these fleeting moments of Reality; but also, breaking forth spontaneously, as they do, from men and women of various occupations in all parts of the country, as testifying as well to an eager hunger and thirst after righteousness in many unsuspected hearts, and, in many instances, to a wonderful response of the Spirit to this hunger and thirst.

The frequency of these responses we often little suspect, for the reason that the remembrance of them is generally treasured in silence, until the relation of some similar experience breaks down the barriers of reserve so that they, who also know, must pour forth the gold of their added testimony to what has already been spoken. It is therefore a pleasure to be able to publish these letters, which affirm so eagerly this constant activity of the Spirit. They are printed here with the sincere hope that the reader may find in them the same quickening of the heart and spiritual stimulation which the author of "Twenty Minutes of Reality" found in their perusal, and for which stimulation grateful appreciation is here tendered.

I
“The Unremembered Vision”

The article, "Twenty Minutes of Reality," will, I feel sure, have interested many readers of The Atlantic, some of whom, no doubt, can recall similar happenings in their own lives. The following short account of a somewhat analogous spiritual experience that I recently went through may be of significance to those whose interest in the subject has already been awakened.

Unlike the writer in the May Atlantic, my fears as a child were awakened, not by the thought of life everlasting, but by the thought of everlasting death. I feared personal extinction; feared it at times so acutely that I seemed to realize what it would be to suffer complete disintegration, to feel the very pangs of the snuffing out of the personal entity. I sometimes visioned to myself an immense funnel, fashioned of some unyielding substance of stone or steel, with, at its bottom, a tiny pin-head of a hole for outlet. Down the steep sides of its converging walls there rolled masses of stone and rock, which at the bottom slowly and inexorably by some unseen power were ground to dust and forced through the minute opening. Sudden terror seized upon me as I thought: "This shall be my fate"; and, though I felt that such obliteration somehow was impossible for my soul, whatever happened to my body, my panic was real. I seemed to dread the emergence of some undreamed-of force or will that in a flash would make the impossible a thing accomplished.

The acuteness of this fear was not of long duration. Thoughts on this subject were of infrequent occurrence and I soon outgrew such fears entirely, pushed them aside, ignored them, as was only proper for a healthy and much occupied youth. By the time I came to mature faith and belief in the goodness of the universe and the existence of God, I seemed never to have entertained them.

The vision of which I would speak is not properly a vision, rather the effect of what I think must have been one; realization I prefer to call it. This realization was connected with an event that happened but a year ago. It was not so much a part of the event as an aftermath, occurring two days later.

About a year ago I underwent a slight operation that caused me to stay in bed for only a few hours. I suffered very little discomfort in going under the anesthetic; in fact, few of the physical sensations that I had been told to expect. What occurred to me seemed almost entirely to be within the realm of mind or spirit. After a moment of calm waiting and deep breathing, my mind suddenly reverted to my childhood days and I asked myself, "What if those childish fears were not unfounded?" Then a quick conviction came over me that I was trapped, pinned down helplessly, by an inexorable power; that I had deluded myself through all the years in which I had so carelessly cast aside fear. Reality in all its hideousness seemed hanging over me. A great sound reached my ears, or rather a mighty vibration smote them with fast-repeated waves, as if the whole adamantine universe were beating in upon my soul some hard, ironic message. There was no power to struggle left in me. I thought, "Hark, God laughs at you!" Then unconsciousness came upon me.

I had little trouble in coming out of the ether, and I was on my feet again and returned home the same afternoon. A few days' rest made me feel as fit as ever. It was while quietly lounging about on the second day that my thoughts reverted to what had just passed. It was then that the realization came over me. It is as vivid to-day.

To my surprise, the past event was seen in an utterly new light; the experience undergone before the loss of consciousness had lost its grip of terror upon me. Certainty dwelt calmly, assuringly, inevitably in my soul —certainty that the past was past and had not been an approach to death, and that the future could never be torn from out my soul. I knew that not for an instant during the period of utter blankness had I ceased to exist, nay, to be conscious; that my soul had made some tremendous journey whose range and destination my mind could but dimly guess. I was assured that the very adamantine laughter of God had been unable to destroy the entity that was my soul; somehow that mighty beating in upon my consciousness no longer seemed ironic to me, but filled with the ubiquity and power of ineffable life.

I was not mentally elated or physically excited, but calm in mind and body. I was having no vision. Simply I seemed possessed of the certainty of having had such a vision; rather of having been for a time a conscious part of the ultimate reality, the vision of which was no longer present in my mind. Something had happened in that period of blankness—I know not what. It was as though I had been borne gently up out of some dark abyss, toward which I looked back now without terror, into a realm of mist and moving gray cloud through which I could distinguish immense granite cliffs forming the walls of the pit above whose sun-lit rim I had at last been given a vision of unimaginable beauty; as though, as Dante says, I had seen "un riso dell' universo"; as though it had been vouchsafed me to gaze for an instant into the very eyes of God to receive assurance from his smiling glance.

This certainty of the goodness of the universe has dawned in my soul, though I have no vision to recount as its cause. The strength and quiet peacefulness of its presence have not lessened. I am convinced that during that short period of unconsciousness something of immense import to my soul took place. How could nothing have happened?

Thus it was that my childhood fears of non-eternity were effaced.

II
“Rock-Ribs of Truth”

Reading the very interesting article in the May Atlantic entitled "Twenty Minutes of Reality" inclines me to contribute an experience of my own. It happened more than forty years ago, but the memory of it is still fresh.

My experience differed from that of The Atlantic author in that it was distinctly moral in character; in fact it was brought about by wrong-doing. It all happened so many years ago that I can now tell the story as if I were speaking of another person.

I believe I am naturally very honest, but at the time I speak of I had been pursuing, for a considerable period, a course that was, to say the least, disingenuous, and thereby I was attaining what seemed to me at the time a great advantage. I was not at peace, however, and all spiritual truth, to which I had previously been keenly sensitive, appeared to me dead and unreal. I used to pray that I might be made to feel the reality of it, but no answer came until, after a long time of jangling conflict and inner misery, I one day, quite quietly and with no conscious effort, stopped doing the disingenuous thing.

Then the marvel happened. It was as if a great rubber band which had been stretched almost to the breaking point were suddenly released and snapped back to its normal condition. Heaven and earth were changed for me. Everything was glorious because of its relation to some great central life—nothing seemed to matter but that life. While the experience lasted—and I think it must have been some time, as I remember it both in the house and out—I could have gone cheerfully to the stake. I walked on air, so gloriously commissioned did I feel by some higher power. Even the details of daily living, such as tying one's shoestrings, or brushing one's teeth, which had previously almost suffocated me by their monotony, became of thrilling interest as fitting me for the work I was to do. Reality was shown to me in answer to my prayer. I saw, as plainly as I see the city chimneys from my window as I write, great shoulders of Truth and Righteousness reaching down underneath all material things like the rock-ribs of a mountain-side beneath the shifting clouds and shadows. I saw that all material things are but clouds and shadows in comparison. Hence I have never doubted what Reality is.

The only other unusual experience that has come to me had no moral bearing whatever.

One day, for no reason that I can trace, in looking at a perfectly familiar mountain-side, I became for a few minutes poignantly conscious of the life of the mountain—life of beast, bird, insect, sap in trees, thrill of the earth; the whole mountain, and all it held, seemed to sing and quiver with life.

In a few minutes it was only an ordinary mountain again, thick-set with trees and holding its secret, but I was a little different—at least, I hope so.

III
“The Permanent Ecstatic”

What is wrong with my psychology? Why does one very gifted person, with a pen to express what he feels, receive as a vision the psychic experience of joy and the inner conviction that Good is at the bottom of everything which another very ungifted person, with no power of self-expression, has felt with more or less intensity — generally more — ever since her first conscious awakening of thought; but which, until she read "Twenty Minutes of Reality," she always regarded as merely the normal mental attitude of the normal human being?

As I read this very beautifully written article I said, "Of course." "Why, naturally," "Of course," at the ending of so many paragraphs that, at last, I found myself gasping in amazement that any living man or woman should have thought an experience of twenty minutes of reality a thing of sufficient import to write about—it almost took my breath away. But I'm glad they did. For I have been imprisoned in egoism. All my life long (I am forty-four years old), from the age of five years when I danced madly around the first Christmas tree I can remember, shouting "Joy, Joy, Joy!" I've known more than twenty minutes of this unveiled naked reality every humdrum day I've lived—and, up to now, I supposed I was just like everybody else, and that everybody else was like me, excepting misanthropes, valetudinarians, Standard Oil magnates, vivisectionists, and kings who, of course, we all know were born blind.

Note. Misanthrope-a person who hates or distrusts mankind. Valetudinarian-a person of a weak or sickly constitution. Vivisectionist-a person who engages in minute or pitiless examination or criticism.

I supposed every normal person heard this undertone of Joy—this unseen but always felt Reality of things, beating and throbbing underneath the horrible and sad, underneath even the monotonous and dull (which is worse than the horrible because less impressive and intense).

I am a very ordinary woman, living a very ordinary life, my days (the bulk of them, at least) given up to housework — tending my furnace, cooking, dusting, washing dishes; but somehow these duties are never really gray; in the heart of them there's always a glow.

Whenever I tend my furnace I feel a thrill of wonder as I think of the shiny black coal coming out of this miraculous earth, and of the brave, toiling lives of sturdy men that have been spent and sacrificed down in the mines to dig out that very coal so that I can tend my furnace. I really love my coal bin (except when I see it lowering!) for I always feel as though it brought me so close to a big Reality—close to God and close to man. It's like a tremendous link. The Beauty of things I don't find quite so poignant when I'm washing dishes, though there is always a bird warbling in the lilac bush outside my kitchen window or a streak of sunlight on the vines to make me feel the glad wild joy at the heart of life —and did it not sound like too great a silliness, I could truthfully say that I have given way, day after day, to an ecstasy of wonder at the fresh clean water in my dishpan, and have stood, like a gaping idiot, sometimes for several moments, gaping at it as though it were Niagara Falls—and so it is, only a "little less." From the eternal mystery of the stars down to my very dishpan it's all so thrilling, so outside of ourselves, so God- put-together, that there never has been, to me, any "commonplace." The rain pattering on my roof always makes something warm swish around in my heart just as it does when I hear Schumann-Heink; it seems perfectly unescapable, this endless consciousness of Joy and Beauty. As to Eternity it's always made me chuckle. I've always counted on an aeon with Walt Whitman and John Muir, several aeons with Balzac, Dostoievsky, and Burns, the evenings of aeons with The Atlantic, the mornings with Seveik's Violin Finger Exercises, and no charitable organizations anywhere to interfere with the wholesome joy of selfishness and to make one feel elately dutiful and Righteous. Eternity is only fair.

IV “Another Ecstatic”

I read with deep interest the unsigned article in the May Atlantic— "Twenty Minutes of Reality"—and Dr. Cabot's comments upon it.

It was the first and only time in my life that I had seen an expression of the sense of the world's beauty as I have felt it all my life. Not, of course, incessantly, but for such long periods and so frequently that the attitude of other people towards life and the world has always been a source of surprise and puzzle to me. Dr. Cabot's article also was of interest as casting a possible light of solution upon my own point of view; my eyesight, hearing, and sense of smell having proved to be, upon a recent medical examination, of peculiar vividness. I had always supposed that other people saw, heard, and smelled as I did.

V
“From an Old Scrapbook”

The experience of your anonymous contributor, as told in the May Atlantic, is singular but not unique. From a scrapbook of the war days of 1861 I extract the subjoined stanza of a poem in which the writer tells how he approached the Infinite. No name is given; it is but the vagrant verse from the poets' corner of a country newspaper; but it is of a quality that makes it live ever after in the memory of the reader.

Only sometimes we lie,
Where autumn sunshine streams like purple wine
Through dusky branches, gazing on the sky;
And shadowy dreams divine, Our troubled hearts invest,
With the faint fantasy of utter rest— And for one moment we
Hear the long wave-roll of the infinite sea.

VI
“Knows What Would Have Been Seen”

Without breaking a confidence, can you send me the name and address of "Anonymous" writer of "Twenty Minutes of Reality"?

I appreciate the article very much and would like to write to him.

On Aug. 15, 1909, at 10:30 in the morning, I had the same experience that he did, but not just in the same way. I saw nothing as he did, and experienced no "feeling of rhythm," but I was absolutely overwhelmed with that "something," and filled with happiness and joy unspeakable, and so unexpected, just as it was with him.

In other words, I was conscious in my physical being of that something. I can say without boasting or presumption I know without a shadow of a doubt what that something was and is. He says he almost saw it. Quoting, "If I did not actually see it, it was not that it was not there, but that I did not see quite far enough." Very humbly, yet very confidently, I say, I know what he would have seen if he could have seen a little further. I have never seen it, but I have been conscious of it and I know what he would have seen.

VII
“An Artist's Testimony”

I had not read far, not farther than the word, "I cannot now recall whether the revelation came suddenly or gradually" when my heart seemed to stop still, and so strong an excitement took possession of me in anticipation of what was coming that I could not read the rest of the article with any degree of calmness. It was the second time this winter that I had the joy of realizing that I was not alone in this experience.

It was in the summer of 1910 that this wonderful thing happened to me. All I can now remember telling you in regard to the experience was that it had suddenly flashed upon me that each individual had a distinct and separate personality and that therefore each was of such tremendous importance. Of course my attempt to convey what I had experienced was entirely inadequate—I did not myself know.

That I had seen Truth pass by and had touched the hem of her garment, this I then felt and now thoroughly believe.

That exuberant joy and that "Sabbath calm of the soul"; that walking on air, that entire unconsciousness or rather losing of self into everything; that seeing into the core of things all outward trappings falling away; that tremendous importance of each individual; and above all that inexpressible illumination; all verify the identical experience with that mentioned in The Atlantic article. The one word "illumination" seems to be the indispensable one in explaining this condition.

It has the Rembrandt quality. Whereas he threw this light on just one part of his picture making, that part vital leaving the rest in darkness, this light illumined everything and everybody, leaving nothing in darkness. It was the Rembrandt quality a thousand fold intensified.

If at the time any one had asked me how long this state of affairs had lasted I should have said two weeks, but upon reading of the shortness of duration recounted by others, I fear it seemed longer to me than it actually was. I can remember, however, that morning after morning I arose with this same joyous serenity in my soul and that vital interest in humanity, the entire forgetfulness of self and the wonderful light everywhere. I also remember this incident of that time: One of the ladies coming up to me one day as I was idly watching the people, said, "Do you write?" When I replied in the negative, she said, "You seem so intensely interested in everything these days and yet so absolutely detached." It was rather strange, as I recall, that I was seized with a desire to write at that time and upon two occasions did so, taking as material the people about me—the writing seemed to come spontaneously almost without taking thought.

Since that time I have endeavored to explain the experience only twice. Naturally one fears to meet skepticism about what to us is more precious than much fine gold. On the faces of those to whom I did attempt to explain I saw written sympathy and an earnest endeavor to understand, but I realized again the utter helplessness of trying to convey to them any conception of the wonder and joy which possessed me.

So I said no more, wondering whether every one who was in constant perfect health enjoyed this condition or whether I alone, so to speak, was "queer."

Then came Edward Carpenter. February last I was reading his "Days with Walt Whitman" when I suddenly held my breath and eagerly devoured the pages, and then I became still with a dawning wonder.

First doubt, then wonder and joy seized me to find that what I had treasured as an experience possibly peculiar to me alone, was shared by others. I was abashed to think that I could have had an experience akin to that which so immense a genius as Walt Whitman had, but when I read further that it was not uncommon to ordinary folk I felt relieved —although all the time in my heart of hearts I knew the experience was the same, in kind if not in degree.
I thought that if life was to be like this, then surely I had been dead all the time — prison bars had been broken, and at last all fetters, mental and physical, had fallen from me. I was free at last—I saw no longer but face to face.

I have found that since that memorable summer the revelation of another bit of the Truth always brings with it a forgetting of self, and intense interest in all about me and a wonder that anyone ever could be bored—and an unshakable serenity. This experience came for the second or third time last March. No one could have been more astonished than I when I realized that the condition had gone—left me without my being at all aware of it. I did not realize it as unusual while experiencing it and thought it would be my constant state from that time on.

VIII “From a Literary Man”

I was immensely interested in "Twenty Minutes of Reality," with its wonderful perception, for the moment, of "how wildly beautiful and joyous is the whole of life." The vision of actuality thus revealed confirms what for me has long seemed a great truth: that life in its divine reality, whose consciousness we each and all must ultimately share, includes in its ecstatic joy all aspects of existence. Hence a normal part of it must be the dark sides as well: the pain, the suffering, the conflict, the sinning, the sorrow, all the tragedy; the evil aspects the shadows, while the good are the high lights—but all essential to the whole—all "a part of the whole mad ecstasy" with which all being pulsates. Could we view life with sufficient detachment, apart from our petty personalities, we might perceive this.

I remember two occasions, at least, when external harmonies seemed to strike the corresponding chord within me that for a few minutes aroused the sense of cosmic consciousness, of the universal ecstasy of being.

Do you know "Light on the Path"?

Note. “Light on the Path” was written by Mabel Collins in 1895.

For me it is one of the great revelations of inspired literature. It has a passage so in accord with that article's vision of the Divine Ecstasy that I must quote it:

"Listen to the song of life.
"Store in your memory the melody you hear.
"Learn from it the lesson of harmony . . .
"Only fragments of the great song come to your ears while yet you are but man. But if you listen to it, remember it faithfully, so that none which has reached you is lost, and endeavor to learn from it the meaning of the mystery which surrounds you. In time you will need no teacher. For as the individual has voice, so has that in which the individual exists. Life itself has speech and is never silent. And its utterance is not, as you that are deaf may suppose, a cry: it is a song. Learn from it that you are part of the harmony; learn from it to obey the laws of the harmony."

IX
“Thinks It Was Cosmic Consciousness”

I can give full credence to your experience, for I have felt something of that state of consciousness many times, and in a lesser degree all the time. Subconsciously I do feel it all the time, although my outer mind must be often occupied with the things of everyday life. Sometimes I can walk along the street amid the noise and din and confusion of a great city, and yet to me that is merely a dream; the reality is the sureness and the grandeur and the glory of Life, the inexpressible love of God, and the sublime order of creation.

I once knew a young woman who attained suddenly to some such a condition and went for about ten weeks of such marvelous happiness that she could hardly speak of it; and once she saw twenty angels and was distinctly conscious of having spent two hours in their company.

What you had, it seems to me, was a glimpse of what is called the "Cosmic Consciousness." There is a big book in the libraries of that title, which describes the experiences of about thirty persons who had more or less of that consciousness of the universal.

Many parts of Swedenborg's writings show what a wealth of insight is possible to the human consciousness.

For many years I have read everything I could find that in any way paralleled my own experience in that permanent joy-giving view of the Universe, and can assure you that other human beings have shared your own joyful view, and to many it becomes not merely "Twenty Minutes of Reality" but "the Reality."

I am convinced that this state of consciousness is the proper heritage of "Whosoever will" receive it in God's way, and think enough in terms of the universal purpose and plan to become acclimated to things celestial. I feel sure that there are certain laws of mental development whereby almost any person who will faithfully follow them can so greatly enlarge his concept of life that it will be like a chicken stepping from its shell into the sunlight and the world beautiful.

As to the methods available for developing cosmic consciousness I know of nothing that can for a moment compare with silent prayer. Studies along advanced lines and a search for the Truth wherever found are helpful in giving one a clearer concept of what to pray for and how to pray. But union with God is the end and aim of it all, and includes all that can be desired.

Prayer alone will not take the place of action in response to what prayer has revealed as the right thing to do. Unquestioned obedience to the intuitions, cutting loose from all merely human policies that would compete with intuition for your decision, these are important steps. Seeking the intellectual confirmation of things received intuitively also gives a balance to the thought and a solidity to one's perceptions. One can go just about so far by intuition and then the rest of the mind must catch up. Happy is the man who knows how to develop all his faculties equally and keep them abreast in the upward march. Though you climb the mountains, if you leave something essential in the valley, you will some day have to come back and get it. On your upward journey take with you all you shall ever need.

Prayer is the basic instinct of being —the creature renewing his life at its Source. From this fountain of life all other instincts and faculties are vivified. Every "drop" of life that refreshes the extremities first flowed in through the one great channel which connects us with God.

When Jesus was asked what is the greatest Commandment, he chose the First, and elaborated it, saying, "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy mind, and all thy heart, and all thy soul, and thy neighbor as thyself." And He said, "On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Gospel."

All means every part of. All the mind means every faculty of the mind, such as the Memory, the Reason, the Imagination, the Intuition. All the heart means the Love, the Obedience, the Response, the Will, the Emotion, the Purpose, the Motives, the Belief (that is, what one admits to himself is true). All the soul includes a complete adjustment of the soul to God's laws; it includes repentance, confession, obedience, consecration, sanctification, and eternal surrender to the will of God.

Everything contained in the memory must be brought to light and laid on the altar of God; He must be allowed to transform it into an instrument of use by reinterpretation. Just as a reformed "white slaver" consecrates his personal1 knowledge of the ways of the underworld to the task of redeeming those that are still in the vortex. Every impression, good or bad, ever made on the memory, can be made useful when God is the User. Hence to worship God with all the mind includes the memory and all it contains. Hence the necessity that the individual should pass through a period when all the memory contains is brought up and laid on the altar.

In a like manner must the Reason be cleansed of all its false reasonings, and filled with true reasonings, the false, transformed, giving point to the new, and true.

So also must the Imagination be redeemed, reformed, and made an instrument of God, and able to take its place in the worship of God, and be forever the forerunner of experiences yet to be, and the handler of things not present. It is through the Imagination that man's mind comprehends the cosmos. Imagination is the creative faculty. The image of the Creator must be creative. The Universe exists in the Imagination of God. Our Universe exists in our Imagination, that is, as much of the Universe as is ours is what the Imagination can encompass. Hence the importance of expanding the capacity of the Imagination.

You can in like manner amplify every faculty of mind, heart and soul, and by developing each (through prayer and obedience) you develop more and more all the faculties whereby you may come into closer touch with the Great Reality.

X
“From a Musical Point of View”

. . . The experience so well portrayed is not an unusual one or in any degree occult and certainly not confined to "convalescents." It is simply the language of art and of music—it is nature-language pure, primitive and spontaneous. That the experience lasted only twenty minutes is quite natural for any of us who follow conventional pursuits — in fact a shorter interval, a mere glimpse of the "reality" between the acts of the "play," is all that is vouchsafed to many of us—and yet the vision once seen can never be forgotten and the experience once realized cries out for repetition.

Can any one doubt that the state of mind described by the writer was quite that of the great Beethoven as he wandered alone in the fields and forests and heard those heavenly harmonies of nature which, by reason of his genius, he was able to translate into Symphonies and Sonatas? The rippling brook, the singing bird, the rustle of the leaves and the call of the peasant were all harmonized with the thousand and one other sounds and visions of nature as it is and transcribed by him for man to use as a medium of communing with our great stranger-mother and of more quickly getting in touch with the eternal verities of the great on-rushing Universe which smiles alike at the buzzing bee and the blood-soaked man in the trenches, which is un- shocked alike by the abattoirs [slaughterhouse] of Chicago and the battlefields of Europe, which is serene though trembling with passion, and ever ready to lift into rapture any of its children who will dress themselves in a proper mental garb for an audience with her. But it is by no means necessary to don a musical "garb" for an audience. One has only to read a few pages of Walt Whitman, for example, to feel himself allied with the birds and the winds and the steel mills and the sounds of the ocean. One has only to contemplate a great painting to have the fact brought home to him that all life is harmony and joy and peace and progress. One has only to walk alone, or with a really sympathetic companion, in the deep woods and permit nature's sounds to penetrate his being to feel that he is a part of it all—just as the leaf on the tree or the bird on the branch—and that the worries and cares and responsibilities of life are due to modern man-made conventions and are not in keeping with nature's laws, which were framed only for happiness, health, life and love.

These conditions of mind which our writer calls "illuminations" cannot, of course, be controlled by the will and can only occur when conditions are ideally favorable; and yet they can be courted by putting one's self in position to receive them. They come when least expected and disappear as suddenly. No truly great art or music or poetry or even philosophy, was ever given to the world except through the medium of that greater vision, which enables one to see above and beyond the conventions of civilization into the everlasting Realities. Indeed it may be that genius is simply the prolongation or long-continuing of that superior and detached vision or "illumination." On the other hand any sensitive soul, possessed with even a spark of idealism or imagination, can have and does have, even though it may be at very rare intervals, a fleeting glimpse, a passing vision, an "illumination," which shows him the surpassing beauty of life, the divine harmony and joy and unity of nature.

XI
“From a Man of Wide Reading and Much Deep Thinking”

You ask me to describe my own experience. I had not intended to say much about it, but in answer to your direct request I cannot do otherwise than state it as clearly as I can. I feel that these things are not altogether private property, but are data for settling questions of such large significance that where confidences will not be misused one must say what he can. Such experiences as I have had I should group in three classes, first, the single experience by which I regained my religious faith; second, a group of experiences two or three years subsequent to that and later, connected with the belief I came to adopt, that communication was possible with those who had passed from this life. Some of these latter experiences were almost, if not quite, as intense as the first named. Third, the experience of quiet, gradual development of insight into spiritual things going on steadily from day to day. Of the three, I think it is the third I value most. It was of the first you asked. My early life was spent under my mother's influence, which was concentrated upon religious things to an unusual degree. I knew nothing of critical thought. When I became acquainted with the latter I found myself gradually driven in thought from position after position that I had previously held, till I was practically agnostic. I left the ministry for teaching. A considerable period of years followed filled with frequent discouragement. My health was weak, and my early life, in which I was largely cut off from the thoughts and interests and activities that put one in touch with the mass of mankind around him, left me in a position where adjustment to life and conduct of my classes was accompanied with intense nervous strain. Many and many a time I have lain down to rest when it seemed to me the only thought that gave me any pleasure was to count over in various ways the number of years till I should probably be dead. I thought from time to time on religious subjects, but I seemed merely to go over and over again the same arguments which led to no new results. Like Omar Khayyam I went out at the same door by which I had come in. I remember definitely forecasting my probable future belief and saying to myself that I should probably never change my position, for it was unlikely that any essentially new argument would come to me, and the old ones I had thought over and over till they were unlikely to yield to me any new light. At best it might be a slight shifting of estimate of probabilities.

There came in the spring of 1909 an experience I should never have considered possible for me before. A comparatively trivial matter suggested to me the possibility that one of my chief difficulties in the way of belief might be met in a certain manner. The question arose in my mind, what if after all the belief I had held before might be true? I knelt down by the side of my bed with that verse from Revelations in my mind, "Behold I stand at the door and knock. If any man hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him and he with me," and I prayed that if those things were really true God would show them to me and make them real to me. There followed an emotional experience so intense that for a long time afterwards I could not even speak of it without breaking down. The reality of religious truth seemed to be made so vitally living to me that I could not doubt it. The conviction was of an entirely different order from the intellectual weighing of arguments I had known before. I went from this experience and out to my ordinary occupations in the world, and I found that the conviction I had gained gradually faded away and doubts arose. As I later lay on my bed resting I reasoned the thing out with myself. I felt just three courses lay open to me. First, to rely on mere reason. But the world had followed that course and is at variance as to the result still; I also had followed it without result. Second, to say I would take my stand by force of will on the conviction brought to me before. But if one did that he would condemn himself to permanent rigidity of thought. There was just a third possibility. If religious faith was really justified and God wanted us to know Him He must reveal Himself and make Himself real to me as was the case before. I felt this was the only course to take, and I waited, looking up to God. By and by the conviction came again (more quietly, however). There followed a considerable period of fluctuations of this sort. I would go into the ordinary world, and be distracted by its varied objects, and my conviction would grow dim. I would come back home and wait, holding my heart open to God. Before long the conviction would return. Soon I came to rely upon it as a sure law, just as one who floats throws himself in confidence back on the water. By and by, however, I found the conviction stayed with me permanently, and it has remained with me from that day to this.

It seems to me that spiritual world opens to us in various ways. Certain phases of it may manifest itself to us because by nature from the start we may have a certain sensitive, or psychic, physical, or spiritual organism.

Sometimes it may open to us for a few minutes, and close again, or open and remain open, the opening coming unexplained, and, as it were, by accident. Jacob Boehme saw the sun reflected from a bright pan, did he not? Also it seems to me that opening may be secured gradually and certainly, never to leave us, not by accident, but in so orderly and sure a way under natural law that it is our full personal acquisition, gained with the clear understanding of the intellect, as our advances in natural science have been gained. I think it then comes line upon line, as we seek to fight our fight as truly as we may, now a subtle breath of the Spirit; then a whisper; each taking us a little farther on if we are earnest enough and sensitive enough and wise enough to know the value of what is said to us, and take the leisure of soul to reflect upon it and make it fully ours. I do not wish to seem to be claiming too much for my own personal experience. It is the view of things systematized and completed by thought to which my observation and fragments of experience and insight lead me.

What you said of the sense of rhythm interested me very deeply, for a certain sense of terror before life, a fear of being unable to do enough and have enough power and have enough achieved in time to meet its demands, has been one of my greatest oppressions. In troubled dreams I dream again and again of awaking to a consciousness that I am hopelessly late to some absolutely essential engagement. The mad rush for efficiency in material things, the crack of the whip, impress me profoundly, though I meet such fears with a growing sense of power and glad understanding. For a long time that thought of rhythm, a keeping time to a spiritually heard, materially inaudible, harmony (this is a figure of speech, of course), has been present with me as the solution of the difficulty. Some years ago I was silly enough to seek to repair the neglect of certain elements in my earlier education, and at a rather late age, and rather imperfectly, I learned to dance. From that amusement, long ago abandoned, one remembrance of especial value I carry away with me is of a form of action not under the lash, nor ever straining to become faster and faster till strength fails and with no limit or goal ahead, but a form of action which is a glad fellowship with other people which is rest and joy, where every step is taken at the right time to a simple music which governs all, a form of action which excludes all nervous strain to go faster, because each motion and time is perfect, and to move faster would destroy the perfection.

"His brethren therefore said unto him, Depart hence and go into Judea. —Jesus saith unto them, My time is not yet come; but your time is always ready."

But as to the wonders which I believe are glad and beautiful beyond any conception of ours, and which are around us on every hand, I am not in any hurry for them to open to me too rapidly. For this also there is a time. I pray God that nothing may be opened to me that should not be opened and that nothing may be opened before the due time, but also that nothing that I should see may be hidden from me by my unfaithfulness or dullness of heart.

XII
“A New and Glorious World”

* Reprinted from The Atlantic Monthly. Owing to the address having been lost, it has been impossible to secure the writer's permission to reprint this very beautiful letter. Should the author of it see it thus printed without her consent the author of “Twenty Minutes of Reality” earnestly hopes that she will forgive the liberty and believe that it would not have been taken could it have been avoided.

I am of that set of persons who believe you are speaking the truth in "Twenty Minutes of Reality"—that you "saw into reality," and felt the ecstasy of its atmosphere—I believe, because I, too, have had several of those "rare and fleeting occasions" of which you write so well.

The first of these came when I was a child of eleven years. Mother had often talked with me about Jesus, so that I think I really loved him, but I did doubt a bit whether he loved me. I longed to know he did. One Sunday noon, after I had been speaking to him in my childish way, suddenly a great light seemed to burst upon me: not an external light—an inward light. I cannot put it in words as you can. It was a new and glorious world, a world of ineffable love and light which seemed to emanate from a Presence which I knew to be there but which I could not see. I thought it was Jesus. My little heart throbbed with ecstasy at what seemed to me his smile. My body seemed light and I felt as if walking on air. I had to tell some one my joy, and sought my oldest sister and said timidly, "I have found Jesus! I am so happy. It is all light now!"

This sort of inner glory lasted an hour or two, or till the middle of the afternoon service, when it vanished as suddenly as it came and left me bewildered and desolate. I had to whisper to my sister then, for I could not wait for the end of the service. I said in my distress, "I've lost Him! It is all dark again. What shall I do?" I am eighty-one years old, but that vision and its ecstasy are so vivid in memory as had it opened on me today.

Several "Twenty Minutes of Reality" have come to me later in life. Once at a great crisis, a mental strain, accompanied with a humiliating sense of inability to act strongly, I had a sudden vision of a central self which almost overwhelmed me. It was a reservoir of new, unguessed powers, measureless capacities, and unfathomed emotions — a reservoir from which I had never drawn because this present life offered neither time nor scope for what was there, and I involuntarily exclaimed, "Now, I know I am immortal! I am more than I dreamed I was!"

At another time of prolonged mental strain and perplexity I went one day to walk in the fields. All at once the strain ceased as would the pressure on a severed cord. I was flooded with an ineffable soul-light which seemed to radiate from a great Personality with whom I was in immediate touch. I felt it to be the touch of God. The ecstasy was beyond description—but you know it. I was passing through a patch of "beggar's grass," which you may know, with its wiry stems, ending in feathery heads.

Every head shone and glistened like pearls. I could hardly walk for the overwhelming sense of the Divine Presence, and its joy. I almost saw God.

A singular thing accompanied this experience. A little white dog, which was my companion, and which had walked discreetly by my side all the way, began to dance and frisk about me at this moment, barking and looking up at me as if I were holding up some tempting morsel for him to spring for. He evidently saw or felt something that excited him. Did he see the light on the beggar's grass, I wonder, or did he feel the vibrations of my ecstasy? Perhaps all created things are part of one great whole. Perhaps little brown sparrows, little white dogs, internes, nurses, convalescing gentlemen, and old ladies are cosmic cousins, capable of a responsive family sympathy.

I have never spoken to any one of these wonderful and beautiful experiences, because I felt no one would understand. They were very vivid, but now that I have put them into words, they seem very colorless. Language is so blurring to any attempted picture of the deep things of the Spirit.

I feel that I ought to apologize because, having found one to understand, I have spoken. Yet, why should not spies who have seen the Promised Land compare their bunches of grapes on their return?

"Big Music"

2009-01-08T09:29:00.001-07:00

The following short story was written by Margaret Prescott Montague (1878-1955). It is one of my favorite. I hope you enjoy it. --Keith Jensen :)

"Big Music"
By Margaret Prescott Montague

(Note #1. Last Sunday, October 23, 2005, I was given another gift of peace. I have been doing a lot of heavy reading. I decided to do some “light” reading to relax and unwind. I chose volume 8 “Myths and Legends” from my 16 volume set of “The Children’s Story Hour.” I was drawn to a story by Margaret Prescott Montague called “Big Music”. This simple American folktale spoke to my own experiences and to the longings of my heart in a powerful way. It was scripture to me. –Keith Jensen)

(Note #2. If you’re interested in reading more about the characters mentioned in this story, I suggest that you read the book Up Eel River by Margaret Prescott Montague.)

“All a feller had to do was jest to jump into a tune and let it carry him on away. For when the big music comes it ain’t like little musics, you don’t dance to it, it dances you . . . (p. 346) . . . It’s like I say, when the big music comes it dances you, you don’t dance to it, but every feller’s free to pick his own tune.” (p. 348)

DOGGONE it! I wished Tony Beaver would quit being so all-fired reckless! Why, I b’lieve some day that feller’ll turn the world right spang upside down jest for to see how would she look thataway! There was more times than one up Eel River when I was skeered right down to bedrock and would of laid back my years and shot for home if Tony hadn’t of named me the Truth-teller and laid a kind of sacred trust on me, so I knowed I had to stay with the job and hang onto the truth no matter where it might take me—and it sure tuck me into some strange places.

I’m mighty glad though, I happened to be in camp when the big music busted in, for that sure was a great time, and folks have tole so many lies about it that I’m glad to give you-all the straight truth in this here tale that’s been all tried out with that paper of Tony’s, and every lie sifted outer it.

Well, Tony sure was fooling with somepen powerful dangerous that time, and yit the whole thing commenced with nothing more’n a little drop of dew: jest pure common dew like what a person kin see any nice summer morning laying over the leaves and grass and swinging onto the spider webs. That’s what started the business, but mebbe even Tony wouldn’t of been so reckless if there hadn’t a-been so much spite work going on in camp. Aw, you know how it is, sometimes a camp’ll all go right sour with spite. Every feller’ll have a gredge erginst the next feller, and there’ll be more mean tales passing from mouth to mouth behind hands than you kin shake a stick at. Every feller’ll get so techy that if a person happens to say “Hand the biscuits” kinder short, ‘stead of “I’ll thank you for them sody biscuits, if you please,” there’ll be a fight and a sulk right that minute.

Well, that was what struck the Eel River camp whilst I was up yonder. Aw, I dunno how the thing come to pass: mebbe it was dog days, or mebbe they vittles had kinder turned erginst ‘em, anyhow every feller’s temper was on a hair trigger, couldn’t nobody open his mouth ‘cept for a mean word, all the good healthy cussing and fooling had done went in the ground, and every job was tied up, ‘cause there wa’n’t no good fellowship to grease the wheels of work.

“What’s the matter with this camp is that it’s done froze up. What you-all need is somepen that’ll get you above yerselves and thaw you out, so’s you’ll be running all loose and free eregin,” Tony says looking around at all them sour dough faces, with they under jaws set and they lips pouting out. “And I’ll jest have to figger out somepen that’ll do it,” he says.

With that he goes off into the woods all to hisself, for Tony kin allus figger better when he’s out in the deep woods all alone.

Well, the very next morning he was ‘way off on the top of a high ridge all to hisself jest at sunup, when he ketched a wink from a little dewdrop what was laying out there on a bunch of green moss. And seeing’s he was all alone, Tony he winked back at the critter, for you know, stranger—you fellers what’s reading this book—a person’ll do a heap of nice fool things when there ain’t any other feller round to laf.

Well, sirs! The minute he done that, it seemed like somepen inside him jumped up and hollered, “Dewdrop! Dewdrop! Look at it, you great big two-fisted Jim-bruiser, you ain’t never seen a dewdrop afore! Look at it!”

Tony he did. He jest looked and looked at that dew drop with all the looks he had. It was filled with frosty light. And yit it had a rainbow in it too, and furst the sun would twinkle it on one side, and then it would twinkle it on the tother. And all the time it kep’ setting there so round and pretty, like it was the whole of creation and knowed a heap more’n it was aiming to tell. That kinder made Tony mad.

“Hey! You doggoned sassy little cuss!” he bawls at it. “Don’t you know I could bust yer head off with one finger?”

But the little critter didn’t sass him back nor nothing. It jest kep’ right on twinkling along there to itself, and the more Tony looked at it, the more awestruck he got, for he seen he was looking right into the very heart of creation itself.

By now all the little birds had done chirped the sun up right high, and Tony tuck a great skeer that his little dewdrop would melt. So all in a hurry he commenced plucking up leaves and moss to kiver it over. He worked like he couldn’t work fast enough, and when he had it all safe, he was dripping wet, and panting like he’d run a mile—for you know a feller’s bound to sweat if he aims to beat the sun.

Then, having got sorter acquainted with one dewdrop, Tony commenced to see all of ‘em like it was for the furst time. ‘Peared like, everywhere he’d look the sun was winkling and twinkling dewdrops at him. Tony set there in a maze, jest fa’rly carried away with the sight, and seemed like he could hear every last one of them sparklers hollering out at him, “Brother! Brother!”

By now the sun commenced to lap them dewdrops up off’n the leaves and spider webs, and all of ‘em went like they was glad to go, hopping away in the sun like they was jumping into their daddy’s lap.

About then a right peculiar thing come to pass. There was a little feller in camp what all the hands called Fiddling Jimmy, ‘count of him allus playing tunes on his fiddle, and now as Tony set there kinder dazed, watching them dewdrops hop off into the sun all so round and pretty, it seemed like he heared that little fiddler playing a tune somewhere right close. The tune it come nigher and nigher, ‘til d’rectly Tony thought he was riding erway on it, like he was riding a saw-log downstream. But when the last little dewdrop had hopped away to—well to wherever it is they go—he found hisself still setting there with his mouth gapping open.

“Well, I will be dogged!” he says. “An’ that’s what happens every morning, and me never knowing it afore!”

Then he peeked down at the twinkle of dew he’d saved, and right that minute he knowed he’d ketched there a drop outer the heart of all the world, and that what was in it was the sap in him too, and in all the varmints and critters, and rocks and rivers, and green things in all creation.

When Tony bumped erginst that big thought he goose-fleshed up all over, for he seen he was thinking too wide, and in another pair of seconds he’d slip right out over the edge and be where—well it’s the truth, I don’t know where he would be! And Tony didn’t know neither, but he give a powerful jump back in his mind from all that wide kinder thinking, and it seemed like he couldn’t git back where other humans was fast enough. He stuffed his little dewdrop into the bosom of his shirt and lit out for camp so fast he fa’rly burnt the trail up behind him.

Well, when Tony hit camp and smelled sweat and sawdust, it eased up that cold feeling down the spine of his back, and he ketched his breath, looking around for a good place to hide his dewdrop.

He’d just got it all kivered up nice under the roots of a white pine when he turns about and seen that little hand by the name of Fiddling Jimmy leaning up erginst a sapling looking at him.

Now there was sompen right peculiar about that little feller. He was might clear and wide betwixt the eyes, and had a look like he knowed a heap more’n he could tell with his tongue, so he had to try to git it out by fiddling. Mebbe you remember me speaking of him when I furst hit camp.

Tony seen right off that the little feller sensed he’d been fooling with somepen powerful dangerous, so he lighted into him furst.

“Hey!” he bawls, “what in the thunder was you doing fiddling when every other hand was on the job?”

“Me?” says the tother looking s’prised.

“Yes, you! I heared you fiddling out in the woods this morning jest at sunup.”

“Jest at sunup!” Jimmy hollers, pricking up his years mighty quick and looking kinder awe-struck too. “Aw no, Tony, that wa’n’t me. You know what it was.”

“I’ll be dogged if I do!” Tony answers him back.

“It was the big music,” the tother says, letting the words slip right out soft and respectful like.

“THE BIG MUSIC!” Tony whispers, his mouth gapping open, and the goose flesh walking up the spine of his back ergin.

“Look a-here, Tony, you better tell me all erbout it,” the Fiddler says mighty earnest and solemn.

And looking at him Tony seen he’d better. So he hands it all out to him, how he got acquainted with his dewdrop, and how all at onced he seen dewdrops and everything else different from what he ever had seen ‘em afore, and then how the music come so close it seemed like he was riding erway on it.

“Tony, you’d better mind how you go looking and looking at dewdrops and hearing music jest at sunup,” the Fiddler warns him, “or the furst thing you know you’ll look a hole spang through to the tother side and then the big music’ll bust in on us sure ‘nough!”

“Well, I wouldn’t keer if the big music was to come!” Tony hollers out, looking powerful mad and dangerous. “Things has got mighty hidebound and mean-spirited round this here camp, and you know there’s a heap of spite going on. Mebbe if the big music busts in it’ll kinder sweep things cl’ar ergin. An’ anyhow,” he lets fly at the Fiddler, “it ain’t for you to talk! You been fiddling holes all round this camp ever since you struck it. Why look a-here!” he bawls, jabbing his finger into the air. “here’s a place right this minute, where you fiddled ‘My Old Kaintucky Home’ what’s so thin a person kin nigh run his whole hand through it. And what with you all the time playing ‘Dixie’ and ‘The West Virginia Hills,’ and all them other tunes, you got the whole place punched as full of holes as a porous plaster, and why we ain't had the big music in on us afore this is a wonder to me!”

“Well, if she comes, she comes! And I don’t keer!” the Fiddler says cutting a kind of pigeon-wing.

“I don’t keer neither!” Tony hollers out, all fired up. “It’s jest the very thing this camp needs. And by the breath of the gray rocks, I’ll turn that there dewdrop loose tomorrer jest at sunup!”

“Jest at sunup! Great Day in the Morning!” Jimmy busts out, his eyes dancing, and him dancing with ‘em.

Well, now you-all kin easy see what sorter dangerous doings Tony and the little feller was up to that time. They didn’t say nothing to nobody, not even to me, but the next morning jest at daybreak, Tony tuck that powerful big cow’s horn of hisn that’s a whole sight bigger’n any natcheral born cow ever did have, and standing out there on a gray rock, he blowed sech er blast it fetched every feller tumbling outer the bunkhouse on the jump.

“Fellers,” says Tony, looking mighty strange an’ tall in the gray light, “it’s glimmering for dawn, and I want you all to take a right good look at this little dewdrop and keep on looking at it when the sun hits it, for it’s my belief that not a one of you great big two-fisted Jim-bruisers ever really seen a dewdrop afore.” With that he showed ‘em the little critter still laying on its green moss, also round and pretty.

Well, that sure was mighty reckless talk, and right that minute old Preacher Moses Mutters, what’s allus sech a calamity hunter, tuck a powerful skeer.

“Oh, my lands, Tony!” he screeches out, “you’ll have us in every kinder trouble d’rectly! Do pray take keer!”

“Man!” says Tony, flashing a crisscross look at the ole feller that twisted him into a corkscrew, “who ever seen me take keer?”

And it’s the truth, not a hand there had ever seen Tony take it.

Well, all us hands done like Tony told us to and jest looked and looked at that little dewdrop. And the more we looked, the more still and awestruck we got.

Fiddling Jimmy had tuck a stand on a cliff er rock at the head er the holler, and he kep’ a-looking and a-looking off into the dawn, holding his fiddle, and kinder stretching up on tiptoe like he was listening for somepen. Right about then a yeller strand of sunlight come wavering down the mountain and hit that little dewdrop, and the little feller commenced to burn with a spark o’ fire, and while we was a-looking at it so awestruck like, it burned brighter and brighter, ‘til it burned itself right up into the sun and was gone. When that happened every feller there felt the stillness inside of him kinder bust wide open, and he knowed he was right on the edge of somepen powerful big.

Jest that minute Fiddling Jimmy, off on his rock, let loose with a powerful yell: “She’s busted! She’s busted!” he hollers. “Great Day in the Morning! The big music’s busted through!” And with that he commenced to dance and to fiddle fit to kill hisself.

“Oh, my lands! Somepen terrible is coming!” ole Brother Mutters screeches out, flinging both arms round a right stout pine tree to kinder anchor hisself to the ground.

By now all us fellers could hear the strangest kinder music coming from ’way off yonder somewheres, and it looked like Jimmy’s fiddling up there on his rock was kinder blazing a trail for that tother music to come in by.

Well, sirs! The next thing that come to pass was a whole panel of rail fencing floating over the ridge and down the holler like it was riding a river a person couldn’t see. And whoop-ee! In another pair of seconds that panel busted itself all to pieces, and every last one o’ them gray rails up-ended and commenced to dance, whirling around and bowing to one another, back and forth and hither and yon!

“O my lands! O my lands! Jest look at that now!” pore ole Brother Mutters bellers out, taking a strangle holt of his pine tree, with his hair all bristling up and his eyes hanging out of his head.

The next thing that come was a fat old lady of a haystack dancing over the ridge and down the holler, bowing and kicking up, and carrying on like she was a two-year-old. And you better b’lieve every hand there made tracks to git outer her way in a hurry! Next there come the prettiest little pair of young maple saplings, skipping and dancing with they branches on they hips, and cakewalking along together jest as sassy as you please.

That was jest the beginning! In another pair of seconds the full tide of the big music busted in on us, pouring down the holler in a kind of torrent, like a river in flood. Every king of a tune a person every did hear, and every kind of critter and varmint and growing thing dancing to the tunes, all of ‘em wove together in the wildest sort of a jamboree. There was ‘possums and rabbits and groundhogs, ‘til you couldn’t rest, and there was b’ars and wildcats in plenty too, and strange critters what never had been seen in these mountains afore. And there was trees and bushes and saw-logs and rocks, all jumbled and dancing together, and tunes—Whoop-ee! Every tune what ever was! A feller could see ‘em as well as hear ‘em, every color of the rainbow weaving in and out amongst all them dancing critters. Every varmint and critter there blowing along by them tunes was dancing and laffing fit to kill theyselves. A old she b’ar with her cubs come rolling and bounding in, doing a kind of a breakdown along a little pink strand of a tune, and laffing so hard she jest natcherly had to clap her paws to her sides to hold ‘em in place.

All a feller had to do was jest to jump into a tune and let it carry him on away. For when the big music comes it ain’t like little musics, you don’t dance to it, it dances you. And you’d better dance! For if you try to hold out erginst it, it sure will treat you mighty rough like it done pore old Brother Mutters.

Well, all us hands in the Eel River crew, we jest let ourselves go to it, and one tune after another picked us up and swirled us off. And all the time Fiddling Jimmy was up there on his rock dancing and fiddling and singing like he was plum destracted.

The fellers they all tuck partners if they could find ‘em, but if they couldn’t they jest flapped they arms and danced by theyselves. The Sullivan feller picked him out a right stout saw-log, and danced so hard with it that the chips flew outer the log like popcorn hopping outer a hot griddle. That little Eyetalian hand, he found a monkey along of all the stream of foreign critters the music fetched in. They two sure was glad to see one another and stepped off together to the strangest kind of a wild dance ever was seen up Eel River. I can’t reely tell you what-all I danced with I was so busy watching the tother fellers.

But whoop-ee! I wished you-all could of seen Big Henry, doing the polka with that old lady haystack what come over the ridge at the start! Big Henry was sorter bashful at the beginning, but onced they got acquainted, they cert’n’y was dancers from Dancerville! That haystack, for all she was right up in years, sure was a light stepper. And courtesy—Great Day! She’d draw off from Big Henry and bob right down to the ground and up ergin and never drap a straw! Big Henry cert’n’ was taken with her, and the last the fellers seen of the two together they was going down the stream of music with Big Henry’s arm around the lady’s waist—as fer that is as it would go—and him talking matrimony to her to the tune of “I seen my lover go round the bend.”

Tony Beaver jest danced with every last thing and critter that come by. Furst off he tuck up with a big gray rock what come footing it down the ridge early in the game. “Hey, brother! Fall to it!” Tony sings out, and they ketched aholt of one another some way, and had a high old time together. But it’s the truth, that rock was so all-fired heavy every step it tuck it went down waist deep in the music, and splashed the tunes and songs up all over everybody like they was showers of rain. And having the music splashed over ‘em like that jest sent every feller off dancing harder’n ever.

Well, Tony he danced with his rock a spell, and then he broke loose from it and tuck a whirl around with a whole string of little young squirrels, what come by all sorter strung together, frisking they tails and jumping and barking and cracking out jokes like they was cracked nuts. Then Tony he tuck up with a field mouse and a hoppy toad, what was riding around together on the tune of “A frog he would a-wooing go.” And then he danced a spell with a dogwood tree what had all busted out in full bloom ergin, though its right time of flowering was over and done with nigh a month back. It sure was a pretty sight to see that tree all kivered over with its white blooms, as graceful as a young bride, with its branches waving and twinkling to the tunes. Tony he had it for a partner for a right smart spell, and after that he danced with any and every thing that come by, and between whiles he’d kick up high and low and whirl round all to hisself.

But about then, that little boy what’s sech a great buddy of Tony’s got wind of the jamboree, and come a-running and a-limping into the camp as best he could on his crippled foot, holding out his hands and hollering, “Take me! Take me, Tony! I wan’a dance too!”

“Sure! Come on, buddy! You kin dance to the big music with the best of ‘em!” Tony hollers back, ketching aholt of him, and yonder the two of ‘em went off together, laffing and dancing, bounding, whirling around, and carrying on with every last tune in the bunch, and I’ll be dogged if that there little feller, for all his crippled foot, didn’t outdance the whole shooting match.

It sure was one of the biggest sights a feller ever did see, all them hands and critters dancing and laffing there together, with the pink tunes and blue ones and red and yeller, whirling ‘em all about; and Fiddling Jimmy up there on his rock, fiddling and singing, and jest carried away in a kind of a glorification.

It was a funny thing what kind of a tune the different critters would pick out to be danced by. It’s like I say, when the big music comes it dances you, you don’t dance to it, but every feller’s free to pick his own tune. Take that string of thorn bushes now, the pretty little round kind that a person kin see most any time growing in a old run-out field: they come dancing in to the tune of “Here we go ‘round the mulberry bush.” All they little leaves was winkling and twinkling and clapping theyselves together, and all of ‘em was giggling out the prettiest little green giggles a person ever did hear.

It was all right for them bushes to pick a baby song like that, but it sure was a funny thing to see them powerful big steers of Tony’s just natcherly carried away by the tune of “Bye Baby Bunting.” When it come by in all that tangle of music, them beasts they jest got right up on they behind legs, slung they tails over they arms, and let it walse ‘em away for mile upon mile. Them critters is so powerful and large that when they dances they tromples down trees and kicks great cliffs of rock outer the mountainside, and I bet “Bye Baby Bunting” never had no sech a swath cut to it afore. But pshaw! A person can’t never say what they’ll do when the big music busts in.

And it’s like I say, when it comes you better mind and dance, or you’re mighty apt to see the same rough time ole Brother Moses Mutters seen. That ole preacher, pore feller! He sure did set a great store by his soul, and he was allus powerful oneasy for fear it might git lost, and if it was lost what in the H_ _ _ Excuse me! What in the thunder would he have to travel on when he hit the next world?

So when he seen them rails dancing over the ridge, and heard the big music coming, he knowed they was in for somepen all outer plum with his kinder religion, and he ketched aholt of that pine tree like I said to sorter anchor hisself down, for he knowed dancing was a sin and powerful onhealthy for the soul. But pshaw! I tell you, you got to dance when the big music hits you! And try as he might that pore ole feller jest couldn’t keep both foots to the ground at onced. Furst one little tune and then another’d come tickling round, and h’ist his leg up in time to it, and ‘fore he could holler out, “Aw my soul!” and git that foot jammed down nice and pious to the ground ergin, here’d be the tother up in the air shaking a dance step to every jig that come by. It sure was a right pitiful sight to see that poor old feller hanging on tight to his pine tree, trying so hard to save his soul, while furst one leg and then the tother was danced out from under him, and waving up in the air like a cat shaking its foot when it steps in water. His ole buddy Ain’t-That-So had been swept off by the tunes long since, for he ain’t got the staying powers of the preacher.

But d’rectly his pine tree failed Brother Mutters too! Whoop-ee! When the full tide of that music come down the holler, that tree give a great heave and a bound, and busting its roots loose, it jumped up outer the ground, and commenced to toss its branches and to dance with the best of ‘em, swirling pore ole Brother Mutters round and round with it, high and low, up and down.

Well, sirs! That ole pine it muster lost its soul long since, for it sure did take to dancing natcheral! And you better b’lieve it was a strange sight to see that tree dancing for all it was wurth, with the pore ole preacher feller dangling on to its trunk, his coat tails spread out right straight behind him, and him groaning and moaning over his soul. He didn’t want to dance with the tree, but onced he’d got aholt of it , he was skeered to let loose. And looked like the tree didn’t want to dance with him nother, for it jest turned itself loose and did every kind of a scan’lous worldly step a person ever heard tell of, fox-trotting and cheek-dancing with the ole feller ‘til you couldn’t rest. And every now and ergin if the preacher wa’n’t might spry the tree’d tromp down right hard on his toes—and you all know a pine tree ain’t got no light tread.

But after a spell the tree, it got plum out-done with sech a flat-footed, mean-spirited partner, and it give a great bound and a kick and slung Brother Mutters up to a high ledge of rock ‘way above all that tide of music. After that the pine tree hucked branches with a red oak, and the two of ‘em went downstream together kicking out jigs and cutting pigeonwings and dancing so hard the sap sweated out in great beads all over ‘em.

Ole Brother Mutters, he lay up there on his ledge all tousled to pieces, yammering and moaning and panting out, “Oh my soul! It’s lost! It’s lost!” and peeking down over the edge at all that swirl of music and dancing down below, like he was looking to see where his soul had done went. The hands and critters what was dancing, they got pretty night tickled to death over the old feller and his soul, and ‘fore they hardly knowed it, they was all dancing out a game acting like they was hunting for the preacher’s soul. They made up a little song, “Has anybody seen Brother Mutters’s soul?” It went off real nice to the tune of “Has anybody here seen Kelly?” ‘Course Tony Beaver, he had to start the thing. Him and his little buddy walsed over to Big Henry and his haystack, splashing the music up every which away as they come, and bows and sings out, “Has anybody seen Brother Mutters’s soul?” Big Henry and his partner, they danced it on to that string of little young squirrels, Big Henry he bowed to the squirrels, and the hayrick she bobbed a courtesy to ‘em, and both together they sings, “Has anybody seen Brother Mutters’s soul?” The squirrels they jerked they tails and frisked and barked it out all up and down the line, ‘til d’rectly the whole shooting match, hands and critters, trees, rocks, and varmints, was all doing the ladies’ chain to the tune of “Has anybody seen Brother Mutters’s soul?” all of ‘em skipping and laffing fit to bust they heads off. It sure was scan’lous, but it’s the truth when the big music is dancing you around, the thing that’ll tickle you most is to have anybody think they kin lose they souls.

And all the time Fiddling Jimmy stood up there on his rock, with all that stream of music and dancing critters splashing and bobbing and whirling past him. One little tune after another’d come lapping up round his ankles, asking him to come on with it, but he jest kep’ on where he was, fiddling and dancing all to hisself, and waiting. And then, by and by, a wonderful big tune come rolling in that was bigger and grander than any of us rough hands up Eel River ever had heard afore. It was all blue in the middle where the soft notes was, and pink up high, and way down gray in the low notes. It come in to a long thundering march, mighty solemn and beautiful, like the skies had opened and stood back for to let it come through, and like it was rolling outer the heart of all creation. Fiddling Jimmy, he tuck one look at that big tune and hollers out, “Here I am!” mighty high and joyful, like they’d been a-looking for one another since the world commenced, and with that he jumped right out into the heart of it. The tune it never broke its stride, but it ketched the little fiddler up and went on rolling away all so grand and beautiful. And all them other little tunes, they drawed up on both sides and all the dancers with them, making a kinder rainbow lane of sound, as you might say, for that big tune and the fiddler to pass down. After that--? Well, that was all. The minute that big tune passed away, all the rest of the big music sorter gathered itself together and blowed off to—Well, to wherever it had come from. The sound and the sight of it all died away; the hole where it had busted through closed right up tight; all the critters and varmints scuttled away into the woods, the trees jumped back into the ground, and in the shake of a lam’s tail there wa’n’t nothing to show for it all but jest a few gray rocks laying around outer place, a little dogwood sapling in full bloom a month outer season, a parcel of husky hands all outer breath, and ole Brother Moses Mutters still lamenting up there on his ledge. Fiddling Jimmy we never did see no more, but we didn’t feel too bad about that ‘cause the feller looked so all-fired happy when him and that there big tune ketched hands and danced off together thataway.

But every hand there felt mighty limber and free. All the meanness and spite work was clean swep’ away, for we’d seen a dewdrop for the furst time, and we’d danced to the big music, and we was all kinder stretched up and above out common selves.

More’n that there was another grand big thing come outer it all. Whilst we was all laying round, sorter ketching our breaths, and feeling mighty friendly to each other ‘count of all the spite work having clean blowed away, all to onced that little buddy of Tony’s hollers out, “Aw, look! Look at me, Tony!”

And when we looks there was the little feller, running and jumping, and cutting up capers jest to beat the band, for I’ll be dogged if the big music hadn’t straightened his crippled foot all out, so’s it was jest as limber and free as the tother.

“Aw, look, Tony! Watch me—watch!” he kep’ a-hollering out, jumping and cutting up, and laffing all carried away with hisself.

Well, sirs! All us hands bust loose with a great shout at that, and Tony ketched his little buddy high up on his shoulder and went off into another wild dance, with the young-un setting up there, his arm hugged right tight round Tony’s neck, kicking his heels, and singing out a little song, “I kin walk! I kin walk! Tony, I kin walk!”

For you see, strangers, that little feller had danced to the big music jest right. He hadn’t helt back or been mean-spirited or skeered, he’d jumped right into the middle of it and let it dance him on away jest anywheres it pleased.

And that’s what you better mind and do too. If the big music comes, you mind and dance to it, for if you don’t you’re mighty apt to git treated like it done Preacher Moses Mutters. That ole brother, pore feller! His coat tails was all tore to strings, his whiskers was raveled out, and it’s the truth! He ain’t had a sprig of hair on his head from that day to this—no, sir! Not one sprig!

And if any of you readers don’t trust me and the lie-paper to hand you out the truth, all you have to do is to go up Eel River for yerself, and any hand there kin show you a kind of a crinkled place on the face of one of the highest cliffs up yonder, what marks the spot where the big music busted in—and then mebbe you’ll know the truth when you see it!

Some Thoughts

2008-09-24T16:54:00.003-06:00

So, I’ve been meditating using Project Meditation’s (http://www.project-meditation.org/) LifeFlow meditation CDs since May 2008. I think this meditating may be a catalyst that is bringing up some more “stuff” in my life. Related to meditating, I have been regularly practicing focusing both with a partner and by myself for the past year and a half. In addition, I am a certified hardiness trainer and the lead teacher of the college level HardiTraing® class at Utah Valley University (UVU) where I work. I have been teaching this class for nearly 11 years.

I’ve noticed in postings on the Project Meditation forum that some of you have mentioned EFT and the Sedona Method as possible means for working with the “stuff” brought up through meditating. I’m grateful that you shared this information. I have purchased The Sedona Method CD training program and am currently going through it. In case some of you are interested in focusing and hardiness training, I’ve included some information below:

What is Focusing? (http://www.focusing.org/)
Focusing is a mode of inward bodily attention that most people don’t know about yet. It is more than being in touch with your feelings and different from body work.
Focusing occurs exactly at the interface of body-mind. It consists of specific steps for getting a body sense of how you are in a particular life situation. The body sense is unclear and vague at first, but if you pay attention it will open up into words or images and you experience a felt shift in your body.

In the process of Focusing, one experiences a physical change in the way that the issue is being lived in the body. We learn to live in a deeper place than just thoughts or feelings. The whole issue looks different and new solutions arise.

What is HARDINESS TRAINING? (http://www.hardinessinstitute.com/)
"Hardiness is the concretization of the concept of courage that appears in the optimistic theme of existential psychology. Existentialists view people as constructing meaning in their lives by recognizing that: a) everything they do constitutes a decision, b) decisions invariably involve pushing toward the future or shrinking into the past, and c) choosing the future expands meaning, whereas choosing the past contracts it. Though positive in terms of meaning and possibilities, choosing the future raises anxiety (fear) over the unpredictable nature of things not yet experienced. To accept this so-called ontological anxiety and push ahead with choosing the future requires courage. Substituting hardiness for courage lends precision to the existential formulation by emphasizing the three interrelated beliefs about one's interaction with the world, i.e., commitment, control, and challenge."

(Salvatore R. Maddi, founder of HardiTraining®)

The HardiTraining® program was developed out of a hardiness-validated research model of performance, leadership, and health. Training emphasizes key attitudes and resources that bolster hardiness at the individual and group level. HardiTraining®-outcome studies demonstrate its effectiveness in strengthening one's ability to resist the stressful impact of personal and professional changes.

A LITTLE OF MY LIFE STORY
First off, I have been going through so many changes these last few years. The biggest catalyst that started this process was the passing of my 86 year old dad in August 2002. This momentous event reminds me of the following quote by Roy Menninger, M.D.:

“It is never easy for any of us to look closely at ourselves—the ancient aphorism of ‘physician, heal thyself’ not withstanding. Most of us do so only when forced by crisis, anxiety, or a blunt confrontation with reality. Some of us have spouses or friends who help us look at the sore spots within, the personal rough spots which cause us and others pain. But for most of us, it is far easier to look outside, to look at others, whether to admire or to find fault, whether to seek guidance or to castigate.”

The passing of my dad in 2002 was the catalyst that put me on a spiritual quest that has really been quite the experience, to say the least. I use to be active in organized religion where I “knew” that the church I belonged to was “God’s only true and living church upon the face of the whole earth.” I use to sincerely believe that people couldn’t ever be truly as happy as my family and I were so long as they weren’t members of God’s only true church. With generations of these beliefs firmly in place, I felt it was my duty to convert others to God’s true religion. At age 20 years to 22 years, I had a wonderful experience as a missionary in Japan striving to convert others to God’s true church so they could be as happy as I was.

And then suddenly at age 44, my entire carefully constructed world started to come crashing down when my dad died. Fortunately, HardiTraining® and its practices were a regular part of my life at this time. I really belief that HardiTraining® had been orchestrated into my life by my “invisible friends” to prepare me for this next stage of my life. Over the past several years, I have read many books that have helped me expand my understanding and to broaden my perspective. These books have often come into my life in interesting and unexpected ways. Some of the books that have made a huge difference in my life and which I am so grateful that the authors took the time to write are:

A Course in Miracles
The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle
A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle
The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz
New Seeds of Contemplation by Thomas Merton
The Betty Book by Stewart Edward White
Across the Unknown by Stewart Edward White
The Unobstructed Universe by Stewart Edward White
With Folded Wings by Stewart Edward White

In the religious tradition in which I was raised I apparently developed some “false beliefs.” These “false beliefs” are some that I think my meditating has once again brought to the surface. Perhaps now, I am in a place where I can quit defending and rationalizing these beliefs and just let them to go. You see, I grew up believing that God was a male grandfather type person up in the sky and that he had “favorites” and “others.” To remain a favorite of God, there was a whole list of things you “should do.” I learned that God only granted the power to act in his name to certain faithful male members of his only true church. This belief has lead me to my current predicament.

There is a is a really strong and persistent part of me that beliefs that my worth as a human being is only validated by “certain” people who are in positions of authority and have the “proper credentials.” For example, at the time HardiTraining® was introduced to me in 1997, it found a fertile seed bed in me because it met my credentials of having the “proper authority and credentials.” It was developed by a person with a PhD who had graduated from Harvard University. And fortunately for me, he was a male person.

Over the past few years, this paradigm has been under assault as I’ve come into contact with more and more people who are awakening and writing books and offering their services as healers and light bringers AND who—according to some of my old beliefs—don’t have the proper authority and credentials. Interesting enough, many of these people whom I’m becoming aware of are female.

Over the last few months, I have been putting my desires out there in the universe and have been considering the idea of—as Joseph Campbell puts it—“following my bliss.”

You see, there is a part of me, or something in me, which still believes that “following your bliss” is okay for a hobby. However, it is unrealistic as a means of making a living. This “part” of me reminds me of the following story:

There is a story of a man trapped in his home by floods. As the waters reached his front door he prayed, “Lord God, please rescue me.” Ten minutes later a boat came by offering to take the man to safety. “No,” said the man, “God will save me.” The floods rose and the man, now trapped upstairs again prayed, “Lord God, please help me.” Five minutes later another boat came, but again the man declined its help. “God will save me,” he said, and the boat went away. At last the flood was so high that the man had retreated to the roof where he prayed, “God, please help me.” Almost at once there was a roaring sound and a helicopter arrived. “I don't need your help,” said the man, “God will rescue me.” The man drowned. In heaven he complained that even though he had prayed he had not been saved. “Yes,” said God, “that puzzled me too. I sent two boats and a helicopter yet still you drowned.”

One of my favorite things I do each month is to go on a hike along a beautiful mountain stream up the South Fork of Provo Canyon with my younger brother Randy. This last Saturday, September 20th, Randy and I had one of our best hikes yet. We hiked for nearly ten miles. I told Randy the story about how I use to love to dance. Here briefly is the story I related.

At one time, I actually thought I was a pretty good dancer. When I was about nine years old, I was dancing to the song “Christmas Candy” from the album “Snoopy’s Christmas” when my older sister, Terry, saw me and asked if I’d like to dance with her. I remember that I was pretty nervous, but I went ahead and danced. She said something to the effect, “Boy, you have good rhythm. You’re a good dancer.” And so all through high school, I went to church dances and had a ball dancing up a storm. This was the mid to late 1970's and the time of disco. I became quite the “disco king” wearing my platform shoes and my plaid bellbottom pants.

However, as I got older I didn’t dance as much. Once when I was dancing around my house, my family saw me. Unlike years earlier when I was nine, their comments weren’t nearly as encouraging. I don’t remember exactly what they said, but this is how I heard it. “Boy, you look awkward. Please stop moving. I think I’m getting ill.” And so, sometimes early in the morning when none of my family is up yet, I’ll put on some music, and I dance in the dark all by myself.

When I told Randy this story, something inside of me moved, and I just started to cry. Even as I write this story here, tears well up in my eyes.

"A Dream"

2008-09-22T14:52:00.002-06:00

A Dream of Keith’s

(Early in the morning of Thursday, July 17, 2008)

One of my favorite stories is an American folktale by Margaret Prescott Montaque. It is entitled “Big Music.” Here are a couple of excerpts that speak to me:

“All a feller had to do was jest to jump into a tune and let it carry him on away. For when the big music comes it ain’t like little musics, you don’t dance to it, it dances you . . . It’s like I say, when the big music comes it dances you, you don’t dance to it, but every feller’s free to pick his own tune.”

Recently, I’ve been thinking about what my “tune” may be, and if anyone would want to listen to it and maybe even dance to it. I think that “our tune” is the things we are passionate about. It is the thing that makes as “glow” when we are doing it. It is the thing that we’d choose to do whether we got paid for it or not. It’s our “bliss.” Joseph Campbell once said:

“FOLLOW YOUR BLISS”

[I]f you do follow your bliss you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while, waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living. When you can see that, you begin to meet people who are in your field of bliss, and they open doors to you. I say, follow your bliss and don't be afraid, and doors will open where you didn't know they were going to be.

(Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth, p. 120)

One of the things that I love to do is to write. However, there is a part of me that is afraid of sharing—afraid that I’m not a very good writer and that no one would care to listen to “my music.” I found it very affirming that I recently had the following dream:

I found myself in a very crowded “ship.” It was like the cruise ship that Kim, my wife, and I sailed on for our cruise to Bermuda. However, this ship was a self-enclosed “space cruise ship.” Also, it seemed to be some kind of life boat. All the people aboard were there because it was our last best chance. It seemed that earth had been destroyed or was no longer habitable. The ship’s capacity had been exceeded many times over. The people were really packed in there. I remember being in one area of the ship where we were all lying around on the floor or sitting in such close proximity that we were actually touching or nearly doing so. Initially, I had some feelings and thoughts of: “This is crazy!” “How are we ALL going to survive with such limited space and limited supplies?” “Whew. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to do this.”

Surprisingly, everyone was really well behaved and considerate of each other. There was no chaos or rioting. Basically, everyone sensed that we were in a fix and that we had to get along together. I don’t know if it means anything or is significant, but I remember that one of my classmates from Simms High School who was also a wrestler came to me and jokingly started to wrestle around with me. I was kind of in a sullen mood and just wanted to be left alone. I quickly grabbed his inside leg and rolled over so he was underneath me. After somewhat immobilizing him, he looked up and with a smile on his face said something like, “Next time it will be me on top.”

I next remembered that we were all in a big dining area where all the tables and chairs had been cleared from the center of the room and pushed against the walls. I found myself in a crowded back area doing up some dishes. I had some of my “stuff” with me. I remembered that I had a video tape of It’s a Wonderful Life, and some DVDs, CDs, and cassettes that I don’t remember the titles of. I do remember that dad was back in this crowded area, and the two of us were doing up the dishes or something like that. I got kind of perturbed, or irritated, because dad had dripped some water on some of my “stuff.” It wasn’t a big irritation, just a kind of, “Geez, I wish you’d be a little more careful.”

I guess someone heard us talking because they said, “Hey, what do you have there?”

I replied, “Oh, it’s nothing. It just some old movies and music of mine. You wouldn’t be interested.”

I was really surprised when some of “my music” was put on and played over the loud speakers in this dining area. Everyone stopped what they had been doing and gathered to listen and dance to it. It wasn’t like a regular dance. Basically, everyone lined up in two big groups on either side of the room. People would be moving and swaying to the music until it was their turn to join with their partner from the other group, and then, the two of them would invent a dance as they danced together towards the front. The dances were all really original and actually in some cases kind of bizarre. However, no one made fun of anyone else and everyone waited patiently for each partnership to complete their dance.

So in summary, we were all of a “life space ship” crowded together. We were uncertain where we were going, but there was no going back because what had been would no longer work for us. I didn’t think that anyone would be interested in what I had. However, I found that people were really longing to have someone organize something for them to do or be involved in and that, surprisingly enough, what I had to offer was of interest and worth to these people.

A Bit More of My Story

2008-08-01T19:02:00.004-06:00

The first time Paul Porter and I met was in the LTM (Language Training Mission) in Provo, Utah while learning Japanese prior to go to Nagoya, Japan for our two-year LDS missions. The first thing I remember about Paul was that one evening, he was showing some slides of some of his recent hikes in Canada. His eye for and appreciation of nature spoke to me, and I thought, "This is a guy I could be friends with." I think we may have visited for a few minutes that evening. At any rate, we hit it off then, and have continued to be friends for the past 30 years.

As missionaries in Japan, our first home their was in an apartment in Nagoya as junior companions. At the time, we were two fired up young missionaries who thought that our senior companions were pretty lazy and uninspiring. We probably spent more time proselyting together than we did with our senior companions. I think they probably got a bit tired of all our fired up zeal and figured that one of the best cures for this was to inflict us upon each other. At any rate, we had a lot of time to hear one another's stories and to strengthen our friendship.

One morning in June, we decided to go on a run together. It was a humid summer morning. We took off running through these dirt trails through the trees and forest that was next to our apartment. Somehow, we ended up at this big park. While sitting at a park bench there, Paul pulled out his Japanese-English pocket dictionary and asked me to do the same.

He said, "Okay, here's what were going to do. Let's close our eyes and open our dictionaries to a random page. Then, point to a spot on the page. Whatever word is closest to the spot we point will be our Japanese names for each other."

I was game for Paul's suggestion and went along with his idea. I can't remember who went first, but I think it may have been me. I closed my eyes, opened my dictionary, and pointed. Under my left index finger was the word GURERU. Its meaning was "to stray from the right path." Paul went next. Under his finger was the word FUTEKI "daring, fearless, intrepid, bold, tough."

And so those are the Japanese names we still often call each other. I find my own name of Gureru has almost been prophetic of how my own life has unfolded. When I first picked this name--or was it that it picked me--I was a bit disappointed and wanted to have another go at it. However, Paul and I had made a deal. Back then and up to only a few years ago, I thought, "Well, I sure hope that I never stray from the 'right' path, AND aren't I fortunate that I know what 'the' right path is and can help others to find it."

You see I use to believe that there was only "one" right and "most correct" path. When I was in the LTM learning Japanese and preparing for my mission to Japan, I remember once that our teacher said that there was a common saying in Japan that we might hear when introducing Mormonism to the Japanese. The saying was: "All paths lead to the top of Mount Fuji." If confronted by this saying, we were told to reply, "That may be true for Mount Fuji, but what we are offering you is the pathway to heaven." Oh, don't we display such arrogancy and blindness when we think we "know" what's best for others.

I recently wrote a story I entitled "The Parable of the Potluck." Here it is:

THE PARABLE OF THE POTLUCK
(Keith L. Jensen, July 2008)
When I was a kid growing up in Sun River Valley, one of my most pleasant memories is of potluck dinners at the Sun River Valley LDS Church. On a summer evening on the 4th or 24th of July, we would all gather at the Sun River Valley LDS Church. Depending on the weather, tables would either be set up in the cultural hall or outside on the grass. Everyone would bring their favorite dishes to share.

Some were made from family recipes handed down for generations, and others were made from recipes newly discovered. My mom would make her rice pudding that her mother had taught her to make. Bernice Christensen would bring a green jello with pineapple and cottage cheese salad. Aunt Donna would bring her homemade chili, and Aunt Wanda would bring her homemade rolls.

And so it went on and on, everyone would bring the food item that they felt best about and would like to share. With joy, I’d get in line and wait my turn to select the foods of my choice. With plate in hand, I’d begin to make my food selections. My selections would be based on a number of factors. I’d listen to recommendations made by others.

“Oh, you just have to try Sister Feeler’s fried chicken. It’s to die for!”
or
“Son, you better not have any of Bishop Christensen’s baked beans. Those are only meant for the men here.”

Other selections were based upon memories of dishes from previous years. Sister Vergie Nielsen’s crumb crust deep dish apple pie was always a dish that would get my attention. And then, there were always the selections based upon the sights and smells of the day.

“MmmMmmMmm! What’s that that smells so good? I just have to have some of those scalloped potatoes.”
or
“That has to be one of the prettiest tossed salads I’ve ever seen. I think I’ll just try a bit of that.”

And so it went. Each person got to select the foods they’d like to eat. There was no one making an announcement that because of their position or calling that they knew what the best or “most right” foods that everyone ought to eat. In fact, the whole joy of the “potluck experience” was that I got to eat just what I wanted and in the portions I liked.
At a potluck dinner the very idea of someone getting up and saying—

“Through much prayer and fasting the brethren have received a revelation on what the proper and healthy potluck diet is. Each of you has been given a list of ‘appropriate foods.’ Please make your selections only from this list. And remember, ‘even though there is meat on this table, as God’s chosen people, you are to partake of none of this’”

—would seem ridiculous and absurd, and I hope few of us would put up with it. If we did, the whole experience of the potluck dinner would have lost much of its appeal as a fun and festive gathering.

And yet this is the very trap that we fall into when it comes to many aspects of our lives such as parenting, religion, and spiritual matters. We have bought into the delusion that someone has a special dispensation from God and that they know what’s best for us. We have lost touch with our own bodies and the messages that they first quietly speak to us and then more loudly and loudly they shout when we are no longer listening. Constantly, God is speaking to each of us, but we have fallen into a sleep of not hearing and not seeing. We have fallen into the trap of believing that there are others who can hear for us and see for us. It all reminds me of Jesus’ words in Matthew.

“Therefore speak I to them in parables: because they seeing see not; and hearing they hear not, neither do they understand. And in them is fulfilled the prophecy of Esaias, which saith, By hearing ye shall hear, and shall not understand; and seeing ye shall see, and shall not perceive: For this people's heart is waxed gross, and their ears are dull of hearing, and their eyes they have closed; lest at any time they should see with their eyes and hear with their ears, and should understand with their heart, and should be converted, and I should heal them. But blessed are your eyes, for they see: and your ears, for they hear.” (Matthew 13:13-16)

Introductions

2008-08-01T16:54:00.004-06:00

Well, for those of you who don't know me, this is Keith Jensen. I just learned about blogspot.com from my dear friend Paul Porter. Paul and I have known each other since April 1978.

This last Saturday, July 26th, I was up early. I went out to my garden and started to pick some raspberries. I thought, "You know, I haven't seen my good friend Paul Porter for a few months now. I wonder if he'd like to eat some raspberries and half and half with me."

With this thought in mind, I dialed Paul's number. At first I only got the answering machine, but before I finished my message Paul picked up and said he'd love to eat a bowl of raspberries with me. On the short drive from my place in Lindon to Paul's place in Pleasant Grove, I stopped by WalMart to buy some half and half. Once at Paul's place, I rang the doorbell, and he invited me in. Even though it had been quite a long time since we last visited, we felt comfortable with each other as good friends do. Paul and I were the only ones in the house at the time. We filled our bowls with fresh raspberries, sprinkled on the sugar, and poured the half and half.

Sitting side by side at the kitchen counter, I turned to Paul and said, "Well, how have things been going for you these last few months?"

Paul replied, "I guess you've heard about what happened three weeks ago."

I replied, "No. Is it good or bad news?"

To this, Paul said, "Oh, it's bad news, really bad. My brother David took his life three weeks ago."

What an unexpected thing to hear. I was shocked and saddened. When Kim and I returned from Okinawa, Japan in 1992, the first home we looked at just happened to be that of Paul's brother David. We didn't end up buying the home, but I remember that first time we met. This was my dear friend's older brother. After my mission to Japan, I found myself spending a lot of time at the Porters and got a chance to meet all the family. It was kind of like a second home to me.

And here, I'd just learned that someone I knew had felt so sad and hopeless that he'd decided to end his life. This felt so different from the times before when I'd heard about someone taking their life.

For the next three or so hours, Paul and I sat and visited. It was at this time he told me of blog.spot and how his niece Jana had started it as a family forum a few years back. Paul was kind enough to show me some of the posts. My heart was touched. He suggested that I make my own blog page and post some of my writings. And so, that's what I've been figuring out these last few hours.

This morning at work, I started to read some of the postings by family members following David's death. I hope no one minds that I sat and read your posts. I know I'm not an "official" member of the Porter family, but I do consider myself a friend. While reading, I had to get up and close my office door because the tears just started to flow. I was so touched by each of your beautiful and tender words. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for taking the time to write and for allowing me to be present as you shared. I think this is such a smart and healing thing that you are choosing to do. You all give me hope that perhaps this is something that my own family of origin might someday also do.

At this stage of my life, the person's death that has affected me the most is that of my dad. Dad passed away six years ago, and there isn't a day that passes that I don't miss him. The following is an excerpt from my journal.

Keith Jensen’s Journal Entry
Monday, March 30, 2004: It has almost been a year and eight months since dad passed away on Tuesday, August 13, 2002. I miss him and look forward to seeing him again. I have been unable to write about my last few days with dad until now. With Heavenly Father's help, I will write now. Dad passed away almost six months to the day after he started on hospice care. . . . From dad's normal weight of 167 pounds, he was down to less than 100 pounds at the time of his death. . . .

During dad's last week here in mortality he really went downhill. He never had talked much during the past several months. However, during his last week he hardly said anything at all. The last words I heard him speak were on the afternoon of Thursday, August 8th. . . .

I went to work Monday morning, August 12th. Shortly after I got to work, I got a phone call from Leslie, the Canyon Breeze administrator. She told me that dad had only a short time to live. I immediately left work and went to his bedside.

He was so small and frail. I remember sitting there holding his hand. As I write now, I can again feel the warmth of his hand in mine. He had no strength to grip, so I'd wrap his fingers around mine. I told him I was so proud of him and that he was doing so well. I told him that it was okay for him to go. And I sang hymns to him. I think I must have sung every hymn in the hymn book that I knew the tune to. I remember saying to dad: "I bet you sure are getting sick and tired listening to me sing, but you're in no condition to stop me, so I think I'll just keep singing."

I could imagine dad just about splitting a gut laughing. These few hours with just dad and me still bring me peace and comfort when I reflect back on them now. . . .

After about four hours of sleep, I got up early Tuesday morning, August 12th, and returned to dad's room. It was a little after 0400 AM when I got there. Cindy, my younger sister, was dozing in the easy chair next to his bed. Bruce, my older brother, had gone over to mom's place to try and get a few hours of sleep before he had to get back to his job in Salt Lake City that morning. Bruce departed at around 0700 AM that morning. Cindy told me that dad had been resting pretty peacefully.

Once I got there, Cindy went over to mom's place to get a few hours of sleep. I sat down in the easy chair with the lights turned off. I listened to dad's breathing. It was regular and normal sounding. He seemed to be resting really peacefully. Earlier, there had been periods when he'd stop breathing for 15 to 30 seconds, and then with a rattle, he'd inhale a ragged breath and start breathing again.

Around 0800 AM Cindy came back over. Amy, the hospice nurse, was there that morning to check on dad. Since dad had been resting so peacefully, I asked her if dad was taking a turn for the better. She informed me that this often happens shortly before someone dies. Amy took dad's vital signs and informed me that he probably had only a few more hours to live.

Around 0900 AM, Mike, another hospice worker, showed up. Mike is studying to become a medical doctor. He is the one who had bathed and shaved dad for the past weeks. He is the one who use to take dad out for walks in his wheel chair. I think dad really appreciated and loved Mike for all the kind service he rendered him.

In trying to prepare for dad's passing, I'd read a lot about the dying process. I had learned that often shortly after someone dies their bowels release. I wanted to be sure that dad had on a clean diaper before he died. So with, Mike and Amy's help, we rolled dad side to side and put a clean diaper on him. His old diaper wasn't soiled at all. As we were changing dad, I noticed his legs had become gray and mottled. I commented on this to Amy and Mike. Both said it would only be a matter of minutes now until he died.

Dad passed away a little after 1000 AM on Tuesday, August 13, 2002. He spoke no final words before he departed. In the room with him at the time of his passing were Mike, Cindy, and I. Mike and I were sitting at the foot of his bed visiting. Cindy was sitting up at the head of dad's bed. I was asking Mike about why he had decided to do hospice work. Cindy noticed something different in dad's breathing. She started to cry and said, "Oh, I think he's going."

Mike and I joined Cindy at the head of the bed. Mike took out a stethoscope and checked dad. He said you better hurry and get your mother because he's going. Cindy rushed out of the room to get mom. I stood numbly at the head of the bed with Mike and watched dad take one final breath, and then, he just left. Oh, how I wished he could come back for just one more minute and I could hold his warm hand once again. But he was gone.

Shortly after dad died, mom and Cindy returned. I got dad's false teeth and Mike helped me put them in his mouth. I got a red bandana from the top drawer of dad's dresser. I put it under his chin and tied his jaw shut by tying a knot in this bandana on top of dad's head. With the bandana knotted so, dad's body looked like Jacob Marley from Dicken's A Christmas Carol.
Mom, Cindy, and I stood together at the head of dad's bed crying. Mom said, "Let's sing him a song to send him on his way." And so through tears and laughter we sang:

"I come from Montana.
I wear a bandana.
My spurs are of silver.
My pony is gray.

While riding the ranges,
My luck never changes.
I'm saddled on old paint
All day."

At the end of our song, I pulled the sheet up over dad's head.

Dad's passing and the circumstances surrounding it have been so good for me. It has caused me to grow in ways that have been so good and necessary for me. One of my favorite scriptures has become 1 Nephi 11:16-17. Nephi is being shown a vision of the tree of life by an angel. The angel asks Nephi a question and he responds.

"And he said unto me: Knowest thou the condescension of God?
"And I said unto him: I know that he loveth his children; nevertheless, I do not know the meaning of all things."

From experiences too numerous to list here, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt--as dad would say so often when he bore his testimony--that Heavenly Father loves me personally and intimately. I know that all the experiences I have had, and all that I will yet have, "shall give /me/ experience, and shall be for /my/ good." (See D&C 122:7).

Thank you for being present as I shared a part of my story.