Virginia's Journey: A Body, Mind and Spirit Novel

Format: Paperback

Language: English

Format: PDF / Kindle / ePub

Size: 5.29 MB

Downloadable formats: PDF

Les premières chroniques de cet album vous entrainent 36 000 ans avant notre époque, un temps où nos ancêtres les Aurignaciens dominent l'Ancien Monde. I have received ten excellent reviews on Amazon and eight on Goodreads. ASIN: B01LZITWTX. * Heather in the Mist by Madelyn Hill. Rated: 4.8 stars on 123 Reviews. 382 pages. Genre: Nonfiction Deal, Sponsor, Reincarnation, Astral Projection, Ethics & Morality. Here, as with most but not all of the other myths, the presentation is schematic, with narrative dependence on both explicable and inexplicable objects.

Pages: 262

Publisher: BookSurge Publishing (December 15, 2004)

ISBN: 1419601652

Coyote

Let us be hale, and whole, and hearthside Let us be Come to me SIGN LANGUAGE Into the western sky the very day there was the second sun showering its radiance and that was the first Some weeks later it came to his attention the roost on the ridgepole Then the fragrance of strawberries pervading though out of season And in rapid succession the miniature horse trotting the lane the mane the same songbirds, a pair in the hawthorne the color of her eyes flowers in the dooryard blooming Moonlight splashing on her windowpane was the seventh Taking courage in these he asked her She, having also seen the sundog the day they met said yes WHIMSY In a garden, gated garden Mongst the lilies and the thorns, Linger scents of early mem’ry, Blossomed dew and dappled morn Here we’ll walk the maund’ring footpath Here we’ll skip from stone to stone Thus avoiding the leviathans Seething there beneath the foam In a garden, gated garden Twixt the sea and fairy rings There’ll be tea and toasted mallows Rootbeer boats and chocolate wings In this hidden garden city There are parapets and towers There are theaters and temples Where we’ll while away the hours Watching plays and romps and ballets Of pink pollen puffs and flowers And the rescuing of damsels From their closely guarded bowers We’ll have tunes and fugues and nocturnes And the grandest rhapsodies There’ll be tales and whispered fables Plump with untold mysteries These we’ll chronicle on papers Made of birch and purple beech Dipping quills in ink squeezed freshly From bubbleberries and sweet peach Then again upstart the big bands As the second course is flopped They’ll blow waltzes, stomps and galops, Jitters, jives, and lindy hops Til footweary, giddy flush-faced We’ll lay breathless on the grass And spin through ever and ever With the starry stippled vast TRUST I have seen them, in a fashion they are similar to us, but different their bodies, their eyes, the way they move huge, powerful — I understand, now these rumors that they are gods I remain skeptical sometimes it strikes me, though not divine they are master teachers, gurus I observe them carefully as they carry on commanding tremendous forces with such ease I seek to emulate what I do not comprehend occasionally, when I am involved in my work, or just crossing the room I feel them rush up behind and past me, as if I'm not here at all as if I do not figure in their world then again, they will be still for great lengths of time communing with another plane patterns of light and sound, signifying nothing I hear them speaking but their language is unintelligible nevertheless, at times it seems they know my name I speak back, but cannot make myself understood yet I feel compelled to do what I can to earn their respect I perform the exercises earnestly begin to feel adept, on the verge of something new then I hear laughter, as if it's all a game to them they are only humoring me and I know we can never be true friends they cannot know my pain I curse them but my anger only amuses them further later, I make my apologies they behave as if there is nothing to be forgiven I am grateful I cannot turn their hearts against me it's as if they take me in their arms fill me with such light and love and joy that I cannot doubt their good intent and I know, in that moment, they are always with me watching, listening, tending to my needs then all trace of them is gone and I am alone again like a discarded plaything I know, deep down, that they can do without me it is I who need them I have seen the portal through which they come and go I long to follow, but it is closed to me perhaps I lack the courage or will to dash through into that other dimension would I not be lost on the other side? when things aren't going so well when I have reached the bottom and feel totally abandoned I cry out in desperation, pleading in the dark hoping beyond hope they can hear me and will return to shine their light it is foolish, I know, but I have no choice I must have faith and trust that tomorrow there will be kibble in my bowl PASSIVE negotiating labyrinths whirling through the garden dizzy with details and the juggling of planets I am arrested in the arbor entwined in summer languor honeyed jessamine, suckled rose a malingering scented moment of a sudden now I see it is not a statue at all but another self ensconced resting assured confident as stone so folding up, beside myself lightly practicing the smile I osmose this awareness — that when they fall the heavens will land in our lap FLUID descending— no decanted from the Light they arrive in waves that shudder through me flowing, mingling briefly like swirls in marbled water I crave complete transfusion, subsumption yet there remains a bound between us surface tension palpable then forgotten and I await the next event, when pouring from on High they permeate once more REMEMBRANCE I put it in a locket, long ago wrapped in silk with ribbon tied locked it in a pegged purpleheart box seated in pillowed plush in my chest of burled walnut and brass lined with cedar and lead sealed with beeswax and lacquer thrust in the cavity beyond the false back of the spare room closet I have not looked on it since that day nor shall I for sure it has mouldered or otherwise become a thing foreign as the house in which I was born WHOLE The satyr nodded scraping the ground with a hoof in sympathetic concordance glancing his piercing gaze through the jagged hole in her bosom to the seven hills beyond observing in a flash the temples burning in the pallid light of doom and said in resonant baritone yes, of course, dreaming, we are all whole RAIN It will be in the rain I remember the street mirror black under the lamps and lights the curving drive an asphalt river running through the glistening lawn juniper, boxwood, cedar balls line the sidewinder walk up to the round stone cottage sweet voice singing softly slipping though diamond of diamond panes in the center of the arched door marries the sibilant drizzle and drip warm and cool on my skin it will be raining when I knock I remember ...whereas the leaf-tippers were late, as usual, so there was a cramp on the waterway The Passage, the Gift and the Prophecy http://areviksanatorium.com/freebooks/the-passage-the-gift-and-the-prophecy.

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