Surely It Is Love
Just a couple thoughts post reading on the plane. One of which that stands out in my mind as it unfolds. The ideal we serve and strive to attain doesn’t come from us unless it were to stem from our innate nature itself.
To go forward in our consciousness is to forgive all. Forgiveness is the ripe sweet juice of the imagination. I imagine ‘beauty for ashes and joy for mourning’ rather than directly attacking the state from which we would like to be free. ‘Whatsoever things are lovely and of good report, think on these things,’ for we evolve or devolve into that with which we are en rapport with. The art of living well is the art of forgiving well. Forgiveness is experiencing in imagination the true version of a situation, experiencing in imaginary forms that we wish we would have experienced in person for/from another person, another angle offered to create space for healing, for more love. Every time one truly does forgive, one is born again. However, this can only happen effectively when we have a sincere desire to identify one with their ideal. ‘Duty has no momentum. Forgiveness is a matter of deliberately withdrawing attention from the unrevised day and giving it full strength, joyously to the revised day.’ We should take our life, not as it appears to be sensory wise, but from the vision of an artist with long term aspirations, from the vision of a world made more beautiful, buried under all minds— waiting for us to revise the day, to reveal itself before our eyes.
“So intense was the feeling I felt myself a being of fire dwelling in a body of air. Voices as from a heavenly chorus, with the exaltation of those who had been conquerors in a conflict with death, were singing ‘He is risen—He is risen,’ and intuitively I knew they meant me.Then I seemed to be walking in the night. I soon came upon a scene that might have been the ancient Pool of Bethesda, for in this place lay a great multitude of impotent folk—blind, halt, withered—waiting not for the moving of the water as of tradition, but waiting for me. As I came near, without thought or effort on my part they were, one after the other, molded as by the Magician of the Beautiful. Eyes, hands, feet—all missing members—were drawn from some invisible reservoir and molded in harmony with that perfection which I felt springing within me. When all were made perfect, the chorus exulted ‘It is finished.’ Then the scene dissolved and I awoke.” - Neville Goddard
“Never will he say caterpillars. He’ll say, ‘There’s a lot of butterflies-as-is-to-be on our cabbages, Prue.’ He won’t say ‘It’s winter.’ He’ll say, ‘Summer’s sleeping.’ And there’s no bud little enough nor sad-coloured enough for Kester not to callen it the beginnings of the blow.”
—Mary Webb (Precious Bane)
“We are led to believe a lie when we see with, not through, the eye.”
—Blake
It’s from الله
