The Hawk And The Dove

Dedicated to To The Dear Empathetic, Artistic, Creative, Highly Sensitive Beings: Those who thru no choice of their own are deeply connected to the universal whole.

Below is my adaptation of a very old story.

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A dove sat alone in the shade of a large willow tree, enjoying the wonders of the present moment: a breeze through its feathers, the blue of the sky reflected off its solid black eyes and the solidity of the ground it was resting upon.

A hawk was soaring by and upon seeing the dove landed on a branch of the willow, filled with rage for the hawk despised doves.

The hawk started berating the dove with sharp words, yelling of how weak dove was and how it should leave the land they shared.

And the dove sat.

This infuriated the hawk, and it started flapping its wings madly, and screeching at the dove.

And the dove sat.

Completely consumed with rage, the hawk lunged at the dove, talons coming within inches of the doves heart.

And the dove sat.

This continued for some time, and eventually the hawk grew tired, landed back on the branch, silent except for its short shallow breaths.

Then the dove spoke:

“If you are offered a gift, and accept it, who possesses the gift?”

“What a ridiculous question, doves really are the lowest form of intlligence. The gift belongs to whom it was offered to” said the hawk, thru labored breath.

“And if you are offered a gift, and refuse it, who does the gift belong to?” the dove asked, with a slight grin upon its beak.

“I grow tired of you, I should have snatched your heart out you tiny chest rather than listen to this drivel” the hawk belted. “The gift belongs to the one who has offered it.”

The dove looked the hawk in the eye with a calm intensity.

“Then I offer you the gift of love and compassion, and as for your gift of hate, I kindly decline.”

And so the dove sat in peace, under the willow, enjoying the gift of love the hawk had rejected, and the hawk flew away, exhausted, with the anger and hate it had offered as a close companion.

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Make no mistake dear ones, we live in a time where we are being spiritually and psychically bombarded.

The warrior kings have discarded us, and use threats, aggression, noise, overstimulation, confusion and posturing to cloud our inner worlds and shut down our gifts: the gifts of empathy, compassion and patience.

Our time is coming.

We must go deep within ourselves , our power is there, it is eternal and untouchable.

It is time to explore all the gradients of light and darkness within us until, regardless of the external worlds bombardment, our inner compassion and love become constantly accessible.

We are a essential part of the story of earth, and our time is coming.

And we will prevail.

My Life As A Time Traveler

TRIGGER WARNING: While not graphic there are mentions of abuse in this story. Please proceed to read with this in mind.

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I find it interesting that when imagining time travel, most stories hold a very specific assumption: upon arriving in a new time the traveler will remember their choice to travel time, and maintain the full context of before and after.

Another narrative exists, where the traveler comes to with no awareness of their decision to skip time, a sort of amnesia.

I have experienced time travel on many occasions during my life, although upon discussing with doctors they use the term dissociation.

When I was 5 years old, something scary happened to me, lets just say #MeToo.

And there was another devastating layer: the adult who was party to this experience whispered in my ear “If you tell anyone I will kill your family”.

Faced with the dilemma of being a terrified child, needing the love and support of my family to heal, and knowing that by asking for that I would be putting them in harms way, I disappeared and jumped forward 2 years in earth time.

I came to in 2nd grade, sitting on one of those awful coarse carpets that elementary schools lay out for circle time.

In front of me was a 1 foot square piece of tan burlap. Thick blue yarn was pasted in the general shape of a human face: a childs idea of a face, with perfectly round eyes and half circle ears exactly in the middle of an oval head. Inside the face were multiple different colored legumes pasted on, to simulate the color of skin. I held in my hand a large white Lima Bean.

Towering miles over me, as adults look to children, was my 2nd grade teacher, Ms. Nyder. She was looking down at me, glowering, her face tensed and lips pursed: she was not happy.

Out of her mouth came the words (paraphrased) “Daryl, you have made such a mess, there is now paste all over the carpet and I will have to clean it up. Why do you always make such a mess. You are so sloppy: pay attention”.

What she didn’t know is I had no context of where (or when) I was, how I got there, and who she was. That I couldn’t have paid attention because I had not been there for the pasting.

She could not have known that moments before I was 5 years old, walking down a set of stairs in the sun, noticing the flowers, excited for a new experience.

She couldn’t have known i held no memory of the last two years, that I could not have told her who my first grade teacher was, what the classroom looked like , who my friends were.

And likewise I couldn’t have known that in moments I had lost 2 years. That the the only narrative of my 6th year would be constructed by pictures in yearbooks and stories from others.

This experience repeated itself over the years, although for shorter and shorter periods of time.

I seem to do well even though I am gone, got descent grades, held down jobs, and take care of my general physical needs.

I also seem to lose something important to me each time, when I’m lucky objects and when I’m not friends.

I woke up on that scratchy, grey carpet with a new skill, the ability to disappear completely, while my body existed in the physical plane (If you have ever had an alcohol induced blackout you may understand).

The mind likes a cohesive storyline, and so over the years I fill in those gaps with the little bits I can glean from the media state machine, and those still around me.

Recently I had a jump of roughly one month, and when I came to I discovered I had rented an Air B&B for a week: A small room inside a families dwelling.

I saw that the owners had left me a review, and curiously opened it.

“Daryl was a great guest, we never heard him come or go, it was like he was a ghost”.

And that is what time travel is for me:


Like a ghost,

Into a fog,

Where no one notices

The contrast of White on White

“Round Here” Counting Crows

Prayer

If you are a racist, you are wrong.

If you are homophobic, you are wrong.

If you are sexist you are wrong.

If your holy books preach hate, they are wrong.

If you take from our Mother Earth, without respect and gratitude, you are wrong.

If you abuse people, you are wrong.

If you molest people you are wrong.

If you believe hate speech is implied by “free” speech, you are wrong.

If you believe it is your right to possess weapons to use against others, you are wrong.

And more importantly, not of service to yourself, those you hurt, and humanity as a whole.

Sister Kali, enter our world, arms swinging madly with unrestrained rage. May your eyes see clearly the heart of all. Let your sickle and sword act swiftly on those who’s hearts have turned against their human family. Withhold not your scythe from any, and prune all our rotted parts. Let them decay, and with time transform into the compost on which we can build a better world.

So be it – 110233

On Belonging

This morning I saw a flock of birds (was unable to tell the type of bird, so the grouping syntax may be incorrect, but it was not a parliament or a murder, that I know!!) flying playfully thru the sky, as the sun was breaking thru the clouds. Moving as one unit, playing on the wind, dancing with the clouds.

And a single bird about three blue whales length to the inner upper left bottom underside. This bird was flying chaotically, back and forth, up and down with jerking motions, seemingly being tossed around by the wind.

The flock of birds swirled to the left, and upside down, and in the direction of the solo member. As they neared the solo bird, the flock went from flowing dance like movements, to jerky chaotic agitated movements, mimicking the solo bird as they braced for impact.

In a moment, the group merged with the singleton, shifting from north to south to up to down, towards me and away.

And then there was only the group, gracefully merging back into a playful glide on the winds, dancing in the sunlight, and singing to the stars, with the lone bird no longer lone, and no longer able to be differentiated from the whole.

And the whole no longer fractured, and able to dance unheard symphonies in the never ending sky.

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I pray any bird lost from its group today, unable to find a direction or a wind stream that feels familiar, get surrounded by their group, and lovingly shown where they came from, belong, and are going, until they flow back together as one stream, to play with the clouds.

Be kind today, you are loved!