A
Book
of
Dibbles
Spirita
Discover other titles by Spirita at Smashwords.com:
Inspirations - Honoring Soul
Rainbows for Marina
The Flute Player of Sasnak
Published by Tumblebrush Press at Smashwords
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What are Dibbles?
Delectable morsels of wisdom, honesty,
and humor that delight and inspire
From SPIRITA, the voice in all of us speaking from our soul
Who is Spirita?
What is Spirita?
Spirita is Twinkles.
Spirita is the Twinkle you see when you connect with someone.
Spirita is the Twinkle you feel when you get excited inside or gooey all over.
Spirita is the Twinkle you hear when a voice or music or nature communicates in special ways.
Spirita is not a person or a face or a shape or an object to see or hold.
Spirita is your Soul announcing your presence and welcoming inspirations.
Spirita is Awareness Transformed to Being.
Preface
This is an invitation to nibble on my Dibbles.
Fluff-Bumps
A Dibble about Cloud Riding
Today I decided to ride a cloud. I haven’t decided which one yet, because I gotta' get their permission. But, I know it’s not going to be one of those big ones ‘cause it’s too hard to hold on to them sometimes.
Maybe I’ll ask one that’s off playing by itself. You know, a smaller one that just kind of lays out there looking for something interesting to do.
I’m going to invite Alissa to go with me. She likes to ride clouds too.
Sometimes she finds her own cloud, and sometimes we ride together. It all depends on what the cloud wants to do.
You see, clouds have choices too.
Sometimes they just want to play with other clouds. Sometimes they just want to float around. And sometimes they like to party with Angels. That’s when they invite me and Alissa.
On this day, a cloud named Soika was laughing with some other clouds --- just floating together with some cloud buddies when Soika saw Alissa and me on a mountaintop.
Soika left the other clouds and floated over to get us where we waited on a big rock. We were sitting on the part of the rock that kinda looks like a camel head where we were having a picnic --- eating marigolds and drinking sunsets.
After we jumped onto Soika and chased each other around the fluff-bumps, we found Soika’s biggest fluff and tickled her until she asked some Angels to put her laughter into a bigger cloud so they could use it later for thunder.
Clouds like to share like that, you know.
So, off we went --- Alissa and me riding Soika; waving to other cloud riders; singing with passing clouds we knew, and laughing with Angels who had nothing better to do than party with us and God.
Felicia the Doggygod
A Dibble about Discovery
As I reclined in my favorite chair on Sunday, the spirit of one of my four-legged children visited me. Felicia Estancia Mercedez was a 180-pound Great Dane–Saint Bernard mix with short reddish-tan hair and long eyelashes that made her look Spanish behind a tubular nose, a mouth that could have eaten a cantaloupe with one gulp, and a tongue that seemed 10 seconds long when she slowly licked my face in moments of gratitude, pleasure, or solitude.
Felicia lived a good doggy life by following me everywhere, as doggy-people always do, riding in the pickup truck, curling under the bed to sleep, romping after some creature teasing her curiosity, and eating whenever she wanted from the ever present, dog-puppy chow shared with other four-legged children only when she was satiated. All of these activities had special memories about Felicia because of her size and the way she looked at me with those Latino eyes under long eyelashes that looked as human as they were puppy. After five years of charming the world with her size, graciousness, looks, and commanding sense of playfulness, she experienced physical death from an inoperable tumor.
On this Sunday, the spirit of Felicia’s hulking form sat by my chair with her doggy-chin resting on the flat wood chair arm and she exhaled a sigh, stared at me with those huge eyes, and asked me, “What are you thinking about?”
“Oh, Felicia, thank you for asking. I was thinking about my sweetheart, Marina.”
“You do that a lot,” Felicia remarked. “What have you discovered about yourself in that process?”
“It’s interesting you observe me in that way,” I responded. “I had not considered thinking about someone else as being a process of self-discovery until now.”
“The soul has interesting ways of getting your attention,” Felicia explained. “Souls are all-knowing, forever-creations of pure energy without form that decide to have experiences by becoming matter, and in that process the matter forgets what it knows so it can enjoy the discovery of creating itself as a concentration in physical form. We souls decide what form we want to take to discover ourselves as physical creations. In my last episode of incarnation, I decided to be what you call a dog and hang around with you.”
“Holy geehossafat!” I blurted, “That sounds crazy, but it feels true.”
“That is the beauty of this blessedness,” Felicia continued. “What looks to be crazy actually is sanity, what looks to be grotesque is based in beauty, and what looks to be profane can equally be viewed as sacred. In your case, your struggles with understanding Marina result from your interpretation of her intentions.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, a bit incredulous.
“What characteristics about Marina have disturbed you in the past?” Felicia inquired.
“Well, I guess I haven’t understood how she can just seem to forget me at times when we seemed to be so close,” I timidly replied.
“Has it occurred to you that Marina is exceptionally gifted at giving her undivided attention to that on which she is concentrating, whether it is a task or a person?” Felicia asked.
“You know, she does seem to kind of get super-involved with whatever she is doing, and I always attributed that to diminishing attention to me,” I observed.
“That sounds like a bit of insecurity on your part,” Felicia stated. “Perhaps you might see the unconditional acceptance Marina gives to those needing her attention and remember that she does the same for you. Perhaps you might begin to understand her unconditional love and be grateful she shares that with you as well as others. Perhaps you could learn this trait from her and add your energy to the process rather than delete her energy by being so needy.”
My first reaction to Felicia’s observations was denial, since I was pretty good at that, but then I progressed to amazement that the being I had known as a doggy was communicating to me on a different level.
More importantly, Felicia’s communications struck a part of my sensitivity that was acknowledging all of this. I felt an understanding enter my being that was simultaneously blissful, joyful, comforting, and energizing.
I started to analyze some of the other actions toward and with Marina that were part of our history. I remembered how tender she is, with an occasional spot of toughness and roughness thrown in from some habit she inherited that was not representative of her true soul. I remembered how my anger about something that was not activated by her nevertheless was directed toward her. I remembered how utterly devastated I felt after each of my angry outbursts because I had demeaned her spirit.
I remembered our endless hours of bonding during touchy conversations about almost everything we felt and experienced. I sensed the mutual release of inside stuff as we talked and how those discussions brought relief, discovery, and closure. I remembered sharing respect, love, and each other.
As varied as my life’s experiences have been, Marina was a special influence and catalyst. As I experienced myself with her, new emotions bubbled inside me like lava in the earth’s core. I sensed heightened sensitivities about compassion, understanding, caring, and concern. I began to focus on the core of who I am and how I want the world to see me.
My anger too often violated these revelations and our relationship. Seeing her cry cracked my habit of control through anger. During her prolonged absence to visit her birth country, I decided to eliminate anger as a form of my communication and control, and I chose to honor Marina with my conversion to my sense of self.
Adopted habits and techniques of behavior had been my way of behaving for most of my life, but they were not an expression of whom I choose to be now. When I became myself, by living my feelings of understanding, compassion, sharing, and nurturing, her aura energized my discovery and emancipation of me.
“You feel better now, don’t you?” Felicia remarked through my trance, meditation, or whatever I experienced as I internalized all of this.
“Yes Felicia,” I replied comfortably. “For the first time in my life, I truly enjoy who I am, and I’m excited to share this energy and spirit with others as I have always imagined I would. With the spiritual guidance of my sweetheart, Angel Marina, I am choosing who I am and how I desire other souls to know me. I realize this emergence will occasionally revert to habit and I will need to detect those systems early to eliminate the behaviors of anger and control I have exhibited so well before. My transition from the ‘me’ I did not like to the ‘me’ I adore is my responsibility and my triumph, but it always helps to have some Angels like Marina assisting with the operation, so to speak.”
“I am grateful, I am blessed, I am loved, and I share that with others without condition,” I added, honoring myself. “I am at peace.”
“By the way,” Felicia said as she left my side, “has it ever occurred to you what is dog spelled backwards?”
Murphy
A Dibble about the Soul Singing
It was very cold the day Murphy was born. At first, I didn’t notice him lying in the corner of the barn.
The wind made it colder that it should have been. Murphy probably was only one or two hours old, and he was very cold.
When you are a newborn goat, you need milk right away to get warm and start everything going in you body. Murphy’s mom probably didn’t know that.
It was dark. and if Murphy was the first baby for his mom, maybe she got scared from giving birth to Murphy or maybe she went to get something to eat. It was too cold for Murphy to be by himself, so I picked him up, put him in my coat, and walked to the house with him.
Every once in awhile, Murphy would make a squeaky sound like he was trying to make a baby-goat noise, but Murphy’s sounds were weak and more desperate than what I was used to hearing from a baby goat.
Inside the house, I sat in my favorite chair with Murphy inside my outer coat that I had not taken off, and I tried to feed some warm baby-goat milk to him that I prepared in a baby bottle.
Murphy was cold and shivered almost constantly although he was next to my inner layer of clothes. I tried to feed the goat formula to him from the baby bottle because I knew he needed something warm inside and that new baby goats have to get a certain enzyme from goat milk to develop necessary immunities.
Murphy resisted the milk and emitted his distressed, squeaky pleadings, shivering in spite of my body heat, the warm milk, and the warmth of the house.
His condition forced me to telephone the veterinarian who agreed to meet at her clinic even though it was almost midnight.
Testing Murphy’s vital signs, the vet put him under a heat lamp to increase his body temperature and forced some warm liquid into his stomach. After an hour of heat treatment, she confidently sent Murphy and me home.
Seated again in my chair with Murphy under my coat making his struggling sounds, I tried to sleep but worried about the life on my chest still shivering and making sounds that were not baby-goat-doing-okay sounds.
Sometime in the early morning, Murphy made a noise that was mostly like a release-of-his-soul-to-a-happy-place sound. He shivered one last time and was still, feeling totally cold.
I cried for a long time as I repeated Murphy’s name over and over. I still cry about Murphy as I write this.
Crying must be the soul singing.
Luna y Estrella
A Dibble about Emerging
“Oh yoo-hoo, Miss Moon, I need your help,” the little star implored.
“Well hello, Starlette,” Luna, the moon, responded. “What assistance do you require?”
“I seek to emerge as a brighter presence and shine brilliantly,” the little star stated emphatically.
“And what will that accomplish for you?” Luna questioned.
“I don’t really know for sure,” Starlette admitted, “but I feel an urge to intensify my presence and influence the space around me with more light.”
“That’s an interesting intention,” Luna humored. “What motivated this interest?”
“I feel energy not empowered. I sense brightness not discovered. I want to glow and shine and become a guiding light,” Starlette implored.
“You have the power to do that now,” Luna assured.
“Then why am I not so?” Starlette questioned with mounting perplexity.
“Because you have always seen yourself as ‘less than’ you desired; because you manifest wanting rather than being, you are as you are. You see, Starlette, desiring the power to ‘be’ resides in all of us. We must merely manifest that power,” Luna revealed. “When you modify your condition from wanting greater illumination to being that illumination, the glory you possess will emerge.”
“I accept your wisdom, Luna, but what makes the difference between my wanting and my being?” Starlette requested.
“The difference is the serenity of your realizations,” Luna offered. “When your outward manifestations reflect your inner peacefulness, you transform wanting to being. The sanctuary of your serenity lies within your passion for unity with all energy. Your brilliance will reflect that discovery.”
“I am grateful for your wisdom, Luna,” Starlette released. “I am who I am. I am a light unto the land. Let those who seek peace share my energy. I am the Star of Bethlehem.”
Mary, Mary – Quite Extraordinary
A Dibble about Flowers
Mary, the life-puzzle person, keeps wandering into my life to amaze me with energy so mini-directed that I marvel at the totem of its meaning.
Today was one of those totemic episodes when we shared mountain pizza while discussing Mary’s acquaintances and flowers.
Mary easily chatted about friends and family while observing their idiosyncrasies, mannerisms, habits, foibles, fantasies, follies, frumpiness, and flaccidities.
When our discussion turned to flowers, about which most of us share attention, affection, and affectation, it occurred to me that flowers are a lot like people.
When we see flowers, we see different colors, groupings, and differing presentations of size, shapes, sensitivities, preferences, needs, and nutritional requirements.
After separating from Mary with our normal hale hearties, I entered my home sanctuary and surveyed the green, growing creatures sharing my space. As I admired one of the plants, which had a flat, herringbone shaped, purplish flower stem about six inches long that produced incredibly delicate, deep-blue flowers, I heard a voice say, “What did Mary teach you today?”
I was a bit startled by the voice, and as I tried to ascertain its origin, one of the deep-blue flowers moved ever so slightly and the voice again uttered, “I didn’t mean to confuse you, but I’ve been meaning to chat with you for some time and express my gratitude for your care and attention to my needs. You have placed me where I get adequate sunshine without being too exposed; you have provided nutritious soil for food, and you have been attentive to my thirsts. I thrive on the classical music you play and I am grateful we are not subjected to the horrors of a television blaring violence and foolishness.”
Since I’ve had previous conversations with a leaf, a rock, and a canary, a conversing flower was an extension of the universe I discovered when I became sensitive to the interconnectedness of creation. So, I responded by saying, “Oh, dear flower, Mary shared insight about people-flowers.”
“It’s refreshing that you were perceptive enough to divine the message,” the flower observed. “And how does that extend?”
“Oh, golly,” I murmured, “I am beginning to observe flowers like people. Similar to our concept of people, we tend to see flowers in groups based on color, the area where they grow, the endurance of their blossoms, their lifespan, and the odor they emit. We are taught to judge people by similar standards. We judge their color, the area where they live, and their physical appearance. We treat people differently based on age and how they speak. We are equally prejudiced about flowers as we are about people.”
“I am impressed by your observations, good gardener,” the flower stated. “Kindly know me as Luza. Perhaps you will accept the energy comprising my existence and feel it as the same energy creating people. We flowers and the people who judge us are creatures of the same Grand Gardener you commonly call God.”
“You see, dear caregiver, we flowers and the plant hosting our existence are created and receive sustenance from the same source as people and animals and insects and rocks and trees and water and air and all matter. We are all energy vibrating to a physical presence to experience divinity as a chosen form.”
“I chose to be a flower nourished by my mother plant. You chose to be a human. We share the same energy source. When you understand that, you will know we also share the same desire to be understood and accepted.”
“People usually observe flowers and say they are beautiful. People normally, naturally care for us flowers and nurture us while we share our flowerness. A flower often is given as a gift of love. A flower is praised for its fragrance, which is captured as perfume to adorn the user. Regardless of our shape, size, color, or preferred area of growth, flowers are accepted by people,” Luza explained.
I was enraptured by all of this and started to filter through the construction when I heard myself ask, “And how does this all extend, magnificent Luza?”
“See people as flowers, dear gardener. Treat each encounter as delicately as you treat a gorgeous flower.
Understand each person’s needs.
Nurture them individually.
Treat them with compassion at all times.
Above all, communicate to them
the beauty you observe in their
appearance, behavior, and spirit.
“When you cease degrading other people and begin to observe their inner beauty rather than their outward characteristics, you will discover a garden of flowers surrounding you always in all ways.”
“I am grateful for this exchange Luza,” I gushed. “I am blessed by your beauty and by your patience with me. I will share our spirituality with my extraordinary friend Mary and with others I encounter. I choose to be a gardener of all creation and share my energy as a flower to others.”
Writing
A Dibble about Relationships
Writing
is becoming
a friend and lover
in the absence
of another.
Angel Michael
A Dibble Honoring Christmas Gifting
To the Editor: Trinidad, Colorado, newspaper
Date: December 29th
On Christmas day, I met one of Trinidad’s Angels.
His name is Michael. He drives a Dodge pickup and works on a drilling rig in the mountains west of town. It probably is a requirement to be an Angel for that kind of work.
I don’t know what kind of wings Angel Michael wears because they were disguised as he crawled in the snow under my pickup to secure a tow strap in the dark of night.
The ice-coated hill about eight miles west of Trinidad on Highway 12 would not allow my pickup to pull the 36-foot-long trailer loaded with scrap plastic pipe up the steep incline.
You might say that a stranded stranger’s options were puzzling on Christmas night with snow falling over a road surface meant for skating.
As is common for Angel behavior, Michael analyzed the situation and without fanfare, he directed my participation. After a few minor corrections required by all inspired solutions, we slowly crested the hill.
After we disconnected the tether, granting freedom, Michael followed me into town to ensure no further complications. When I was safe, he left without verbal exchange. Angels are like that, you know.
I am grateful for the gift shared by Michael. It represents the meaning we often misplace on Christmas when we rely on wrapped offerings instead.
Kindly announce my experience to the other Angels in Trinidad. Angels come in clusters, you know.
Blessedly,
Jeremiah
The Responsibility of Being Sick
A Sick Dibble
“I’m here to arrest you,” said the kind-looking lady in the long white coat like the ones you see doctors and pretend-to-be-doctors wear.
She had one of those things around her neck they use to listen to your inside-the-body stuff, and pens were in the pocket of the coat that had a pointy object that appeared to be a thermometer sticking outside the pocket. On the opposite pocket, there was a blue badge with white letters.
I couldn’t read all the stuff on the badge very well, but in large letters were the words “DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH.”
The lady was about five feet tall, a little chunky, somewhere between 30 and 60 years old, wearing glasses that stuck to her face rather than sliding to the end of her nose, and she had black shoes someone with a white doctor-type coat would wear.
She stood with her shoes touching side-by-side, and she clutched a black binder in one arm close to her body while the other arm covered another part of the binder, making it appear that the binder was suffocating from the attention while ensuring it wouldn’t escape.
Her face was oval, and freckled a bit over a color people have when they don’t go outside too much. Her kinda’ blond hair was pulled back and pinned with a couple of things that looked like they were supposed to keep all the hair from escaping from some sense of order she gave it.
She didn’t appear to have on any makeup except some black stuff on her eyebrows.
Her look was stern but not threatening, but it didn’t have to be threatening because what she said was threatening enough.
“You’re here to do what?” I asked from my sweatpants, tee shirt, and hair that had just left a pillow on the couch.
“I’m here to arrest you,” she repeated.
“For what?” I asked with a brain that had been pounded by a two-day headache with blood assaulting it due to hurricane-force sneezes.
“For being sick,” the lady said plainly.
The words were too simple for me to understand, given my flu conditions that had progressively reduced me to a moaning, groaning, sneezing, coughing, sweating-turned-to-freezing-then-to-sweating-coughing-sneezing-groaning-moaning-grumpy-baggy-eyed, had-not-changed-my-clothes-in-two-days, felt-like-a-truck-had-run-over-me condition.
“For being sick?” I asked more pleadingly than inquisitively.
“Yes!” she said with force. “The Health Department passed a regulation that allows us to arrest people who pose a health risk to the public, put these people in isolation, and treat them until they are no longer a risk to the public.”
“You mean it’s now a crime to be sick?” I asked foggily.
“Yes!” she emphasized. “You are a risk to the public and have to be isolated!”
“You gotta' be kidding!” I shouted, wanting to use some other words my mother told me on several occasions not to use.
“No, I am not,” the thing-in-the-white-coat said. “We have testimony that you sneezed and coughed at a McDonald’s located at First and Newton yesterday at 1:12 p.m. Is that correct?”
“Hell, I don’t know when I went to McDonalds yesterday, but I needed something to eat after 18 hours of no food. Is that a crime?” I wailed.
“Yes”, she repeated for the umpteenth time. “You willfully discharged a knowingly infectious substance, causing potential danger to the public. Each sneeze carries a 13 percent statistical probability of infection to a subject within five feet of the infected projectiles. Do you admit to being within five feet of other people?”
“Have you been to McDonald’s during lunch?” I asked incredulously.
“There are a couple million people there standing in the same 10 square feet. They were too close to me; I wasn’t too close to them!” I shouted, starting to believe this five-foot tall, white-coated-medical-cop might really be able to do what she said she could do.
“It was their fault for getting too close to me! They chose to be there, so it’s as much their fault as mine!” I yelled, a little less harshly.
“No, you have an implied responsibility to avoid contact with people when you are sick. By the fact you knew you were sick, you consent to audit yourself to control infectious circumstances,” she lectured sternly, sounding too much like a traffic cop who ticketed me a year ago for crossing some painted white line that he said was really a traffic island.
“In addition,” she hammered, “You let a dog lick the vanilla ice cream cone you purchased at 2:27 p.m. on the same day at Baskin-Robbins at 11725 Chambers Avenue. Isn’t that correct?”
“For cryin’ out loud!” I yelled. “My throat was on fire and I was tryin’ to get a little relief and that Irish setter had those big eyes and waggy tail and this huge tongue slobbering all over, and so I just let him get a couple of licks because the damn ice cream was dribbling all over. I was just trying to be saintly,” I lied, hoping to get some sympathy.
“Nevertheless, you were knowingly spreading infection through contact by transferring your infected body fluids. Regardless of the creature, it is still a crime because statistics testify there is a 92.5 percent infectious transmission by body fluid contact,” the enforcer chanted.
“It was a dog!” I yelled causing my already inflamed throat to become cinder hot. “It was a dog!”
“The regulations only speak about creatures,” the thing-in-the-white-coat said. “It doesn’t differentiate kinds of creatures, and you admit the act.”
I wanted to laugh, but that would only make me hurt more. I started to cry, but for some reason, my body wouldn’t let that happen.
Instead, I belched. I belched right in that person’s face, and for reasons only I understand, my soul was in balance with the universe because my life-sanctuary – Marina – always says I have a sexy belch.
A Remedy for Forlorn
A Dibble about Devotion
Just when forlorn chases melancholy,
a four-legged Angel saunters down the stairs
propelled by a swishing tail that
signifies unconditional acceptance
transmitted through brown-eyed adoration,
and allows me to rub a grateful chest and
caress pleasure spots between ears
upright with total devotion
until I am content with attention.
A Rooted Rainbow
A Dibble about an Aspen
Trees are gifts for our survival and sanctuary, you know.
Trees are our brothers and sisters breathing life and granting foundation for our Earth partner.
The tree that greets me each day as I sit at this computer or when I arrive home is biologically known as a Quaking Aspen. Simply called an Aspen tree, the “quaking” part is a magical characteristic that charms and soothes and projects mirth into my life.
Charming and soothing are probably not characteristics you might ascribe to the trees you’ve experienced, but it might surprise you to discover some mirth when you think of a tree.
My awareness occurred when I was a bit smitten by my Aspen tree as it greeted me one day and initiated a conversation.
“I’ve been observing your inclinations to mess with that computer in the middle of the night and during daytime hours when you finally get home,” the tree announced. “My name is Ashu. I’ve been here for about 30 of your calendar years, placed where I am by a caring person who appreciated my spirituality. Being mostly self-sufficient, I have grown to 20 feet in stature, which allows me to observe you through this window from the second level of the house you occupy. I am intrigued by the effort you expend with your antagonist-companion computer. It seems to enable you to translate your inspirations while irritating you with its own portrayal of independence.”
“Well Ashu, I am blessed by your observations and interest,” I admitted. “Your intrigue with my activity is mirrored by my impressions of yours. It seems we are mutually graced by common curiosity.”
“I am grateful you entertain my energy,” Ashu responded. “Most of the time I am granted only casual interest without sensitivity for my spirit.”
“Tell me what is the essence of your soul,” I requested without regard for the intrusion of my inquiry.
“Your petition is a compliment,” Ashu replied. “I gladly share the ingredients of my fulfillment. It is an energy endowed to trees in partnership with Mother Earth to encourage and sustain life in an environment of oxygen and water.”
“Trees provide a cycle for life because we process carbon dioxide exhaled by most organisms, including you,” Ashu explained. “We trees ingest carbon dioxide and hydrogen, which we convert into carbohydrates required for our food. A byproduct of this ingestion is oxygen, which we plants expel for you to survive. You term this process I just described as photosynthesis. It is a sacred partnership we cherish as a creative symbiosis.”
“My goodness, Ashu, I had some knowledge of your abilities from biology during school, but I never really dedicated energy to understanding a process so fundamental to my survival,” I admitted, exposing some chagrin. “Kindly assist me to edification.”
“As you desire, I will address,” Ashu granted with some self-satisfying pleasure.
“All organisms require food and water to complement their spirituality. We plants must circulate our own requirements of these ingestions to all parts of our physical being in a complex process endowed by the Energy-of-All; the grand Creator of All-That-Is,” Ashu related without flaw. “Although we trees are stationary and are not recognized as being communicative species, we indeed ripple energy projecting our sensitivities and sensations.”
“We sing in partnership with our brother Wind,” Ashu shared. “We express our gratitude with festivals of leaves and needles. We exhibit joy as rainbows when we change our colors. We express our compassion by finding ways to inhabit even dire conditions to share the energy from our photosynthesis. We fund relationships as we bond our roots with Earth to create structure from the soil and assure stability.”
“We trees and plants are biologically governed by three processes,” Ashu continued to enchant. “We are stimulated by geotropism, which is a response to gravity. This process allows our shoots, or offspring as you might express it, to grow up and our roots to grow down. We are also affected by phototropism, which is response to light. This process affects the direction of foliage growth and keeps our roots away from light so they grow down and anchor our foliage as it grows up. We also enjoy the process of hydrotropism, which is our response to water in the ground and affects the direction and extent of root growth.”
“My goodness, Ashu,” I blurted. “These disclosures are simple, incredible, and fascinating. Kindly continue this sonata of science and soul.”
“Your interest blushes my spirit and encourages my exchange,” Ashu admitted. “Perhaps our rippling will enhance awareness and create camaraderie amongst essences inhabiting divergent species.”
“I pray for fulfillment,” I replied. “So enchant, and I will encourage.”
“I honor your interest as you honor my status,” Ashu assured.
“Your science would describe the complexity of tree biology by dissecting my physicality without recognizing my spirituality,” Ashu described. “That is a characteristic of ego that funds ignorance and disdain for fellow species. You humans accept the Blessings of us plants while disavowing our souls.”
Ashu’s message clamored in my chamber of sensitivity and aroused a response that grew from denial to acceptance to shame to sympathy to compassion to guilt to reality to enchantment to serenity.
Enlightenment courses constantly, requiring only awareness and adoption for fulfillment, I mused. Prompted by Ashu’s energy, I realized that I often stifle my sensitivity with the rigors of training, thrusting energy from my soul to a corner of existence while societal norms command performance. Now I was challenged by a confrontation between spirit and arrogance.
I could ignore this inspiration of understanding, or I could embrace an eternal pulse of deity and enhance the education of my incarnation.
I chose to honor Ashu’s spirit and encourage my sense of self by proclaiming, “Your patience and dedication ignite my compassion, Ashu. I intend to be a student of the kingdom of Plantae and the process of photosynthesis. I seek to transfer sensitivity and gratitude while honoring your species with a partnership to foster mutual enrichment.”
“Your words soothe, pilgrim,” Ashu sighed. “As you view my family known to you as Aspens, see the ovate shape of our leaves as hearts. Enjoy the trembling of our leaves as giggling. Be blessed by the oxygen we share to grant life to other organisms.”
“Simply honor us as you choose to be honored,” Ashu proclaimed summarizing community and energy. “Embrace our plant family as your own. Share with us without diminishing our prosperity.
Stunned into serenity by the roots of this divinity, I resolved to promote Ashu’s spirituality. By doing so, I Be inspired by our tenacity. Cultivate respect. Enjoy the rainbows bestowed by our biology.”will honor my own.
A Valentine Message
A Dibble about Silly Observations
Valentine’s Day is a silly day, like all days specially reserved, because we think we must perform an act on those days that we ignore the rest of the time.
If we treated every day like we treat Valentine’s Day, our relationships would be continually joyous and we would be love without end.
To play the Valentine’s Day game, I am making a card for this day, but it expresses what I constantly feel every day.
I feel in my soul a connection. This feeling is usually described as ”love.” But my connection is not only love, it is also feelings inadequately described by other words such as caring –compassion – sensual – exciting – concerned – crazy.
As these feelings bubble within me, I am aware of the reality of communication that has to filter through prejudices embedded from learning, beliefs, history, culture, and experiences.
Were I to express my feelings naturally without reservation, the norms of our society would accuse me of some ill that would convolute my naturalness into sadness.
The real sadness is that we so freely express anger, violence, superiority, abuse, and conquest while suppressing our feelings of love.
On Valentine’s Day we allow ourselves a momentary reprieve from inhibition, and we superficially celebrate love.
Valentine’s Day is a silly observation of our most basic definition of self, but at least we attempt to honor our soul.
To play the game, this card is dedicated to you this day, but I pray it lives in your heart constantly.
Pain
A Dibble about Annoyance
I decided to adopt the chronic pain in my hip.
It won’t go away, and it has been with me so long that I might as well make it a legal dependent. I concluded to honor its presence with the proper appellation as Pain.
Pain has been with me and annoying me for several years. My attempts to ignore it are always met with a grimace as it states its presence.
On regular occasions, Sweetheart Marina suggests I consult a doctor about it. When I ask her if she means I should go to a “practicing physician” and her answer is “Yes,” I explain that I prefer to wait until I can find someone who knows what they are doing and is no longer practicing.