The present is the point of power

The Seth quote above reminds me to begin my book of memories in the powerful present moment where this incarnation's focus is actually materializing. If you are anticipating a chronological rehash of my so-called-life, you may very well be disappointed.  As for me, I think linear thinking is vastly overrated.

I expect that this book will manifest as an expression of the small part of who I AM in the totality of my Greater Being. Today, in this precious present moment, I am sitting in my home office in Gainesville, Florida. One half of the breathtaking view outside my window is filled by a 25-year-old Brown Turkey fig tree that we planted in 1994, now grown taller than the roof and designated as Squirrels' Delight. The other half of my view frames the back woods dressed in summer's heavenly shades of green. It makes me wonder what
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was feeling as he wrote Evangeline. My 6th-grade English teacher gave me that book as a prize for something or other and I still silently recite the beginning words when I am overwhelmed by the exquisite beauty of Nature. Sometimes feelings drip out of my eyes and salty tears roll down my face.
This is the forest primeval.
The murmuring pines and the hemlock,
bearded with moss, and in garments green
indistinct in the twilight . . .

My windowsill is a conglomeration of a pink mug that tells me Life is Good, next to a faded Starfleet #1545 license tag, a tall Micky Mouse bank from Marge Neufer long ago, a slightly lopsided ashtray my son Darrell made over four decades ago, and a chalk figure of an Indian that my son Randall painted in elementary school. If I am to write anything at all, I have to pull myself away from this dusty diorama that lives in front of the perfectly framed perfection of our Earth Mother Gaia. Those tiny treasures lure me back to a time when each one appeared in its own present moment. I am resisting beginning my memoirs. I am not quite ready to revisit those days. There's a part of me that first wants you to be able to picture me in my writing environment during this sacred present moment.

My desk is a six-foot folding table holding an old Dell computer still running Windows 7, two Acer monitors with one usually open to, and growing piles of papers begging to be filed that are not in my litany of fun things to play with. A floor to ceiling built-in bookcase houses sixteen shelves in mad disarray. I can't imagine ever giving myself permission for them to appear on said list of fun things to do. Maybe when I'm older. I'm only eighty now and having way too much fun playing writer and genealogist.

On the wall on my left is a favorite photo of me with my Forever Love, Gordon Greenwood, who left his body in 2013 to make his transition into the Light.  Above that is the photo he took of me that was used on the cover of my outdated book, Metaphysical Florida, A Spiritual Traveler's Directory. Hanging from the side of it is a small Italian Pinocchio doll Gordon bought me because of an anecdote I shared with him once about how I broke the nose off my new Pinocchio doll when I was little. Finally, at the very top of that wall is an anonymous printed sign that sums me up as I would describe myself if I had written it. It says it all.

She had the soul of a gypsy,
the heart of a hippie,
the spirit of a fairy...

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Welcome to my World

Welcome to my world
Won't you come on in
Miracles I guess
Still happen now and then


Step into my heart
Leave your cares behind
Welcome to my world
Built with you in mind


Knock and the door shall be opened
Seek and you will find
Ask and you'll be given
The key to this heart of mine


I'll be waiting there
With my arms unfurled
Waiting just for you
Welcome to my world