The woven life 1 : A conscious stream

March 17, 2020 Geetha B Abundance, Alternate Realities, Balance, Blogs, Connections, consciousness, Heart, Heartpath, Short stories, Soul, Stories, Story Bluebirds, Connections, consciousness, Outcome, Series, Short stories, Stories, Streams

The woven life 1 : A conscious stream

17 March 2020

Every time she focused her thoughts something so intimately connected with it would happen in the outer world. It was as if consciousness was responding to her thoughts and replicating what she wished internally to replicate. She noticed that sometimes the matter she thought about was so far fetched that the outcome of her focused thoughts was surprising and not similar to her thoughts at all. Yet in the midst of all those peculiar outcomes she knew that these were merely intermediate stages of consciousness moving towards her desired outcome. Indeed, the more she focused on her outcome the more this became part of what consciousness wanted as outcome if one could speak of wanting when discussing consciousness. She could see this because the more she wanted to be part of consciousness and was aware of it, the more consciousness was aware of her within it, with all the desires she embodied.

She decided to leave her full-fledged meditation based on the teachings of great men of other philosophies and embrace fully this relationship to consciousness. She would spend hours now at will concentrating her mind on the desired outcome and weaving through her mind’s eye the necessary consciousness streams to make it happen in the physical realm. She knew that you did not need to be at a specific place or reach for a specific consciousness stream emanating from another person. All you had to do was think of that person and project both your intent and that person’s would be intent into that area where your consciousness was taking you. From there on, it was a simple task to weave that stream or thread with the ones you already had.

Anyone who has made or seen being made those intricate patterns woven by mainly women and children who weave using preset nails hammered on a board would know what this looks like. The only difference is that there is no requirement for nails to be hammered. It is sufficient to have the points of intent set within the consciousness and then have the streams woven through the intent. She was getting expert at doing this and realized that when she wove grand, in the sense that this would have a macroscopic effect with little to no benefit for her, this was strangely more likely to have an outcome similar to her request than when she wove with her own benefit in mind…

Alone and Together – No Clear Mind

The grass was greener

August 20, 2016August 20, 2016 Geetha B Blue, Daylight, Flight, Green, Light, Lighthouse, Mind, Red, Sacred, Short stories, Skies, Sun, Sunlight, Tree, Uncategorized Blue, Bluebells, Bluebirds, Branches, Brass, Dance, Dirt, Ghost, Grass, Green, Grey, Horizons, Island, Land, Meadows, Mud, Poppies, Prance, Prose, Red, Sand, Secular, Shadows, Sheen, Short stories, Story, Trees, workers

The grass was greener

20 August 2016

crimsonfields deviantart com liberty_by_tryskell-d99kjln — Courtesy tryskell-d99kjln on deviantart.com

She looked across the battered fields lying scorched by the heat around her frame in veils. From afar came its glint, shining eerily under the summer sun. So infused with more than just a hint of light she felt she should run towards it for it looked so beautifully green, it was almost lime-like in its iridescent sheen. She imagined the dewdrops painting life-like shadows alongside the blades of grass, twirling with these latter in those meadows a long-forgotten dance. She could almost sense the hum of the grasshoppers, the sound of brass invading her mind with their invitation to prance.

An arm brushing past hers tore her thoughts away from that beautiful island and its mighty sway. The field around her was buzzing in glee with grey-faced workers in neat rows of three attempting so desperately to instill some life back into the withered plants going downhill. The water ran from their giant cans dark, muddy and lifeless, not even a spark. She watched them smother rather than water the field as more sand and dirt was all the cans would yield. Here and there some poppies had survived, their wild nature breaking free revived by the view of the skies from the murky lands ties.

It was the bluebells that withered the most. Their head hung, their face downcast, they looked like this time they would never last. The secular trees of themselves a ghost looked over the horizons, a sight only they could boast and realised that perhaps this was the last year they would play host to the hundreds of bluebirds that on their branches found outpost to watch the first sunrise. Suddenly a ray split the skies and onward came rains of the most frightful might. To the field workers they were though the most beautiful sight as they gathered out of ranks not bothering how offering to the rain their weather-beaten brow as it washed away the mud. The oldest of trees came down with a thud and as the land under it drank the rain a damp and soon mossy stance took over its grounds again and again and again.

She looked across the reddened field to the brink of where her sight would yield. She looked back to the moss growing on that new land. Its glint was known to her not a new brand. Both far and near she could see it so clear.

The grass was greener.

Reading of the short story: