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#2972 - Tuesday, October 30, 2007 - Editor: Jerry Katz

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  • Jerry Katz
    #2972 - Tuesday, October 30, 2007 - Editor: Jerry Katz Nondual Highlights - http://groups.yahoo.com/group/NDhighlights ... After you meet those five people in
    Message 1 of 1 , Oct 31, 2007
      #2972 - Tuesday, October 30, 2007 - Editor: Jerry Katz

      Nondual Highlights - http://groups.yahoo.com/group/NDhighlights


      After you meet those five people in heaven, you know what happens? They give you a coupon for a free drink at the local nightclub. You order your Miller High Life, some angel wings, and Budd Freed-man is on the P.A: "Ladies and Gentleman the very talented, Vicki Woodyard."
      * * * * *
      Vicki Doesn't Live Here Anymore (With Apologies to Alice)

      I don't live in my mind anymore. I visit there, but only when I fall
      asleep. I don't mean on the bed; I mean when I fall into a lower state
      of consciousness than awareness. Awareness is my home and it isn't for
      sale at any price. I would gladly list my mind but there would be no
      takers. Who wants a ramshackle little piece of property that is gray
      and divided into lobes. Not much chance of a makeover there.

      For Sale by Owner: Dilapidated mind. Needs new roof and synapses. Can
      be had for a song (the one that goes through my mind day and night).

      I used to think that my mind was smart, even brilliant. Back in the
      day it was. But now it can't even remember who's on Larry King Live
      after just hearing it promoted thirty seconds ago. And yet it
      remembers every injustice it has suffered since birth. And is waiting
      to get even. Oh, my mind is a dangerous and stupid place to live. I am
      sure there is lead paint on every window sill.

      There is one room in my mind that has never been opened. It is called
      The Room of Prejudice. Next to it is one with no door at all. It's The
      Room of Resentment. It's used so often that one fine day I just took
      the door off the hinges and threw it away.

      I used to think that the mind was a terrible thing to waste; now I
      know better. It's a terrible thing to use if you don't know what you
      are doing. The only time you should visit your mind is when you are
      accompanied by awareness. Then a very strange thing happens. It
      disappears. Just like Judge Crater....just like Amelia Earhart and
      Jimmy Hoffa. Just like a warm plate of brownies or clothes at a nude
      beach. Gone.

      I am not sure why I wrote this essay except out of gratitude for
      finally moving upstairs. Of course, the mind still bothers me but I
      just knock on the ceiling and tell it to shut the heck up.

      * * * * *
      Don't Push the River

      I've been trying to push the river. Whew! Piece of work. I don't want
      to push it far; in fact, I just want to prove to myself that I can. So
      I'm standing here in the state of Tennessee with the river smack dab
      in front of me. The Mighty Mississisppi....Ole' Man River. Forget
      "lift that barge, tote that bale," I plan to push the whole shebang
      (with apologies to William Hung).

      My hands are wet and my clothes are drenched. The funny thing is that
      the river knows just what to do, whereas I don't. What it does is
      break up into pieces of wetness and these cannot be pushed. But I have
      only just begun.

      After pushing at the very edge, I wade out into deeper water in order
      to push bigger pieces. The river, sensing my  purpose, begins to take
      the shape of waves. These wave pieces begin to wash over me. I have
      not stopped pushing, however. I sense a deeper purpose is becoming
      aroused in me. I want to make The Guiness Book of World Records for
      having pushed the first river successfully.

      I can see myself writing a book entitled How to Successfully Push the
      River. I am, at last, getting into a groove.

      Six hours later the moon has become a disco ball and I have become a
      river dancer and not the Irish Kind. More like the Rumpelstiltskin
      kind. I am babbling to the mighty brook about what I can do to move
      it. I swear I thought I heard it say, "Can you sing `Misty'?"

      "Well, that's just ridiculous," I said. I didn't mean to make you cry;
      I meant to move you a silly milimeter out of your course." It was
      about that time that I looked up and saw the cops.  They could
      certainly see me, what with the light shining in my face and all.

      I decided to do the brave thing and resist arrest while pushing the
      river at the same time. Let's just say it hurt. As they were dragging
      me to the patrol car, I said "Give me a few more seconds; I just got a
      good grip on it."

      "Oh, sure, lady, I'll give you fifteen seconds....one Mississippi, two
      * * * * *

      There is nothing logical about anything. Once we leap over that wall,
      we see that there is none. Now what do we do? Party. Not with booze
      and paper hats but with the buddha. That fat man knew how to get it
      on, didn't he? Oh, I know you were there when he realized
      himself....grin. And then again. And then it was, oh, stop it
      buddha-man, you are too good.

      Life is a cabaret, a picnic, a walk in the park. The rest is the truth.

      Tears, screams and Brittney Spears happen. Life larks on. Tell the
      truth; it is breaking you.

      Life is a bowl of cherries, Brad Pitt and Pittney Bowes. Walk on. You
      can make it. Mary Tyler Moore did and she lost a child. So did I. Rock
      on, life.

      Life is what you make it. Grab your paste and scissors. Edit it like
      you mean it. Eat the paste and stick gold stars on your forehead. Life

      Life is what cannot be explained but experienced. It hurt and then it
      felt better. It felt good and then it hurt. Grow on.

      Life grows on you like stray nose hairs and the now-famous omentum.
      Don't let it. Cut it to conform or celebrate it. Shag-a-delic hairy
      old life. Gotta love it.

      Life is what you make it. Make it bigger and better. Then smaller and
      softer. Sshhh.  The secret is too big to share. Keep it to yourself.
      It's more potent that way. Those who know don't speak.

      Life goes on. It is a hullabaloo, a secret garden, a snowfall over the
      Rockies. It is a pulsing salsa beat and a failing heart that
      finally....stops. But life goes on.

      Vicki Woodyard

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