Not one of my poems this time, I found it in the house of Joan Hubrecht - an Aura-Soma teacher.  But I like it so I thought I would include it here.

God, before he sent each of his children to earth,

gave each of them a very carefully selected package of problems.

These, he promises smiling, are yours and yours alone.

No one else may have the blessings these problems bring you.

And only you have the special talents and abilities that will be needed to make these problems your servants.

Now you go down, to your birth and to your forgetfulness … know that I love you beyond measure.

These problems I give you are a symbol of my love.

The monument that you make of your life …

with the help of your problems …

will be a symbol of your love for me.

Your Father

This poem carries both a very pale blue energy – that of the heavenly Father from whose perspective it is written, and also towards the end a soft pink energy as the theme of love is introduced.

It is also interesting to me that that the word “blessing” which carries the idea of a spiritual gift from above, derives from the French word “blesser” which means “wound” – a place where we have been hurt. To be wounded – to be given a problem – is to be blessed.

This same idea also appears in the last meditation given by Osho. Entitled “Talking to the Body Mind” It offers a profoundly healing process that echoes the deepest principles of the Aura-Soma system. I hope to be able to provide a link to buy this cd in the near future … till then , best wishes

Throughout my life there has been so much to do. The list has always been endless.

The little things

Clean, mend, pass on information

The big things

Complete, decorate, career moves

The relentless things

Mortgage, christmas, in tray

The wishful things

Tropics, gliding

The impossible things

Be happy, get enlightened

But lately I find the sails which once billowed so proudly in the tradewind of my younger life hang slack. In my dotage I have neither the puff or strength of will to dispatch the demands which I once took such pleasure in slotting away; like a batsman taking fours at the wicket.

Now in my final days, as I approach the shoals of the farther shore, my mind is stirred by a fretful breeze, fragments and tatters swirl around my mind. My attention is pulled but the will is no longer engaged.

The end is truly listless.

Accepting eyes,

a toddler’s gaze

sweeps over me,

as I glimpse him

looking out

from the passing car

travelling the morning school run.

—

His expression is as neutral

as the whiteness of his skin,

As if,

being driven,

he were drinking in unfiltered

all the impressions of the world.

—

At the wheel was his mother,

gaze fixed,

eyes staring to the road ahead,

driving.

Yet it seemed her mind was elsewhere,

intent on an inner consideration.

Shoulders tight, knuckles white, tense on the wheel.

—

In a flash I saw

how like his mother,

how like us all,

this boy could become.

His eyes,

so accepting now,

will inevitably absorb the habits,

thoughts and perspectives that underlie

the world he sees.

And, being influenced by them,

whether for or against,

in time he will generate

his own agendas, tensions and strategies.

—

Till, one day,

no longer an innocent passenger

in his parents vehicle,

he will be driving his own car.

And yet, like his mother today,

he will have become the driver driven.

—