I watched as the bear went up to a couple houses adjacent to my family's home. He was looking for a winter bed, his name, Goldilocks.
We lived out in the fields and woods, but for him, it felt like a city full of thought-forms that crammed closely as city buildings, the crisscross of multiple power lines all saying "should." Every door was shut to him because he was a bear in a neighborhood not fit for a bear.
"Why, my radar says three-hundred years ago my ancestors slept here?"
Everything changes. What does not change? The eternal integrity of the ever present spark of original divine blueprint. That is what does not change.
I am the bear. When I do not find a place to be free of static electricity then I turn on myself with claws in the air ready to pounce down and crush my very beingness.
morel mushrooms are a delicacy I wish I could find in the wild to eat.
The morel moral of this story is:
Be kind to what I have now while imaging everything, every little bit having a place in probability twelve. (even when that place is the recycling center ).
What is probability twelve? It is a feeling.
I have begun writing my stories now that I am back on the farm as my base.
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