Another literary piece...

[Guest guest]

In a message dated 3/26/99 5:26:27 AM Eastern Standard Time, fewtch

writes:

> Tim Gerchmez <fewtch

>

>

> "When I was in the wood, something happened which was nothing less than a

> transformation of myself and the world, although I 'believed' nothing new.

> I was looking at a great, spreading, bursting oak. The first tinge from

> the greenish-yellow buds was just visible. It seemed to be no longer a

> tree away from me and apart from me. The enclosing barriers of

> consciousness were removed and the text came into my mind, 'Thou in me and

> I in thee.' The distinction of self and not-self was an illusion. I could

> feel the rising sap; in me also sprang the fountain of life uprushing from

> its roots, and the joy of its outbreak in the extremity of each twig right

> up to the summit was my own: that which kept me apart was nothing."

>

> From "More Pages from a Journal," W. Hale White.

>

>

LTRIA

 

Thank you Tim for sharing those words. I have experienced this often. It is

when my mind stops and I just "feel" .It is when I am a part of ALL. It is

beyond beautiful! It is what I believe we all are striving for with

"Surrender" and "Love" being the labels of our focus.

 

Those are my most precious moments.

 

I cannot imagine my life totally emerged in those feelings, though. Because I

am a creature of this earth and of it's societies as well as it's nature.

 

Laura

[Guest guest]

"When I was in the wood, something happened which was nothing less than a

transformation of myself and the world, although I 'believed' nothing new.

I was looking at a great, spreading, bursting oak. The first tinge from

the greenish-yellow buds was just visible. It seemed to be no longer a

tree away from me and apart from me. The enclosing barriers of

consciousness were removed and the text came into my mind, 'Thou in me and

I in thee.' The distinction of self and not-self was an illusion. I could

feel the rising sap; in me also sprang the fountain of life uprushing from

its roots, and the joy of its outbreak in the extremity of each twig right

up to the summit was my own: that which kept me apart was nothing."

>From "More Pages from a Journal," W. Hale White.

 

 

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