Courage
Its curious what takes courage and what doesnt. When I step out on stage in front of thousands of people, I dont feel that Im being brave. It can take much more courage to express true feelings to one person. When I think of courage, I think of the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz. He was always running away from danger. He often cried and shook with fear. But he was also sharing his real feelings with those he loved, even though he didnt always like those feelings
That takes real courage, the courage to be intimate. Expressing your feelings is not the same as falling apart in front of someone else — its being accepting and true to your heart, whatever it may say. When you have the courage to be intimate, you know who you are, and youre willing to let others see that. Its scary, because you feel so vulnerable, so open to rejection. But without self-acceptance, the other kind of courage, the kind heroes show in movies, seems hollow.
In spite of the risks, the courage to be honest and intimate opens the way to self-discovery. It offers what we all want, the promise of love
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TRUST
As I was feeding squirrels in the park, I noticed a small one that didn’t seem to trust me. While the others came close enough to eat out of my hand, he kept his distance. I threw a peanut his way. He edged up, grabbed it nervously, and ran off. Next time he must have felt less afraid, because he came a little closer. The safer he felt, the more he trusted me. Finally he sat right at my feet, as bold as any squirrel clamoring for the next peanut. Trust is like that - it always seems to come down to trusting in yourself. Others can’t overcome fear for you; you have to do it on your own. It’s hard, because fear and doubt hold on tight. We are afraid of being rejected, of being hurt once more. So we keep a safe distance. We think separating ourselves from others will protect us, but that doesn’t work, either. It leaves us feeling alone and unloved. Trusting yourself begins by recognizing that it’s okay to be afraid. Having fear is not the problem, because everyone feels anxious and insecure sometimes. The problem is not being honest enough to admit your fear. Whenever I accept my own doubt and insecurity, I’m more open to other people. The deeper I go into myself, the stronger I become, because I realize that my real self is much bigger than any fear. In accepting yourself completely, trust becomes complete. There is no longer any separation between people, because there is no longer any separation inside. In the space where fear used to live, love is allowed to grow.
© 1992 Michael Joseph Jackson - Dancing The Dream
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God
It's strange that God doesn't mind expressing Himself/Herself in all the religions of the world,
while people still cling to the notion that their way is the only right way. Whatever you try to say
about God, someone will take offense, even if you say everyone's love of God is right for them.
For me the form God takes is not the most important thing. What's most important is the
essence. My songs and dances are outlines for Him to come in and fill. I hold out the form. She
puts in the sweetness.
I've looked up at the night sky and beheld the stars so intimately close, it was as if my
grandmother had made them for me. "How rich, how sumptuous," I thought. In that moment I
saw God in His creation. I could as easily have seen Her in the beauty of a rainbow, the grace of
a deer bounding through a meadow, the truth of a father's kiss. But for me the sweetest contact
with God has no form. I close my eyes, look within, and enter a deep soft silence. The infinity of
God's creation embraces me. We are one.
let it go he was non denominational
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The Last Tear
Your words stabbed my heart, and I cried tears of pain.
I waited weeks, but you had nothing to say. Thinking of your voice, I cried tears of loneliness.
I watied months, but you left no sign for me. In the depth of my heart, I cried tears of despair.
Soft fingers touched my cheek, and you bent over for a kiss.
"To wipe away your last tear," you replied. "It was the one you saved for me."
By Michael Jackson.
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"I Searched For My Star"
"When I was little, I used to lie on my back in the grass at night. I began to tell one star from another and wished that one of them could be mine, like an imaginary friend.
First I picked the Pole Star, because it is the easiest for a child to find, once you know that the Big Dipper is about to catch it. But I wanted my star to be a moving star, and not such a constant one. Besides, the sailors at sea would be lost without the Pole Star to guide them. Next I picked out two special stars in the heart of the Swan. All the other stars looked white -but these were bright blue and gold. They reminded me of twin jewels, but before I could choose, I stopped. They belonged to each other, and it wouldn't be fair to take just one.
Orion's belt caught my eye for a moment, but I'm not a hunter. I had better leave the Dog Star alone, too, with its nose pressed to the celestial trail and its tail thumping the sky.
Last of all I turned to my favorites, the Seven Sisters. To me they were like elegant ladies getting ready for a ball, wrapped in a gossamer blue cloud. But who has the heart to tear seven sisters apart? My game taught me a lot about the night sky, but I was growing up. The whole idea of having my own star faded, and it was hard to remember if I had ever chosen one in the end. People began to tell me that the word "star" meant something quite different. I half believed them, then one night I was tossing in bed, hurt and worried. My heart felt heavy with troubles. Stumbling to my feet, I looked out the window. Thick clouds masked the midnight sky. No stars!
I trembled to think of a world without stars. No guide for the sailor to trust at sea, no jewels to dazzle our sense of beauty, no hunter pointing to the next horizon, no lovely ladies trailing perfume to heaven's ballroom. But all around the globe, the air is so dirty and the lights from the cities are so bright that for some people few stars can be seen anymore. A generation of children may grow up seeing a blank sky and asking, "Did there used to be stars there?" Let's give them back the sky and let's do it now - before it's too late. I'm going to search for my star until I find it. It's hidden in the drawer of innocence, wrapped in a scarf of wonder. I'll need a map to tell me which hole it should fill, and that will be a small one. But there are nearly five billion of us on earth, and we all need the sky. Find your star and throw it up to heaven. You still have it, don't you?"
"Dancing The Dream" by Michael Jackson
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"Wings Without Me"
It was August, and I was looking up at the sky. With one hand shielding my eyes, I made out a falcon soaring on the currents of hot swirling air. Higher and higher it spiraled, until with one unearthly shriek, it disappeared. All at once I felt left behind.
"Why did you grow wings without me?" I mourned.
Then my spirit said, "The falcon's way is not the only way. Your thoughts are as free as any bird."
So I shut my eyes and my spirit took off, spiraling as high as the falcon and then beyond, so that I was looking down over the whole earth. But something was wrong. Why did I feel so cold and alone?
"You grew wings without me," my heart said. "What good is freedom without love?" So I went quietly to the bed of a sick child and sang him a lullaby.
He fell asleep smiling, and my heart took off, joining my spirit as it circled over the earth. I was free and loving, but still something was wrong.
"You grew wings without me," my body said. "Your flights are only imagination." So I looked into books that I had ignored before and read about saints in every age who actually flew. In India, Persia, China, and Spain (even in Los Angeles!), the power of spirit has reached, not just into the heart, but into every cell of the body.
"As if carried aloft by a great eagle," Saint Teresa said, "my ecstasy lifted me into the air."
I began to believe in this amazing feat, and for the first time, I didn't feel left behind. I was the falcon and the child and the saint. In my eyes their lives became sacred, and the truth came home: When all life is seen as divine, everyone grows wings."
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Angel of Light
It's hard to see angels,
although I've stared at their pictures for hours.
Some people can see them without pictures,
and they tell interesting tales.
Guardian angels are all female, for instance,
which didn't surprise me once I found out.
A birth angel,
recruited from the younger ranks,
attends every baby when it appears,
while another angel, older but not grim,
helps the dying to leave this world without grief or pain.
You can pray to the angels and they will listen,
but the best way to call them,
I am told, is to laugh.
Angels respond to delight,
because that is what they're made of.
In fact, when people's
minds are clouded by anger or hatred,
no angel can reach them.
Not all angels have wings -- so the visionaries claim --
but those who do can unfurl a span of golden feathers stretching over the entire world.
If you had eyes that could look straight into the sun,
you would see an overwhelming angel presiding there;
a more serene one smiles out from the face of the moon.
Angels spend their entire lives, which are forever,
spinning around the Creator's throne,
singing His praise.
People with keen ears have listened in.
The harmonies of the angelic choir are incredibly complex, they say,
but the rhythm is simple.
"It's mostly march time," one eavesdropper affirmed.
For some reason, that fact is almost the best I have learned so far.
After a while it got lonely hearing about angels you couldn't see for yourself.
When an angel-watcher heard that, she was shocked.
"Not see?" she said. "But you have an angel in you.
Everybody does. I can see it right now,
and I thought you could, too.
" "No," I said sadly,
and I asked what it looked like.
"Did it look like me?"
"Well, yes and no,"
the angel-watcher mysterious answered. "It all depends on what you
think you are.
Your angel is a speck of light perched at the very center of your heart.
It is smaller than an atom, but just wait.
Once you get close to it, your angel will expand.
The closer you come, the more it will grow, until finally,
in a burst of light, you will see your angel in its true shape,
and at that very instant, you will also see yourself."
So now I am looking for my angel all the time.
I sit silently, turning my gaze inward.
It wasn't long before I caught a glimpse of something.
"Is that you, Angel, holding a candle?"
One flicker and it was gone.
Yet that was enough to set my heart wildly beating.
Next time my angel will be waving a lamp,
then holding a torch aloft, then lighting a bonfire.
That's what the angel-watcher promised,
and now that I have caught sight of glory,
I know enough to believe.
Are You Listening?
Who am I?
Who are you?
Where did we come from?
Where are we going?
What's it all about?
Do you have the answers?
Immortality's my game
From Bliss I came
In Bliss I am sustained
To Bliss I return
If you don't know it now
It's a shame
Are you listening?
This body of mine
Is a flux of energy
In the river of time
Eons pass, ages come and go
I appear and disappear
Playing hide-and-seek
In the twinkling of an eye
I am the particle
I am the wave
Whirling at lightning speed
I am the fluctuation
That takes the lead
I am the Prince
I am the Knave
I am the doing
That is the deed
I am the galaxy, the void of space
In the Milky Way
I am the craze
I am the thinker, the thinking, the thought
I am the seeker, the seeking, the sought
I am the dewdrop, the sunshine, the storm
I am the phenomenon, the field, the form
I am the desert, the ocean, the sky
I am the Primeval Self
In you and I
Pure unbounded consciousness
Truth, existence, Bliss am I
In infinite expressions I come and go
Playing hide-and-seek
In the twinkling of an eye
But immortality's my game
Eons pass
Deep inside
I remain
Ever the same
From Bliss I came
In Bliss I am sustained
Join me in my dance
Please join me now
If you forget yourself
You'll never know how
This game is played
In the ocean bed of Eternity
Stop this agony of wishing
Play it out
Don't think, don't hesitate
Curving back within yourself
Just create...just create
Immortality's my game
From Bliss I came
In Bliss I'm sustained
To Bliss I return
If you don't know it now
It's a shame
Are you listening?
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Berlin 1989
They hated the Wall,
but what could they do?
It was too strong to break through.
They feared the Wall,
but didn't that make sense?
Many who tried to climb over it were killed.
They distrusted the Wall,
but who wouldn't?
Their enemies refused to tear down one brick,
no matter how long the peace talks dragged on.
The Wall laughed grimly.
"I'm teaching you a good lesson," it boasted.
"If you want to build for eternity, don't bother with stones.
Hatred, fear, and distrust are so much stronger."
They knew the Wall was right, and they almost gave up.
Only one thing stopped them.
They remembered who was on the other side.
Grandmother, cousin, sister, wife.
Beloved faces that yearned to be seen.
"What's happening?" the Wall asked, trembling.
Without knowing what they did,
they were looking through the Wall,
trying to find their dear ones.
Silently, from one person to another,
love kept up its invisible work.
"Stop it!" the Wall shrieked.
"I'm falling apart."
But it was too late.
A million hearts had found each other.
The Wall had fallen before it came down.
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The Boy And The Pillow
A wise father wanted to teach his young son a lesson.
"Here is a pillow covered in silk brocade and stuffed with the rarest goose down in the land,"
he said. "Go to town and see what it will fetch."
First the boy went to the marketplace,
where he saw a wealthy feather merchant.
"What will you give me for this pillow?" he asked.
The merchant narrowed his eyes.
"I will give you fifty gold ducats,
for I see that this is a rare treasure indeed."
The boy thanked him and went on.
Next he saw a farmer's wife peddling vegetables by the side of the road. "What will you give me for this pillow?" he asked.
She felt it and exclaimed,
"How soft it is! I'll give you one piece of silver,
for I long to lay my weary head on such a pillow."
The boy thanked her and walked on.
Finally he saw a young peasant girl washing the steps of a church.
"What will you give me for this pillow?" he asked.
Looking at him with a strange smile, she replied,
"I'll give you a penny,
for I can see that your pillow is hard compared to these stones."
Without hesitation, the boy laid the pillow at her feet.
When he got home, he said to his father,
"I have gotten the best price for your pillow."
And he held out the penny.
"What?" his father exclaimed.
"That pillow was worth a hundred gold ducats at least."
"That's what a wealthy merchant saw," the boy said,
"but being greedy, he offered me fifty.
I got a better offer than that.
A farmer's wife offered me one piece of silver."
"Are you mad?" his father said.
"When is one piece of silver worth more than fifty gold ducats?"
"When it's offered out of love," the boy replied.
"If she had given me more, she wouldn't have
been able to feed her children.
Yet I got a better offer than that.
I saw a peasant girl washing the steps of a church who offered me this penny."
"You have lost your wits completely," his father said, shaking his head. "When is a penny worth more than one piece of silver?"
"When it's offered out of devotion," the boy replied.
"For she was laboring for her Lord,
and the steps of His house seemed softer than any pillow.
Poorer than the poorest, she still had time for God.
And that is why I offered her the pillow."
At this the wise father smiled and embraced his son,
and with a tear in his eye he murmured,
"You have learned well."
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Breaking Free
All this hysteria, all this commotion
Time, space, energy are just a notion
What we have conceptualized we have created
All those loved, all those hated
Where is the beginning, where's the end
Time's arrow, so difficult to bend
Those broken promises, what they meant
Those love letters, never sent
But The Heart Said No
They saw the poor living in cardboard shacks,
so they knocked the shacks down and built projects.
Huge blocks of cement and glass towered over asphalt parking lots.
Somehow it wasn't much like home, even home in a shack.
"What do you expect?" they asked impatiently.
"You're too poor to live like us.
Until you can do better for yourselves,
you should be grateful, shouldn't you?"
The head said yes, but the heart said no.
so they found a mountain stream to dam.
As the waters rose, dead rabbits and deer floated by;
baby birds too young to fly drowned in the nest
while mother birds cried helplessly.
"It's not a pretty sight," they said,
"but now a million people
can run their air conditioners all summer.
That's more important than one mountain stream, isn't it?"
The head said yes, but the heart said no.
so they made war against it.
Bombs reduced the country to rubble.
Its population cowered in fear,
and every day more villagers were
buried in rough wooden coffins.
"You have to be prepared to make sacrifices," they said.
"If some innocent bystanders get hurt,
isn't that just the price one must pay for peace?"
The head said yes, but the heart said no.
The years rolled by and they got old.
Sitting in their comfortable houses, they took stock.
"We've had a good life," they said, "and we did the right thing."
Their children looked down and asked why poverty, pollution, and war were still unsolved. "
You'll find out soon enough,"
they replied. "Human beings are weak and selfish.
Despite our best efforts, these problems will never really end."
The head said yes,
but the children looked into their hearts and whispered, "No!"
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A Child is a Song
When children listen to music, they don't just listen.
They melt into the melody and flow with the rhythm.
Something inside starts to unfold its wings -
soon the child and the music are one.
I feel that way, too, in the presence of music,
and my best moments of creativity have often been spent with children.
When I am around them, music comes to me as easily as breathing.
Each song is a child I nourish and give my love to.
But even if you have never written a song, your life is a song.
How can it not be?
In wave after wave, Nature caresses you - the
rhythm of each dawn and each sunset is part of you,
the falling rain touches your soul,
and you see yourself in the clouds that are playing tag with the sun.
To live is to be musical,
starting with the blood dancing in your veins.
Everything living has a rhythm.
To feel each one, softly and attentively, brings out its music.
Do you feel your music?
Children do, but once we grow up,
life becomes a burden and a chore,
and the music grows fainter.
Sometimes the heart is so heavy that we turn away from it and forget that its throbbing is the wisest message of life,
a wordless message that says, "Live, be, move, rejoice -- you are alive!"
Without the heart's wise rhythm, we could not exist.
When I begin to feel a little tired or burdened,
children revive me. I turn to them for new life, for new music.
Two brown eyes look at me so deeply, so innocently, and inside I murmur,
"This child is a song."
It is so true and direct an experience that instantly I realize again,
"I am a song also." I am back to myself once more.
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