Writing for self-knowing


We receive messages throughout our day, from many sources. Prophecy now seems like what we can easily do. I remember my farewell to the Source, I was probably around 10… I would pray to a smiley Muslim Hodja like God, sitting and looking down to see me, through his sweet cheeks and nose, in an affectionate way. I had this special connection with this God and I used to pray for the protection of myself and my family. But then, maybe my rituals got very boring and I noticed there was a whole world out there or maybe my family didn’t seem to receive any special treatments from the God, I talked to this God and asked him for a permission to leave our field and explore the world outside.

The image in my mind about it is very like me leaving a jungle, where we used to peaceful sessions and conversations with the smiley Hodja. I remember asking him “I will leave now and explore the world outside a bit. Please do not let me lose you, make sure I come back before it is too late.”

If I discussed this experience with a therapist they would probably go down to my early home education and my first contacts with a specific religion. Even if we argue many behaviours and beliefs I express it would do very little addition to my experience of myself. Nothing would explain the later concepts I developed sitting at my writing desk. Let me go into this in a bit more detail.
When I was 20 I wrote a poem and explained the “flow”. The poem is lost now, but I remember a big part of it. It was a dream of a flowy and fluid being. This was around 1999. The parts I remember are here:

I live in a flow-like state

with the freedom of being able to go from everywhere

I flow

I don’t break, I don’t fall, I spill and splash

If I stay somewhere specific for a while, they remember me for some days after I leave

Next day they remember me with my name perhaps

One or two days later they say “the man who was here a couple of days ago”

A few more days later, they cannot remember me and that I was there with them.

I live in a flow-like state

Everything I live is for minimum stability and maximum flow and game

I am not the man of anywhere, I am the man from nowhere

The poem was a long one and I remember working on it quite some time to perfect it, but the whole poem was flowed in a blink of an eye. In my inquiries regarding the connection with the Source, I decided that I’d better write what I wanted to know.

Now I hear the earth is moving from 3rd Dimension to the 4th Dimension, as a whole planet, but I was already in and out of the zones. The everyday reality was not very interesting and people had their own ways to go about it. They had very little, but very important worlds. They had different feelings, different ways of being. I was somehow surviving among them, but I got tired a lot trying to fit in.

My inquiries and searches got deeper and deeper that I found myself hitting an invisible wall. Reading books with hunger and developing ideas, imagining how the time and space works were not helping, I was drained of energy very often, with a despair.

People had their ways around the life and they were learning from each other. I could not trust their ways and their teachings.

I sat down in front of my computer and assured myself the sacred answers to our eternal questions cannot be in a book since no one can read and reach all the books and just because the universe in my mins was and still is fair. Then all the answers should be here with me now, and I should have the sufficient tools at any time in any circumstances as well as every single human being. We must be equal in accessing the Source. The Source I recently remembered to have had a farewell with.

Writing has been my exploration of the knowledge within. It has brought me many revelations, even I questioned whether I was the explorer or the inventor.

Things revealed layer by layer, the wisdom shined in a very subtle way while I was writing. Did I create all this beliefs and wisdom out of my dreaming? I asked this a lot to myself as the words I put on my screen came in flesh and bones, I got scared or became very emotional. When I ask this question now, I see its futility. Why does it matter? I know the feeling, I know the experience and the action of writing spoke for itself.

It is a method of dreaming, it is a way of extending your being to the heights and depths of a bigger mind, as long as you keep an open mind and heart. If I am sincere and serious in my curiosity, words will come in many forms and shapes.

My further readings, my spiritual training, and my researches helped with gaining clarity, technic, and strength. I can now only be humble for the gift I have and do my best. Words are limited but I learned silence carries intention and this silence can be embedded into the piece of writing I work on. Art of words then can extend to the magic, that alchemise the message, messenger, and the receiver.

When I look back at that 20 years old girl and her later versions,  I can only admire her stamina in her self-expression. How did she even draw my path to who I am now, an eccentric woman, who opens her hands and waits for the words to fall from the Source?

When I know think about that affectionate God, I am so grateful for having been reminded of the homecoming and for discovering the inner tools that laid and still lay my path.

I understood my “flow” poem many many years later, that was the intention I had set for my journey and it still goes on in the background of my life. It doesn’t stay stable either, the meaning transforms, progresses and lead me in a profound way.



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