tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70342193768661983532024-03-22T00:11:08.643-04:00Poems For Eternity, And Other StoriesPoetry and stories about the deeper journey of life.Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.comBlogger81125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-18273693134037987292011-12-27T11:22:00.001-05:002011-12-27T11:53:19.708-05:00The Force FieldCopyright 2011 by Stefan Bolz<br />
<br />
I have been thinking about my resistance to writing lately. I felt that there is this barrier that comes up whenever I want to write or do things creatively. It wasn't there all the time but it is there more than not. Actually, it is more like I have to sneak in the writing between the pretty solid wall of almost constant resistance. I decided to talk to Julie about it. When I sat down with her and started to describe it I realized that the resistance felt like a force field around me. I could almost stretch out my hands and touch it, like compressed air or a magnetic field of sorts. It surrounded me and seemed to come out of the top of my head. From above it was pink colored. I could see through it to the outside but it was like looking through a darkened window. <br />
<br />
When Julie asked me what the purpose of the force field was my first thought was to protect myself from influences from the outside. Like a defensive wall I built around myself to protect my personal space from intrusion. I thought about this a bit further but felt that even though it made sense, that wasn't the whole truth. There was more to it. I didn't really need that much personal space to write. A laptop and headphones provided plenty of that usually. And I could make time for it if I really wanted to, as well.<br />
<br />
Then a strange thought occurred to me. What if the force field wasn't there to protect me from the outside. What if it was there to protect the outside from me? As I let the thought stand there for a while, Julie asked me to maybe follow it and see if it leads me to something in my past, an image, a feeling or something similar. I then saw a room high up in the tower of a medieval castle. There were large paintings on the walls of the round room. I was an older man with a white, gruff beard and a long robe of sorts, standing in front of a large canvas on an easel. I think I painted landscapes. There were several servants. I must have been very powerful or influential and very rich. I did not care at all about the servants. I did not treat them with respect but was certain they were all literally there to serve me and that I didn't need to concern myself with their well being at all. The servants were very loyal. They loved me and served me selflessly. I never said a kind word to them, nor gave them praise. In fact, I was rude at best and cruel at worst. And still, they served me. <br />
<br />
It became clear to me that at some point I must have decided never to do that again, never again to abuse my creative abilities in that way. I think how I thought I could best keep my abilities and therefore the misuse of it at bay was to never let this creative side of me flow unencumbered into the world. My sense of shame for what I did previously gave way to this 'solution' of never even getting close to my creative potential. I thought that by keeping myself in check I would protect the outside world from the misuse of my power and from my potential selfishness. I associated creativity with selfishness and cruelty towards others.<br />
<br />
Obviously that 'solution' wasn't a solution at all. It was a bad patch of band aid over an oozing wound. Neither myself nor anyone else benefited from this. Ken Wapnick, the director of the Foundation For <em>A Course in Miracles</em>, spoke about something similar in one of the CD sets on <em>A Course In Miracles</em> and called it a 'maladaptive solution to a non existent problem'. In this sense we punish ourselves in order to pay God back for what we 'did'. We diminish our abilities in order to never abuse them again. <br />
<br />
Back in the tower room, I got the sense that I wanted to tell the servants that I was sorry for what I did, for how I behaved towards them. When I told them I somehow knew that they did not feel how I thought they would feel. They didn't feel mistreated. They loved me. I felt touched by their sentiment and their silently assuring me that I didn't have to go through all this trouble and that I was forgiven. <br />
<br />
I thought the session was over when suddenly an image came up that was connected to a session I had a couple of years back. It was the vision of me cowering under a table and eating whatever crumbs fell down from the people that sat at the table (See 'No More Crumbs' in the blog). In this previous image I, for some reason, couldn't face the people at the table and take my rightful place amongst them but was content with the crumbs that were dropped. Suddenly something clicked and I connected the two visions. I realized to my astonishment that the people that sat at the table a few years back were the servants and I was so ashamed over what I 'did' that I couldn't face them and sit with them at the table but rather stayed under it shamefully. <br />
<br />
When I let that image rise up within me again, I saw myself under the table unable to get up. Then a hand reached down and I reluctantly took it. I was in the tower room. The table was round and about 20 people sat at it. I recognized each and everyone of them as the previous servants. They talked quietly amongst themselves and I got the sense that they had known each other for a very long time. In fact their connection went past time and space and into something very ancient. They didn't really pay attention to me. I wasn't a stranger that just joined their group. I was one of them and they treated me as if I had always been with them in their circle. Tremendous comfort enveloped me at that moment. I was finally home after seemingly eons of searching and hiding in fear and shame.<br />
<br />
One more thing occurred: As I looked around the room I noticed the paintings on the walls. I realized that what looked like paintings weren't paintings at all. They were windows showing the magnificent landscape outside the tower: Rolling hills and forests on one side and the ocean and rising sun on the other. It seemed like an optical illusion for I was not sure if they were just windows of the landscape that looked like paintings or if they were paintings that depicted the landscape in such realist fashion, I couldn't tell the difference. <br />
<br />
I am thankful for everyone sitting here with me, thankful that they held a chair for me - a chair that nobody else could fill. We each have one and it stays empty until we get up from the floor and join the banquet that is set in time but clothed in timelessness. The chair is our inheritance. It has been there since time was and will be there until time disappears again and we are all back in our home that we have never left and which has never left us.Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-58637731642775170092011-12-24T12:10:00.000-05:002011-12-24T12:11:43.822-05:00"Make This Year Different..."A few thoughts on Christmas and 'A Course In Miracles.' <br />
<br />
Most of the sections on Christmas in <em>A Course In Miracles</em> were actually dictated to Helen by Jesus around Christmas time. In Chapter 15, for example, there are two, "The Time of Rebirth" and "Christmas as the End of Sacrifice". At the end of the latter, there is a line that seems especially fitting for the new year: "Make this year different by making it all the same." This is basically a plea from Jesus to us to try, as best as we can, to make everything the same, meaning, not to make distinctions between the parts of the sonhip. As the lesson of forgiveness is in every situation, in every encounter and in every circumstance, so is the opportunity to make everything in our lives infused with the same purpose: To learn to look at our egos without judgment and to let go of the seeming differences between ourselves and others. If we start, slowly but surely, to 'make it about them' rather than about us, making it about the people in our lives and not so much about our own imagined needs, we learn that our interests of escaping our ego thought system of separation, sin, guilt, and fear are shared by everyone and everything. Ultimately, the acceptance of Jesus' love for us is something that we all need, despite our resistance against it and despite our ego telling us that there are people out there that do not deserve this love, as if they were not part of the sonship but somehow outside. We are reminded that each time we cast someone out, we are casting ourselves out and shut the door to our own peace and the experience of love we so long for. "Make this year different by making it all the same" becomes the mantra reminding us of our purpose of looking with Jesus at all the differences we see in each other and smiling at them, knowing that they have absolutely no reality whatsoever. As it states in the introduction: <br />
<br />
"Nothing real can be threatened.<br />
Nothing unreal exists.<br />
Herein lies the peace of God."<br />
<br />Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-35060612280649828762011-09-23T09:09:00.011-04:002011-12-08T09:17:08.117-05:00I pray but to myself<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
For You would never leave me comfortless<br />
<div>
For You but give it all to all</div>
<div>
But I cannot accept Your gentle touch</div>
<div>
<br />
My fear of You forbids me to accept</div>
<div>
Your everlasting love</div>
<div>
My belief in my own littleness</div>
<div>
dictates the little that I will receive</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I pray but to myself</div>
<div>
For You give everything and always</div>
<div>
There are no limits to Your love except my own<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
I pray but to myself</div>
<div>
For You would not want me to suffer pain</div>
<div>
Or loss of any kind</div>
<div>
<br />
And so I pray to what I made of you, an image that I hold</div>
<div>
<div>
To substitute Your magnitude for things that last</div>
<div>
Only an instant and that leave</div>
<div>
Me with less than nothing to behold</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
All this I pray to while Your love </div>
<div>
Surrounds me in an everlasting light</div>
<div>
so vast and unimaginable </div>
<div>
I can only shut the door to You </div>
<div>
And ask for scraps when what You offer to me</div>
<div>
Is Yourself</div>
<div>
Your glorious Self, Your peace and stillness deep</div>
<div>
Your comfort and Your everlasting arms</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And so I pray until one day </div>
<div>
I realize that I have everything I want</div>
<div>
And ever wanted </div>
<div>
And then prayer can become</div>
<div>
What it has always been, a song</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Of love between</div>
<div>
Creation and Creator</div>
<div>
Lover and Beloved</div>
<div>
You and me</div>Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-40084289650025363692011-09-07T12:19:00.011-04:002011-12-22T19:13:52.088-05:00Destiny (part two)<div style="margin: 0px;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Y</span>our destiny is laid before your feet</div>
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Clear as a summer's path through golden fields</div>
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Clear as a shining star in cloudless night</div>
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And clearer still</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">L</span>ike the path of the sun from dusk till dawn</div>
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Like the tides in the ocean, like the moon</div>
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And its reflection in the stillness of a lake</div>
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And clearer still</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Y</span>ou are but what you want to find when searching high and low</div>
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From East to West from deepest sea to highest peak<br />
From smallest into smaller still<br />
With no place else to go<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Y</span>ou search in vain, yet feverishly you look for what you lost</div>
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You look for what you can not find<br />
But what you want the most<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">F</span>or you but search for searches sake<br />
In order <i>not</i> to find and even as you look for things<br />
Outside your holy mind<br />
You do not see that everything you looked for all your life<br />
Is here, right there in front of you to end your endless strive<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Y</span>ou will but weep when finally your eyes set on your self<br />
And find in utter loveliness the love you but withheld<br />
From you and only you for all of it is laid<br />
In front of you to carry you beyond the world you made<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">F</span>ear not that loneliness awaits you at your place of rest</div>
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For everyone you ever met has saved your kindnesses </div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
And laid them at your feet as gifts</div>
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">W</span>hen you arrive at what you are<br />
Your journey will be gone<br />
The journey ends where it began<br />
And all that's left is everything<br />
You thought you lost but won.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Y</span>our destiny is laid before your feet<br />
And even that is not the truth<br />
The path through golden fields<br />
The shining star in cloudless night<br />
Is all but part of <i>you</i>.<br />
<br /></div>
</div>Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-71699602020567700042011-07-02T09:51:00.003-04:002016-08-06T09:20:19.074-04:00Destiny (part one)Copyright 2011 by Stefan Bolz<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You journey not in outer realms but only deep within<br />
Your destiny can not be found in dust or cloud or wind<br />
You cannot find it in this world whatever you may do<br />
You only find it in yourself<br />
Your destiny is <i>you</i>.<br />
<br /></div>
Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-79140281084343208512011-06-03T15:50:00.004-04:002011-06-03T17:32:15.627-04:00ThresholdCopyright 2011 by Stefan Bolz<br />
<br />
This poem came about while thinking about an experience I had during a play I was in. I had been nervous before the show and just sat there trying to calm my mind a bit. For a moment I saw myself standing on stage in front of the audience, looking at them. My nervousness, my fear of judgment from them towards me based on my performance was for a moment exchanged by a deep experience of love that flowed freely between us. It was as if the veil of fear was lifted for an instant and the true emotion - love - was allowed to flow freely. At that moment, there was no fear of judgment, no nervousness, no dread to go out on stage. All there was - ALL there was - was an intense feeling of love that was flowing between me and the audience. Everyone was very dear to me and I knew that I was dear to them. There was just no question about that. It was a given, like the sun rising in the morning and setting at night. It was the only reality there was between us. And like an underground river that nobody on the surface notices, the love flowed, not only unnoticed but also undisturbed by what was going on above it. I felt at that moment that love was the only true emotion that existed between us and that everything else was made up by me for one reason only - to not experience it. After a minute or so, I went back to my old and well known feeling of nervousness, a bit lessened perhaps but still present. The memory of the experience lingered a while longer before it disappeared leaving but the slightest trace behind.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
Behind appearances<br />
Beyond the sights you see<br />
On the far side of the veil of fear<br />
Far past the reaches of the world<br />
And yet more near than breathe itself<br />
<br />
There lies your brother's love waiting at the threshold to your Self<br />
To give you comfort and the memory of love so deep<br />
Your worldly feelings of it are no more<br />
Then the tiniest sun beam is to the sun<br />
A drop of water compared to the ocean.<br />
<br />
Just past all grievances, all hatred and all fear,<br />
Past conflict and each others guilt you hold so dear<br />
You will find everything you want and everything the world<br />
Has promised you since time began but hurled<br />
Far far away from you beyond your hopeless grasp<br />
Just one step past all this it waits in patience for your choice at last<br />
<br />
And then in golden silence arising in your mind<br />
The memory of home<br />
Your love, your light, your life<br />
The drop returns into the oceans womb<br />
The sunbeam finally remembers that it is the sun<br />
<br />
And with your fingers outstretched and your heart<br />
Finally open, seeing what you are<br />
The lover returns to the beloved<br />
The endless circle ends where it began<br />
And we say 'Amen'<br />
And we say 'Amen'Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-27312006462881051872011-05-10T15:44:00.003-04:002011-09-07T08:17:15.112-04:00StillnessCopyright 2011 by Stefan Bolz<br />
<br />
Let this world be still<br />
Let its sounds and sights move far into the distance <br />
Of your mind. Let no thoughts of past or present <br />
Or of things to come linger one moment longer <br />
Leave them all behind<br />
<br />
The world you will now see is unlike anything you dreamed of,<br />
Anything you hoped for or anything you've lost all hope <br />
Of ever finding once again<br />
<br />
It is not ruled by day and night <br />
By time and tide, by chance or destiny<br />
Neither war nor peril can enter through its gates <br />
The futile search, the journey into darkened tombs <br />
The memory of damaged hearts and loss of innocence <br />
Is gone and will return no more into your sight<br />
<br />
The gate into the other world is sealed <br />
Against all false ideas you still hold within your heart<br />
And it is there until you finally remember<br />
Until you come, in tears perhaps <br />
Until at last you throw away your shield <br />
And free of it you enter<br />
Until your worn and bleeding feet will find their destined path <br />
Through your own labyrinth and to a place <br />
Where you and I will never be apart<br />
<br />
And as you look at it, this world will pass, will gently slide<br />
Into the nothingness from which it came<br />
The other world will dawn wtihin your mind<br />
Far beyond even the moon and stars and all you hoped to find<br />
And what your eyes behold will bare no trace of this one<br />
Other than the loving thoughts you left behind<br />
<br />
These will remain and will assure<br />
A swift transition into a world<br />
That you have loved so long before <br />
Before the journey into darkness had begun<br />
<br />
And it is here where you will rest in peace<br />
And it is here where you will know that it is done<br />
And it is here the journey ends <br />
In the place where you remember <br />
That you and I are one.Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-36389513451793362232010-11-17T15:01:00.002-05:002011-06-03T16:20:23.891-04:00It Happens Suddenly...copyright 2010 by Stefan Bolz<br />
<br />
A shift. A stepping out. A sudden letting go<br />
Or more a coming back, returning, going home<br />
For just one instant <br />
And an instant further<br />
It is gone<br />
<br />
Like fire flies in summer's night<br />
Forgotten, quickly set aside and lost<br />
But still this instant is enough to show <br />
That I am so much more than what I thought<br />
<br />
A breath of freedom's air so long forgotten <br />
Yet suddenly remembered. <br />
For but an instant I escape this world, this mind,<br />
This body and surrender<br />
<br />
Into a single note within love's symphony that fell <br />
On defened ears for all too long; into my Self<br />
My Truth, my Love, my Life, my Happiness, and my Creator's Song;<br />
Into the home I dreamt I left, from which I thought I was away<br />
For far too longStefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-73086579803329896462010-11-14T09:18:00.008-05:002011-06-03T16:21:29.296-04:00Ancient Drumscopyright 2010 by Stefan Bolz<br />
<br />
I have had a slight ringing in my left ear for a while. Also a sense that my ear was somehow clogged up at times. I went to a doctor who looked into it and didn't see an infection or anything atypical. I spoke to my friend Elke about it who is a hypno-therapist and spiritual counselor. We agreed to do a phone session to see if we could find out a little more about it. Elke's main work is with the unconscious mind and how it speaks to us through symbols, images, etc.<br />
<br />
We first did a simple meditation with the goal for me to calm down and go inward. She then asked me where in my body, other than in the ear itself, I felt the 'ear problem'. I felt that it was located somewhere in my stomach. I saw it as a round cylindrical hole in my stomach area. From it a red light pulsated in a slow rhythm, not unlike a deep drum. Similar to the sound of a sonar but much lower, deeper and - for lack of a better word - older. "Ancient" was another word that came to mind. The pulsating light created waves that went through my body. The waves were neither uncomfortable nor painful.<br />
<br />
When I described this to Elke she asked me to try to see this image outside of myself and no longer inside of me. First, I saw a holographic image of my body standing about 3 feet in front of me. I saw the round hole and pulsating red light. I didn't want to move the image further away from me and wasn't sure why until I suddenly realized that I was afraid I would lose this deep, ancient, rhythmic drumming sound. As I thought about why I was afraid to lose it, the hologram changed and laid down flat in front of me. One pulsating light became two, then three, four, ten, until a row of lights extended from me all the way to the horizon and into infinity. "Like a homing beacon", I thought. <br />
<br />
Elke asked me how it felt and I answered that it felt very reassuring, like an ancient beam of a light house showing the path for sailors lost in the fog. There was no question in my mind that this was the path that would lead me home. I had a sense of 'ancientness' when I looked at the path and listened to the drum. As if this path had been there even before time was. The low drum penetrated to the very depth of my soul, as it seemed. The next question was if the image wanted to tell me something. After a while I heard just two words: "Follow me". I felt a deep sense of being loved - with the love emanating from the beacon towards me. When Elke asked me what the beam needed from me, I answered that the only thing it needed from me was to listen to it. It was clear to me that it didn't really need it for itself but for my sake. <br />
<br />
I realized that even though my feet were on the path, there was a traffic sign pole I held on to with one hand. I didn't really move. There is a difference between seeing a path in front of oneself and taking the step and actually walking it. Elke asked me to let it go and when I did it felt as if I was gently pulled by an invisible string, almost as if walking on a horizontal escalator, like the ones in airports. It was completely effortless to follow the drums and lights. I thought for a moment that in the beginning of ones spiritual journey, we are most likely motivated by pain, pushed by our pain to go on a different path, to change our thinking, our values, etc. Pain pushes us to escape from it, to find a better way. During the journey, our motivation slowly changes. At a certain point on the path we are no longer being pushed by our pain but rather we are being pulled by love, our destination. <br />
<br />
That thought brought me to another: As love is the goal of the journey, then the path to love must be connected, joined with it. Through the path, the beacon, I was connected to my destination at all times during the journey. A quote from A Course in Miracles comes to mind while I write this: <em>"Our Love awaits us as we go to Him, and walks beside us, showing us the way. He fails in nothing. He the end we seek, and He the means by which we come to Him."</em> [W-L.302]<br />
<br />
[Elke's email address is <a href="mailto:creativemindhypnosis@yahoo.com">creativemindhypnosis@yahoo.com</a>. She works in Florida around the Del Ray Beach area]Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-40602204619962653512010-09-20T21:15:00.003-04:002011-06-03T16:24:01.459-04:00Geraldine DeLaCroix(The beginnings of a short story, copyright 2010 by Stefan Bolz)<br />
<br />
My name is Geraldine DeLaCroix. French Royalty as the world sees it. A prisoner of my own ancestry as I do. There are times when the court, the royal court, appears to be enough. When life seems to overflow with gatherings and balls and senseless musings. With people, rich and richer, powerful and even more powerful. But when all have left, when I wander these endless halls in solitude, when all that is left is the sense that nothing ever really happens despite everyones desparate conviction to the contrary, in these times I imagine this house to be a nunnery and I am in the service of the Lord our God. In these times the silence and emptiness of the long hallways fills my heart with joy for He fills my being completely. There is no space for idle thoughts and petty imaginings. The fulness of His heart is what I hear, His gentle touch upon my shoulder and His kind words whisper in every step I take on the stone floor. In these moments I walk on hallowed ground. In these moments I am so filled with His love that there are no more words, no more earthly memories and nothing I could ever imagine different from this all encompassing experience. <br />
<br />
I imagine the first prayer starting at 3:45 AM. The deep sound of the bell from the main tower crawls into my subconscious, awakens me hours before dawn. I lie on my back with my eyes open for a few minutes, trying to penetrate the darkness. My thoughts find Him before my hands find the candle and the matches next to it. There has never been a time when I woke after sun rise or in the light. Not since I can remember anyway. Another day in the service of my Lord. My name is Geraldine DeLaCroix. I am a nun. And this is my life.<br />
<br />
<img border="0" height="200" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj89kI9hmT2QwC9ZY-6ziDpO1_Hoa4xWv6hWvfY7nEsQiakFRYsAnhUM6BvWVBDJYM8uJV7zyYCxnfj2hS2mFFRU43BIcAifCpPRVFwa3wpTH2xaAE7qH98QeFoPplRIp4XtgSPiTOgw24/s200/cbro1.jpg" width="140" /><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj89kI9hmT2QwC9ZY-6ziDpO1_Hoa4xWv6hWvfY7nEsQiakFRYsAnhUM6BvWVBDJYM8uJV7zyYCxnfj2hS2mFFRU43BIcAifCpPRVFwa3wpTH2xaAE7qH98QeFoPplRIp4XtgSPiTOgw24/s1600/cbro1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-51225705893707441052010-09-20T20:47:00.004-04:002011-06-03T16:17:45.020-04:00What Is Your Name?copyright 2010 by Stefan Bolz<br />
<br />
My name: <br />
A symbol of a symbol <br />
A definition of myself <br />
A fence around something utterly unimaginable <br />
A barrier of protection against an enemy unknown <br />
A very short version of a life's story which in itself is nothing but <br />
A short version of yet another shield against the truth <br />
<br />
My name: <br />
Can what you think you know about me be the truth? <br />
I am happy, sad, nervous, kind, a liar, a saint, a lover, a friend. <br />
Is that the truth about me? <br />
Or are all those atributes, the good and the bad, mere parts of yet another part <br />
Carved out of an illusion of myself?<br />
Or is what defines me further, ever further from my truth? <br />
Can a name allow me to experience love? <br />
Or does it hinder its accceptance? <br />
<br />
My name: <br />
What you associate with me is not the truth. <br />
It seems to be and everyone agrees to live an image of herself <br />
A picture and a word, a certain meaning just to say 'I am'. <br />
I am not who I think I am. <br />
For I have no name. <br />
<br />
Except the one changeless<br />
Written amongst the stars.Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-2035254757166495452010-07-06T07:09:00.004-04:002011-06-03T16:24:51.322-04:00Remembercopyright 2010 by Stefan Bolz<br />
I am waiting for all of us to remember who we truly are and then to remember each other. But it seems as if we have to remember each other in order to remember who we truly are. They are the same. Who we truly are is each other.Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-85031762109693240982010-02-06T10:13:00.013-05:002010-11-17T15:06:56.810-05:00Earthbound Thought<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs-Y56uk9TpZshahon3avARBI7rLTaUKjIAkIGFaX7MaOxF-TDw6oWa9d5ljlIh57-zO5vcn6M5JwNoldgN6RAAUMzn00b0QkPxo9ufaaD3ciizU6DZJV1mxbYievm1W7A8Tby4MXs6As/s1600-h/Sunrise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" kt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs-Y56uk9TpZshahon3avARBI7rLTaUKjIAkIGFaX7MaOxF-TDw6oWa9d5ljlIh57-zO5vcn6M5JwNoldgN6RAAUMzn00b0QkPxo9ufaaD3ciizU6DZJV1mxbYievm1W7A8Tby4MXs6As/s400/Sunrise.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br />
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Copyright 2010 by Stefan Bolz</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br />
Rain kisses the sunrise on the horizon</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">Awake, awake, be free at last, my love</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">No boundaries are set upon you</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">No will is fixed against your own</div><div style="text-align: left;">Nor will there ever be a time </div><div style="text-align: left;">Where love is absent </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">From your holy mind</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;">And so you find </div><div style="text-align: left;">Your way back home</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Despair was your companion</div><div style="text-align: left;">For all too long. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Yet is there still another path and one</div><div style="text-align: left;">That takes you gently, quietly, and strong</div><div style="text-align: left;">Upon your chosen road beyond</div><div style="text-align: left;">The sun and stars and earthbound thought.</div>Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-68255891543778493202009-12-11T07:32:00.001-05:002009-12-11T07:33:04.261-05:00In Betweencopyright 2009 by Stefan Bolz<br />
<br />
It is in the silence between the notes where music happens<br />
It is in the quiet between the words where we truly talk to each other<br />
It is in those small moments of stillness where life actually occurs.<br />
<br />
.Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-85781110168877816702009-11-26T08:14:00.109-05:002010-01-19T10:43:38.842-05:00A Stream Of Stars<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOuaAg5mvXtTeFJ476wq7Fo9AxOM_c6z7c4KJw6OaR6aYFfXcOvJqtqAtKOnuUt6_KpmjP9CrDinUaiks9lddvyCV0nqeIe_ledS0xIbJkCSEDRd0LAAvlo24aCfh71JZ9eHwG2JgREDI/s1600-h/AStreamOfStars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOuaAg5mvXtTeFJ476wq7Fo9AxOM_c6z7c4KJw6OaR6aYFfXcOvJqtqAtKOnuUt6_KpmjP9CrDinUaiks9lddvyCV0nqeIe_ledS0xIbJkCSEDRd0LAAvlo24aCfh71JZ9eHwG2JgREDI/s320/AStreamOfStars.jpg" /></a> <br />
Copyright 2009 by Stefan Bolz<br />
<br />
A stream of stars forever calls us home<br />
To where we will return<br />
To where we still belong<br />
<br />
Our hands reach to the heavens<br />
Our footsteps light the world<br />
Our holy voices join together<br />
No longer left unheard<br />
<br />
As every voice awakens <br />
And every dreamer stirs<br />
A song arises thousand fold<br />
Across the universe<br />
<br />
It heralds in a time<br />
Close to eternity<br />
Where everyone remembers<br />
Our ancient memory<br />
<br />
The doors have long since opened<br />
Unlocked the gates of time<br />
The path to truth is open<br />
The stars are now aligned<br />
<br />
To start an ancient journey<br />
To where we've always been<br />
To follow our own yearning<br />
To gather our own kin<br />
<br />
Our fate is sealed<br />
Our destiny is written in the sky<br />
Our home at last revealed<br />
We will not pass it by<br />
<br />
Our radiance will light our path<br />
And strengthen our step<br />
To leave behind all loneliness<br />
All frailty and all lack<br />
<br />
And then one day the sands of time <br />
Will vanish from our hearts<br />
And leave no trace of them behind<br />
Except a stream of stars.Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-73387449578846738822009-11-15T08:02:00.013-05:002009-11-23T22:19:55.849-05:00The Golden HallCopyright 2009 by Stefan Bolz<br />
<br />
I see a great golden hall perched high on top of a hill with white marble walls and golden pillars in front. There is an engravement above the large wooden entrance door. It says: <em>The Call For Love. </em>Inside the great hall, mounted to one of the walls, is a large, thick plate of gold. Thereon is written:<br />
<br />
<em>The call for love is made and answered for all by all.</em><br />
<em>The names are legion. But behind each one is the same</em><br />
<em>fervent call for God. The call takes many shapes, appears</em><br />
<em>in many religions, colors, cultures, languages, and countries.</em><br />
<em>You can find it everywhere. In every pain and fear, in every hurt </em><br />
<em>and hurting, in every friend and foe, in everything that lives </em><br />
<em>and everything that seems to have no life at all. It is in you </em><br />
<em>as well as it is in me. It is in your father, in your mother, in </em><em>your </em><br />
<em>sister, </em><em>and your brother, in your son and in your daughter; </em><em>in </em><br />
<em>your policeman, </em><em>your major, your </em><em>car </em><em>mechanic, </em><em>your carpenter </em><br />
<em>and your president; </em><em>It is in prisoners and guards, </em><em>in soldiers, in </em><br />
<em>husbands and wives, in doctors and </em><em>lawyers, in </em><em>rich men and poor. </em><br />
<em>It is in everything because it is </em><em>in you. </em><em>The </em><em>shape does not matter. </em><br />
<em>It may conceal the call </em><em>but only</em><em>if you </em><em>wish </em><em>it so. The call is there, </em><br />
<em>present always, waiting to be </em><em>answered </em><em>so </em><em>that </em><em>peace can come </em><em>to </em><br />
<em>every heart, so that love can </em><em>make a </em><em>home throughout the world </em><br />
<em>at last. </em><em>The call for love is made </em><em>and </em><em>answered for all by all, </em><em>from </em><br />
<em>you to everyone and from </em><em>everyone </em><em>to you.</em>Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-45630452193579576012009-11-13T22:11:00.006-05:002009-11-19T13:34:41.647-05:00Where will you lead me?Copyright 2009 by Stefan Bolz<br />
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I'm lying on Julie's (my therapist's) table in her practice in Accord, NY and think about her question: "Where in your body do you feel the fear?" "I can feel pressure in my upper lungs just below my colar bones," I answer. At this moment an image comes to me that seems too violent and too painful to even mention to her. But with Julie, I decided a long time ago not to edit what comes up and to just tell her. Whatever it is, it is in very good hands with her. "I hang from two butcher hooks that are driven through my body just below the colar bones," I tell her. She asks me to, if possible, stay with the image, as painful as it might be, to see where it leads me. "Maybe you can find out why you hang there and what and who brought you there." <br />
<br />
I was at my writing group earlier that morning with my friend Jenny. I had been working on a synopsis for a script I had written some five years back that almost got optioned but never sold. It recently came back into my awareness and I thought I'd give it another shot. After I read the synopsis to Jenny she asked me when I would start writing the script. I told her that it had been finished years ago. "I will call my very good friend in the city (NYC) right now. She is a talent agent and she'll read it if I ask her to." That was all it took for me to experience my spine being dipped into ice water and hot coals at the same time. I started to feel anxious almost immediately and got up to walk around her store: "Can you wait till I'm gone and call her afterwards?" I ask her. "You are nervous! Why are you nervous? You are making ME nervous," she replied. For years I thought of ways to get my script in front of the right people but never really went all out with it. I never asked Jenny and she of course never told me about her friend of 20 years who is a major agent. <br />
<br />
Jenny - God bless her - called anyway while I was there and talked to her friend and I sent the script to her that same day. My next stop of the day was Julie. After I told her of two other instances when one of my scripts was almost optioned and I somehow couldn't take it, we agreed to do some table work. So, here I am, in my mind hanging from two butcher hooks somewhere in a medieval castle. After Julie's question how I got there in the first place I suddenly see a large dining hall filled with people. They are mostly peasants and farmers. Very poor people. I am handing out some sort of flyers and then get up on a table to tell them that they have to fight for their rights and that they should not take it anymore and that they should stand up for themselves. "I think I am not one of them," I tell Julie. I realize that I am about 18 years old and probably either the King's son or the Duke's son. I am also fully aware that the guards will come in in a minute or so and even though I am very fearful, I keep doing what I'm doing, talking to the people and trying to get them to stand up and fight for themselves. <br />
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Next thing I see is guards rushing into the room and taking me. I am being pulled through a long hallway while a couple of the guards beat me. Then I am thrown into a large room and onto the hard stone floor. <br />
<br />
In the next scene I hang from the butcher hooks from the ceiling. Then someone comes into the room. Must be the Duke or the King and probably my father. He looks at me in disgust, spits at me, turns and leaves without a word. <br />
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Next thing I know is I lie on the stone floor of some sort of a prison cell. The holes where the butcher hooks penetrated my body are healed and overgrown with deformed flesh. From where I lie, I can see the outline of the cell. There is an indentation in the dirt floor around the perimeter of the cell as if I - or somebody - had walked there for a long time and the path was actually lower than the rest of the cell floor. I look down on myself. I am very thin, naked and very old with a long beard and thin legs and arms. I have been in here for 60 years minimum. For some strange reason I am at peace with the situation. I don't feel any fear or hatred or anger at all. Just very peaceful. <br />
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At that moment, I can actually feel that the table I'm lying on in Julie's practice, is the stone floor of my cell. The strangest sensation of the two 'scenes' happening simultaneously creeps into my awareness. I can't put my finger on it but it feels as if both are happening right now. Then I see stairs, made of stone, above my head leading upward into the darkness. As I sit up from the stone floor, I can see that the stairs reach very far. "Almost to the heavens," I think to myself. At that moment a light appears all the way up at the other end of the stairs. It is soft and inviting and my first thought is that I am probably supposed to walk towards it and that this is somehow how I am going to die. But none of this happens. Instead, the light seems to move downward towards me. With the light, I see a figure coming closer. I know that this is Jesus. I have had images before where Jesus appeared in one way or another. This one must be one of the strongest ones so far. He comes down the stairs, together with the light and as it touches my head, he arrives next to me. He goes down on one knee and smiles at me while helping me up. <br />
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I feel such relief at that moment, it is indescribable. My chest seems to extend manyfold and my breathing becomes light and easy. My body seems to weigh nothing. "Come on, old friend," he says. I stand next to him as he puts his arms around me in an embrace. Tears stream down my cheeks - both in the vision and on the table. The love coming from him is overwhelming. At some point we let go and he slowly starts going up the steps. As I follow, a question comes to me: "Where will you lead me?" I ask. "To our Father's house," he answers.Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-49964572962950060812009-11-12T18:36:00.000-05:002011-12-22T18:57:08.009-05:00I Think Of You (Audio)A poem about the dark night of the soul.<br />
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<iframe frameborder="0" height="20" scrolling="no" src="http://www.hipcast.com/playweb?audioid=P530227ba076358d4dff0f4beb02d5eeeZVh8QHhuY2N3Ug&buffer=5&fc=FFFFFF&pc=CCFF33&kc=FFCC33&bc=FFFFFF&brand=1&player=ap21" width="246"></iframe>Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-43919343207025420362009-11-11T20:12:00.004-05:002009-11-11T20:17:56.453-05:00I Think of YouCopyright 2009 by Stefan Bolz<br />
<br />
When I want quietness<br />
When I long to put my heart to rest<br />
When I'm forsaken, forlorn, and far from home<br />
When I reach the end of the road<br />
And the bottom of the ocean floor<br />
<br />
I think of you<br />
<br />
When the sun's warmth evades me<br />
When the flowers have lost their scent<br />
When emptiness calls me<br />
To live in its house<br />
To call it friend<br />
<br />
I think of you<br />
<br />
When my dreams fade to darkness <br />
When I long for a distant star<br />
In the hour before dawn<br />
In the dark night<br />
When love seems nothing but an ancient scar<br />
<br />
I think of you<br />
<br />
When I have lost myself to fading dreams<br />
Like the melting of a snowflake in the summer sun<br />
When I am but a stranger in my house<br />
When after I hear love's promise<br />
I come undone<br />
<br />
I think of youStefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-16049347290520454782009-11-01T07:29:00.002-05:002009-11-06T21:41:44.537-05:00Journey Into the Inner EarCopyright 2009 by Stefan Bolz<br />
<br />
I look around the room. It has all kinds of equipment in it. One wall holds climbing gear like helmets with flashlights mounted on them, ropes, hooks, harnesses, back packs, etc. The other wall holds medical supplies containing all kinds of industrial size tubes of creams, potions, powders, drops and tinctures, anti inflammatory sprays, cans with soft soap foam in them, bandages, gloves, scalpels, syringes and so on. On the third wall there are ladders, brushes, power washers, large heating lamps and whole body suits. <br />
<br />
A woman stands in front of me. She is in her sixties with short grey hair, dressed in rugged hiking outfit. She is my guide. I know this because of the yellow letters on her black baseball cap saying “GUIDE”. She hands me a large darkish green back pack. “Everything you need is in there,” she says. I guess she has done this before. “Yes I have,” she answers my thoughts. Then she hands me a pack of gum. “For your ears. We are going to go quite some ways down in the elevator. You might take one so your ears don’t pop.” I don’t want to sound silly and ask questions, especially because she looks as if everything that is happening is the most normal thing in the world. “Thank you,” I reply. “Follow me,” she says, while handing me a white hard hat with a flashlight mounted to its front. She opens a steel reinforced door that leads into a long, narrow hallway. “Put this on so you don’t hurt your head.”<br />
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For the last day or so, my ears were bothering me: a slight white-noise-sound together with pressure coming from the inside and radiating outward into the left side of my head. I can only use my phone on my right ear and can’t listen to my beloved iPod with head phones on. So I thought I would like to explore this ear thing a bit more to see what it had to show me. From my work with my therapist I have learned to explore certain aspects of my unconscious by visually journeying through the landscape of my mind. <br />
<br />
So here I am, walking down this long narrow corridor, illuminated by overhead lights that are drilled into the bare stone ceiling every 10 feet or so. The shape reminds me of a mining tunnel. As I look down, I see that I am wearing very solid looking hiking boots; some sort of gore-tex pants and a light jacket of the same material. The back pack lies heavily on my shoulders. This actually feels more comforting than straining and while I wonder what’s in it, my guide turns left and after a short while we arrive at an old fashioned, yellow metal elevator door. The door parts and opens, giving way to the second set of doors made from welded metal bars. As we enter the cabin of the elevator the platform moves slightly downward, adjusting to our weight. The doors close and the woman pushes the only button that is there. It says “DOWN”. <br />
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As we drop, I can feel a slight pressure in my lower abdomen not dissimilar to what usually happens during the first drop in a roller coaster. Judging from that, we must be going pretty fast. There is a small Plexiglas opening in one of the cabin’s walls. Behind it and illuminated by yellow light, I clearly see the number 10. Looks like the number of an alarm clock from the seventies, the ones where the numbers are cut in half and the upper parts flip over to reveal the next number. As I stare at it, the number changes from 10 to 9. After a while it flips over again to 8, then 7, 6, 5. We must be hundreds and hundreds of feet below the surface by now, I think. 4…, 3…, 2…, “We are not only going down but you also are getting smaller. Much smaller,” my guide tells me. “We are not dropping so much in feet but in size.” “Ah,” I answer. “Sure. OF COURSE!” All this is far from making any sense to me at all. “How small… are we going to get?” I ask. The number changes from 2 to 1 and the elevator slows down. “You can’t possibly explore your inner ear without shrinking down to a reasonable size,” my guide tells me happily. BING! “We are here,” she says. The doors open. <br />
<br />
The first thing I’m aware of is the noise level. “You might want to take these!” my guide yells at me while handing me a set of yellow plastic ear muffs, the kind of ear protection you get when working on a construction site. “I’m fine!” I yell back. “Thanks!” She shrugs and puts hers on. “Where are we?” I ask. My guide doesn’t understand a word I am saying. The noise around me – a mixture between a low but intense vibration and what it must sound like when standing next to the turbine engine of a large airplane – is absolutely deafening. She hands me the ear muffs again. I finally give in and put them on. “I can’t hear you without them and you will have trouble hearing me otherwise.” I can hear her soft voice loud and clear through what must be integrated ear phones. “Where are we?” I ask. “This is your inner ear,” she says.<br />
<br />
I look around. We stand in what I would call an organic cave. A cave not made of stone but of some kind of organic, live, matter. From where I stand to the other side is probably a third of a football field. It is relatively dark in here. A few light beams come through what at some point must have been a large, round opening. The shape of the cave reminds me of a funnel – larger on one side and becoming smaller on the other. As my eyes slowly get used to the semi darkness I can see that all around me, covering the ground, walls and ceiling, are what looks like thin straight branches sticking out of a blackened, thick substance. The driftwood colored branches are all bent in the direction of the smaller side of the cave. <br />
<br />
I kneel down to take a closer look at whatever it is that is sticking up so strangely. The ‘things’ are about as long as my hand and as I touch one of them I realize that it is actually a bundle, made of hundreds and hundreds of individual pieces of hair, like that on a very expensive painter’s brush or a bundle of fiber optic cable - extremely soft and very fragile. A low vibration radiates from the string of hairs. “This must be the cause for the noise,” I say to my guide as I take off the head phones. The intensity of the distorted sound hits me like a train. It screeches and rumbles deeply as if someone who has never played a cello plays it right into my ear. I put the head phones back on. <br />
<br />
Now I can see that the hair bundles are actually much longer than I originally thought. There is about a foot of gooey, sticky stuff holding the hairs in place. “I have to get the gooey stuff off so they can move around more freely. No wonder it sounds so horrific in here. They are all out of tune. “ I had no idea how to go about it. “Let’s see what’s in your back pack,” my guide tells me. I had forgotten all about my back pack until she lifted it off my back and placed it in front of me. I opened it to find, amongst other items, a few tools like a chisel, a hammer, a crowbar, a battery powered drill, etc. “That’s pretty useless,” I say out loud. “Isn’t there anything else I can use?” I ask, looking at my guide. She just looks at me smiling as if to say: “You’ll get it. Don’t worry. I’m just here to make sure you stay on track.” I look around the cave. There is a stark contrast between the few beams of light coming through the openings and the rest of the cave. I follow one of the light beams with my eyes from its origin through the room and onto one of the sides of the cave. <br />
<br />
Looks like there is no gooey stuff where the light hits the hairs. I walk over to the small patch and kneel down. The fragile looking hairs feel soft as they gently stroke my hands when I touch them. And something else happens. As they touch my hands, I can hear them. There is no other way to describe this. I hear them, not in the usual sense but as the tiniest most beautiful fading whispers of a melody within me. I glance back to the origin of the light – a hole in one of the cave’s walls. I get up and go over to the wall. I can see the outline of a much larger opening that is covered by a hard and deformed mass. “I need to get this off,” I think to myself. “Ah, the chisel.” It dawns on me that there was a purpose for all the tools in my back pack.<br />
<br />
I take a hammer and the chisel and start to break off pieces of the hard mass. Easier said than done though and my progress is slow at best. After a while I start sweating and the hard hat and the hearing protection head phones feel increasingly uncomfortable. At some point I take them both off. The noise level is almost unbearable. In addition to that, whenever my chisel touches the hard mass, a low vibration goes through my hand and into my body. “Hardened thoughts of anger over what I have heard.” I’m not sure where this thought came from but it makes me stop. I think about what it means. “What have I heard lately that made me angry?” I think to myself. “What made me so upset that I didn’t want to hear it anymore and created a barrier to obstruct any sound from entering?”<br />
<br />
There has to be another way besides trying to chisel the hard mass away. I look over to my guide. She grabs something from inside the back pack. It looks like a very oversized tube of tooth paste. “See if this helps,” she says. I want to tell her that any cream or tooth paste of some sort is certainly not going to help get rid of a hard mass like I’m dealing with here. “I need a power drill!” I yell at her. “Or one of those Hammer drills construction workers use to break up pavement and concrete!” She gestures me that she hasn’t heard a word I just said and continues to hold out her hand with the tube in it. <br />
<br />
Ok fine. I take it and look at what it says on the outside of the tube: Lookwithlove. One word. And below it, “If you have questions about this product, go to www.lookwithlove.com for further information.” I glance at my guide. She shrugs. I decide to, for now, just go with it. What else am I going to do? I’m standing inside my ear. How much more surreal can it possibly get? So I unscrew the tube, put some of the paste like substance into the palm of my hand and start applying it to the hardened mass. Almost immediately the hard material starts to soften. Whenever I put more of the cream on my hand, I have to look at the tube of course. Lookwithlove. Lookwithlove. Lookwithlove. Ok, I get it. I’m not stupid. Sometimes it takes me a while. I once heard that everything we do is symbolic. So, if I apply “Lookwithlove”, literally and symbolically, to “hardened thoughts of anger over what I have heard” then I’ll get: “Look with love on my hardened thoughts of anger over what I have heard.” <br />
<br />
As I apply more and more of the paste onto the material, it softens and becomes transparent and jelly like. While I do this, something else happens. The deafening sound is sometimes overlaid by the soft small melody I heard before. The more of the mass breaks off, the more light streams into the cave. I look behind me to see that wherever the light hits the gooey material, it hardens, breaks apart and disappears, leaving more and more patches of the silver grey hairs. As this happens, the intense sound seems to lessen as well. There is one point where the screeching sound and the beautiful melody are equally present. In order to continue it almost seems as if I have to concentrate on the inner melody in order not to be overwhelmed by the screeching sound outside. This is much harder than the actual work of applying the paste.<br />
<br />
Finally, I seem to get some momentum going and more and more of the hard mass turns into jelly and breaks off until there is almost nothing left. As I turn around, large areas of the gooey stuff, now illuminated by the light, become hard and start to break apart. While I watch this, a second thing happens. Whereas before I could only hear the melody inside of me, I can now hear it from the outside as well. I realize that what I hear aren’t instruments. Those are human voices coming from outside the ear. A chorus so sweet and beautiful and otherworldly, it fills my heart with utter joy. Nothing I have ever heard before in my life comes even close to this. It fills the cave and reaches deep into every corner of my soul filling it with its radiance. <br />
<br />
After a while, my guide stretches out her hand. I give her the chisel and the hammer. She puts it into the back pack, together with the hard hat and the ear protectors. “You ready?” she asks? “Yes,” I reply. We walk to the elevator. Before we go in, I turn around. The cave is covered with a sea of millions of silver white hair moving softly in the light. The soft vibrations permeate my body. “This is better than any massage,” I think to myself. I step into the elevator and my guide presses the only button there is. This time it says, “UP”. The numbers change from 0 to 1, then 2, 3, 4, 5… I feel light. Somehow lighter than when I came down here. 6,7,8,9, 10. The elevator stops. My guide exits and we both walk through the long mining tunnel until we reach the door to the equipment room where she takes my back pack and places it on a shelf. “See you next time,” she says. We shake hands. I turn around and open the door to the outside.Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-6460588488115723272009-10-26T18:35:00.000-04:002011-12-22T18:56:22.331-05:00The Cup (Audio)A short story about a cup and the meaning of the universe.<br />
<br />
<iframe frameborder="0" height="20" scrolling="no" src="http://www.hipcast.com/playweb?audioid=P7a5db10b491b015b29b763a2143fcfe6ZVh8QHhuY2N0Wg&buffer=5&fc=FFFFFF&pc=CCFF33&kc=FFCC33&bc=FFFFFF&brand=1&player=ap21" width="246"></iframe>Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-5730973943593003052009-10-26T14:22:00.001-04:002009-10-26T14:22:37.471-04:00The Cup“I love you so much.” The voice stands clear within my mind. It is a voice without sound, without words, and void of any imagery. And yet, its beauty overwhelms me. Tears stream down my face, let my vision blur for a moment. The cup in front of me has no particular form or shape. It’s a standard size coffee mug, blue with a tree printed on it, together with the words “Cornell Plantations”. There is nothing special about this cup. It holds no special meaning for me. Nobody special gave it to me. It just stood there on the shelf and I picked it at random to have a cup of tea.<br />
<br />
“I love you so much.” This is an impossible exercise. For a writer not to find words to describe something is obviously the end of whatever it is he longs to write about. Ok, let me therefore make an attempt to try to describe it. There is a line in “A Course in Miracles”. It says something like this: “A cup can show you the meaning of the universe.” Having been an avid student of it for around 17 years, I have read this line more than once, of course. Obviously, the application of an idea brings with it a much deeper experience than its intellectual understanding. The outcome of this exercise, though, is a bit unexpected, to say the very least.<br />
<br />
While I look at the cup, I am aware of several things at once. Actually, the better word for ‘things’ would be ‘layers’. I am aware of several layers of experiencing the cup within me. Each layer leads to the next and at the same time leads deeper and deeper towards the cup’s true meaning. The first layer sounds something like this: “I don’t care about this cup. It’s just a cup. What’s all the fuzz about? Just leave me alone and drink the tea. It’s a cup, for God’s sake. There’s nothing to even write about. You drink from it, you clean it, you put it back in the shelf. End of story.” <br />
<br />
Beneath this obvious one I’m finding another layer though. Hidden initially and only recognizable after looking at and letting go (as much as possible) of the first one. I can barely hold it long enough in my mind to recognize what it is about. It is fear. I look at the cup and I am afraid of it. Ok, I probably shouldn’t read this out loud or let anyone else see this for that matter. I’m afraid of a cup. It’s not that I’m afraid it’s going to do something to me. Obviously it’s not going to suddenly lift up from the table and smash me over the head like a Japanese Kamikaze air plane. “Cup killed writer while he wrote about it.” It’s way more subtle. The fear is not of the cup, I realize. The fear is of its ultimate meaning. <br />
<br />
While I write this, something about layers becomes clear to me. In any situation or with any object or even institutions of any kind, whenever there are several layers, each layer protects the next one which protects the next one until the core is reached, which is in turn the ultimate purpose for all the layers. If I’m cold, to protect myself I might wear long underpants which are overlaid by regular jogging pants which may be overlaid by a blanket which may be enveloped by the house I live in. The purpose is my warmth. I’m the core. Each layer protects the layer below and all layers protect the core. This applies to any defense mechanism as well. The more important the core is the more layers of defenses are implemented to protect it. <br />
<br />
What the hell does all this have to do with the cup I’m staring at? I’m afraid of the cup. The fear is subtle but it’s there. There is a slight nod in my stomach. I want to just not look at it anymore or draw my attention back to the first layer of “it’s just a cup” but I let the fear stand, welcome it, go into it a little deeper, taste it, experience it and make it my own. And then, after a while, suddenly, from one moment to the next, the fear is gone, making way for something totally unexpected.<br />
<br />
“I love you so much.”Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-43712042156416439402009-10-24T07:28:00.004-04:002009-11-13T07:53:22.104-05:00Random<div style="text-align: left;">Copyright 2009 by Stefan Bolz<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Tears drop from the sky like rain<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">A silent chorus reaches the heavens<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The thunderous sound of a butterfly's wings<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">One single voice is heard throughout eternity<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The world can love you only as much as you love the world<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">A brother can love you only as much as you love him or her<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Death is but the thought of life distorted<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Love is but the thought of hate restored<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I can always only find myself<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">For you are me - in truth and in illusion both<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-15308676980254294012009-10-21T18:39:00.000-04:002011-12-22T18:55:02.227-05:00We Have Everything Else (Audio)A very short story about forgiveness.<br />
<br />
<iframe frameborder="0" height="20" scrolling="no" src="http://www.hipcast.com/playweb?audioid=P4785f814f72efa9a1f500c932241f127ZVh8QHhuY2N3Vg&buffer=5&fc=FFFFFF&pc=CCFF33&kc=FFCC33&bc=FFFFFF&brand=1&player=ap21" width="246"></iframe>Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034219376866198353.post-35033896594602818932009-10-20T18:35:00.000-04:002011-12-22T18:54:11.356-05:00We Have Everything ElseCopyright 2009 by Stefan Bolz<br />
<br />
I never wrote this, never brought it down on paper. It was never that clear to me. I had a vague sense of it at times. Quickly forgotten soon thereafter and then unremembered for days at a time. It stood so clear in my mind just five minutes ago and I'm afraid it is already fading fast. I know if I don't catch it now, it will disappear until next time. <br />
<br />
<em>There is no other goal or purpose of any relationship we have ever entered in, other then just one single thing: To tell each other, in whatever words, acts, or thoughts are available to us at that moment, that we are forgiven. That nothing you did or I did or that we both failed to do has had any effect at all. This is what we owe each other. Nothing less and nothing more. It is all we need. We have everything else. There is love and there is the call for it. Those are the two emotions of the world.</em> <br />
<br />
I lost it again. I remember the words but I have lost the experience. It slipped through my fingers. Actually, to be perfectly honest, I have blocked it out. I have let it go. Not sure when I'm able to take it back again but I know I'm the one doing it. When I have the experience, it is the clearest, most natural state I can imagine and I can't even fathom how it would be without it. And when I give it away, it is as if I never had it in the first place. But I know my heart isn't ready yet . Ready to take it in fully, to keep it as my natural inheritance, to make it my own. It is not yet the only experience I want. Otherwise it would have it. I would have it always. <br />
<br />
And so I must wait, wait for myself and for when the time comes when I can no longer live without it.Stefan Bolzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10040216750342272578noreply@blogger.com0