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Archive for the ‘Creative’ Category

In Life, I notice that there is tension, and there is release. The tension builds and builds over time. The tension is need. Need for a change. Need for something to be created. Need for a fulfillment of some form. Need for action. Tension, tension, tension, tension. Then “Pow!”, the arrow flies to its intended target.

My life seems to operate this way.   Am I the bow? People tell me to be the Archer.   Am I the Archer, or the bow?

If I am the bow, who is this Invisible Archer, that wields the bow, applies tension to the string, then releases that tension to allow the arrow to fly to its intended destination. Who is the Archer?

I only find the Archer, and who He is, as I willingly allow myself to be the bow.

Morning

My Heart sings
At the Beauty of the Sunrise.
With great affection, He kisses my forehead
And says “Goodmorning, Son”.

My Heart sings
At the Beauty of the Clouds, white brush strokes
Upon the Canvas of the blue sky.
A touch, She says, “Goodmorning, Son”.

My heart sings
At the Beauty of the Melody of All the Voices of the Earth
They sing together, a chorus, The Beauty of the Earth.
A warm embrace, They say, “Goodmorning, Son”.

My Heart sings.
At the Beauty of My Life.
One part of Many parts.
One Life and many Lives, We sing
The Beauty of this Life.

Richard paced exuberantly about the room, as if he were pursuing a parade that was yet to be.   He looked and sounded like that British correspondent, with the same first name – Richard Quest.   You know, that boisterous and flamboyant, almost manic correspondent for CNN that all the other CNN anchors don’t quite know how to react to?   Teeth so big, that you just know they were made for smiling.   Even his own name describes him.   Quest.   Well, this Richard says to his family, “Let’s   go on a holiday!”   Grinning in amusement.   Eyes wide open.   His whole demeanor makes some folks laugh in amusement, other folks laugh in derision.   Still others just cringe, because they are in such unfamiliar territory.   “We’re going on vacation!” he sort of sings.   “A holiday!” he says, drawing out the words as if following a hidden melody that only he hears.   “And we’re all going to walk!” he says, as if it were the biggest, most pleasant, special present, that he had just opened for all to see.   He might as well have left a “steaming heap” in the middle of the living room floor, what with the looks he had just seen on their faces.

His family sat stunned.   They had become enamored with Richard’s exuberance.   After all, they were his family, and he part of theirs.   His daughter Paprika, and his son Chipotle were the first, however,  to jump on his “bandwagon”.   His wife, Charlotte had, at first hated the names he had chosen, but curiously, they had grown on her in each case, and they had been in agreement when it finally was time for them to make the choice.   It usually took her some time to make decisions, she didn’t just jump right in like Richard was used to doing.   The names had turned out to be descriptive of their unique spirits.   Paprika was gentle, with a reddish hue to her blond hair.   Her personality had a tentative quality about it, and her approach to life was a subtle touch rather than anything more aggressive.   Chipotle was much more “fiery” than his sister, but tempered.   He loved the outdoors, campfires, and storytelling.   Eagerness showed on Chipotle’s face.   Paprika looked tentative and slightly amused.   Charlotte looked like she had just accidently swallowed a frog.

“Where are we going, Dad?”, Chipotle asked excitedly.   “I…don’t….knowww…!”, he disclosed, drawing each word out, as if he were savoring each one and grinning the biggest grin you ever did see, as if it was the biggest, most funny joke he had ever heard.   “It’ll  be an a..d..v..en..t..u..r..e!”, he said, once again drawing out that last word.

“But Honey”, Charlotte said.   “We’re supposed to be adults.   We have responsibilities.   What will the neighbors think, when we trudge by their homes, dragging our belongings with us, like some homeless vagabonds?!”   “I know, Love!   Isn’t that great!   It’ll be one big hoot!”, he said.   Silence.   His smile disappeared for just a moment, and then was followed by a different one.   This one carried the look of someone who had just discovered something that made him happy.   “Alright, Love.   We’ll go out the back door, and we’ll travel light.   No neighbors.   We won’t look like vagabonds to anyone who sees us, we’ll look like we’re off to the park for a picnic, and decided to walk.”   Charlotte looked unconvinced, but she no longer looked like she had swallowed a frog.   “Now get your things together”, Richard said.   “And don’t forget to pack light!”   “It’s off into the U..k..n..o..w..n!!” he sang, as he went downstairs, to retrieve their gear.   “Yaaahooo!”, Chipotle whooped, as he went off to his room.   Charlotte and Paprika looked at each other.   Paprika had an amused look, her eyebrows drawn way up on her forehead.   Charlotte looked like she had finally digested that frog, bones and all.

I want to tell you a little about what I know about letting go.  When I first heard about this process, (and for me, it does seem to be a process), I was terrified by what I was told.  In retrospect, I see that fear was not really warranted, but certainly understandable.  I was told about this process, first in a 12 Step Group, flavored with its particular philosophy and agenda, later by various individuals who saw letting go through the lens of religion, native American teachings, new age teachings, probably even other ways that I don’t now recall.  Certain ways of seeing this process were less scary to me than others, but all of them attempted to describe something that is very real and natural.  I will attempt to tell you about letting go, without those prejudices, or diminishments, as much as I can.

This morning I went for my morning walk.  My morning walks are exercises in letting go, in relaxing into the NOW, into forgetting for a few brief moments, all the ways I can see myself; you might say that I’m taking off all the different “hats” I wear at various times.  I followed our dirt road out into a very open area.  On the way, different things would catch my attention – a squirrel here, a bird there, each vegetable area in my garden, a brief glimpse of blue sky and puffy cloud through the trees, the texture of the gravel under my feet, wild grapes hanging from the live oaks, each holding my attention for a moment each time, while I was still aware of the totality of this setting through which I walked.  I walked as slow as a little kid who had much shorter, weaker legs than I have.  I didn’t force that, it just came natural.  I quit thinking about all that was going on in my life, pulling my attention back gradually to just take in my surroundings.  Gradually I settled into the NOW.

I arrived at the field, where I usually “say” my morning prayers.  Displayed before me was a beautiful Robin’s egg blue sky, clean pure white puffy Cumulus clouds, that entirely wrapped the scene before me in every direction above.  Below that was a still well defined layer of fog, thick, textured, grey, and soft looking.  Below that I could see a denser landscape – an uncut summer hay field, horses staring back at me from a farm on the far side of the field, far off farmhouses, barns, fences, the entire landscape wrapped in tree lines of live oak.  Depending upon where my attention was, I could say that it was overcast, foggy, or clear with a few puffy clouds.  Each would be correct, but only a part of the reality that was true.  I experienced the whole scene without prejudice or dissection, just taking it in, seeing the beauty, feeling myself within that landscape, and experiencing a wonder that I cannot quite put into words .  For me, all that is part of the experience of letting go and entering the NOW. Along with my sense of wonder, was the knowledge, that the landscape before me represented the Truth about this Life we live.

One might say, “That’s beautiful!  It feels like what you say is true, but how could I live my life that way?  I have responsibilities!  I have a job, and a mortgage, and bills!  People will think I’m a loon!  I can’t do that!  I’m too screwed up!  I don’t have time!  People depend on me!  I wish I could do that, but I can’t!”

I have said all those things, and asked all those questions, and felt all those fears.  I was looking at a final destination, rather than a journey.  I saw it as something I had to do; something that I couldn’t do, rather than a process I was entering.  In truth, “not letting go”, is what we have done to ourselves throughout this Life; that is where “the doing” is.  “Letting go” is not about “doing”, although within the process, we may have lots to do.  It is more about accepting, awareness, absolute honesty (even about the layers of deception within ourselves that we and others put there), a process of grief for our losses (even the loss of how we have been seeing ourselves), and contact with others going through the same process.

I spent many years in group therapy.  I was looking for answers, looking for resolution, looking for a way to be “okay”.  I changed and healed more in that group, than I had in all my previous years of “one on one talk therapy”, or all the years of my own effort.  The two leaders set boundaries to help us feel safe, but they controlled nothing.  That environment helped some of us to practice “letting go”.  “Letting go” was necessary to get to our injuries in ways that were experiential rather than just intellectual.  Miraculous things seemed to happen on a regular basis.  By “letting go”, I was able to find a lot of resolution for my many injuries.  Others doing the same, helped me to let go.  My “letting go” helped others.  Our injuries as well as our indiscretions scream at us for attention, for resolution.  They grab and hold our awareness, and pull it from the NOW.  In my case, my “Caretaker” role (one of the many hats I wore), and my role as “The Black Sheep” in my family of origin, enshrouded my True Self.  Attending to those needs and dishonesties that were vowing for my attention, has allowed me to have a quieter internal environment.  It’s easier to let go now, after that practice.  I attempt to continue to do what I learned in my group. In a nutshell, I relax enough to let go of my need to understand, and follow my spirit.

I remember during my “crazy days”, where I was most out of control, my friends and I would smoke pot, and listen to an improvisational comedy group called “Firesign Theater”.  We’d laugh like loons at their silly antics, and crazy sayings.  I’m sure most of us remember some of those episodes.  One saying that stuck in my mind, in an odd way was “Everything you know is wrong.”  Everything in our culture or society, praises “not letting go”.  We are expected by family and friends to “not let go”.  We praise control, and see “letting go” as giving up.  They are not the same.  Jesus said that we must lose our lives to gain them.  There is wisdom in those words, because the lives we have built, are based on “perceptions” that are not true.  Those “perceptions” are not perceptions at all, but constructs that have been taught to us.  They interfere with true perception, true awareness!  “Everything you know is wrong.”

You might say, “how can I do this “letting go thing”, when I am married?  My wife and I fight, and I don’t want to give up my marriage!”  I only have answers within my experience, which work for me.  I’m sure you will find those answers that work best for you.  However, let me tell you a story.  Sometimes my wife and I have difficulties.  We get lost in stuff that just isn’t true, despite our best efforts to remain honest and caring, and non-blaming.  Relationships are difficult.  We have had many ups and downs.  During the “down” times, I’m sure we have each wondered if it is worth it, and have despaired.  During the “up” times I’m sure we both don’t question whether it is worth it at all.  We both were abused terribly when we were young, so we have had significant issues, to say the least.  Recently, each time I have experienced one of those “down” times, I have felt some pretty intense feelings of despair, despite a part of me knowing that my experience of despair would pass.  I strove to see what we were doing, what each of our reactions was, what was really true, to the best of my ability to know, noticing anything petty or untrue within me about our difficulty.  I also saw I had NO ANSWERS, other than my  understanding of our interactions.  I did not know how to fix what was wrong.  I can change what I do, but not others.  Many options lay before me, but which one was the “correct” one?  So I prayed to choose the “right” way of handling the situation. To my surprise I received no answer.  Or so I thought.  Each time, I sat with my wife, relaxed, knew I had NO ANSWERS AND WOULD HAVE TO JUST WAIT AND SEE HOW IT ALL CAME OUT (perhaps it wouldn’t come out the way I might choose, and I had to be willing to allow that!).  I’d keep my attention on her, not on solutions, or my fears of finding none.  My mind would be a blank, until the words were there.  The most honest words.  The most honest feelings.  The most honest unpolluted awareness of us and our situation, because it was all there in the NOW.  It all was just there.  I don’t think I can find any words to really describe it.  It has “happened” many times.  It has developed over time from all the little things that I have done along the way, and also, because of all the things that have happened to me along the way as well.

I told a friend recently, that during the “hard times” we let go more, and during the “easy” times, we let go less.  Those of us that choose this path of “letting go” may recognize the truth of that.  I have noticed in me, that I do that, but I also notice that there are far more areas in my life that I do not control anymore, and am allowing more areas of my life that are like that.  I also see that sometimes we will suffer, when we DON’T let go.  Suffering is optional.

The stories of our Lives start and restart at many places during our years on this good Earth. Each is a complete story within itself, as well as a part of the whole story.

My story starts in 1951 in a suburb of Philadelphia, although I have only just a very few details of that, and don’t even know the name of that suburb. My story also starts in Trooper, and Linfield, and Randy Run, Royersford, Spring City, Pennsburg, and Sumneytown, all in or near Montgomery County Pennsylvania. My story also starts in Unionville, part of Steuben Maine, just miles from the Canadian border. In that remote corner of the country, my wife’s story, and my story merged, making a larger more detailed and dramatic story that belongs to both, even though we still “own” our original parts. Finally, the story of my life, in a very real sense starts in Ruffin, South Carolina. That’s where my wife, Susan, and I live and love, where we sometimes struggle with Life’s dilemmas and have to lick our wounds.

Ruffin is where we grow vegetables and flower gardens, and continue to grow and heal ourselves. Here we walked my faithful dog Goldie, before her story ended, unleashed on the dusty sand of Rogers Lane. Here in Ruffin we have made many changes in our lives, learning to eat healthy and to exercise in order to control our diabetes, as well as to just feel better, and so that we might live longer healthier, happier lives. We live directly below the Winter migratory flight path of countless bird species. For weeks, tens of thousands of their members completely filling the evening sky just before sunset looking for a safe place to bed down at night in the numerous horse pastures just to our South. My wife and I have “settled here”, and that’s far different than “settled for”, because we love our home here in Ruffin, and although many things will probably change for us here in Ruffin, we don’t plan to move ahead. We don’t see Ruffin as one of those horse pastures that the birds use for just a time before moving on once they are rested, even though there have been many of those “resting places” in our Lives. We feel this is our home, and the last stories of our lives will be written here, many and happy, we hope, becoming part of our larger stories.

A mother who loves her children.

-is a mother who beats her children with her fists?
-is a mother who screams like a wild animal while she beats her children?
-is a mother who calls her children “rotten sons of bitches of bastards” while she beats them?
-is a mother who continuously tells her children that “there is something wrong with you”?
-is a mother who tells her children that she wishes they were never born?
-is a mother who continuously tells her children that they are “disgusting”?
-is a mother who tells her children “you make me sick to my stomach”?
-is a mother who beats her son with a metal vacuum cleaner pipe?
-is a mother who ties her children to a chair?
-is a mother who tells her 9 year old son that she’d kill him if she could get away with it?
-is a mother who unleashes her unbridled rage on her children, and blames them for it?
-is a mother who does all these things countless times, while pretending to be the victim?

Honesty demands that we say “No!”

Honesty demands that we acknowledge that a mother, who does all those things to her children, does not truly love her children, perhaps through injury, she cannot.

All those things are Not Love.

K.S.

originally published in Downeast Coastal Press by KS in Dec. 1989

Christmas is the time that we have set aside to celebrate the birth of a very special child. Religious concerns aside, this holiday has much Power. Spiritual Power. The Power that we sense in myth and metaphor. The Power of this season brings us closer to our children-both internal and external.

The Christmas Season is a celebration of the child, and the Power of the Child to set us free. It moves us from our little world of daily concerns, disconnection, practicality, and rationality, into the larger world of Trust, Intimacy, Awe and Wonder.

The Special Child that was born 2000 years ago was not accepted (no room at the inn), had no place of His own, and had humble beginnings close to nature. It was not safe where He was, so He was taken to Egypt by parents whose most important task was to love, care for, and protect this Special Child.

My imagination tells me that His parents allowed him to develop, or unfold, at his own rate, knowing with certainty that His Power was inside Him, a special gift from God. No control or manipulation would bring that Power out. The timing and nature of His unfolding was left to God.

In the beginning, vey few recognized the Power that was inherent in this Special Child, except for his parents, and a few others called Wise Men.

According to the Book of John, in the New Testament, one of the first miracles attributed to the Power inherent in the adult named Jesus, was the turning of water into wine at the marriage feast in Canaan.

A few years ago, the Power of the Christmas Season touched me fully for the first time in my life, or at least for the first time since I was a child. It was the first time I was totally alone on Christmas Eve. Snowflakes had fallen throughout the day, reminding me of the magic that I used to feel as a child in anticipation of a “White Christmas”. That feeling of “magic” escaped me, however. Darkness had fallen, and thee was an “emptiness” that emanated from the corner of the living room, where the absence of a traditional Christmas tree was evident. I also had an emptiness in my heart, that did not just come from being alone. My radio was tuned to a Public Broadcasting Christmas special that was offering readings of traditional Christmas stories.

Slowly the stories that were being told lightened my spirits. With each one, I felt a bit more alive, a bit less depressed. Finally they read “Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus”. I had heard it before, but its meaning and power had somehow escaped me. But not this time. The sobs that burst from the deepest part of my being could never be described. The words “the Eternal Light with which Childhood fills the world would be extinguished” echoed in my mind. The “Child Within” me was emerging more fully than ever before. The emptiness in my heart disappeared and was replaced by a “fullness”.

With the fullness came a deep appreciation of the timelessness and beauty of the stories I was listening to, as well as a recognition of the deep and hidden meaning of some of those stories. I will never forget that evening.

Years ago, my own Special Child, or Child Within, was not accepted and had to flee to a place deep within me in order to survive. Later, even I continued to abandon him, and he stayed imprisoned. Due to circumstances beyond my control, my Child Within has re-emerged, carefully testing to see if it is safe, retreating if I or others mistreat him.

Like Joseph and Mary, my most important task is to love, care for and protect my Child Within. As I learn to do this, I can do the same for my sons.

I am learning to allow the Child Within to develop or unfold at his own pace, knowing that no control or manipulation will aid his emergence. As I learn to do this, I can do the same for my sons. And finally, just as Jesus turned the water into wine, the Power of the Child Within turns the watered down experience of practicality, disconnection, and rationality, into the Wine of Trust, Intimacy, Awe, and Wonder. Ever so slowly, the adult and the child become one.

This Christmas, take time to remember the children: our sons and daughters, as well as the children we were (who have been internalized within us). Take time for those special stories and other rituals that are a part of the season, and allow yourself to feel their transporting Power. And if you hear or read “Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus”, let yourself feel the import behind the words, for that is the Power of Myth and Metaphor, the Power of the Season, the Power of the Child.

I believe one of the most important things in this Life, is learning about ourselves, and wondering what God wants for us. Who does He want us to become? How do we become more than we are?

I also believe that to move forward to become the person He wants us to be, sometimes we need to look back, to see where we have been injured, and to heal those injuries that keep us from becoming more. All of us have been injured, many have been injured gravely.

I believe, that to heal emotional injuries from childhood, we often need to revisit those injuries with others, revisit and share the sadness, or anger, or terror with others, and find some personal resolution within ourselves. For many of us who were gravely injured, this journey takes a lifetime.

I spent my childhood in a very rural area. We lived in a large farmhouse, built before the Revolutionary War. Behind the house were three maple trees, over a hundred years old, too large to climb, although those were the trees I always wanted to climb. They had trunks about 30 inches in diameter, deep ridged bark, the first branches more than 20 feet up. Close to these trees, and adjacent to Brownback Road, hidden in the underbrush, was “The Wine Cellar”. Obviously it was built when the first part of the house was built, but separate from the house, and forgotten for a large number of years, hidden away, waiting for discovery. Covering the outside of this tomb like structure (it reminds me of the story of the tomb that Jesus was in, where he rolled that huge boulder away from the entrance) was an almost impenetrable barrier of Osage Orange. Now Osage Orange, if you’re not familiar with it, is the most lethal thorn bush around. I don’t mean lethal, like it is poisonous or something, but lethal, like a sharp knife could be. Thorns two inches long, needle sharp, and woody strong. Folklore attributes this plant to Jesus’ crown of thorns. This “wine cellar”, that’s what we called it, although it was, in fact, a root cellar, was built with expertly placed stone, to form a Quonset or arch shaped underground room, made entirely of stone. Inside, hundred year old mustiness, the smell of dry leaves, which had found their way in over the years, left over spoiled apple smell, mold, and wet earth smell, like the garden, were prevalent. The stones, perfectly fitted, were kind of white, like quartz or limestone. I kept expecting to find stalactites, or stalagmites, but I never did of course. In the very back of the “Wine Cellar”, about 20 feet back, was a perfectly built stone wall, with a square opening 2ft by 2ft, halfway up the wall. When I was most courageous, I would jump and shinny up until I had my belly on the ledge of that opening, and I would peer down a deep stone lined well, which reminded me of pictures I had seen in fairy tale books. I could see the water at the bottom even though every time I got the courage to look in, I expected to find monsters.
I remember this one time, my father spent a weekend cutting the Osage Orange back, and burning what he cut. It grew right back, though, and he gave up, never trying to keep the entrance to the Wine Cellar clear again. He abandoned it. It didn’t matter that it represented the artisanship and way of life of the past. It didn’t matter that out of the whole property, the “Wine Cellar” had the most character of any structure. It didn’t matter that it was built to last forever. It didn’t matter that it had an aura of mystery and power. He abandoned it. I didn’t. I carry it, and what it represents to me, inside myself. I keep pruning those thorns back, and I’ll never stop like he did! I’ll keep pruning them back so I can keep going down in there, to see if I will find monsters or treasure in that well.

After years and years of “revisiting” my childhood, I am still surprised at how powerful my feelings are when I look back, and at how much I have changed, and at how many “confining” rules I have broken in order to change. I was 35 when I had my first “flashback” of the abuse I suffered as a child. Here I am, sitting in my own computer repair shop, almost 1500 miles from where I started my Journey of Healing, and I am almost 53 years old! My two sons are grown, and I have remarried. I have changed so much, and I yet, I have so much still to change!

One of my three earliest memories is of myself at 4 years old or so. My grandparents, who only visited a few times each year were visiting. I was told to go to bed. Of course I didn’t want to go to bed, and I remember crying, and asking for water, and pleading to stay up. Eventually, my mother beat me because I kept crying, and I remember feeling such a huge rage inside of me. I could not hit her back. I could not protect myself. I could not get what I wanted. I remember biting the sheet on my bed, and growling and screaming with my teeth clamped down on that sheet so they wouldn’t hear my defiant rage. And in my rage, I yanked that sheet, and accidentally pulled one of my own teeth out. When my mother came in and saw what I “had done”, she beat me some more, telling me there was something wrong with me, that no normal child pulls their own teeth out.

Well I have to tell you, that no normal mother beats her child like that, or tells her child that he’s not normal. I believe it was one of my last acts of defiance, with only a few exceptions surfacing until I was 40 years old or more. My defiance was beat right out of me, along with any incentive, creativity, or willpower. I became compliant, and all the “Life” went out of me.

The Hexter Brothers taught me to put a stone in the middle of a snowball. I was 4 or 5. I was so proud of my new talent, and having been shown a secret process in confidence, that I showed my mother the first chance I got. She beat me.

The other “earliest memory” was not too long after the tooth incident. Since we moved when I was 5, I suspect I was 4 1/2 or younger, living at that same house. I had followed Chuck Hexter and a bunch of kids down the street, and we ended up playing in the open basement of a house that was being built. Now I realize that, but at the time I was too little to understand that. When they decided to leave, Chuck’s older brother told me I had to stay there or he would beat me up or something. Even after they were long gone, I stayed there. Finally, my mother came looking for me, and beat me when she found me. She beat me to make me compliant, then beat me because I was compliant. How crazy is that? I also see how she set me up to fail even then. What parent leaves her 4 year old child outside and unattended? What parent would blame a 4 year old child for wandering off, instead of blaming herself for not watching the child?
When I look back, there are things other than pain. There is also irony. On one side of us lived the Hexters. On the other side were the Beulah’s. You could say we lived between Heaven and Hell, but from my perspective as that little 4 or 5 year old kid, I didn’t have to die to go to Hell, I was already there.

(previously published in the Dissident, 11/96)

We hear adults talking about self esteem. You talk among yourselves, and say that We the Children must have successes in what we do, to feel good about ourselves. You equate what you do, with who you are. We wonder why we were not welcomed and accepted fully, when we came into your world. We wonder why We the Children should have to do anything in order to be loved. In truth, your love was dependent upon what we could do, and you taught us to do the same thing to ourselves! You taught us to love ourselves, according to what we could accomplish! How could you do that to us? To be accepted and loved just the way we are, was God’s plan for us here! We came here to follow our deepest inner promptings, for the good of all, but those promptings are lost to us if we are constantly self monitoring, in order to receive your love and acceptance, and later, our own! How wonderful our world might have been if we had been allowed to unfold, becoming ourselves, instead of what you wanted us to be! We the Children wonder if we were not allowed to become ourselves because you were not allowed as well. You believe that the children you once were are gone. That is untrue! We still exist! We were forced into hiding, some of us deeper than others, but we exist! Indeed, some of us were forced very deep into hiding by the violence of adults. When we the Children saw that some of our caregivers would choose to inflict physical pain, while witholding their love, the horror of such a notion was too much for our gentle and sensitive spirits! Now we reside behind a protective psychic wall within you, whispering to you in moments which you often consider “weakness”! Like angels’ breath, our voices speak to you from deep within your secret heart. We speak to you of hopes and dreams, and connections lost or yearned for. We are your connection to desire, emotion, and intuition. We help you to connect to that part of you that helps you know what’s true, and revels in the artistic and spiritual. We are your potential, waiting to be. We are the children of God. We the Children live inside of you. Listen to our voices. Acknowledge our presence, and protect that same presence in those who are children in body, as well as spirit. So much is at stake!
1996 Ken S.