As I write, I really can’t remember what stories have already been told. Sometimes I sneak over to the blog site, and do a word search, but that is often inaccurate.
The stories we tell are retold by the mind. We live inside a set of stories. Some have some physical history. Some are fully imaginary. And most are created in combination, some of what the majority of people would call “fact”, with added juicy content created by emotional reaction and fake memory.
This year, “fake news” was a new term, strangely used in irony. The mind adores fake news. It creates our lives around the theme.
In my reality, I woke several times last night. I sat with the Creator’s change in seasons, the moment where we move toward the light. I prayed for the planet, felt love streaming around and through me, drifted between the realms. It was two. I went back to sleep.
Dreams drifted in and out. There was an old white house that supposedly belonged to my Grandpa Plumb. The wall was open, apparently without reason. There was an enormous staircase next to the space, against the missing wall, as if someone removed the other half of a duplex.
Someone was trying to get the renter to comment on whether to repaint the exterior, whether to sell it, or continue to rent. She showed no interest whatsoever in making any comment.
Another dream had a home that reminded me of the Granite Falls house. There was this teaching element to the dream. The theme was that “men need a space”, like a man cave perhaps. I was working with Courtney’s husband, a distant relative if he happened to still be related. At the end of the dream, I was exasperated by two kids that lived there, that they had made a deal to help out, had enjoyed a day off beforehand, and were now refusing to follow through on what would take five minutes to do. They were not James’ kids, but representations of humanity.
Why do I remember these strange specifics? What do they mean about the processes of my subconscious? Is it any different than what I perceive as fact?
When I finished the night, my first thoughts of the morning came. The Serenity Prayer. Grandma F loved it, and then Mom also quoted it. For years, we had a small plaque on the wall that had some strange looking, cartoon birds, declaring the words. Maybe my mind is using the prayer to remind me of their love!
The Serenity Prayer is an interpretation. It is not in the Bible. The probable basis, Philippians 4:6-7 (International Standard) reads:
Never worry about anything. Instead, in every situation let your petitions be made known to God through prayers and requests, with thanksgiving. Then God’s peace, which goes far beyond anything we can imagine, will guard your hearts and minds in union with the Messiah Jesus.
Gratitude. Praying for the good of all. Thanksgiving. My hope is that we all meet this inner serenity, that everyone can access the love that I felt from my mother and grandmother, and that we all find union with the highest form of love.
micheleplumbstowell.org 