"Cymraes ydw i. I have no need for English fashions," in one simple line from chapter two of "Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd, the Warrior Princess of Deheubarth" Princess Gwenllian summarizes her entire life and legacy, a legacy that has touched billions of lives.
But who was she and if she was really so influential, why have few people outside of Wales ever heard of her?
Born in 1097, Princess Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd was the daughter of King Gruffydd ap Cynan of the Welsh kingdom of Gwynedd. Gwynedd's rugged mountains empowered its rulers to remain independent longer than any other Welsh kingdoms in the country. Today the county of Gwynedd remains one of the largest and includes Snowdonia National Park. But historically Gwynedd the kingdom was much larger than its modern namesake. In medieval times Gwynedd's capital was Aberffraw Castle on the island of Ynys Môn (English: Anglesey). Readers of "Boudicca, Britain's Queen of the Iceni" should recognize the name Ynys Môn because the island was the center of British druidry and therefore bore the brunt of Roman aggression towards Brythonic and ancient Celtic culture and religion. Ynys Môn has a long tradition of being a historical hot spot (and one worthy of your next visit to the United Kingdom).
So it should be no surprise that Ynys Môn would be home to Wales' most pivotal leaders.
Turn of the 12th century Wales was turbulent. After his victory near Hastings in October 1066, William the Conqueror (now William I of England) set his sights on conquering the entire island of Britain. Many of the Scottish nobles were bribed into vassalage. But the north of England and the Welsh kingdoms were different. If William I and his new Angevin dynasty wanted to control these lands, he would have to take them by force!
William I began this task immediately. In 1067 construction began on the first Norman castle, Chepstow in modern day Monmouthshire in southeast Wales. Located approximately 32 miles north of Cardiff, Chepstow's location in the kingdom of Gwent made it the perfect fortress for attacking the southern kingdoms of Gwent, Morgannwg, and Deheubarth which in Gwenllian's time had expanded to include most of south central Wales, including the kingdom of Ceredigion.
Standing in the way of this Norman Conquest of Wales were King Gruffydd ap Cynan of Gwynedd and King Rhys ap Tewdwr of Deheubarth. Though often forced to retreat into exile in Ireland, both men blocked the outright and permanent conquest of their realms, passing on their fight to their sons and daughters.
It was in this environment that Princess Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd was born. Like her famous brothers, she was raised in a kingdom constantly under attack. Everyone -- including the king's daughter -- needed to be battle ready or risk losing life and home to William Rufus' and King Henry I's notoriously brutal soldiers.
Gwenllian's life changed forever in 1113 when King Rhys ap Tewdwr's two surviving sons sought sanctuary at Aberffraw after recently escaping exile, torture, and imprisonment at Norman hands. For Prince Gruffydd ap Rhys and Princess Gwenllian it was true love almost from the beginning of his time there. In 1115 they married and Gwenllian moved to Gruffydd's Dinefwr castle as its co-sovereign, beginning a twenty year war of resistance against the much stronger Normans thanks to their successful use of the Welsh longbow fired from the cover of forest, the same tactics used by the fictional Robin Hood and Maid Marion against similar Norman knights. Unlike Robin Hood and Marion, Gwenllian and Gruffydd's stakes in these battles were far greater: if they failed, tens of thousands of Welsh would be enslaved by the Anglo-Normans. Their kingdom was at stake and it was their job to defend it -- at any price.
Gwenllian paid that price in February 1136 when Maurice de Londres captured her following a desperate winter battle. Instead of ransoming her as the code of chilvary demanded, Maurice chopped off her head, making Gwenllian the first sovereign ever executed by the English. It was an atrocity that could no be ignored.
To this day "revenge for Gwenllian" remains a Welsh battle cry of outrage, an execution that remains well remembered. The Welsh have not forgotten Gwenllian and never will. To truly understand the history and culture of the British people it is vital that you discover her story as well.
"Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd, the Warrior Princess of Deheubarth" is available in English, Welsh, German, and Spanish on Amazon, iBooks, and a retailer near you.
A mirror of all that unfolds in real life and in dreams. Featuring 89 bloggers, 5,000+ posts, 327,000+ views. We cover spirituality, personal growth, lifestyle, and more. A special shoutout to Michael Cupo, our most active contributor, whose powerful writings on inner peace and self-awareness continue to inspire our readers daily. Also explore Light Rings and Sparkles https://pushkids.blogspot.com/ — a creative blog.
Meet Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd, the National Heroine of Wales
Who is this girl?
Who is this girl,
once so full of life?
Torn lover?
Once loved friend?
Drug addled junkie?
Cherished daughter?
What did she do
that caused this?
Was her life worth so little?
Perhaps a sigh of a breeze will find her sleeping
and the chill of night will wake her.
Then from a chrysalis she will emerge to live again.
A little impromptu poem from O.N. Stefan.
Let me know your thoughts on this piece.
once so full of life?
Torn lover?
Once loved friend?
Drug addled junkie?
Cherished daughter?
What did she do
that caused this?
Was her life worth so little?
Perhaps a sigh of a breeze will find her sleeping
and the chill of night will wake her.
Then from a chrysalis she will emerge to live again.
A little impromptu poem from O.N. Stefan.
Let me know your thoughts on this piece.
The Soundtrack of Your Life Helps Create That Life
As a poet from the age of 12, I have long been aware of – and a bit proud of – my affinity and long-term relationship with melancholy & longing.
These were my best friends through so many decades of my life.One of the reasons I loved singer-songwriter’s music so much was that it was also infused and lit from within – with melancholy and longing.
From as early as I can remember, I knew that my job was to write – to paint with words – all the emotional terrains that we experience as humans; especially the unwelcomed, unwanted, unloved emotions.
To paint with words, the describe in sense-details the inexpressible emotions in the inner sanctum of a person’s heart – an impossible task, yet my task.
I dedicated decades to this craft and exploration.
I poured myself into this with abandon and absolute focus, though it was always a secret mission.
Whenever I did tell anyone of this calling, they often said things like,
“Okay, but how will you make a living? What’s the pragmatic application of this? What difference does it make? What do you do for fun?”
So I learned to not mention it much, and to do all the things on the surface that everyone required of me; work for a living, yada yada, but all that was a distraction and cover, until I could get back to my real work, exploring, observing, describing, writing all the poetry inside a heart and mind.
Later
in life, I would see other women who had done all this but without the
cover. They hadn’t hidden what they were doing. They were supported in
it. By doing their mission out front, the people who could get what she
was doing came forward, and stood by her. She had buffers and support
while those other questions, that felt so invaliding to me, were asked,
and together they incorporated the questions and the answers. That was
not my path.Sometime before the turn of the century, I was sitting at my desk one day when a thought occurred to me.
“Do I have the capacity and ability to be happy, to be loved, to have things go right for a prolonged time?”I did not know the answer, but based on my experience, it didn’t seem likely.
I had had a number of tragic, difficult, traumatic events in my life, and mostly had not found a lot of real help with comprehending and getting seniority – not just not being whipped by them, survival, but mastery, wisdom, competence - with any of them.
But I had used them all to turn into a very well-endowed spiritual warrior, healer and energy reader, often known as psychic; not a fortune telling type, but a soul reader type.
Because so many things that had happened in my life were so difficult, I felt marked, damaged, possibly broken or incomplete, therefore ashamed and guilty.
All of these thoughts, determinations, conclusions and judgements meant, to me, that I had to hide all this, “until I got it all worked out,” and I had to so all that alone.
So many people’s specialty is the outside, the presentation, the polish and the extroverted face of things.
That is not my specialty.
My
specialty is the interior, the back corner, behind the closet door, the
hidden, resisted and “ignored”, a kind of hyper-resistance common in
our culture.
I stopped listening to all my most beloved, consoling music.
It was like losing my oldest friends; the one’s I had been the most vulnerable with, and had spent the most time with; in whose company I had been shaped, molded and with whose ideals and values, I had bonded.
I started listening to Irish music, but the words were full of lamentation, loss, sadness, so I switched to Irish instrumental music. They even have a class of tunes with that lamentation built in. I found the Airs to be too gay and happy, sometimes, but at least none of it had much meaning for me.
All of it felt a bit shallow and interchangeable. That’s when I realized that repetition is how relationships, and meaning, are built.
I made a point of listening to music that had no emotional depth for me, to give me a chance to rewire my mental and emotional habit patterns.
I missed the immediate depth of recall, place, faces, experiences that came with the first 3 chords of a song, but I knew all of that was my past, and I wanted my future to be different.
For me to travel to the undiscovered country of going to bed smiling and waking up laughing, I had to change who I thought and said I was, and to do that, I needed new music, new art, new activities, new ways of spending my time, new stories of who I thought I was, and who and what I identified with and as.
All of this corresponded with the death of live radio – radio programmed by personalities, with their tastes, styles and no bean-counter doing the programming. The death of radio has been a huge contribution to the new isolation and loneliness of the modern age.
Shared experience is how we build friendships, bonds and community.
So many songs were like dear friends to me. I had devoted hours to learning the lyrics, learning to sing them, studying every nuance and inflection of the singer’s voice, read the liner notes cover to cover, more than once.
I poured hours of shared emotion and camaraderie with these individual songs, writers, albums.
They were as near to me as the air I breathed into my lungs, but I related to them, identified with and as them, more than most people in my life.
As I began to dedication myself to cultivating the ability to be happy, I saw how my identifying with the lyrics and songs I loved courted the melancholy, and challenged the capacity and ability to carefree or contented or happy.
Everything in my early life had been about resistance – resistance to being shunned, rejected, hurt, as well as resistance to being included with people I didn’t like or agree with. Resistance of what I thought you thought of me, of my looks, intelligence or potential.
Back when I was young, tall, blonde and blue, I got angry when guys liked me mostly for how I looked. It was clear that they could not see me, but only the skinny blonde with blue eyes. Infuriating.
Later, I got upset when my guy mostly liked me for my mind, and acted like my looks weren’t much, which is when I realized – I resisted being liked for my looks, I resisted being liked for my mind, so what was it okay to like me for? I did not have an answer for a very long time.
In the end, I came to see that I resisted every aspect of myself. I left no stone unturned, no bit of me un-plucked-at, and this bore a bitter drink – self-loathing, which turned out to have been my drug of choice for years.
Within a couple of years after this I began a training program that used ancient Egyptian mystery school techniques to teach modern people how to use the rest of our Selves – the part not captured by a camera necessarily, and not allowed to exist by the Time-Warner version of what a person is.
With the tools and techniques for healing that I learned in the mystery school, I started a daily
practice of self-healing, releasing energies, releasing others, oaths and energies that weren’t mine after all and/or were no longer for my greater good.
I didn’t start a fad of healing as much as I found my way of life – healing, releasing, liberating, enjoying, all on the road to havingness.
This havingness is not to be confused with consumerism and avarice.
Havingness is full. Full of appreciation, delectable, savoring, sated, satisfied, replete.
Havingness can be the fullness of a spoonful of rice, or a banquet table full of delicacies.
Havingness is not about quantity but about quality - fully receiving What Is.
There is a famous line about you can’t serve two masters.
I found in a million micro choices that you cannot be devoted to sadness, loss, melancholy, and loneliness and have a full life no matter what.
You can’t enjoy and savor all that is, if you’re more loyal to the past, or what’s gone, or what’s missing.
be that attuned to what’s missing, you have to blot out and miss a whole lot of What Is right in front of you.
Having found the language of how I am my body-spirit work, I have found the everything I was always looking for. It brings me the people, places and things that compliment and enrich my life, every day, as I comprehend and move as infinite being in this fantastic, fabulous body. And I love getting to share this with so many amazing, fantastic beings.
Thank you for your time & helpful comments.
I've had the pleasure of helping people find their way and their power by using spiritual techniques for many years now. Now more than ever it is important that people live from what is empowering and important to them. It's time to shine!
Feelings Just Are
Feelings are a given, they’ll always be there. To feel is human, but taking them to the next level to form concepts is when attachment arises as a belief the feeling needs to be different.
If it’s not learned to just be with the feeling that arises, it will control you. This is because of the conditioning of a mind that wants to push the feeling away and change it. How this works is, let’s say someone walks up to you and says something that you don’t particularly care for, immediately there’s attachment as there’s the feeling of not caring for what was said. And where there’s attachment, there’s the tendency to react the way you always react when someone says something that’s not cared for. This is done again and again because of the conditioning in place. Someone says something you don’t care for and you wind up saying something back to them. What you do is take their dissatisfaction and make it your own and then you throw your dissatisfaction back at them. Now basically you are at war.
Feeling aren’t right or wrong, there’s very little facts as to why they arise. The main thing is to allow their energy to remain free flowing so it doesn’t get bottled up and form a conditioned concept. These concepts are formed by attachment to mind patterns that change a simple feeling into a story; the story being the feeling needs to be changed. It’s not true the feeling needs to be changed, but that’s what the conditioned energy does, it makes you believe a feeling is unpleasant and a pleasant one would be better. This is energy that wants to push away when feelings arise because it doesn’t understand they aren’t right or wrong, they are just what’s there and you don’t have to attach to them.
If it’s not learned to just be with the feeling that arises, it will control you. This is because of the conditioning of a mind that wants to push the feeling away and change it. How this works is, let’s say someone walks up to you and says something that you don’t particularly care for, immediately there’s attachment as there’s the feeling of not caring for what was said. And where there’s attachment, there’s the tendency to react the way you always react when someone says something that’s not cared for. This is done again and again because of the conditioning in place. Someone says something you don’t care for and you wind up saying something back to them. What you do is take their dissatisfaction and make it your own and then you throw your dissatisfaction back at them. Now basically you are at war.
Feeling aren’t right or wrong, there’s very little facts as to why they arise. The main thing is to allow their energy to remain free flowing so it doesn’t get bottled up and form a conditioned concept. These concepts are formed by attachment to mind patterns that change a simple feeling into a story; the story being the feeling needs to be changed. It’s not true the feeling needs to be changed, but that’s what the conditioned energy does, it makes you believe a feeling is unpleasant and a pleasant one would be better. This is energy that wants to push away when feelings arise because it doesn’t understand they aren’t right or wrong, they are just what’s there and you don’t have to attach to them.
What about this review!
O N Stefan takes us on an electrifying journey with the thriller Sleep Then My Princess. A terrifying and often graphic page turner Stefan demonstrates a fine eye for nuance and her narrative works well to deliver a real sense of authenticity. In the main this comes from Stefan’s sharp rendering of Stephani Robbins. The plot is intelligent and piercing with an emotional clarity that makes it hard to dismiss and yet it’s a long way off the trite excesses of far too many thrillers where shock value is favored over the mechanics of good writing. Stephan knows how to strike a nerve and handles gradations of momentum well as readers are swept towards a breath taking denouement.
This thriller is deserving of your undivided attention, Sleep Then My Princess bodes well for any future release from O N Stefan and is strongly recommended.
This thriller is deserving of your undivided attention, Sleep Then My Princess bodes well for any future release from O N Stefan and is strongly recommended.
WHAT CAN THEY DO?
Hi Friends !!!
This is the first chapter of my book, the hilariously funny book of metaphysical and philosophical satire, 'The Molecular Slaves'. Hope that you shall like what you see.
CHAPTER 1 - WHAT CAN THEY DO?
I once remarked to my nonchalant, indifferent neighbor that we are enslaved in more ways than one. He agreed indifferently. I said to him that we are slaves to all kinds of vile machinations, including those of the tiny molecules that we are made up of. He then got livid, which was an achievement for my rhetoric, considering his usually placid temper and flaccid face.
“They are infinitesimally small”, he expostulated. “What the hell can these scum that cannot even be seen do?” he hollered. The ignominy of being felled and fettered by something that was ultra-microscopic was hard to ingest and difficult to digest for my neighbor, who was all of five feet and two inches tall. Way too big for a puny molecule that would be a maximum of some 5 microns may be. This was unacceptable and blasphemous and assaulted his pride and dignity which was all of five feet and two inches big.
I did not have the stomach to argue with him on the spot. But I was dejected by the ignorance of mankind and their collective and cumulative megalomania. Just like a small ant can make an elephant scream, a small tiny molecule is all that it takes to topple the pompous man from his self-anointed throne. Man continues to live in a fool’s paradise while the atoms and the sub-atoms wreak havoc and hellfire on our frail, gullible, and susceptible selves. We, the humans, have always had a penchant for grandiose delusion and this self-proclaimed invincibility of my diminutive neighbor was just one more extension of the same misplaced trait.
And our ignorance has lead us all to be cooped in a clam of seeming invincibility, while unknown to us, our own ‘bases’ are being tampered with and eroded by a myriad messiahs of doom, the molecules. This is very similar to the ostrich sticking its head into the sand and believing that nobody can see it just because it cannot see anyone. We, the human fools, tend to get comfortable in a fool’s paradise where our own blinkered vision is a reassurance that there is nothing threatening us from our sides and our rear just because we cannot see it, hear it etc. etc.
Now comes the big question of my puny neighbor
“What the hell can they do?”
It was taught in our nascent stages, by our psychopathic teachers that we are made of molecules. I always wondered as to where they were as I could not put my finger on it. Neither could I see it, and nor could I hear it.
As I grew older and when I became wiser, I realized that not only are we made of molecules, we are also governed and ruled by them. We are all just molecular slaves in this vast and limitless creation.
A few molecules from hell called testosterone, and I became violent and horny. A few more of those critters, and I was sporting unwelcome hair on my chin, which was eventually going to cost me a mini fortune in my lifetime, in a vain attempt to annihilate and eradicate them. Every attempt I made to slay these hirsute offenders with all kinds of razors and creams were all to be met with gleeful retribution from the dire molecules that sent even stouter bristles to my face with a ghoulish mirth. They put growth where I did not want it and they denuded the foliage from where I dearly desired it.
I wanted to have a wanton mane of flowing hair, but these diabolical molecules heard my wish even before I could spell it. They sent hell-fire and brimstone molecules to my scalp and very soon, the rapacious intruders were slaughtering and devouring my precious hair follicles just for the fun of it. Yes, they wanted to see me suffer, cringe, squirm, grovel, and then shrivel up and die.
Then came their attendants from netherworld called the neurotransmitters and neuro-molecules etc., who then invaded my brain to depress me so as to add insult to injury and to rub in more salt into my wounds.
They ensured my downfall and they ensured my misery. They exulted in diabolical glee as I slid and shied away from every social occasion and went into a shell of self-doubt and low self-esteem. They poured more and more toxins down my throat as I tried to swallow this bitter pill that was called life.
These molecules would just not relent. Their infinite appetite for destruction was yet to be satiated. Just when I thought I had seen off the worst , a few other insidious molecules gave me the charge, and soon I had become hypertensive. I was condemned to a life of consuming palliative molecules of anti-hypertensives. And one more brand new slavery to one more new class of molecules was now unceremoniously thrust down my gullet. . And a lifelong one, thanks to the tardy progress made in medical sciences with regard to chronic ailments. There were many molecules for controlling my affliction, but there were none that could cure me. Maybe these molecules have an unholy pact, a taciturn understanding among them. These spooky molecules could not be trusted for even their parent’s worth. They had conspired my slavery to them and had plotted my subjugation, all of which was quite apparent.
But somehow, I could see through the fog in my brain and perceive all that was supposed to be concealed and hushed up. Soon all the other molecules were running riot and joining in the fun, as they outdid each other in castigating and undermining me. Some molecules in my pancreas closed shop with a meaningful sneer cum smile and I was in dire need for more molecules. Some molecules made me diabetic while others made me sick. Some made me obese while others made me obtuse.
Still others are biding their time in a relentless quest to snuff out the remaining vestiges of human joy and dignity in me. They made me carnal, gluttonous, fat, quirky, verbose, dim-witted, ugly and what not. All I could do, was to sing paeans to their overwhelming power as they ravished and vanquished me.
The history of mankind has been one long story of the tyranny, the hegemony, and the unilateral and temperamental dictatorship of the molecules. They fueled the fires of the intruders and the marauders whilst also assuaging and pacifying the breath of the saint and the heart of the mendicant at the same time. They raised the arm of the murderer, and also nourished the breast of the mother. They made brothers hate one another and made enemies make accord and surrender. Mankind has been in a fix as to how to deal with these innocuous looking tiny, overwhelming, all-conquering conquerors. These dictators have sculpted and conjured our body, mind, id, and soul, completely as per their wanton fancies and whims, leaving the hapless humans grappling in a feud with the incomprehensible, and the inevitable.
Men tried medication, and when it failed, they tried meditation. They called upon God and then invoked the soul. They introspected, retrospected and then finally dissipated. How many a thinker and philosopher asked themselves as to " Why am I me, and why is he, he or maybe a she?” But the answer eluded them like the proverbial needle in the haystack.
Confounded and thoroughly confused, they then started to call themselves, hideous, sinful, debauched, infidel, rapacious, and so on, as the real reason for their inexplicable traits and behaviors gave them a complete slip. These demeaning descriptions and names were always a convenient alibi as long as the real answer eluded them. But it was never the molecule that was to blame. The molecules silently went on with their business, as mankind tore his head and hair asunder in a vain quest to rein them in.
Perhaps the deceitful, Machiavellian molecule had conspired to confound the conundrum. They cajoled and coerced mankind into fallaciously thinking that everything and everyone except them are to blame. Their deceptive influence inspired the misleading concepts of character, integrity, faithfulness, chivalry, treachery, infidelity, and a host of other epithets and sobriquets, the weight of which, mankind is carrying till date. Mankind looks at and finds fault with the effect, while the cause gyrates in its callous and capricious dance, unhindered, unfettered and un-ferreted.
But maybe, just maybe, of late the molecules have become too impudent and cocksure. They were asleep in their stoned lethargy cloaked in a perception of invincibility and invulnerability, when some resilient brave humans crept up from their behind. Some brave and noble soul yelled “The Molecules" and a few nodded in assent. This marks the start of a revolution, a revolution to free and exculpate mankind from the ignominious tyranny of "The Molecules”.
Why is a Murderer a Murderer and why is a Philanderer a Philanderer? We are getting closer to the answer. As we get the answers, we shall also get to the antidotes. And when we get to the antidotes, mankind shall cease to be a zombie and a slave to “The Molecules" and shall live free, with pride, dignity, and also unity. The Utopian objectives of an ideal world may well be within the reach of mankind once the despotic and totalitarian autocracy of "The Molecules" ends.
And the desperate mankind waits, with bated breath, for that day of deliverance from the prisons of guilt, disgrace, stigma, and self-doubt, wrought upon by the merciless and unfeeling molecules.
The other day, I boarded the local train from Hillsboro town to Orenco. A group of school girls got up along with me. I nodded at them as they smiled sweetly at me while they settled next to me.
Then they started an unending discussion. There was an endless confabulation about boys, boys, and more boys. There was not a single mention of studies, lessons, teachers, games, sports, nothing. It was just boys and more cute boys.
I tried to look at them quizzically in an as avuncular pose as I could adopt, but it was in vain. I was thinking “Are these girls not too young to be singularly obsessed with boys, who also appeared to be equally infatuated with them, as I could glean from the proceedings and from their conversation?"
Then suddenly, in a reflecting window, I spied upon the man in the mirror. My bald pate, out-stared and out-blinked me and proceeded to reprimand me. It then, sternly and unequivocally told me, "Aren't you old enough and experienced sufficiently to know a little more about the scourge of the molecules? Were you not equally fallible and susceptible, if not infinitely more? Were you also not similarly afflicted and damaged so many many times? Do you still blame the hapless human species? How can you do this, after all that I have taught you and after all that I have told you? It is their molecules speaking and not them. That is period, end of story, and over and out. "
There was light. I realized that my sparse, desolate, wasted, and blighted bald pate was right. Yes. It was them, the molecules.
And humanity, even collectively, does not stand even a scarce remote chance before these molecules.
Just like yours truly never did.
You can buy the entire book on Amazon by following these links and wallow in a sea of laughter, introspection, and realization. Wish You All A Very Fulfilling and Happy Reading Experience!!!
http://www.amazon.in/Molecular-Slaves-Biju-Vasudevan/dp/1515245101/ref=la_B00O77ACDM_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1492862305&sr=1-1
https://www.amazon.com/Molecular-Slaves-Mr-Biju-Vasudevan/dp/1515245101/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=
Conditioned Appearance
Life happens, but it’s our own mind through the thought process in place that makes it what it is. Our mind creates our entire world through the possessiveness of thought.
There are things we would rather not happen, but they do, and they have to be accepted or there will never be peace in one’s life. At least to where one can be with what is happening instead of getting bogged down in wanting it different. Although the small stuff can seem difficult, the life altering things can seem devastating if there isn’t an awareness of how it’s one’s Conditioned Mind that makes this so. Loss of loved ones, homes destroyed; along with all our possessions and memories, accidents, illnesses, these are just some of the occurrences that can alter our state if they’re not accepted for what they are, and what they are is nothing but a thought.
Life occurs and through thought it appears as the mind makes it appear. There is nothing to life except what the Conditioned Mind makes it out to be. Our own mind uses thought to create an entire existence that is only real to our own mind. The more life is lived in this manner, the more difficult it is to accept life’s daily occurrences. This lack of acceptance is only because of a lack of understanding of one’s own mind. It’s one’s own mind that creates the appearance that life has difficulties and this happens because one is entrapped to the thought that everything is as it appears, but only because it has been conditioned to do so.
There are things we would rather not happen, but they do, and they have to be accepted or there will never be peace in one’s life. At least to where one can be with what is happening instead of getting bogged down in wanting it different. Although the small stuff can seem difficult, the life altering things can seem devastating if there isn’t an awareness of how it’s one’s Conditioned Mind that makes this so. Loss of loved ones, homes destroyed; along with all our possessions and memories, accidents, illnesses, these are just some of the occurrences that can alter our state if they’re not accepted for what they are, and what they are is nothing but a thought.
Life occurs and through thought it appears as the mind makes it appear. There is nothing to life except what the Conditioned Mind makes it out to be. Our own mind uses thought to create an entire existence that is only real to our own mind. The more life is lived in this manner, the more difficult it is to accept life’s daily occurrences. This lack of acceptance is only because of a lack of understanding of one’s own mind. It’s one’s own mind that creates the appearance that life has difficulties and this happens because one is entrapped to the thought that everything is as it appears, but only because it has been conditioned to do so.
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