Michael__Jackson-Dancing_the_Dream.pdf

MICHAEL

JACKSON

Dancing the Dream

Dancing The Dream

Consciousness expresses itself through creation. This world we live in is the dance of the

creator. Dancers come and go in the twinkling of an eye but the dance lives on. On many an

occasion when I'm dancing, I've felt touched by something sacred. In those moments, I've felt

my spirit soar and become one with everything that exists. I become the stars and the moon. I

become the lover and the beloved. I become the victor and the vanquished. I become the

master and the slave. I become the singer and the song. I become the knower and the known.

I keep on dancing and then, it is the eternal dance of creation. The creator and creation

merge into one wholeness of joy.

I keep on dancing and dancing .......and dancing, until there is only......the dance.

Angel of Light

It's hard to see angels, although I've stared at their pictures for hours. Some people can

see them without pictures, and they tell interesting tales. Guardian angels are all female, for

instance, which didn't surprise me once I found out. A birth angel, recruited from the younger

ranks, attends every baby when it appears, while another angel, older but not grim, helps the

dying to leave this world without grief or pain.

You can pray to the angels and they will listen, but the best way to call them, I am told, is

to laugh. Angels respond to delight, because that is what they're made of. In fact, when people's

minds are clouded by anger or hatred, no angel can reach them.

Not all angels have wings -- so the visionaries claim -- but those who do can unfurl a span

of golden feathers stretching over the entire world. If you had eyes that could look straight into

the sun, you would see an overwhelming angel presiding there; a more serene one smiles out

from the face of the moon.

Angels spend their entire lives, which are forever, spinning around the Creator's throne,

singing His praise. People with keen ears have listened in. The harmonies of the angelic choir are

incredibly complex, they say, but the rhythm is simple. "It's mostly march time," one

eavesdropper affirmed. For some reason, that fact is almost the best I have learned so far.

After a while it got lonely hearing about angels you couldn't see for yourself. When an

angel-watcher heard that, she was shocked. "Not see?" she said. "But you have an angel in you.

Everybody does. I can see it right now, and I thought you could, too." "No," I said sadly, and I

asked what it looked like. "Did it look like me?"

"Well, yes and no," the angel-watcher mysterious answered. "It all depends on what you

think you are. Your angel is a speck of light perched at the very center of your heart. It is

smaller than an atom, but just wait. Once you get close to it, your angel will expand. The closer

you come, the more it will grow, until finally, in a burst of light, you will see your angel in its true

shape, and at that very instant, you will also see yourself."

So now I am looking for my angel all the time. I sit silently, turning my gaze inward. It

wasn't long before I caught a glimpse of something. "Is that you, Angel, holding a candle?" One

flicker and it was gone. Yet that was enough to set my heart wildly beating. Next time my angel

will be waving a lamp, then holding a torch aloft, then lighting a bonfire.

That's what the angel-watcher promised, and now that I have caught sight of glory, I

know enough to believe.

Are You Listening?

Who am I?

Who are you?

Where did we come from?

Where are we going?

What's it all about?

Do you have the answers?

Immortality's my game

From Bliss I came

In Bliss I am sustained

To Bliss I return

If you don't know it now

It's a shame

Are you listening?

This body of mine

Is a flux of energy

In the river of time

Eons pass, ages come and go

I appear and disappear

Playing hide-and-seek

In the twinkling of an eye

I am the particle

I am the wave

Whirling at lightning speed

I am the fluctuation

That takes the lead

I am the Prince

I am the Knave

I am the doing

That is the deed

I am the galaxy, the void of space

In the Milky Way

I am the craze

I am the thinker, the thinking, the thought

I am the seeker, the seeking, the sought

I am the dewdrop, the sunshine, the storm

I am the phenomenon, the field, the form

I am the desert, the ocean, the sky

I am the Primeval Self

In you and I

Pure unbounded consciousness

Truth, existence, Bliss am I

In infinite expressions I come and go

Playing hide-and-seek

In the twinkling of an eye

But immortality's my game

Eons pass

Deep inside

I remain

Ever the same

From Bliss I came

In Bliss I am sustained

Join me in my dance

Please join me now

If you forget yourself

You'll never know how

This game is played

In the ocean bed of Eternity

Stop this agony of wishing

Play it out

Don't think, don't hesitate

Curving back within yourself

Just create...just create

Immortality's my game

From Bliss I came

In Bliss I'm sustained

To Bliss I return

If you don't know it now

It's a shame

Are you listening?

Berlin 1989

They hated the Wall, but what could they do? It was too strong to break through.

They feared the Wall, but didn't that make sense? Many who tried to climb over it were

killed.

They distrusted the Wall, but who wouldn't? Their enemies refused to tear down one brick,

no matter how long the peace talks dragged on.

The Wall laughed grimly. "I'm teaching you a good lesson," it boasted. "If you want to

build for eternity, don't bother with stones. Hatred, fear, and distrust are so much stronger."

They knew the Wall was right, and they almost gave up. Only one thing stopped them.

They remembered who was on the other side. Grandmother, cousin, sister, wife. Beloved faces

that yearned to be seen.

"What's happening?" the Wall asked, trembling. Without knowing what they did, they were

looking through the Wall, trying to find their dear ones. Silently, from one person to another,

love kept up its invisible work.

"Stop it!" the Wall shrieked. "I'm falling apart." But it was too late. A million hearts had

found each other. The Wall had fallen before it came down.

The Boy And The Pillow

A wise father wanted to teach his young son a lesson. "Here is a pillow covered in silk

brocade and stuffed with the rarest goose down in the land," he said. "Go to town and see what

it will fetch."

First the boy went to the marketplace, where he saw a wealthy feather merchant. "What will you

give me for this pillow?" he asked. The merchant narrowed his eyes. "I will give you fifty gold

ducats, for I see that this is a rare treasure indeed." The boy thanked him and went on. Next he

saw a farmer's wife peddling vegetables by the side of the road. "What will you give me for this

pillow?" he asked. She felt it and exclaimed, "How soft it is! I'll give you one piece of silver, for I

long to lay my weary head on such a pillow."

The boy thanked her and walked on. Finally he saw a young peasant girl washing the steps

of a church. "What will you give me for this pillow?" he asked. Looking at him with a strange

smile, she replied, "I'll give you a penny, for I can see that your pillow is hard compared to these

stones." Without hesitation, the boy laid the pillow at her feet.

When he got home, he said to his father, "I have gotten the best price for your pillow." And he

held out the penny. "What?" his father exclaimed. "That pillow was worth a hundred gold ducats

at least."

"That's what a wealthy merchant saw," the boy said, "but being greedy, he offered me

fifty. I got a better offer than that. A farmer's wife offered me one piece of silver."

"Are you mad?" his father said. "When is one piece of silver worth more than fifty gold ducats?"

"When it's offered out of love," the boy replied. "If she had given me more, she wouldn't have

been able to feed her children. Yet I got a better offer than that. I saw a peasant girl washing

the steps of a church who offered me this penny."

"You have lost your wits completely," his father said, shaking his head. "When is a penny

worth more than one piece of silver?" "When it's offered out of devotion," the boy replied. "For

she was laboring for her Lord, and the steps of His house seemed softer than any pillow. Poorer

than the poorest, she still had time for God. And that is why I offered her the pillow." At this the

wise father smiled and embraced his son, and with a tear in his eye he murmured, "You have

learned well."

Breaking Free

All this hysteria, all this commotion

Time, space, energy are just a notion

What we have conceptualized we have created

All those loved, all those hated

Where is the beginning, where's the end

Time's arrow, so difficult to bend

Those broken promises, what they meant

Those love letters, never sent

But The Heart Said No

They saw the poor living in cardboard shacks, so they knocked the shacks down and built

projects. Huge blocks of cement and glass towered over asphalt parking lots. Somehow it wasn't

much like home, even home in a shack. "What do you expect?" they asked impatiently. "You're

too poor to live like us. Until you can do better for yourselves, you should be grateful, shouldn't

you?"

The head said yes, but the heart said no.

They needed more electricity in the city, so they found a mountain stream to dam. As the

waters rose, dead rabbits and deer floated by; baby birds too young to fly drowned in the nest

while mother birds cried helplessly. "It's not a pretty sight," they said, "but now a million people

can run their air conditioners all summer. That's more important than one mountain stream, isn't

it?"

The head said yes, but the heart said no.

They saw oppression and terrorism in a far-off land, so they made war against it. Bombs

reduced the country to rubble. Its population cowered in fear, and every day more villagers were

buried in rough wooden coffins. "You have to be prepared to make sacrifices," they said. "If

some innocent bystanders get hurt, isn't that just the price one must pay for peace?"

The head said yes, but the heart said no.

The years rolled by and they got old. Sitting in their comfortable houses, they took stock.

"We've had a good life," they said, "and we did the right thing." Their children looked down and

asked why poverty, pollution, and war were still unsolved. "You'll find out soon enough," they

replied. "Human beings are weak and selfish. Despite our best efforts, these problems will never

really end."

The head said yes, but the children looked into their hearts and whispered, "No!"

A Child is a Song

When children listen to music, they don't just listen. They melt into the melody and flow

with the rhythm. Something inside starts to unfold its wings - soon the child and the music are

one. I feel that way, too, in the presence of music, and my best moments of creativity have

often been spent with children. When I am around them, music comes to me as easily as

breathing.

Each song is a child I nourish and give my love to. But even if you have never written a

song, your life is a song. How can it not be? In wave after wave, Nature caresses you - the

rhythm of each dawn and each sunset is part of you, the falling rain touches your soul, and you

see yourself in the clouds that are playing tag with the sun. To live is to be musical, starting with

the blood dancing in your veins. Everything living has a rhythm. To feel each one, softly and

attentively, brings out its music.

Do you feel your music?

Children do, but once we grow up, life becomes a burden and a chore, and the music

grows fainter. Sometimes the heart is so heavy that we turn away from it and forget that its

throbbing is the wisest message of life, a wordless message that says, "Live, be, move, rejoice --

you are alive!" Without the heart's wise rhythm, we could not exist.

When I begin to feel a little tired or burdened, children revive me. I turn to them for new

life, for new music. Two brown eyes look at me so deeply, so innocently, and inside I murmur,

"This child is a song." It is so true and direct an experience that instantly I realize again, "I am a

song also." I am back to myself once more.

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