The cage that held my heart was made of fear. I thought that it was a good thing. I thought that it would protect me from harsh words and pain. I thought that “they” built it, I forgot that I built it to be my mask, the mask that would make me acceptable, likeable and a good citizen.

The sun rose and the sun set and I measured my worth by how much I had been fed, how much food I had saved for tomorrow and how beautiful my clipped wings were today.
The sun rose and the sun set and I reasoned that I must be happy because I was safe, warm and breathing.

A dark & stormy night arrived and the lightening we were taught to fear shattered my world. The fire that swallowed my home and stole my beauty had left me till last. It ate into my cage and gave me the power of choice. I could choose to be devoured or I could choose to command my paralyzed body into the darkness of the unknown. I chose darkness.

My New World, beyond the ashes, taught me hard lessons and often I longed for the comfort of my cage. But the beauty of this greater world nurtured my hunger and soothed my tired wings that were still too clipped to fly.

The sun rose and the sun set and I measured my worth, neither by the lack of beauty of my retarded wings nor by the lack of food in my belly. I found my worth in the one thing the fire could not take, could not scorch. This was the gift of the fire; it found the part of me that was hidden behind a cage of illusion, it was there all along waiting to be remembered.

Just when the days of suffering and longing felt like a burden too great, a grand bird flew in (just as he agreed he would do in a time long forgotten). I learned to fly again. Now as the sun rises and the sun sets for the world below me, I choose whether it will rise and set for me. The horizon that once cruelly teased my clipped wings now bends to my will as I fly. My shadow still returns when I touch the ground, as this I have learned is the way of this world.
In the highest places I have found a New World, a world where even the sun does not set, but where it burns from the heart of an eternal day. You may wonder what keeps a bird such as this, which knows the bliss of eternal day coming back to a world of shadows, and I’ll tell you. It is the music he hears. The sweet music of a million hearts still in cages calling for freedom.

As natural as it is for a bird to want to fly, so does your heart ache to be free to experience the greatness of who you really are.

This Love

This love that holds my tears
and sings my human song.
This love that loves fear and courage equally.
This love that is medicine to all heart break because it loves without exclusion.
This love that bends not
and does not shrink back ever.
This love that has been my teacher,
my friend, my unknown master.
To this love I bow, I have searched for you and found you looking,
not for me, but as me, as the true I.
This love. May all beings know this love.
~ Colleen-Joy ~

The Dreamer

The Dreamer
by Colleen-Joy Page

I dreamt of a dream, a dream that lasted a lifetime.
I dreamt of a dream, a dream I died for to be mine.
It began with pain and ended the same
… and all the while I forgot that I was sleeping.

I dreamt of blue-sky and water reflecting.
Of children laughing and people bleeding.
I dreamt this dream and felt it in my veins,
Bleeding into a heart so real that I forgot I was sleeping.

I sang tears and cried songs, I felt the centre of peace
And lost it again in the circumference of fear.
I was child, I was crone, I was wise, I was ignorant.
I was human while my God self slept.

And then I woke within the dream and pulled sleep from my eyes,
To see a world of beings of light cloaked in darkness.
Blinded the sightless seeking the horizon through windows that blink.
I dreamt this dream and felt it seduce me with its intensity and volume.
But I would not let it steal the Dreamer.

The Dreamer whispers, “Wake and rise to the full stature of your being.
Toss off these garments that bind the soul to its island of flesh.
Reach past the corridors of your mind to journey, to touch the mind of God.
Trust not the deception of your eyes though they serve you in your quest for definition.
Trust rather the one who looks through your eyes though they be closed or blinded.
Forget Me Not For I am all that I am, and I am you!

I am the Dreamer whispering through the dreamed – though you may silence me.
And though you may forget Me we are all that is and all that will ever be.
Let not the dreamed make the dreamer less real or less worthy for we serve each other
One standing before the mirror, the other standing behind”

“So let us walk together in this dreamscape and dream a dream of wonder.
Let us walk two worlds and yet be one. The one who lives on tides of air,
The other whose out-breath is creation and whose in-breath is going home.
Let us see this dream to its end, remembering that we have dreamed before and will dream again.

Remembering that it is us who creates the dream or the nightmare as we choose.
What dream do you choose? Live lucidly as you were born to.
Grow miracles in your heart and rainbow bridges from your mind.
Be the dreamer and the dreamed, the centre and the circumference, body and soul.”
I dreamt of a dream that lasted an eternity.

It began with joy and ended in joy and all the while I knew that I was being.

We were born to see

After an eternity of seeking, the sudden threshold of seeing leaves one filled with a strange paradox of ecstasy and grief.

I was born to see. How strange that a part of the self then grieves for blindness? However, this too shall pass.

For what is it to be blind, but to find safety in the darkness and to become the spouse of habit whose name is Ignorance? We chase the carrot but find its taste bittersweet. Facing our greatness seems to be harder than facing our smallness.

So accustomed have we become to the tight fit of our clothes, that nakedness frightens us and takes getting used to. So for now, I will adjust to the feel of my skin naked against the elements and free of confines.

Certainly, a part of the grief, is the isolation of seeing in a world of blindness. There is a pain to seeing many butterflies trapped in their cocoons and a necessary respect for the caterpillar.

To be a butterfly is neither a desire, nor a sought after role, but it is simply to be true to ones inherent nature. The caterpillar only remains a caterpillar, when he has forgotten his butterfly self and resists his natural growth.

Have courage dear butterfly, your wings may be fragile, but they will take you home.

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