We’ve been praying, we’ve been sowing. Now we’ve crying, heaven send the rain.
We’ve been praying, we’ve been sowing. Now we’ve crying, heaven send the rain. Send the rain

—William McDowell

A dry field produces not an abundance of crops, but a lack of crops. I have been guilty of wishing, praying and demanding, like an intolerant two-year-old, that I am given abundant life. See, it is not the wishing, the praying or even the demanding that creates the guilt trap. No, my fault is assuming and expecting abundance to flow freely to me without effort on my part.

A gardener knows she cannot expect an abundant harvest come Summer if she has not thoroughly tilled her soil. She knows she must properly sow her seeds in the good earth. She comprehends that watering is necessary. Similarly, she allows and encourages her garden to be watered.

Too often we vainly ask for the seemingly impossible. We bombard our Source of all that was, is and will be with empty wishes. These wishes are empty because we often desire not to have to face the rain required to water our seeds. We claim we will do anything and face everything necessary to live the life we desire. Yet  when the storm clouds appear, the thunder rolls and the rain begins to fall, we hide. We complain that the ground is too wet for us to thread. We argue that there is too much rain to see beyond.

Your life is your garden. You can manifest all that you desire. You require rain to bear good fruit. Embrace every drop from every storm and your life will harvest abundance.

—♥Egypt

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

—Robert Frost

I may never have the necessary quantity of words, nor the gravity of profound articulation or even the ability to allow my hand to dance so fervently over this glass paper to tell you how heavy my heart has been; and yet still, how light I have only just begun to feel—but I can gift to you my journey, my love thus far and henceforth in hopes that you will be able to translate and transcribe that which falls within the spaces between my words and that which tarnishes these pages forever and 80 years.

For more on my own journey back to confidence, self-esteem and self-worth head over to Geiko Skin ♥

Even a basic two-step takes practice.

Gifted—everyone has a gift say the good books. Each person has something inside of Him or Her which specifically sets Him or Her apart from all others and amongst the ranks of others who share similar gifts, right? Right. So what makes you special…if you are not the only one with your given gift…what makes your gift worth having?

YOU.

You are what makes your gift special. I am the only person walking this good green-blue earth harboring my specific set of morals, traits, values, and experiences. You are the only persona who can express your gift with and from the perspective of your past, present and future living.

YOU ARE THE GIFT.

Fathom this…you, a one of a kind, living breathing walking talking gift to be continually perfected in all areas and aspects of life and existence then shared with humanity well-seasoned and tastefully raw af. Eh, picture that Love.

Peace and always Love!

—♥Egypt

You must first be great to produce greatness. From mediocre you receive mediocracy. To be great is an ongoing journey—no Man, no Woman possesses a beginning or an end to his or her greatness. Greatness is to be assumed, owned and managed continually. You are by divine creation great. It is only when you decide to stop striving to be greater than your yesteryou that you begin to dress your own self in robes of mediocracy. There is no end to the levels of greatness one can achieve either—there is only stagnation.

You are indeed great my Loves!

—♥E

Vows are not made to be broken…

but—we are humans, fickle creatures…we break them. Some we break unintentionally, some we break to save, as if it needs saving, grace…and some we break simply to keep from having to reveal our demons to none other than ourselves. I broke a vow I made to you, because of the latter—I simply could not be transparent with you, so I hid from you…but only the part of you that reflected me…I hid from your eyes, and yet your hearts still beat in my chest.

Even in hiding, I could not escape the sound. I could not stop my feet from dancing to those beats you conjured—and though, my mind still raced as brilliantly as a million thoroughbred stallions, my spirit stalled out a time or two, and my body backfired…my bones cracked and ground bone on bone. I chipped a tooth. I stained a few. Part of me became so seemingly complete with the thoughts breathing as good mother Dickinson had, and part of me grew sick of dancing in my own eerie shadows, dropping baskets of treats from gloomy windows. Slowly,

hesitantly,

I set aside my peace pipe because I am learning time slows down much faster when it speeds up—like interdimensional travel, shifting, bending, transmuting from one black space to the next without the blinking of an eye. I am home again. Please allow me to rest my head upon your hearts once more.

Signed,

A Letter to Those Who Traveled this Wicked Path with I…

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