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Inspiration at the Traffic Light
by Georgia E. Warren

I have read poetry, novels, books that have inspired me, and listened to music that makes my breathing uneven.I have seen art so powerful that I had to put my hand on a wall to keep from being dizzy (page #2 of this magazine). There is, however, only one time I felt something that came from inside of me: an idea so fully formed I could not escape it. A vision that would not fade.

I love to design just about anything. As far back as I remember I, wanted to design things. My mother was a designer of clothes, so I started drawing pictures of clothes and she would teach me how to make the pattern of the dress, skirt, or blouse I had drawn. It was fun. In third grade I started to scribble lines on pieces of paper, find designs in the scribble, and turn them into pictures (I still do this sometimes). In college I learned how to design sets for theatrical plays and sometimes for the theatres themselves.

It only made sense that I would design or teach design for a living. For a time I did both, and then I just designed. I designed advertisements, booklets, newspapers, and magazines. I learned how they were printed and how to put them together. I did all of this for other people and for companies. Except for Christmas cards, I did not design very much for myself.

A medical doctor janitor mentor in graduate school taught me how to read the lines in the palms of people’s hands. This fascinated me at first because the lines looked so much like the lines I scribbled way back in third grade. There was a meaning in the lines of the hands just like there as in my drawings. And the designs of the shapes of hands and fingers and lumps and bumps, even the lines way deep behind the major lines had meanings. Way beneath all the other lines below what most people call your ring finger are lines that can indicate a person’s sense of humor. I liked hand reading. It fit me.

Hands continue to fascinate me. I picked out my doctor, Dr. Hehir, by looking at the medical stigmata on his hand. He had an amazing medical stigmata, but even more so he had hands that showed compassion. He was my Doc until he retired and I still consider him a friend.

I would check-out the hands of new acquaintances for their humor, a boss for generosity, an employee for talent.

When I became older, all of my immediate family had died or faded away, I was on my own and I wanted to start a business of my own. I had some ideas that kept floating around: I could start an advertising co-op of artists, writers, photographers, and designers. I could make a newspaper for Civil War reenactments and go from place to place selling ads for authentic looking clothes, glasses, and ads for the old time photographers. I could publish interesting articles. Then I thought I could open an advertising consulting firm. All the ideas for my own business had some kind of design theme.

Mostly though, my plans for the future were only daydreams. Sometimes night dreams, but always only dreams fading away.

 

My closest relative was my niece Melony. Melony was interested in stones, books and things with a spiritual slant. She wanted me to come with her to see some Himalayan Salt Lamps that were supposed to emit negative ions. They were available at a shop called "Essential Kneads" in Cicero, NY. I didn’t know where it was but she told me exactly. Melony had asked about Essentil Kneads at another shop a few miles away called the "Mystic Side" and they had not heard of it. Mel had been to Seven Rays Bookstore near Syracuse University and had mentioned both Essential Kneads and the Mystic Side and they hadn’t heard of either of them. The other storekeepers had heard of Seven Rays Bookstore: it had the largest inventory of "spiritual" books in New York State, with stones, tarot cards, jewelry, and Reiki practitioners.

It surprised me that these shops, with a similar customer base didn’t know where the other ones were located. Syracuse is a good sized city but not that big.


Mel and I planned to meet at Essential Kneads around noon and I was running almost on time. I would have made it, if only the signal light at the exit from Route 81 had not turned red at the moment I got there. It is a complicated intersection: stop lights for every possible direction and turn. The wait for each light was long. Stopped there, I was probably going to be a minute or two late. I hate, being late for appointments.
For you astrologers out there the date was Sunday, August 6th, 2006, it was 11:54 a.m., at the intersection of Rt. 81 North and State Route 31, in Cicero, NY. I remember times, dates and places a little better than maybe I should.

Instead of becoming frustrated, I started thinking about the fact that the two stores we were going to visit didn’t know anything about each other. Then I swear to anything that you care to believe: I imagined a publication design in those 120 seconds of light signal time. I knew how I was going to lay the pages out, what the front page would look like, what the banner would be; I remembered a space photo of Earth and in my mind put a green, mobius strip around its middle. The publication would be a place to list all these spiritual-type businesses. Plus, the name, I immediately thought of a name that could be a catch-all and very few people would be offended by it. I even figured out that I could start reading hands at psychic fairs in order to become part of the metaphysical community. All I needed was to introduce myself to the promoters of the psychic fairs.

I turned the corner when the light changed, and drove to Essential Kneads. When I went in, the lady at the counter said I had a message from my niece that she would be 15 or 20 minutes late.

I was still in an excited mood about my idea when I arrived, and when I get excited about something I am a blabber mouth. Well, I went on and on about my idea. I asked if she knew where the Mystic Side was and when she said “No,” I became even more excited.

Somehow it was catching. The woman in the shop said something like: “You have to do it! You have to do it! We need a place to advertise, we need a place where people can find out about events and read about what we do.”

I started to calm down by then and looked at the lady I was talking to: long hair, lots of interesting jewelry and clothes. She had bare feet. Something she wore jingled when she walked. By then I had the composure to ask her name.

“Debbie” she said “Debbie DeRushia.” She called out her co-worker Cindy McCafferty and we both told her about my idea.

Melony was delayed a little longer than she thought she would be. By the time she arrived I was so convinced that this was supposed to be my mission in life that I blurted out: “Mel, I’m going to start a newspaper, I even know what I’m going to call it.

With a lot of help from old friends and new friends, a couple of months later I was handing out copies of Volume I Number 1:

 



How American
Literature Happens

by Gabrial Orgrease

In the cemetery the tall guy told us he had written a letter to his governor to suggest that he might want to go for a walk in the cemetery. It being a somewhat old and fine cemetery surrounded by highway, a bubbly crick, poison ivy, a cigar bar, and an old house that won’t let anybody in to see it’s basement. Something went on about how his father walked somewhere with the governor’s father. How he knew the governor’s wife likes to go for walks. How his children like to go for walks.
(go to story)


Dear Editor
by Franklin Crawford

Since I don’t really have anything to tell you, let me mention some things that happened on Sunday, August 20, 2017.  I was dropping off a bag of used clothes at The Thrifty Store where even rich people shop for twenty-five cent shirts. Slumming it is big now and everybody loves a bargain.  The place was closed and management prefers folks to not drop off donations on Sunday but people do anyway. Which makes it a good day for poor folks to get something they can afford, namely, something free. (Go to Story)

 


Inspiration at the
Traffic Light

by Georgia E. Warren

I have read poetry, novels, books that have inspired me, and listened to music that makes my breathing uneven.I hae seen art so powerful that I had to put my hand on a wall to keep from being dizzy (page #2 of this magazine). There is, however, only one time I felt something that came from inside of me; an idea so fully formed I could not escape it. A vision that would not fade. (go to article)

 



Reiki: Just The Facts Part XIV:
Bringing Spirit In

by Don Brennan

Inspiration is the process of clearing ourselves and bringing in wisdom, guidance, divine revelation, healing energy, or the sacred breath from Spirit. Call it channeling one’s muse, if you like. It is the process of connecting with the divine, getting our human selves out of the way, and allowing Spirit to move through us. (go to article)

 



POETRY

Our Poetry section includes some of our favorite poets, click on ther names to bring yourself to special inspiring poems:

Robert Graves -
To the Muse Goddess (visit)

Dante - ‘’Purgatorio’’,
Canto I, lines 7 to 12 (visit)

Peter Fortunato -
Four Poems (visit)

Mary Gilliland -The Language of Bees (visit)

Nancy Cuto - Madragana Wears Her New Name (visit)

 

In Service to
the Muse

by Robert Graves

Excerpt from:
The Atlantic, June 1961

The original significance of this word has long been blurred by dishonest or facetious usage. The Muse, or Mountain Mother, whom the preclassical Greeks worshiped on Parnassus and other sacred peaks, seems to have inspired the poet in much the same sense as the loa gods of Haiti now “ride” their devotees. And, although by Homer’s time her invocation had become a mere formality, subservice to the Muse has ever since been avowed by counterfeit poets in the service of politics, learning, or the church. True possession has occurred sporadically down the centuries as a phenomenon that can neither be provoked or foreseen. (go to entire article)

 

Forward to
The Muses

by David Rollow

The nine Muses are the offspring of Zeus and Mnemosyne, the Goddess of Memory. Before the invasion of the Olympian gods, the Muses, goddesses or guardian nymphs of springs and groves, tutelary spirits, belonged to a preliterate, oral culture. The original three are the daughters of Mnemosyne, memory, although they were raised by a wetnurse or foster-mother, Eupheme. Even this biographical snippet must be a late revision, since Mnemosyne is said to be the mother of the Muses with Zeus, so is already a literary corruption, the first euphemism. Mnemosyne is a personification: Memory. (go to article)




Journey to
the Second Attention
(Emphasizing the Recall)

by Kris Faso

I closed my eyes and immediately recalled the Elders advice.

“Nothing might temper the spirit of a nation as much as the challenge of dealing with impossible people in positions of power.
If you face the uncertainty with impunity, you will acquire the strength to withstand
even the incomprehensible.

And for this, peace will guide your way - then you shall know how to proceed”.
(go to the beginning of article)



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