Through the snow I couldnt help the thought of being physically well, being blessed with good health, though it can be better if I improve my water intake and thought life. But as I approached the edge of the grass I stepped onto pavement simultaneously as well as into an insight. A healthy body cannot suppress the disease that a sick spirit carries. This, I believe I possess, if it were not true would I have broken into a prayer led by the Holy Spirit that prays constantly for me? It was a moment that seems to carry itself over into this moment. It feels more than a memory, and deeper than an experience. Nonetheless, I have an ill spirit, and I need a doctor.
Turning over the thought of religion like a plow pulled by an oxen turning over soil, I find that what is revealed in the land of my heart is dry, cragged soil. No good thing suviving in it. It needs good, moist, bacteria rich soil to mix into it. I need to be around healthy people, or perhaps not, maybe I need to be around the lover of my land, the farmer of his crop, the tiller of his soil. Perhaps I need the soul tiller to breathe health, wealth, and happiness into the deep parts of my being.
I didn’t use perhaps randomly, I used it intentionally, because I have a doubtful mind, and a hardened heart. In my pride I know what is good for me. In my pride I can’t live. In my pride I will like the many examples before me, become baren and fruitless.
I know what will secure health in me that it is giving up the deep pool of material living, of sensual limitlessness, of disregarding the true source of wisdom, it is to give up being a fool. One who knows but continues to walk waywardly, that is the fool. The simple ignorant to misfortune, are not immune to its disease. Like the veil over the bride of chaos seduces, birthing a false courage of unbridled effort to lift and kiss the face underneath. But as the eyes open, their lips upon a beast, a devil a wretched thing, as misery, warts, and anxiety cover them from head to sole. The work of many years to remove the pain, and the scars de-soul, de-spirit them. To give up worshipping life, and to give up the god of life to the God who gave it. Though the rituals of life is fear of losing it. The fear of not having work to sustain one. That is the sweet sweet sound that this god finds pleasing, the deafening sound of fear, the aroma that it finds good the sweat of stress on ones brow.
Leaving the casket of work, I find repose in the repose of the ancients before me. Thoreau is but a babe to Socrates, and soon, by grace and providence I will be but a babe and Thoreau the ancient. I donot consider myself an intellect, but I do consider myself a Father of thought when I have finally birthed it by rite through my dieing by living out the principle it bears.