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By Robin Baldwin

I walk along this lake shore in search for the perfect stone, while the thin shale's crunch beneath my feet, some tinkle.
It is glacial this lake, a reflection calm;
of spruce plantations, hills and snow capped mountains upon turquoise blue-green scenes, inverted so clear and clean: the sheep graze a stones throw into the mist that lifts without drift to evaporate directionless, as I continue in search for this perfect skimming stone.
I bend and pick one, and as I place it in my palm, it is pleasant and rounded; so as not to be alone in mind or imagination I sense its texture while I continue with eyes fixed, without thought or notion.

In silence I must take in all shore,
yet still, to see with such perfection
every single possibility, while I conjure from this tactile position; contours felt in Braille; as thought to word in silence inside I sense a ridge along its surface, a line of uncertainty; etched through expansion raised to question
as I ask of the one I carry.
Will it skim so perfect? I drop it and continue without any sense of defeat or surrender. It is out there in amongst seemingly insurmountable odds;
in whatever form, and as I soften my print; I stop. There it is, surrounded by a definitive destiny. I pick it up with haste and excitement, but before I judge I call into response, touch. Yes! Touch comes:
Is it weighted to orbit the Sun, and many many times? to pass to outer galaxies without friction or sign? to align all elements from which it was derived?.
Does it rest here, right in my palm?

I look into the calmness of the lake;
not a ripple to the relatedness of the depths; bottomless in absorbance of the stone I hold in touch: and as I listen past sound, there is nothing. How can I say then, that I am seeing beyond immersion; I do not paddle or wade here, I stand in observation, of what I see and do.
This stone I hold in my palm has been around perpetually to all facets, to all boundaries, to all upheavals; do I relent to the letting go, to skim this stone, ages born, long long ago? Through living experience, of poet's sage's seers philosophers; in a skim of continuation, even as I stand to throw caution to the wind; never to beckon toward erosion.
It is my passage to skim this stone as I know the doors will open like the parting of the sea, in imagination!
I would think to be free in idea and understanding; the fall of uncertainty never out of grace or favour, it must be learned in order to reveal these secrets of another world; another plane in realisation; parallel fields wider than any

Misfortune comes from impatience, it is not for gain or wealth; as it may come but only in minor quotient to what is reality, while the stone away from mind is to all what is known, all what isn't, all that is present, in moment as it is in lineage added, to Homer, Shakespeare, Milton, Blake, Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, Owen Yeats, Tarkovsky Thomas, Kipling, Longfellow, Tagore just to name a few, and in terms or context; just as Socrates and Plato, Aristotle, Ptolemy, Copernicus, Galileo, Newton Planck, Einstein; all great composers and artists - Van Gogh, Van Dyke, Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Mozart, Gauguin, Chopin; leaders of human rights - Jeronimo, Lincoln, Livingston, Schindler, Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela, Mahatma Gandhi, not only in name, but in doctrine, not centred to only a single Human; as what this skim of knowledge portrays is to the evolution of something far greater; far greater in understanding, of either language or science; it is of the self and its contents, pure consciousness in creation; of creation; by creation itself.
By which one perceives as only this flesh and blood; and not by what one sees as realisation of consciousness.
When this stone skims; it is a reflection of cosmic consciousness. The genius of one in this solution of the totally unexplained, as I recoil and bend as a praying mantis that rests in wait to place; to further extend this idea out of time and space. Not of an object of discovery, but in experience of this minuteness, to spring and say to a destiny; as I grasp this opportunity; I say, it is time, it is time to catch what has been lost. I prey upon this food in nourishment of my soul; to see all paradise lost, regained; it is mine, and me, to refrain from tongue and thought, not one inclination, as I recoil and unwind to the point of release, of this skimming stone; as it will be its own philosophy; stored in the latency of a tendon sprung forth to transfer all in the trajectory of mindful occupation. All what has come to pass, I release the stone, and in motion, it spins to press upon this glassy sheen, to question and evaluate all surface tension; as if it were honey, I hear the recoil in sound, this soft pat long.
As on through the ages it brings forth in moments, pricks of brilliance
It is the quiet slap of this reflection as closer and closer they are to become just indents; imprints left in a vacuum to fill the volume, yet with such infinite capacity, it is in a way, as imaginative as a tiny smelt that swims in all oceans alone; never to know or hear the abandonment of shame guilt or fear, as it would be oh so similar to accept as I pass through all literary fields. And as magnetic as each one is, I do not dwell or lecture, for it would impart to me, only conjecture, never would I see or comprehend;
as never would I realise this bigger picture, as clear or pure. I would think this to be the reality, the truth where there is no manipulation, where there is no gravitational suggestion; nothing untoward that I should remain always below the level of the sea; when there is this higher canopy to consider, as thin as it may be. Of course it will be! But I must say, won't the view be spectacular; not positioned or aligned to any formal matrix.
As I push the Banana away as this child in the high chair, even before speech, And what is it that brings this obstinacy so early on, to what the breeze was yesterday or the day before. And after in years, trapped maybe? To say Oh well, I'm never going to like bananas then. And if not corrected or acknowledged to think this way for life. Well! We all do, of likes, dislikes, dualities in matter and thought born from emotional archetype.
All that is known as identity, up to this point where one begins to experience through transformation, if one wishes to face with this inner alteration, into conscious expansion. This is the enigma of the brain stem. It instils; never to distil or refine; it remains lumpy. There it is. Take it or leave it! as Mum puts the banana on the tray. And why did I say and behave like this in the first place: because it is growing up at a human level, it is the passage of man and at what plane does one begin, as just because something niggles, because something wriggles; it is not consigned to any particular family trait or generation.

To compare; it is only used in understanding to say, from someone else's perspective that I am just like Uncle Bob or Cousin Bill; it is the way to attribute familiarity and comfort in belonging; or dislike. To fit something into a space that makes it seem or feel right or real. Behaviour in cognition, expectation projected into mind and set like concrete to become what! individual. Yet through life, it is all to this struggle to find one's own essential nature, to enquire; or to accept this passage with all circular revilement; to a mouse that is always on the wheel; and if it would stop
it would see that food would still be there; and just enough without the urge to choose. Surely though, there must be some of this reality in learning as I say we parrot our way; the want to be compared to; to make us seem worth in our stance upon this earth; never to stop to say and possibly realise 'Hey! I could be Shakespeare, Wordsworth'. Not from what is taught through schooling or academia, or parenting.

There is something else that is so hard a concept to grasp; that we all have the capacity; this potential within us,
So what keeps from? What hinders?
Why should I remain with this perpetual occupation of all this before and after, compare and contrast; expectation; being put in a box, Pandora's, or a can of worms opened: never to be closed, yet,
to always remain so hidden. Through all life to one's final breath to be unknown,
to have never recognised as being, in this present happiness.
A life not lived because the grave has already taken; as the subconscious hooks, as it catches on the relentless jaws of mind; to forever reel and snag to this unreality; always a rudder under pressure; and deeply felt is this steer, this direction to no-where, across boundless currents which grip, where the swim bladder will be denied its moment; to be in constant ballast, to surface free to breathe.

It may seem as no one would really take seriously this possibility as I ask, who knows what anyone is thinking at any particular point in time. We may stay single, get married, have children; or none: yet, in amongst all, can anyone speak truly from the heart, or expect to find a soul, for soul is just a word; but to experience though! That is different. That is whole, yet it does not come so easy, rest assured, I do not have the need for insurances anymore; what a laugh, when I know that death is as common as a single breath, down to the smallest denomination. When feeling as greatly composed at an age over fifty; reborn is not a word I would use; but transformation, that has appeal to be fifty and knowing this clock is in reverse; not to count the ones, twos, fives, or tens, but the fiftys, hundreds, and thousands.

Brahma Putra, Yes! That is the river;
and Ganges, more as beyond the concept of this reality hidden, to douse oneself in the water of; to bathe in what is termed a shrine, it is to do in belief of this higher self no matter what it is, and without harm or destruction this self will reveal;
in apparition or vision perhaps, it is not a ghost or cognition, it is intuition, it is clear perception beyond and into eclectic realms never considered or thought possible.
I picked this stone for a reason. Is this the reason? I listen. What comes? I ask. What interrupts? Is it my own hiccup?
Or is to have nothing to say of possession or fuss? And what is there to speak of without; with just this empty space, this void. It was I who released this stone to skim to see what becomes: it is not becoming. Come on! Get it right! Though, it is presently in question as to what is right, from left. I charge to find the answer, and it will be inside of course; in sense it is all up to this esoteric experience.

And how do I find this experience? Not out there, but within; all that I have not learned or been taught: all that has been lying dormant. I can use my nostrils, in sense of the passage of air; Oh how scary when I do not know what it is I am meant to be feeling? No one has taught this lesson before. It is this solo journey
and so intrinsic in nature, and of direction. Which way? Where is the door? I can't breathe as silent, why?
I'm not blocked! What is this thought that hinders? I'm stuck to anxiety, so much so it chokes or feels that way. My heart beats outside while mind is a Hare that is on the run. Oh what from? Physiologic hot and cold sweats; Deep! Very Deep!.
It is right to think that experiential awareness can be saintly like; with trepidation to walk light, yet to remain grounded; it is scary to think though, how on earth can it be? I know the snake from the rope; that I can choose the right perception away from misapprehension; where does it come? What shape or form does it behold? As I ask please, please show me the way?

As this insight, this inner voice of old man conscience slowly glides on this eternal river; a glimpse of stillness.
But what over rules, what states that I should not heed or listen or even obey this wise notion? Yes! This question I have found, so now I begin to answer; I wasn't Uncle Bill or Cousin Bill, after all. That was just something that someone else has had me believe all this time. So at last I begin to feel this cause and effect in depletion. Where these two connect in dissolution, but to what? A thought!
If I do this, or if I do that, to negate thoughtless consequences, as there can be none can there? If doing is the product of this cause and effect and if this cause and effect cancels by my will, then Being is born. Yes! If I am not doing there can be no consequence; if I leave it up to something mighty or superior I negate all physical dimensions. If I serve, if I say I am to serve, you see, this is the effort required. It is I who must learn to accept.
that this stone skims to this destiny of something great; far greater than I.

Although in participation, I am partially only subject to in breath, this stone reflects the release of this karmic wheel that used to spin so out of control, where now it slows in revolution, to a standstill, strife, anxiety; all but burnt; expired, turned to ash for now, I see just as it is. Yes, just as it is; I am this skimming stone to pat the surface for a while, then lift by my will to enquire , this is the beginning of this space within, for as long as I am not distracted; I see with an open heart through the quietest mind to look upon this clear calm lake with all clarity and vision; conscience, I polish its inner surface without blemish or conjecture. Where am I? This question is no longer audible. Whilst still to have this heart felt empathy for misery, war, death and destruction; it happens, it is all part and parcel; I feel this sympathy toward, I touch, as this stone does only momentarily upon this surface; as Earth is not a place to dwell, it is a place to live, and to be, as free as it is to admire, if I care, even in completeness, full, A breath is each skim's reflection; it is not the words that should end.
As the skims get closer there becomes more of a connection to what can be achieved beyond what is read; what is written, and even though as steep, I have learned from all such passage; this stone is me; sending out to the realms of humanity; the stone never skims the same; yet reveals in itself, truths of what is in us all. In wilderness perhaps, where others before have skimmed. In adversity, yet to find a lake as calm it is to generate this purpose-full-ness that is this skims intention, as I used to say I can't do this - But not anymore. I am in a way anybody - Martin Luther King, I know him. He said to me 'I have a dream' that is the reality; to know that I know, to believe that I believe. Oh how wonderful it was to be a child; I am king and for more than a day; My! Where did that all go? Almost like little boy lost and now wow! I am king again; I AM KING AGAIN. Like the lambs on the hill that bunt and run and spring, grouped in experience alone. To that part of growing, where, if in human terms, it gets all confused with mine, this Life that skims - without knowledge to the end.

And when it is calm that is what it is to define finesse from the multitude, away from the abyss of conjecture without resistance, in solitude, yet alone in happiness, the stone is as it skims along then almost to the mist, to flicker; its plop in death. And if I say this stone is me; maybe even to be left with a warm impression for adding a hug, a kiss, pleasantness to the trajectory that remains; toward this evolving human consciousness. Not to be paltry in summation of life, but to question Where I have I been and what I have done? To recognise aspects not in confession or repent, but as an inner reconciliation; in terms of agreement, to face life as it brings such growing pains, mind games. I started the same; but where the skimming stone has landed I have cognised all experience; and with it, put in place, change of habit of ideas and theories not of my own volition; I can never be this same person, a dilemma it is, for all those around, as in their belief, I am no different; yet, it is all to a new internal surface; more natural, more fluent, more peaceful.
To feel the energy of the moment without participation, without grasp even, just on floatation, right here, before it leaves, space dissolved without emotion, without disgrace, how can I. I am not this body, I am not this mind, I am, is just this skimming stone and it is on its way in a sort of destiny, sort of unknown, just as it comes, but in control in question, discernment and discretion, the path, Yes! This is the path and to find the key that turns to open the door, that previously before, was in all effort to be forced. But it can't be forced; it has to be with grace, with the denomination of belief,
in one's self, without restraint; total surrender one might say, to leave the playing fields of ego and possession far away; Behind. And this path once realised, it stays to a dynasty of listening and patience, regardless of action and reaction; blips as water droplets displaced they melt and fall into solution;
That is how one's destiny is found, when all falls into solution, then and only then, can one find where one's journey is, as it unfolds, as I say EUREKA!

There is nothing else I have found after so long in ponder, I am in space, I see, I observe the wind on my face, and sound so fair; everything just falls away, instantly to disappear, as light I seem to skate so free and easy as this skimming stone, in and out of surface freed from all such tension.
I see in imagination a conscience that faces in, it is so wonderful, so gracious a matrix of the melt of honey so pure to shower light that hangs like a white silken curtain. The gates have opened, I am here; thoughts and images freeze in suspension; they stay frozen to zero as I walk as the moment, as the moment of heaven,
A bliss-full-ness in this spiritual dimension where guides find angels,
to be seen, and seen again, as I hear William. 'Come Come' We are all here, I have been waiting; the skimming stone has found.


Before the boy inside
Before the girl to be
Before the sign I saw
Before the hallowed call
Before the wolf did howl
Before the hand did see.

Before the Owl at night
Before the early stromatolyte
Before the Earth was formed
Before the light was seen
Before the word was spoken

before the moon
I am before I came
I am before the cot
I am in all vibration
In all eternal dream.


The stone is gone
From where I stand
The stone has gone to another
To where-for-after
From where it lands
To where-for-after
I understand

I understand that I understood
I understood the skimming stone
The skimming stone I understood
I understand and know
Its been a while
since I saw it last
but there it is
in the present past
in the present past
to what is now
to what is now that is

or is it first, I wish I knew
first or last, this stone I threw
the stone I threw, I know at last
I know it as
I am.