Yesterday I stopped at an old abandoned farmhouse and I saw, in the reflection of the living room window – the farm wives always leave their lace curtains behind when they leave – an image of a small barn. And the barn spoke to me, and told me the Story Of The World. Do not believe the people who tell you the world is a bad or evil place, falling into ruin and despair. A spiritual life, a conscious life, a self-determined life asks of us that we tell our own Story Of The World, and not hear it from small, angry, frightened or greedy people. It comes from inside of us, and My Story Of The World, I told the barn, I told the farmhouse,  is that the world is a beautiful place, filled with countless creative sparks and showers of light, untold miracles, fates, fairies, cherubim and angels spewing rainbows and color in their wake.

In the world every day, millions of people are born, find love, give birth, rescue, hurt and maim and kill, tell their stories,  get work, struggle, die, hope and despair. This, said the barn, has always been the Story Of The World, and will always be, and those of us who wish to hear are called to find the images and words of light and the color of the world and bring it to the shadows and corners where fear and sorrow and hopelessness thrive.

The world, say the old farmhouses, is what you make of it, what you want it to be.

This, said the old barn, is the mystics call to life.