Elizabeth Clayton

"A crown is but the open flower in sunshine's bright." Inside our thought holds most of the riddle of existence; we interact primarily with the objectively real, but always in companionship with the part of ourselves that is like an unclear halo. We know it is truly our own, but, in great part, clouded. It is the marvelous self that is non-corporal. It is the spiritual unit of our being, and while troubling and source to much sorrow, it is triumphant, as we die to its revealing, we, then, rising, as the grande phoenix out her ashes to the upward. It is truly a source of secrets, an entrance, however painful, for the Holy into our being; it allows a concept of beauty to blossom in heinous circumstance, and allows night to be born into a knowing glory, solitude, in onliness, to present honorable messages of truth. Therefore, the bog, the marsh, the heath, in purple or grey - the bramble, yet the swamp - these are familiar settings for research and truth. Our cognitive skills and their enlightening studies in classrooms, everyday walks, traumatic events, as well as alternations in natural rhythming - these we bring inside ourselves to see what we may see - perhaps a rose; the rose grows into much of itself, into its rarity of beauty, within the dark, and as a metaphor of truth, more out of solitude and personal embracing of ultimately finding.

PortionsThe world that waits for me at the top of the stairsis one of supreme quiet, and invitation_To a pensive time of varying mood, Strange and fanciful thought, And ideas that burst like bright, Exciting colors, over the furniture and appointments, These alongside shadows, deep and grey_This is the world of my most real self, One of which I yearn, in paradoxical stances: To escape, and to return-For knowing one's self must be done in portions, Else the whole of it would crumble, In the terrible and marvelous scrutiny, As a castle, Fashioned, Of humble sand.To be intimate with one's self is a brave and worthy task, Superseding that with any other.

Agatha Moi is a long-thought, very full bramble of ruminations of a life through which struggle enabled the sacrament of a kind of purification-cleanliness of negativism, fear, and doubt, the redressing of fear, and the pathos of understanding the loss of, most, beauty-into an acceptance of an argument aspiring which became, finally, truly, unnecessary."Wearing" can prove difficult, as the the0020verse narrative demonstrates, but using its reality of studied perception with the "forward appendage of thought-hope"-a cathartic quest has offered a medium, a fashion after the grail: one of the truths, beauty, and acceptance without regret.If wisdom is found through example, perhaps we may look into ourselves to accept and trust, if with questions, the spirit waiting there to be unveiled, to not be in reactive discovery, challenged, or filled of questions yet thought found unworthy. Growth can occur within the rooms of doubt, as with examination, casting off, reaffirming, or finding new alternatives, but we must be wise in the thoughtful simplicity of behavior truly no more than rearranging - replacing an acceptable portion of truth in the portion left empty-that we not be found, "left waiting," without our "stars" to dress our "person."

"A crown is but the open flower in sunshine's bright." Inside our thought holds most of the riddle of existence; we interact primarily with the objectively real, but always in companionship with the part of ourselves that is like an unclear halo. We know it is truly our own, but, in great part, clouded. It is the marvelous self that is non-corporal. It is the spiritual unit of our being, and while troubling and source to much sorrow, it is triumphant, as we die to its revealing, we, then, rising, as the grande phoenix out her ashes to the upward. It is truly a source of secrets, an entrance, however painful, for the Holy into our being; it allows a concept of beauty to blossom in heinous circumstance, and allows night to be born into a knowing glory, solitude, in onliness, to present honorable messages of truth. Therefore, the bog, the marsh, the heath, in purple or grey - the bramble, yet the swamp - these are familiar settings for research and truth. Our cognitive skills and their enlightening studies in classrooms, everyday walks, traumatic events, as well as alternations in natural rhythming - these we bring inside ourselves to see what we may see - perhaps a rose; the rose grows into much of itself, into its rarity of beauty, within the dark, and as a metaphor of truth, more out of solitude and personal embracing of ultimately finding.

While The Myth of Being is a gentle recording of the author's earliest impressions and memories transcribed when she was a young adult, these verses, from the period of three or four years of age until her second marriage and especially difficult struggle with bipolar illness (1970s), an aside might be added; at a level beyond effective description and playful illustrations, which do reveal the activity of beautiful memory, one can find very early, deep pondering of the meaning of our existence-being-its beauty to hold briefly, but ultimately for the author, coming dark.