For You, By YouA Selection of Writings
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I dance in a sacred place -
I feel the beat
and it fills
and it fills and my body so I dance -
and I can feel you
part of the circle
and the energy rises
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Ever since I was a little girl, I felt like I was stuck in a place I did not belong. I never felt content being around my family and had an escape plan ready for when I turned 19. The only times I ever felt at home was in the forest or while drawing and writing. When I was seven, I told my family I was going to be an artist. They did everything possible to destroy my dreams. In high school, something compelled me to take French classes as the language and culture seemed oddly familiar.
My plan was to go to France after graduation to study art as a foreign exchange student. I had secretly put money away from three years at a fast food job and was determined to go. After graduation, I told my dad of my plans. All he needed to do was sign the papers and I would be on my way. He refused to sign them and told me I was crazy. Since I wasn't old enough to go without his permission, I went to Plan B. I moved out and put myself through art school in Chicago with the intent of transferring when I hit 21.
A year later my dad died, and my sister and I were the only heirs. I became a homeowner at age 20, spent six years in probate court, and had to drop out of school and work two jobs to support myself and pay lawyers, doctors, taxes, etc.
Through all those years, I felt like giving up hope that my simple dream would ever come true. One night in 1989, I was walking in my kitchen and suddenly everything around me went black. I held onto my table. Then an image gently appeared out of the darkness, and I found myself looking through a forest. I thought I was imagining things until I smelled the pine. It was very green and lush, even in the moonlight. I looked above me into the black sky, lit by a full, golden moon. It showed me a glittering path through the forest and I began to walk along it.
I was alone but it felt familiar and I wasn't afraid. Upon reaching the end of the trees, I came upon the banks of a river. In front of me, the water danced with silver sparkles from the moon. Across the river there was a sand-colored castle with four towers.
The most powerful, comforting sense of love and familiarity enveloped me. I wondered if I was dead. My entire being was overwhelmed that I had finally made it home. I got the impression that I had returned after a long journey, but could not stay. It was only a moment in time, yet one that was eternal and would be with me forever. It felt like France, and I didn't want to leave, no matter what. I wanted to stay; I did not want to return to my apartment in Chicago. Then, as the emotions got stronger and stronger, the scene began to fade. I fought to make it stay but the harder I fought, the darker it got. I found myself standing in my kitchen with tears in my eyes.
This memory of a special, sacred place is something out of my past that was shown to me again. I was allowed to go back once for the purpose of knowing that all is not lost. In times of sadness, I go back to this place to revive my soul. It is something no one can ever take away from me or destroy, for life and dreams are eternal.
-- by Traci Glon, Chicago, IL
As Ryan, a grandchild of one of the pastors of Cherry Valley Spiritualist
Camp, says, and I heartily agree, "You can feel the excitement
when you even just begin to get close to the church." It's
like time stands still and all you can think of is getting there
so you can
This is truly a place where time does not exist for the whole precious afternoon. It is a place where we can go within ourselves and find ourselves; be okay about who we are and where we are in our walk through life.
Each Sunday when I leave there, I try to remember that no matter what, one thing is certain: the sun will set, the stars will shine tonight, and tomorrow, a beautiful new day will be born. With the rising sun, we will all have a beautiful new opportunity to use it to the fullest, for the world continues and we continue with it.
How exciting to share what has been my place of peace and tranquillity through the last six years. I have recently moved to Vermont, and I still think about this church every Sunday.
Cherry Valley Spiritualist Camp is located in Rockford, Illinois. It is not exactly easy to find but it's definitely worth the search. There are various expressways that almost get you there. Basically, it's along a frontage road by Route 20 across from the Cherry Valley Cemetery. The best time to call for directions would be Sunday A.M., as there is always someone cooking and preparing the feast which follows the service which begins promptly at 1:00 PM. Around 2:30, after the service, messages from a spirit guide meant for the individual, and prayer for spiritual healing, it's time for the delicious potluck dinner that was cooked with love. Afterward, you can go outside into the wooded area and walk; there are benches and the trees are magnificent. I hope that whoever reads this will take the time for a lovely Sunday drive and go back in time for an afternoon that will linger, for some, for a lifetimmmme.
-- by Sharon D. Kussel, Rutland, VT
This poem describes a small section of the Lake Michigan waterfront extending from the Fullerton Avenue bend north up to the beginnings of Belmont Harbor.
and the smooth, broken fingers of weathered pilings
looming in the shallow blue darkness below.
Sweeter than
the artist's chisel,
waves whittle atrophied limbs
from the oaken support posts
vintage, submerged,
forgotten and superfluous,
insignificance belied only
by their proud, polished smoothness.
Tapered now by the endlessly
grinding attentions of time and
painted a toasty gold-brown by the sun,
the posts reach upwards--like chocolate hands atop
withered wooden arms--for a prized piece of azure sky.
As I walk along the embankment
the arms, hidden in mystery beneath
the water's cold and turgid surface,
appear to grow larger.
Suddenly, wood and stone
take on another appearance--
magnificent cities of impossible geometry,
walks and walls no mason ever fashioned
materialize within the swirling turquoise.
The watery atmosphere--
pregnant and full from the deluge of recent rains--
heaves and rolls over massive boulders of submerged rock,
ominously describing a mythic water-world
whose denizens have long since passed
like Hylas, into eternity and the surrounding sea.
The falling sun paints a lovely gold
across broad, imaginary rooftops
that reach bravely, cautiously
above the water's surface.
Slippery, wet and warm,
chlorophyll-green life weaves a fertile tapestry
over imaginary hilltops climbing
to towering acropoli the likes of which
Athena herself would be jealous.
Finally, the city tumbles and falls away,
surrendering to an endless repetition
of tawny stagnant geoforms
that gently twist and spill
hallucinatory secrets into
a harbor of modern trepidation.
-- by Alex Christoff, Chicago, IL
I see folks drawn to the window. Reading. They read taped events notices, often reaching out to touch the graceful curve of the glass. All messages are perused. Do the readers catch glimpses into the secret side of themselves -- into Soul? The window is neighbor to a park; the sparkling clean plate glass with the blue and white Eckankar sign appeals to passing joggers and to those walking their pets. Even in the dead of winter, seekers stand reading with hands jammed into coat pockets -- sometimes a dog trails from a leash, tail gently wagging as it waits. Somehow, many are drawn by the window's light.
The Eckankar storefront in Rogers Park is where I see this happening as I sit inside keeping records or joining in a discussion about spiritual principles or even pushing a vacuum cleaner in the off hours. The spiritual guide of this religion of the Light and Sound of God, Sri Harold Klemp, once remarked that 20 years ago as he drove home at night from the spiritual center where he worked as a printer, that he'd notice the aura of peace radiating from it for two miles and more. On the other side of that invisible dome, the world took on a harsher vibration, one that was less at ease. I wonder if those who stop and read and sometimes drop in are aware of the smaller dome that surrounds our little information center on the lake.
-- by Howard J. Strodtman, Chicago, IL
The September issue will feature A Most Memorable Teacher (deadline: July 31, 1997); and in November, we'll consider Gratitude (deadline: September 30, 1997).
Tell us in about 400 words -- subject to editing for content and length -- what thoughts and feelings the subjects inspire. Each person on the staff will read several entries and forward their favorite(s) to the For You - By You desk.
Please mail your writing to us at P.O. Box 1342, Morton Grove, IL 60053; or fax it to (847) 966-6535; or e-mail: foryou@lightworks.com. Be sure to add your name and location to your writing! We won't be able to communicate about your entry, and the decisions of the staff are final. If you want us to return your work, please enclose a self-addressed, stamped envelope.