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BC … the beginning

December 5, 2014

Good morning,

It feels great to be back writing again—writing novels. In January I will take up the Ophelia Trilogy for Book Two, as I continue to move through these works. What is exciting about this process is that I can share here at no expense to those who are interested in Spirrealism, and the paintings that accompany this Spirit Art Movement. I actually have seven canvases with seven angels destined for release 🙂 Can you imagine where these might be from? It’s a wonderful feeling. Soon, however, I hope to have the collection of art on a touring schedule, and the novels themselves in print for distribution (not just Book One: Ophelia in the Beyond). In the meantime, I think it is good to share some of these early stages. People need to understand that they, too, have Voice—Spirit Gifts ready/waiting for movement.









In addition, we would like to add voice on this walk. What we mean to say is … what it takes to move within the Work of the Spirit. Not all engaging in the Arts realize they are touching something beautiful and Divine in this, and certainly, not all art does this, but we have witnessed some truly enigmatic art pieces where Society has either forgotten the source and the inspiration, or have never been shown this. We believe it is the responsibility of noted Artists to educate, enlighten and to bring to awareness many things that deliver the Mysteries of our Faith, but also, those many places that are overlooked, and this includes oppression, deception, delusion, ignorance, and a multitude of abuses. In other words, we call out those things necessary for Spiritual Growth—for the movement of Humanity as a whole—that we might better understand how we are to unite in Wellness.

In the previous essay (BC), we highlighted the beginning on this work by posting the dream sequence of a child’s journey. It is, of course, metaphoric in language, and resides within the spectacular of a child’s swimming the sea of Life (or Light as is also shown). I have always seen that swimming a sea of “knowledge” as more communicable and fulfilling than dry land only, or chartering boats for travel. What we are looking at here on the symbol of the ship is Religious Doctrine/Religion, and what this carries verses exploring something understood as METANOIA, which is a “changing one’s mind”—meaning:

Repentance, but this is not to be viewed in a place of stagnation, and certainly not of the Hell and Damnation of some Religions. The Spirit is never stagnant, and scarcely resides in dogmatic literature or law. The ancients of the Orthodox Traditions used practices and writings, even places, to help them in their journey in coming into Spiritual Knowledge on Metanoia and the coexistence of LIFE AND DEATH. This is deep Spiritual exegesis, but it is understood throughout so much of Holy Scripture in the old wineskin and the new.

We don’t want to get too immersed in this just now, as we would like to share on some of the beginning of the rough draft of BC. We do this to give the readers a “point of launch”, and by this we mean, a preparing position. This is really an igniting in how one can read and experience the Spiritual Symbolism of Holy Scripture, so that it does not embed and distract from the greater, clearer message. As we have shared in many essays here in SPIR, the understanding of Scripture, God, Spirit, the Spiritual Message, Faith, Belief and Purpose unto God, is often misconstrued and misused, and was never intended for enslavement, partiality, and judgement, but for peace, love and UNDERSTANDING, which harbors TRUTH in just and penitential partnering.

And last, it is necessary to bring to awareness the Energy and Essence of God, this being a type of Masculine and Feminine Spirit. What has been evidenced today, and throughout history, is a more Patriarchal view and teaching on God. What we are brought to share is WHAT IS GOD? God through Symbolic Verse and Imagery.





The following is the early stages of BC (rough draft) to give you an idea of the Realm of Visions and Dreams of those in the carriage of the Mystic and the Prophet.



by L Thiel Hewlings, December 5, 2024





He had a dream, a great dream of immense proportions, and it used his rhythm, and his rhyme, but only for a Time…only for a Time.


I dreamed I was standing on a very tall mountain, looking down at a sea. I knew it to be luminescent, although I had never seen the sea. I had never been to a beach, had never seen sand, or a river, or a forest, or a place so vast. My own place was small: nine inches by twelve inches. It was just big enough to fit into my school bag. As I stood on this mountain, I heard the wind call my name. I asked, “Who are you, and what do you want?” I heard the sun call my name, and I asked, “Who are you, and what do you want?” I heard the sea call my name, and I asked Her, “Who are you, and what do you want?” She answered, “Come play with me. I am alone. I was left here to explore these waters, but I am now lonely. Will you come?” I was afraid. I had never learned to swim. She heard my thoughts. “Do not be afraid, Little One, I will not let you drown. Will you now come?” If I could hear Her, and She could hear me, then I believed we were meant to play together. I threw myself off of the rock, and before I hit the water, She caught me, and said, “You are but a child, not yet breathing life’s cool, cool water, but you have heard my voice, and believed; therefore, I will make you a fisherman.” I knew of worms and beetles, and spiders in tiny dark holes, but I had never held a rod. “But what will I do with the fish when I catch it?” I asked. “You will set it free.” “Then why catch it?” I asked. “That you might know Love,” She replied.





Gunner walked the length of the porch looking for faded spots. The Camaru, a tropical hardwood, felt solid under his feet. The builder had done a superb job, but the wood itself required some attention if he wanted to keep the cinnamon colored stain. There was a noticeable inconsistency from one end to the other from the southern exposure that bore down on the wood, depleting its deep, rich color. Gunner was a man of balance, but did not like the idea of trying to match the stains on the North and South ends. This seemed a tedious task, and not one he felt qualified to master, but to leave both ends mismatched in intensity was unthinkable. He would look for the right stain and give it a try. Feeling a slight tinge in his injured left hip, Gunner slid himself into one of the sage green adirondack chairs resting on the shady side of the porch and immediately closed his eyes. A nap in the melting sun of April felt like a good idea. He would address the stain issues first thing tomorrow. Quiet and relaxed, he felt his mind give way to near sleep.

A field floated into his line of vision, and Gunner experienced a growing sense of belonging. Soon, barley plants rose up high in areas where no one had tread, and he found himself standing in the middle of a wide channel that ran the length of the field. The swath of faint gold felt like cotton under him and when he looked down, he saw that he was without shoes and had the feet of a child. There was no sound, which seemed to beckon him inward. Suddenly feeling a need to run, he started to move but a cool shadow from behind kept him back, and so he began to walk, slowly at first and then with more precision.

Man-child, as he felt, half old and half young, he followed the channel and noticed it becoming narrower as he moved. There was only one direction, and this was forward—forward with a surmised hand of intent working from the rear. At one point, Gunner thought he should stop and see the distance from within, but the shadow kept him moving. It seemed to signal that to stop would mean calling attention to something he should not see. Warmth from the front and beneath, and coolness from the back, with a staying power of unsolicited movement, he sensed fear in this. What was hiding within that he should not see? A voice sensuous and strong commenced in song: I am Eve. Shoulder what hath not been shone. Gunner reached behind him as if he’d known this the whole of his life and touched what could not be touched. Immediately he experienced wind, and with it was a scent unlike any he had ever tasted. He opened his mouth and an aromatic dust sleuthed inside.

Cobwebs,” came a voice from within his mouth. “You are full of cobwebs.” Gunner started to sink then evaporate.

He jerked awake. The bell on the church steeple in town began its midday ring. “Two,” he said aloud. “Just two?” No reply. Gunner rubbed his head with both hands. He thought he had dozed off for a brief time, but the vision of a field hung just inside his cortex as if waiting for immediate release. He gave in to allowing it room for thought. Gunner had never experienced anything quite so elusive yet so familiar in a dream before, at least not that he could recall. He considered that it might not have been a dream, but if not then what? He remembered a voice, and a name. Eve. I am Eve, she had said. Backtracking, he recalled the part where there was something he should not see. Dread began to find its way toward his perennial station—the place where flesh borders on real and real rests in restitution. He felt he had left something behind—something cool and definitive, and something he should have been more aware of. There was a perplexing guilt teasing his periphery and this made him uneasy as much as it made him hungry—hungry for more of the same. It was a peculiar and postulate place, both high and low in positioning and personality. But it was also an experience known and unknown. Gunner realized the coolness felt like the temperature of the sea at two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. Why he thought this to be correct, or why he thought this at all, was a mystery, and would remain this way for some time.

“Don’t be afraid of the beetle-bugs.” Gunner spun his head around to see a young girl with red-brown hair standing beside the porch just to the right of his chair. The hair resembled the color of the hardwood on the porch floor. She was wearing a pink dress with a speckling of flowers at the collar. “Beetle-bugs don’t bite; they just stink bad if you crush ‘em.”

“Excuse me?” Gunner was confused.

The girl pointed at a dark speck high up on the clapboard near the porch roof. “That,” she said, stoically.

Gunner stood to get a better look. “Ohhh … Box Elder bugs. No, they don’t hurt anyone, but why do you say they stink?”

The girl stared at Gunner intently. She didn’t answer right away, but looked as if she were deciding if this older man was worth her time. She twisted her petite mouth to one side then looked at the bug with serious eyes. “They taste bad to the animals. This keeps them from being eaten all up. The birds don’t care about the stinkiness, but other critters won’t eat them if they don’t have to.” The girl wrapped her thin arms around a small Dogwood and pressed her lean frame against it. “My old dog tried to eat one once at our other house and he made weird faces.”

Gunner nodded with a smile. “Your other house? So, you are new in town?”

Just then a woman ran from across the street toward Gunner’s house, yelling, “Marla Pearl Tiffany Stowe! Get outta there and get back to your own yard!” Without a word to Gunner, she turned and ran back across the street. He watched her slightly overweight figure move with determination. It happened so fast, he was not able to tell her age, but she appeared to be in her early twenties.

“I have to go,” said Marla, blushing slightly. “Mama looks mad again.” As she left the tree where she had been standing, she stopped, turned to Gunner, and asked, “Who is Eve?”

“What?” asked Gunner, sounding surprised.

“I heard you say Eve when you were on the chair.” Marla’s name could again be heard from across the street.

“You better get going before your mom gets even madder,” instructed Gunner, feeling relieved that he did not have to answer the girl. Marla rushed off. He stood silently on the porch. Eve—a fine name, but why? He examined the scene again in his mind. What was it she had said? Then he remembered. Shoulder what hath not been shown. Gunner decided to go to his bedroom, get the small tablet he kept next to his bed and write this down. On the way, he remembered the rest of what he had heard. Cobwebs. You are full of cobwebs.

Gunner picked up the tablet and found a pencil tucked behind the bedside lamp and a half-filled glass of water. He began to write … when he came to the second part—the part about the cobwebs—he felt a queer sensation. He understood nothing in what she had said, but to be filled with cobwebs gave him a feeling of something lost, or abandoned, and yet, he did not feel this! He did not feel himself lost or abandoned. He thought that perhaps he was being shown that there was something he had forgotten about, some project he had started then abandoned. He decided that he would pay Ted Halloway a visit to ask him about his experience. The oldest pastor at Cedar Grove Presbyterian Church, Ted had a bit more insight into these matters.

As Gunner put the tablet back into its place beside his bed, the image of Marla looking serious before answering his question about why the bug was stinky popped into his head. There was something medieval about her look, almost as if she was reaching in and drawing forth a parchment containing an ancient creed about the nature of bugs, or the nature of why certain bugs were smelly. He knew it was an odd thought, but her eyes revealed something petulant and serene. He thought he might stop by Marla’s house tomorrow afternoon to introduce himself, and to see if they needed anything. This was a bold move for Gunner, as he usually kept to himself regarding those moving in and out of Cedar Grove. He had his friends, and these were plenty enough, but something about Marla’s demeanor caused him mixed feelings, and her mom seemed a rough sort. Gunner felt it might be in the best interest of the community to see whether these new residents were friend or foe.






Peace and Love

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