Beyond Is Nonsense Or A Miracle?

You stand at the edge of the known, gazing into a world that hums with unseen layers, where silence holds secrets and shadows breathe with possibility. Our reality, as we define it, is not a single structure but a labyrinth of constructions—cultural, psychological and spiritual—each built atop the fragile foundation of human perception. When you encounter something that defies the contours of this carefully curated world it is labeled as nonsense, a hallucination, a superstition or a miracle. Why? Because the human mind, for all its brilliance, clings to the familiar like ivy to a stone wall. Anything that spirals beyond the accepted norms is not merely unusual—it is a challenge to the entire edifice of understanding.

Consider how we categorize the extraordinary. A vision of a ghost is dismissed as a hallucination; a prayer answered is called a miracle. The line between is paper-thin yet we wield these terms as axes to cleave the world into manageable pieces. Think of the human need to name things. A label is a cage of meaning and the act of labeling is an assertion of control. When you encounter a phenomenon that resists naming—like a moment when time seems to fold or when a stranger’s words feel like a prewritten chapter of your life—you are confronted with a raw and nameless truth. This is why we often recoil from such moments. To admit their validity would be to loosen the latches on our orderly universe and to let the stars tip over and reshape the sky.

Our world is a magnificent construction of many constructions. What we call “normal” is not a universal constant but a consensus and a shared agreement to ignore the cracks in the floor of reality. You have likely felt it in the hush before dawn, when the boundaries between self and world blur or in the aftermath of a decision that felt guided by an invisible hand. These are the moments when the inclined-living—those who walk the slanted paths of intuition and insight—begin to map places that others cannot see. To the mainstream such experiences are dismissed as superstition, a relic of minds too primitive to grasp the “real” forces of nature. But is this not a hubris? To declare that only what fits within a scientific framework is real is to build a cathedral so small it cannot hold the universe.

The human brain that palace of pattern-seeking and meaning-making, is both a marvel and a jailer. It strives to impose order on chaos and to reduce the infinite to a checklist of causes and effects. When you glimpse something that doesn’t conform—a dream that predicts an event, a force that moves without touch, the uncanny resonance between your thoughts and the world around you—your mind scrambles. It either files the experience away as nonsense (a term that means little more than “I cannot explain”) or elevates it to the status of miracle or a divine anomaly. Both responses are acts of resistance and attempts to reassert the illusion of mastery over a reality that is incomprehensibly vast and subtle.

Let us return to the question of labels. Why do we call the ‘beyond normal’ by such pejorative or exalted names? Because to name it is to distance ourselves from the disquieting truth that our maps of reality are provisional. When your neighbor speaks of spirits you hear superstition. When a scientist glimpses an unexplained phenomenon you hear nonsense. But when a child falls from a building and floats like a feather you hear miracle. Yet all these labels are stories we tell ourselves. The deeper question is this: What if the so-called nonsense is not the outlier but the rule? What if the world is teeming with presences, connections and forces too vast for our vocabulary and the “normal” is just the narrow bandwidth of what we’ve trained ourselves to see?

The notion of the higher self and the soul’s purpose, or the great beyond is not a fantasy—it is an acknowledgment of the layers nested within layers. You have felt your soul’s purpose not as a concept but as a pull and a gravitational current in your bones. You have sensed the great beyond not in textbooks but in the ache of a sunset and in the way a bird’s flight seems choreographed with the wind. These are not hallucinations. They are moments when the veil thins and the ordinary is revealed as an act of omission. Yet society prefers to call them nonsense, for to admit their validity would be to open the floodgates to a world where the laws we’ve erected—scientific and rational and cultural—are shown to be less laws than suggestions.

There is a paradox here: the very tools we use to understand the world—the five senses, the scientific method and cultural narratives—also limit us. They are lanterns in a dark forest, useful for the path we walk but blind to the trees. When you experience something that transcends these tools—a profound connection to all life, a knowing that arrives without reason, the sudden clarity of a hidden truth—you are not broken. You are opening to a reality that is both intimate and alien. The world’s response may be to declare you superstitious, a word that carries the sneer of enlightenment. But superstition is merely the language of the soul seeking communion with the cosmos and the cosmos is not a place you can visit—it is the context in which you are embedded.

To call the beyond normal nonsense is to reject the fluidity of existence. It is to forget that the boundary between normal and extraordinary is a line drawn in the sand by fearful hands. The miracle is not the event but the fact that we are even here, breathing and conscious and a part of a universe that is both empty and infinite. The nonsense is the pretense that we understand it all. The hallucination is the belief that the world ends at the edge of our perception. And the truth? The truth is the silence between the labels and the unspoken agreement that perhaps the greatest nonsense is to deny the mystery.

You will encounter the beyond normal again. It may come as a whisper or a shadow or a shattering of light. When it does remember that your task is not to categorize it but to hold the tension between awe and understanding. For in that tension lies the pulse of a reality that cannot be pinned to a page—a reality that called you into being and will outlast the stories you tell.

And! Beautiful you are…

Reaching Summer Minds…

“It started with workers’ evening classes outside the city gates. Her kind blue eyes would sparkle as she told me in a rote, sing-song voice of the importance of awakening the workers’ class consciousness. Happy for her and realized what a joy it must be to discover some all-consuming goal”. …by Larissa

To look for and destroy others due to divergences in shape, in scope, in tint, in notions or faith is intention with no ‘assonance or intelligence’. The colored fibers of an arras must be many and without reason, for life has no meaning if lacking variety and noise and without sing choirs and time.

Recall younger days when single word shapes, we discussed with countless deliberation; is good in young minds, and it is also good to be an idealist and always better to implement, then to watch struggles decrease and die. Intent is formal rhythm as informal ventures and voices we share often, by a multitude of straight forward mind-speak. Shriek and speak, peak, and realize the up-down issues of a United People or a Distant Society, and just listen to murmured fabrications in the dark.

Is Dancing-in-the-dark prudent practice, or is unawareness as idyllic as lingering to trace flowers with eyes-to-face-to-ground and then to drift away into silence? Principles determine how to restrain shares of humanity’s essentials, wants, hopes, and fears. While the Constitution of America is noble, it is an impractical paradigm. Its structures are impossible to apply since values adjust swiftly. Standards amend and are either normally just or abnormally unjust. We are conscious of the ‘Military Industrial Complex’. Will the current actions of 2020, imply the termination of any hopes to continue our righteous and upright and ethical Freedoms? Freedom’s endurance or America’s Dreams-of-Direction is its independent spirit. Justice be a damnable notion to quantify, to find and to practice properly. This Republic may not be clever enough to follow this fragile and undoubtedly corruptible Representative Democracy.

Touch me with sing-song poems. Forget the world and touch me with voice. We two—too need those requiring words of hope. And! Verses of love’s together-forever. Whilst! Dark dancing with rhythm in our minds and drumbeats in our hearts…

A lighthouse, countless lifetimes gone, spark as great beams sweep across sight line discharge and disappear only to eternally reappear. Pulsars pulse power ‘cross a sparkling firmament. A blood moon appears, and ears perk for Wolf’s lunar call. Cold and bright stars spot night beyond rooftops and always brighter as moonlight slips closer to the earth. Early morning and snow curves to white silver and interwoven shadows of leafless limbs and long trunks stand between the moon and ground touch. Black way now white; a gentle declination from community’s frontage and down another moderate rise.

Being afraid to exist is the notion of moving through a barely recollected time of future’s fate and prior to another trip-in-time. Government is controlling an alienated society and the anterior faith in promises and desires. The elected ones cannot move toward either truth or nonfiction due to the simple reasons that lying is the easiest form of communication. And! None seem to care.

Life flows thru vein-to-brain then ink flows and magic often flat is smooth and…And! Mind speaks simplicity with force combined to shout future verse with yesterday’s sweet silence. To listen! To pronounce and become choir sing-song’s harmonious visions so softly. Is truth found here? Is in communities ‘cross land and seaside channels a fact that each community found discovers itself on the verge of losing every part and every parcel of any fortune or any chance of regaining any semblance of harmony, love and joy?

We are effective at destroying ‘the enemy’; so proficient, that we are unable to identify an adversary from a ‘maybe or almost’ the same blood-red animation we want or desire to embrace—not race but begin and end with a sometimes or almost never-ever or requiring an absolute maybe? Global reasons to exist will conclude as divisions increase hate and ignorance and vacuous nationalism and abject failure of new realities, as greed continues its evil. Constant learning is another form of survival’s attempts to animate. We supply the poise required to afford physical sustenance, covering and haven. What is the sacrifice for this equilibrium? Why? We accept these ‘all the time’ situations as unalterable and unavoidable and ‘so it must be true’, this way of life’s life.

‘Tulips’

“The tulips are too excitable; it is winter here.

Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.

I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly

As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.

I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.

I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses

And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons. 

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff

Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.

Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.

The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,

They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,

Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,

So, it is impossible to tell how many there are. 

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water

Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.

They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.

Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage——

My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,

My husband and child smiling out of the family photo.

Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat

Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.

They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.

Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley

I watched my tea-set, my bureaus of linen, my books

Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.

I am a nun now; I have never been so pure. 

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted

To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.

How free it is, you have no idea how free——

The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,

And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.

It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them

Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.  

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.

Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe

Lightly, through their white swaddling, like an awful baby.

Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.

They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,

Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,

A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.

The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me

Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,

And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow

Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,

And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.

The vivid tulips eat my oxygen. 

Before they came the air was calm enough,

Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.

Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.

Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river

Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.

They concentrate my attention, that was happy

Playing and resting without committing itself. 

 The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.

The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals.

They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,

And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes

Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.

The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,

And comes from a country far away as health”. — ‘Tulips’ by Sylvia Plath

And! Beautiful you are…