In today’s post, I’ll be talking not about my usual range of topics, but about one of the homes I lived in when I was growing up. The one I associate with my childhood.
This weekend I attended the annual Conscious Life Expo. Every February I attend and cover it editorially and every year it holds a different tone, as if the harmonics in frequency change.
The good news is that this year anyone could have benefitted from the insights and wisdom of spiritual leaders from around the world who assist in the understanding of our world today, without leaving the comforts of home. Yes, livestreaming was introduced.
I remember once at a Holiday party a man I was sitting next to told me he went to bed at night contemplating what he would have for breakfast the following morning. I reflected on my own thoughts. I usually do a review of the day and look forward to my dreams. I seek to disconnect from the physical world while they are some that want to remain immersed in it.
The heat outside is warm for mid-January, even in Los Angeles. And although it’s nearly three p.m., inside the J. Paul Getty Museum the thick stone walls make it quiet and cool. In the distance low classical music infuses the air. Later, natural light falls at precise, studied angles, delicately onto the canvases.
Storytelling comes with a huge stigma. People think you’re either a be-spectacled librarian in an over-sized sweater reading to a bunch of kids under a librarian ceiling covered with asbestos-tiles or a large African man dressed in a brightly colored caftan beating on a drum
I’m waiting for the man- a round and jolly old man in a bright red suit and hat, with a snowy white pompom and a snowy white beard, living in a very snowy place. He has always been old, but he does not age; I assume he lives forever. His Mrs. does too, and I assume she is an excellent cook.