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Like any good mother, her desire was to have her child grow bright and bold, and to be full of good humor and wit, and to be generous and courageous and kind.

For, being such, how could anyone not have the most beautiful story?

After all, what is the code and concept of life, of living, of humanity, if it is not to find one's calling and to have that calling be greater than one's self; if it is not to pursue that calling and complete it with joyous self-respect?

being REAL. making REAL.

What's the big idea? (Why? Where? When? Who? How?) Beyond The Hero beautiful minds stout with playful curiosity, who are not inhibited by unrestrained questions, make bold intelligent bets on Better. They thrive on action! This is deliciously tricky, especially in complex arenas where issues are inevitably multi-sided, simultaneous, have real conditions and true constraints. In order for solutions to be sustainably rendered these implementers Beyond The Hero satisfy six criticals. This takes immaculate cooperation and coordination. It takes guts. This is definitely not for the flippant cynic. And not for Humpty Dumpty propped up and waiting. Distinctly, this requires clarity of thought, a clear mind, and a readiness to engage a good challenge.

Our souls look back
In wondrous surprise
At how we've made it
So far from where we started

- Dr. Maya Angelou

"We are the stories we run from, attempting to escape our own story. We are the stories we run to seeking the meaning of our unfolding story, seeking to discover how to be better in the next chapter of the current story, seeking to learn how best to shape that part of the story that wants to be heard above the rest. When we are not running, when we are not seeking, when we are not telling our story, we are hiding – whittled and woven into the stories of others so brilliant, we blend in unnoticed – artfully blotted out. For, what we are they are: stories!" ~ Nature, Nurture, or Nightmare

It is the wee-hour. Not a sound. A thought! Someone meets you, neither of you aware all of life therefrom hinges on the full experience of this singular meeting. And so it is. Say, maybe, today?

Hi. How are you?

Breathe.

Once upon a time, a gorgeous youth wandering across the piggly plains belly-rolling at the plight of a pigeon, stumbled and slipped. He slid through a camouflaged crack, and fell hard upon the banks of the River Tar - fear, anger, despair, apathy - where, lost downstream, he lived for an awkwardly long time under heaving whiffs of its polution.

Rendered shapeless there, the river blended him into its turmoil. It fitted him so smoothly into its blistered cast, his festering boils became less and less a bother. "It's the River Tar!" they all said, for everyone knows how this river flows. Tossed. Turned. Muddy. Oily. Hungry. Noisy. Clever.

Breaths of fresh air came haphazardly to him, often while he was seated on his customary rock beside Gushing Waters - hope, strength, tranquility, elegance, peace, balance - there, staring into twisting winds.

One day, sitting on that rock, a lass of shapely memory happened by. At his smile she smiled. On the pulses of her quickening newness he presumed she was off-course, so he offered assistance. "Can I point you in the right direction? These winds blow wild," he beamed.

"You are kind," she said, hurrying on. "But no; I know where I'm going. Thank you - your civic grace! I enjoy pleasantries and sweet breeze along the way."

Not wanting her fragrance to dissipate this quickly, he skipped rhythmically along her path. "You are a sweet breath of fresh air in these parts," he said, "but you must surely know It is an odd rough-and-tumble coming this way. It leads in endless circles." The glint from her spontaneous spread of teeth freed against sharp sunlight tugged at his breath. He almost stuttered saying, "Will you answer me one simple question?"

"Only if you'll answer me two."

"Gladly," he said. "Why would a person as gentle and joyful as you come this way stepping so lithely?"

"It leads to where I'm going. Why do you stay this way so weighed down and heavy?"

"The ways to and from everywhere through here are long and frustratingly hard," he said. "I've searched around and around; it is an endless circle. I do not understand how you can take it so llight and easy, as if it were no burden."

"It is no burden. Isn't it peculiar how some fine people can happen upon an easy route and keep it for no rhyme or reason, even when it keeps them out of step, out of tune, and unhappy? Easy routes are often rough and rocky and full of tumbling expectations, especially whereever swift eyes are too hurried to consider the real possibility that hard roads are easy when run wisely in rhythm with one's heartbeat, or at least walked or ridden with a wee bit of good pride and earned sensibility."

His head dropped. "Hmm? That's a mouthful." Knowing how he slipped, how helplessly he slid into his god-forsaken conundrum, and now wreaking of boils, he wondered if she was messing with him, if she was mocking his shapelessness, simply because she did not know his story. If only she knew his story! If only! He was thinking. "What is your second - - - question?" he lifted his head to ask. But she was gone.

Once again he was left alone - - - with his story - - - a story that was his and his alone - - - and a lasting memory of her fragrance.

The story! That pigeon. Lord Nelson's pigeon. A pepper tree. The pitiful plight of a persevering pigeon! That's where his story began, he had come to think. Yes, at the comic tragedy of a silly challenge; jealousy; a dove; and a dead pigeon - so funny - until he fell and hit his head. Hard. Struggled ever since! So he sat on a rock. His customary rock. Punished in his story.

And the winds blew.

Breathe.

Are things always what they seem? Really? Isn't perception reality?

This time, seated upon that rock, attracted by how alike brilliant sunlight twinkled Gushing Waters and the River Tar, a dove flew by. Then another. Then another. And another. A bevy of doves flocked his feet. Then a flight of doves settled round and about. It was as if he were a branch of that rock. It was as if dove-droppings were pebbles pelted at the sparkling muddy river.

Ah! The dove!

That dove! The dove. It hadn't occurred to him before this moment that he might have missed the entire thrust of the story that trapped him; that there was in fact a dual focus in it: the dove AND the pigeon. That dove! OMG. That dove! So obvious now in hindsight. Oblivious before. That a person can say a thing to tell another that he or she ought never to say such a thing, (yes, a dove), and keep saying that thing to keep reminding that other person never to say such a thing, while that other person is paying a hefty price - suffering - not saying that thing in order to be obedient, in order to be faithful to the challenge, in order to win the race between them! That a person can do a thing to demonstrate to you not to do that thing, and keep doing that thing to keep reminding you how awful it is for you to do such a thing, while you are suffering - paying an unaffordable price - persevering not doing that thing, to be obedient, to be faithfull to the challenge, to win! To prove oneself an unutterable fool, it is. A dead fool. Never winning till death! If then. Your friend (the doer), meanwhile, left alive to keep doing that thing - freely - that thing, permittedly, (which for YOU, being told so, was never wise a thing to do), you now done, it being done again and again as if, for so it seems in hindsight, to spare the world of useless imitations - - - foolish burdens - - - or is it to awaken those who do not know their own true story and to whom their true story belongs?

OMG.

That dove!

Dove AND Pigeon! Companions. At this awakening, this youth - no less badly out of shape than the minute before - found himself drawn again to the surrounding familiar: randomized sparkles - brilliant sunlight flashing from flows of the River Tar and Gushing Waters (both H2O) - similar sparkles, separate stories, unbiased sunlight. Something quite peculiar awoke in him. Hmm? Aha!

Good morning. How are you? Do you know this story? And yours? Your story! And to whom our story - each story - mine - his - hers - theirs - belong?

Welcome to episode two of BEYOND THE HERO (part 3) - the hard stuff - curated by Neville DeAngelou, displaying strong elements of the awakened who are being real and making real; rediscovering the true beginning of one's unpaternable story, one's personal story; awakened to what is often hidden in plain sight, blinding us; rediscovering what one alone can see like none other and that that one alone is the only one available to offer "that hidden" to all others - to us. This is hard stuff. This hard stuff is awesome. Miraculous. Easy is alright.

Enjoy actionable discoveries continuously shared - smartly - particularly those that uplift, inspire, promote harmony, expand opportunities, exemplify beauty, and reveal wonder, in other words, those proven to strengthen our emboldened exercise of genuine love through all of love's fertile dimensions, supplying those of us who are blessed and inspired to take action with necessary skillsets to be awesome in our real world. Namaste. Share.

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TALKING ABOUT RACE (although hard; it is necessary). DISCOVER HOW (CLICK HERE)

 

The Great Teller shares An Epic Truth

Across the nation and around the world there is a long rumble.

It is a rumble so loud it strikes ready ears as a distant clap of a fierce thunder. It is a rumble so low, it rides beneath the noise of a thousand human fears; it can no longer be heard. Fear of flight, fear of heights, fear of sand, fear of snow, fear of monsters in the closet, fear of bugs in the pillow, fear of cats, fear of bats, fear of strangers at the door, fear of being lost, fear of being laughed at, fear of being stuck in the toilet bowl, fear of whites, fear of blacks, fear of browns, blues and yellows, fear of nakedness, fear of the unknown, fear of being hurt.

Fear!