The mystic blackforest
The sky threw a shroud
Too flimsy to cover it all
The colourful tree tops
That root in brooked valleys
Thread autumn to grey-cold
The gust of wind-strewn
Time-worm ochre, sienna
Tinged sap and wine
This is the fabric of fairy-tales
Through my eyes my soul flies to glints of reflection. A mosaic opens a window that is there and is not there. Drawn to an artists impression of a crowned lady. Connection in my heart to our lady. Angels flutter and kneel. The king, the queen, human beings and yet not so much. An image of believing, belonging and longing. Out of the blue I wish I could see what I feel what is real on a different invisible level. – 17th July 2018 by Andrea Connolly
Faults. They are pushed around. Blamed on someone. Brushed under the carpet. Taken lightly. Ignored. Taken on or over. They are a whole spectrum, from feeling to mind-set.
Their roots developed from conscience. The absence of conscience is of yonder matter that darkens the world. Wherever you look nowadays people are to be blamed. Whose fault is it? The spearing question calling for a target. Yet, if we prove our conscience, we could find a good few faults. That’s the destiny of being human. And the chance to overcome all the same. A grown up conscience can admit to faults. That’s were forgiveness begins.
In every relation, between persons, families, friends, regions, religions, counties, countries or continents, there are possibilities, of wrongdoing and of the conscience to overcome faults by forgiveness.
Still, it boggles minds and entangles feelings if we see others without obvious conscience, never admitting to faults, ignoring peace and understanding.
This is the exclamation mark to sift our own conscience, to adjust our being to become more human every day.