Author: Sydney Lynn Haupert-Lok

I am a medium, channeler, healer and spiritual researcher. Our lives on Earth are precious and esteemed. We grow God with every experience. Our ability to FEEL is the ambrosia we bring to Spirit. Our feeling of experience grows God. I was led by Spirit to live near the Spanish Peaks (Wahatoya: Breasts of the Earth - South Central Colorado) from 2005 to 2013. The Native Americans of the region would drop their weapons, calling temporary truce when traversing these sacred Lands. Its message to me is to nurture self and others, without enabling them and giving my power away to any person, thought, belief, religion, political affiliation, spiritual practice, science, technology or institution. Resonating with any of these can be guided by Spirit and be beneficial. But beware anyone or anything that dismisses or diminishes your divine connection to Source, your personal sovereignty or asks for your Power. Love won't ask for it.

The Cosmos Sits on the Tip of a Pin

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Title from Chances Are by Sheryl Crow, Poem by Sydney Lynn Lok

a pulsing, a breathing, a sounding

that dances an infinity

that has no spatial definitions

no confining dimensions

never an I AM

always a WE ARE

never a pretending to be

nothing but ego

realizing darkness always

illuminates light

we are all of us walking

in the same direction

until light burns off the fog

of shadow

we are this Cosmos

DANCING

on the tip of a pin

Keeping It Real

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Every time you want to

grow God in the world,

reveal your real FACE.

Every time you let the mask slip,

your face

squints

from the Sun

reflecting back to you

your undiluted FACE.

When I was a kid in the 50’s and 60’s, the Sun looked and felt way more yellowish in texture. Our amnesia was just beginning to merge with our awakening. This Sun now looks and feels way more white, love undiluted in texture as I rub my fingers across its FACE.

It hurts now as this Sun reflects my FACE, magnifying it, burning off my anger, my rage, my shame. I always thought I was a black cinder lying on a white carpet becoming blacker and blacker from the harsh contrast.

No, I’m not a black cinder.

I’m not a white carpet.

I’m the loosely woven,

lit from within tsunami of orbs

stitched together and bubbling up

to dance on the Surface of Source.